frat!jo has a big, fat embarrassing crush on you (and handles it very poorly).
tags. fluff. angst but not really LMFAO. college au. stupidstupid gojo.
satoru has never considered himself to be very charming. sure, he's been with a few ladies here and there, and yeah, he thinks he's pretty good in bed.
the problem? that's with women he doesn't care about. they flock to him like birds when he offers so much as a half-hearted nod of the head.
you, however, are a different case.
no matter now hard he tries, you simply never look in his direction. you don't see him as a person, but rather, a rumor. a whisper. the guy every girl should watch out for.
he's done it all. wearing a t-shirt with your favorite band on it when he knew he'd pass you in the halls. making sure your name is on every party invite list even though you aren't the type to go out on fridays. going to your favorite cafe to "study" and drink strawberry-fucking-matcha lattes because you like that shit and fuck it, so will he if it means he has a chance of running into you.
but nothing. you remain a fragment of his life, out of his reach but within plain sight. it's a modern form of torture, he's sure of it.
he's about to do the usual. it's a party. there's lots of beer and women, which is just enough to distract him from his boy-crush on the girl who sits in front of him in english 101.
but before he can scoop up the first willing, horny, girl, he spots a familiar shadow. he nearly drops his red cup and spills beer everywhere. the girl he was just entertaining? yeah, he leaves her mid-conversation.
it's you.
you don't look too happy about being here, but you're here, alright. leaning against a wall, sipping a definitely non-alcoholic beverage, chuckling lightly at the poor jokes your friend group passes around.
oh god, you're so cute. he's never seen you like this before. your hair is styled in a cute little updo, strands falling to frame your face. your outfit is a simple pair of jeans with a devastatingly tight crop top.
you laugh--this time for real--when someone trips and falls over in a comical manner.
he has to talk to you. now or never.
he's in his element, really. alcohol buzzes through his veins, giving him a false sense of confidence and a glow that he's sure makes him look extra attractive. or so he hopes, at least.
he strides over, slipping through people with practiced ease until he finds himself leaning on the wall next to you.
confidence satoru. godspeed. you're the fucking man.
he takes a deep breath.
"hey, haven't i seen you around somewhere before?"
you turn your head, only just now noticing him. you eye him up and down.
"uh, no?"
okay. nailed that.
he shakes his head, trying to recover.
"maybe look again?" he puts on his best smouldering expression, hoping that he's giving Handsome Man, and not Douchebag.
from the look on your face, he's giving Douchebag.
you snort. "yeah, no. never seen you. hope that doesn't hurt your ego too much." with a light chuckle, you start walking away.
no, no, no. abort mission. change tactics. he can't have screwed up already!
"hey, wait!" he calls out, grabbing your wrist and also the attention of literally everyone else in the room.
it goes still for a moment. not quiet, but still. some people stare. he can already hear their thoughts.
is THE gojo satoru struggling to hit on a girl? sheeeesh.
okay, he needs to be suave so he doesn't look stupid. at that moment, he pulls you backward and into his chest, letting you tumble into him like a damsel in distress.
"not so fast, sweetheart," he murmurs into your ear, instinctively doing what usually works for him.
you push off of him with a sneer.
"fuck off!" you yell. "don't be weird."
welp. now satoru wants to die. why can't he be a normal guy in front of you? but alas, his pride persists.
"come on," he drags, shoving his hands into his pockets with faux-nonchalance. "don't play hard to get now."
you roll your eyes, turning away with an air of finality.
"god, this is why i hate frat boys," you mumble under your breath.
as satoru watches you drift into the sea of sweaty bodies, taking a sip of his beer like his heart and ego wasn't just crushed, he thinks that he hates being one too.
notes. i love stupid pining men who don't know how to hit on women. HEHE. next will be nerdjo methinks. in my fluff era right now. also requests are open! love u thank u for reading! <3
Synopsis: the party was supposed to be wild and crazy, so you could let loose and have fun, but it wasn't supposed to be so wild and crazy that you don't even remember what happened last Friday night. and definitely not so wild and crazy that you wake up a) with a killer headache, b) in someone else's bed, and c) cuffed to twins?!
now the three of you have to go on a wild goose chase for the person who did this, whilst fighting the insane sexual chemistry vibrating between you and the twins.
what could go wrong?
Warnings: porn with a side of plot, nerdjo and fratjo twins au - twincest (I don't view it as such and that's certainly not what this contains in my opinion but just as a warning so the puritans can back off), threesome/sharing reader, exhibitionism, voyeurism, hidden sex, the twins are annoying af and have asshole tendencies, both are pierced in different ways, college au/non curse au, too much dirty talk, unprotected sex because it's fiction and it's hot, spit roasting, thigh humping, zipper humping, thigh job, spitting, brief rimming, deepthroating, cunnilingus, pervy behaviour, a little masochism and sadism, choking?/asphyxiation, fanart by @smokeigheh on Insta, not proofread - please let me know if you spot typos or inconsistencies (this is too long for me to care about proofreading)
Word Count: 14k
“Hey, Sato?”
“Hmm?”
“Am I still dreaming or is there a girl’s ass pressed to my woody?”
“Unless we’re sharing the same dream, I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s not one — she’s drooling on my chest.”
“Is she hot?”
“Don’t be a creep…”
A pregnant pause passes, then he adds, “Yeah.”
“Nice.”
Groaning, your bleary eyes open. Your head is swimming. The pain is dull but powerful, as though hidden behind a layer, angry and wanting to be let out. Bright light through a window almost blinds you. You groan again, burying your head in a hard wall.
Huh?
Your eyes shoot open. You’re laying on someone’s chest. You look up. Dazzling blue eyes stare down at you through a pair of glasses, a brow cocked up. Then you feel it — something hot and heavy slotted between your asscheeks, and a hand gripping your hip.
With a scream, you jolt up, scrambling to get off the bed, only to fall right back onto the mattress when resistance meets your arms.
Two faces fill your vision from above.
Same dazzling blue eyes.
One smirking.
One not.
Both near-mirror copies of the other.
You scream again.
They wince.
“C-clones! You’re clones! Oh my god, please don’t probe me.”
The one on your left laughs so loudly it becomes your turn to wince. “Dude! She thinks we’re aliens!”
The other sighs and adjusts his glasses. “We’re not aliens. We’re twins. Monozygotic. Monoamniotic-Monoamniotic, to be exact.”
Lightly shoving the other by the shoulder, one of them says, “Jeez, don’t get all sciency around a chick. Just say ‘MoMo’, like I’ve been saying.” He turns to you, smiling. “We’re identical twins — I’m Toru, a Marketing student, and this ugly freak is Sato. Engineering. We’re both third years. And you are?”
Why are they acting so casual?
They’re in bed with a complete stranger, who could be a serial killer, and yet they’re introducing themselves to you like nothing’s remotely odd about the situation. Or maybe you’re in bed with serial killers. Hot serial killers, but that’s how they get you.
Unnerved by their matching stares, you stammer out your name, followed by a, “I’m an Anthropology student. Second year. It’s a pleasure to meet you?”
The sentence comes out less a statement and more a question, and you grimace at your unsocial self.
Toru leans forward, grinning. “You’re so polite. How adorable. Makes me wanna just gobble you up.” He mimics the actions of munching on your face, nom noming.
His twin sighs again and lifts his hand up. Yours is brought up with it. All of you eye the thing that clanks and jingles with the movement. Sato drawls, “Instead of flirting with her, why don’t we address the elephant in the room — why the hell are we cuffed together and in his bed?”
That’s when you finally realise you’re not in your own dorm. The room’s much bigger, much more lived in and homely. Heck, the bed itself is bigger than the stiff single that the school provides everyone. Comfier, too. And with someone’s abs plastered all over the covers.
Posters of sporting legends litter the walls, as do posters of rock bands and carelessly stuck on polaroids of one of the twins, or both of them, or people you can only assume to be their friends.
It even smells differently here than in your room; whilst yours smells of academic pressures and manically drunk coffee, this one smells of leftover thrill and aftershave. Clothes litter the floor, bordered by empty beer cans, and a pair of red lacey panties in the corner.
Toru follows your eyes to it, and then hastily clarifies, “It’s not mine — I don’t crossdress or anything.”
Sato rolls his eyes, and snarks, “She knows that, idiot. She’s thinking what a pigsty your room is.” Glancing at you, he adds, “My dumbass brother’s incapable of cleaning up after himself. Judge him freely, he deserves it.”
Ignoring both of them, you lift your arms up, struggling with the new weight and gawk at the pink fuzzy cuffs adorning your wrists. Slowly, you say, “What…the…actual…fuck?”
You’re handcuffed to two strangers.
Two hot strangers who keep women’s underwear in their rooms.
Frantically, you glance down at yourself and release a relieved breath when you confirm that you’re fully dressed in what you remember coming to the party in the first place: a short skirt you borrowed from a friend, a nice top, and beat up Converse that you wouldn’t mind getting beer spilled on. Your phone’s in your skirt pocket, along with your keycard. So all the valuables you brought to your friend’s apartment are still with you. Nothing feels out of place, which you thank god profusely for.
But what happened after the round of pres at your friend?
“I don’t remember a single thing that happened last night,” you voice aloud, frowning. “I don’t remember why we’re cuffed together, or who you two are to me.”
Not a single thing comes to mind — what you drank, who you spoke to, how much you drank, if you did anything crazy, if you lost some kind of dare and had to face punishment by being bound to two guys, and where your friends are.
Sato knits his brows together. “Neither. I only remember helping set up.”
“I don’t remember anything either,” his brother says, attempting to scratch the back of his head with the hand that’s connected to yours, laughing at himself, then finally using his free hand. He shrugs. “But then again, that’s not unusual for me. The best parties are the ones you don’t remember.”
You want to question how that could be possible, but you keep your mouth shut.
“Anyone feel a key on them?” one of the twins asks, inspecting the holes of the cuffs that bind you to him. He looks displeased at the fuzziness of the thing. Your hand hangs limply in the air.
All three of you look, lifting covers, checking inside your clothes, on the desk, under pillows, and nothing.
“Nope!”
“No.”
“I don’t see anything.”
Your heart begins to race, reality sinking in hard and fast and intensifying your headache. “We’re done for. We’re stuck like this forever. We’re going to die like this!”
“Calm down,” Sato deadpans, totally judging you based on how he fights the urge to look you over the rim of his glasses. “We’re not going to die. We just need to figure out who did it to us, where they are, and if they have the key — worse comes to worse, we don’t find them or they don’t have the key, we can just go to the fire station and ask them to cut us out.”
Toru whoops in the hair and ruffles his brother’s hair. The brother in question scowls and shoves the hand away. “Nice one, big bro. Didn’t even think of that; I was on the ‘we’re doomed’ boat.”
That makes sense.
Yeah, there’s no need to panic.
Except, there’s a major issue.
“Guys,” you start, lip trembling, “...I really need to pee.”
The two of them look at each other, then at you, then at the door, then back at each other.
“C-can you hold it?” Toru asks, sounding more frightened about the idea than you.
You shake your head, legs crossed.
And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the toilet in his en-suite bathroom, flanked by two guys, who at least have the decency to look away. One of them whistles awkwardly, and the other taps on his phone.
This is a nightmare. You don’t want to be pissing with an audience, especially not this close. It’s way too embarrassing.
Sato clicks his tongue, pink tinting the tips of his ears. “Why aren’t you going?”
“‘cause it’s weird,” you mutter, shuffling on the seat. The toilet’s kept pretty clean. It looks practically unused, which just makes you feel worse about defiling it.
“You having performance anxiety, Second year?” Toru teases, rocking on the balls of his feet.
He doesn’t need to sound so amused by the idea, you dryly think. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you grumble, “Anyone would if they were in my position.”
“I wouldn’t,” Toru chirps, swinging the hands you two are joint at back and forth absentmindedly. “Hell, I’ll pee between your legs right now to prove it. I’ve got pretty good aim.”
“Please don’t.”
God, this is the most shameful thing that’s ever happened to you. What did you do to deserve this?
Left with no choice, you let the stream go and grit your teeth.
One of them hums approvingly. “Solid stream — bitches with good pussy piss loud as fuck, and it do be sounding like you’re frying chicken.”
Your jaw drops. Aghast, you shake your wrist and smack his own hand against his leg. “Can you not comment on my pee, Toru?”
His twin smacks him upside the head. “Don’t call women bitches.”
He groans. “Does no one get the reference? Ugh, whatever. Just hurry up and wipe. I need to pee too.”
“Oh no.”
Both of your hands are connected to theirs… One of them’s going to have to get between your legs. When you look up at their suddenly stiff backs, you know they realised it too.
Toru whistles low. “Who’s it gonna be, Second Year?”
“Why do I have to choose?” you ask, though you already know the answer. They’re basically asking you who you’re more comfortable with, and oddly, you don’t want to offend either of them. Is this your Sophie’s Choice?
Sato continues tapping away on his phone one-handedly. “Either one of us is fine to do it. It all depends on who you’d prefer — it’s not like we’re actually wiping for you.”
If you really had to choose, then…
Wriggling a specific hand, you shamefully mutter, “Can you do it with me?”
He sighs, and slacks his arm so you can pull your hand towards yourself. The twin has to bend down at the knee slightly, still looking away. He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat.
Through the whole thing, you’re cringing, cheeks flushed, and wanting the world to open up and consume you whole. Can this morning get worse?
“Done,” you mumble, making sure no one’s looking at you. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Sato mutters.
On the other side, Toru grumbles so depressedly you can practically see a raincloud storming over his head, “Why didn’t you choose me? I’d be a good pussy wiper.”
More rises to your cheeks. You hurriedly pull your pants back up and flush. “No one was asking to wipe anyone’s…ahem. And the fact that you’re so eager is kinda the reason why I didn’t choose you.”
Toru raises his hands, and one of yours, in surrender.
After you, they both take turns peeing. You look away, shutting your eyes tight for good measure. You even hum under your breath to distract from the sounds. Sato, you notice, clears his throat before he goes, whereas Toru mumbles some song lyrics. It sounds like Up by Cardi B.
You hate that you’re hyper aware of every shuffle, every brush against you, every time their knuckles graze yours, and each breath they take.
The twins are hot.
Have you said that already?
Because they are.
Maybe if they were uglier, more normal looking, you wouldn’t be so on edge.
And you know it’s wrong to think like that about strangers, but they are hot. Stupidly so.
They’re the same height, with sharp jawlines and identical signet rings glinting on their pinkies. They’re definitely identical twins, but they look so different from each other, that with or without the glasses, you’d know who was who. Anyone would.
Toru wears a white T-shirt with an arrow pointing upward and downwards ,and the words “Best Seats in the House” printed beneath it, whilst Sato has on glasses and a blue T-shirt layered over a grey long-sleeve, the front patterned with chemical symbols spelling out MoAN.
Toru is broader, his biceps visibly defined beneath the cotton, muscle pressing against the sleeves. The underside of his hair at the back is buzzed. He has a brow piercing. Sato, by contrast, is leaner, his frame slimmer and his hair longer and more shaggy. He’s still quite muscular in comparison to the Engineering students you’ve seen, which isn’t a fair comparison because most of the STEM guys you’ve met look like the stereotype. No offence to them.
Toru wears ripped light wash jeans that hang low on his hips, revealing a Calvin Klein band, and Sato’s the same except his are darker blue. Both jeans hug their asses perf—
No, bad.
Stop noticing things about them.
After you get out of the cuffs, you’re never going to see them again, and it’ll be like this never happened. Don’t get attached. Don’t get too involved. Find the keys and skedaddle!
The three of you wash your hands, taking turns to brush your teeth and wash your face, all awkwardly trying to shuffle with each other. It’s clumsy at first but you do eventually get a rhythm going.
Eventually, you walk back out into the messy room, fresher and cleaner.
“We need to figure out what happened,” Sato states, brows furrowed. “If we got cuffed together during last night’s party, there’s a chance the key’s hanging around the frat house. We should look for it, jog our memories and retrace our steps.”
Toru scratches his stomach, revealing a flash of a white happy trail. His brother catches you looking. He cocks a brow. You snatch your gaze away. Toru says, “We won’t need to do all that — I think I know who did this to us.”
“Who?” you ask, louder than you intended.
He answers, grimacing, “A friend of ours. Sukuna. Well, friend’s a loose term. We’re frenemies, I guess. He’s funny, but he’s not the nicest guy around.”
It’s a vaguely familiar name, but you know you’ve never met a Sukuna before. By the sound of Sato cursing, you get the impression that it’s not the name of a man who you’d be happy to find out has cuffed you to a stranger. And that makes you all the more desperate to get out of the way of whatever rivalry they have going on.
“It’s a prank he likes to pull. He did it to Choso and a lamppost because the guy was giving family weed away for free to some girl, and that’s his literal cousin,” Toru explains. “If we gotta look anywhere, I think we should look at him.”
Smiling, you say, “That’s great! We have a solid plan.”
Sato glances down at you, not looking anywhere near as happy. Adjusting his glasses, he warns, “Sukuna’s an asshole. He’s not gonna be easy to get a hold of. Not to mention, if he did this to us, he must think we’ve done something wrong in his eyes, so he’ll be extra annoying.”
Much more cheerful in comparison, Toru throws an arm around his twin. “Now now, big bro. That’s not the spirit.”
They both look at you; one with a wide grin and the other with a deadpan expression.
“We’ve got an adventure to go on — let’s have some fun.”
.
.
.
“Wait, you’re members of a frat?” you ask, marvelling at the two of them.
What they’d said earlier only registered now, as you’re walking through campus, and now that you think about it, it explains why Toru has a room in the frat house in the first place.
Campus isn’t as busy as it usually is on the weekdays, which is good because it minimises the number of gawking you’re getting. Guess seeing three people cuffed together isn’t a very common occurrence, even in university.
The three of you had decided to track down this Sukuna. Sato looked up something online and informed you that the wanted man’s a hockey player, and the team has practice right now, in preparation for tonight’s game. So you raced out of the thoroughly trashed frat house as soon as you could, wanting to make sure you could catch him, corner him, shake the key out of him all before noon. And before his whereabouts become unknown.
Toru shakes his head, and ruffles your hair. He’s quickly gotten quite familiar with you, not that you mind. “Nah, little lady. Only I am. Frat prez, actually,” he says, nodding proudly. “My brother here just comes along ‘cause he’s a party animal.”
Sato fixes him with a blank look. “I’m not a party animal. I attend these things because someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
Mischievously, Toru leans down to whisper in your ear, “He’s lying; he’s worse than me.” Then, he thinks for a second. “You’re not a frequent party goer, are you? I would have definitely seen you around before if you were.”
“No,” you admit. “I’m not a party person. I just went last night because my friends insisted I go to at least one party this year, and after this, I don’t think I’ll be going to another one any time soon.”
Cuffs aside, the hangover you have is no joke and it’s enough to put you off partying forever.
Toru petulantly whines. “No way! Don’t let this one weird experience give you a bad impression — my parties are legendary. You have to come again. I insist; I want to see you all drunk and stupid, and remember it.”
“Don’t peer pressure her,” Sato scolds before addressing you. “You should come over though. Party or no party. We’d definitely like to see you more. We can show you a good time.”
Their joint invite has your cheeks heating up. They just met you and they’ve already decided you were someone they’d want to hang out with again, and yeah, maybe they were just being nice, but it still had you all flustered. Especially because there seemed to be some hidden layer to the words ‘good time’; both of their eyes twinkled.
Or maybe you imagined it.
On the way, about a thousand people stop to say hi to both Toru and Sato. The twins are clearly popular.
It isn’t subtle, either. It’s not the polite nod-in-passing kind of recognition. People actually light up when they see them. Hands clap shoulders. Someone daps Toru up mid-stride. A girl across the quad calls Sato’s name flirtatiously. One even flashes both twins. Toru laughs. Even professors in suits, holding briefcases pause to exchange some words and inside jokes.
Toru grins wide and effortless, tossing out nicknames, bumping fists, slinging an arm around whoever gets close enough. Sato is smoother about it — a smaller smile, a tilt of his head, a few clever words that make people laugh just a second longer than necessary.
No one even does more than glance at you. To their friends, you’re just another girl they’re in some dramatic predicament with.
Between them, overshadowed by their popularity and fame, you feel out of your element. They’re definitely not the kind of people you could just casually befriend, not the kind of guys you would have ever spoken to, could have joined them casually for lunch, or schedule hang outs and know they’ll be there.
They’re just being polite to you, wanting to ease the discomfort of being cuffed to a complete stranger.
Eventually, you reach the rink. You follow them inside, down hallways, past the people working there. You peek through the double doors and see a bunch of guys skating in full gear. It’s loud in the rink, the shape and emptiness of the stands reverberating the shouts and scrapes of skates on ice.
“Let’s go to the locker room whilst they’re there; we can go through his locker and his bag,” Sato suggests.
The locker room?
Where men get changed and swing their dicks around?
Oh hell no.
“Wait— hold on.” You stop short so abruptly they nearly walk into you. Both of them turn, brows lifting in sync. You scramble for composure, heat creeping up your neck. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Toru squints. “Why not?”
Because I value my eyesight. Because I don’t need trauma today. Because I enjoy not being arrested.
You cross your arms, attempting dignity. “I can’t just walk into the men’s locker room.” They stare. You gesture vaguely, mortified. “I’m a girl?”
It comes out half question, half plea, like perhaps they’ve temporarily forgotten this extremely relevant detail.
Sato blinks. Toru looks down at you, then back at Sato.
“Oh,” Toru says slowly.
“Yes, oh,” you mutter.
The twins share a look.
Hands grip your wrists, dragging you inside despite your protests. They snicker together. You’re powerless against their strength, and you can’t even grip the doorway to pull yourself away because they’ve got control of your hands. Eyes shut tightly, you fumble in the dark, unable to resist their heavy, six foot tall bodies.
Mustiness hits you as soon as the doors open, and you find your nose scrunching in disgust.
One of them laughs. “No one’s here, Second Year. You’re good to open those pretty eyes.”
You swallow the nervous giggle down. Focus!
Eyes hesitantly open.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating long wooden benches scarred with skate marks and initials carved onto the surface. Open cubbies gape, stuffed to the brim with shoulder pads the size of riot shields, sweat-darkened jerseys, laces tangled in knots, and rolls of white athletic tape unraveling on the floor.
The place’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.
The air is thick — damp cotton, metal, cheap body spray failing miserably to mask the sour, unmistakable musk of hours spent skating in full gear. You’re careful not to touch anything unnecessary, lest you catch something.
“I’ll call his phone,” one of the twins says.
Ringing echoes through the empty locker room, bouncing against the metal benches and cubbies, and dirty towels and clothes haphazardly strewn around. God, men are disgusting.
“Third row down,” the other twin mutters, following the sound.
Your Converse nearly land on a discarded compression shirt, and you jerk back like it might bite. You pass a rack of hockey sticks propped in the corner, tape chewed to shreds at the blades. A laundry bin overflows with damp towels. Someone’s half-empty protein shaker sits uncapped, abandoned, something beige and unidentifiable clinging to the sides.
“Found it,” the other twin says.
The phone vibrates inside an open locker wedged between a pair of shin guards and a crumpled practice jersey. His name is stitched above the number hanging on the hook — red fabric, white lettering, unmistakable.
You hover stiffly behind them, crossing your arms as though that will somehow shield you from the environment.
“See? No naked men swinging anything around,” Toru teases, swaying his hips at you.
“Shut up,” you groan, cheeks hot despite yourself. “This still feels wrong.”
Sato says, “You overthink too much.”
It’s not overthinking, you want to tell him. It’s the plain truth. The girls’ lockers are clean, tidy, and smell much nicer. Here, it feels humid, like you’ve strolled into Satan’s asshole. It’s fine for twins because they probably don’t know how good they could have it on the other side of things, and it’s not like anyone would bat an eye if the hockey team came back and they found them here.
Toru picks up a pair of boxers, making his brows dance at you, then throws it at his brother’s face.
He releases a disgusted sound, swiping it away. “Hilarious.”
They’re both looking. One in the locker, and the other in the bag he pulled out. As they do that, you ask Sato, “So you’re older?”
The twin with glasses nods. “By two minutes — best two minutes of my life.”
Toru says, “Ha. Ha. We both know the best two minutes of your life are when some poor girl lets you hit.”
“Better than your thirty second record.”
You laugh at their petty sibling rivalry. You admire how easily they could talk to each other, and to you, in spite of your situation, of how absurd this all is. It’s a thing to envy, you think.
Pulling his head out of the musty locker, Toru looks down at you with a challenging smile. “You laughing at me, gorgeous? You think I can’t last longer than thirty seconds?”
Emboldened by the friendly atmosphere, you reply, “Proof’s in the pudding, isn’t it? If that’s your reputation, I’m sure there’s some truth to it.”
“Oh yeah?” He tugs, yanking you to his chest suddenly with the arm connected to yours. Hands steady your hips. Forcing your head to crane back to peer up at him, Toru grins down at you wolfishly, using his height advantage to intimidate you. “Care to let me prove you wrong?”
“I-I was just kidding,” you stammer out. “We need to focus and find the key.”
“I looked; couldn’t find it. Knowing how dedicated Sukuna is, he’s probably got it on him,” he responds, much more interested in something else now.
You gulp.
Heat covers your back. When fingers pinch your chin, keeping you from looking back, you realise the hands on your hips aren’t Toru’s. They’re Sato’s.
They’ve got you sandwiched between them, leaving you with nowhere to go. Out of nowhere, the air has turned even more heated, almost suffocating. It renders you dizzy.
Sato whispers in your ear, lips grazing your ear, “Don’t be rude, Anthro. You told him ‘proof’s in the pudding,’ no? You gonna upset my baby brother by turning back on your words?”
The brother in question’s bending down slowly, teasing you by not quite touching your lips. Meanwhile, someone’s nose is running down the length of your neck, sending your hairs standing on edge.
What the hell is happening?
Why are firm hands gripping you, lips brushing your skin, eyes watching your every move, hard bodies squeezing you till you’re panting? And why are you not stopping them? Why are you tingling between your legs?
Noises come from outside.
You all still.
They curse under their breath, scrambling off into the showers.
At the furthest stall, you hide, eyes wide and a hand pressing down on your own over your mouth. Thunderous feet march in. A ruckus enters. The hockey team’s finished with their practice, and you could be caught at any second. Imagine the scandal if they found you between two guys.
Voices bounce off tile and metal lockers, loud and unfiltered.
“Bro, you call that a shot? My grandma could block that.”
“Shut up, you whiffed the puck twice.”
“Suck my balls, Rogers.”
“Gladly, Barnes.”
A bag hits the floor with a heavy thud. Lockers clang open in sharp succession. The sharp scent of sweat and ice drifts through the humid air.
“Who forgot to wash their jersey? It smells like death in here.”
“Pretty sure that’s just you.”
Laughter erupts — loud, careless, echoing. Someone yelps when a towel snaps against skin.
You squeeze your eyes shut as sneakers squeak across tile, as jerseys are peeled off and tossed aside, as the easy, post-practice chaos unfolds only a few feet away. They’re too close. Way too close.
Oh god, they’re all probably butt naked just metres away from you.
How did things manage to go from bad to worse?
“Don’t make a sound,” Toru whispers, panicked. “The hockey guys cannot catch us here; they’re still mad from the time when we filled up their lockers with shaving cream and glitter, which they need to get over. It’s been days.”
“Pretty sure it’s because we’ve taken quite a few of their girlfriends,” Sato says under his breath.
“It’s not even ‘taking’ when they seek us out. Like anyone would say no to puck bunny pussy.”
“You’re both fucking disgusting,” you hiss. They’re just as sleazy as any guy on campus, it’d seem. The only difference is that they hide behind their handsome faces.
You’re leaning on Toru as he presses himself tightly against the tiles, ducking down so they won’t spot his white hair from above the stall, all while Sato’s leaning on you, pushing in so his back won’t protrude.
Packed like sardines, you’re aware of their hard muscles, of their much bigger sizes, and the ridges of their abs. The frat president can probably feel your tits on him, whilst the Engineering student can feel your ass on his crotch. Something hard pokes your stomach at the same time as something equally hard and hot slot right in between your ass cheeks again.
Lord, take me now, you pray, desperate for relief from the humiliation.
A leg slots between yours. You gasp. It’s Toru’s, but one look at his face and anyone would think you’re just imagining it. Don’t move, you tell yourself. Do not start riding his thigh even if you want to.
Sato pushes his hips forward, and consequently yours. You gasp.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice husky in your ear. “Got an itch you wanna scratch?”
Toru flexes his thigh, bumping hard against your clothed slit. You bite back your moan, wholly aware of the boyish laughter and shouting on the other side. He says, “If you gotta scratch, you gotta scratch, right?”
They definitely know what they’re doing. Manwhores like them always know.
Laying it on thicker, the frat president whispers, “Don’t hesitate; use me. Go on, Second year. Make my day.”
The twins are urging you to ride his thigh, pushing and pulling. Neither of them care about getting caught, not really. You had initially thought Toru would be the biggest danger, what with his outgoing and flirtatious personality, but Sato’s just as bad as him; he’s guiding your hips with his own, hand sliding up your leg to creep under your skirt.
They’re twins from hell.
Someone flicks your nipples through your shirt. You slump back onto Sato’s chest, breathing heavily as your hips grind on a muscular thigh.
How did things come to this?
And why are you getting swept up in all of it?
“She’s so pretty, isn’t she, Sato?”
“Stunning,” he replies. His hand tugs you down, making sure you’re grinding real good on his brother’s thigh. “How does her pussy feel?”
“Warm, and getting wetter. Fuck, it’d be so much better if she wasn’t wearing panties.” He directs his words to you, muttering, “How about it, angel? Gonna let me feel your pussy?”
“There’s people,” you gasp out, growing closer and closer to your end. This is so degrading — they’re watching you ride his thigh all on your own, watching you thrust your chest out, and squirm between them like some whore.
One of them smirks. “So if there weren’t people, you’d readily give me access? Dirty girl. Isn’t she dirty, Sato?”
“Downright filthy.”
When you shudder, someone slaps a hand over your mouth just in time to muffle your moan. Oh fuck you’re cumming on Toru’s thigh, a man you only met this morning, riding the muscle like it’s your pillow. Tomorrow, when you’re hopefully free and no longer attached to them, you’re totally going to want to never see them again.
Finally, you flop, twitching with the final waves of your orgasm.
Your head’s patted. “Well done. You were very brave.”
You smack it away, and grouch, “That was underhanded, you guys.”
“You enjoyed it, Anthro,” Sato points out, and steps back, steadying you. He peers over, and nods. “Coast’s clear. But that means Sukuna’s gone.”
Simultaneously, your eyes land on the wet spot you left behind on Toru’s jeans. He presses down on it, then sucks the pads of his fingers, winking at you. You look away immediately, wanting to cringe at yourself. Voice shaky, whether from stress or from your orgasm, you wonder, “So what are we gonna do now?”
“We’ll have to ask around for where he’ll be,” Sato replies. “Lay it on him good and intimidate him into giving up this stupid prank of his.”
Frowning, you follow them out of the locker room, adjusting your skirt. “Can’t we just go straight to the fire station? Do we have to go on this wild goose chase?”
Toru fake pouts, and puts a hand over his heart. “You tired of us, little lady? Hate us already? Oh, we’re just terrible, aren’t we, Sato?”
“The worst.”
“No, no,” you hurriedly deny. “It’s not that. You guys are great.”
He beams, stringing his arm over yours and forcing yours to hang loosely from your shoulder.
“Then it’s decided — we’re chasing after our Sukuna goose!”
And once again, you’re left with no choice but to do as they say.
.
.
.
After texting some mutual friends for where Sukuna might be, the three of you wind up at his apartment building. The twins have been trying to get ahold of the man, to no avail. It seems he’s intent on forcing all of you to ride out his cruel prank.
You texted your friends, trying to find out what exactly happened last night that might make this Sukuna person hate you enough to do this. You’re just some random girl, why would you be involved in the beef of some pretty well known guys?
They told you that they didn’t see you much at all during the party, that some time after arriving together, you disappeared and was only seen here and there, dancing and having a pretty good time with — and this is the really surprising part — both the twins, at different times.
Videos and pictures were shared to you: you’d be in the background, always with a drink in your hand, smiling like you’ve never smiled before, and flanked by one of the twins almost all the time. The videos seem to be earlier in the night. No cuffs in sight. There’s definitely videos from later in the night, but the people who took them haven’t woken up yet.
“So we were hanging out a lot last night, huh?”
Sato makes a face that says, guess so, whilst Toru whistles an impressed tune. The latter jokingly says, “We’re meant to be, Second year.”
“Seven of the eleven pictures were of me and her,” his twin points out.
“So? That’s just a one picture difference!”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“Her ass on my dick helped me sleep last night,” Toru fires back, clutching your hand and bringing it up to his face so he can lay a kiss on your knuckles with a wink.
Sato yanks you towards him, and you stumble his way in the narrow hallway. He licks the palm of your hand, one upping his brother.
Face burning, you shove both of them back. “Can you guys stop? We need to work out what happened last night — how did we all get so drunk that we don’t remember how we ended up cuffed and in bed together?” Then, you frown. “We…we didn’t sleep together, did we?”
That was actually a question you’ve had since this morning, but you’d shrugged it off as being an impossibility. There’s no way two hot twins would want you, nevermind share a woman. However, after that little stunt in the locker room, you’re starting to wonder.
The frat twin laughs. “That’s cute. Isn’t she cute, Sato?”
“Adorable.”
They’re both laughing at you, and it’s irritating. Aggrieved, you ask, “What’s so funny? I don’t think it’s a ridiculous question to ask considering we woke up in the same bed with no memory of last night.”
Toru lifts his arm, and yours, rustling your hair with your own hand. “Babe, if you slept with me, you’d never forget. Trust.”
“Your mind could forget, sure, but your pussy wouldn’t; she’d still be feeling with me,” Sato says, matter-of-factly. His bright, all-seeing eyes flit down to the apex of your thighs as you walk, and you have to resist the urge to squeeze them together.
Damn.
“Hey, we’re here — 666.” He snickers to himself, thoroughly amused. Toru nudges you. “Fitting, amirite?”
Before he could knock on, you stop him. “What are we gonna do if he’s in? Are you guys going to fight him?”
Sato drawls, “You watch too many movies, Anthro; we’re just going to ask him to give us the key. Sukuna’s an asshole but he’s not the kind to drag a joke on.”
“Yeah, he probably just forgot in the first place,” his twin added.
“Oh.”
That makes sense. There’s no need to get violent. The prank’s not that harmful, you suppose.
They knock. You wait. No one answers.
“Is he not in?”
Toru tries the doorknob. The door opens. You all share a look. That feels pretty fucking ominous, like a trap laid out for you. “We’re not going in, are we?” you ask, looking up and down the hallway in case someone catches you three trespassing, or is it breaking and entering?
Whatever it is, it’s going to end you up in prison.
Lips graze the shell of your ear as someone whispers, “Scared of entering the devil’s domain with us? Think we’re going to eat you up? Hmm?”
“If you behave, we will,” someone else rasps at the back of your neck.
“Stop fucking around,” you reply, flustered by the tingles erupting where they touched you.
A hand presses in at the small of your back, and as the door’s opened, one of them chirps, “In you go, angel!”
You stumble inside, held up from falling only by the dense weight of two men chuckling at the little yelp you release.
The door clicks shut behind you.
For a second, you all just stand there.
Sukuna’s apartment is…exactly what you’d expect, and simultaneously worse — just aggressively, unapologetically male.
A pair of hockey skates sits abandoned by the entrance, laces trailing like shed snakeskin. A duffel bag, half unzipped, spills tape rolls, spare socks, and a mouthguard case onto the hardwood floor. The faint smell of detergent battles unsuccessfully with sweat and something woodsy, his cologne, probably, clinging to the air.
The living room is small but decent — a worn leather couch with a throw blanket tossed carelessly over one arm, a low coffee table cluttered with protein bars, a TV remote, a half-empty Gatorade bottle, and a stack of lecture notes weighed down by a puck. His backpack is slumped against the couch, as though it gave up halfway through being put away.
On one wall: framed team photos. A hockey stick mounted horizontally. A couple of medals draped over the corner of the frame, like it hardly matters to him.
The kitchen is visible from where you stand. Open plan. Dishes in the sink. Not stacked to the ceiling, but definitely past ‘I’ll wash them later’ territory. A frying pan left out on the stove. A carton of eggs on the counter. A magnetic whiteboard on the fridge with scribbled practice times and what looks like a grocery list that just says: milk, rice, jerk off 3:37pm.
Weirdly specific, but okay.
You all step further in, handcuffs clinking obnoxiously between you. The fuzz tinkles your wrist every time one of them moves too abruptly, and it’s soothed by the brushing of knuckles and the rubbing of shapes by thumbs.
“Maybe he left the key here,” one twin says, scanning. “Let’s have a look around.”
As a unit, the three of you shuffle around. Drawers are opened. Closed. A quick glance under couch cushions. You check the kitchen counter with your free hand, careful not to knock over the precarious tower of mail.
The apartment is messy but lived-in. No mysterious stains. No broken furniture. Just a college athlete who does not evidently prioritise tidiness.
Then—
Voices. From the hallway. Muffled at first: “…you said you were done with her—”
The three of you freeze.
“And I am,” comes the unmistakable low, irritated drawl.
“Oh really? Explain to me why I found her panties in your car!”
“They’re yours.”
“Shut the fuck up. I don’t wear blue thongs. I only wear white.”
“Ain’t nothing white and pure about you.”
“Fuck you!”
Your stomach drops.
It sounds like a lovers’ quarrel. You don’t know this Sukuna very well, or at all, but you’re one hundred percent sure he would not be fine seeing you guys in his place when he’s fighting with his girlfriend.
Keys jangle outside.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
“Closet,” Sato hisses.
You don’t argue.
They yank you down the short hallway toward what you assume is the bedroom. The space is larger than you expect — unmade bed, sheets twisted, a jersey tossed over the desk chair. His cologne bottle sits uncapped near the nightstand. A lamp. A stack of textbooks. A charging cable trailing off the mattress like something that gave up halfway. But there’s no time to be psychoanalysing this man’s bedroom.
The front door opens.
“You said that last time!” the woman snaps, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
You’re shoved toward the sliding closet door. It opens with a soft scrape. Inside: hanging shirts, mostly dark. Hoodies. A winter coat. Shoe boxes stacked on one side. A laundry basket half-full.
“All of us?” you hiss.
“Got a better idea?”
The door slides shut just as footsteps enter the bedroom.
You’re crushed instantly. Back against the wall. Toru in front of you. Sato practically plastered behind. The handcuffs force you closer than is remotely comfortable. Someone’s arm is wedged between your ribs and a stack of shoeboxes. A coat hanger digs into your shoulder. How are you back in this position again?
Outside, the argument spills into the room.
“I’m not doing this,” Sukuna says flatly.
“You never do anything! You just— god, you’re impossible!”
A thud. Maybe something dropped on the bed. You hold your breath. Another thud. The mattress creaks. No, please don’t, you beg.
“You knew what this was,” he says, voice colder now.
“And what is it?” she demands.
Silence stretches. You can feel Toru’s heartbeat through his chest where you’re practically pressed against him. Or maybe it’s yours. The handcuffs shift as someone adjusts their balance. The metal clinks. Loud.
All four of you freeze again.
“…what was that?” the woman asks.
You don’t breathe. Not a single one of you moves.
Sukuna’s footsteps approach. The closet door handle rattles lightly as if tested. Your heart actually stops. Like medically dead stops. Then—
A scoff.
“Probably the pipes,” he mutters dismissively. Footsteps retreat. The argument resumes, lower now. Tense.
Inside the closet, you’re still crammed together like contraband. One twin’s breath ghosts across your temple. “If you make another sound,” he whispers so quietly it barely exists, “I’m framing you as the girl with the blue thong.”
You would elbow him if you had the space. It wasn’t even you!
Instead, you stay very, very still.
Their masculine scents engulf you. One of them smells like tacky aftershave done right, somehow, and the other is clean laundry. Both are intoxicating, as is the heat they exude which has you flushing in the cramped space.
It’s tight and cramped here. You barely have room to breathe, barely have room for your lungs to expand. And you’re pretty sure you’re standing on someone’s foot, though no one complains. As slowly and carefully as you can, you adjust yourself, grimacing at the tightness and darkness in the closet.
“Stop squirming,” Toru pleads. When you glance at him, he’s staring up, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“What?”
Sato whispers in your ear, “You’re making him pop a boner. Me too. Nobody tell you it’s rude to get a guy hard and not do something about it?”
“They’re right outside,” you whisper back. “Even if I wanted to, we couldn’t do anything.”
A thumb flicks your nipple. Your moan is stifled by a hand to your mouth. Toru says, and in the darkness of the closet you can hear his grin, “Oh, but you want to, don’t you. You want to so bad. I bet feeling us up like this, knowing you can get caught, is making your little kitty purr.”
“Little kitty? Seriously?”
“Shut up, Sato. Maybe if you said it more, you’d get laid as often as I do.”
“I get laid plenty, asshole.”
“Shut up both of you,” you fire back at the two of them, ear craning to hear what’s happening outside. There’s no more arguing, which is a good sign, but there’s definitely signs of life, which isn’t a good sign; they’re still here. You can hear talking, hushed and intimate, as well as rhythmic creaking.
Oh no.
“Damn,” Toru says under his breath. “Ryomen’s fucking his girl. Guess I’ll finally be able to settle my bed with Fushiguro — does the psycho last longer than thirty seconds? Any takers?”
No one replies to him.
Through your breathing, you can’t help but listen to the sounds of moaning and groaning. There’s even some slapping involved, and a couple, ‘you like that?’, ‘you’re making a mess all over my cock, you little slut,’ and ‘picking a fight just to cum, you ain’t slick.’
That Sukuna guy is an aggressive one.
“Is it weird to say, given our situation, that I think it’s nice that they’re so in love and can easily resolve their problems?” you say, as quietly as you can.
Both twins snort.
“They ain’t in love, Second year. They’re just horny and toxic, which makes for a great combo. And if I recognise the voice right, then that’s Cassie. She’s a mess, no offence to her. She likes stealing her friend’s man. Great tits though.”
“She’s just another girl in his roster; Sukuna doesn’t date. Not unless pigs are airborn.”
“Oh.”
The three of you are breathing heavily, constantly brushing up against each other. Toru’s shirt is scraping your hardened nipples through your shirt. Your ass is grinding behind you. Hands are gripping your hips under your skirt as another set sneaks under your top, clutching your waist and climbing higher and higher till it’s just about grazing the underside of your tits.
Is it the uninhibited moaning outside?
Or the masculine scent you’re enveloped in?
What’s got you so hot and bothered, squirming between them, whining to be touched?
A hand grips your hip, pulling you back. A hot thing hangs heavy behind you. Your breath hitches. Meanwhile, lips press to your temple, then to your cheek, and finally your lips.
Toru doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He first whispers, “Been wanting to do this since this morning.” Then he kisses you. It’s sweet, soft, and gentle. It gives you butterflies. A metallic thing scrapes your bottom lip, and when you gasp, he’s quick to explain, “Just my tongue piercing, babe. You’ll get used to it. Soon’ll be getting to feel it against your clit, trust.”
Something long and hard slides itself between your thighs. You stiffen.
“What? Did you think I was gonna let my brother have all the fun?” Sato’s hands are gripping your bare hips, pulling you back and forth on his cock, which he ruts right up against your panties, cockhead prodding your clothed clit.
Panicking a little, you voice out, “What if they hear us?”
“You don’t want to be caught, Anthro? You better keep quiet then.”
One of them grope your tits, tweaking the hardened buds through your shirt, carrying your hand with his. You twitch with every flick, every scratch of a nail, and every pinch. Toru swallows your moans, greedily gulping them down. You really are getting used to the tongue piercing; it’s an addictive sensation against your own tongue.
The heat between your legs is almost scalding, and the way it separates your pussy lips, greeting your throbbing clit on its way forward, has your hips working back in tandem.
“Good girl,” one of them mutters.
The veins on the cock are felt by your sensitive skin. God, he’s big. Like really big. Would Toru be big too? Could you take any of their cocks? Both of them? Is that too filthy to think about?
Outside, a feminine voice calls out, “Ngh! Sukuna, right there! Harder, baby, please!”
“Don’t call me baby, you whore. Just take my cock and be quiet.”
You won’t admit it to anyone, but the sounds of skin slapping, headboard banging, and wanton screaming are getting to you. They’re setting the mood, and you’re growing less and less ashamed of the fact that you’re being thighfucked by one of the Gojo twins as the other shoves his tongue down your throat and squeezes your tits.
This is even filthier than in the locker room. More lewd. Obscene.
You’re rubbing yourself all over twins in a closet, hiding, and trespassing whilst the owner of the place is fucking his girl, and they don’t have a clue. If this is how parties end, then you might be inclined to attend another one of theirs.
“S-sato,” you whimper to his brother’s lips, “I’m gonna cum.”
“Fuck, me too.”
“What am I, chopped liver?”
Full body shudders wrack you. You clutch Toru’s stupid t-shirt, hips stuttering, and juices soaking your panties. Thighs tightening in pulses with the strain of your muscles, you wring groans from Sato right into your ear.
“Shit, don’t cum all over me,” Toru hastily says, before picking up a random shirt off the hanger and shoving it between your legs just in time as Sato’s cock pulses in waves. “Ugh, that’s disgusting.”
“Thanks,” his twin mumbles, lifting your hand to his face. You fix his glasses for him, pushing it back up his nose bridge.
“Where are you going now?” the girl asks, voice slightly muted by the barriers between you and her.
Bed creaking before feet pad on the floor, Sukuna answers, “Gotta stop by the ADP.” Silence. “Alpha Delta Phi? Gojo’s frat? Jesus, do you know anything other than how to bounce on cock? Forget it. I just need to go pick something up. Let yourself out whenever, but don’t be back here tonight. I’m having the boys over.”
“Oh, please, we both know that’s just code for having your other girl over.”
“Well if you know, then why bother playing coy about it. Yeah, I’m fucking other women, just like you’re fucking other guys. I don’t care and neither should you. Take a shower, nap, or whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t be here when I get back.”
“Fuck you.”
“You just did, sweetheart.”
Feet pad away and full silence returns to the room. In the distance, a door shuts. You all breathe out a sigh of relief, shoulders dropping.
“What an asshole,” you say, pushing the closet door open for fresh air.
“Told you,” the twins say in unison.
The bed’s been left a mess, with a huge wet patch at the centre that you don’t want to focus too much on. Sato’s tucked himself back in his jeans expertly, and you’d think he’d never taken anything out in the first place.
“Oi, Sato, lift her up for me.”
Sighing, the guy grumbles before lifting you by the back of your thighs. You fall back on his chest, head resting on his shoulder. Legs wide open, Toru kneels between them, grinning up at you. He winks, poking the wet spot you’ve made in your panties.
“What’re you doing?” you ask, startled.
Toru shrugs, pulling your panties aside. He takes a deep inhale, nose skimming and coming back all glossy. “Just wondering what you taste like that. You both got to cum, so it’s only fair I get a little something too, no?”
“It’s logical. Practically a faultless argument,” Sato concurs, leaving a kiss on your heated cheeks to reassure you. “Don’t worry; he won’t bite.” A little hushed and more mischievous, he adds, “Not like me.”
Naturally, that does nothing to wash away the embarrassment of his twin being face to face with your puffy pussy.
His smooth hands soothe the tremor in your thighs. “Just a taste, gorgeous. To tide me over till we make it back to the frat house to catch Sukuna. Besides, I want you to get comfortable with my tongue piercing.”
He pecks your clit, then takes a longer lick of your pussy. You gasp, hands kept down by your sides by their own and unable to push him away. Toru is as unashamed as ever, shoving his whole face in your cunt and forcing squelches out when he tongues your entrance.
“W-we’re going back to the -ngh!- frat house?”
Sato hums, seemingly unbothered by any of what’s going on. It might as well be any other Saturday. “We have to catch him there; I don’t want to spend the rest of my day chasing after him, when I could be buried inside your pussy.”
SLURRRRRP!
You cry out, toes curling.
“So sweet,” the twin down there moans. “You gotta taste her, Sato.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, idiot,” he scolds. “And hurry up.”
“Quit telling me what to do — I like taking my time with good pussy, sorry.”
“Toru!”
Cooing, he mutters an apology to your cunt. “Aw, sorry, babe. Don’t mean to neglect you. Don’t worry, Toru’s here. Toru’s gonna make you feel so good, better than my brother’s tiny ass dick, I promise.”
Said brother scoffs.
But you don’t care about their unnecessary competition. You can only focus on the jolts of electricity zooming from your pussy and exploding in your belly. You’ve never been eaten out so good, and not with a piercing you’re painfully aware rubbing just right through your puffy folds. It rolls against your clit. You moan.
“Feel good?” Toru asks, all smug. “Got the idea from our piercer friend. It’s a real hit with the ladies.”
You frown. “It’s impolite to talk about -hah fuck that’s good- o-other women when you’re between someone’s legs.”
Sato kisses your cheek again, and approvingly inserts, “Put him in his place, baby. Been trying to teach him manners since we were born and he never listens to me. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
“Quit talking about me like I’m some kind of dog,” Toru grumbles.
“Then quit acting like it,” you bravely snap, possessed by the desperate need to chase another high. “Make me cum already, before I ask your brother to do it instead.”
Another kiss, this time punctuated by a chuckle. “
“Kitty’s got claws. That’s fucking hot.”
Lips wrap around your clit, which is still sensitive from the incessant rubbing of Sato’s cock. That’s why when he finally sucks hard on the little thing, you cum again way too quickly. “Fuck, Toru!”
“Mm, that’s right, baby, ride my face and my tongue.”
Through your writhing and squirming, Sato holds you up, bearing your weight with ease, all while Toru laps up the juices oozing out of your pussy, like a puppy, like a man in a dessert.
That’s three orgasms all in less than an hour. It’s a new record for you, which means your body isn’t used to it. On shaky legs, you’re set down. They hold you up, preventing you from collapsing on the floor.
One of them ruffles your hair. “You did such a great job, Second year. We’re almost at the finish line, think you can manage a slight jog back to the frat house?”
How are they so chill? How can they act like nothing happened? There’s not even a single wrinkle on their shirts, whereas you look and feel like a mess.
“Y-yeah,” you mumble, dazed and still experiencing waves of an orgasm that wasn’t supposed to happen so suddenly.
Sato nods, pulling your panties back into place and patting your pussy. “We know a shortcut — it’ll give us at least fifteen minutes ahead of Sukuna. More if he gets distracted and walks slowly.”
“Great. Let’s go.”
.
.
.
“Oh my god…” you breathe out, staring at your phone. “I was dancing on a table?”
More videos and pictures are surfacing online now that the partygoers are waking up and getting over their splitting headache. And damn it, you wish they hadn’t.
Leaning over, Toru whistles. “That’s fucking hot. It reminds me of when my frat brothers hired strippers for my birthday, except your dancing is so much better.”
You elbow the little kiss up. “We both know that’s a lie. I’m dancing like a drugged up chimpanzee.”
“Like an unstable gas, just shaking about the place,” Sato adds. When Toru and you give him a look, a blush graces his cheeks. He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “So he can talk about strippers but I can’t mention anything related to the periodic table?”
That was a slip of his cocky façade, and it brings a smile to your lips.
He rolls his eyes at your look of adoration. Glancing at the screen, he says, “We didn’t have the cuffs then, and that was probably about midnight. Our parties typically end at 3 am, with some people lingering even later. So between then and 3am, Sukuna had slipped cuffs on us.”
“Do you think he drugged us too?” you wonder, speedwalking along the back of a building you’ve never visited on campus. “I mean, I’m just not the type to get black out drunk.”
It’s awful to suggest Sukuna, a man you’ve never met before, would be the type to spike peoples’ drinks, but it would certainly explain things.
Toru shakes his head, running a hand through his messy hair. “I wouldn’t put it past him to slip us something that makes us more susceptible to doing stupid shit. Though, honestly, looking at how I’m twerking on my pledge, Itadori, I don’t think I needed anything more to get black out.”
“That’s just how you are naturally,” his twin snarks.
To that, the frat guy laughs in disbelief. “You’re one to talk considering we have five videos of you writing equations on the entirety of the basketball team’s backs and yapping their ears off about Digimon, which you only do after the eleventh shot. Shots, mind you, you hate but never pass down.”
“Only ‘cause I need alcohol to survive your stupid parties,” Sato fires back.
“Parties you enjoy!”
“Alright, alright, that’s enough, boys. Let’s just agree we all got messy on our own,” you establish, feeling like the two are way too close to tearing each other apart.
When you reach the frat house, Sato opens the door for you. Does no one lock their doors on campus?
You didn’t notice it in your rush to get out of the house earlier, how big and beautiful the house is. It’s old, ornately decorated with impeccable wooden floors and portraits hanging on walls. Of course, there are thongs, bras, streamers, limp balloons, used condoms strung all over the place, and there’s empty cans of beer and bottles of alcohol just lying about. But beneath all of the grime of a party done well lies a gorgeous home.
Cleaners flit about the place, collecting trash and mopping floors.
“Perk of living in a frat,” Toru proudly declares, “we never have to clean up after ourselves.”
“That is pretty cool,” you agree.
Sato huffs. “It’s insanely privileged. And intrusive. I much prefer not having strangers constantly leaving their traces in my home.”
The three of you gracefully ascend the stairs, avoiding mysterious wet puddles and stains you didn’t want to think too much about. Sukuna doesn’t seem to be here, so they were right about the shortcut.
“So you live on your own?” you ask him, nodding a thank you to Toru who carries you over a stack of bottles.
“Yeah, but we’re over at each other’s places so often we might as well not be.”
You giggle. “That’s so cute. You two just need to be together all the time, huh?”
Toru punches his brother’s arm over your head. “She’s laughing at us, Sato. She thinks we’re pathetic and psychotically close.”
“I promise, it’s only circumstance that keeps bringing us together,” Sato dryly says. “If I had it my way, I’d have said good riddance to him a long time ago.”
“My sentiment exactly — pretty sure I tried to eat you in the womb and that’s why you’re so ugly.”
A laugh escapes you.
Eventually, you reach their bedroom.
Right back where you started.
Smiling, you say, “It’s funny that we did all that work just to end up back here because Sukuna was always coming by, isn’t it? Quite ironic actually.”
The door shuts behind you.
“Look, Toru,” a dark voice coos, “she doesn’t know she’s about to be fucked an inch of her life.”
“I know,” an equally dark voice agrees. “I can’t get over how stinkin’ cute she is. Makes me wanna just eat her out till she faints. Think she’ll let me?”
“I think she’s been soaked the whole day and at this point she’ll let us do anything we want…isn’t that right, Anthro?”
The hairs on your arms stand on edge. Two foreboding presences flank you, reminding you that there’s no where you can go that they won’t follow, that you’re stuck with them for good, and that you couldn’t hope to fight them off even if you wanted to. Your panties might as well not be there by how your wetness is trickling down your thighs.
They drag you down onto the bed with them.
Hands make quick work of your clothes: they pull down your skirt, taking your panties with them, they yank your shoes and socks off, and one of them even grabs scissors to cut right through the shirt before you can say anything. The metal grazes your skin, slicing right between your tits.
“Wait, wait,” you yell, overwhelmed by the suddenness of their actions. “Sukuna! Sukuna’s coming.”
Sato says, “Not for twenty minutes — one of my friends said they saw him stop by the Student Council office.”
“Probably going to bother the Prez,” Toru snickers, pressing your panties to his nose and moaning. “Fuck, I love the way your pussy smells. The dirtier the better.”
Heat rises to your cheeks immediately, and you fall back onto Sato’s lap. He licks a stripe up your neck. “My brother’s got weird tastes. Forgive him, angel. He’s just born weird. I like to say I took all the brains in the womb.”
Toru snorts, throwing aside all your shredded clothes. “Sure, let’s pretend I haven’t had chicks crying to me about how you’re so mean to them, asking for me to be the nice twin.”
The three of you kneel on the bed together, cuffs clinking when they clash, the pink fluff tickling skin. They’re both still dressed. You feel Sato’s jeans scratching your skin, the metal zip rubbing right up against your pussy, and Toru’s silly ‘Best Seats’ shirt grazing your nose as he towers over you.
He brings up the hem, biting it, revealing washboard abs. You blink at it.
He says, “Lick it, Second year. Go on.” Hesitating, you run your tongue over his torso, starting from the white treasure trail, over his outie belly button, then his abs, and his chest. Of course he knows he has an impressive body. It’s important he knows you know that too; it’s an ego boost for him. “Such a good girl,” he coos. “I’ll be sure to fuck you real good as a reward.”
“Not until I’m done,” Sato argues. “I’m older so I get first dibs.”
His long fingers are parting your pussy lips, grinding his zipper up and bumping it against your clit. The texture’s weird, and wild, and it has you heaving, no doubt leaving behind your slick all over the metal teeth.
Gripping your face with his free hand, Sato kisses you for the first time. He’s got your neck twisted back, the wetness of your pussy smearing on your skin. There’s no piercing, only a minty taste that you’re obsessed with. It’s messier, filthier, all tongue and spit, so different from how his brother kisses.
You’re dragged back, and lips quickly replace Sato’s. That familiar piercing returns. You’re stolen back again. Then again. And again. They’re fighting over who gets to kiss you. You’re dizzy, breathless, creaming for more.
“Quit taking her,” Toru growls.
“Fuck off,” Sato snarls. “Just sit there and look away. Three’s a crowd.”
“It’s not fair. You’re already getting to fuck her pussy first.”
“Oh? You’re so easy to give up?” He whispers in your ear, all smug, “My brother’s a pushover. Bet it turns you way off, doesn’t it? It’s alright, angel, you can tell him to back off. It’ll just be you and me, won’t that be nice?”
Fingers coat themselves in your pussy juice, rubbing your clit nice and good before pushing inside your pulsing hole. “No, babe, tell the nerd he can fuck off and go research where the clit even is. I’ll fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk away from my bed even when the cuffs are off.”
Neither of them will actually give up, no matter what you say, you know that. So you say, “Both of you. I want to be fucked by both of you. Please!”
“She’s so polite. Isn’t she polite, Sato?”
“Perfectly so.”
If someone had told you you’d be shared by twins in a frat house, you’d have called the police for harassment. Now, as you’ve said those words and they sigh and begrudgingly agree to allow the other to be here, you think this was inevitable.
Toru creeps back, working on his zip and freeing his hard cock. A hand shoves your face forward. If it isn’t for Sato holding you up, you’d be face planting into the sheets.
“A-are you sure Sukuna won’t catch us?”
Fingers push in, scissoring your cunt and prepping your walls. They cruelly curl up against your g-spot. “You think she’s trying to piss us off by mentioning another man’s name, Toru?”
“I think it doesn’t matter — she’s gonna forget there’s anyone else outside these walls when I’m through with her.”
Right in front of you, Toru strokes his dick. It’s pale, flushed red at the tip and already leaking. He’s trimmed neatly. There’s even a tattoo on his hip that says ‘Lucky You ;)’
Your mouth waters.
The salty pre is smeared on your lips. He taps it, once, then twice. “Say ahh, babe.”
Behind you, something pokes your pussy. It slides between your thighs again, spreading your juices on your skin. It enters you, inch by inch, slowly, making you feel every bit of him.
At the same time, Toru’s cock pushes through, filling your mouth. Both ends have to stretch wide to accommodate them. Already, you’re overwhelmed, overstimulated, over the fucking moon at being used so lewdly. Your friends are never going to believe how you spent your Saturday, and your future kids will never know just how wild their mother got back in college.
Soon, they bottom out, and it’s a miracle you’ve been able to take both of them at the same time.
“Damn, what a talented fucking mouth,” Toru breathes out, head thrown back. “A star for you, Second year.”
“You should feel her pussy,” Sato grits out, fingers digging into the plush of your ass with the strain of resisting the urge to thrust over and over again in your cunt. “It’s the tightest thing ever.”
His brother groans. “Shut the fuck up, dude. I can’t stand hearing your voice. Respectfully. You’re ruining this for me.”
“Grow up.”
In tandem, they rut back and forth, starting off in small bursts first to let you get used to it, then steadily growing faster and faster. You’re basically being used as as fleshlight, fucked in the way they want, with little regard for how uncomfortably stretched out and twisted you are. And it feels amazing.
But…
Why does Sato’s cock feel so different?
Your cunt clenches down on it. He grunts, then chuckles. “You’re wondering what’s on my dick, aren’t you? It’s a piercing baby. Thought only Toru has one? Didn’t expect it from me, did you? You feel it scraping your walls? Feel me deep inside your perfect pussy?”
And you can. You can feel exactly where he is, how deep he’s in, how satisfied your gummy walls are to feel something so big stretching you out, like a feeding a sacrifice to a hungry god.
You moan around Toru’s dick. He grunts. “Fuck, babe! You’re gonna make me cum early.”
“Pathetic,” Sato mutters. A cold wetness lands with a thwack right on your puckering hole. You jerk. “Relax. Just trust me.” A thumb circles the hole, pushing in only knuckle deep yet it’s more than enough to have you feeling insanely full. “If we had more time, then I’d prep this tight hole to take me. This’ll have to do.”
Sato’s an ass guy?
Are you?
It’s never occurred to you to play in that other hole, though as he hooks his thumb in, you start to think you’ve been missing out this entire time. Toru, on the other hand, is obsessed with your tits. He keeps groping them, flicking the buds so you’ll moan even more around his cock.
Balls are swinging, bumping against your chin and on your clit. The bed squeaks and creaks with the force of their ploughing, headboard slamming against the wall. You wonder if the other frat guys can hear, if they know you’re a slut squirting around a cock as you get rammed by their frat president and his twin brother. It must be a normal occurrence with how whorish they both are.
Your tongue swirls around the unpierced cockhead in your mouth, licking the salty slit. The guy in front of you curses, still biting the hem of his shirt. You can see his abs constricting, the muscles under his tattoo twitching. .
Sato breathily chuckles. “My little brother’s gonna tap out soon, and I’ll have you all to myself.”
Toru pushes back in immediately, not wasting even a single second. You have to breathe through your nose, the walls of your throat squeezing around the hefty intrusion. Whereas Sato’s long, Toru’s thicker — the difference is minute, yet you can tell.
Feeling challenged, Toru scoffs. He taps your cheek. “Tell him he can spank you. Go on.” He pulls out.
You cough, throat hoarse already. “Spank me, Sato. It’s okay, I can take it.”
SMACK!
You scream around Toru’s dick. His hips jerk forward with a groan. The fucker didn’t waste a single second!
“So fucking tight!” He slaps your cheek again, hitting exactly where he had the first time. You moan, pussy pulsing. “You like that? Well, aren’t you a dirty thing.”
It’s a turn-on for Sato, you understand now. It flipped a switch in him, seeing the mark of his hand blooming on your ass; his hips are thrusting harder, hitting that gummy spot inside you that has you seeing stars and flooding down his cock, which practically rams you mercilessly.
The strength of his thrusting forces your throat to take Toru even deeper, a fact that the frat guy rejoices in as he holds you up by a hand on your tit, groping like he had before. The cockhead’s bumping the back of your throat, no doubt bruising you.
You cum, shuddering, but neither of them seem to care. They only notice the throbbing and rhythmic squeezing of your cunt and throat, groaning and grunting above you.
“Poor nerd,” Toru snickers. “He’s gonna cum so quickly. It’s sad, isn’t it? It’s nice that you’re so charitable, babe.”
“Big talk for a masochist.” The older twin rubs your clit, occasionally pinching the thing just to feel you tighten around him. Darkly, he orders, “Dig your nails into his thigh. All the girls know he’s weak for pain. He even calls the older ones mommy. Sad, isn’t it? Disturbed, even.”
Panicked, he tries to grab your hand before it can grip his thigh through his jeans. But it’s too late. You’re faster. You dig your nails in as hard as you can so he’ll feel it through the material. He whimpers, hips stuttering. “Jesus FUCK!”
Hot cum spurts in your throat. You gag on the salty taste. Tears spring to your eyes.
Sato laughs, yanking you up by the air. Toru’s cock slides out with a pop!
Back flat on his chest, he holds you up with a hand around your throat. It presses in slightly, slowly stopping airflow to your head in intervals, holding enough to make you delirious.
Aggrieved and peeved off for being forced to cum early by a cheap trick, Toru poutily kisses your lips, running that tongue piercing over the seam. He pushes a hand against your belly. You whine, feeling even more of Sato this way. “Let’s see how long either of you lasts like this, cheaters.”
“Fuck off—Christ! Shit!”
It only takes a mere second. It’s more embarrassing than Toru’s premature ejaculation.
At the sudden and impossible tightness, the older twin curses under his breath. White paints your walls. The heat is searing and it pushes you over the edge too.
Quickly, you’re pulled off his dick, which is still spurting. Some cum gets on your face when you’re brought to your back on the bed. They’re manhanding you, positioning you like you’re a ragdoll, like you’re a mere toy for their pleasure. It’s hard to tell where up and down are, left and right, if it’s even the same day.
A cock pushes in, bullying its fat length with no hesitation. The aftershocks wrings out a deeply satisfied moan from Toru, who sinks in balls deep easily. He mutters petulantly, “If her pussy didn’t feel so good, I’d be too disgusted by your spunk all over her to get hard again.”
“Be grateful I’m letting you fuck her at all,” Sato retorts. He removes his glasses, squinting and finding the fogging of the lenses a pain in the ass. As he clears it out with the bottom of his shirt, he adjusts himself over you, obscuring your view of Toru. His heavy cock hasn’t lessened in density. It rests between your tits, soaked and sticky. “Stick your tongue out.”
You do. He makes a noise of approval.
His hands push your tits together, sandwiching his dick. Sato’s shaven. He likes things nice and clean, it’d seem. The metal bars under his cockhead are hot against your skin. You can see them. They look painful.
In between moans, you ask him, “Did the -hngh- piercings hurt?”
He shakes his head, lazily thrusting on your skin. His cock bumps onto your tongue, leaving drops of salty cum. You can taste yourself and him, and it oddly doesn’t disgust you.
Behind his brother, Toru pushes your thighs up, hooking them over his arms. Amused, he says, “He’s lying. He cried after, telling me he regrets it and he wants the piercings taken off. What a little bitch boy.”
“He exaggerates.” But the pink tinting Sato’s cheeks tells a different story.
“Whatever you say, big bro,” Toru muses.
He yanks you back and forth on his cock, not exactly thrusting anymore. You’re back to being used a fleshlight, as a pocket pussy, dragged up and down the veiny length of him. He’s reaching deep, stretching you out even more than his brother did, though he doesn’t reach your cervix as nicely as Sato had. It hardly matters to you. The pleasure’s all the same.
Thumbs brush over your nipples, flicking and rubbing, all while Sato squeezes your breasts tightly around his cock. His veins are prominent too, and they tickle your skin with every thrust. You swirl your tongue around his cockhead, teasing the underside where his piercings are every time he reaches your mouth. He throws his hair back, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Fuck, that mouth. Real fucking sinful,” he mutters.
Rocked back and forth, bruised and bullied from top to bottom, fingers digging into sensitive flesh, marking and claiming, with sticky juices drying on your skin and tears dripping down your cheeks from the overstimulation — it’s one orgasm after the other.
“Aw, are you crying?” Sato asks, smirking and not looking the least bit apologetic.
Toru chuckles. “For something so tight and greedy, her pussy’s real weak, don’t you think?”
“The weakest.”
Skin smacks against skin. Juices splash. Puddles grow beneath you. You can taste their cum, feel them and hear and see them everywhere. Even when you close your eyes, the shapes of their cocks are imprinted, practically burnt on your retina. They won’t stop talking, won’t stop commenting on how you tremble and tense around them.
One of them moans pornographically. They both laugh.
“Hear how she moans? You’d think she’s on OnlyFans and she’s trying to rack in the subs. Dirty, dirty girl.”
“She does moan pretty loudly. Squeals like a pig too.”
Toru adds, “Oh and her pussy won’t stop talking back to me. Maybe she wants to debate the collegiate system with me, or give me a glowing review on my dick game.”
“Only you’d lose to a debate with a literal cunt,” Sato says, snorting.
“Oh because you’d win one? That’s what you wanna brag about?”
“I won one when I made her cum like three times on my dick today.”
“Pssh, you’re deluded.”
None of what they say gets to you. You’re too deep in the pleasure, in the euphoric bliss, to properly register what they’re saying. You just want them to keep fucking you, to keep stimulating your entire body. You want this to never stop.
Ankles locked around Toru’s hips, you yank him back, wanting more and more of him. It’s never enough. The hairs at his base tickle your clit before he grinds his pelvis against it. Your eyes roll back.
Sato spits a fat dollop on your tit, barely assisting the glide of his cock, which easily slides between your tits — he just wanted to do that. The sight of you all messy, lips glossy, eyes dazed, causes the corners of his mouth to twitch.
Spitting’s his thing. Panty sniffing is Toru’s.
The more you learn about them, the more your invite to Hell solidifies. They really are twins from the Underworld, just so filthy, so lewd, so damned.
“Fucking tight, squeezing me so good,” one of them groans, barely understandable.
“Pretty fucking tits, prettier fucking mouth,” the other says, eyes flitting between your face and your breasts, undecided where it wants to stay.
All three of you moan at the same time, bodies spasming, and clit and cocks throbbing. Everyone gasps for breath, the air humid and tangy.
Finally…
“Ngh! Sato! Toru!”
Cum spurts on your face, and you have to shut your eyes to avoid getting some in there. They land on your cheeks and nose and tongue. More cum fills up your cunt. All of your juices mix together in a warm concoction.
You’ve never been more full and deeply satisfied. You feel it in your bones, in your souls.
The fluff of the cuffs are soaked with your sweat and cum, the metal clammy. There are marks on your wrists from where they’ve pulled too much or too harshly, and the sting only adds to the pleasure.
Best.
Sex.
Of.
Your.
Life.
Probably best threesome too. Not that you’re planning on having any more.
“Fuck that was good,” Toru says, hands rubbing your thigh and your stomach. He pulls out, and you wince. The emptiness is upsetting, although it doesn’t last very long; his long, slender fingers push the cum leaking out back in, keeping you plugged for a little longer.
“Mm,” Sato agrees, wiping cum from your face only to shove it in your mouth for you to suck off.
“What kind of freaky circus act am I looking at right now?”
Heads flip to the door. You almost get whiplash from how fast you turned.
In the doorway, a pink-haired, heavily tattooed man stands. He doesn’t look disturbed, just amused. His eyes drink in your form, from your face to your tits to your pussy, or as much of your body he can see from where he’s standing anyway.
“Oh hey, Ryomen,” Toru says, not making a move to cover himself or you up. He just stands there between your legs, absentmindedly rubbing your clit. “How you doing?”
“Toru!” you scold, still dazed but thinking more clearly than the other two, that’s for sure. “Ask him about the cuffs.”
Does no one care about your dignity?
Nudity between men might be normal, but it’s certainly not between men and women. Despite that, they’re acting like he just caught you hanging out. No one covers you up. The newcomer doesn't look away. They’re all acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Who you presume is Sukuna finally spots the pink cuffs. He groans. “You got it all dirty. God, I fucking hate you dumbass twins. Came back to pick it up, and this is how you repay the favour? You better get me new ones, Gojos.”
You blink.
Static rings in your ears.
“They…borrowed it from you?”
Sukuna quirks a brow, like he’s surprised you’re daring to speak to him. “Yeah, twin fucker. In exchange for the keys to their garage and whatever car I wanted to drive around for the weekend.” Then he seems to piece something together and laughs mockingly. “Jesus, did they sell you some story about how I cuffed you three together in punishment or something? How dumb can you be?”
Sato huffs. “Watch it, Ryomen.”
“Yeah, another insult from your lips and I’m decking you right across the cheek.”
“Whatever you freaks.” A ping goes off on his phone. Sukuna reads the notification. “Alright, I gotta get going. Get me new cuffs and keep me out of your shit. Don’t even know why you didn’t just get your own.”
Toru chuckles, tension disappearing as though it was never there to begin with, and his fingers still fucking inside you. “Lies sell better when mixed with a little truth.”
Disgusted, Sukuna scowls. “You sound like your nerdy brother. Don’t try to sound smart, Idiot Gojo. It don’t fucking suit you.” His eyes fall back to you. He smirks. “If you get tired of their pasty asses, I’m more than happy to fuck you right. You know where I live.”
He knew you were there?
Seeing the bewildered look on your face, he scoffs. “You all breathe so fucking heavily. You think I wouldn’t sense your stupidity radiating from my closet? I mean, I always knew the two of you were in the closet, but I never knew you’d be in there with a girl. Guess sexuality really is a spectrum.”
“Fuck off, Sukuna,” Sato growls, cock soft now and being tucked right back into his pants.
He waves a hand lazily. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Unlike her, I’m not interested in doing it with twins. I’ll see you weirdos around.”
“Wait!” you call out before he can leave. “The key! We need the key!”
Sukuna rolls his eyes at you.
“You’re slower than you look,” he mutters, exasperated beyond measure. Louder, he says, enunciating hard so you’ll get it, “I. Don’t. Have. It. The twins. Are. Sexual deviants. Who lie. To get pussy. They have the key. They always had it. You think only with your clit or something?”
A pillow gets thrown at him, followed by, “Fuck off, Ryomen.”
With a middle finger aimed at all three of you, he goes back the way he came, leaving you with guilty looking twins who each fish out a small key from their pockets.
“Oh look,” Toru weakly cheers, “we found it. Yay!”
One winces. “Guess we won’t need to go to the fire station.”
The Gojo family is conservative by every moral metric imaginable, which makes it hilarious because Satoru is a frat president.
mdni. college au / arranged marriage / (semi) slowburn city / domestic fluff / crack-ish / mentions of substance use / pwp / unprotected angry sex
fratboy!gojo who throws the wildest bachelor’s party under the very thin guise of a regular frat house party.
Satoru had already lost count of how many times he’s blacked out. No, scratch that. He’s lost count of how many times he’s blacked out AND come back.
He blinks. He’s standing on the of the table, downing a whole bottle of Jack Daniels like it’s holy water.
He blinks again. Now he’s shirtless on the counter while two women trail salt down his body as they do body shots on him.
He blinks harder this time, and he's suddenly on his knees in front of the toilet, puking his brains out.
“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed against cold porcelain. “I'm never drinking again.”
From the doorway, Suguru watches him with arms crossed as he leans against the frame.
“That’s enough drinking, Satoru,” he says.
Satoru lifts his head just enough to squint at him. His hair’s a mess and there’s lipstick smeared on his cheek.
“You kidding me?” he lets out a loud, sloppy laugh. “This is an auspicious end to my freedom!”
Suguru doesn’t laugh nor does he smile. He exhales through his nose and tilts his head back against the doorframe.
“You’ve been ‘ending your freedom’ for six hours.”
“And I’ll keep ending it,” Satoru slurs proudly. “It’s called commitment to my brand.”
Suguru clicks his tongue. “Don’t you think it’s time to be more… mature?”
“What?” Satoru says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did everyone forget that I’m young? That I have a life ahead of me?”
The shift in Suguru's demeanor is subtle, but Satoru feels it even through the haze.
“Pull your head out of your ass,” Suguru says calmly. “You’re not special.”
Satoru freezes with hands still braced against the toilet seat.
“Your wife’s young too,” Suguru continues. “And she has a life far more ahead than yours.” His words make Satoru quiet. “Ever consider how hard this is for her too?”
Satoru stares at the toilet seat like it might answer for him. For once, there’s no joke lined up in his head. His best friend's words land heavier than anything he’s thrown up tonight.
“…I never thought of that,” he admits quietly.
He lets out a defeated sigh and leans back against the wall, suddenly very aware of how loud, how careless, how young he’s been acting.
Suguru watches him for a moment longer, then stuffs his hands inside his pockets.
“Get your shit together,” he says. “I’ll go get you water.”
Satoru lets his head fall back against the tile. “Hey, Suguru?”
“What.”
“…You’re a buzzkill.”
Suguru snorts under his breath as he turns away.
fratboy!gojo who doesn't give two shits about wedding planning.
Satoru treats it like an inconvenient group project he didn’t volunteer to be a part of. Even the wedding planners have stopped asking him direct questions.
Centerpieces? “Sure.”
Guest list? “Ask my parents.”
Traditional vows? “I'm an acts of service kinda guy.”
The tailor even had to physically rotate him by the shoulders to take proper measurements because Satoru was on the phone mid fitting, talking about organizing a fundraising event for the frat house repairs.
This is exactly why his parents insist on these 'family meetings.'
Satoru sits slouched in his chair. At the far end of the long table, his father stands with hands clasped behind his back.
“Your marriage to the Kamo girl will strengthen alliances and bonds,” he begins, “We need them for the business as much as they need us.”
Satoru wonders if they even realize how dehumanizing it is not to be referred by one's name (or maybe they do and simply don’t care)
Under the table, his phone lights up, and he glances down discreetly.
Geto: lmk if you need a guest [9:00 AM]
Satoru's lips twitch and types back without looking up. He even bites the inside of his lower lip to stop himself from laughing.
Gojo: nah it’s bad if you’re there [9:00 AM]
Gojo: might start laughing if i look at u [9:00 AM]
Three dots appear immediately.
Geto: lmao true [9:00 AM]
Satoru huffs out a quiet chuckle. His shoulder shake just slightly as he slides the phone back into his pocket.
His father clears his throat. “Are you even listening, Satoru?”
Satoru lifts his gaze lazily, nodding once. “Yeah. Got that. All of it.”
His father studies him carefully, like he’s trying to gauge whether this is mockery or obedience. “Your wedding is in three days.”
As if they could read his mind, his mother leans forward slightly with an expression softer than his father’s.
“She’s a very lovely girl, Satoru,” she says gently. “I’m sure you two will get along just fine.”
Satoru opens his mouth, then abruptly closes it. Instead, he stares at the ice that's floating in his glass.
He used to protest loudly. He’d joked about eloping with a stranger just to spite them. About fleeing the country. About sabotaging his clan by being too embarrassing.
But lately, he realizes it isn’t just about him. It never was. It’s generational money and political leverage, and somewhere in the middle of that is you and him.
“I have a tiny, tiny request,” Satoru says with his usual playful cadence.
Both his parents visibly brace.
His mother forces a small laugh. “What is it, dear?”
“Please have my—” he pauses, tongue pressing briefly against his cheek, “—wife’s favorite flowers and color for the decorations.”
The word wife feels strange, but he pushes through it.
“Y'know,” he continues with gaze drifting to the window instead of their faces, “might make her feel more comfortable living here. I don’t know.”
His parents blink and look at each other with genuine confusion flickering across their faces. Both of them couldn't believe that their hard headed son didn't sound sarcastic, nor did he roll his eyes at them.
His mother’s expression softens.
“That’s… very thoughtful of you,” she says quietly.
“You’ve never asked about her preferences before,” His father straightens, studying his son like he’s seeing him at a different angle. “What changed?” he asks.
Satoru shrugs lightly. “Seems like something I should know.”
His mother’s smile grows faint but sincere.
“Of course,” she says. “We’ll arrange that.”
His father nods slowly. “I’ll have someone contact the Kamo household for the details.”
Satoru's intentions are genuine.
Though he’s spent years ignoring the reality of it, part of him feels it's unfair and selfish of him that he gets to laugh through it while you don't.
For the first time, Satoru doesn't resist.
fratboy!gojo who meets you for the first time on your wedding day.
The moment you step into view, Satoru’s brain shuts off.
He grins to himself and thinks: 'Holy shit.'
His breath catches so hard it feels like he’s been punched in the chest. His posture straightens without him realizing it, blue eyes lighting up with something dangerously close to awe.
Because this? This is not what he expected.
If given the chance, he would personally hunt down the matchmaker and kiss their forehead. Hell, he’d drop to his knees and kiss his parents’ feet if that’s what it took to properly thank them.
You, on the other hand, keep your face carefully neutral as you meet his gaze.
He’s exactly your type, unfortunately. The kind of man who looks like trouble and probably is trouble. The kind who will talk too much, tease too often, and test your patience until you’re convinced this marriage is a long con designed to ruin your peace.
'At least they didn’t fuck this up completely,' you think.
Satoru takes your hand with surprisingly careful hold. There’s something gentle in the way he guides you forward, like he’s aware this moment matters more than he expected.
“Easy now,” Satoru murmurs, leaning just slightly closer with a boyish grin. “Better watch your step, pretty.”
Yeah, he'll be a lifetime's worth of headache.
fratboy!gojo who slowly realizes he married his match.
Both of your families gift you a 2-night stay at a high end hotel in Kanto that's meant to be romantic. The room is immaculate with floor-to-ceiling windows, soft lighting, and a bed that looks far too intimate for two people who met less than 12 hours ago.
Satoru leans against the window and stares out. When he notices you looking at him, he smiles at you and breaks the awkward silence.
“We should at least get to know each other,” he cautiously says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Since, y’know… we’re stuck together for the rest of our lives.”
You glance at him with an unimpressed look.
“Of course.” You press your lips together, then sigh softly. “Like… what’s your favorite color and all that.”
Satoru grins wide. “I’ve been into purple lately.”
That makes you look at him properly for the first time. 'He can't be serious.' You think while stopping yourself from groaning.
“I thought you’d say blue.”
He raises a brow. “Why? Cause of my eyes?”
You nod.
“What– Shut up,” he laughs. “Is my wife a little comedian?”
You give him a neutral smile and counter, “Can you guess mine?”
“It's white,” Satoru replies immediately, then casually shrugging. “I requested the floral arrangement.”
This surprises you.
"Thank you for being... considerate,” you say quietly.
“I think we’re off to a great start,” he beams, then hesitates before asking his next question, voice slower now. “So… are you a virgin?”
You stare at him long enough that he starts to regret opening his mouth, like you’re weighing whether he deserves honesty or a lie polished enough to pass. In the end, you decide it doesn’t matter.
Why lie now, of all times?
“No.”
Satoru’s lips part and then curve upward. He is Genuinely pleased with your answer.
Tradition dictates that both of you should’ve remained pure until your marriage. But hearing your answer tells him you’re not someone who bends for outdated rules, and god, does he like that.
“Well,” he starts, careless words forming before his brain catches up, “you don’t really look like someone who goes around—”
“That so?” you cut in softly. Then you tilt your head and smirk, “I’ve lost count.”
“Oh.” He blinks until it finally lands. “Oh.”
You watch the realization crash over him in real time. Don’t get him wrong. He’s not offended. Just… recalibrating.
“Don’t get it twisted,” you say firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I have no plans of sleeping with you tonight or ever.”
Your bluntness catches him off guard, and then he laughs under his breath, lips tugging into a familiar smirk.
“Let me guess,” he says lightly. “I have to earn you?”
For the first time since you met him, you give him a soft, genuine smile. “You have to deserve me.”
Something in Satoru shifts. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows right then and there that this marriage isn’t going to be boring.
fratboy!gojo who says he won't be home often, but still comes home to you.
Satoru hates the estate because the walls feel like they’re listening. He’d found a home at the frat house where nobody expected anything much from him.
But things are different now.
Because now, he splits his time like it’s a custody agreement: Three nights at the frat, two nights home. He tells himself it’s balance, but he will never admit that, lately, the drive back to the estate feels less suffocating than it used to.
He’s never drunk when he plans to come home because you were clear with your rules:
People under the influence ring alarms in your head
No outside clothes on the bed
He should take a proper bath before sleeping
He’d rolled his eyes when you first said it, but then he followed through anyway.
On a Friday night, he comes home smelling like sweat and smoke, his jacket slung lazily over his shoulder. He drops his shoes by the door, heads straight to the bathroom, and takes a quick shower.
When he finally pushes open the bedroom door, you’re already asleep in the center of his king-sized bed, tucked comfortably under the duvet.
Satoru pauses at the doorway and watches you for a second longer than he intends to. Then, a slow smile spreads across his face.
“I like this,” he murmurs quietly to himself. “I could get used to this.”
He slips into bed carefully, trying not to disturb you. But you’re a light sleeper, so you shift slightly, with brows furrowing before one eye peels open.
“You’re home.”
“Ah.” He smiles softly. “Yeah.”
You settle back into the pillow, still half asleep, but you don’t turn away. "Looks like you had fun tonight."
"It was okay."
Satoru reaches out without thinking. His thumb absentmindedly traces along your cheek. Then, his finger drifts downward, brushing along the outline of your lips.
Your mouth parts, and before he can process it, you take his thumb between your lips. His breath hitches and his eyes widen when you start to suck gently.
A soft, barely audible moan escapes you, and his jaw tightens. His hand flexes slightly as he feels the warmth of your mouth as your tongue circles his thumb.
“Pretty,” he draws a deep sigh. He inches closer and whispers lowly. “Let me fuck you.”
You answer, just as calm as before, with his thumb still between your lips. “No.” Then, you release his finger with a pop. “Not when you treat me like I'm part of a routine.”
He softly whines. “You can't be serious." Satoru exhales slowly, shifts onto his side fully to meet your gaze, then quietly asks, “What do you want me to do?”
“Come home often.” You say. “It's so... lonely in here.”
"Now, that's kind of a big ask." He reaches for your hand this time. “That's exactly why I don't like it here either,” he admits softly. “But for you, I'll try.”
You look at him carefully. “Are you just saying that? Or do you mean it?”
"I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t." He squeezes your hand and smiles. "Whatever you need… just tell me."
Satoru's cock is still hard, but he doesn't push any further. Instead, he pulls you closer and plants a gentle kiss on your cheek.
fratboy!gojo who brings you new snacks to try.
You sit between Satoru's legs with your back resting against his chest, while his chin rests briefly on your shoulder. You silently watch his fingers work their way through the dessert's packaging.
You glance up over your shoulder and chuckle. "You look like you're struggling."
"I am struggling." He frowns.
You lean in, press a soft kiss to his lips, and murmur, “What’s that?”
“Kikufuku,” he replies easily as he finally peels the lid open. “Sendai specialty or something like that.”
Your brows knit together. “You went to Sendai?”
Satoru chuckles while shaking his head. “Nah. A friend and his girl went there for a quick trip.”
“Ah.” You nod and settle back against him again.
He lifts one of the mochi carefully.
“Try this one,” he says, holding it out in front of you. “Sukuna's girlfriend said it's their best seller.”
You lean forward and take a bite, then chewing slowly.
“This flavor’s good,” you say with a mouthful.
“Yeah? Let me try.” He says before taking a bite.
Across the garden, his parents pass by on their way inside.
They stop briefly when they notice the two of you are significantly closer nowadays. They exchange a look with soft smiles tugging at their lips, and without a word, continue on their way.
fratboy!gojo whose brain short circuits the moment you finally let him hit (sorta)
His thighs are already sticky and smeared with his own cum, but he doesn’t stop jacking off while he eats you. His tongue drags slowly from your entrance up to your clit, collecting every bit of slick, like he doesn’t want to waste anything.
Multiple orgasms later, you’re both sprawled on the bed, tangled in each other's embrace.
“You gotta let me graduate from this foreplay bullshit,” he complains. Then, he shifts closer with bright eyes even though he’s half-dead tired. “How about we do just the tip?”
“No offense, but I don’t even know if you’re clean.” You lazily look at him. “Oh. And you got cum all over my laundry."
Satoru stiffens and his eyes go wide in full panic. "I–"
"What? Didn't think I'd notice?”
He lets out a defeated sigh, then drops his head into the crook of your neck. “M’sorry.”
“S’okay,” you murmur.
Your hand lifts on its own, fingers lightly playing with his earlobe as you smile to yourself. The silence that follows is soft and comfortable.
“Satoru?” you whisper.
He hums sleepily against your skin. “Mhm?”
“Do you wanna…” You hesitate, then whisper it shyly. “…stuff your cock in?”
He lets out a quiet laugh, “Thought you wanted to make sure I was clean?”
You whine softly, shifting closer. “Don’t care anymore.”
Satoru smiles to himself and drags his thick tip along your folds to coat his cock with your slick. Then he eases in, stretching you out inch by inch, until he’s fully bottomed out.
He pulls your body closer, then mumbles, “Hope I don’t nut.”
Satoru: hint: starts with y ends with ou [2:15 PM]
You: ? [2:15 PM]
You: oh [2:16 PM]
You: i see the results came in [2:16 PM]
Satoru: yes :> [2:16 PM]
You snort softly and lock your phone, shaking your head with a smile as you set it aside.
fratboy!gojo who loses his shit when he finds your wedding ring on the dresser.
You enter his bedroom and freeze. “Why are you here?”
Satoru's forehead creases slightly at your question.
“Cause it's my house?” He says flatly. He tilts his head, eyes flicking down to your empty finger. Then he nods once. “Why aren’t you wearing your ring?”
You scoff, “You don’t either, so why are you bothered by it?”
Satoru stares at you for a long moment that the air feels heavy. Then, he slowly unbuttons half of his shirt. Beneath the fabric is the necklace he wears, and on it hangs his wedding ring.
Your lips part. “You—”
“I always have it with me.”
Your gaze drops to the floor.
You honestly never imagined him being the type to do this, because in your mind, Satoru had always been the type to leave it elsewhere, or more realistically, just not wear it at all.
Before you can process it further, his hand lifts yours and places the ring in your palm.
“Don’t take it off next time,” he calmly says. “You might lose it.”
He turns and walks out of the room as quietly as he appeared, leaving you alone with the ring in your hand. You stare down at it, and for the first time, you realize just how seriously he takes both of you.
This is the first time you’ve ever seen him deeply disappointed.
fratboy!gojo whose awfully quiet after the ring incident.
Toji leans back with eyes narrowing as he studies Satoru.
“I like whatever’s wrong with you,” he says, making Satoru pause mid drink.
Satoru lifts a brow at him. “Are you fucking with me or what?”
Toji lifts a finger as he slowly counts off each observation. “You don’t drink too much. You stopped smoking weed. You’ve declined snorting a line at least 3 times this week. And more importantly—” He grins, that smug little edge in his expression making Satoru uneasy. “—you look more... relaxed.”
Satoru blinks at him, utterly confused. “Relaxed? I haven’t fucked in days and I look more relaxed?!”
Toji’s eyes widen in mock offense and he pouts. “She hard to get or something?”
“Eh. Something like that,” Satoru admits, tilting his head side to side. “Don’t know how to read my wife—”
“Your wife?!” Toji interrupts sharply.
Satoru freezes mid thought. “Who said that?”
“You didn’t?" Toji leans closer. He playfully cleans the inside of his ear with his pinky and says, "Gotta have these checked.”
Satoru blinks, thinking he’s dodged the embarrassment, only for Toji to drop another bomb.
“Whatever it is, just play it by ear and things will start picking up,” he says casually, “And I ain’t one to judge. I was married once.”
Satoru’s jaw nearly hits the floor. His head slowly pans to Toji, shock written all over his face.
“...What the fuck?”
“I was young. It was a Vegas wedding—”
“Vegas?!” Satoru yells in disbelief. "I have so many questions.” He blinks, utterly dumbfounded. “Why were you in Vegas?”
Toji shrugs nonchalantly, cracking open a can of beer. “Dude, I told you I used to live there.”
“No way?” Satoru says in disbelief, but Toji just shrugs again. "No fucking way!” His eyes widen, then slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “No wonder your Elvis impersonations were always spot on.”
Toji chuckles, shaking his head, taking a long swig of his beer. “A little party trick, eh?”
Satoru draws a deep sigh and massages his temples. "I should probably go home one of these days."
"Yeah. Sort it out with your little wife." Toji mutters.
fratboy!gojo who sees you in his frat party.
“What the—” Satoru just stares at you with eyes wide and mouth slightly open.
Pure disbelief is written all over his face when he sees you standing in the corner, one hand wrapped around a red cup, looking painfully unimpressed with the party.
If you’re being honest, you wouldn’t even be here. But Mei Mei begged and said she's more than sure your husband would cover for you, lie if he had to, and protect you from his family’s judgment if anyone found out you came.
You glance down at your drink and grimace.
“The drinks here are terrible,” you mutter under your breath. You swirl the cup once. “There should at least be snacks.”
You turn toward the kitchen, already done with this place, when a large figure steps into your path. Kechizu towers over you, too close for comfort.
“Pretty girls like you shouldn’t be alone,” Kechizu says, lips curling into a smug smile as his eyes drag over your body.
You roll your eyes. “Fuck off.”
You try to walk past him, but his hand shoots out and grabs your arm, yanking you back with ease. “Hey. I’m not done talking yet.”
You wince when his grip tightens, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of fear. You lift your gaze slowly and glare at him like you’re daring him to try more.
"I said fuck off–"
Out of nowhere, Satoru slams a hand into Kechizu’s face and shoves him hard. The man stumbles and crashes to the floor in a mess of curses and spilled drinks.
Satoru turns to you, eyes scanning you like he’s checking if you’re hurt. His brows then knit together as confusion replaces anger.
“What are you doing here?”
You blink at him, then your lips part when realization hits. “...You’re the fraternity that invited my sorority?”
“Your sorority?!” His jaw drops. “You’re in Mei Mei’s sorority?!”
“Doesn’t matter.” You let out an exhausted sigh.“When are you coming home?”
He just stares at you with a frown. For the first time, he's struggling to process everything at once.
He wants to tell you how upset he is about the ring thing. How he missed being with you. He wants to complain about how long his day has been, or how shitty he feels about imagining you fucking someone else.
But before he can try to say anything, someone's voice cuts through.
“Gojo!” someone yells across the room.
“What?” both of you answer at the same time.
Haibara freezes when he sees you, “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t know your cousin was here!”
Satoru stiffens. He slowly looks at you and immediately sweats when he sees the look on your face.
You huff and look away, clearly offended. “I’m not his cousin.”
“Uh– yeah. So...” Satoru swallows hard. Then, he carefully gestures toward you. “This is my… wife.”
The chatters die and every head in the room slowly turns toward the two of you. Somewhere in the house, Sukuna spits out his drink in complete shock.
"Was it that much of a shocker?" You mumble almost inaudibly.
“Now,” he says, forcing a polite smile, “if you’ll excuse us.”
Satoru inhales sharply, then gently takes your hand.
Sex is best when fratboy!gojo is angry.
As Satoru drives back to the estate, you steal glances at him from time to time.
You study the sharp jawline, the way his brows knit together in focus, and even the faint tension in his grip on the steering wheel.
“Like what you see?” he asks, eyes never leaving the road.
You freeze, and heat rushes to your face as you immediately look away.
When the light turns red, it’s his turn to look at you.
He reaches over without thinking, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His finger lingers as he tucks it behind your ear.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly. Then he exhales and pulls his hand back. “You just—” He sighs. “—piss me off sometimes.”
You blush, but you don’t look away this time. You hold his gaze. “Is this still about me leaving my ring behind?”
His jaw tightens and he looks away. “Maybe.”
You don’t answer with words.
Instead, you take his hand and guide one of his fingers toward your lips. You trace it along the outline first, teasing, before sucking it into your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut as you move your tongue around him, slow at first, then more desperate.
Satoru is fucked.
Completely, utterly fucked.
“Stop bribing me with sex.” He closes his eyes for a brief second then mumbles, "I'm supposed to be mad."
It’s a miracle he still remembers how to drive when the light turns green.
The moment the road clears, he swerves into the nearest dark, empty street. The car comes to a stop, the engine cuts, and his seatbelt clicks free as he grabs you by the nape and pulls you into a deep, rough kiss.
"You call this bribing?” you chuckle against his lips. “Doesn’t seem to be working if you ask me.”
Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs brushing his jaw before you bite his lower lip and it makes him hiss. He fumbles with your seatbelt and tugs you over to his side of the car.
“You always know how to get inside my head,” he murmurs between kisses.
You pull back just a little and tilt your head with fake innocence. “Do I?”
Satoru looks up at you from below with knitted brows, and his mouth twisted in a grimace. “Shut up.”
He lowers the seat in a rush, movements clumsy with urgency, silently thanking every god he can think of that the windows are heavily tinted.
He looks down at your pussy and inhales sharply.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, eyes dark with hunger. “Soaking through your panties, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” A low hum escapes him.
“Toru,” you whimper as yoy try to close your legs, but he doesn’t let you.
You sigh in defeat, eyes locked on his as you pull your underwear to the side. Your middle finger drags along your slit, coating itself in your own slick before circling your clit.
And honestly? You’ve never felt so exposed, or so turned on.
You offer him your finger and tease him with a sly smile. “Wanna taste?”
He stares at you for a long second, then slowly opens his mouth. You press your fingers past his lips, and his eyes close as he sucks your finger clean.
“That’s it,” he mutters darkly. “I’m fucking you my way.”
His mouth drifts to your neck, sucking and biting while his hands dig into your hips. You fumble with his pants, undoing them in a hurry. The moment his cock springs out, your eyes widening at the sight of him.
You gulp. "When did you get... bigger?"
“Did it?” He says with a cocky smirk. “Don't worry, I'll make it fit.”
He pushes the straps of your dress down and unhooks your bra, hands roaming greedily over your skin. His mouth follows, nose brushing your tits before his tongue teases your nipples. He swirls his tongue around your nipple and nips just enough to make you gasp and arch into him.
Your hands wrap around his cock, pumping him a few times before carefully guide him to your entrance. Your body slowly sinks down, savoring every inch as he fills you.
“Shit—” he grunts against your tits. “Tight. Too tight.”
“Suck harder,” you roll your hips and chase your pleasure. “You’re so— ah— mid.”
His brows lift. “Mid?” then scoffs, "Real funny when your pussy's taking me so well."
There’s a quick shuffle as his seat moves back. In one smooth motion, he lifts you and switches positions, somehow managing not to knock your head.
Now he’s on top and in control.
He hooks one of your legs over his arm and lines himself up. He does it in one slow, brutal thrust, and he’s fully inside you with no warning.
“Where’d that attitude go, pretty?” His low, mocking chuckle makes your body clench around him. "Is it... here?" he murmurs, hitting you at a merciless angle.
Your back arches instinctively. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, found it.” He rasps and grins. “There she is,”
“Don’t—” you gasp, “—smile like that. You pissed me off too.”
“I did now? Interesting.”
“Not coming home,” you choke out, “when I was waiting for you.”
He slams into you harder, pulling back just to thrust deep again, forcing a wail from your throat. “Says the one who took their ring off."
"I had to do some– something."
"Like what?” He grips your jaw, thumbs pressing into your cheeks. “Fucking other guys?” He spits into your mouth.
You swallow and glare. “So what— ngh— you fuck other girls too.”
He leans down and whispers. “I only fuck you.”
Your body tightens as he keeps pounding relentlessly.
“That all you got?” you tease weakly, even as his mouth marks your neck. “Was expecting— oh!”
“What'd you say?” His thrusts grow deeper, and your slick pools at the base of his cock. “Can’t talk now, huh? Am I fucking you stupid?”
“Toru–” you gasp.
"Toru," he playfully mimics. "Toru what?"
“Keep... fucking me like that”
He mutters a string of curses, grabs your ass, and snaps his hips harder, perfectly hitting that spot until your words melt into sobs.
“S’too— much,” you whimper.
“Do I hear complaining?” he murmurs almost innocently. "How about an apology, hm?"
"You're–" you gasp, "–full of shit."
Satoru's frown deepens. Then, he folds you and pounds so deep, your stomach tightens with every thrust.
“You ask,” he thrusts roughly. “for so much,” another hard thrust. “yet you do,” he presses his cock deeper. “so little,” he groans through teeth gritted.
Satoru's gaze darkens as he watches your soft sobs tremble through your body. He leans closer, arms trapping you on either side of your head.
“Not even a simple ‘I’m sorry, Satoru’?” his voice drops to a low rasp with eyes still locked on yours. “Nothing?”
The weight of his stare makes your chest tighten, and that's when you break completely.
“Sorry,” you softly whisper through tears. “I’m sorry... Satoru”
He lets out a low, rough groan as he slides out, just to see you cling helplessly, then slams back in.
“You’re lucky,” he pants. “I love you.”
Your vision blurs, and your body shudders as your orgasm crashes over you.
He hisses when your walls clamp down on him, fingers digging into your hips as he struggles to stay in control. Then, he drives himself all the way in, burying himself to the hilt. Thick spurts spill inside your cunt, leaving you trembling under him.
Satoru stays there, pressed against you, forehead resting on your neck as he heaves. Each pulse of his cock is heavy and deliberate, making you feel every beat as he rides out the last wave of his release.
He rests his full weight on top of you, and his breathing slowly evens out as you stroke his hair absentmindedly.
After a long moment, he lifts his head just enough to whisper, “I’m thinking we should do this marriage thing right.”
“Mhm.”
He mindlessly yaps as his thumb traces slow circles along your arm. “Y'know. With love, and all those stupid, cute things married couples do.”
“Mhm.”
“Oh, and no kids yet,” he adds quietly. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
“Sure.”
He props himself up slightly on one arm, looks down at you and whines. “Is that all you have to say?”
“Sorry,” you murmur before yawning. “Just tired.”
Your bodies stay pressed together while From Now On by The Features plays in the background.
After a moment, you mumble, “I like your taste in music.”
He smiles. “You like this song?”
You nod. “And all the ones you play in the shower.”
"You flirt like a rookie," he scoffs and playfully rolls his eyes. “Just admit you’re in love with me.”
You smirk against his chest and whisper, “Already did.”
synopsis: a story in which a depressed satoru gets sent to the future and sees just how bright it eventually becomes. meanwhile, you're reminded of how much of a brat your husband used to be when you first started dating.
cw: MDNI, time travel, smut w/ a touch of angst bc we LOVE plot, satoru's actually so mean at first lol, dad!jo (him and reader share a daughter together)
notes: hiiii we got 6.5k words for this one ❤️ comm for the lovely @sadlittlecucumber i hope u like!!!!
song rec: drag path — twenty one pilots
Satoru’s life ended up being a fucking bummer.
His best friend’s a mass murderer. Shoko’s gone off to do her own thing with medicine. Nanami left to go become a banker or whatever. Ijichi’s… Ijichi. Oh, and Haibara’s dead. Everyone who’s alive seems to have moved on— so should Satoru, honestly. But times proved that to be quite difficult.
He’s starting to understand where Suguru was coming from with the whole exorcise-absorb mantra. Except for him, it was exorcise and destroy, leaving every cursed site he’s stepped foot on looking like god himself decided to hit the reset button to obliterate the place.
Nobody says anything about it. He’s probably the closest thing to a god. Despite having tried his hardest all throughout his youth to fit in and act as if he was just like everyone else, people were still terrified to fuck with him.
And despite the chaos he’s constantly surrounded by— mainly from his own doing— the days still find a way to bleed into each other, morphing into a never ending cycle of boredom and violence. It’s quite the combo. The higher ups are lucky he’s too tired to plot anything behind their backs.
He’s exhausted.
The past is too blurry. The future’s too bleak.
Gojo was bound to fuck up sooner or later. The thought of him finally snapping like Suguru did, dangling in the back of his mind, taunting him.
He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things?
One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark.
That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way.
“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery.
He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this.
“Oh hey, you’re home.”
Home?
He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.
You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago.
You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”
First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?
Second, who even are you?
Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger.
Fuck.
“Honey–”
Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again.
“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”
Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth.
There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru.
Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.
“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”
He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”
“You also liked to argue, too.”
“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?”
“No.”
“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“
You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?”
“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you.
“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.”
–
“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”
The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere.
“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”
Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”
“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”
“31.”
Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.”
Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.
“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”
“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody.
Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude.
“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion.
He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”
Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?”
“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”
“I tried my best! I swear!”
“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”
“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”
“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”
The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.
“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.
The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed.
—
You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand.
“Is the food good?”
“Sure.”
“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement.
“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.”
Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”
“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?”
Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.
“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being.
A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.
“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”
It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital.
“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.
“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake.
“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”
Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.
“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”
Sai wasn’t having that.
Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite.
But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.
“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”
“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself.
You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous.
“What?”
There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”
“She’s weird.”
“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”
“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid.
He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind.
“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious.
He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad.
For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear.
—
It’s been over a month.
Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.
But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort.
Over his dead body.
Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.
So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.
Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising.
Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married.
Satoru looks over your body once.
Twice.
He totally understands his future self.
He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks.
It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you.
You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure.
“Hey… any good news?”
“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.”
“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“
“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”
You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.
After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.
“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”
“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”
The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine.
But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him.
You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.”
It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here.
“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered.
He’s always had a thing for milfs.
Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now.
“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”
You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you.
“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you.
And you fucking miss that.
He opens his mouth to respond.
Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you.
Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid.
His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”
Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”
It’s starting to sound more natural.
“Y-yeah,” she sniffles.
Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried.
His little girl was a dream.
—
Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.
It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world.
He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does.
It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.
With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table.
The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions.
You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off.
“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”
He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?”
“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.”
You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact.
Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.
It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake.
Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”
Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now.
“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone.
Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”
“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”
“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“
“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”
“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“
“Kay’ good night.”
Click.
Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head.
He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning.
“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?”
“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.”
“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him.
“So is waking me up.”
“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”
“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?”
“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.”
Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”
“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.”
“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden.
And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.
You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?”
“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.
“I can take care of that, you know.”
“What?”
“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.
“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?”
“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”
“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?”
“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.”
“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.”
Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock.
“Feel good?”
His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”
You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.
“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask.
“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient.
His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”
“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”
You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are.
His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all.
"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.”
“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.
It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that— lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him.
"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."
You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out.
You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort.
"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."
You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder.
He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”
“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”
“You want me to fuck you harder?”
“Yeah.”
Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper.
“Better?”
He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”
“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.”
He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life.
Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”
“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”
He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch.
Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you.
“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself.
When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him.
You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.
And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.
—
It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back.
What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?
He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.
Acceptance.
He likes his life here.
You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.
No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second.
With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life.
You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache.
He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start.
You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.
“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.
There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”
He’s back.
“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”
—
Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.
Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers.
Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly.
Satoru was fucking devastated.
Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo.
God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point.
One Year Later
“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone.
It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job.
“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”
“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.”
The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable.
He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit.
It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him.
The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time.
“And what can I get started for you today?”
His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.
“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”
“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”
“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie.
“Name for the order?”
“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”
He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”
“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind:
He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.
❝ SHE'S ABOUT TO GRADUATE WITH A DEGREE IN SLUTOLOGY! ❞
ㅤ⋆ ──── professor GOJO SATORU
Going through ovulation week hell? Boys your age just don't know how to fuck you? Need someone older, more experienced? — No worries! Your astrophysics professor can show you how a real man should treat a woman — and his dicking-down's so powerful it can magically turn that F into an A, too! Err, of course... isn't he the one who deliberately curated an assignment based on your weaknesses in the first place? Oopsie. Was this all just an excuse to fuck his sluttiest student into her place? Duh! You were getting too cocky, after all. Now remind him, baby, who's the real prodigy here?
wc ──── 16k (30-ish pages, kindly throat it to the base thx)
cws ──── strictly NO under 18s. smut with plot. professor x student trope. age gap (Gojo 30s, reader 20s). he kinda totally falls in love with you (oops). cocky Gojo vs cocky reader. solo m. masturbation. clothed dry humping. breast play. hair pulling. fingering. spanking. a few pussy slaps your honor. protected to unprotected sex. rough sex. praise & degradation. dirty talk. multiple orgasms. creampies. name-calling: good girl, slut. pet names: babydoll, sweets, etc. breeding kink. big dick shenanigans. ovulation nonsense. marking his back. aftercare because he's a real man. angst but it's resolved. gets a bit emotional. fluff ending.
an ──── Behold, my love letter to my wifey @sweethearticism. You might need a drink and snacks for this one, and if you survive Professor Gojo's big dick exam lmk what you think 💗💋 and sorry that it took so long lol!!
MORE ME ⋆ P.TAGLIST
ㅤ⋆
The man’s gone pale when he sees you clip-clopping across campus, ducking before you can even catch his silhouette in your peripherals.
It’s quite funny, really — you’d think a man like that would fear nothing. But even the strongest has his weakness. And Satoru’s kryptonite? One feisty, petite A-Grade princess... who happens to be his student.
It’s 8:30. He’s already choked up, hidden away in the bathroom, stooping low to reach the sink. The way he’s cupping the water to his mouth, you’d think he’d just been through a traumatic event. But nah. That’s not the case.
It’s 8:35. Got to stretch his legs on the green expanse of the quad. A group of students are puffing and passing, the stench of weed wafting his way and causing him to curl his nostrils. He gives them a scolding look.
It’s 8:45. He’s running hot and darts off to his car — the moment the door shuts, he’s whipping his cock out for a quickie. Hissing through gritted teeth, a few brisk strokes is all it takes to bring him to orgasm.
The fact that he just came using his own underwear as a cum-collector? Ew, foul.
But you know what’s worse?
That he came to the image of you; figure folded into a mean mating press underneath him, moaning obscenities as your cunt clenches his cock.
That’s what he saw flashing in his mind about 0.3 seconds before he exploded like Mt. Vesuvius.
Heaving a disappointed sigh (directed towards himself), Satoru brushes his wispy bangs off his tacky forehead and fwips down the visor to check his pretty, pale visage.
Yep, getting older all right. But still handsome.
Oh, and also he looks like he just ran a marathon in 5 minutes. Or was it 3? Well, he’s gonna be late to his 8:30 class either way.
His cheeks are heavily flushed and shimmery with sweat, heart hammering beneath his ribs. Chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.
It’s 9:00 AM on the dot and he, my friend, is late for his own fuckin’ lecture so he hurries back across campus with a shuffling gait, lookin’ like a comic book character with the way he’s trying to force his pearl-knit sweater to cover up his very obvious commando-mode situation down there.
Students await Mister Never On Time, all cooped up in that stuffy, warm lecture room.
Satoru stills for a moment outside the door, staring at the inscribed plaque mounted upon it: Prof. S. Gojo, PhD. Astrophysics.
This is the part of his day where he — still a bit flustered and disoriented — completely shifts gear into who he’s expected to be (a god damned professor); poker face, suave and silky as satin, with an iconically perpetual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa.
Daddy long legs, striding into his lecture room, so slowly, so dramatically; like a diva claiming the spotlight. His pretty ski-slope nose upturned, the professor’s air is so serious — what with his polished Oxfords clacking against the cold floor and rimless glasses pushed high upon that nose bridge — that a few sighs are released from students who find him intolerably pompous.
But the worst part is when he opens his mouth.
Because the sound of his crisp rasp alone could wake a vampire from slumber.
“Morning, everyone.”
Yes, that’s all he says. No apology for being late, because it gets repetitive when said every day, y’know?
He’s trying so hard not to search out the face of his favorite post-grad, because wouldn’t that be making it a little too obvious?
Satoru drawls, “Boy do I hope you’re all in a very good mood today,” he thwacks his palm down on a stack of papers sat on his mahogany desk, “because I’ve got your graded papers right here — and grading these put me through The Five Stages.”
There’s that sneering grin twisting on his face. You see it everyyy fuckin’ morning.
He’s a prodigy, a self-proclaimed intellectual.
And what does one typically want to do with intellectuals?
That’s right, throttle them.
But you... oh, you’d rather throttle him between your thighs. Or so you whisper as much to your best friend, who suffers every morning at your side during Satoru Gojo’s lecture — because she would much rather just throttle the self-proclaimed intellectual’s neck.
Once your gaze is on him, it’s over; you’re not focused on anybody else for the entirety of the lesson.
In whispers, your friend scolds you.
“Stop it.” she hisses.
“Stop what?” you hiss back.
“Checkin’ him out like he’s the fuckin’ deli special.”
You soften your face in amusement, fingers toying with your pen.
“Mm, what I’d give to have a taste of his meat.”
She groans, palming one side of her face, “Please, mon amie salope, this comes from the bottom of my heart: drop out.”
Just as you laugh, a pair of woman-killing blue eyes flash your way, lingering for far too long.
The pause, one hand smoothly sunken in his pants, of his toned torso makes something tick beneath your ribcage and without realizing, you’re nibbling the tip of your pen.
Satoru continues, apologizing for the deviation, “... where was I? Ah, never mind, you wouldn’t appreciate my metaphor — none of you probably even know who Dostoyevsky is. But I guess, that’s why you’re in my class and not Professor Nanami’s... ha-ha.”
The way he drops that laugh, it rouses a lot of stifled sighs. Not only does this room of sleep-starved academics have to endure Satoru Gojo’s spirit-breaking assignments by night, but also his holier-than-thou monologues.
Sickening. Just watch him pace the length of the blackboard, like he’s a god in your life. But the only semblance he bears to the man upstairs is his sadism when he tests you.
ㅤ⋆
Cours terminé.
Satoru’s sifting through his desk, letting out an oddly cute, boyish yawn and scratching at his sharp-edged undercut. You love it when he does that. How he so fuckin’ erotically drags his hand up to meet the fluff of moony-white, there’s something about it—
“—that just makes me wanna do tricks on it.”
“Hey babyface?” your friend lilts her voice, “Remind me next time to bring a bottle of wine and a corkscrew so I can shove a fuckin’ cork in that mouth of yours.”
“I’d much rather you shove something else in my mouth.”
You’re cackling. She looks like she’s rethinking this whole ‘best friends’ label, and you’re cackling.
She can hardly tolerate it, yet you continue.
“God, he moves like a cat. Just watch him.” you admire.
Massive hands pushing up each sleeve of his white shirt up, revealing the veiny daddyish masterpiece that are his forearms. Upon one arm, he perches the papers. Tongue poking out, he swipes the pad of his thumb across it — oh, beautiful. He gives you too much fuel for that deranged imagination of yours.
He’s working his way through the aisles, sometimes needing to blow his wispy white bangs out of his angelic blues. You’re observing him with thighs clenched tight.
Since he’s mostly just a small thing pacing the length of a blackboard most of the day, you tend to forget just how large he is.
The way the breadth of those shoulders tapers off to that leg-lockable waist, to those long, long legs of his — should be illegal, don’t you think?
But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t hate his haughtiness.
The swanky style, feline gait, how he upturns his nose to those he deems ‘sub-par’ students (AKA, anyone who achieves lower than an A) — it’s gut-churning even if he is an Adonis.
It’s like he’s living in shades of cool, like he’s royal blue and heavenly gold and everyone else is just the dried-up, murky corner of an artist’s palette.
There’s nothing in his controlled appearance that reveals anything about his morning antics, but fuck does he feel paranoid because underneath those tailored pants he’s not wearing anything. If you flirt too hard with him today, he might just honestly kick you out of his classroom (seriously).
And just when he’s clenching his jaw in fear at the thought of popping a boner for you, whose voice does he hear rippling down from the top seats?
“There’s no way I’m not gonna jump his bones.”
Your friend sighs at you, resignedly, “Please, get a hold of yourself — he’s like, thirty-something.”
“Yum.” you lick your lips, “I’ve always had a taste for men who are older. It’s always been, ’s no surprise...”
His stomach tightens at hearing this.
He doesn’t need to glance your way to see that you’re making eyes at him, because he can feel the imprint of the hearts you’re burning into his skin, pretty baby. You make it too damn obvious.
You’re watching his every movement very, veryyy closely.
The stale lecture room air carries the hushed tones of your friend’s voice, then yours, right over to Satoru. What? No, no; he’s not straining his ears, or anything. He just happens to overhear this.
“This isn’t you; it’s the ovulation demon speaking.” quivers your friend.
To which you reply, “Yah, and it’s whispering for me to spell my name on his dick.”
She looks like she’s about to cry from the embarrassment of being your friend.
You hiss, “—Sorry, but where is the sign saying ‘do not ride the professors’? They should put it up on Geto’s and Nanami’s office walls, too.”
“My girl!” she cries out, “Please, please drop out!”
“As if! I’m gonna graduate with a degree in slut-ology. Ha!”
My my, could you make it any more obvious? You silly thing. Gonna work him up again and it’s not even lunch break yet.
Gojo Satoru’s heard just about enough of your crazy talk to start blushing just a little. How endearing, you’re just like he was in his peak years at college — getting straight-As and his dick wet. The familiarity he finds you could almost make him feel something under those pretty pecs.
But Satoru catches himself right before your words take root in his glass heart; he tells himself to straighten the fuck up and obeys the whip of his own self-discipline.
He’d never make himself late to his own lecture just because he had to get off ’n cum with you on his mind. Gaslighting? Um. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m telling you he would never ever do that, and he didn’t.
Head bowed as he assumes that elegance, Satoru’s snuffed out his crazy hormones by now and is no longer going through the male version of ovulation. He’s quite fine, thank you.
Swiftly, composedly, he distributes the graded papers while whistling a soft tune on his lips.
“—And this is the behavior of a cum laude student?” croaks your friend.
“Oh yeah, I’m gonna cum laude all over him.”
Satoru stops whistling.
He inspires a deep, deep breath.
Your friend just barely contains her own laughter, but the squeak she lets out before she manages to clap her hand over her mouth is just enough to garner some disturbed looks from students.
His pale face turns in your direction.
An enigmatic, Mona-Lisa smile tugs at his rosy lips. And then, just as smoothly, he turns away and continues.
Paper down, “Good job.”, onto the next. Paper down, “Keep it up.”, continue. Lips pulling thinner as he repeats the gesture over and over again — like a mantra, the professionalism miraculously calming whatever movement’s going on beneath his belt. Sure, a little hard. But not enough for it to be obvious — right? Oh god.
Nothing escape’s a slut’s eyes, does it?
You’ve snatched your friend’s cat-eyed Dolce & Gabannas off her nose, now peering at him from over the rim, catching on the slight — very very very slight — outline of what he’s packing under those pants.
“It’s not a joke anymore… I think I’m hot for teacher.”
His breath is caught in his throat right as he’s delivering a praising remark to another student.
You can hear him clear his throat, can see him briefly tug down his shirt like he was trying to cover up a little situation.
One click — two, three —of his sharp polished shoes until they finish making a path to your desk. Three. He was three steps away, and you had the audacity to say that?
Yeah, push those fuckin’ sunglasses up your nose. To shame, honestly.
Was it fun, to get a man hard in his own lecture room? And you call yourself prestigous.
He stills at the edge of your desk, air seemingly freezing around around him. He’s casting that strange, quivering gaze over you — the one that makes you squirm in your seat, the one you can’t make sense of no matter how many times he bears it down at you like you’re supposed to be able to decipher it. The fucker. He’s presenting himself like a theory for you to figure out.
How can such cold eyes make you feel so warm? More curiously, what kind of thoughts laid behind them?
“Girls, don’t you think it’s a little bit rude to talk behind someone’s back?” Professor Gojo greets professionally, setting each paper down carefully, first your friend’s and then yours.
Your friend decays into ash and dust besides you. How mortifying.
But never mind that.
You look down at your paper.
96 out of 100.
And there, you feel that familiar leap in your chest, the one that only academic validation can make you feel — and you daresay it feels better than resolved daddy issues.
Upon drawing your gaze up, you meet with a pair of violent blues peering over rimless glasses.
Not a word of praise leaves his lips.
Instead, he just winks at you.
Ah fuck. There it is. The spark before the fire. That dangerous lurch of the stomach — warning you that your fantasies will become reality if you don’t tread carefully.
But you’re an idiot.
So you blurt out to him:
“Mm, this was too easy Mr. Gojo! Are you losing your edge?”
Your friend stomps on your foot beneath the desk. It’s quite possible that heaven won’t see your arrival, with the way her side-eye alone is trying to drag you to hell.
But his reaction?
A wicked smile that has the power to make yours falter.
Something in his air shifts. Like, your words just angered the tectonic plates under his chest to move and gnash over each other.
“Sorry, who’s the prodigy here?” he returns jokingly — ‘jokingly’.
You laugh nervously, backtracking. “Kidding, kidding! Um, I just meant—”
He interrupts, “—don’t get too cocky now. That’s my job, sweets. You keep studying hard. Would pain me to see my most promising student fall from grace ’cause she got too big for her boots, hm?”
That’s what he leaves you with, before smoothly disappearing. Your breath is fucked up, heart rate spiked like you just got thrown out of a high-speed car on the god damned highway.
Fuckfuckfuck what have you done? — I don’t know. But you did something, flipped a switch, triggered a cataclysmic event — all because you can’t keep your damn mouth shut for one moment.
He hands out the last few papers to students with a cheery whistle on his lips — but the melody haunts you this time.
Your friend steals back the sunglasses off your face, needing to hide behind something after that — whatever the fuck that was. A quicktime event you clearly failed.
“I can’t believe you fuckin’ said that to him!” She croaks, distraught. “Are you crazy!”
You mutter back, “Ow, by the way.”
“Well-deserved!” She whispers, sliding even further down her seat, looking out for Gojo Satoru as if he’s the boogeyman.
“He’s scary as shit. How can you find him hot!”
“Dilf.”
“… why am I friends with you…”
Something alights in your eyes.
“But did you hear that? He called me ‘sweets’...” you feather. “Oh, my uterus!”
Your friend bangs her palm on the table as she wails; “Please, dropooout!”
ㅤ⋆
He’s alone in his office.
Rather, alone with it.
In his ribs, it’s thumping. And in his pants, it’s throbbing.
Satoru’s tie is slackened around his collar, hanging low, the tail dipping into his crotch as he assumes the most egregrious posture a spine has ever known.
He widens his legs, lazing back in that kinda tacky, sumptuous chair of his.
His pretty white hair is tousled, sticking up at the back, not like he’s been playing with it but rather abusing it out of sheer horny frustration.
It wasn't just your best friend who was done with your slutty nonsense, but him, too.
Because tell me, how do you think he feels fighting off a boner in the middle of his own classroom?
It's not like when he was in his teens, having a simple crush on a girl that fades within a week. Not like his twenties, either, when he couldn’t care less about the girl’s name — only her tightness, her eagerness to please him.
This is different.
Is it the taboo? Your appearance — you’re hotter than the rest, is that it? Maybe it’s the way you squeeze your thick hips and thighs into the tiniest clothes. How you make your cleavage a little more pronounced when you walk past him on campus. Th-the way you say his last name with the smallest hint of sluttyish disrespect.
Or, maybe just the simple fact that you’ve got a thing for older men?
—Fuck.
The thumping and throbbing just got harder.
His cock is testing his willpower right now. Letting off steam twice in one day is really not his style, but today’s one of those days.
He’s considering it, grasping at the rigid outline, tightening his jaw. It’s a bit iffy, you know, because he’s never actually jerked off in his own office.
ㅤ“I’ve always had a taste for men who are older.
“Fuck.” Satoru chokes under his breath as he remembers your words.
Something snaps — oh, it’s his willpower.
Yeah, it’s definitely the fact you’ve got a thing for older men.
Satoru starts gently palming at his bulge, cock aching under the stimulation.
“Fuck, hah, ah-ah... hah.”
Oh... well, that’s not good, is it? A little teasing over fabric shouldn’t feel this good, shouldn’t have him leaking precum.
Nutty is a flavor professors often come in, sure, but Satoru’s a whole fucking bag of macademia nuts; only he could be getting it up for the girl who just so casually insulted him in his own classroom.
“Ugh, pretty girl... affecting me like this even when you’re not here is unfair.” he curses you under his breath.
He purrs as he palms at his cock harder, breath hitching.
The sensitivity is making his head spin, because fucking hell it never usually feels like this even when he’s in a hormonal crisis.
That rush cascades down his body, and suddenly there’s a clinking noise sounding through his empty classroom as he’s whipping off his belt.
Spreading his legs and leaning back in his chair, tugging that looong zipper all the way down in a moment of haste, Satoru’s got the front of his pants flayed open and his heavy cock slapping hard against his tense abdomen.
Et voilà.
The man can’t resist admiring his own cock — but come on now, is it not a bit much to give himself a taste-test? Maybe it’s because he’s too deep in his fantasy of you swirling your soft tongue around his mushroomy tip, letting his precum be your new lip-gloss.
Purrs turn into throaty, masculine groans as he begins bullying his fist up and down his leaky cock.
His ministrations soothe the ache, but it’s not enough; he needs something more than his hand, something tighter, sluttier... an A-grade pussy with a bad record of amateurish one-nighters, a sweet thing that he could teach a thing or two to — it is his job, after all.
But you know, sometimes even prodigy like him could be enlightened by the right kind of woman. And old dogs can still learn new tricks, right...?
Could you slut him out?
Are you dirtier than him?
Those rumors that the boys of his classroom whisper about amongst themselves; are they true or are you really just a sloppy amateur, who’s never gotten fucked how she deserves?
It's too much.
The sensitivity, how heavy and tight and full his balls feel — and now he’s blabbering dirty talk under his breath.
Remember what I said about nutty professors? Yes, well, only a true nutbag like him could be dirty talking to himself in his own vacant classroom... to fantasies of his own fuckin’ student.
“Fuck, fuck... like that; such a good girl.” he feathers, glowering at his fat cock, imagining your face under it, “Like being a good girl f’me, don’t you?”
With brisk strokes, he pumps his hand along his throbbing length, other hand coming down to cradle those heavy, perfect balls.
“Just like that and I’ll cum — don’t you want it as badly as I do, b—aaaby?”
Faster, faster, he’s pumping his cock towards a way better orgasm than the hasty one this morning. Jaw slacking, he shifts his legs around. Satoru’s hips buck into the air, stomach blooming with butterflies and a smidge of guilt right before he cums.
“Fuck, fuck! Gonna cum...!”
There we go — he moans your name like it’s just been waiting to spill over his bottom lip.
Hot ribbons of white spill out his flushed tip as he milks his orgasm out for all it’s worth. Rivulets of cum roll down his shaft, over his knuckles, thick and gooey and god so pungent and a total waste of his virile seed, in his opinion.
“Ugh, fuck.” he groans, head thudding against the padded back of his chair.
It’s crazy, how the post-nut clarity hits him almost instantly. He blows his dampened bangs out his eyes, but they don’t budge; how’s he working up such a sweat on his forehead and he’s not even in it yet?
Wait.
‘Yet’...?
Satoru lets out a chuckle, releasing his drooping cock from his grasp.
Tissues and hand sanitizer stashed in his drawer find themselves hastily pulled out as he carefully cleans up his sin.
“And this is the behaviour of a PhD?” he jokes to himself, “I’m about as bad as that cum-laude.”
ㅤ⋆
Satoru needs to take a few steadying breaths to cleanse his mind after... uh, such vigorous activities unbecoming of an intellectual.
He’s unzipping his leather briefcase, stealing his carefully prepared bento out of it, trying not to focus on the whole situation happening in his pants.
But he’s not hungry.
In fact, he’s got a bellyache.
You’re his nightmare. His headache. His wet dream.
His head feels like it could pop if he lets another thought of you squeeze into it — there’s no fuckin’ space, you’ve hoarded all of it.
Shit, at this rate, it feels like you puppeteer him.
Satoru lets out a grunt, stressing a hand over his face and running it over his silky bangs.
God, how pathetic — it’s like he’s a student of these halls again, too distracted by his own horniness to focus on anything else.
Satoru rubs his hand across his mouth. His lashes quiver, eyes shutting. The weight of a meager four hours of sleep comes down over him like the final hammer.
Is he losing his edge?
Oh, fuck.
—Is he?!
Heart like a panic alarm in his chest, Satoru’s eyes flash open.
The drawer of his desk smacks open, massive hand fishing out a tiny notebook.
It’s a special notebook; bound in leather, a dog-eared page in the middle of it which details two things;
Your name.
And your weaknesses.
Maybe you don’t think you have any areas to improve on, but just like Gojo Satoru, even the top student has a kryptonite.
And yours is... gonna be question 12. He’s decided.
But hey, how thoughtful is it of him to remember your favorite mathematician is Gauss, huh? Kind of sweet, honestly. He’s gonna make you hate him.
Now, is it fair, to design a test specific to your weaknesses? No. Potentially illegal, even. He can’t just draw a red circle around one particular student, bend her over and absolutely rail her, can he?
That’s unfair.
But you’ve been unfair to him all year.
And there’s two things Gojo Satoru loves in life; orgasms, and karma — both he prefers to deliver with his own hand.
Besides, it’s your fault if you choose to fuck around instead of study for an upcoming test. And he told you, oh so long ago, that this question would rear its ugly head again.
Click click, his pen jots down a few notes before he’s moving onto his laptop.
Face alight with the blue glare, rimless glasses reflecting back the contents of a word document that would soon become the test that he hopes will give you a real mind-fuck.
ㅤ⋆
“Ah… ah!!”
“More… more…!!”
Eyes pinched shut, your legs looped around the slim waist of a pretty boy from accounting.
He was just barely grazing your favorite spot… ignorant to how your walls cried out for more. Maybe, just maybe, you hoped, if you squeezed even tighter around his cock, then it would finally feel better.
Okay, sure; it kind of helped. You could feel the subtle tingle of an orgasm building up, albeit a lame one.
You’re focused on chasing it out, but then—
“Cumming!”
“Huh?” your eyes blinked open.
Already?
The boy on top of you lets out a long groan, stilling inside you.
You’re hiding your disappointment with practiced ease while he heaves a satisfied sigh and withdraws — a little too quickly, like, what is this, a drive-thru?
The ceiling looks bleak, and so does the outlook for your pussy because she is not cumming tonight unless you run back to your dorm and charge up your vibrator.
This is agony.
You’re considering asking him to help you orgasm, untiiil you see just how quickly he slips out of bed and goes to discard the condom in the trash — the way he did it, without even looking at you, just… gave you the biggest fucking ick of your life.
God, why did it feel like he threw you in the trash instead of the condom?
No post-sex cuddles. No orgasm for you – yeah, ’cause his is all-important… and yours? Optional.
He huffs, clearly exhausted after giving it his pathetic all for about… eh, seven minutes? No foreplay. Just male orgasm & French exit. Bravo, you thought bitterly.
This guy, he put so little effort into pleasuring you, and then he had the audacity to ask;
“Was I good?”
—without even looking in your general direction, as he was too focused on dressing himself.
“Yeah.” You blatantly lied, throat aching, “Good.”
Even your pussy constricted in disappointment — because what were you actually fucking doing? Was being everybody’s girl worth it? No, let me tell you; it wasn’t, it never could be, and you knew that from day one. Because men, or at least college boys, fucked like they only just recently learned how to use their dick.
Because sex for them was just that – for them. Pullup, unzip, swipe their cock through your folds, enter like it's a drive-thru, finish, pullout, zip-up. No thank yous to your hardworking pussy, no foreplay, no praise, and most importantly – no orgasms for you.
And now? It’s you and the ceiling, baby. You, the ceiling, and the regret of giving one more measly broccoli-haired boy a chance.
Defeat evident on your face as you dress up, you mutter an excuse and tell him a swift goodbye.
“Are you mad at me, or something?”
“Let me tell you something; you better make lots of fuckin’ money one day, otherwise no bitch will tolerate that needle-dick. Good-fuckin’-bye.”
Those are the last words he hears out of you before you wrench the door shut.
A hatred for men pools in your stomach as you traipse across campus to the women’s dorms — but the reason it hurts even more is because you know it’s not true; someone’s out there who can make you cum, make you feel cared for, make you feel real exhiliration. But you just haven’t had the fortune of meeting him yet.
Shit, how’d you end up in a sleazy boy’s bed the night before your assignment was due, anyways?
Well, because this is what transpired between you and your best friend about two hours prior:
ㅤ“What crack was Gojo smoking when he wrote these questions? This shit’s impossible!”
ㅤ“I don’t get it, aren’t you always going on about how easy everything is?”
ㅤYou shake your head, “Ha-ha, maybe he took my comment personally—”
ㅤ“—yeah, ’think maybe you should have held ya fuckin’ tongue?! The man’s making our lives a living hell for it, clearly. This is just like first year all over again.”
ㅤ“—you say that like it’s actually my fault! The old man’s just showing off ’cause he’s self-conscious. ㅤOh, fuck it! I look too good tonight to stay cooped up like this — I’m going to Cole’s.”
ㅤShe groans in disgust, “You’re choosing Cole’s six-incher over me? I’m appalled.”
ㅤ“Six and a half.” You correct.
ㅤ“The half makes no difference, sweetie.”
ㅤ“Whatever. Anyyyways… if you figure out the answer to question twelve, can you—”
ㅤ“Absolutely not! Do it yourself, Miss Perfect. Anyways, be safe and go enjoy yourself.”
ㅤ“Thanks, I will.”
—You didn’t.
Worse. You arrive back to a pitch-black dorm room, your roommate seemingly long abandoned the assignment, giving up right in the middle of question twelve.
You sit down at the desk, hearing her soft snores as she sleeps, and stare a long, dewy-eyed stare into the paper as if trying to will it into answering its own questions.
This wasn’t an assignment. This was an atomic bomb to the mind. Voluntary torture — no, paid-for torture. You put money down on this shit.
Above all, this paper was a reminder; a reminder that Satoru Gojo is a prodigy, that he’s above all you fuckin’ dweebs and you better remember it.
The marks where you had viciously erased show the ghost of horrendously incorrect answers. You skim through the paper, not really thinking about its contents. How can you? Your pussy is clenching with a familiar disappointed ache in its walls, one you’ve grown so used to by now. Is it weird to say that it feels like your uterus cries sometimes? Because right now is one of those times.
Well, boys may suck but you know what doesn’t? Technology.
One thing that stays true is that vibrators are a girl’s best friend.
So you creep across the room and pull open the night stand drawer, hand scouring amongst your panties looking for the soft, grey pouch.
The plum-colored egg-shaped toy is beautiful in every way, but most of all because it’s a stealth weapon — and boy, do you use it as such against your clit.
Writhing under the thick of your blanket, you roll the vibrator over and over — but your clit’s gone sleepy and the damn toy’s not fully charged, so it’s vibrations are pitifully weak.
Then, like the universe itself is writing the comedy into your life, it goes dead.
A groan escapes your throat.
Well, maybe this is a sign.
You tuck the useless thing under your pillow and then bring Gojo Satoru’s atomic bomb assignment to the comforts of your bed, poising the pencil at question fuckin’ twelve.
ㅤ⋆
Good morning? No. Bad morning. You’ve got 0 orgasms and ovulation week hormones surging through your blood. Plus, the papers have been graded. And you know damn well that you bullshitted your way through question twelve.
The sun is glaring. The birds are annoying. And worst of all; Satoru Gojo has had a much too cheery whistle on his lips since the start of this lecture. Just what the fuck is he so happy about? Oh but god, he looks so bleary-eyed and cute today, plus his hair is perfectly tousled, so how can you hate him? You can’t.
You’re sat in your seat, talking shit with your friend.
When she makes a grimace, Professor Gojo can almost guess what you’ve just said — speculating his dick size, maybe? Or wondering if he’s hiding abs underneath his shirt? Maybe you wanna tug on his tie? Have his babies?
Just look at the slutty little giggle you let out when you catch him staring.
Yeah, babydoll, can't wait to see those glossy lips make a nice O shape for me.
Once again, he’s handing papers out to students. This time, heavily praising each one for their hard work.
He’s creeping closer towards your desk, looking a little too edible with that snatched waist and those thick biceps squeezed into a tight black turtleneck.
Your friend lets out a groan, and Satoru can just barely make out what you’ve said.
“I’d happily have blue-eyed mini-Gojos running around my house if he’s packing nine inches.”
“Nine inches! Girl, nobody can take nine inches.”
“Speak for yourself!”
How sweet, so you are speculating his size. But what was that — um — thing you said that eluded to him giving you his babies? I think he might have nearly had a heart attack because of that.
The murmur of his voice instantly snaps your attention away from the horrendous dirty talk you’ve been subjecting your friend to.
“Girls, what did I say about yapping?” He drawls, something different in his voice — smugness? But he’s always smug. This sounded… far more amused than usual. Like he was trying not to break.
“Sorry, sir.” you feather.
He slides your friend’s paper across the table, then places yours down with an even more firm thud of his fingertips — as if he was saying something.
Eye contact.
It stuns you dumb this time. Satoru's cologne meets your nose, invades your lungs, travels south.
He smiles too sweetly at you; something’s off.
“Better luck next time.” he whispers, disappointment pretentious on his tongue.
You look down at your paper.
Your stomach drops.
ㅤF—
ㅤSee me after class :)
Your mouth drops into a delicious O-shape.
Ah, well fuck, if that isn’t the most satisfying thing he’s ever seen...
“… what the fuck?” you breathe, so fucked up on seeing that F that you zone out for a solid minute.
You look up in panic, but find no blue eyes — the fucker’s left you gaping there, like an idiot, and continues handing out the rest of the papers in silence.
He strides down back to his desk, so fast you can’t even get his attention, but you do clip a frame of his face.
Was he fuckin’ smirking?
Oh, just what the fuck is going on here?
You’re rereading his squiggly handwriting over and over, unable to accept that this has actually happened to you.
There has to be some mistake, right? Is this someone else’s paper?
Nope.
That’s your name at the top, that's your handwriting, and that's your four year A—grade streakbroken.
It’s his fault.
The blue-eyed bitch is evil. Diabolical. Heinous. Impossible. What was he even trying to prove with an assignment this hard? What made it all worse is how he treated his class like it was the top gun of the school. They were the elite, and among them the best of the elite used to be you. Um, bitch, not anymore! Crown stolen. And he revels in it.
“This shit was hard, I can't believe I actually passed. What’d you get?” your best friend asks.
But you don't even hear her, too busy glaring at your professor — you could swear that he looks like he’s holding back from snickering.
This isn’t possible. No way. No fucking way.
ㅤ⋆
You waited until everyone left the classroom, telling your girl that you'll see her later for lunch if you don't end up going to jail for murdering your professor instead.
The nerve she had to ask “What, not hot for teacher anymore?”
Inspiring a deep, deep breath, you piece together your shattered confidence by reapplying a thick layer of lipstick. Top lip, bottom lip, compact mirror snapped shut.
And then you go in for the kill.
Satoru loves watching you walk over to him; he relishes in the sight of your thighs and breasts violently jiggling as you bring your pretty little body his way.
“Sir.” You begin roughly, trying hard to soften your voice. “Sir, I think there’s a mistake with my paper.”
Satoru tilts his head, feigning confusion.
“Oh? Whatever do you mean? Let me take a look. Mm. No, no that’s right.”
“What the f—um. Sir, I just… I don’t — hnn, um...” you struggle.
Satoru patiently waits for you to speak, in the same way that a cheetah watches its wounded prey try to escape what’s coming.
Leaned back in his big smug chair, he laces his fingers together.
“I just don’t understand, you see.” You continue, close to splitting the fucking paper down the middle. “Hah, ummm, because I’ve never gotten anything below an A—grade before.”
Satoru leans forward, lips parting to speak.
And fuck, his voice has never sounded this deep, this taunting — just the first word has you beyond humiliated.
“What, lost your edge, baby?”
Your mouth hangs open.
“Huh?”
Oh no, he almost breaks into a smile.
And it's not just him that's about to break; so are you. And he's just trying his best to bring you to that climax.
“This — this was deliberate.” your voice quavers.
Mm, there it is. Why does revenge kinda make him hard?
He cups a hand to his ear, “Hm? Sorry, can you repeat that? I’m a little hard of hearing.”
“Don’t act dumb. I—I know exactly what you’re doing.”
His lips spread into a dirty smile that makes a heat pool between your thighs.
“What exactly am I doing, sweets? Tell me.”
“You failed me on purpose!” you accuse.
He nearly laughs, leaning back into his chair. His voice lowers into a smooth rumble.
“Aw, angelface — this is a very serious accusation.”
Shit, all his little nicknames are getting to you. You’re clinging to composure by a thread.
“Y—you know it’s true!”
“And are you sure this grade isn’t a result of you spending more time daydreaming about your professor fucking you, instead of actually studying like a good girl should?”
You're dumbfounded. Rendered speechless. Wildly turned on.
Satoru just marvels at your dumbified state. Truly, it makes his heart lurch.
He’s sure your anger could rip apart tectonic plates, but it’s got nothing on him ’cause he’s on top of the world.
Those violent blue eyes feel like they’re cutting right through you.
“Got nothing more to say, do you?”
“Mother—fucker.” you blurt.
“Bite me, baby.”
Suddenly, you’re climbing over his desk and biting his nose.
Hard.
Teeth sinking into cartilage, like you’re gonna bite the tip of his nose right off.
Satoru’s chair groans loudly as he recoils backwards, sheer shock on his face at first.
Nothing has ever caught him off-guard quite like that. He’s had girls slap him for being a jerk, yes, more times than he can count — but this? Getting his pretty little nose bitten? That’s a first.
You release his nose from between your teeth, face close to his, knocking a few things off his desk.
He looks at you with wide-blown eyes.
Ass poised in the air, wet panties hit with cool air, clit all puffy and annoyed, and hot pink rage all over your face. And him? Cock twitching in those tight, tight suit pants.
“Come over here and fucking do it, then.” He challenges, voice pure fucking ice.
Your eyes flit between his parted lips and his tie — right before knuckling up on the satin, reigning him into a kiss. That action alone makes him so fucking horny it honestly takes all his strength just to refrain from stripping you bare and fucking you on his desk.
Melding your lips together, he lets out a low growl. Satoru meets reciprocates the passion, moving his wetted lips roughly over yours.
If a kiss could kill, shit, well... both of you would be dead right now. It was violent — have you ever made out with a man like this? No, and he can feel it in the way you tremble under him.
“Fuck!”
“Mhm, get on my lap.”
“Ooh — I hate you.”
And yet, you crawl right into his lap.
“Then why are you wet for me? God, look at you, just a little kiss has got you all fucked up.”
You moan, “Don’t act l—like you’re any better; you’re hard, s—so hard…”
“Yeah, see what you do to me? H—ahhh, baby, easy; I’m not going anywhere.”
You’re dizzy on his dirty talk, beginning to dry hump him like you’re feverish for it.
Feeling your tiny pussy glide over the outline of his pulsing cock pulls groans from the back of his throat, makes him roll his head back.
“Fuck, there you go — fuuuck, what’re you so horny for? Way too fuckin’ young for me, y’know. ’s just that fact alone enough to turn you on?”
You whimper, rutting against his lap like you’re in heat, clit buzzy and already close to cumming. Cock so hard against you, you can only imagine how good it would feel to get stretched out by it.
“S—shut up and take my bra off.” You huff.
He nearly rolls his eyes — like what’s so fuckin’ funny?
You’re in shock with what ease this man can unclasp your bra and practically tear up your shirt to free those pretty breasts.
“Mm, perfect all over, aren’t you?” he murmurs, “Why are your girls lookin’ at me like they want my lips on them?”
“O—oh—! Ah, fuck! Mmm! Please, sir, fuck!”
He’s got a mouthful of your breast, tongue swirling around your perky nipples, other hand disappearing for a moment until it lands harsh on your ass.
“Ow!” you moan, inching closer to orgasm with each swipe of your pussy over his outline.
“—bad girl; that’s for not studying for the test I so thoughtfully fuckin’ wrote for you.”
“Mmm! Do it again, please.”
“Aw, look at that, my most prestigious student likes getting her ass slapped — is that it? Like it when someone older plays with your pretty body like this?”
“Yes! Nn!” you mewl, clit buzzing beneath your soaked panties.
He knows what he’s doing. He’s been watching you closely, how your hips quicken like you’re—
“Gonna cum all over my lap just like this, b—aaaby?” he looks at you through his wispy bangs, lips forming a lopsided smirk.
“Yes, please! Let me, please? I need it so bad, your cock feels so good against my clit.”
He doesn’t reply, only crashes his lips back on yours with fervour and grabs hold of your hips.
“Cum for me.” He growls into your mouth, roughly biting at your bottom lip.
“C—cumming, professorrr!”
He slips in the opportunity to tickle his ego.
“That’s right — remind me, baby, who’s the real prodigy here?”
“You are, S-S-S-Satoru!”
“Fuckin’ right, baby. Don’t forget it.”
What a smile that put on his face.
He moans at the feeling of you cumming hard in his lap, pussy flush against his cock totally soaking through his pants to his cock.
“Good girl, good girl — can’t stop cumming, can you? Is it that good?”
You nod weakly, eyes hazed over and mouth agape with a bit of drool at the corners. You look downright possessed by the ovulation monster, twitching on his lap like this.
Satoru’s cock throbs, as he swirls his his up into you.
“Oh my god, I wanna fuck you so badly — ah, cummin’!” he confesses.
Grabbing two handfuls of your soft breasts, Satoru rolls his hips up into you. His eyes roll back into his skull right and he lets out a throaty moan before spilling all his mature seed hot cum under his pants.
You feel the warmth and wetness spread under you, the scent driving you nuts.
He grits his teeth, balls tensing and relaxing with each pump until it’s all let out.
It’s hard to explain how it makes you feel, watching an older man cum under your clothed pussy like this. Is it pathetic? Well, with how tousled his white hair is… yeah, kind of. But he’s beautiful when he’s catching his breath.
“I—I wanna fuck you, too.”
“Fuck. As if that wasn’t obvious. You really are a crazy little slut, you know that? Who cums this hard on their professors lap?”
“Says you!”
It’s cut short there, because he’s kissing you again.
Brushing those rough, calloused palms over your breasts, like he’s apologizing for holding onto them for dear life while cumming.
You’ve kissed so many boys before. Spin the bottle at stupid sleepovers. In the closet of your best friend’s bedroom. Been pinned against the wall, kissed hard, fucked hard — in the backseat, in the bathroom of the dive bar. Never a single orgasm, never a real feeling behind those empty gazes boys have served you.
And when you’ve parted from this kiss, you see the mess you’ve made. Half the things on his desk were knocked over. Your lipstick was smudged across his cheek like a sin he can’t wipe off.
He can taste you on his lips and tongue, feel his cum wet in his pants, trapped in the heat of his afterglow.
Finally, he talks — voice a hot murmur over your swollen lips.
“How about this, baby; if you can slut me out, I’ll turn that F into an A.”
ㅤ⋆
There’s a bassy pounding beyond his ribcage — deep and low — accompanied by the occasional stutter of his breath and tense swallow. He’s sitting taut in the driver’s seat of his car — waiting — one hand resting atop the steering wheel, the other twitching on his thigh.
One glance at his wristwatch — 5:45 PM — then another, as if a second glance might will it into ticking faster towards the next hour. The two of you agreed on meeting at 6 PM.
For the next few minutes, Satoru’s staring into the depths of the visor’s mirror, a horror of aged blue springs staring back at him. The distant honey-glow of the campus streetlamps barely illuminate his face, yet he can see the slither of age lines showing on his once young face. It fucks him up; the fact he’s been watching his youth slip away.
Does he still look handsome, even when his face is as heavy as it is now? With the way the skin between his pinched brows wrinkles so acutely, right now it feels more like the latter.
1989... I’m getting old.
“Oh fuck me!”
A knocking at his passenger seat window startles him right out of his contemplative silence.
And there, appearing like beauty materialized from darkness, is your soft face — bearing neither frown nor smile, only a quivering brow and dark glint in your eyes.
He rolls down his window.
“You scared the shit out of me.” he scolds softly.
“Well-deserved.”
He’s attentive, gaze rolling over you in the small moment of quiet.
The difference between you and Satoru is like night and day.
You’re all lacy and ribbons and pink and Dior gloss, but him… he’s white shirt and sleek black leather Oxfords and 18-carat on the wrist and Sauvage dabbed at the neck.
He raises his gaze to meet your eyes.
“You get all dolled up just for me, sweetheart?" he asks.
“Mmmaybe…” you purred back.
He grins, leaning just a bit closer.
“I’m flattered… such a good girl, aren’t you?”
He notes how that makes your bottom lip tremble a little.
“Why don’t you save the praise for later, when I’ve earned it, mister.”
His heart makes a funny beat.
“Hah... sure. Hop in, babyface.”
Baby blues follow your figure as you swiftly round the hood of his car, making way to the other side. He opens the door for you from the inside.
“Hm, are you going to be this chivalrous when you fuck me?” you quip.
“You’ve got quite an edge today.” he notes.
“I wonder why. Maybe it has something to do with my professor failing me on purpose.”
A soft chuckle falls from his rosy lips, “Hah, oh sweetheart,” he turns the key, warning lights and the radio coming on. “thanks for the laugh, I needed it.”
“So you’re not even denying it? Was this all part of some grand scheme of yours to get in my pants? Y’coulda just fuckin’ asked.”
His voice hardens; you feel it like a caress between your thighs.
“First of all: it’s harder than that. Second of all: it’s your fault for not applying yourself, babyface. Had you focused on your weak spots instead of your sweet spots, you wouldn’t have failed. But you were too busy getting your pretty brains fucked out to study, weren’t you?”
Shit.
You blush a little, lowering your head.
“Aw, is someone ashamed? How cute.”
The engine rumbles to life. For a split second, he looks so much younger than he really is in this dim lighting.
“Whatever...” you mumble.
Satoru flashes a smile at you, large hand coming to caress on the rise of your thigh, “And to answer your question: yes, I will.”
A warmth pools between your legs, feeling those butterfly-like contractions. Satoru notes how you squirm under his touch, smirking to himself before he withdraws his hand — it’s pathetic how you immediately miss the warmth.
That jawline could cut diamond. Wispy white bangs messy, hanging just over his brows, angel blues quivering behind those rimless lenses.
Your heart beats wildly. Skin flushed, breathing ragged.
He’s just maneuvered into reverse gear when you suddenly leap on him for a kiss, connecting your lips with him in frenzy, your hands flying at the collar of his shirt.
He comes right off the clutch, stalling the car.
“Mmf, shweetheart,” he mumbles into your mouth, prying your tightly fisted hands off his collar, “Behave.”
“But I want to kiss you so badly.” your pout — oh, it has his heart.
“We’re in a parking lot.”
“I don’t care; I want you.”
“And you can have all of me,” he whispers against your lips, “when we’re not in a position to be caught, okay? Control yourself.”
With the aftertaste of your kiss haunting his tongue, he restarts the engine from the stall and heads off to his home.
ㅤ⋆
The heavy door clicks closed behind Satoru.
You’ve always known he was rich, but entering the foyer overwhelmed you in a way that you never have been before.
It’s not just the Parisien chandelier glittering above you, but the taste of old money in the air that honestly makes you feel unworthy to even present yourself in a place of such taste.
Gojo Satoru is an expensive man — a spoiled, proud-faced one at that.
He’s curious as to why — out of all the splendour you could find in a mansion — that you choose to linger on the most boring part of it all; the vase of flowers sitting on the centerpiece table.
Then he learns why.
“Fake flowers? How tacky.” you scoff.
His heart throbs fondly at your insult, “I know — I hate them, too. I would much rather have you on it.”
“—Huh?” you stutter, feeling him close behind you, extending his hand.
He tips over the ornate vase like it’s worth nothing, letting it crash to the ground into a million pieces.
“Oops, ’m so clumsy.”
“You’re crazy!”
Before you can let out a laugh, before you can even turn to face him, he’s arching you over the table and giving a hard smack to your ass.
“Oh! Professor—”
“—please, call me Satoru.”
Your breath hitches at the feeling of his thick fingers slotting between your plush lips.
Satoru’s lips spread into a smile, “Oh...? Feels like somone ruined their panties already.” he notes, “Is that how much you feel for me? ’m so flattered.”
“Satoru—” you moan out softly, letting him tease your aching pussy.
“—moan my name like that in my ear.”
So you do, “Satoru, you’re so fucking arrogant — it’s no wonder you don’t have a partner.”
Well that earns one sharp slap to your pussy.
Satoru gets all up in your ear, “And where’s yours, little slut?” he growls, “Let me guess, ’think you’re too good to belong to just anyone, right? Just a spoiled princess trying to resolve her daddy issues by fucking older men.”
His palm aggressively kneading between your thighs, other hand coming to yank a fistful of your hair.
“Don’t act like you fuckin’ know me!” you snap.
“Right back ’atchya, darling.” he retaliates hotly.
He’s got you bent over like this — back arched — on the center table of his mansion’s foyer, upon which once sat a pricey vase but is now just shards scattered across marble.
“Kiss me!”
“Where’s your manners?”
“Please!”
Eager lips come crashing down on yours, nearly knocking the wind out of you. Molding his mouth to yours, one massive hand wringing your jaw open so he can slither his tongue inside and the other nimbly pushing aside your panties.
The way your slick instantly coats his fingers has you blushing ear to ear, and him grinning against your parted lips.
“Fuck — oh you reaaally like me, huh?” he whispers into your mouth, “Hah, ’guess ’m gonna see just how waterproof a Rolex is.”
“Do you ever stop talking!”
Your legs shudder as he teases the length of your slit, spreading your juices everywhere.
“What, are you sick of my voice already?” he coos, fingertip coming threateningly close to your clit, “That’s too bad, ’cause I never shut up.”
“A fact that p—probably attributes to you being single. AH!”
Another sharp slap to your pussy — well, if she wasn’t awake before, she is now.
Satoru lowers his voice to a dangerous purr, “I’ve definitely gotta do something about that attitude of yours, ’s getting on my nerves.”
One thick finger slips inside you with little resistance, your walls eagerly accepting the intrusion.
“Oh, fuck—mmh!”
“Look how she sucks me right in — what a good girl.”
Your legs shudder softly as he carefully explores inside, the ease with which he does it making his experience gap between him and boys your age very evident.
He coos at your ear, “Relax, bambi. If you shake this much from a little teasing, then I’m honestly quite worried for you.”
He’s stroking at your walls like he’s looking for something, when suddenly you clench them around his fingers tight and purr out.
“Looks like I found someone’s sweet spot, huh? Must feel like a world record for you.” he whispers, eyes observing the way your mouth just falls open when he starts pumping his finger in and out. “Mm, feels good?”
“—ooh, sooo good!! More, please!”
His wispy white bangs are sticking to the side of your face until he pulls his face away to get a better look at the state you’re in.
“More? Oh, ’cause one’s not enough for you, hm? My little slut’s so greedy, she’s already wanting to be stretched out, is that it?”
You nod frantically, hardly in a position to retaliate when he’s got you so close to orgasm like this. But you need more before you give into it, to feel stuffed full.
But you should have realized by now; he likes to keep you on your toes by throwing curveballs — like when he compiled an assignment out of your biggest weaknesses.
He slides his finger out, then completely disorients you by suddenly kneading your clothed breast with his free hand.
“Who’s a good girl?” he purrs in your ear.
“M-me!” you squeak.
“Uh-huh. That’s right,” he smirks, continuing his rough fondling, “and you’re gonna take whatever I give you, however I give it?”
“Yessir!”
“Such a good girl — that’s what I like to hear.”
Why does all this feel like a diversion tactic? — because it is.
Just when your head is all full of being called a good girl so many times by your professor, he seeks out your very puckered, hyper-sensitive clit and bullies it.
“Fuck!” you hiccup, “ ‘m cummingcummingcumming!!!”
Mister Blue Eyes ’n Prodigal PhD behind you is smiling so hard when you announce this, genuinely shocked at how he hasn’t even stroked your tiny clit for more than three seconds but you’re already spasming through a damn-near full-body orgasm.
“Aw, a little bit of manhandling made her cum like a virgin.”
Pussy spasming, tingling with post-orgasm sensitivity, another sharp slap landing on it.
Suddenly, you hear a sucking sound behind your ear — and find that Satoru’s pointedly sucking your juice off his finger.
“Mmm,” he hums thoughtfully, “You’re so sweet... want a taste?”
Not giving you time to respond, he shares the taste of you in a dirty, heavy kiss.
“Mmf!”
Never before now would you ever have thought that a kiss alone could give you a post-orgasm orgasm, but it does. It’s subtle, just a quake up and down your trembling limbs.
The heat of his cheeks fans yours as he flushes hotter, your sweet breath got him feeling alive in his mouth. Satoru moans into your mouth. Your heads spins.
You gasp when he releases you, practically panting against his parted lips. Shit, has anybody ever kissed you like that?
“Tell me,” Satoru begins, taking a hold of your hips, “how many orgasms do you get through in a week? ’cause right now, my hunch is telling me it’s close to zero.”
“Well, I—I’d have more if men were not so fucking incompetent!”
Satoru lets out a good laugh. “I love your witty comebacks, sweets,” he speaks, “but you’ve been fucking with stupid boys, not men. Let me show you the difference.”
Roughly, he’s spinning you a 180 right into the warmth of his puffed-out chest.
Your gaze falls below his belt.
He’s quick, too quick for you to keep up with; by the time you’re registering the fact he has a raging boner in his pants, he’s already hugging you into a rough kiss again and grabbing handfuls of your ass.
He almost feels bad for you.
No, scratch that, he totally feels bad for you.
He feels like he needs to compensate for all the lousy men you've endured up until now.
You're not a virgin, not even close, but you may as well be, 'cuz none of those losers ever really fucked you; they used you.
But none of that matters now; all those lousy faces are a blur in your mind, their names long forgotten, because the only person that exists right now is Gojo Satoru.
Three words, one command, is all that leaves his lips;
“Strip for me.”
ㅤ⋆
There’s a crime scene of clothes scattered down the upper halls; the tatters of a torn blouse precede a bra — flung carelessly — which hangs from the ornate wall light, a belt once snaked around narrow hips is now abandoned along with its black suit pants.
Like a trail, it leads to a door, beyond which there emits the sounds of muffled moans and a low murmuring of two voices.
An athletic torso arched over a petite frame, torn-open XL condom wrapper tossed aside, the clear signs of manhandling showing on the disarray of the room — a knocked-over chair? Entire duvet curled on the floor? What happened here is only known to the two animals fighting on the bed.
Two pillows are strewn across the room as if a playfight occured. The black sheets you’re trapped on have already shifted off the corners —owed to the man currently bowing over you, who took great pleasure in showing off his strength when he was shoving and pinning a giggling, wriggling little you down.
Heat ripples in waves off his body. There’s a raggedness in his breath, like he’s been puckered against another pair of lips for the past hour.
One massive hand wielding his cock, so heavy as it’s sliding through your slicked folds.
He catches on your entrance, eliciting a choked noise out of you. The skin creases under his baby blues, like he’s amused.
“Biiig stretch, babydoll.” murmurs Satoru through pouty, swollen lips.
Your heart skips a beat as he eases his tip into your inviting walls.
Satoru releases a broken moan from his chest.
“Ugh, fuck — are you sure you’re not a virgin, sweets? ’cause it feels like it.”
“I-I’m really not.” you stutter out, tears forming at the corners of your eyes as you watch him inch in and out, diving just a little deeper each time.
Satoru hisses through his teeth, “So you’re just a tight young slut, hm? — stop smiling, you’re gonna give away that degradation kink of yours.”
He bucks his hips forward, thrusting his cock in to stretch out your tiny hole even more.
“Fuck!” you cry out, “Uhng, y-you should warn a girl before you — ahh, fuckfuckfuck!”
“Well, weren’t you the one begging me to manhandle you earlier? Little miss ‘decorate me in bruises’ — all talk, just like in class.”
A series of soft grunts fall from his lips as he begins thrusting.
One, two, three — seven. In just seven hits and you’re KO’d.
Satoru lets out a proud sigh when you gush around his length.
“Ahh-hh—hn! Fuck!” you quaver.
Satoru eases out a little, “You okay?” he asks softly, stroking at your cheek.
“Yes!” you sniffle.
“N’aw, crying already? Keep it together, girl. You’re not getting that A-grade ’till you slut me out.”
ㅤ⋆
A newly torn condom wrapper sits next to a Rolex on the night stand. To the right, the bed’s shuddering halts for a moment, the sound of sheets shuffling
Two hands grapple your ankles, folding your tender body into a tight, sweaty mating press.
“You can gimmie one more, can’t you?”
“No waaay! ’impossible.”
“Ha-ha.” he chuckles the same boyish chuckle as he always has, “Be a little more ambitious, darling.”
Your knees are squished against your breasts, pussy weeping around his girth as he continues his relentless thrusts.
He ogles your shuddering breasts, quaking legs — the orgasmic face beyond them. Ah, god, what he’d give to put a baby in a girl like you. A sweet, ovulating, young slut. But he pushes the thought away — like that’s going too far.
“I caaan’t! I really can’t, ’m gonna go crazy! Your cock is too fuckin’ fat.” you babble, close to another orgasm the moment he starts shaking his hips again.
“Then it you’re gonna have to kiss that A-grade goodbyeee~” he sings.
It’s like those words lit a fire inside you.
No fucking way.
No fucking way have you taken it this far just to leave empty-handed afterwards.
Firstly, there’s no way this crazy little situationship will survive and that’s a fact. This is your one and only chance with Gojo Fucking Satoru.
Secondly, you’re getting that A-grade even if it means being a little fucking crazy.
The sound of obscene squelching and plapping ricochets off the walls as Satoru’s hips meet yours with each thrust. He’s like a demon. Thumb greeting your sensitive clit, rubbing expertly. Tensing muscles, wispy white bangs sticking to his forehead.
“Cum for me, just like th—"
“—nuh-uh, ’wanna do it raw.”
His hips stutter. Smile falters.
“Huh?”
“Please.”
“No way, darling.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no way I’m gonna be able to pull out of a tight little slut like you.”
A smile creeps across your hazy expression.
“What, lost your edge, old man?”
His mouth hangs open, cock throbs angrily.
“C’mon, don’t you wanna be the first to ever creampie such a tight, young slut? I th-thought we were trying to slut each other out here.”
He rolls his head back, mutters an exasperated “fuck” and slips himself out.
“And are you on — ”
“No. I’ll take Plan B.”
“Fuck.”
He says it not because he’s worried about anything you think he’s worried about — because a good girl like you will always take plan B the day after. Rather, he’s worried that he’s gonna...
ㅤ⋆
Something was throbbing low in his ribcage when he felt your buttery soft walls melt around him. Tight, wet, velvety — clinging to him with that ‘get me pregnant’ grip.
“Fuck, you feel s-so good, clinging to me like such a good girl...” he purrs.
Condom discarded somewhere in the sheets, your legs up in the air crybaby style, his form slippery and hot and dripping with sweat as he snaps his hips to meet yours, heavy milky balls smacking into your puckered hole, his thick muscular thighs starting to feel the burn.
You’re dewy-eyed, voice reaching a crescendo each time he hits a perfect stroke, legs quivering under him, lips bitten raw.
He’s more focused than he was earlier, eyes narrowed at your body taking it all in; how you shake for him, how you mewl out. As a prodigy, of course he’s quick to learn your tell-tale signs.
“That’s it, cum for me. Fucking soak me in it.” he groans, bullying your clit as you tense up and cry out.
Your scent is hitting his nose. That glow on your face, your pert nipples, how your breasts look so full and nearly radiant... wait a fuckin’ god damn minute —
“—are you ovulating?” he asks.
Sweat-damp face so close, pushing your legs way too far back.
No answer. But your silence and blinking bambi eyes say it all.
Satoru groans. His cock throbs harder, stiffly presses against your wall, curvature digging right into the spot that’s been abused for the past hour.
“I-it’s fine! I’ll take plan B.”
“No, no, don’t stress yourself, angel. I’ve got good pullout game.”
“But—” you can’t finish, because he’s lifting his hips and letting them slam into you.
“—fuck! That’s deep!” you cry out.
“Yeah? Tell me where you feel me.”
“R-right there.”
You feel his fat tip exploring deeper, like he’s trying to make a point — who else has been this deep in you? Nobody. And he knows it; your untried walls give it away.
Satoru presses his palm down your tummy, making you feel the bulge.
“Mhm, I’m riiight here.”
He thrusts again, only this time slower and hard-hitting. Your breasts shudder with each successive stroke, hiccups and nonsensical babble escaping your pouty lips.
Satoru’s grunting heavier and heavier, enjoying the bliss of being balls deep in a girl whose pussy actually seems to appreciate his size; she milks it right, doesn’t whine or complain or jump off — ohhh never mind, there you go.
“Nuh-uh, no running from me,” he croons, forcing your hips to meet his pulls a sob from your chest, “You said you wanted it, now take it. Every inch.”
“B-but ’s too much!” you slur, “I can’t think straight like this!”
“N’aw, but could you ever?”
Ankles dangling over his shoulders, too fucked-out to retaliate, the only thoughts swimming in your head are how big he is, how you’re fucking an older man, how you’re practically milking a good grade from his cock. It’s all too much.
Satoru’s driving into your weeping hole, grunting a lace-soft mantra of your name.
All he can focus on is how you grip him, how his balls feel fuller and tighter than ever before like he’s gonna burst and drain them in your fertile pussy. He’s beginning to thrust slower, each stroke sloppier than the previous, lazy.
“Oh, fuck. Watch me,” he commands, grabbing at your neck, calling out your name and hanging onto each syllable like it’s the only prayer that’s gonna get him into heaven after a sinful fuck like this.
“Don’t take your eyes off of me or I’ll stop.”
“Yessir!”
You peek into his baby blues, he spreads your legs open and glares right back.
His eyes are hot on you, cock buried so deep that you feel his perfect balls squish against you and it just makes a switch flip in your brain.
He’s been crazed for your cute moans this whole time, sure — who wouldn’t be turned on by a soft-to-the-touch woman whimpering and whining underneath them like a small, sweet little bunny? But now those moans start sounding a little more real — like a heavy-hearted goddess, like a nymph in orgasm, sighing and letting it out raw, gutteral.
It’s just different.
He thinks he might be a little bit in love — but only in the safe space of bedsheets. He’s lightyears ahead, thinking about how he’s going to have to break your little heart, as he looks down at your sopping little face so pretty an orgasmic with your mouth hung wide open.
Trembles along your walls, his cock dragging through you like a demon, sucking him to the base of his cock and somehow, your pussy still thinks she’s not getting enough of him.
His tip kissing your cervix is what sparks your sudden ovulation fever, and suddenly you need it bad.
Nails, red, poised on his back raking down and leaving crimson marks on his pale skin.
You’re in control of every inch of him for a split second, and it just takes one tiny thing to push him over the edge.
Just like that, Satoru’s grinding his hips into you with desperation, orgasm ripping through him, pumping his potent cum so deep inside you while holding you closer than he’s probably ever held anyone else.
You can feel a warmth spreading deep inside you.
“Stay still and take it.” He grunts, voice hoarse.
You’re pinned under his heavy muscles, nowhere to run.
Oh. Fuck.
Nobody’s done like him before. No one has held you in place as tightly as Satoru when he’s cumming so hard, so desperately that it’s almost pathetic how much he wants and needs you in that moment.
Breathless, muscles sore from his over-exertion, Satoru nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and hides it there as he comes down, grunts fading out into soft sighs as he tries to catch his breath with you.
Satoru’s breath is shaky, his hair tousled to knots. He lets out a few heavier groans, like he’s just got his life force sucked right out — and he did, in a way, by a—
“Crazy little slut.” he swears, cracking a lopsided smile.
Satoru’s eyes can hardly open any wider than a slight bit. Jaw slacked, grip on your body loosening, he withdraws from the comforts of your neck and looks down, watching as he glides his cum-coated cock out of your weeping hole.
A tired laugh escapes his lips when he sees how your tummy bulge disappears the moment his cockhead isn’t pressing all the way inside.
“Hah, fuck — took me like such a good girl, huh?”
The fact your professor just creampied you doesn’t fully register until you look down; you watch him withdraw, tip catching on your entrance, and see creamy white decorating the length of his shaft.
White bangs wet against his forehead, sweat beading off his flushed cheeks, the maturing wrinkles between his scrunched brows — he’s so pretty, wonder what it would be like to have his babies.
It looks like even he’s taken aback by the fact his cum is leaking out your sore pussy. Or rather, that his student just slutted him out and gave him a new kink.
“ ‘put a baby in me’ — were you trying to give me a heart-attack or an orgasm there?”
“I’m sooo sorry...! I got carried away!” you apologize dozily.
“Hah... sure ya did, princess. Got so carried away that you wanted to me to get you pregnant.”
Satoru’s not looking at you, but at the rivulets of cum flowing out your tired hole.
Breath stuck in his throat, heartbeat rushing in his ears, he slowly pushes his cum-coated cock right back into you.
“I really can’t go a-again...” you croak tiredly.
“Relax, baby, I’m just enjoying the mess I made of you.”
Teasing just the tip of his slowly softening cock in and out of your hole, enjoying the creamy mess – how could he not? He’s a dirty boy. Of course he obsesses over these tiny things. The stretch, the gooey white wring that’s formed around the base of his cock.
“Princess stuck in the afterglow, huh?”
You blink at him, feeling rearranged. It’s like you’re trying to bring back your thoughts after he fucked them right out of your head.
You look at him shyly. Satoru widens his toothy grin at you, runs one hand through his drooping bangs.
He withdraws his cock, whimper escaping his lip as his tip catches on your tight entrance once more.
“You’re so cute.”
His cock droops tiredly.
“I feel like you jus’ fucked me into graduation.”
He playfully taps your ass, “Yeah, I’m so proud of my little slut.” he jokes, “Earned your degree in slut-ology.”
ㅤ⋆
"Fuck,” he smiles, “We made a real mess, huh, sweetheart? C'mon, let's get cleaned up."
He gives a gentle smack to the side of your thigh.
"N-need... in a minute… w’nna enjoy being messy." You groan, lazy in your afterglow, quietly obsessing over how his creampie feels – how you feel claimed, as cheesy as it sounds.
He chuckles. “M’kay, doll.”
Weird how you could cum again just from hearing his laugh alone.
Satoru sniffs out the air, like there’s a joke in it.
“Smells like WAP in here. What? Why are you cringing at me!? — that was funny! You should know that song, you’re young. Young people listen to that stuff. Stop laughing at me, you little slut!”
You groan like you’re wounded, tears forming in your eyes, hiding from his cringe in the sheets, “Old man jokes and you’re not even forty yet!”
Satoru grins stupidly, itching at his undercut. “Heh.”
You're too sore to move. Hair all crazy. Skin between your thighs all sticky.
But Satoru? He's sprung to life, whistling, bouncing off the bed and across the room and sliding into his Calvin Klein's and...
It's just nice to listen to him, to watch him, as he's half-naked and breathing heavy, after he's fucked you silly.
You're curious about his every movement, watching him with fascination through droopy eyes.
So that's how his muscles flex when he moves, that's how sculpted his ass is, that's the way he moves after a good fuck — flits about like a busy bird, exact opposite to his smug smooth slowness in the classroom. It almost seems like it was all a persona to you, now, as you observe him in such an intimate setting. He’s so energized, so unserious — playful without the I’m-better-than-you edginess.
It was such a contrast to the man you’ve known that you began to wonder.
Who was Gojo Satoru, really?
You’re so close to figuring him out, like he's been a theory itching the back of your mind, when suddenly you're snapped back to reality.
"Hydrate."
He shoves a bottle of water into your face, taunting it in front of you, until you prop yourself up on your elbows and take it.
It’s the bottle he always drinks from in class. You take desperate gulps.
Your heart made a funny beat right then.
Did his orgasm enlighten you? Yes, but it wasn’t just that.
How he continued to enjoy your company, to care for you after the whole ordeal, that is what shocked you. It shocked you into deep, contemplative silence — once Satoru noticed, he got worried that he had fucked you a little too hard.
So he softened himself, guard completely down for the woman splayed naked on his bed.
"Hey," he spoke to you tenderly, blue eyes fixed on your state, "You okay? Not too sore, I hope?"
“A little bit… well, a lot… but I like the feeling. I mean, not ‘cuz I’m a masochist, or anything — well a little bit, but I mean! You know! It feels good because you did it… you know what I mean?” you babble.
He looks at you like you’re the strangest girl in the world. Like you’re a theory he can’t figure out; a truly enigmatic woman.
“Can I use your bathroom?” you ask.
“Absolutely not.” He returns sarcastically, “I’ll creampie a woman… but bathroom-sharing? Gross.”
He leans in to give you a kiss to your forehead, a brief stroke to your hair — the act of affection unknown to you before now. It fucks you up a little bit.
“Such a good girl for taking me so well. I know I’m a bit… intense. But you did really good, considering. Looked good while getting ya brains fucked out, too.”
You blink at him, a mixture of astonishment and wonder in your eyes. He’s so nice.
See, you’ve always known that there was a man out there capable of bringing you to orgasm, but one who cared about you? That was something that you had long accepted didn't exist.
But oh... he’s real.
And he exists right in front of you.
And he’s your professor.
And this is an affair that can’t last.
So why not indulge completely in it, while it lasts?
“Join me for a bath?” you give him your best pleading eyes.
Satoru looks at you hesitates for a moment before agreeing.
“U-um, and I’m too sore to stand. Can you—”
“—carry you, right?” he completes.
“Please?”
“Come here.”
ㅤ⋆
The lights are a dim honey-glow. A NASA sticker is stuck to the mirror over the sink — did he put it there? How dorky.
Muscles soothed by the warm kiss of a bath. Satoru’s scooping a handful of bubbles, gazing at them contemplatively.
“I like bubbles,” he begins, “it’s one of my favorite things in physics.”
Then this man proceeds to go on a full bubble-ramble. You don’t really listen, rather, you’re focusing on how oddly cute it is when he’s going on an enthusiastic tangent. It’s in his voice; he speaks with a quirky passion that only a physicist could speak with.
It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him talk without that pretentious edge, which he always has in the classroom. He doesn’t even sound like a professor; he sounds like a little kid explaining the plotline of his favorite TV show. How can you not marvel at him?
Bubbles get scooped up and smushed between his big hands, over and over again, as he rattles on.
Satoru notices how your attention has wavered, and stops mid-sentence.
“Sorry. Am I boring y—”
“Please, you could never. Continue. What about Bernoulli’s theorem?”
That something throbs in his ribcage again. This time, it feels all-consuming. He’s radiant with affection right then, glowing like a god-damned light bulb.
Satoru shakes his head. “No, no; if I continue we’ll be stuck in this bath all night.”
“Oh yeah, and I definitely wouldn’t want that.” you chuckle, swirling at the bathwater.
Why, oh why, does that laugh of yours make him want to hold you, squeeze you?
Shit, he can’t help it now.
He’s fawning over the fact he creampied you, okay? It makes a dorky smile curl on his lips.
Yes, you’re going to take plan B tomorrow because you’re too responsible to get pregnant with your professor’s baby — but what’s the harm in him basking in the idea of letting this creampie get you pregnant?
Something’s quaking in his ribcage.
“Look who’s glowing — what are you so happy about?”
“Nothin’...”
He shrugs and doesn’t elaborate.
In fact, he quickly changes topic.
“Wanna know a kinda gross secret about me?” he teases.
“Tell.”
“Have you ever read Napolean and Josephine’s letters?”
“No?”
Satoru pauses before explaining, “In one of them, he writes; ‘home in three days, don’t bathe.’ And I’ve always remembered it like it’s a Bible quote — Sex isn’t supposed to be a clean act, it’s gross — but endearingly so. Is that weird?”
“So you like the stinky sex smell? I bet you were the type of kid who smelled your fingers after scratching your ass.”
He groans, “What the hell! Ugh, you don’t get it...”
“I’m pulling ya leg, prof.”
Satoru lets out a laugh. A genuine, baby blue laugh, from the bottom of his chest. It causes his dimples to appear. It puts every other laugh you’ve ever heard to shame. It’s pure, boyish — makes you want to protect him.
Then there’s that twinkling in his eyes. Something eluding to who he is underneath all those layers he shells himself inside.
There’s something about you. With others, he could identify why he loved them. It wasn’t even hard. Their body, their mind, their soul. But it was usually one out of three that he loved. But you? He liked you in that cosmically incomprehensible way. You’re making him scramble his brain more than he did for his PhD thesis.
When you wash your hair, a fondness throbs in his heart. When he watches you rolling soap over the hills and valleys of your body, the feeling only grows.
He’s eyeing out your lips… leaning in for a kiss… a kiss outside of sex?
Fuck, what am I doing?
He goes a little loopy… gliding his lips over yours, so soft and wet with your breath mingling with his and god, it’s the smell of your sweet breath that gets to him.
Fuckfuckfuck, what am I doing?!
And that’s when it strikes.
He hardens his expression. He leaves your lips although he’s aching for more. He scratches out his feelings before they even stand a chance.
You can feel it, having been a professional for years at sensing the subtlest shift in someone’s demeanor.
Now, you know it’s over before it’s even begun, yet you linger; determined to leave him with a mark he can’t scrub off — one longing look into his eyes, a deep and unashamed stare that pierces right through his veil and scratches the very surface of his soul.
Fuck.
ㅤ⋆
By Monday, you feel like you’re about to go crazy.
Everything you do, from dressing to brushing your teeth to texting your friends to applying two highly emotional layers of mascara — it’s all done from the third perspective as you’re too busy replaying that night with Satoru Gojo. The sex. The post-sex kisses. The bath... fuck, the bath — what the fuck was that all about?
You took meticulous care with your make-up —lip-liner making your lips look oh so kissable, lashes all curled up to the sky.
But he takes no notice and walks right past you the moment he enters his 9:30 lecture. Late. Hair a mess. Suit tie crooked. Eyes puffy. Head held low.
No wink. No nod. No nothing.
He’s like a ghost.
He ignores your hand when you raise it in class.
Your stomach drops.
No, you’re the ghost.
ㅤ⋆
Now, by lunchtime, you’ve completely lost it.
Food is the last thing on your mind when you feel so violently sick to your stomach with wretched desire for a man you never intended to fall in love with, let alone over one good fuck.
It was supposed to be a bit of raunchy fun, you know? Ha-ha, I fucked my professor — the trump card to any secret-sharing contest. Few people could top something as crazy as that.
You’re stomping across the student union hall, fuming, rubber soles of your sneakers thumping hard against the blue waxed floors, muttering madly under your breath, fingers clawed around your phone, as you try one more time to dial Gojo Satoru.
“Answer, motherfucker…”
He hasn’t answered your calls, texts, nothing.
You fix your gaze on the ground. Why are you wandering campus like a lost lamb? Has Gojo Satoru really got you so fucked up that you linger outside the arts department building? You hate three boys from this place, and somehow you’ve found yourself nearby.
Bees are feasting on the fallen blossoms.
Students are crawling about campus, crossing the quad, lingering by the second-hand bookstore. The world feels like it’s spinning harder than it ever has before.
Not you. You’re idling there, awkwardly, having a staring contest with the bees, sipping thought after thought trying to soothe yourself.
Just what the fuck was this? A one-nighter? Like intended? Like promised? Hell no!
One more time, you pull out your phone, for the first time so zoned out from the people around you when before you used to peacock around in hopes for a few cheap stolen glances. Now you’re not even bothered by the attention of those pussy-hungry amateurs because you have something bigger on your mind — someone bigger — it’s an all-consuming rage and lust for—
ㅤ⋆
Satoru gently pries your small hands off his shirt.
“Babydoll, what are you giving me those big eyes for? You’ve got what you wanted, a pretty little A-grade, now we’re over—”
“—no way!” your voice trembles.
So cold, so cruel, yet candy-sweet in his voice. He’s masking. You’re trying to feel out the feelings trapped under his skin.
But he just won’t let you get through to him, no matter how much it tugs at his heartstrings to see your eyes well up with tears.
“Listen; you’re my student.”
“—yet you call me ‘babydoll’!”
His lips twitch in annoyance.
“—and I’m way too old for you—”
“—yet you creampied me!”
“Hey, keep y’fuckin’ voice down!” he hisses, giving a paranoid scope of the area.
Satoru plants to rough hands on your narrow shoulders and looks you dead in the eye.
“You’re such a sweet girl, and I had a really good time with you.”
“Don’t gimmie that drivel! I want to know what it really meant to you! I-I want to know that I meant more to you than just ‘a really good time’, that I’m more than just a ‘sweet girl’!”
His voice hardens, it sears you, “You’re being childish. Now listen to me; after graduation, you’re going to forget I even exist. Don’t get hung up on someone like me—”
“—but I’m in love with you.” you cut him off.
“Fuck.”
He runs a hand over his mouth and breaks the eye contact for the first time. Suddenly, he looks much more pale-faced; like you just sliced through his middle, reached up and gutted him.
Satoru’s searching
“Are you in love with me?” you ask desperately, eyes so dewy that it tugs his heart strings.
“It’s late. Go home.” is all he replies with.
Your stomach twists, twists, twists — with all the violence of all your affection.
But Satoru turns away from you, the heel of his shoe clicking on the bricked pavement.
The fucker is walking away from you? Nuh-uh.
“Fuck you, don’t you leave me here!”
Your words stop him in his tracks.
He sways a little before facing you with a guilty smile.
It’s that smile, how it lifts his cheeks, announcess his dimples and agelines, that just shreds you to pieces.
Rosy lips part to speak;
“Baby, have you ever considered that maybe I want to be the sting in your heart? That maybe I’m a sick fuck, who loves to lodge himself into girl’s hearts like a thorn? I’ve been everybody’s favorite boy before, I’ve been the lover they’d kill for, I’ve been through all that shit. I’m not letting it catch me off-guard again. Now, goodbye.”
Rendered speechless, he leaves you to spin in the riptide of his words as he walks away.
Pulse in fingertips. Breath heavy and broken. One hot little tear escapes those baby blues but it’s not like you can see it, nor did you catch even a glimpse of how he really felt.
ㅤ⋆
Livid, you sought out your best friend. Unfortunately, good company can’t heal the fresh wound that has just been carved into you.
“Fuck Satoru Gojo.”
She pauses her cigarette at her lips and gives you a long look. Funny, how her face slowly recoils inwards until she makes a double chin.
“Nah. Tell me you didn’t.”
Your silence says it all.
She stresses, smacking her forehead with her palm.
“Yah! My god, no! Augh, why! Of all the bad decisions you could have made...!”
You go quiet, curl your mouth into a funny pout and look away. My. Why aren’t the flowers lovely in spring? Look at ‘em.
“You’re insane, possibly even clinically so! First you start the year off fucking that loser from the arts department, then abandon me on study night to fuck Needle Dick, and now our fuckin’ professor! God, you know, when I met you in first year, you weren’t like this at all—”
She continues crucifying you despite the fact you’re clearly not listening.
The day is coming to an end. You’re not one to smoke, but a shitty day like this really calls for it. Eyes vacant, fixed on the man in your mind, lips aching with need.
Suddenly, your phone vibrates in your pocket.
Your heart pains — please be you please be you please be you.
ㅤ✉️ 1 NEW — S. GOJO
ㅤSee you in the parking lot in 5.
Your breath comes out ragged, heart rate spiking at the notification.
“—what slutty demon possessed you to do something so immoral, so unhinged—where are you going!?”
“See you tomorrow!”
“Don’t just leave me hanging here, harlot! Explain yourself!” she cries out. “You deserve fuckin’ better than these rotten men, you know that!? Oh for fuck’s sake... there she goes.”
Her chest caves in as she releases a sigh of defeat, watching as your silhouette disappears around the corner.
ㅤ⋆
He’s idling around his car in the vacant staff parking area, hands in pockets, with an enigmatic expression on his pallid face.
Your legs stutter at the sight of him. He stands so limply, like a wilted flower — it’s not normal.
Just a moment before those troubled eyes discover you, he rolls his head back on his shoulders and lets out a suppressed sigh.
He shapes up the moment he sees you there, poor posture correcting itself.
It's so not normal, to see him appear so tousled, so unlike himself.
He watches as you warily approach him, watches every step you take without breaking eye contact.
“Oh, professor — what happened to your principles? Too horny to care now?”
He doesn’t answer, just nibbles his bottom lip and bears a stern look down at you.
Mary Janes and Oxfords, facing one other. Barely a foot apart. Two heartbeats, throbbing beneath the surface.
Taboo, secrecy — it’s all nipping at the corners of the air enclosing the two of you. The parking lot may be vacant, but that doesn’t matter; this tryst, this rendez-vous, is so fragile, so delicate, that even the appearance of a ghost could cause the two of you to scram. The fear of being found out is enough to raise the goosebumps on your skin.
Satoru’s lips part, but it’s like his thoughts disperse the moment he opens his mouth — so he closes it again. He swallows thickly, eyes all over the place, hands digging a little deeper into his pockets.
It’s awful how it feels like the sky is watching; birds eavesdropping, rustling trees mocking him before he can even get his first few words out.
“Okay. So. Listen.” never have you heard him staccato like this.
He’s awkward.
Satoru Gojo’s being awkward.
It shocks you to your core, not just because of its abnormality but because you’re the one who caused it. You’re the little worm wriggling in his heart right now, disrupting even the very flow of his thoughts.
He heaves a sigh, like he’s frustrating even himself.
Your silence is just making it worse. The throbbing in his ribcage. The memories of your kiss, of your breath alive in his mouth.
His eyes flit between your lips and the environment. Never your eyes. He can’t handle looking into them right now.
A small ‘fuck’ falls from his lips, one hand stresses over his mouth right after.
“Cat caught your tongue?” you mock.
“Listen,” he emphasizes,
“—you’re not really saying much, so how can I?”
“Oh don’t be a smarty-pants.”
“Well I learned it from you...” you sass.
Satoru inhales sharply.
Then, he proceeds to make one big mistake that breaks his resolve — he looks into your eyes.
Satoru’s mouth melds to yours, feverishly hot.
“Profesh’r.” you mumble into his mouth.
He breaks from the kiss, sparing you one ragged breath.
“It’s Satoru.” he corrects.
“Mmf!”
He reconnects his lips with yours, locking you into the kiss.
Spine scolding him for kissing a short girl, he arches way down just to kiss you — see how he completely ruins his posture for it?
Two hands cupping your cheeks, he releases the littlest of whimpers against your puckered lips.
Satoru’s stealing the breath right out of your lungs until you’re rendered dizzy, gone nearly limp in his tight embrace. It kills him to feel how perfectly your body slots against his own.
His crazy kiss leaves the two of you gasping against each other.
“Sir.”
“I’m sorry.”
No excuses, no words — he’s stunned by his own actions. Honestly — he didn’t expect to kiss you at all; he wasn’t planning it, in fact, he told himself to refrain. But lo and behold, even Gojo Satoru has a weakness...
Never has a kiss felt so meant to be. Is it because he’s experienced, or because you fit to him like his favorite sweater? God, I don’t know. But there’s an air of sin hanging heavy above you after it, one that encourages you to do it again and again and again.
His chest is heaving, lips quivering, hands trembling — reckless thoughts running rampant behind those heavenly blues.
“Who knew,” you begin. He holds onto your every word, “that the prodigy has one weakness; a woman. Ha-ha...”
“You think this is funny? You’ve ruined me.”
“I’ve ruined you?!”
“Yes, you’ve ruined me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t cum — without thinking of you. It’s like you’re a god-damned parasite in my brain. A curse; you’re a curse!”
“And this is coming from the same cocky fucker who made an assignment based on his own student’s weaknesses t—to get in her pants instead of just asking to fuck like a normal person would!?”
“Fuck y—”
“—you really have lost your edge, professor.”
“You little slut.”
“Bite me.”
The next thing you know, the tip of your nose is clamped between sharp teeth.
“Ow!” you yelp.
“Karma.”
“And you called me a crazy slut!”
“Because you are.” he sneers.
“Hardly, compared to you.” you retort.
Heat of the moment, his lips find themselves on yours again, wet tongue swiping at your lower lip — why deny it? You want him to consume you, after all, isn’t that right?
“I hate you.” you mumble into his mouth.
He pulls away, palm cupped at your cheek.
“—that’s not what you were saying earlier, my baby.”
“Don’t get all affectionate now! What you said hurt, asshole!”
“I’m sorry.”
You can’t believe it. His voice is thick with sincerity. Those eyes are pleading.
“Come home with me ’n you can hate me in the bedroom all you want.”
It’s hot, coming off his tingling lips in a moment of raw honesty.
“The bedroom?” you chuckle, choking up a little, all your bitterest memories washing ashore in your mind, “And what happens afterwards?”
Satoru thumbs a tear off the corner of your eye.
“—afterwards, I’m gonna yap your ear off about bubble physics.”
“Hah.”
Why now? Why would you meet a man like him only now? Worse, one ten years older than you. Worse fuckin’ yet, your professor.
You’re blubbering, unable to form a proper sentence.
Just say yes — that’s what his eyes seem to beg for.
Like chivalry has any power of persuading you, Satoru opens the passenger car door. Invitingly.
Your heart’s hammering in your chest, edge dulled as he towers over you.
“Fuck.” you feather, “Alright, checkmate; you win.”
Satoru’s lips spread into a triumphant smile. The dull ache in his chest subsides, his muscles relax, the moment you slip your divine little form into the passenger seat.
an ──── Excuse the errors. My keyboard is a bit broken, so if you see double-up or missing letters... no you didn't 🙂 Also, this fic is the girthiest fic I've ever worked on; the wordcount kind of railed me from all angles, so there are probably a lot of overlooked mistakes even though I did try to weed most of them out.
I worked on this for a few short months, but then had to revise it completely after finding plotholes. I'm still not sure about the academic plot points. Personally, I love physics (at a distance) and have a thing for physics students/professors (lol) — they're accidental poets and I could ride them like a carousel while they tell me all about quantum this-that. If you study physics, I love you, nerd, c'mere 💋
ㅤ⋆ 𝖛𝖊𝖊𝖏𝖎𝖊𝖟
A flirty thank you to all who enjoyed reading this, and a cheeky kiss to those on my permanent taglist!
That tug on the corner of his lips, and that bottom lip poking out.
Often without realizing, you’re kissing them away, your eyes closing by habit as you press a quick peck that turns into a barrage of affection.
The first time it happened, it took him by great surprise—his brain exploding in a quick fuse. His eyes are wide, and his mouth agape. His beloved wife, all of a sudden, kissing him?
Scandalous!
It took him a while to notice it was because he was pouting that you’d be ambushing him with little pecks. At first, he thought it was because you thought his dimples were cute—but your kisses always came when his bottom lip stuck out.
Now he finds every reason to pout. The cat on the street meowed? He’s pouting because it’s so cute. There’s a piece of gum under his shoe? He’s pouting because it meant bad luck. A strand of his hair went astray? He’s pouting because his good looks have been ruined.
And every time he pouted? You kiss him without realizing and he loves it.
there's something so devastating about how gojo satoru's life was shown to us. In the beginning, he was this prodigiy this miracle this light at the end of the tunnel, and then as he grew older to be a teenager we seen him living a good life with them—playing around, traveling around, and spending so many moments that would inevitably be a part of his last 7 minutes. He's happy, he smiles around those whom he loves and love him back. There's a light from the sun that evelopes all the characters around him in a way that looks like a very painful and nostalgic memory.
And then as he grows older, the lighting stops coming from the sunsets in which they used to laugh under—the light comes from the artificial bulbs that they stand below. Often times, you'll see a plain white light that illuminates him—something like standing underneath the bulbs inside of a morgue. The very same one that has housed everyone he laughed with, the very same people who he had conversations with about the future that would never come, not in this universe at least.
I just mourn how happy he used to be, and how genuine his smile was before everything just went to shit. I miss my poor boy he never deserved to go through any of that
He always wore the same white tank top paired with those generic grey sweats. Sometimes he wore headphones, sometimes he jammed to the music blastic from the gym speakers.
His arms? To die for. His thighs? To die for. His smile? To die for.
Him? To die for.
There hasn't been a day skipped that you didn't drool over the sweat glistening on his skin, the lights reflecting off and giving him that angelic halo. He's been your only motivation for consistency—a stolen photo of him as your hidden lockscreen background always there to pull you out of bed.
And after months of squealing and kicking your feet over him, you finally gather the courage to speak to him.
Just a simple hi!
But as you move to your usual spot, your gym crush is nowhere to be found. He isn't at the cable machine doing lateral raisies, and he isn't at the preacher curl machine either, glaring at the floor as he tries to go until failure.
You frown—the same day you've finally managed to pep talk yourself to stop being a pussy, he's skipping out? Talk about timing—
There's a flash of snowwy white hair at the corner of the gym, a man with the same height and build you could easily recognize anywhere. It's him!
But this time, he's wearing a hoodie with a pair of thick glasses sitting atop his nose. He's on the leg press, pushing 180kg plates on each side. He's grunting, nose crunched and sweat staining the back of his hoodie.
taking several breaths, you make your way to him, a script beginning to play in your head. Hyping yourself up, you tap his shoulder, earning a look of surprise from the cerulean blue eyes hidden behind thick lenses. His knees suddenly buckle at the sight of you, the machine almost crushing him under it's weight.
You catch the platform before it reaches him, "Whoa!"
He regains his self and locks the weight before getting off of the seat, his hands reaching up to remove his airpods. "'M so sorry about that," He mumbles, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.
He's so much taller than you are, his build basically towering over yours. His shoulders are wider than you recall, a mole on his neck you swear you've never seen before. "Did you need something?" His lashes flutter against his cheeks as he catches his breath, adam's apple bobbing up and down.
"Oh! I– uh, I just wanted to say hi," you start, "I see you around sometimes and I just thought you looked cute."
Nerd!jo stares down at you in disbelief, holding back the urge to hang his mouth open in shock.
Because the fact is, this is the first time he's been to this gym— the very one his twin brother frequents.
He looks you up and down as you ramble about how you've always admired him for so long, and thought to himself for a very strong moment. For years, he's always been overshadowed by his louder and more eccentric twin and now he's been mistaken yet again for the better version of himself.
But who's to say it's the frat!jo that you're so obsessed with?
"I always thought you've been cute too." He grins, dimples caving in.
"Let's go on a date, yeah?"
——
The date doesn't even happen yet and you're already pressed up against the lockers, the gym emptied out with Nerd!jo's hands roaming across your exposed skin, his nose buried in the crook of your neck. He's even bigger with his hoodie off, your hands completely unable to hook together behind his back.
Your clothes have been thrown elsewhere, ankles crossed on his lower back as he drives his heavy cock in and out of your weeping pussy.
His tongue is lapping at your skin, the salty taste of your sweat sending his neurons into overdrive as he whimpers. "Hng—so tight, so sweet, so—" he thrusts into a spot that has you kegeling around his thick lenghth, the feeling of him stretching you out is devouring, numbing your mind as you cling desperately, your chest heaving against his.
His body is so warm, yet so invasive. You try to reach for the lockers behind you—something sturdy to hold on to, your fingers shaking weakly as he continues to pound into you. The loss of the wamrth of your hands on him makes him whine, his hand shooting up to drag your hands back on him like it was your touch keeping him anchored to earth.
There's a white ring of cum forming at the base of his greedy cock, angry red veins sliding across the walls of your pussy, loud squelching noises echoing in the changing room.
It's hard to focus on the lovesick whispers he's leaving between breaths and moans, not with the way his eyes are also making love to you the way his cock is. They're so watery, a fear tears slipping by as he adjusts his grip on you, prints of his fingers marking the skin on your hips. He spreads you wider, the faint stretch on your inner thighs bringing you closer to the edge as he whines out an apology.
"Baby, 'm gonna cum," Nerd!jo is whispering , tongue darting out against his will to tease the shell of your ear, "Where..?" His voice breaks, his abs tightening as his eyebrows knit together in focus.
"Please fill me up," You moan, hips meeting his thrusts.
Your response is his last string, the tension in his stomach breaking as he thursts deep enough to make it feel like he's in your lungs, a warm sensation filling your cervix as he empties his load into you.
"Thankyouthankyouthankyou,"
You giggle at him, your body loosening as he slowly pulls out, cum spilling out of your pussy and down onto the floor.
His cock twitches eagerly at the sight, blobs of arousal forming at the very pink tip of his length. "'m not done yet." He chuckles, thumb reaching down to draw circles on your clit, your folds squelching lewdly around his fingers. He still has to make you forget about his stupid twin, doesn't he?
—
After a long hot shower with your new lover, you're both heading out of the gym hand-in-hand, basking in the after-sex glow under the moonlight. He's telling you about his minecraft world that he can't wait to show you—he'll build you your own garden, he says.
"Hey, what took you so long? I've been here for—"
Your eyes trail to a man sitting on a motorcycle, clad in a very familiar white tank top and grey sweats.
He's completely frozen, his voice stuck in his throat.
Then he slowly removes his black helmet, strands of snowwy white hair falling into place with cerulean blue eyes meeting yours. You realize you're looking at the same face you had been fucking just a few minutes ago.
You look back at the man standing next to you with his smile also frozen, "Oh."
He always wore the same white tank top paired with those generic grey sweats. Sometimes he wore headphones, sometimes he jammed to the music blastic from the gym speakers.
His arms? To die for. His thighs? To die for. His smile? To die for.
Him? To die for.
There hasn't been a day skipped that you didn't drool over the sweat glistening on his skin, the lights reflecting off and giving him that angelic halo. He's been your only motivation for consistency—a stolen photo of him as your hidden lockscreen background always there to pull you out of bed.
And after months of squealing and kicking your feet over him, you finally gather the courage to speak to him.
Just a simple hi!
But as you move to your usual spot, your gym crush is nowhere to be found. He isn't at the cable machine doing lateral raisies, and he isn't at the preacher curl machine either, glaring at the floor as he tries to go until failure.
You frown—the same day you've finally managed to pep talk yourself to stop being a pussy, he's skipping out? Talk about timing—
There's a flash of snowwy white hair at the corner of the gym, a man with the same height and build you could easily recognize anywhere. It's him!
But this time, he's wearing a hoodie with a pair of thick glasses sitting atop his nose. He's on the leg press, pushing 180kg plates on each side. He's grunting, nose crunched and sweat staining the back of his hoodie.
taking several breaths, you make your way to him, a script beginning to play in your head. Hyping yourself up, you tap his shoulder, earning a look of surprise from the cerulean blue eyes hidden behind thick lenses. His knees suddenly buckle at the sight of you, the machine almost crushing him under it's weight.
You catch the platform before it reaches him, "Whoa!"
He regains his self and locks the weight before getting off of the seat, his hands reaching up to remove his airpods. "'M so sorry about that," He mumbles, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.
He's so much taller than you are, his build basically towering over yours. His shoulders are wider than you recall, a mole on his neck you swear you've never seen before. "Did you need something?" His lashes flutter against his cheeks as he catches his breath, adam's apple bobbing up and down.
"Oh! I– uh, I just wanted to say hi," you start, "I see you around sometimes and I just thought you looked cute."
Nerd!jo stares down at you in disbelief, holding back the urge to hang his mouth open in shock.
Because the fact is, this is the first time he's been to this gym— the very one his twin brother frequents.
He looks you up and down as you ramble about how you've always admired him for so long, and thought to himself for a very strong moment. For years, he's always been overshadowed by his louder and more eccentric twin and now he's been mistaken yet again for the better version of himself.
But who's to say it's the frat!jo that you're so obsessed with?
"I always thought you've been cute too." He grins, dimples caving in.
"Let's go on a date, yeah?"
——
The date doesn't even happen yet and you're already pressed up against the lockers, the gym emptied out with Nerd!jo's hands roaming across your exposed skin, his nose buried in the crook of your neck. He's even bigger with his hoodie off, your hands completely unable to hook together behind his back.
Your clothes have been thrown elsewhere, ankles crossed on his lower back as he drives his heavy cock in and out of your weeping pussy.
His tongue is lapping at your skin, the salty taste of your sweat sending his neurons into overdrive as he whimpers. "Hng—so tight, so sweet, so—" he thrusts into a spot that has you kegeling around his thick lenghth, the feeling of him stretching you out is devouring, numbing your mind as you cling desperately, your chest heaving against his.
His body is so warm, yet so invasive. You try to reach for the lockers behind you—something sturdy to hold on to, your fingers shaking weakly as he continues to pound into you. The loss of the wamrth of your hands on him makes him whine, his hand shooting up to drag your hands back on him like it was your touch keeping him anchored to earth.
There's a white ring of cum forming at the base of his greedy cock, angry red veins sliding across the walls of your pussy, loud squelching noises echoing in the changing room.
It's hard to focus on the lovesick whispers he's leaving between breaths and moans, not with the way his eyes are also making love to you the way his cock is. They're so watery, a fear tears slipping by as he adjusts his grip on you, prints of his fingers marking the skin on your hips. He spreads you wider, the faint stretch on your inner thighs bringing you closer to the edge as he whines out an apology.
"Baby, 'm gonna cum," Nerd!jo is whispering , tongue darting out against his will to tease the shell of your ear, "Where..?" His voice breaks, his abs tightening as his eyebrows knit together in focus.
"Please fill me up," You moan, hips meeting his thrusts.
Your response is his last string, the tension in his stomach breaking as he thursts deep enough to make it feel like he's in your lungs, a warm sensation filling your cervix as he empties his load into you.
"Thankyouthankyouthankyou,"
You giggle at him, your body loosening as he slowly pulls out, cum spilling out of your pussy and down onto the floor.
His cock twitches eagerly at the sight, blobs of arousal forming at the very pink tip of his length. "'m not done yet." He chuckles, thumb reaching down to draw circles on your clit, your folds squelching lewdly around his fingers. He still has to make you forget about his stupid twin, doesn't he?
—
After a long hot shower with your new lover, you're both heading out of the gym hand-in-hand, basking in the after-sex glow under the moonlight. He's telling you about his minecraft world that he can't wait to show you—he'll build you your own garden, he says.
"Hey, what took you so long? I've been here for—"
Your eyes trail to a man sitting on a motorcycle, clad in a very familiar white tank top and grey sweats.
He's completely frozen, his voice stuck in his throat.
Then he slowly removes his black helmet, strands of snowwy white hair falling into place with cerulean blue eyes meeting yours. You realize you're looking at the same face you had been fucking just a few minutes ago.
You look back at the man standing next to you with his smile also frozen, "Oh."
Valentines day is creeping up close, only giving frat!Gojo a few days to plan a romantic date for the two of you. On top of that, he still has yet to ask you to be his valentine, something that still activates his fight or flight mode, despite you already being his girlfriend.
He paces back and forth in the senior parking lot, his palms a sweaty mess and his hair tangled up in knots from him running his fingers through his strands a thousand times. "This is so fucking stupid." He murmurs to himself.
He's a desperate mess with his brain turned to useless mush. All his life, the only thing he's had to do to win hearts was to give a piece of flower and flash a few pearly whites. But you don't deserve that—you deserve so much more.
That so much more?
He has no idea what it is.
He sits on the hood of his corvette, the vehicle humming with life.
And then he gets an idea.
𝜗ৎ
"Babe, I think something's wrong with the break light."
You glance at your boyfriend, his tussled hair gathered in a GAP cap with his bangs sticking out in different directions. You can see the smile he's trying to hide, his dimples peaking at you with each breath he took. He sits in the drivers seat, hands gripping the wheel as he feigns concern over his precious baby. (He swears you're his number one baby.)
"Could you go check, please?"
You roll your eyes, fingers hooking on the handle before the door swings open. He's playing one of his stupid and childish pranks again. Your mood's sour enough from the scolding you received from a professor for failing his course—of course your frat boyfriend decides it's the best time to do whatever it is he's doing now.
Your heels clack against the ground, your eyebrows squeezing together as you quickly realize there is in fact, nothing wrong with the very irritatingly bright red break lights. The exhaust suddenly roars, earning a surprised yelp from you.
"Satoru!"
You can hear him laughing his heart out from the driver's seat, his hands slapping his thighs.
"Oh my god, you know what?" You groan, "I can get a fucking cab home! Do you have to be such an—"
And then the trunk opens.
Your eyes widen as you quickly register the bouquets of your favorite flowers lined up—along with a very decorated sign reading:
Will the prettiest girl in the world be my Valentine?
You don't miss the Swarovski Box sitting in the middle of everything, the necklace sparking under the LED lights. It's the necklace you briefly mentioned liking a few months ago.
There are polariod pictures hanging from the ceiling of the trunk—a photo from the party you first met him, a photo from your first beach trip with him and his friends—all the memories you've had with him piled into different photographs drawn with hearts and signed with dates.
The rough day crashes down on you like a cold wave, your emotions a wreck as you can't help but begin sobbing. Your mascara smears, your lipstick smudges and your blush fades. You feel so silly crying when you're supposed to be jumping with joy—how dare he do this when you've just had a long day.
Satoru rushes out of the car to your side, "Princess, what is it?" He's already on his knees, wiping away your tears as he pushes your bangs out of your face. "Is it the roses? You don't like them? I'll buy anot—"
"No! It's nothing!" You grab his hand before he can pull out his phone, the flower shop already on dial, "I'm just really happy 'Toru."
He sighs in relief, standing up to squeeze you in a tight hug. You can feel his heart thumping fast against his chest, his breathing a little labored. It's only then that you realize this was what he will trying to hold back a smile for.
You bask in the moment, your fingers tracing shapes on his back.
And then you realize.
There's still a hallway filled with rose petals and a candle lit dinner waiting in the shared apartment you have with Satoru because in fact, you've been planning to ask him to be your valentine since he was taking so long.
You shrug to yourself.
Double surprise!
𝜗ৎ
a/n: saw someone saying nerd!jo is a freak and frat!jo is a romantic and i've never agreed more
꒰五条悟꒱ ·𝓛𝓞𝓥𝓔 IS THE MOST TWISTED CURSE OF THEM ALL.
𝓟RECIS. two souls from feuding houses meet beneath stars and jasmine—satoru, who sees through all lies, and you, his only truth. you marry in secret, believing love can conquer centuries of hatred. but blood begets blood: brothers fall, vengeance spirals, and desperate, they plan one final escape. a sleeping potion, a message that never arrives, a tomb where promises are kept in ways never intended. some loves burn too bright for this world.
𝓓ESTINY'S 𝓘NDEX. angst on top of angst, hurt w/ no comfort, graphic imagery of death + blood, fated lovers, satoru goes mad, family issues, a lot of religious + celestial language, violent imagery, historical au? 𝓦C. 32k
nia's notes: i thank God for year 10 revision. . highkey sobbed but thugged it out, happy new year !!
venice, in the year of our lord 1595, exists between earth and water, between the sacred and the profane. it is a city built on the impossible—rising from lagoon mud like lazarus from the tomb, held aloft by wooden stakes driven deep into the darkness below. the grand canal runs through its heart like a severed vein, carrying commerce and corpses in equal measure. at night, when the torches reflect off the black water, the city doubles itself—one venice reaching toward heaven, one drowning in its own reflection.
the doge rules from his golden palace, but everyone knows the real power lies with the old families. families whose names are written in the libro d'oro in letters that might as well be blood. families who have spent generations weaving webs of influence so complex that even the spiders would marvel.
among these ancient houses, none shines brighter—or casts a darker shadow—than the gojos.
they say the gojo line descends from the first doge, from the man who made a pact with the sea itself. they say every generation produces one child with eyes like broken sky, eyes that can see through lies the way sunlight pierces water.
the current bearer of this divine burden is satoru gojo, seventeen years old and already legendary. his hair is white as communion bread, white as surrender, white as the bone beneath skin. his eyes are the blue of the madonna's robes in the mosaics of san marco—infinite, impossible, holy. when he looks at you, you feel seen in ways the confessional cannot match. when he smiles, angels and demons alike take notice.
he is beautiful the way a sword is beautiful. the way storms are beautiful. the way the morning star must have been beautiful before the fall.
against this celestial power stands your family—merchants who clawed their way from the counting house to the council chamber in two generations. new money trying desperately to become old blood. your grandfather made his fortune in spice and silk, trading with the east when trade meant risking everything to pirates and plague. your father took that fortune and bought titles, palazzo, a place among the nobility that the old families will never quite acknowledge.
the gojos look at your family and see pretenders. arrivistes. judases who sold their souls for silver and call it sanctification. your family looks at the gojos and sees everything they can never be—ancient, untouchable, woven into the fabric of venetian power so deeply that removing them would unravel the whole tapestry.
the hatred between your houses is older than you are. it was born the night your grandfather made his first fortune and dared to dream of nobility. it grew the day the gojos blocked your family's appointment to the council of ten. it became bloodshed when a business deal went wrong, when accusations of sabotage led to duels, when pride met pride and both refused to bend.
now, thirty years later, the feud is simply part of venice's architecture. like the bridge of sighs. like the flooded crypts beneath san marco. some things are too old to question, too deep to fix.
this is the world into which fate will throw two souls like dice.
the doge has decreed there will be a masquerade ball to celebrate the sposalizio del mar—the marriage of venice to the adriatic. it is an ancient ritual: the doge boards his golden barge, the bucintoro, and casts a consecrated ring into the sea, renewing the city's sacred bond with the waters that made her great.
"we wed thee, o sea," the doge intones, "in sign of our true and perpetual dominion."
but dominion is an illusion, and venice knows it. the sea gives and the sea takes away. the sea made venice rich, and one day the sea will swallow her whole. until then, they dance.
the masquerade is to be held in the doge's palace itself, in the great sala del maggior consiglio where the ceiling is painted with tintoretto's vision of paradise—hundreds of saints and angels swirling around christ in glory, so many holy figures that heaven itself seems overcrowded. it is a reminder that venice serves god and god alone, though everyone knows venice serves venice first.
all the great families must attend. even enemies must dance together under the doge's roof. even the gojos and your family must pretend at civility for one night.
it is the fourth day of may, and the sun sets over the lagoon in shades of rose and gold, and venice holds its breath.
you arrive as the last light dies, dressed in silk the color of midnight. the gown is simple compared to the other ladies'—your father cannot quite afford the extravagance of the old families, though he tries. but simplicity serves you. against the peacock display of venetian nobility, you are a dark star, a absence that draws the eye.
your mask is silver, delicate as prayer, decorated with tiny stars that catch the candlelight. when you move, you trail constellations.
your mother fusses with your hair, your father checks your jewelry—real pearls, yes, but not as many as a contarini daughter would wear. everything about your family is almost. almost noble. almost accepted. almost enough.
"remember," your father says, his hand heavy on your shoulder, "count nanami will be here tonight. the grimani boy as well. both have expressed interest. both would be excellent matches."
excellent matches. you are seventeen years old, and already your life is being bartered like spice from the east.
"yes, father," you say, because what else can you say?
your mother kisses your cheek, her lips warm and dry against your skin. "you look beautiful, my dove. like an angel descended." and when she pulls back, you see something in her eyes—pity, perhaps, or recognition.
but you don't feel like an angel. you feel like a sacrifice, dressed in silk and led to the altar of your family's ambitions. you feel like abraham's isaac, bound and waiting for the knife. except there will be no divine intervention, just you and count nanami and a future that tastes like slow death.
the palazzo is ablaze with light. thousands of candles—beeswax, not tallow, because the doge spares no expense—turn the marble halls into something between a cathedral and a fever dream. musicians play in the gallery, their instruments weaving melodies that seem to come from everywhere and nowhere.
below this vision of eternity, venice's mortal elite swirl in their own elaborate dance. masks hide identities but not wealth—you can tell a patrician by the weight of their jewels, by the way they move through the room like they own it. because they do.
you wonder what it would be like to choose your own life. to want something for yourself rather than for your family's advancement. to be seen as something more than a playing piece in a game you never agreed to play.
the walls feel too close. the air too thick. the weight of expectation too heavy.
you make an excuse—needing air, feeling faint, the heat of so many bodies—and slip away before your parents can protest. you know where you're going. everyone knows about the doge's gardens, though few actually visit them during these events. they prefer to stay inside where they can see and be seen.
but you need to breathe. need to feel real for just a moment before you return to being whoever your family needs you to be.
the gardens are accessible through a small door behind a tapestry, one of venice's many secrets. you slip through it like a sinner escaping confession before the priest can assign penance.
outside, the night air hits you like absolution.
the doge's gardens are small—venice has no room for excess, even in paradise. but they are beautiful in their compression, every inch carefully planned. jasmine climbs the walls, filling the air with a scent so sweet it borders on sinful. a fountain burbles in the center, and the water catches moonlight and throws it back like broken mirrors.
you walk to the fountain and sit on its edge, finally alone. finally yourself, whoever that is beneath the silk and pearls and expectations.
above you, stars pierce the darkness. not many—venice's lights drown most of them out—but enough. you learned their names once. polaris. cassiopeia. orion the hunter, forever chasing the pleiades across the sky.
"hiding already?" a voice says behind you, low and warm as altar wine, touched with amusement. "the night's barely started."
you turn sharply, your hand flying to your chest where your heart has suddenly decided to attempt escape.
a young man stands at the garden's edge, and even in the darkness you can tell he's watching you with the kind of attention that makes your skin prickle. he's leaning against a pillar with studied casualness, arms crossed, head tilted just slightly like he's examining something fascinating. there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—not quite a smirk, but close. the kind of smile that suggests he's never been told no in his life and wouldn't believe it if he heard it.
"i—" you start, but the words tangle in your throat.
"don't worry," he says, pushing off the pillar with fluid grace, moving closer with the confidence of someone who owns every space he enters. "i won't tell anyone i found you escaping. your secret's safe with me." he says it like he's doing you a favor. like his discretion is a gift you should be grateful for.
"i—i'm not hiding," you manage, fighting to keep your voice steady under that gaze. "i'm strategically relocating."
he moves closer, and his grace is almost offensive—like he's never stumbled, never fallen, never known what it means to be earthbound. like angels must move when they descend to deliver messages to mortals.
"strategically relocating," he repeats, and his smile is radiant. "that's clever. i like clever." he stops a few feet away, and you can see his eyes now even through the mask—impossibly blue, luminous, like sacred art or something that shouldn't exist in the mortal world. "but you're also running away. from all of them in there, treating you like a commodity at market."
your breath catches. "you don't know anything about me."
"i've been looking for you." he takes another step closer, and now you can smell bergamot and something else—something like lightning before it strikes, like the moment before a miracle. "my whole life, i've been looking for you, and i didn't even know it until i saw you slip through that door. you moved like water, like poetry i didn't know i'd memorized. and i thought—this is it. this is her. this is the one who'll make me believe in divine providence."
"you're mad," you whisper, but your heart is racing.
"it's very true." he offers his hand, and his fingers are long and pale and perfect as a saint in a painting. "dance with me."
"but there's no music out here."
"there's always music if you know how to listen." his voice drops lower, intimate, reverent. "the fountain is singing. the stars are singing. the whole universe is singing, and it's singing about you. dance with me. please. let me prove i'm not mad. or let me prove that madness is just another word for faith."
you should refuse. should tell this strange, intense, beautiful boy that you don't dance with masked strangers in gardens while venice sleeps. should remember propriety and caution and all the careful rules you've been taught.
but he's looking at you like you're the answer to every prayer he's ever whispered. like you're a miracle made flesh. like he's been wandering in the desert and you're cool water. like he's been blind and you're the first thing he's seen.
no one has ever looked at you like that. no one has ever made you feel like you matter this much. you take his hand.
the moment your fingers touch, he draws in a sharp breath like he's been struck by lightning, like he's been blessed, like god just whispered a secret directly into his soul.
"thank you," he whispers, and he sounds genuinely grateful. "thank you for trusting me. thank you for being real. thank you for existing."
then he pulls you close—closer than propriety allows, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through silk and silver, close enough that your heart and his could share beats if they wanted to.
and you move together in the moonlight without music, except there is music—the fountain's whisper, the jasmine's sigh, the rhythm of two hearts learning to beat in synchrony.
he dances like this is the most important thing he'll ever do. like you're made of spun glass and starlight and one wrong move could shatter you. like he's been given a sacred trust and he'll die before he betrays it.
"you're so beautiful," he murmurs, and there's awe in his voice."not just your face—though that would make michelangelo weep. your soul. luminous. divine. i'm dancing with an angel and i should probably be on my knees."
"you don't even know my name."
"names are just sounds we make to point at the eternal." his eyes never leave yours. "i know what matters. i know that when i look at you, i see truth. i see beauty. i see everything i've been searching for without knowing i was searching. doesn't that count for more than a name?"
"that's very philosophical for a stranger in a garden."
"i'm philosophical about things that matter." he spins you gently, and when you come back to him, he's even closer. "and you matter. you're the first thing that's mattered in longer than i can remember. everyone else in there—they're shadows. echoes. but you're real. solid. true."
you're dizzy from his words, from his intensity, from the way he holds you like you're precious beyond measure. "you talk like a poet."
"i talk like a man in love." he says it simply, no shame, no hesitation. "or falling into love. or drowning in love. i'm not sure there's a difference."
"you can't love someone you just met."
"can't i?" he leans closer, and his breath ghosts across your lips. "then tell me what this is. this feeling like my chest is cracking open. like every moment before this was just rehearsal and now the real performance has started. like i've been asleep my whole life and you're the first light of morning. tell me what to call it if not love."
"madness," you whisper, but you don't pull away.
"then let me be mad." his voice is fervent, almost desperate. "let me be foolish and reckless and completely consumed. because i've been careful my whole life. i've been measured and controlled and exactly what everyone expected. and it's been a slow death. but you—god, you make me want to be alive. you make me want to believe in impossible things."
"like what?"
"like love at first sight. like the idea that two souls can recognize each other across a crowded room and know—just know—that they're meant to collide like stars, even if it destroys them both." his eyes are blazing now, fever-bright. "tell me you feel it too. tell me i'm not alone in this madness."
you should lie. should protect yourself. should remember that intensity like this burns out as quickly as it ignites.
but looking into his eyes—those impossible, luminous eyes—you can't lie.
"i feel it," you admit. "i don't understand it, but i feel it."
the smile he gives you could illuminate the entire lagoon. "thank god. thank whatever divine force brought you into this garden tonight." he rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel him trembling. "i was starting to think i'd imagined you. that i'd wanted something so badly i'd conjured you from moonlight and prayer."
"i'm real."
"you're more than real. you're miraculous." he pulls back slightly to look at you properly. "tell me something true. something you've never told anyone. i want to know you. i want to know everything."
so you tell him. about feeling like a commodity. about being your family's prize, their hope for legitimacy wrapped in silk and matrimony. about the crushing weight of expectations and the fear that there's nothing beneath them, no real you, just an empty space where a person should be.
he listens like your words are scripture. like you're delivering revelation and he's the faithful witness.
"you exist," he says fiercely when you finish. "you're not empty. you're not nothing. you're everything. you're the first real thing i've seen in—" he cuts himself off, laughs shakily. "i sound insane. i'm sorry. i'm not usually like this. i'm usually composed and controlled and—"
"and?"
"and then i saw you, and every careful wall i'd built just crumbled." he cups your face with both hands, touch reverent. "what are you doing to me? what is this? i feel like i'm falling and flying simultaneously. like i'm being destroyed and remade in the same breath."
"that's very dramatic."
"i'm feeling very dramatic." his smile is self-deprecating now, vulnerable. "you reduce me to poetry and hyperbole and emotions i don't have names for. is this what the troubadours sang about? is this what makes men do foolish things? because i understand now. i'd do foolish things for you. i'd do impossible things. i'd remake the world if you asked me to."
"you don't know me well enough for that."
"i know you enough." his certainty is absolute, unshakeable. "i know you're brave enough to slip away from the ball. i know you're honest enough to tell me truths you've never spoken. i know you're kind enough to dance with a madman in a garden when you could have fled. that's everything."
and through it all, he looks at you like you're performing miracles with every word.
"i need to know your name," he says finally, as dawn begins to grey the eastern sky. "please. i need to know what to call you when i pray. when i thank god for bringing you to me."
"names are just sounds, you said."
"i want to know what sound to make when i think of you." he's pleading now, all his earlier confidence transformed into desperate vulnerability. "please. give me something to hold onto when you're gone."
you're about to answer when the bells ring.
the sound echoes across the garden, across the lagoon, across the rooftops of venice like the voice of god calling the faithful to account. it's the signal—dawn has come, the masquerade is ending, the masks must come off.
reality, that patient executioner, has caught up with you at last.
"no," he whispers, and he sounds devastated. "no, not yet. i need more time. i need—"
"we have to go back."
"not yet." he's holding you tighter now, like if he just refuses to let go, time will stop for him. "please. just a few more minutes. just—"
"they'll notice we're gone."
"let them notice." but even as he says it, you can see reality settling over him like a shroud. "when can i see you again? tomorrow? tonight? i'll climb your walls. i'll swim the canal. i'll do anything, just tell me when."
"i don't even know who you are."
"does it matter?" but his voice cracks on the question. "we're inevitable. you feel it too. names and families and all the stupid rules—they don't matter when something is this right."
"they matter in venice."
"then venice is wrong." he kisses you suddenly, desperately, like he's trying to memorize you with his lips. like he's trying to bind you to him with touch alone. when he pulls back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "please. please don't let this be the end. i can't—i've finally found you. i can't lose you now."
"you don't even know me."
"i know enough." his voice is fervent, almost desperate. "i know you're mine. that i'm yours. that whatever happens next, we're meant to find each other again. promise me. promise me this isn't the end."
you should promise nothing. should protect yourself. should remember that intensity like this is dangerous, consuming, likely to burn you both to ash.
but looking at him—at this beautiful, impossible boy who looks at you like you're divine—you find yourself believing in impossible things.
"this isn't the end," you promise.
his smile is radiant, relieved, reverent. "thank you. thank you. i'll find you again. i swear it. i'll move heaven and earth if i have to, but i'll find you."
you have to go. have to return before you're missed. but at the doorway, you look back one last time.
he's standing in the center of the garden, moonlight and dawn fighting for dominance around him, and he's watching you like you're the sun and he's been living in darkness and he'll go blind staring but it's worth it.
"wait," he calls out. "at least tell me—your mask. where did you get stars?"
"they're just decoration," you call back.
"no." his voice is certain. "they're a sign. you wear the stars because you're celestial. because you're heavenly. because you're proof that god loves me."
then you slip through the door, back into the palazzo, back into reality.
and you don't realize until later that you never learned his name either.
don't realize that sometimes love at first sight is less like blessing and more like curse.
you make your way back to the ballroom, trying to calm your racing heart, trying to smooth your hair, trying to look like you've been here all along and definitely haven't been in a garden letting a stranger say he loves you after knowing you for three hours.
the room is bright with morning light now, the candles guttering out, the spell of night breaking like cheap glass. your parents are looking for you—you can see your mother's worried face scanning the crowd.
you turn.
he's there. across the ballroom. standing with a group of young noblemen, and even from this distance, even in this crowd, your eyes find his like planets pulled by mutual gravity.
he sees you at the same moment. and his whole face transforms—joy and relief and something that looks almost like pain.
he starts moving toward you, pushing through the crowd with single-minded determination. you're frozen, watching him come, and some part of you knows this is important, this moment, this approach—
then the doge raises his hands. "the hour of revelation has come!" he announces. "let all masks fall! let truth be shown in the light of day!"
no. not yet. you're not ready.
but around you, hundreds of masks come off. faces are revealed—some beautiful, some not, all familiar to each other in the incestuous circle of venetian nobility.
the boy is still coming toward you, and his hand reaches for his mask—
your father appears at your elbow. "there you are! where have you been? i've been—" he stops. follows your gaze across the room. goes absolutely still. "no. no, you haven't been—tell me you haven't been talking to—"
the boy's mask comes off.
white hair—impossibly white, like fresh snow or bleached bone or divine light made solid. blue eyes that seem to glow even from across the room. features so perfect they seem almost unreal, almost holy, almost wrong—like something carved by an artist who understood beauty but not humanity, like an angel who forgot it shouldn't walk among mortals.
"gojo," your father breathes, and the word is a curse, a prayer, a condemnation all at once. his hand on your arm goes from firm to crushing, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "that's satoru gojo."
the world stops.
everything—the music, the chatter, your heartbeat, time itself—grinds to a halt. you can hear blood rushing in your ears like the sea, can feel your chest constricting like someone's wrapped iron bands around your ribs and is tightening them slowly, methodically, until you can't breathe.
your mask comes off in nerveless fingers. it slips from your grasp and would have fallen to the floor except your mother catches it with a sharp intake of breath. you barely notice. you can't look away from him.
across the room, you see the exact moment he recognizes you. his eyes find the crest embroidered on your gown—your family's merchant symbol trying desperately to look noble. you watch his expression shift—confusion, then recognition, then something that might be grief. but it passes in a heartbeat, buried under something else entirely.
that same cocky, confident, absolutely certain smile.
it shouldn't be possible to smile like that in this moment. it shouldn't be possible to look at catastrophe and grin like it's just another problem to solve. but he does. his eyes lock onto yours across the crowded room, across the impossible distance between who you are and who he is.
and he mouths, clear as day, bold as blasphemy. "this isn't over. i promise."
not a question. not a hope. a promise. a vow. a declaration of war against fate itself.
and god help you, you believe him.your heart is in your throat because you believe him. satoru gojo has never failed at anything in his life, and he just decided he wants you. decided that whatever stands between you—family, hatred, the entire weight of venetian history—can be overcome.
you're terrified and exhilarated and you don't notice the way your father's hands shake with rage. don't realize that promises, like prayers, can be dangerous things—binding you to futures you cannot see, to consequences you cannot imagine.
don't understand that some games are rigged from the start, and the house always wins, and fate has a sense of humor darker than any human could conceive.
as your father drags you from the palazzo, you look back one last time. see satoru still watching you, still smiling, still absolutely certain that this is a problem he can solve, an obstacle he can overcome, a future he can bend to his will.
he looks like an angel standing in that divine light. like something holy that hasn't yet learned it can fall.
you don't know it yet, but you're already falling together.
and there is nothing—in heaven or on earth—that will catch you.
sleep becomes a foreign country you can no longer visit.
every time you close your eyes, you see him—not as fragments or impressions, but in perfect, aching detail. the way moonlight caught in his white hair like a crown of stars. the way his hands trembled when he touched your face, like you were something holy he feared he'd break. the way he looked at you in that final moment before the masks came off—like a man seeing heaven for the first time and knowing with absolute certainty, that he'd found home.
your room has become a cell. not metaphorically—your father locked the door himself, the key heavy in his pocket like an anchor. the click of that lock still echoes in your ears, a sound like finality, like the sealing of a tomb.
you stand at your window watching dawn bleed across the venetian sky. the lagoon turns from black to grey to gold, and the city wakes in layers. somewhere out there, across these canals and campi and narrow streets that twist like conspiracy, he's waking too. or perhaps he never slept. perhaps he spent the night as you did—staring at darkness, replaying those three stolen hours in the garden, trying to understand how the universe could be cruel enough to show you paradise and then lock the gates.
there's a scratching at your window.
your heart stops, restarts, trips over itself. you turn, and for one wild moment you imagine him—climbing the wall like some hero from the chivalric romances, ready to steal you away from all this, ready to prove that love really does make fools of reason and cowards of duty.
but it's a servant boy, young and terrified, clinging to the ivy trellis with one hand while the other clutches a folded piece of paper. he can't be more than twelve, this child pressed into service as messenger between enemy houses.
"for you, lady," he whispers, and his voice shakes like wind through leaves. "from the gojo heir. he paid me—" the boy's eyes go wide. "he paid me more than my father makes in a month. said if i didn't deliver it, he'd find me and. . ." he trails off, then adds hastily, "but he smiled when he said it, so i think he was joking? i'm not actually sure. he has strange eyes."
you take the letter with hands that won't stop shaking. the paper is heavy, expensive—the kind that costs more than this boy's family probably spends on food in a week. it smells of him and something else, something that makes you close your eyes and suddenly you're back in that garden, his voice low and reverent as he whispered your name like prayer.
"please don't tell anyone," the boy pleads, already scrambling back down. "my mother would kill me if she knew i was running messages between the great families. especially enemies—" he drops the last few feet and disappears into the labyrinth of venice before you can thank him or warn him or ask what else satoru said.
you close your window. turn the letter over in your hands. the seal is plain wax—he's smart enough not to use his family crest—but you can feel the weight of it. the desperation that must have driven him to send this despite the risk.
your hands shake as you break the seal.
the handwriting is elegant but hurried, letters racing across the page like they're trying to reach you faster than mere paper allows. you can picture him—bent over his desk in the grey pre-dawn, ink-stained fingers, hair falling into his eyes, so desperate to reach you that sleep became impossible and writing became prayer.
my angel, my revelation, my divine madness—
(i don't know your name yet, but i will. i'll learn everything about you. every name you've ever been called, every name you've wished you had, every name your soul answers to in dreams.)
i didn't sleep. couldn't. every time i closed my eyes, i saw you—but not the way i want to see you. not in moonlight, not in my arms, not laughing at something i've said. no, i saw that moment when the masks came off. that split second of recognition and realization and something that looked almost like grief.
did you grieve too? did your heart break the same way mine did, clean down the middle like god's own sword dividing truth from lies? did you feel it—that terrible understanding that the universe had played the cruelest joke imaginable? showing us something perfect and then revealing it was forbidden?
except i don't believe in forbidden. not when it comes to this. not when it comes to you.
they say our families are enemies. ancient hatred, blood feuds, thirty years of destruction—i know the history. my father has been lecturing me since dawn about duty and family honor and how i've disgraced the gojo name by even looking at you. he says you're beneath us. that your family are social climbers who bought their nobility the way merchants buy silk—with gold and ambition and no regard for tradition.
he's wrong about you. about us. about everything that matters.
my eyes see through lies, you know. it's my gift, my curse, my blessing from god or the devil or whoever hands out such things. i can look at someone and see through every carefully constructed facade to the truth beneath. and when i looked at you in that garden—do you know what i saw?
nothing false. nothing hidden. just you. pure and true and real in a way that no one else in this entire cursed city has ever been.
everyone lies to me. everyone performs. even my own family—especially my own family—presents me with carefully crafted versions of themselves, saying what they think i want to hear, hiding what they think i'll judge. but you... god, you were just yourself. no artifice. no deception. just genuine, luminous truth.
do you know what that means to someone like me? to find something real in a city of mirrors? to touch something solid in a world of shadows?
it means you're essential. not useful—essential. like air. like water. like the very thing that keeps me tethered to this world.
so here's what we're going to do:
meet me tonight. midnight. the church of san francesco della vigna—there's a monastery there, and behind it, a garden. the gate is hidden by climbing roses but it opens if you push. i'll be waiting. i'll wait forever if necessary, but please don't make me wait forever.
i know it's dangerous. i know it's reckless. i know every reasonable argument against this—believe me, i've heard them all from my father, from my advisors, from my own supposedly infinite intellect that keeps trying to inject logic into a situation that defies it.
but i also know this: i spent three hours with you and it felt like coming home after a lifetime of exile. like finding water after years of drought. like the first breath after drowning. and i know that if i don't see you again, something fundamental will break in me—something that can't be fixed, something that will leave me permanently diminished.
come to me. please. let me prove i'm not the devil your father says i am. let me prove that what we felt was real—not moonlight madness, not foolish infatuation, not some trick of masks and music. let me prove that souls really can recognize each other across impossible distances, against impossible odds.
i'll wait in that garden every night at midnight for the rest of my life if that's what it takes. but please—please—come soon. i don't think i can survive much longer in a world where you exist but i can't reach you.
yours in madness and devotion and a kind of love i didn't know existed until three hours ago,
satoru
p.s. - bring the mask you wore. the one with stars. i want to see you wear them again. i want to remember that moment before everything became complicated—when you were just the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen and i was just a fool falling in love at first sight.
p.p.s. - i just realized i still don't know your name and it's killing me. i've been composing poetry to you in my head—terrible, overwrought poetry that would make petrarch cringe—but i keep having to use phrases like "my star-crowned beauty" and "she whose name i don't yet know but whose soul i'd recognize in any crowd." tell me your name tonight. let me know what to whisper when i pray. let me know what words to write in my heart.
p.p.p.s. - i'm writing too much. i know i'm writing too much. but every time i try to stop, i think of something else i need you to know, something else i need to say, and the paper keeps filling with words like a river overflowing its banks. forgive me. i've never been in love before. i don't know the rules. i don't know how to be moderate or measured or any of the things i'm supposed to be. i only know that i love you, and that love has made me both more and less than i was yesterday.
you read it four times. then a fifth. each time, your heart does something painful and beautiful in your chest—like breaking and mending in the same breath, like dying and being resurrected in the space between heartbeats.
he loves you.
this boy you met three hours ago, this impossible beautiful boy with eyes that see through everything, this heir to your family's greatest enemy—he loves you with a certainty that should be laughable but instead feels like fate.
you should show it to your father as proof that the gojos are trying to manipulate you, seduce you, use you as a weapon against your family. should protect yourself, protect your family, protect everyone from the disaster this could become.
but you don't.
instead, you read it a sixth time, and a seventh, until you've memorized every word, every curve of his handwriting, every place where the ink blooms slightly because his hand was shaking or he pressed too hard or he paused to think about what he wanted to say next.
then you fold it carefully—so carefully, like it's made of spun glass and wishes—and hide it beneath your mattress. press it between fabric and rope like a relic, like proof that for three hours you were the center of someone's universe and they were the center of yours.
the day unfolds with agonizing slowness. your mother brings breakfast and you can barely eat. she talks about your father's plans, about count nanami who expressed interest despite the scandal of last night.
"he's a good man," your mother says, stroking your hair. "kind. stable. he could give you a comfortable life. a safe life. isn't that what you want?"
no, you want to scream. i want the opposite of safe. i want alive. i want real. i want that boy who looked at me like i was divine revelation and he was the faithful witness.
but you just nod and drink your watered wine and let her believe you're being reasonable.
your father visits at midday, bringing a jeweler. count nanami wants to move quickly—he sees opportunity in your scandal, thinks you'll be grateful for his willingness to overlook your "lapse in judgment."
"may i have time to consider?" you ask quietly, though what you really mean is: give me time to escape. give me time to find another way. give me time to choose my own life.
your father's face hardens like clay fired in a kiln. "you have until sunday. three days. then we announce your engagement. this is not a negotiation. this is not a choice. this is duty, and you will do your duty to this family."
the afternoon drags like lenten penance. you sit by your window and watch the sun crawl across the sky. watch gondolas slip through canals. watch venice go about its business—trading and scheming and praying and sinning in equal measure. somewhere in this warren of stone and water, satoru is awake. thinking of you. waiting for midnight with the same desperate anticipation that's making your blood sing and your hands shake.
evening falls like a mercy. the sky bleeds from blue to purple to black, and stars emerge one by one like holes punched in the fabric of heaven, letting divine light leak through.
you wait until your parents are asleep. until the house falls silent except for the creaking of old wood and the distant sound of canal water lapping at stone. until venice herself seems to hold her breath, waiting to see what you'll do.
you dress carefully. dark clothes—simple, practical, nothing that will catch moonlight or make sound. you braid your hair tightly and cover it with a dark scarf. the mask—your silver mask with its constellation of stars—goes into your pocket. you can feel it there, a slight weight against your hip, a reminder of who you were before you knew his name.
your window opens silently. you've been oiling the hinges for years, a small rebellion you never understood until now. the trellis is strong, it holds your weight easily as you climb down, and then you're on the ground. but no one comes. no one sees. venice keeps your secret.
the streets at night are a different world. moonlight turns the canals into ribbons of liquid silver. shadows pool in doorways and alleys like spilled ink, like sins made solid. somewhere, someone is singing—drunk or heartbroken or both, their voice rough and beautiful, echoing off ancient stone.
"la biondina in gondoleta," the voice croons. "l'altra sera g'o menà..."
a love song. of course. even venice's drunkards sing about love.
you move quickly, keeping to shadows, keeping your head down. if anyone sees you, they'll think you're a servant on an errand, or a prostitute heading home, or any of the hundred invisible people who populate venice's nights. they won't see a nobleman's daughter sneaking out to meet her family's enemy. won't see a girl choosing her own fate for perhaps the first time in her life.
the church of san francesco della vigna rises against the stars like a prayer made stone. the campanile points accusingly at heaven, and you wonder briefly if god is watching this. if he approves or condemns or simply observes with divine neutrality.
the monastery walls are high, old, covered in climbing roses that smell like memory and desire. you find the gate exactly where satoru said it would be—hidden behind blooms so thick they seem almost deliberate, like the monks planted them there specifically to hide lovers' entrances.
you push. the gate opens silently, well-oiled hinges suggesting you're not the first to use this entrance for clandestine meetings. how many others have stood here, hearts racing, choosing love over duty? how many of them survived their choice?you step through.
and there he is.
the garden is small—monasteries rarely have room for excess—but beautiful in its restraint. olive trees twist their ancient trunks toward sky, branches heavy with silver-green leaves that whisper secrets when wind moves through them. herbs grow in careful rows: basil and rosemary, sage and thyme, their scents rising in the warm night air like incense. a fountain burbles in the center, water catching moonlight and throwing it back in pieces—a thousand fractured reflections, a thousand possible futures.
and beneath the largest olive tree, pacing like a caged thing, like something wild pretending at civilization: satoru.
he's dressed simply tonight—dark clothes that make his white hair seem to glow like foxfire, like will-o'-the-wisp, like something supernatural that forgot it shouldn't walk the mortal world. no silver, no finery, nothing that marks him as a gojo heir. just a boy, waiting for something more important than wealth or power or family legacy.
he's been here for hours. you can tell by the way he moves—tense, coiled, like a spring wound too tight. by the way he keeps touching the olive tree's trunk, grounding himself, reminding himself that this is real, you're coming because you have to come because the alternative is impossible.
he looks up when you enter, and the expression that crosses his face—
it's like watching the sun rise. like watching someone drowning break the surface and gasp air. like witnessing the exact moment a prayer is answered and god says yes.
"you came," he breathes, and his voice breaks on the words, cracks wide open with relief so profound it's almost painful to witness. "you actually came. oh god, you came. i was starting to think—i thought maybe i'd dreamed you. that i'd wanted you so badly i'd conjured you from moonlight and desperation and three hours of madness."
he's moving toward you before he finishes speaking, crossing the distance in four long strides, and then his hands are on your face and he's staring at you like he's trying to memorize every detail, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he blinks, if he breathes, if he allows himself to believe this is real.
"i'm real," you say softly, answering the question he hasn't asked.
"thank god." his hands are shaking—these hands that moved with such confidence in the doge's garden are trembling like leaves in a storm. "thank god, thank fate, thank whatever divine force brought you here tonight because i've been losing my mind all day. just losing it completely. do you know how long a day is when you're waiting for someone? how many hours fit between dawn and midnight when every minute feels like an hour and every hour feels like a lifetime?"
"satoru," you whisper, softer, and he closes his eyes like it's a benediction.
"you make my name sound holy," he whispers. "like prayer. like every good thing i've never deserved but somehow received anyway." his eyes open again—those impossible blue eyes that hold sky and sea and infinity. "now tell me yours. please. i've been going mad not knowing what to call you. i've written you a dozen letters in my head and every one starts 'to the angel whose name i don't yet know' and it's killing me. let me know what to whisper when i pray."
so you tell him. your name falls between you like a covenant, like a secret, like something that can't be taken back once it's spoken. like adam naming eve, like the first word after creation, like the moment abstract possibility becomes concrete reality.
he repeats it slowly, carefully, like he's learning scripture. testing each syllable on his tongue, feeling how they fit together, how they sound in his voice. then again, softer. then a third time, barely a whisper.
"beautiful," he finally says, and his voice is full of wonder. "of course it's beautiful. of course you have a name that sounds like music, like poetry, like everything good and true in this fallen world. say mine again. please. let me hear how we sound together."
so you do. you say his name and he says yours and for a moment you're just two people speaking each other into existence, claiming each other with words the way lovers have claimed each other since language began.
then he's pulling you close—closer than propriety allows, closer than safety permits, close enough that you can feel his heartbeat through layers of fabric and it's racing just as fast as yours, both of you hummingbird-quick, both of you alive in a way that feels almost dangerous.
"i thought i'd lost you," he whispers against your hair. "when the masks came off and i saw who you were—saw your family crest and understood what it meant—i thought that was the universe's cruel joke. show me something perfect and then make it forbidden."
"we are forbidden." the words fall between you like a stone into still water, sending ripples of truth through the garden's careful peace.
"i don't care." his voice is steel wrapped in silk, and his eyes—those infinite blue eyes—hold yours with an intensity that makes breathing difficult. "i don't care if we're forbidden. i don't care if our families hate each other."
"satoru, this is madness—" your voice breaks on the word, half-whisper, half-prayer. you can feel your pulse hammering in your wrists where his hands hold you, in your chest where something is cracking open like dawn or like devastation—you're not sure which.
"then let me be mad." he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are blazing with something between hope and desperation. "let me be foolish and reckless and completely consumed. because i've been reasonable my whole life and it's been a slow death. but you—you're resurrection. you're the first real thing i've touched in seventeen years of seeing through everything."
you should tell him he's being ridiculous. should inject some reason into this fever dream. should remind him that three hours isn't enough to know someone, isn't enough to stake your whole future on, isn't enough to justify the destruction this could cause.
but you can't. because you feel it too. this impossible, inconvenient, catastrophic thing that feels more real than duty, more true than family loyalty.
"did you bring the mask?" he asks suddenly, his hands still framing your face like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he lets go.
you nod, reaching into your pocket. the silver is cool against your fingers, familiar and strange all at once. the stars catch moonlight, each one a tiny beacon, a tiny hope.
"put it on," he says, and his voice has gone soft, reverent. "please. i want to see you the way i first saw you."
"why?"
"because i want to remember that moment." his thumb traces your cheekbone. "that perfect moment when you were just the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen, before i knew your name. i want to remember when you were just possibility. just potential. just the answer to every prayer i didn't know i was praying."
so you put on the mask. the silver settles against your skin like a second face, cool and familiar. the stars frame your eyes, and suddenly you're transformed—no longer just a girl in a garden but something more, something mythical, something caught between human and divine.
satoru's breath catches audibly.
"there," he whispers, and his voice is thick with emotion. "there you are. my constellation. my divine madness. my proof that god loves me despite everything."
"you found me anyway." your voice is soft, wondering. because he did. despite walls and locked doors and families that would kill to keep you apart.
"because we're inevitable." he catches your hand, presses it flat against his chest where his heart beats wild and unsteady—nothing like the composed heir, everything like a boy in love. "the universe brought us together once. it'll keep bringing us together until we stop fighting it. until we accept that this—us—is fate."
"is that what you believe? in fate?" you search his face as you ask it, looking for doubt, for uncertainty, for any crack in his absolute conviction.
"i have to." his hands slide from the mask to your hair, pulling the scarf free so your braid tumbles down. "otherwise what's the point of my eyes? why would i be cursed with seeing possible futures if there wasn't some grand design, some purpose to it all? i see you in my future. not just one future—all of them. every good future, every bright shining possibility that makes life worth living—you're there."
you remove the mask slowly, letting it fall to your side. "you don't need to see me with stars to want me."
"i want you however i can have you." his voice is raw now, honest in a way that strips him bare. "with masks or without. in gardens or in daylight. for three hours or three lifetimes. i just need you. you're not optional anymore. you're not a choice i'm making—you're a requirement. like the thing my soul needs to keep existing."
then he kisses you, and it's different from the doge's garden. that was discovery, tentative and wondering. this is claiming. this is mine and yours and ours. this is yes said with lips and hands and breath, yes repeated until it becomes a liturgy, until it becomes the only prayer either of you knows how to say.
when you break apart, you're both shaking. both undone. both completely certain and completely terrified.
"i have three days," you tell him quietly. "my father is arranging my marriage. to count nanami. he says i have until sunday to accept, but it's not really a choice. it's an order dressed up as courtesy."
satoru goes very, very still. "no."
"three days—"
"no." his voice is hard now, sharp as broken glass, dangerous as a blade. "you're not marrying him. you're not marrying anyone but me."
"satoru, we barely know each other—"
"i know enough." he takes your face in both hands, forces you to meet his infinite eyes. "i know you're mine. that i'm yours. that whatever we are, it's real and true and worth fighting for. so we'll fight. we'll find a way. i'll find a way because that's what i do—i solve impossible problems. i make the impossible possible. and this won't be different."
"what if it is different? what if some things can't be solved?"
"then we'll die trying." he says it like it's simple, like it's obvious. "because the alternative—living without you, pretending i don't feel this, letting you marry someone else while i watch from across venice—that's not living. that's just death wearing a different face."
his certainty should frighten you. should send you running back to safety, to count nanami and his kind smile and his comfortable future. but instead, it makes you believe. makes you think that maybe—just maybe—love really can conquer what hatred has built.
so you tell each other everything. your grandfather's merchant fortune, your father buying nobility. his infinite eyes that see through lies, the loneliness of always knowing truth.
"i've been alone my whole life," he says. "until you."
you talk for hours. about philosophy and faith and whether free will exists or if you're both just following a script written before time began. about art and poetry and why beauty matters even though it's impractical. about dreams and fears and all the small truths that make up a life.
"what do you want?" you ask at one point. "not what your family wants. not what venice expects. what do you want?"
he's quiet for a long time, his fingers tracing abstract patterns on your shoulder. "i want to be surprised," he finally says. "just once. i want to look at something and not know what happens next. i want mystery instead of certainty. wonder instead of knowledge. i want the divine madness of not being in control."
"that sounds like faith."
"or love." he tilts your chin up to look at him. "maybe they're the same thing. maybe love is just faith in another person. trust that they'll catch you when you fall. hope that they'll stay when everyone else leaves. belief in something you can't see or prove or control."
the garden around you seems to hold its breath. the olive tree's leaves whisper secrets to the wind. the fountain continues its endless prayer. above, stars pierce the darkness—those ancient lights, already dead but still visible, still beautiful, still teaching us that some things shine brightest in their ending.
"i love you," satoru says suddenly, urgently, like the words have been building pressure inside him and finally broke free. "i know it's too soon. i know all the reasonable arguments against feeling this way after one night. but i love you. i love you the way drowning men love air, the way deserts love rain, the way the faithful love god—desperately, completely, with every part of me that matters."
your breath catches. "satoru—"
"you don't have to say it back," he continues quickly. "i'm not saying it to hear it returned. i'm saying it because it's true and i need you to know it. i need you to understand that this isn't a game for me, isn't some fleeting infatuation. this is—you're—everything. you're everything i didn't know i was looking for."
"i love you too," you whisper, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff, like surrendering to gravity, like the moment before you hit water and don't know if you'll survive the impact.
his eyes go wide. "you—really?"
"really." and it's true. impossibly, inexplicably true. you love this boy you met three hours ago, this impossible beautiful boy who sees through everything but believes in you anyway. you love him with a certainty that defies reason and transcends logic and makes no sense except in the deepest parts of your soul where truth lives beyond words.
he kisses you again, and this time it's different. this time it's sealed. this time it's a promise: i love you and you love me and whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
when you finally break apart, dawn is approaching. the sky is greying at the edges, and you know you need to leave soon, need to get home before your absence is discovered.
but satoru holds you tighter.
"tomorrow night," he says. "come back tomorrow night. and the night after. and every night until i figure out how to make this work. i need time to plan, to build alliances, to find a way to end this feud. but i will find a way. i swear it. just give me time."
"how much time?"
"months. maybe three or four." his eyes are already distant, already planning. "i need to build political support, secure allies among the other families. the contarini owe me a favor—their son was accused of fraud and i helped clear his name. the mocenigo are sympathetic to ending the feud—they've lost family members to it too. if i can get enough families on our side, when we announce our marriage, our fathers will be politically outmaneuvered. they'll have no choice but to accept it."
"and if they refuse?"
"they won't." his certainty is blazing, absolute. "because i'll make refusing more costly than accepting. i'll make our union the obvious solution, the thing everyone should have thought of years ago. peace through marriage. unity through love. it's biblical. it's exactly the kind of romantic solution venice loves."
he makes it sound so possible. so inevitable. like fate is just another game he's mastered, another puzzle he can solve with sufficient planning and intelligence and determination.
"promise me," he says urgently, gripping your hands. "promise me you won't give up. promise me you'll keep coming here every night. promise me you won't let your father marry you to nanami. just give me time to make this work."
you should be reasonable. should remind him that promises are dangerous, that some things are beyond even his considerable power, that love doesn't always conquer all despite what the poets say.
but looking at him—at this impossible boy who believes in you the way the faithful believe in god—you find yourself believing too.
"i promise," you whisper.
his smile could illuminate all of venice. "thank you. thank you. i won't fail you. i've never failed at anything that mattered, and you matter more than anything ever has."
you kiss him goodbye as dawn bleeds across the sky, and it tastes like hope and doom in equal measure, like prayer and prophecy, like the beginning and the ending all compressed into one moment.
as you slip back through the gate, you look back one last time. he's standing beneath the olive tree in the grey pre-dawn light, watching you go, and already you can see his mind working, already see him planning and scheming and believing he can bend the world to his will through sheer force of determination.
you hope he's right.
you fear he's wrong.
you don't yet know that you're both.
the jasmine is in full bloom the night he tells you about his mother.
five weeks of midnight meetings and you've learned the garden's rhythms—which stones are loose for climbing, how the fountain's burble masks whispered conversations, where the shadows fall deepest. the servant boy no longer looks nervous when he scales your wall with letters. the garden gate opens for you like it's been waiting.
tonight you're in your usual spot beneath the olive tree, satoru's back against the trunk, you nestled between his legs with your spine against his chest. his fingers work through your hair, braiding and unbraiding the strands in an absent rhythm that's become as familiar as your own heartbeat.
"she died when i was six," he says suddenly.
you go still. he's never mentioned his mother before—never talks about his family beyond vague comments about duty and expectations and the weight of the gojo name.
"everyone said it was a blessing," he continues, his voice quiet, distant. "she'd been sick for years. in pain. but i saw her that morning. looked at her and saw the futures." his hands pause in your hair. "in every single one, she was gone by sunset."
you twist to look up at him. his face is tilted toward the stars, jaw tight, and even in the moonlight you can see the old grief etched there.
"i told my father. begged him to get the best physicians, to try anything, to let me—" he stops. swallows. "he said i was hysterical. that the eyes don't work that way. that i was just a frightened child who didn't understand what he was seeing."
"satoru—"
"she died at sunset. exactly when i said she would." his voice goes flat. "and my father never asked me to predict anything again. never trusted my eyes. never believed me about things that mattered until it was too late."
his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer.
"that's why i know i'm right about us," he says fiercely. "because my eyes show me futures, and in every good one—every future worth living—you're there. and i won't let anyone tell me i'm wrong this time. not my father, not yours, not fate itself."
you turn fully in his arms, kneeling to face him. his eyes are too bright—tears or starlight or both.
"what if you are wrong?" you ask quietly. not cruelty. just honesty. the kind of honesty you can only offer someone you love. "what if this is the one thing your eyes can't predict? what if wanting it so badly is making you see what you want instead of what's real?"
for a moment he looks stricken. vulnerable in a way you've never seen him.
then that confidence slides back into place like armor. "then i'll be wrong together with you. and that's still better than being right alone."
he kisses you before you can argue. kisses you like he's trying to prove something, like he can make the future bend through sheer force of will and want.
when you break apart, you're both breathing hard.
and here, in this garden, with jasmine perfuming the air and his absolute certainty wrapping around you like a cloak—you almost do.
"tell me about them," you say instead of voicing your doubts. "our children. the ones we're going to have."
his whole face transforms. becomes young, hopeful, almost boyish.
"three," he says immediately. "at least three. the first will have my eyes—i saw it, saw him looking at me with that same blue—but your stubborn chin. he'll be brilliant and impossible and we'll have to work very hard not to spoil him." his hand slides to rest against your stomach, warm through the fabric. "the second will be a girl. your eyes, my hair. she'll be the one who actually inherits my intelligence instead of just my arrogance. she'll probably end up running venice by the time she's twenty."
you laugh despite yourself. "and the third?"
"a surprise." his smile goes soft. "because at least one of them should be something even my eyes can't predict. something that proves the future isn't fixed. that we can make choices that matter."
"what will we name them?"
"the boy—marco," he says, and your breath catches. "after your brother. so he's remembered. so something good comes from something terrible."
tears prick your eyes. "satoru—"
"and the girl—laura. after petrarch's laura. because you were reading him the week we met, weren't you? i saw the book on your shelf once, when i climbed through your window. worn pages, dog-eared corners. you'd been dreaming of impossible love." he traces your cheekbone with his thumb. "and then you found it."
you kiss him then. hard. desperately. trying to memorize this moment—this perfect, crystalline moment before everything shatters.
when you finally leave, climbing back over the garden wall as dawn threatens, you look back once. he's standing under the olive tree watching you go, and the expression on his face is so full of love and certainty and faith that it makes your chest ache.
the weeks blur together after that. letters arrive daily, hidden in your bodice by a servant boy growing rich on gojo gold. satoru's handwriting grows more confident with each one—sketching out alliances and strategies, naming the families he's secured, counting down the weeks until you can be together publicly.
"the contarini are ours," one letter reads. "their gratitude makes them useful. the mocenigo next—i'm meeting with the elder tomorrow. he lost his brother to this feud. i'll make him see that our marriage could end what killed his family."
another: "six weeks now. i can almost taste freedom. can almost see you walking through san marco on my arm, wearing our ring where everyone can see it. no more hiding. no more fear. just us."
you keep every letter. press them between the pages of your petrarch, ink and poetry bleeding together until you can't remember which words are his and which are the dead poet's. both men writing about impossible love. both convinced they could make it work through sheer force of devotion.
only one of them was right.
the mocenigo elder agrees to host the announcement. the contarini spread word that peace through marriage has historical precedent. even the doge makes encouraging noises when satoru suggests that venice could be remembered as the city where love conquered hatred.
"seven weeks," satoru tells you in the garden one night, his arms tight around you, his voice bright with hope. "seven more weeks and we announce everything. ten families supporting us. the doge's tacit approval. they'll have no choice but to celebrate."
he makes it sound inevitable. makes it sound like love and careful planning can overcome centuries of hatred. makes it sound like he's never considered the possibility that he might fail.
and you believe him. god help you, you believe him. you're so busy believing that neither of you notice the cracks forming. don't see marco drinking heavier at every family dinner, looking for fights in taverns, his rage at feeling inferior growing sharper.
don't hear the whispers that the merchant's daughter has been sneaking out at night, that someone saw her climbing back through her window at dawn. don't realize that confidence, when it grows large enough, stops seeing obstacles. becomes indistinguishable from the kind of pride that the good book warns about.
and pride, as the scripture says, goes before destruction.
it's the fifth night when brother benedetto finally speaks to you both directly.
you're sitting in your usual spot—satoru's lap, his arms around you, your head on his shoulder. you've been dozing, lulled by the warmth of him and the sound of water in the fountain and the sense of safety that exists nowhere else in your life.
footsteps on the garden path make you both freeze.
a monk rounds the corner, lantern held high, and stops dead when he sees you. the light swings slightly with his abrupt halt, casting dancing shadows across the garden. his franciscan habit is faded to the color of old stone, worn soft with age and washing until it drapes like water over his thin frame.
for a moment, no one moves. no one breathes.
then the monk sighs—a sound so heavy with weariness and resignation that it makes your chest ache, like he's carrying the weight of every tragedy he's ever witnessed.
"satoru," he says, and there's fondness and exasperation in equal measure, the tone of a teacher who's watched his student grow brilliant and reckless in equal measure. "i should have known you'd find a way to make trouble even in a monastery garden."
satoru relaxes slightly, though his arms don't loosen around you. "brother benedetto. i can explain—"
"can you?" the monk sets down his lantern carefully on the edge of the fountain, and the light steadies, illuminating you both in its warm glow. he regards you with the expression of someone who's seen this story before and knows how it ends. "because from where i'm standing, it looks like the gojo heir is conducting a secret courtship with—"
he steps closer, peering at you more carefully in the lamplight. his eyes narrow, then widen, and you watch recognition dawn across his weathered features like a sunrise he doesn't want to see.
"let me see your face properly, child."
the monk steps closer, holding the lantern up, and the light catches your features, and you see the exact moment he recognizes you.
his eyes widen. his face goes pale. his free hand moves instinctively to the rosary at his belt, fingers finding the wooden beads like they're an anchor in a suddenly stormy sea.
"dear god." his voice is barely a whisper, choked with something between horror and pity. "you're the merchant's daughter. the one from the masquerade."
he looks between you both, and something like grief crosses his features—deep, profound grief, like he's already mourning you, already preparing the prayers he'll say at your funeral.
"your families are enemies."
"we know," satoru says quietly, standing beside you, his hand finding yours and gripping tight. his voice is steady but you can feel the tremor in his fingers, the only sign that he's not as composed as he seems.
"and yet you continue to meet in secret, risking discovery, risking destruction for both your houses." brother benedetto shakes his head slowly, and each movement seems to cost him something. "this is madness. beautiful, tragic madness."
"this is love," satoru corrects, and his grip on your hand tightens until it almost hurts, until you can't tell where your heartbeat ends and his begins. "and before you lecture me—save your breath. i've heard them all. from my father, from my advisors, from my own supposedly infinite intellect. and i'm still here. still choosing her. still willing to risk everything because some things are worth more than safety."
"how long has this been going on?" his voice is gentle but firm, the voice of a confessor who needs to know the full scope of the sin before he can offer absolution—or condemnation.
"twelve weeks," you admit. "since the masquerade." the number sounds both impossibly long and heartbreakingly short when you say it aloud.
"twelve weeks." brother benedetto repeats the number like it's a death sentence, like he's reading it from an execution order. his laugh is hollow, bitter. "and you think that's love? you think twelve weeks is enough to upend centuries of hatred, to justify this recklessness?"
"yes," satoru says simply. his certainty never wavers. "i've lived seventeen years seeing through everything—every lie, every performance. and i'm telling you, brother—this is real. this is true. this matters more than ancient grudges."
brother benedetto turns to you, and his gaze is searching, like he's trying to see past your skin to your soul."and you, child? has he bewitched you with pretty words and prettier eyes? cast his spell the way his family has enchanted venice—with power and beauty and promises that crumble to dust?"
you want to be reasonable. want to hedge, to qualify, to admit that twelve weeks isn't enough to know anything for certain. but looking at satoru—at the way he's watching you with absolute faith that you'll confirm what he's said—you can't lie.
"i love him," you say quietly, and the words feel like stepping off a cliff, like surrender, like the most honest thing you've ever said. "i know it's fast. i know every argument against it—i've made them all to myself a hundred times in the daylight when i'm trying to be sensible. but it's true."
the monk is silent for so long you think he might call the guards, might expose you both to your families, might end this before it can destroy both.
then he sighs again, and this time the sound carries such profound sadness that it makes your eyes sting. "come with me. we need to talk somewhere more private than an open garden where anyone might stumble upon you and turn your secret into scandal."
his cell is small, austere, containing only a narrow pallet, a desk covered in manuscripts, and a crucifix on the wall. the cross is simple wood, unadorned, and christ hangs there with his head bowed in eternal agony.
the monk takes his chair—old wood that creaks under his weight—and for a long moment he just looks at you both with sorrow, certainly. resignation. something that might be pity or might be envy—the look of a man who once believed in impossible things and learned better.
"i've been satoru's tutor since he was eight years old," the monk finally says, breaking the heavy silence. his voice is quieter now, more intimate in this small space. "and in all those years, i've never seen him like this."
"i'm not going to fail," satoru says, but it sounds less like confidence and more like prayer, like a plea directed at god or fate or brother benedetto himself—anyone who might have the power to make this work.
"everyone fails eventually, my son. even you." the monk's voice is gentle, the gentleness of a physician who has to tell you the wound is mortal. "especially you."
satoru flinches slightly, and you feel it because you're touching, because you're always touching now when you can.
"your eyes let you see so much," brother benedetto continues, leaning forward, his weathered hands clasped between his knees. "but they've also made you arrogant. you think because you can predict outcomes, you can control them. but some things are bigger than prediction. bigger than even your considerable will."
he pauses. his face transforms with old grief.
"two young lovers who thought their love could change the world. who believed that passion could triumph over politics, that faith could move mountains, that if they just wanted it badly enough, if they just believed hard enough, the universe would bend to accommodate them. they were beautiful together. radiant. they looked at each other the way you two do—like the other person is the sun and they've been living in darkness their whole lives."
"what happened to them?" you ask, though part of you doesn't want to know, part of you wants to cover your ears like a child and pretend that knowing the ending won't make it come true.
brother benedetto is silent for so long you think he won't answer. the candles gutter. wax drips onto the desk with soft sounds like tears.
when the monk finally speaks, his voice is heavy with old grief, thick with memory, rough with self-recrimination. "they died. young. violently. there was a confrontation. accusations of seduction, of witchcraft, of deliberate sabotage. the boy tried to defend her. drew his sword in a public square. killed her brother in the fight that followed."
his hands grip the windowsill, knuckles white. "the girl—when she learned what he'd done, that he'd killed her own blood for her—she took poison. couldn't choose between her family and her love. and the boy, when he found her body—"
brother benedetto's voice breaks. "he threw himself from the campanile. didn't hesitate. just climbed to the top and stepped off like he was stepping into her arms."
the silence that follows is oppressive, suffocating. you can feel the weight of those deaths in this small cell, can almost see their ghosts standing in the shadows, warning you, begging you to be smarter than they were.
"their families went to war over their bodies," the monk continues, and now his voice is flat, emotionless, like he's reciting a lesson he's taught too many times. "three years of bloodshed. venice bled. and i—" he turns back to face you, and his face is haggard. "i was the one who married them. in secret. at dawn. just like you're asking me to do now."
your heart stops.
"i thought i was helping them," he says, and there's such anguish in his voice that it makes your chest ache. "i thought if i made their union holy in the eyes of god, it would protect them somehow. i was young. idealistic." his laugh is bitter as wormwood. "i've spent twenty years wondering if i killed them. if by enabling their secret marriage, i signed their death warrants."
he walks back to his chair, sits heavily, suddenly looking every one of his fifty years and more. "so yes, i've seen this before. and i'm still wondering—if love is ever really stronger than hate, or if that's just a beautiful lie we tell ourselves to make tragedy bearable."
"this time will be different," he says, and his voice is steel wrapped in silk, dangerous and beautiful all at once. "i'm not some tragic hero from a cautionary tale. i'm me. i see futures. i bend reality to my will. i make impossible things possible. and i'll make this possible too."
"pride goes before destruction," brother benedetto quotes softly, gently, like he's reciting scripture over a grave. "and a haughty spirit before a fall."
"then i'll fall with pride intact." satoru stands abruptly, pulling you up with him, his hand gripping yours so tightly it almost hurts. "thank you for the warning, brother. but respectfully—i don't need your doubt. i need your help."
"my help?" brother benedetto looks up at him, and there's something like resignation in his eyes.
"marry us." satoru says it like a challenge, like he's testing the monk to see if he'll choose faith over fear. "perform the ceremony. make it legal, impossible to undo. when we announce it, it's already consecrated. already holy. already beyond their ability to break."
brother benedetto's eyes go wide. "satoru, that's—you're asking me to perform a secret marriage between enemy houses? if discovered, i could be defrocked. your families would have grounds to charge me with conspiracy, with deliberately sabotaging their interests."
"i know what i'm asking." satoru's voice gentles slightly, and you can hear the love underneath the determination. "and i wouldn't ask if i had any other choice. but this is the only way. i need her bound to me and me to her before we make this public. i need that certainty."
the monk looks at you. "child, is this truly what you want? to marry him in secret, to bind your fate to his so completely that there's no turning back?"
your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy. secret marriage. legal, binding, irrevocable marriage before your families even know you're meeting. it's insane. it's reckless. it's possibly the most dangerous thing you could do.
and yet.
but when you look at satoru—at the way he's watching you with such desperate hope, such absolute faith that you'll say yes, complete certainty that you're brave enough to leap with him into this beautiful terrible unknown—you can't imagine saying anything else.
"yes," you hear yourself say, and your voice is steady even though your hands are shaking, even though some rational part of your mind is screaming that this is madness. "yes, i want this."
satoru's smile is radiant, relieved, reverent. he lifts your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles, and the gesture is so full of worship, that it makes your eyes sting.
brother benedetto closes his eyes. makes the sign of the cross. whispers something in latin that sounds like a prayer or perhaps a plea for forgiveness.
"god help me," he finally says, opening his eyes, and they're wet with unshed tears. "god help us all. god help these children who don't know what they're asking for, who can't see the storm they're walking into."
"does that mean—" satoru starts, hope blooming in his voice.
"it means i'll marry you." his voice is heavy, resigned. like a man agreeing to his own execution. "but not tonight. not without preparation. not without giving you every chance to change your minds, to come to your senses, to choose life over this beautiful death you're courting."
"three months," brother benedetto says firmly. "you court her for three months. you build your alliances. you prepare. then—if you both still want this, if you've laid sufficient groundwork that your revelation won't trigger war—i'll perform the ceremony. the week of the feast of the redeemer. at dawn. just us and god as witnesses."
"three months is too long—"
"three months is barely enough," his voice is almost pleading now. "for you to be certain. for you to prepare. for me to pray that i'm not enabling a tragedy that will haunt me for the rest of my days, that will add two more ghosts to the ones that already keep me awake at night."
satoru looks at you. you can see the struggle in his eyes—he wants this now but he also sees the wisdom in waiting. in being sure. in having time to build the support that will protect you both.
"three months," he finally agrees. "but then you marry us, brother. no more delays. no more tests. you give us the sacrament and you make us husband and wife in the eyes of god and the church."
"if you both still want it," brother benedetto repeats carefully, precisely, like he's writing a contract, like he's leaving himself an escape clause. "if you've laid your groundwork successfully. if you truly believe your love is strong enough to survive what's coming. then yes. i'll marry you."
the monk blesses you both before you leave—makes the sign of the cross over your joined hands, murmuring prayers in latin that sound like benedictions and warnings and mourning all intertwined.
"benedicat vos omnipotens deus..." may almighty god bless you...
"pater, et filius, et spiritus sanctus..." father, and son, and holy spirit...
"et ab omni malo defendat..." and defend you from all evil...
"et ad vitam perducat aeternam..." and bring you to eternal life...
eternal life. like already praying for your souls. already mourning the tragedy he sees coming like a storm on the horizon, dark and inevitable and hungry.
but satoru doesn't seem to notice the weight of those final words. he's too busy pulling you close as you leave the monk's cell, too busy whispering plans and promises against your hair, too busy being absolutely certain that he can beat fate through clever planning.
"three months," he whispers, and his voice is bright with hope. "just three months, and then you're mine. forever. legally. sacramentally. in every way that matters."
behind you, brother benedetto closes his door, and through the wood you hear him begin to pray—long, fervent prayers in latin that sound like pleas for mercy, like begging god to spare you both from the fate that seems already written, already inevitable, already racing toward you like a blade falling.
"i'm already yours," you murmur, because it's true. you've been his since the masquerade, since the moment he looked at you like you were the answer to every question he'd never known to ask.
"i know." his hands tighten on your waist, possessive and reverent all at once. "but i want god to know it too. i want it inked in the book of life with our names intertwined."
as you slip back through the garden gate, satoru catches you for one more kiss. his fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back, and his lips claim yours with a desperation that tastes like goodbye even though it's supposed to taste like see you tomorrow. it's desperate and tender and fierce all at once—a kiss that's trying to say everything words can't hold, trying to memorize you, trying to brand this moment into both your souls so deeply that time itself couldn't erase it.
"i love you," he whispers against your lips, and his breath mingles with yours, his words becoming yours, his soul touching yours in the space between heartbeats. "more than anything. more than everything. you're my whole world."
my whole world. as if you've become his axis, his gravity, his reason for the sun to rise.
"and you're mine," you whisper back, and you mean it with every particle of your being. you press closer, trying to memorize the solid warmth of him, the way his heart races against yours, the way he smells like bergamot and certainty.
you don't realize that worlds end. that they collapse into themselves, that they burn, that they fade into cold darkness.
you don't realize that in three months, there will be no world left at all.
dawn breaks over venice like a promise, like hope made visible in shades of rose and gold.
the morning of the feast of the redeemer arrives with impossible beauty—the kind of morning that feels touched by grace, by divine favor, by the hand of god blessing the city he's supposedly chosen. the lagoon is smooth as glass, reflecting the sky so perfectly that it's impossible to tell where heaven ends and earth begins. bells ring across the city, calling the faithful to prayer, to gratitude, to remembrance of the plague that killed thousands and the deliverance that followed.
you slip out of your house while your family sleeps, a bundle of white silk hidden beneath your dark cloak. your wedding dress—simple, modest, nothing like the elaborate gown your father would have chosen for your marriage to count nanami. you sewed it yourself in stolen moments, each stitch a prayer, each seam a hope.
you wonder if this is the last morning you'll ever be nobody. if after today, you'll be satoru's wife, the girl who ended the feud, the bridge between two houses. or if you'll be dead, and your father will weep over your body and never know that you died having chosen your own fate for once in your short, controlled life.
the church of san francesco della vigna rises from the mist like a benediction. the small chapel brother benedetto indicated is tucked away behind the main church—a private space used for baptisms and confessions and, apparently, secret marriages that may or may not doom everyone involved.
satoru is already waiting.
of course he is. he's probably been here since midnight, too excited to sleep, too nervous to stay away, too desperately in love to risk being late for the most important moment of his life.
he's dressed in white and silver again—the same colors from the masquerade, like he's come full circle, like this is the ending that was always meant to be. his hair is brushed back from his face for once, and in the golden dawn light streaming through the chapel's small windows, he looks almost otherworldly. like something holy.
when he sees you, his face transforms.
it's like watching the sun rise. like watching someone drowning break the surface and gasp air. like witnessing the exact moment a prayer is answered and god says yes, yes, i see you, i hear you, i love you enough to give you this even though it will destroy you.
"you came," he breathes, and his voice shakes. "you actually came. i was starting to think—" he cuts himself off, crosses the space between you in three long strides. his hands cup your face with trembling reverence. "you're here. you're real. this is happening."
"did you doubt?" you ask softly.
"every second since i woke up." his laugh is shaky, almost hysterical. "i kept thinking—what if she changes her mind? what if her father locks her in? what if she realizes this is insane and i'm asking too much and she deserves better than a boy who's gambling her life on his own arrogance?"
"satoru—"
"but you're here." he rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel him trembling. "you're here, and we're doing this, and in an hour you'll be my wife. my wife. do you understand what that means to me? do you understand that i've spent my whole life seeing futures and not caring about any of them until i saw the ones with you?"
"i'm scared," you admit.
"good." his smile is crooked, vulnerable. "that means you understand what we're risking. that means you're doing this anyway. that means you love me enough to be terrified and still say yes."
brother benedetto emerges from the vestry, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. his eyes are shadowed, his face drawn. he's dressed in his formal vestments—white and gold, the colors of celebration and joy—but he wears them like funeral clothes.
"you both came," he says, and there's acceptance in his voice. like a man watching a tragedy unfold and knowing he's powerless to stop it. "i prayed all night that one of you would come to your senses. that god would grant you wisdom to see the danger ahead."
"god granted us love instead," satoru says firmly. "maybe that's worth more than wisdom."
"love and wisdom shouldn't be opposites, my son." brother benedetto sighs deeply, heavily, like he's carrying the weight of centuries. "but i gave you my word. and i keep my vows, even when i fear they'll damn me along with you."
he leads you both to the altar. the chapel is small, intimate, perfect. candles burn in their holders, casting warm, flickering light that makes shadows dance across the frescoed walls. christ watches from above the altar, arms outstretched in eternal welcome or eternal sorrow—you can't tell which.
"before we begin," brother benedetto says carefully, "i must ask one final time. are you both certain? absolutely certain? because once i speak these vows, once you exchange rings and make your promises before god—there is no going back. marriage is a sacrament. it's not something to be undone lightly, not something your families can simply annul because it's inconvenient."
"i'm certain," satoru says immediately, without hesitation.
the monk looks at you. "child?"
you think about count nanami with his kind eyes and comfortable future. about your father's plans and your mother's hopes. about the safe, reasonable life you could have if you just walk away now, if you just let satoru go and accept that some loves aren't meant to survive in this world.
then you look at satoru—at the way he's watching you with absolute faith, with desperate hope, with love so tangible you can almost touch it.
"i'm certain," you say.
brother benedetto nods slowly. makes the sign of the cross. begins to pray in latin—long, flowing prayers that sound like mourning and celebration intertwined, like he's blessing you and preparing your funeral rites simultaneously.
then he switches to the vernacular. to words you can understand. to the marriage rite that will bind you to satoru until death parts you.
"dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of god and in the presence of these witnesses—" he pauses, glances around the empty chapel. "such as they are. namely, myself and our lord jesus christ, who sees all and judges all and will, i pray, have mercy on us all."
"brother," satoru says, almost pleading. "please."
"right. yes." the monk clears his throat. "marriage is a holy estate, ordained by god, signifying the mystical union between christ and his church. it is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of god."
in the fear of god. the words hang in the air like a warning.
"satoru gojo," brother benedetto continues, his voice strengthening, falling into the ancient rhythm of the rite. "do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
"i do." satoru says it like a vow, like a prayer, like the most important words he's ever spoken. "i absolutely do. forever. no matter what. i swear it before god and every saint in heaven—i take her as my wife, and i will love her until my last breath and beyond if god allows it."
brother benedetto turns to you. his eyes are infinitely sad, infinitely kind. like he's already mourning you. like he knows how this ends.
"and do you," he speaks your name gently, "take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? knowing that this choice binds you to him eternally, in this life and the next? knowing that your families will rage, that venice itself may burn, that this love may cost you everything you have?"
you look at satoru. at this impossible, beautiful boy who sees through everything but believes in you anyway. who's staking his entire future on the faith that love can conquer what hatred has built. who makes you feel seen, known, loved in ways you never imagined possible.
"i do," you whisper.
satoru's smile could illuminate all of venice.
"then by the power vested in me by the holy church," brother benedetto says, and his voice cracks slightly, "i pronounce you husband and wife in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy spirit. what god has joined together, let no man put asunder."
he makes the sign of the cross over your joined hands.
"you may kiss—"
satoru doesn't wait for him to finish. he pulls you into his arms and kisses you with such fierce joy, such absolute relief, such perfect happiness that for a moment you forget every doubt, every fear, every warning. for a moment, there's just this—his lips on yours, his arms around you, his heart beating against yours, and the overwhelming certainty that this is right, this is real, this is worth everything.
when you break apart, you're both crying and laughing simultaneously.
"my wife," satoru whispers against your lips, testing the words, tasting them like sacrament. "my wife. mine. you're mine now. legally, sacramentally, completely mine."
"and you're mine," you whisper back.
"forever," he promises. "until death and beyond."
until death. the words should comfort. instead, they feel like prophecy.
brother benedetto produces a ring—satoru's mother's ring, the one engraved with amor vincit omnia. satoru slides it onto your finger with shaking hands, and it fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be yours.
"i don't have anything for you," you say, suddenly bereft. "i didn't think—i don't have a ring—"
"you have yourself." he kisses your hand, your ring finger, the gold band that marks you as his. "that's more than enough. that's everything."
brother benedetto produces a marriage certificate, already prepared, the parchment thick and official. he signs it as witness, then hands the quill to satoru, who signs with a flourish—his name bold and certain and permanent. then you sign beneath his, your names intertwined on paper the way your lives are now intertwined in fact.
"it's done," the monk says quietly. "you're married. in the eyes of god and the church, you are husband and wife. may the lord have mercy on your souls."
he says it like a plea. like he's already begging forgiveness for what he's just enabled.
satoru lifts you and spins you in a circle right there in the chapel, laughing like a boy, like someone who's never known real pain or loss or consequences. "we did it! we're married! you're my wife and i'm your husband and nothing—nothing in heaven or hell—can change that now!"
you laugh with him, caught up in his joy, in his absolute certainty that everything will work out because he's planned it so carefully, because he's so sure, because he's never failed at anything that mattered.
brother benedetto watches you both with ancient eyes, and you see him make the sign of the cross one more time. see his lips move in silent prayer.
but you don't let it dampen your happiness. not on your wedding day.
"six weeks," satoru says, setting you down but keeping his arms around you, keeping you close like he can't bear to let go even for a moment. "just six more weeks of secrecy. i've been making progress even faster than i expected—the contarini are ready to publicly support us, the mocenigo have agreed to host the announcement, even the doge is making encouraging noises. by mid-august, i'll have everything in place. we'll announce our marriage at the festa, with all of venice watching, and they'll have no choice but to celebrate with us."
he makes it sound so possible. so inevitable. like fate is just another game he's mastered.
"six weeks," you repeat, and it sounds like forever and no time at all simultaneously.
"six weeks until i can call you my wife in public. six weeks until i can walk through san marco with you on my arm. six weeks until the world knows what we are." he kisses you again, softer this time, sweeter. "i can wait six weeks. i'd wait six years if i had to. but i won't have to, because everything is working. everything is falling into place exactly as i planned."
"—goes before a fall, i know." satoru waves a hand dismissively. "you've told me a hundred times, brother. but this isn't pride. this is certainty based on careful observation. i've been building alliances for three months. i know exactly how venice's power structures work. i know exactly who to convince and how to convince them. this will work because i've made it impossible for it to fail."
the monk says nothing. just looks at him with infinite sadness.
"thank you," satoru says, and his voice softens. "truly, brother. i know you think this is a mistake. i know you're afraid for us. but i promise you—i won't let this be another tragedy for you to carry. this time, love wins. this time, the story has a happy ending."
"i pray you're right, my son," brother benedetto says quietly. "i pray to god you're right, and i'm just a foolish old man seeing doom where there's only hope."
you leave the chapel hand in hand, husband and wife, bound together by vows and faith and love and the terrible certainty that you're doing something either divinely inspired or catastrophically foolish.
the sun is fully risen now. venice is awake, celebrating the feast of the redeemer, giving thanks for deliverance from plague and death.
you don't know yet that you should be praying for deliverance too. you don't know that sometimes the plague comes after the celebration. you don't know that death is already circling, already sharpening its blade, already marking the calendar.
your brother has always been desperate to prove himself.
marco is two years older than you, but he's always felt like he's chasing something he can never quite catch—legitimacy, respect, the acknowledgment that he's worthy of the name your family bought. he drinks too much. gambles too much. starts fights in taverns and calls it defending the family honor.
your father encourages it. sees marco's aggression as strength, as proof that they're not weak, not just wealthy merchants playing at nobility. sees his son's rage and calls it courage.
your mother worries. you catch her watching marco sometimes, see the fear in her eyes when he comes home drunk and belligerent, see the way she flinches when he slams doors and shouts about the gojos, about old nobility, about everyone who looks down on your family.
"he's just finding his way," your father always says. "he's young. he's passionate. he'll settle down."
but marco doesn't settle. if anything, he gets worse.
then marco ruins everything.
it's a tuesday afternoon in the piazza san marco. the sun is brutal, unforgiving, turning the stones into griddles, making the air shimmer with heat. you're at home when it happens, embroidering with your mother, listening to her talk about count nanami who still hopes you'll reconsider.
men's voices, raised in anger. the sound of running feet—not one or two but dozens, the thundering of boots on stone echoing up from the canal below. your mother goes pale, her needle frozen mid-stitch, a drop of blood welling where she's pricked her finger without noticing.
"stay here," she says, but her voice is already thin, already afraid, already knowing that staying won't protect you from whatever is happening out there.
but you're already moving toward the window, your embroidery falling forgotten to the floor in a tangle of silk thread.
the canal below is full of people—servants still in their aprons, neighbors abandoning their shops, strangers all running toward the piazza like moths to a flame. you hear fragments of words floating up through the hot afternoon air. "—fight—" "—swords drawn—" "—blood—" "—the gojo heir—"
your blood turns to ice in your veins. your heart stops, then starts again with a painful lurch that makes your chest ache.
you're running before you consciously decide to move, your mother calling after you—"wait! stop! you can't—"—but you can't stop, can't slow down, can't breathe properly because satoru's name is being shouted and there's violence and he promised he'd be careful, promised he wouldn't do anything reckless, promised—
your bare feet slap against the cool marble floors. you're still in your house slippers, not proper shoes, but there's no time to change. the servants stare as you fly past them, a nobleman's daughter running like a common girl, dignity abandoned.
the piazza is chaos.
bodies packed so tight you can smell them—sweat and wine and the particular scent of excited humans watching something terrible unfold. a crowd has formed a circle, the way crowds always do when there's blood to be seen, when violence makes spectacle. you shove through bodies, using elbows and nails and desperation to force your way forward.
in the center of the circle: your brother marco, sword drawn, face purple with rage and drink. his doublet is stained—wine, probably, spilled down the front. he can barely stand straight. and facing him—
not satoru.
relief crashes over you so violently your knees almost give out. not satoru. thank god, not satoru.
but suguru.
suguru geto. satoru's best friend, his brother in everything but blood. kind, quiet suguru who's always been gentle with you in the garden, who teases satoru about his dramatic speeches and makes him laugh when he's taking himself too seriously. who looks at your husband with such fierce loyalty it's like watching someone tend a sacred flame.
"tell your master gojo that my family wipes our boots with his name!" marco is shouting, swaying slightly, his sword tip scraping the stones because he can't hold it steady. of course he's drunk. it's barely past noon and he's already drunk, has probably been drinking since breakfast.
suguru's hand is on his sword hilt, but he hasn't drawn. his face is carefully neutral, patient, like he's dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. "walk away, marco. you're drunk. go home. sleep it off. we can all pretend this never happened."
"i'm not drunk!" marco lunges forward a step, stumbles, has to catch himself. "and i'm not walking away! you gojos think you own venice! think you can look down on us! my family is just as good as yours! better! we earned our gold with our own hands! we didn't just inherit it from ancestors who were thieves and murderers!"
"your family earned your gold by trading in slaves and opium," suguru says coldly, and it's a mistake. you can see it's a mistake the moment the words leave his mouth—too cruel, too much like the truth everyone knows but no one says. you see marco's face go from purple to almost black with rage, see murder flash in his eyes.
"you dare—"
marco draws his sword—properly this time, the blade singing as it clears the scabbard. the sound cuts through the murmur of the crowd like a warning, like the beginning of something that can't be stopped.
the crowd gasps, pulls back slightly, giving the combatants more room. drawing swords in the piazza is illegal and grounds for immediate arrest. but marco is past caring about laws, past caring about anything except the rage that's been building in him for years.
suguru sighs—a sound of inevitability, of someone who knows what comes next and wishes it didn't have to. he draws his own blade slowly, deliberately. "fine. if you insist on this, let's make it quick. first blood. you yield, i yield, we both go home and pretend this never happened."
"i'm not yielding to a gojo dog!"
marco attacks.
the fight is brief. brutally brief. suguru is better trained—has been learning swordplay since he could walk, trained by the best masters gojo gold can buy, practicing every morning since he was six years old. his movements are fluid, economical, almost lazy. marco is passionate but sloppy, drunk and reckless, all wild swings and aggression with no skill behind it.
suguru disarms him in four moves. parry, riposte, twist, strike. marco's sword goes flying, clatters across the stones with a sound like breaking glass, skitters to a stop near someone's feet. and suguru's blade is at marco's throat—not touching, just resting there, the threat implicit and absolute.
"yield," suguru says, and there's pleading in his voice now, desperation. "just yield. go home. sleep it off. this doesn't have to—"
marco spits in his face.
the glob of saliva hits suguru's cheek, runs down toward his jaw. suguru's eyes widen—shock and disgust and something like sorrow all mixed together.
and marco reaches for the dagger hidden in his boot.
everything slows down.
you see suguru's eyes track the movement. see the exact moment he registers the glint of steel, understands what's happening. see him make the calculation—back away and risk the knife, or—
see him react on pure instinct, muscle memory from a thousand training sessions, the thing his body knows to do when someone pulls a blade while you have them at swordpoint—
his blade moves almost too fast to follow. a silver flash in the afternoon sun. a sound like tearing fabric.
and your brother drops.
marco falls to the stones with a sound like a sack of grain hitting the ground—heavy, final, wrong. not the way people fall in stories. no grace. no dignity. just meat and bone hitting marble with a wet, meaty thud that echoes off the surrounding buildings.
blood spreads across the ancient piazza stones, dark and thick and impossible to look away from. so much blood. you didn't know bodies held so much blood.
no. no, this isn't happening. this is a nightmare. this is some fever dream you'll wake up from. this is—
you're screaming.
you don't realize you're screaming until your throat is raw, until the sound is tearing out of you like something physical being ripped from your chest. hands are pulling you back—someone's arms around your waist, lifting you off your feet—but you fight them, kicking and clawing because you need to get to marco, need to—
your mother appears beside you, and she's making a sound you've never heard before. not crying. not wailing. something animal and inhuman, a keening that rises and falls like wind through empty corridors, like the sound grief makes when it's too big for the human throat to contain.
marco's eyes are already glazed, already empty, already staring at the sky without seeing it. his mouth hangs open slightly. a fly lands on his lips, and he doesn't blink, doesn't twitch, doesn't move at all because there's no one left inside that body to care about flies or anything else.
your brother is dead.
killed by satoru's best friend.
someone is pulling suguru away—guards, finally arriving, too late as always. he's not resisting. just staring at marco's body with horror on his face, with his hands shaking, with blood on his blade dripping onto the stones—drip, drip, drip—like a clock counting down the seconds until everything falls apart completely.
you want to tell him it's not his fault. want to scream that marco attacked him, that it was self-defense, that he had no choice.
but your throat won't work. your voice is gone, shredded from screaming. you can only stand there, held back by servants' arms, watching your father try to resurrect a corpse through sheer force of will, watching your mother keen and rock and tear at her hair like grief made flesh.
somewhere in the back of your mind, behind the shock and horror, a small cold voice whispers:
this is it. this is the moment everything becomes inevitable. this is the stone starting to roll down the mountain, and nothing—nothing—will stop it now.
you don't remember getting home. the next moment you're in your family's palazzo, and marco is laid out on the dining table like a piece of meat at market.
not a person. not your brother. just meat that used to be someone.
they've closed his eyes, at least. someone had the presence of mind to do that—probably your mother, her hands shaking as she pressed his eyelids down, as she tried to make him look like he was sleeping instead of dead. but it doesn't work. death has a weight to it, a stillness that sleep can never match.
there's still blood on his shirt. dark and dried at the edges, still wet in the middle where the wound is. where suguru's blade went in. clean. precise. right through the heart. a good kill, if there is such a thing. quick. probably didn't hurt much. probably marco was dead before he hit the ground.
you should feel something about that. relief, maybe, that he didn't suffer. but you feel nothing. just this strange, cold numbness that makes everything seem distant and unreal, like you're watching this happen to someone else.
servants move around you, efficient and practiced. death is common enough in venice—plague, drowning, violence, infection. every family knows the rituals. they bring water to wash the body. bring clean clothes—marco's best doublet, the one he wore to festivals, the one he was so proud of because it was silk from the east and cost more than most people earned in a year.
three days. you'll bury your brother in three days. put him in the family tomb with your grandparents and great-grandparents and all the ancestors who clawed their way from nothing to nobility through trade and ambition and ruthless determination.
marco would hate that. would hate being locked in the dark with dead merchants when he spent his whole life trying to prove he was better than that, worthy of the nobility your family bought, deserving of respect.
but marco doesn't get a choice anymore. dead people don't.
your father stands in the corner, staring at nothing. his hands are still covered in marco's blood—dried now, flaking off in rust-colored pieces. he hasn't washed them. hasn't moved. just stands there staring at the wall like if he looks long enough, hard enough, he'll see something that makes sense of this.
"the gojos," he finally says. his voice is flat, empty, terrifying in its lack of emotion. "the gojos killed my son."
"it was self-defense," someone says—one of the servants who witnessed it, brave or foolish enough to speak. "marco drew first, signore. he attacked with the dagger after he'd been disarmed. the geto boy had no choice—"
"the gojos killed my son."
the servant flinches back. goes quiet. no one speaks after that.
your father walks to the table where marco lies. looks down at his heir, his son, his hope for the future. touches marco's cold cheek with one blood-stained hand.
"they took you from me," he whispers. "they took you, and they'll pay. every one of them. starting with the boy who did this."
"father—" you start, but he cuts you off with a look.
"go to your room."
"father, please, if we just—"
"go to your room."
you go.
what else can you do? your brother is dead on the table. your father is planning revenge. your mother is washing a corpse. and you—
you're married to the best friend of your brother's killer.
you're married to satoru gojo, whose family your father just vowed to destroy.
you're married, and your brother is dead, and somewhere in venice, satoru doesn't know yet. doesn't know that his best friend just killed your brother. doesn't know that everything he's been building, every alliance he's made, every careful plan—all of it just collapsed.
you make it to your room before you start shaking. before the numbness cracks and something else floods in—not grief, not yet, but horror. the understanding of what just happened. what it means.
marco is dead. suguru killed him. your father will want revenge. satoru will protect his friend. and you—
you're caught in the middle. married to one side. born to the other. loving a boy whose best friend just made you an orphan of a brother.
there's no way this ends well. no way this ends in anything but more blood, more death, more bodies laid out like meat on dining tables while families wash them and dress them and pretend that love and care can somehow make up for the violence that killed them.
you think about satoru. about the way he smiled this morning after the ceremony, so absolutely certain that everything would work out. about the way he held you and whispered about your future—children and travel and a life built on love instead of hatred.
about the way he promised, again and again, that he never fails at things that matter.
but he's about to fail. you can feel it. can feel the future collapsing like a building with its foundations cut away, everything that seemed solid and certain suddenly crumbling into dust.
your brother is dead. and with him, so is every hope you had for a happy ending.
he comes to your window at midnight.
of course he does. it's tuesday—your night. the garden is waiting. he probably spent the day thinking about you, counting the hours until he can hold you again, completely oblivious to the catastrophe that's unfolding.
you hear the familiar scratching. the soft tap-tap-tap that means he's climbing the trellis. the sound that's meant joy and anticipation for three months now.
tonight, it sounds like a death knell.
you don't want to open the window. don't want to see him. don't want to watch his face when you tell him what happened, watch the joy bleed out of him, watch him realize that his best friend killed your brother and everything is ruined.
but you open it anyway. because he's your husband. because you love him. because someone has to tell him, and it should be you.
he's grinning when you open the window—that beautiful, cocky grin that makes him look like a boy, like someone who's never known real loss or consequence. he's dressed in his usual dark clothes for climbing, hair disheveled from the wind, eyes bright with anticipation.
"there's my wife," he says, and the word still makes him smile like he can't believe his luck. "i've been dying all day. do you know how hard it is to focus on council meetings when all i can think about is—"
he stops. sees your face properly in the moonlight. the grin dies.
"what's wrong?" he's through the window in an instant, hands on your face, tilting it toward what little light there is. "what happened? are you hurt? did your father—"
"my brother's dead."
the words come out flat, emotionless. you sound like your father did. like something's broken inside you and all the feeling has leaked out.
satoru goes very still. "what?"
"marco. my brother. he's dead. killed this afternoon in the piazza san marco." you can hear your own voice like it's coming from far away, like someone else is speaking and you're just listening. "suguru killed him."
"no." satoru shakes his head. "no, that's—there must be a mistake. suguru wouldn't—"
"there's no mistake." you step back from his touch, wrap your arms around yourself. "i was there. i saw it. marco challenged him to a duel. suguru disarmed him. marco pulled a knife. suguru killed him. he's dead, satoru. my brother is dead."
satoru staggers back like you've hit him. his hand comes up to his chest, pressing against his heart like it hurts. "no. no, this can't—suguru wouldn't—"
"he did."
"it must have been self-defense," satoru says, and there's desperation in his voice now. "marco attacked him, you said so yourself. suguru was protecting himself. anyone would have—"
"my father doesn't care." you're surprised at how steady your voice is. how calm you sound when inside you're screaming. "my father says the gojos killed his son. he's planning revenge. he's—" your voice finally cracks. "he's going to kill suguru. maybe you too. he just wants blood."
"i can fix this." satoru's eyes are wild now, frantic. "i can talk to him. i can explain. i can—"
"you can't fix this."
"yes, i can!" he's almost shouting, then catches himself, lowers his voice to a harsh whisper. "i always fix things. this is just another problem, another obstacle. i'll talk to the doge. i'll get witnesses to testify that it was self-defense. i'll—"
"satoru." you grab his hands, force him to look at you. "my brother is dead. your best friend killed him. there's no fixing this."
"don't say that." his hands are shaking in yours. "don't say that. there's always a way. i just need to think. i just need—"
he breaks off, runs a hand through his hair, paces to your window and back. you can see his mind racing, see him trying to find a solution, trying to see a future where this works out. but for the first time since you've known him, his eyes look lost. uncertain. afraid.
"we're married," he finally says. "that has to count for something. we're already bound together. if i can just get our fathers to listen, to see that we're trying to end this feud—"
"they won't listen." tears run down your face in hot tracks. "don't you understand? my father just lost his son. your family killed him. he doesn't care about our marriage. he doesn't know about our marriage. and if he finds out—" you can't even finish the thought. can't imagine what your father will do if he discovers you've been married to a gojo this whole time, married to the family that just killed marco.
"then we run." satoru's back to you in an instant, gripping your shoulders. "tonight. right now. we leave venice. go to rome, to florence, somewhere they can't reach us. start over. build a life somewhere else."
"and let our families destroy each other?" you shake your head. "let venice bleed while we run away?"
"i don't care about venice!" he's almost wild now, desperate. "i care about you. about us. about keeping you safe. your father is planning revenge—do you think he'll spare you once he finds out about us? do you think he'll care that you're his daughter when he sees that ring on your finger?"
you look down at your hand. at the gold band with its inscription: amor vincit omnia. love conquers all. what a lie that's turning out to be.
"we can't run," you say quietly. "you know we can't. you've spent three months building alliances, making plans, preparing venice to accept our marriage. if we run now, all of that is wasted. and worse—our families will go to war. real war. not just legal battles and trade disputes but blood war. people will die."
"people are already dying!" satoru's voice breaks. "your brother is dead. and if your father gets his way, suguru will be next. and then—" he can't finish. can't say what comes after.
you both know what comes after. you've known from the beginning. known from the moment you met in that garden and fell in love despite every reason not to.
"i need to go to suguru," satoru says finally. "i need to warn him. make sure he's safe. your father might send assassins tonight, might not even wait for daylight." he's already moving toward the window. "stay here. don't do anything. don't tell anyone about our marriage. not yet. just—give me a few days. let me figure this out."
"satoru—"
he's back to you in an instant, pulling you into a crushing embrace. "i can fix this," he whispers into your hair, and he sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as you. "i swear i can fix this. i just need time. i just need to think. my eyes see the futures—i just need to find the right one, the one where we all survive this."
"what if there isn't one?"
"there is." his grip tightens. "there has to be. i didn't find you just to lose you. i didn't make you my wife just to watch this destroy us. i won't accept a future where we don't end up together. i won't."
he kisses you—desperate, fierce, tasting like salt and fear. then he's gone, climbing back down your wall, disappearing into the venetian night.
you stand at your window long after he's gone, the ring heavy on your finger, your brother dead downstairs, and the terrible certainty growing in your chest that satoru's confidence—his absolute belief that he can fix anything, control anything, bend fate itself to his will—is about to get him killed.
and you can't do anything to stop it.
your father doesn't wait for daylight.
you learn this the next morning when your mother wakes you, her face grey as old parchment, her hands shaking so badly she can barely hold the candle she's carrying.
"they're saying terrible things," she whispers. "in the streets. the servants are talking. your father—oh god, your father—"
"what did he do?"
but you already know. can see it in her face. in the way she can't meet your eyes. in the way her hands won't stop shaking.
"he hired men," she says, and her voice is barely audible. "last night. three men. professionals. he paid them in gold—so much gold—and he told them—" she chokes on the words. "he told them to kill the gojo heir. not the geto boy. not the one who actually—he wants satoru. an eye for an eye. a son for a son."
the world tilts. "no." you're on your feet, not remembering standing. "no, mother, he can't—we have to stop him—"
"it's already done." her voice is hollow, dead. "the men left last night. they're probably already—" she can't finish. just stands there with tears running down her face, this woman who raised you, who taught you to embroider and manage a household and be a good daughter.
you don't remember leaving your room. don't remember running down the stairs, through the palazzo, out into the street. you just run, your feet carrying you without conscious thought toward the gojo palazzo, toward satoru, toward the disaster you can feel coming like a storm on the horizon.
you have to warn him. have to reach him before—you're still three streets away from the gojo palazzo when you hear the screams.
the alley near the rialto bridge is narrow, dark even in the growing morning light. the kind of place where bodies turn up sometimes, floaters in the canal or corpses with knives in their backs, and everyone just shrugs and says that's venice, that's what happens when you're not careful.
you push through the crowd that's already gathering—morbid curiosity draws people like flies to carrion—and your heart is hammering so hard you think it might burst through your ribs.
please not satoru. please god not satoru. anyone but—it's not satoru.
it's suguru.
he's lying in a spreading pool of blood, his sword still in his hand, and around him are three bodies—three men in dark clothes, professionals by the look of them, assassins who probably thought this would be easy money. kill one boy. collect gold. go home.
they didn't expect suguru geto to be good enough to take three trained killers with him. but he's dying. you can see it in the grey color of his skin, in the way his breathing is shallow and rattling, in the amount of blood that's turned the cobblestones slick and black. there's a wound in his side—deep, mortal, already swelling with poison from the blade that made it.
suguru's eyes are open, staring at the brightening sky, and his lips are moving in what might be prayer or might just be the last random firing of a dying brain.
someone is holding him. cradling him. a young man with white hair and eyes that are—satoru.
he's covered in blood. it's all over his hands—coating his fingers, his palms, pooling in the creases of his knuckles, dark and wet and still warm. it's splattered across his face in fine droplets, like someone flicked a brush dipped in crimson paint. he's pressing his hands to the wound in suguru's side—pressing hard enough that his arms are shaking with the effort, hard enough that more blood wells up between his fingers, but he keeps pressing anyway.
"no," satoru is saying, over and over like a prayer, like a denial, like a mantra that will ward off reality if he just repeats it enough times. "no, you're not dying. you're not. i won't let you. suguru, look at me. look at me. you're going to be fine. you're going to—"
"satoru." suguru's voice is wet, bubbling, like he's talking through water. blood on his lips—bright red at first, then darker as it mixes with saliva. "stop. it's—over." each word costs him. you can see it in the way his chest hitches, in the way his eyes squeeze shut with pain between syllables.
"no." satoru's voice breaks completely, cracks down the middle like ice under too much weight. "no, it's not over. i'm getting a doctor. i'm—" he looks around wildly, like a doctor might materialize from the gathered crowd, like someone might step forward with a miracle. "someone get a doctor! now! i'll pay anything—anything—"
"too late." suguru coughs, and more blood comes up—dark and thick, almost black. it dribbles down his chin, stains his teeth. "poison. on the blade. i can—feel it. burning."
and you can see it's true. see the way sweat is beading on suguru's forehead despite the morning chill. see the grey tinge spreading across his skin like mold. see the way his pupils are dilating and contracting irregularly, his body fighting a battle it's already lost.
"then i'll find an antidote. i'll—" satoru is frantic now, his eyes scanning suguru's body like he can diagnose the poison just by looking, like his infinite vision can somehow see the solution if he just looks hard enough. "what poison? what does it feel like? burning where—"
"satoru." suguru's hand comes up—shaking so badly his fingers blur, making three attempts before they finally catch satoru's sleeve. his grip is weak, barely there, nothing like the strength that held a sword an hour ago. "listen. your father—told me. about the girl. the merchant's daughter. he knows—you've been meeting her. he's—" another cough, more violent this time. more blood, spattering across satoru's chest. "he's going to—stop you. force you to—marry someone else. to forget—"
"i don't care." tears cutting clean tracks through the blood on his face, making him look like he's weeping red. "i don't care about any of that. none of it matters. just hold on. please. you're my brother. you're—i can't—i don't know how to do this without you—"
"you can." suguru's smile is terrible—lips pulled back over bloody teeth, more grimace than grin, full of sadness and acceptance and the kind of peace that only comes when you stop fighting. "you always could. that's why—you're going to survive this. going to—find a way. you always do."
"not without you." satoru's hands are cupping suguru's face now, leaving bloody handprints on his cheeks, tilting his head up like he can force him to stay through sheer will. "not without you. you're my—you're the only one who—"
"especially without me." suguru's breathing is getting shallower, more labored. each breath sounds like it's being pulled through broken glass. "i was—holding you back. making you—careful. making you—kind." his eyes focus on satoru's face with effort, like it's getting harder to see. "now you can—" he coughs again, violent enough that his whole body convulses, arching up off the cobblestones. blood pours from his mouth, running down both sides of his face. "now you can be—who you're meant to be."
"please." satoru is begging, this boy who never begs, who commands and cajoles and convinces but never, ever begs. his voice is raw, desperate, breaking on every word. "please don't leave me. i need you. i can't do this alone. i don't know how to do this alone. you're—you're my brother. you're the only person who ever—" he can't finish. just holds suguru tighter, like if he holds hard enough death won't be able to take him.
"yes you do." suguru's eyes are starting to glaze, the dark brown going flat and dull like stones that have been underwater too long. "tell her—your wife—tell her i'm sorry. about her brother. tell her—it was supposed to be—first blood. not—" he can't finish. blood fills his mouth, bubbles up over his lips, runs down his chin in thick streams.
"suguru. suguru, please—" satoru is shaking him now, gentle at first, then harder, like he can wake him from sleep, like this is just a nightmare they can both wake up from. "don't. don't you dare. you don't get to die. i forbid it. do you hear me? i—"
but suguru's eyes are already empty. already gone. the light in them extinguishes like a candle being snuffed, there one moment and absent the next. his hand falls from satoru's sleeve—just drops, suddenly boneless—and hits the cobblestones with a sound like finality, like the last note of a song you'll never hear again. a small sound. the sound of everything ending.
he pulls suguru's body against his chest and just holds him, rocking slightly, back and forth, back and forth, like soothing a child. his hands are in suguru's hair, cradling his head, and he's making that sound continuously now—keening like a wounded animal, high and broken and terrible.
his best friend. his brother. his conscience and his courage and the only person who ever called him on his arrogance, who made him laugh when he was being too serious, who understood what it was like to be trapped by your own abilities, by your own power, by your own name.
you try to go to him. try to push through the crowd, to reach your husband, to offer comfort or apology or something, anything, to share his grief because it's partly yours too—suguru who smiled at you in the garden, who teased you gently, who promised to stand witness at your wedding when you could do it properly, when you could tell the world.
but someone grabs your arm. fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, yanking you backward. one of your father's servants, his grip iron-hard, his face carefully blank.
"your father wants you home," he hisses in your ear, breath hot and stinking of onions. "now. before anyone sees you here. before anyone asks questions about why the merchant's daughter is running toward a dead geto."
"let me go—" you try to pull free but his grip tightens, his other hand coming up to grab your other arm, turning you forcibly away from the scene.
"home. now." his voice drops lower, threatening. "unless you want him to know you were running to warn the gojo heir? unless you want to explain why you're so concerned about his friend's death?"
you stop struggling. go cold. because he's right. your father can't know. can't suspect. can't discover that you're married to satoru or everything—everything—will get so much worse.
you look back at satoru one more time.
he's still holding suguru, still rocking, blood is soaking into his clothes, pooling around his knees on the cobblestones, but he doesn't seem to notice. doesn't seem to see anything except suguru's empty face.
the servant drags you away, one hand clamped around your upper arm, the other pushing people out of the way. you don't fight. what would be the point? suguru is dead. nothing will change that.
satoru will never forgive you. how could he? your brother killed his best friend. your father killed his brother. every death leads back to your family, to the feud, to the hatred that's older than you are and stronger than any love you thought you had. every corpse can be traced back to your door, to your blood.
by the time you get home, your father is awake. he's at the breakfast table, eating bread and cheese like it's an ordinary morning, like he didn't just hire assassins to murder a boy, like suguru geto isn't lying dead in an alley because of gold he paid.
he's celebrating.
"good," he says when he sees you. "you're awake. the geto boy is dead. justice for marco." he takes a bite of cheese, chews thoughtfully. "i would have preferred the gojo heir himself, but this sends a message."
"you're a monster," you whisper.
he looks at you mildly, but his knuckles are white around his wine cup. "i'm a father who lost his son. there's a difference."
"no, there's not. marco attacked first. everyone saw—"
"careful." his voice drops, goes cold. "you're very close to making me question your loyalty."
you bite your tongue. taste hints of copper.
"go to your room," your father says dismissively. "count nanami is coming this afternoon to discuss the wedding. we'll move the date forward—next week, perhaps."
his voice catches slightly. just slightly. the first crack in his armor. "now that we need the alliance more than ever."
you go to your room. lock the door with shaking hands. sit on your bed and stare at the ring on your finger. the gold catches the morning light coming through your window. the inscription is still there, still promising: amor vincit omnia. love conquers all.
he comes for your uncle that same night.
you learn about it the next morning, when the whole city is talking about it, when the scandal has spread through venice like wildfire, when even your locked room can't keep out the whispers and gasps and horrified speculation.
satoru gojo walked into the tavern near the arsenale where your uncle—your father's brother, the one who actually hired the assassins, who handed over the gold and gave them suguru's description—was drinking with his friends. walked in broad daylight, not even hiding, his sword already drawn.
"you killed him," satoru said. just that. nothing else. no preamble, no negotiation, no chance for your uncle to explain or defend or beg.
then he attacked. the fight was brutal. quick. your uncle was good with a blade—had to be, growing up in a merchant family trying to claw their way to nobility—but satoru was better. faster. and absolutely, completely beyond reason.
the witnesses say he moved like something possessed. like rage made flesh. like every ounce of his considerable skill and power was focused on a single purpose: making your uncle bleed. and he did.
your uncle died on the tavern floor, sword in hand, fighting to the last. honorable, at least. quick. cleaner than marco got. cleaner than suguru got.
but still dead. still another body to add to the count. still another death that leads back to this cursed feud.
the guards came, of course. arrested satoru right there, blood still on his blade, your uncle's body still warm at his feet. he didn't resist. didn't fight. just let them bind his hands and lead him away, his eyes empty, his face expressionless.
the doge himself intervened within hours. took one look at the situation—a gojo heir killing a merchant's brother in broad daylight with witnesses, marco's death two days ago, suguru's death yesterday, venice balanced on the edge of open war—and made a judgment.
banishment. effective immediately. satoru gojo has three days to settle his affairs and leave venice. if he returns, it's death.
it's a political solution. brilliant, really. the gojos keep their heir—alive, at least, even if exiled. your family gets justice—the boy who killed your uncle is gone, banished, branded a murderer. and venice avoids open warfare between two powerful houses that could tear the city apart.
that's the end of every dream you had. because satoru is leaving. being forced out of venice, away from you, away from the life you were supposed to build together. your marriage—secret, unconsummated, legally binding but practically meaningless—will die with distance and time and the impossibility of maintaining a relationship when one of you is exiled and the other is being married off to someone else.
your father announces your wedding date that same afternoon: two weeks from today. count nanami, kind and patient and utterly oblivious to the fact that you're already married, accepts with gratitude. he's getting a good deal—a wife with a generous dowry, a family desperate enough for the alliance that they won't quibble over terms, and a girl too broken by grief and circumstance to resist.
you say nothing. sign nothing. just nod when expected and retreat to your room when permitted. your brother is dead. your husband killed your uncle and is being exiled. your father is planning your wedding to another man. and you—
you're just a piece on a board, being moved around by people who don't know and don't care that you're already spoken for, already bound, already breaking into pieces that will never fit back together properly.
that night, he comes to your window one last time.
you almost don't open it. almost pretend to be asleep, pretend you don't hear the familiar scratching, pretend this is all a nightmare you can wake up from if you just try hard enough.
but you open it. because he's your husband. because you love him. because this might be the last time you ever see him, and you can't—won't—let him leave without saying goodbye.
he looks terrible. there are shadows under his eyes like bruises. his face is haggard, aged years in days. his hair is disheveled, his clothes wrinkled, and when he climbs through your window, he moves like an old man, like someone who's been broken and hasn't quite healed right.
"i killed your uncle," he says immediately, before you can speak. "i'm sorry. i know that makes this worse. i know it makes me a monster in your eyes. but he killed suguru, and i—" his voice breaks. "i couldn't let that stand. i couldn't. suguru was my brother, and your uncle murdered him, and i—"
"i know." your voice is dull, lifeless. "i heard. everyone's heard. you're banished."
"three days." he laughs, and it's a bitter, broken sound. "three days to settle my affairs. as if i have affairs to settle. as if anything matters anymore except—" he stops. looks at you properly for the first time. "you're getting married."
"two weeks," you confirm. "to count nanami. my father moved the date forward."
"no." satoru shakes his head. "no, you're already married. to me. you're my wife. you can't—"
"i can." you hold up your hand, show him the ring. then slowly, deliberately, you take it off. "i can and i will because there's no other choice. you're leaving. i'm staying. our marriage was a dream, satoru. a beautiful, stupid dream. and now we're waking up."
"don't." he's across the room in an instant, grabbing your hands, the ring pressed between your palms. "don't do this. don't give up. we can still—"
"still what?" you laugh, and it comes out sharp, cruel. "still run away together? still live happily ever after? satoru, open your eyes. look at what we've done. marco is dead. suguru is dead. my uncle is dead. how many more people have to die before you admit that this—us—was a mistake from the beginning?"
"it wasn't a mistake." his grip tightens. "it was never a mistake. i love you. you love me. that's real. that's true. that's—"
"that's not enough!" you're shouting, all the grief and rage and horror of the past days pouring out in words. "love isn't enough! it was never going to be enough! you said you could fix this. you promised me you'd make it work. you were so sure, so absolutely certain that your plans would succeed, that you could control everything—"
"i know." his voice is hollow. "i know. i failed. i failed you, i failed suguru, i failed everyone. my eyes showed me futures but i was too arrogant to see the right one, too convinced i could force reality to match my vision. and now suguru is dead because of me. your brother, your uncle, all of it—because i thought i could—" he can't finish. just stands there, broken, this boy who never failed at anything until he failed at everything that mattered.
you want to comfort him. want to take it back, take all of it back, tell him it's not his fault, that you love him, that you'll find a way.
but you can't. because it is his fault. partly. just as it's partly yours for going along with it, for believing him, for thinking love could conquer what centuries of hatred had built.
"i'll come back," he says finally. "the banishment—i'll find a way around it. i'll get the doge to revoke it. i'll—"
"don't." you step back from him, from his touch, from the impossible hope in his eyes. "don't come back. don't risk your life trying to fix this. just—go. live. find someone else. forget about me."
"i'll never forget you." he says it like a vow. "i'll die first. i'll wait for you. however long it takes. i'll—"
"i'm marrying count nanami in two weeks."
the words hit him like a physical blow. you watch him stagger, watch his face crumple, watch something in him break so completely you can almost hear it shatter.
"you don't mean that," he whispers.
"i do." you force yourself to say it, to hurt him, to drive him away. because if he leaves thinking there's hope, he'll come back. he'll try to fix it. he'll get himself killed. "i'm going to marry nanami, and i'm going to forget this ever happened, and you're going to go to mantua or wherever they're sending you and you're going to live your life."
"i can't live without you."
"yes, you can." tears running hot down your face. "you can because you have to. because the alternative is more death, more blood, more bodies piled up in the name of a love that was doomed from the start."
he just stares at you. and in his infinite eyes, you see the exact moment something inside him dies. the hope. the certainty. the faith that everything would work out because he willed it so.
it dies, and what's left is just a boy who lost his best friend and is losing his wife and doesn't understand how the universe could be this cruel.
"i love you," he says one more time. "i will always love you. and if you marry him—if you go through with this—i won't survive it. do you understand? i will not survive a world where you exist and i can't have you."
"you'll survive." your voice is hard, cold, cruel because it has to be. "you're satoru gojo. you survive everything."
he flinches like you've slapped him. then he's gone. out the window, down the trellis, disappearing into the venetian night. you stand at your window long after he's gone, the ring burning in your palm like it's on fire.
amor vincit omnia. love conquers all.
you throw the ring across the room. it hits the wall with a small, pathetic clink and falls to the floor. just metal. just words. just another lie.
satoru is halfway to mantua when everything goes wrong.
not dramatically. not with fire or blood or any of the theatrical disasters he might have anticipated. just quietly. mundanely. the way the world usually breaks—through small failures, through bad timing, through the universe's casual indifference to human suffering.
brother benedetto sends his message on a tuesday evening. gives it to a trusted courier—a young monk named pietro who's made the journey to mantua dozens of times. the letter is sealed, marked urgent, contains detailed instructions about the poison, the timing, the tomb.
pietro makes it forty miles before his horse throws a shoe. he stops at a farrier. waits three hours for the repair. gets back on the road.
twenty miles later, it starts to rain. not a gentle summer shower. a deluge. the kind of storm that turns roads into rivers, that makes travel impossible, that forces pietro to take shelter in a barn with his horse and wait for it to pass.
by the time pietro reaches mantua, he's two days behind schedule. two days late with a message about a woman who will appear to die, who will be buried, who will wake up alone if her husband doesn't come for her in time.
he rides straight to the address brother benedetto provided—a small house on the outskirts of the city where satoru is supposedly staying.
the house is empty. satoru left three days ago. couldn't bear it anymore—the exile, the distance, the knowledge that you were marrying someone else. he's been moving from inn to inn, town to town, drinking and grieving and slowly losing his mind.
pietro searches. asks at taverns, at churches, at every inn in the city. but mantua is large, and satoru is using a false name, and no one has seen a young man with white hair and unsettling eyes.
after two days of searching, pietro returns to venice. he finds brother benedetto in the church, praying.
"i couldn't find him," pietro says, and his voice shakes with the weight of what this means. "i searched everywhere. he's not at the address you gave. no one knows where he is."
brother benedetto's face goes grey. "did you leave the message?"
"with whom? there's no one there. the house is empty. he's gone."
the monk closes his eyes. makes the sign of the cross. and begins to pray in earnest—the kind of prayer that sounds like begging, like bargaining with god for something you know you don't deserve but need anyway.
because you're going to drink the poison tomorrow night. you're going to appear to die. they're going to put you in the tomb.
and satoru—satoru doesn't know. has no idea. is somewhere in northern italy drowning in grief and wine, completely unaware that you're about to risk everything on a plan he hasn't been told about.
satoru is in verona when the darkness really takes hold.
he's been drinking for three days straight—not steadily, but methodically. trying to find the exact amount of alcohol that will make him stop seeing suguru's face. that will make him stop thinking about you in count nanami's bed. that will make the world blur enough that he can't see all the futures anymore.
his eyes—his cursed, blessed, unbearable eyes—show him everything. every probability. every outcome. every future branching and re-branching into infinite possibility.
in every single one of them, he's alone. he sees himself at thirty—successful, powerful, wealthy, surrounded by people who want things from him. alone. at forty—respected, feared, influential. alone. at fifty, sixty, seventy. building empires. making history. changing the world.
alone. alone. alone.
because you're not there. you're in venice, married to count nanami, having his children, living a life that doesn't include satoru except maybe as a memory, a story you tell yourself late at night when you can't sleep: i almost ran away once. with a boy. he had the strangest eyes.
the alcohol helps. not much, but enough. enough that the futures blur together, become indistinct, stop mattering so much. he's in a different tavern now—or maybe the same one, he's not sure anymore, they all look identical—when the second messenger finds him.
five days after pietro's failed attempt. five days of brother benedetto desperately sending more messengers, more letters, trying every possible contact he has to locate the gojo heir.
this messenger is more persistent. asks at every tavern, every inn, every gambling house. describes a young man with white hair and blue eyes who looks like he's slowly dying.
someone recognizes the description.
"gojo? yeah, he's at the crooked crown. has been for days. drunk as a lord, spending money like water. owner's about to throw him out."
the messenger finds him slumped over a table, empty wine bottles scattered around him like casualties. his clothes are filthy. his hair is lank and unwashed. he looks like he hasn't slept in days. probably hasn't.
"signore gojo?"
satoru doesn't look up. "go away."
"i have a message. from brother benedetto in venice. he says it's urgent."
"signore, please. he said—he said it concerns your wife."
that gets his attention.
satoru's head snaps up. his eyes—even drunk, even exhausted, even dying—are still too bright, still unsettling. "what about her?"
the messenger hands him the letter.
satoru breaks the seal with shaking hands. the paper is wrinkled, stained with wine. he has to read it three times before the words make sense through the alcohol haze.
she's going to drink the poison. she'll appear dead. you need to come for her. she's trusting you.
the date at the top of the letter: six days ago. six days.
the wedding was supposed to be—when? tomorrow? today? time has become liquid, meaningless. he's lost track of the days.
"what's today?" he demands, grabbing the messenger's arm. "what day is it?"
"saturday, signore."
saturday.
your wedding was friday. yesterday.
which means you drank the poison thursday night. you've been in the tomb for—he's on his feet, suddenly, violently sober. "i need a horse. the fastest horse you can find. i need—" he's pulling out money, throwing coins on the table. "whatever it costs. i need to get to venice. now."
"signore, it's too late—"
"it's not too late." he's shouting now, wild, desperate. "it's not—she's waiting for me. she's in the tomb and she's waiting and i promised—i promised i wouldn't fail her again."
the messenger looks at him with pity. "signore. the poison—brother benedetto said it lasts forty-eight hours at most. if she drank it thursday night—"
"no." satoru shakes his head. refuses to accept it. refuses to see that future. "no, she's stronger than that. she'll last longer. she's waiting for me. she knows i'll come. she—"
but even as he says it, his eyes are showing him the truth. showing him you in the tomb. in the dark. waking up alone. realizing he's not coming. trying to open the door from the inside, but it's sealed too well, locked from the outside, and the air is already running out.
showing him you screaming. clawing at the stone. bleeding. breaking your fingernails trying to escape. showing him you going quiet. still. cold. actually dead this time, not pretend dead, but really truly finally dead because he didn't get the message in time, because he was drowning in self-pity and wine while you were suffocating in the dark.
"no," he whispers. then louder, "no."
he runs. out of the tavern, through the streets of verona, toward the stables. he doesn't have time to buy a horse properly, doesn't have time for negotiations or paperwork. he just takes one—vaults onto its back and kicks it into a gallop.
the stableman shouts after him. "thief! horse thief!" but satoru is already gone, riding like a man possessed toward venice, toward you, toward the tomb where you're either waiting or already dead.
the journey should take two days. satoru makes it in one.
he rides straight through, changing horses three times, stealing when he has to, buying when he can. he doesn't eat. doesn't sleep. doesn't stop for anything. his mind won't shut up. won't stop calculating. won't stop showing him futures. in one, he arrives in time. you're weak, dehydrated, terrified, but alive. he gets you out. you run together. you survive.
in another, he's too late by minutes. he opens the tomb and finds you still warm, freshly dead, and he— he won't look at that future. refuses. forces his eyes away from that probability no matter how insistently it appears.
but it keeps appearing. again and again. the most likely outcome. the one his cursed gift keeps showing him with brutal clarity. he's too late. you're already dead. and it's his fault.
his horse starts to flag around midnight. he pushes it harder. harder. until it's foaming at the mouth, stumbling, about to collapse. he switches horses at a farm. doesn't ask. just takes one from the stable and leaves his exhausted mount in exchange. the new horse is faster. a young stallion, barely broken, half-wild. perfect.
they fly through the night. through villages and forests and over bridges, the horse's hooves striking sparks from the stones. satoru's hands are bleeding—clenched so tight on the reins that his nails have cut his palms. his thighs are raw from riding. his whole body screams in protest.
he doesn't care. doesn't feel it. there's only one thought in his head, one prayer repeating endlessly:
hold on. please hold on. i'm coming. i'm coming. just hold on a little longer.
dawn breaks when he's still hours from venice. he watches the sun rise—beautiful, indifferent, illuminating a world that's about to lose you—and something in him breaks completely.
he starts talking to you. out loud. like you can hear him across the miles. "i'm coming," he says to the morning air, to the road ahead, to the universe that's proven it doesn't care. "i'm coming and you're going to be fine. you're going to wait for me because you're strong, because you're stubborn, because you promised to be my wife and i promised to come for you and we keep our promises."
the horse's ears flick back, listening to this mad rambling. "you're going to be so angry with me," satoru continues, and he's almost laughing now, hysteria creeping into his voice. "you're going to yell at me for being late. you're going to tell me i'm an arrogant fool who thinks the world revolves around him. and you'll be right. you're always right. even when you're wrong, you're right."
the sun climbs higher. venice gets closer. time is running out. "but you're going to forgive me," he says, and now he's crying again, tears streaming down his face, mixing with sweat and dirt. "because you love me. because we're married. because we're supposed to have fifty years together, not just three months. we're supposed to have children—three of them, remember? with my eyes and your intelligence. we're supposed to grow old together. we're supposed to—"
his voice breaks. "you're supposed to live," he whispers. "you're supposed to live and i'm supposed to save you and this is supposed to work out because i never fail at things that matter and you matter more than anything in the world and i can't—i won't—"
but his eyes are showing him the truth. the probability growing stronger with every passing hour. the most likely future. the one he's racing toward.
you're already dead. the poison wore off hours ago. you woke up in the dark. you waited. you called his name. you tried to escape. and when you realized he wasn't coming—when you understood that he'd failed you one last time—you accepted it.
lay back down in the dark. closed your eyes. let the air run out. died thinking he'd abandoned you. died alone. died believing the boy who promised to never fail you again had done exactly that.
"no," satoru says through his tears, through his desperation, through the terrible certainty that he's already lost you. "no, you're alive. you're waiting. you're—"
but he doesn't believe it anymore. he can feel it. the way you know sometimes, the way the universe whispers its truths to those unfortunate enough to be paying attention. you're gone.
and he's racing toward your corpse, toward another failure, toward the moment when he'll have to see your face one last time and know that he could have saved you if he'd just gotten the message earlier, if he'd just been less broken, less drunk, less consumed by his own grief that he missed yours entirely.
venice appears on the horizon. beautiful. terrible. waiting. he kicks the horse faster. even though he knows it's too late. even though his eyes are showing him what he'll find. even though he's not riding to save you anymore—he's riding to witness what his failure has wrought.
he reaches venice at noon.
the city is alive with saturday commerce—merchants hawking their wares, gondoliers singing for tourists, the smell of bread and fish and the lagoon's particular salt-rot perfume. life continuing, indifferent to tragedy, the way it always does.
satoru abandons his stolen horse at the edge of the city and runs. through streets he knows by heart. past the rialto where suguru died. through the piazza san marco where marco fell. every stone in this city is soaked in blood, in failure, in the consequences of his arrogance.
he doesn't care who sees him. doesn't care that he's supposed to be exiled, that returning means death. what's death compared to what's waiting in that tomb? what's one more death on top of all the others?
the church of san francesco della vigna rises before him. smaller than the basilicas, quieter, the kind of place people go when they want god to actually hear them instead of just being impressed by architecture.
brother benedetto is in the sanctuary, kneeling before the altar. praying. he's been praying for two days straight—since the moment he realized his message hadn't reached satoru in time, since he understood what he'd enabled, what he'd helped orchestrate.
he hears footsteps behind him. running footsteps. desperate. "brother," satoru gasps. "the tomb. where—"
benedetto turns. his face is grey, aged decades in days. there are tears on his cheeks. "you're too late," he says, and his voice is hollow. empty. "i went down this morning. she—" he can't finish. just shakes his head.
"no." satoru is already moving, toward the back of the church, toward the stairs that lead down, down, down into the crypt. "no, you're wrong. she's alive. she's waiting. she—"
"satoru, please—"
but he's gone. down the stone steps, into the cool darkness, his footsteps echoing off ancient walls. the crypt is old. older than the church above it. older than the feud. older than everything except death itself, which has always been and always will be. family tombs line the walls. stone niches, marble plaques, names and dates marking the passage of generations. the air smells like stone and earth and something else—something sweet and wrong that makes satoru's stomach turn.
your family's tomb is at the far end. newer than the others. the stone doors are heavy, iron-bound, sealed with a lock that's rusted from disuse. the lock is broken. hanging open, the metal twisted, pried apart by someone desperate to get in or out.
satoru's hands are shaking as he pulls the doors open. they groan, resist, haven't been moved in years. but he's strong, desperation makes him stronger, and he forces them wide. the darkness inside is absolute.
he pulls out flint and steel with trembling hands. strikes them once, twice, three times before the spark catches the small candle he carries. the flame gutters, almost dies, then strengthens. the light reveals everything. you're there.
lying on the stone shelf where they placed you. still in your white wedding dress—the one you made for him, for your real wedding, simple and honest and so achingly you that his heart breaks all over again. the jasmine in your hair has wilted. brown and dead and releasing that sweet-sick perfume of decay.
but you—you don't look peaceful. don't look like you're sleeping. your face is contorted, twisted in what must have been agony. your lips are blue-black, tinged purple at the edges where the blood stopped flowing, where oxygen starvation turned soft flesh into something mottled and wrong. your fingernails are broken and bloody—you tried to claw your way out, tried to open the stone doors from the inside, tried to escape when you realized the air was running out and he wasn't coming and you were going to die alone in the dark.
your eyes are open. staring at nothing. at the ceiling of your tomb. at the darkness that was the last thing you saw. the whites have gone dull, filmy, like cataracts have formed in death. your pupils are fixed, dilated, black holes that once saw him with love and now see nothing at all.
he's across the tomb in an instant, pulling you into his arms. your body is cold. so cold. the kind of cold that goes beyond temperature, beyond the absence of warmth—this is the cold of the grave, of death, of the end of all things. stiff. rigor mortis has already set in—you've been dead for hours. your limbs resist movement, frozen in the position of your dying moments. your arms stay bent at unnatural angles where they stiffened mid-gesture, probably reaching for the door, for air, for him.
"no," he whispers, pressing his face to your hair, to the dead jasmine, breathing in the smell of you mixed with death. that particular sweet-rotten smell that means decomposition has already begun, that means the bacteria in your gut are already consuming you from the inside out, that means you're not just dead but decaying. "no, no, no—"
he rocks you like a child. like something precious that broke and he's trying to put the pieces back together through sheer force of will. "i came," he tells your corpse, your empty eyes, your silent mouth. "i came for you. i promised i'd come and i came. i'm here. i'm—" his voice breaks completely. "i'm so sorry. i'm so sorry i was late. i'm so sorry you died thinking i abandoned you. i'm so sorry—"
but you're not listening. can't listen. dead people don't hear apologies. he holds you for an hour. maybe more. time has stopped meaning anything. there's just this—your cold body in his arms, your empty eyes staring at nothing, the weight of his failure pressing down on him like the stones above.
your skin has lost all elasticity. when he touches your cheek, his finger leaves an indentation that doesn't bounce back. the flesh just stays compressed, a dent in dead meat. your lips are chapped, cracked from dehydration. you must have been so thirsty in those final hours. so thirsty and so scared and so alone.
his eyes show him the future. all the futures. all the possibilities that are now impossible because you're dead. he sees himself at thirty. forty. fifty. building empires. making history. powerful and successful and completely, utterly alone.
he sees himself trying to love someone else. trying to move on. trying to pretend that losing you didn't carve out something essential and leave him hollow. he sees himself with other women—pretty, intelligent, perfectly suitable. he sees himself touching them, kissing them, making love to them. and in every vision, he's thinking of you. comparing them to you. finding them lacking because they're not you, can never be you, will always just be substitutes for the girl who died trusting him.
he sees himself old and grey and dying, and even at the end, even with decades between now and then, he's still carrying this. still broken by it. still haunted by the girl in the white dress who trusted him one last time and died because of it.
he sees himself living without you. and he realizes he can't do it. won't do it. refuses to do it.
"i'm coming with you," he whispers to your corpse, to your unhearing ears, to the universe that's proven it doesn't care. "i can't—i won't—i'm not doing this without you."
he lays you back down gently. carefully. like you're just sleeping and he doesn't want to wake you. arranges your dress so it covers your legs properly, so you look modest, so you look like the lady you were raised to be. tries to close your eyes but the lids won't stay down—the muscles have stiffened and your eyes keep sliding open again, staring at him with that blank, accusatory gaze.
then he draws his dagger. it's a beautiful weapon. venetian steel, folded a hundred times, sharp enough to split hair. his father gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday. told him it was a gentleman's tool—for defending honor, for all the civilized purposes sharp things serve.
satoru has always known it could serve one other purpose. he looks at the blade. at his reflection in the polished steel—haggard, broken, already half-dead. his face is gaunt from days without food. his eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot, the blue turned almost grey with exhaustion and grief. he looks like something exhumed, like a corpse that forgot to lie down.
"i'm sorry," he says to no one. to everyone. to his father who will find his body. to brother benedetto who tried to save him. to suguru who died believing satoru would survive this. "i'm sorry but i can't. i can't live in a world where she's dead and i'm alive. it's not—i can't—"
he presses the blade to his throat. hesitates.
not from fear. not from doubt. but from the sudden, terrible certainty that this is the wrong way. too quick. too clean. too easy.
you suffered. you died in terror and pain, suffocating in the dark, thinking he'd abandoned you. your last moments were agony—clawing at stone until your nails broke, screaming until your voice gave out, gasping for air that wasn't there until your lungs gave up and your heart stopped.
he should suffer too. he moves the blade. presses it to his chest instead. right over his heart. the heart that's been yours since the moment he saw you in that garden, since you took his hand and danced without music, since you looked at him like he was human instead of just a curiosity.
the tip of the dagger dimples the fabric of his shirt. he can feel the point against his skin—cold, sharp, promising. one push. one moment of courage or cowardice, depending on how you look at it. one choice and it's over.
"i love you," he whispers to your corpse. "i love you and i'm sorry and i'm coming. wait for me. please wait for me. don't—don't be alone. i'm—"
he pushes. the blade slides in easily. so easily. like his body knows this is right, this is necessary, this is the only possible ending to this story.
it hurts. god, it hurts. nothing in his life has ever hurt like this—not suguru's death, not your rejection, not any of the grief that brought him here. this is physical, immediate, absolute. the blade parts flesh and muscle and cartilage. he feels it scrape against his ribs, feels it slide between them, feels it punch through the pericardium, the membrane that surrounds the heart, and then—
then it's in. in his heart. in the thing that's been beating for you since he met you. he gasps. stumbles. falls against your stone shelf, his hand scrabbling for purchase, finding your cold hand instead.
he twines his fingers with yours. holds on. refuses to let go even though your hand is stiff with rigor, even though your fingers don't curl around his the way they used to, even though you're not squeezing back. his grip is weakening. the blood is pouring out of him—he can feel it, hot and wet, soaking his shirt, dripping onto the stone floor. each beat of his failing heart pushes more blood out. the pressure in his chest is enormous.
"together," he whispers through the blood filling his mouth. it bubbles on his lips, runs down his chin, drips onto his chest and mixes with the blood from the wound. "like we promised. till death—and beyond—"
his eyes are still open. still seeing futures. but they're fading now, going dark, the infinite possibilities collapsing into one single certainty: nothing.
no future. no past. no more grief. no more failure. no more living without you. just darkness. just peace. just the end.
his vision tunnels. the edges go black first, narrowing down to just your face. your dead, empty face. your open eyes that don't see him dying beside you. but that's okay. that's fine. in a moment, he'll be wherever you are. he'll find you. he'll explain. he'll hold you and tell you he's sorry and you'll forgive him because you always forgive him.
his last thought is a prayer: let there be something after this. let there be somewhere she's waiting. let me find her again. please. please.
then nothing. his hand goes slack in yours but doesn't let go. his body slumps against the shelf, head falling back, eyes still open and staring at the ceiling just like yours. blood pools beneath him, spreading across the ancient stones, soaking into the mortar between them, staining the floor where countless other dead have been laid out over the centuries.
the candle burns lower. and in the tomb, in the darkness, two bodies lie together. not touching except for their joined hands. not moving except for the slow drip, drip, drip of blood hitting stone.
dead. both dead. finally together.
you wake in darkness so complete you think for a moment you've gone blind.
your eyes are open—you're certain they're open, you can feel the lids pulled back, the slight sting of air against the corneas—but there's nothing. no light. no shadow. no variation in the blackness. just void, pressing against your face like a physical thing.
you try to move and can't.
panic flares hot in your chest before understanding catches up: rigor. the poison. your muscles have locked while you were under, gone stiff and unresponsive, and now they're slowly, painfully remembering how to work. your fingers twitch. your toes curl. sensation returns in pins and needles that make you want to scream except your jaw won't open properly yet.
stone beneath you. you're lying on stone. cold, smooth, ancient stone that's leaching the warmth from your body through the thin silk of your dress.
the dress. your wedding dress. the white one you made for him, for your real wedding, simple and honest and—
memory crashes back. the wedding to count nanami. the poison in the wine glass. brother benedetto's instructions: drink it before the vows, you'll seem to die, they'll put you in the family tomb, satoru will come for you within two days, you'll wake up, you'll run away together, you'll finally be free.
it worked. the poison worked.
you're in the tomb. your family's tomb. the crypt beneath the city where your ancestors sleep their endless sleep. and satoru is coming.
relief floods through you so intensely it makes your eyes sting. he's coming. brother benedetto sent the message. satoru knows the plan. he's probably already on his way, probably riding through the night, probably cursing himself for not being here the moment you woke up.
your jaw unlocks with a click that echoes in the enclosed space. you work it carefully—open, close, open, close—until the muscles remember their purpose. your tongue is thick in your mouth, stuck to your palate, and when you try to swallow there's nothing there. just dryness. profound, absolute dryness, like someone filled your mouth with sand while you slept. thirsty. you're so thirsty.
but that's fine. that's normal. the poison dehydrates you—brother benedetto warned you about this. said you'd wake up thirsty, disoriented, weak. said it would pass. said satoru would bring water. satoru. your husband. coming for you.
you try to sit up and your body protests violently. everything hurts. your muscles scream. your head pounds. your chest feels like someone's sitting on it, pressing down, making it hard to breathe properly.
the air. the air is strange. thick. stale. like breathing through wet cloth. don't think about that. don't think about the air, about how much of it there is, about how long it will last. he's coming soon. you'll be out soon. this is temporary.
you manage to get your elbows under you. push yourself up slowly, carefully, your whole body shaking with the effort. the darkness doesn't change. doesn't lighten. you could be sitting up or lying down or standing on your head for all the difference it makes.
you reach out with one hand, fingers trembling, searching for a wall, for a reference point, for anything to orient yourself in this absolute nothing.
your hand hits stone. a wall. cold and smooth and close—so close, just a few feet away. you reach in the other direction and find another wall. you're in a space maybe six feet wide. a niche. a burial niche in your family's crypt.
you're in a box. a stone box. with a ceiling somewhere above you that you can't see and walls on three sides and—
and a door. there must be a door. the entrance they carried you through. sealed from the outside. locked. but from the inside, you can feel where it is. feel the seam in the stone, the slight difference in temperature where outside air might be seeping through.
you crawl toward it. not graceful. not dignified. just desperate movement, your wedding dress tangling around your legs, your hands and knees scraping against stone.
the door is there. heavy stone, fitted precisely into the opening. you press your palms against it and push. it doesn't move.
you push harder. harder. throwing your weight against it, your shoulder against the unyielding stone, pushing until your muscles scream and your breath comes in gasps and—nothing. it doesn't budge. not even slightly.
of course it doesn't. it's locked from the outside. sealed. that's the whole point. you're not supposed to be able to open it from in here. you're supposed to wait for satoru to open it from out there.
you slump against the door, breathing hard, your throat burning with thirst and effort.
it's fine. it's fine. you don't need to open it. you just need to wait. he's coming. he's probably at the church already, probably talking to brother benedetto, probably getting the key, probably—
how long has it been? the question slithers into your mind like a serpent. how long were you under? how long have you been awake? you have no way to measure time in this darkness. no sun, no candles, no church bells penetrating this deep into stone.
could have been—no. don't think like that. brother benedetto said the poison lasts between forty and forty-eight hours. you drank it yesterday evening, just before the wedding. so you've been under for maybe twelve hours? eighteen? satoru has time. plenty of time. the message only needed to reach him in mantua, and then a day's hard riding back to venice, and then—you're fine. you have time. he has time.
you settle back against the stone, trying to conserve energy, trying to stay calm. your dress is twisted uncomfortably beneath you, the silk creased and wrinkled, and you take a moment to smooth it out with shaking hands. vanity, maybe. or ritual. or just something to do with your hands so you don't start clawing at the door.
"i'm here," you say out loud, and your voice sounds strange in the darkness. flat. dead. like the stone is swallowing the sound before it can travel. "i'm waiting. come soon."
your throat hurts when you speak. dry. so dry. you try to work up saliva but there's nothing. just that thick, cottony feeling that makes you want to gag.
stop. stop thinking like that. you have time. plenty of time. it's only been—what, an hour since you woke? maybe two? that's nothing. that's barely any time at all. satoru is coming. you wrap your arms around yourself and wait.
time becomes meaningless.
you try to count your heartbeats, try to measure the minutes that way, but you keep losing track. was that a thousand beats? two thousand? your heart is racing—fear or dehydration or the lingering effects of the poison, you don't know—and the numbers blur together until counting becomes just another rhythm in the dark.
you try to stay still. try to breathe slowly. try not to think about water—cool water, clean water, water from the fountain in the garden where you met, where you danced, where he held you and promised you forever. forever. you're going to get your forever. just as soon as he comes.
"satoru," you whisper, and your voice cracks. "where are you?" the darkness doesn't answer.
your mind starts to drift. not sleep—you're too uncomfortable for sleep, too thirsty, too aware of the stone pressing against your spine and the air growing heavier with each breath. but drift. wander. slip sideways into memory.
the masquerade. the first time you saw him. you were hiding in the garden—running away from your father's expectations, from count nanami's polite interest, from the suffocating weight of being a marriageable daughter—and then he was there. leaning against a pillar. smiling like he knew all your secrets.
"hiding already? the night's barely started." you'd been annoyed. defensive. who was this stranger to judge you?
then he'd moved closer and you'd seen his eyes. those impossible blue eyes that seemed to glow even in the darkness. eyes that looked at you like you were fascinating. like you were important. like you mattered for more than your dowry and your family connections.
"dance with me." and you'd taken his hand. taken his hand and let him pull you close and moved with him in the moonlight without music, and it had felt like—
like coming home. like finding something you didn't know you'd lost. like the universe clicking into place.
he'd told you he loved you that night. three hours after meeting you. three hours and he was certain. absolutely certain.
"i don't fail at things that matter. and you matter more than anything." where is he?
"satoru." your voice is barely a whisper now. your throat won't support more than that. "please. please come."
the darkness presses closer. the air is definitely thicker now. heavier. each breath takes more effort. like inhaling through a pillow. like drowning in slow motion.
your hand brushes against something. not stone. not the wall. something else. something soft. you freeze.
your heart, already racing, kicks into a gallop that makes your chest hurt. your breath comes faster—short, sharp gasps that use up the precious air you're trying to conserve.
there's something in here with you. something in the tomb.
something that wasn't there before or that you didn't notice before or that you've been lying next to this whole time without knowing—your hand is shaking as you reach out again. slowly. carefully. like approaching a snake that might strike.
your fingers touch it. fabric. that's fabric. expensive fabric—silk or velvet or something equally fine. and underneath the fabric, something solid. something that gives slightly when you press.
something warm. no. no, that's impossible. nothing should be warm in here. the stone is cold. the air is cold. you're cold. everything is cold except—except this.
your hand moves up. following the shape. it's large. man-sized. a body. there's a body in the tomb with you.
of course there is. of course there is. this is a family tomb. there are probably dozens of bodies in here. generations of your ancestors, laid to rest in niches, their bones long since gone to dust. you're probably lying near one of them. that's all this is.
but the fabric is too new. too whole. not rotted. not decayed. and the warmth—your hand reaches what must be a shoulder. follows it to a neck. to a face. a face that's smooth. unbearded. young.
a face with features you recognize even though you can't see them. features you've traced with your fingers a hundred times in darkness not unlike this, in the garden, in stolen moments when touch had to substitute for sight.
a nose. cheekbones. lips. hair. your hand moves to the hair and your heart stops. it's soft. fine. and even in absolute darkness, even without being able to see a single thing, you know—you know—what color it is. white. white as bone. white as moonlight. white as surrender.
"no." the word rips out of you. raw. broken. a sound that's barely human. "no. no. no no no no—"
your hands are on his face now, both of them, touching, searching, trying to understand what you're feeling, trying to make sense of what can't possibly be real.
satoru. satoru is here. satoru is in the tomb with you.
"wake up." your voice is rising, panic stripping away control. "wake up. wake up. please wake up. satoru, please—" your hand slides down. to his chest. to his doublet. to—
wet. your hand comes away wet. something slick and thick and still warm. still warm. still—
you know what blood feels like. you've felt it before—your own, from small cuts, from monthly bleeding. but never this much. never this much blood outside a body where it's supposed to stay inside.
your hands are shaking so badly you can barely control them as you search his chest. as you find the wound. there. right over his heart. a hole. a massive hole. something punched through the fabric and the flesh beneath. something that went deep. something that—
the dagger. your fingers brush metal. still embedded. still in the wound. and you understand. he came. he came for you like he promised. he got the message and he rode back to venice and he came to the tomb. and he found you.
found you lying here. cold. still. appearing dead because that was the plan—appear dead so they'd bury you so he could rescue you. except he thought you were actually dead. he thought the poison killed you. thought he was too late. thought he'd failed you.
and so he— "no." you're crying now. sobbing. your whole body shaking with it. "no, you stupid, stupid boy. i'm not dead. i'm not—i was waiting for you. i was right here waiting and you—you didn't wait. you didn't check. you didn't—"
but why would he check? why would he wait? you were cold. stiff. you looked dead. you were supposed to look dead. that was the entire plan. the plan that killed him. the plan you agreed to. the plan you drank poison for. the plan that was supposed to save you both and instead—
your hands are in his hair now. cradling his head. pulling him toward you even though he's heavy, deadweight, still warm but not warm enough, not alive, not breathing, not anything.
"i'm sorry." the words come out between sobs. "i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. this was supposed to work. this was supposed to—we were supposed to run away together. we were supposed to have forever. you promised me forever."
his head lolls against your shoulder. you can feel his hair against your neck—that impossible white hair that made him distinctive, recognizable, beautiful. you can smell him—bergamot and something else, something copper and wrong.
blood. you smell his blood."when?" the question is barely a whisper. "when did you die? how long have i been—"
you touch his face again. his cheek. his lips. still soft. still pliable. not stiff yet. not cold yet. still warm—not living-warm, not the warmth of blood moving and heart beating, but recent-dead warm. fresh-dead warm.
hours. he's been dead for hours. maybe three. maybe four. not long. not long at all. if you'd woken earlier. if the poison had worn off faster. if you'd been conscious when he arrived— you could have stopped him. could have called out. could have said "i'm alive, i'm here, wait, don't—"
but you were under. under and dreaming and oblivious while he found your body and decided he couldn't live without you and put a dagger in his own heart.
the dagger. your hand moves back to his chest. to the wound. to the blade still embedded there.
he died for you. chose death rather than life without you. looked at a future where you were gone and decided it wasn't worth living.
your brilliant, arrogant, beautiful husband who never failed at anything. who saw every possible future. who was so certain he could fix this, could save you both, could make your impossible love work through sheer force of will and careful planning.
he failed. and rather than live with that failure, rather than accept a world where he'd lost you— he followed you into death.
except you're not dead. you're sitting here. alive. breathing. your heart is beating in your chest and your blood is moving and you're alive, alive, alive—and he's not.
the unfairness of it makes you want to scream. makes you want to claw at the stone walls until your fingers bleed. makes you want to rage at god and fate and brother benedetto and the stupid, stupid poison that made you seem dead when you weren't.
but screaming won't help. won't change anything. won't bring him back. nothing will bring him back.
you hold him in the darkness and you weep. great, wrenching sobs that make your whole body shake. that use up air you can't spare. that hurt your raw throat and your aching chest and your broken heart.
you weep until you can't weep anymore. until you're empty. until you're just sitting in the dark with a corpse in your arms and nothing left inside you but a vast, hollow space where your future used to be.
the air is getting worse. you can feel it now. definitely feel it. each breath takes more effort. each inhale brings less satisfaction. your head is starting to pound. your vision—not that vision matters in absolute darkness—is starting to blur at the edges.
hypoxia. you learned the word once. lack of oxygen. the body shutting down slowly as the air runs out. you're dying.
the poison didn't kill you. but this will. slowly. painfully. suffocating in the dark beside your husband's corpse. you could try to call for help. could pound on the door. could scream until someone hears you.
the church is above you. not far. maybe twenty feet of stone between you and the sanctuary. if you made enough noise, if you screamed loud enough, eventually someone would hear. would investigate. would open the tomb.
would save you. and then what? then they'd take his body away. then your father would bury you separately. then you'd be married off to count nanami after all, to avoid the scandal, to salvage what's left of the family honor. then you'd live for fifty years as someone's wife, someone's mother, someone's respectable widow eventually.
fifty years of waking up every morning knowing satoru died for you. fifty years of looking at your husband—your real husband, your legal husband, count nanami with his kind eyes and his comfortable future—and thinking about the boy who loved you enough to kill himself rather than live without you. fifty years of wondering if you could have saved him. if you'd woken up earlier. if you'd called out. if you'd somehow, impossibly, prevented this. fifty years of surviving when he didn't.
you touch his face in the darkness. trace the line of his jaw. his lips. his closed eyes—when did someone close his eyes? or are they still open, staring at nothing, and you just can't tell in the dark?
"i'm not braver than you," you whisper. your voice is barely there. just a breath. just a ghost of sound in the pressing silence. "i'm not stronger. i can't do this. i can't live in a world where you're gone and i'm still here."
your hand moves down. to his chest. to the wound. to the dagger. it's still there. still embedded. still slick with his blood.
it would be easy. so easy. pull it out. press it to your own chest. one push. one moment of courage—or cowardice, depending on how you look at it. one choice and it's over. you'd be with him. wherever he is. whatever comes after. if there's anything after. you'd be together.
"they'll say we were fools," you tell him. tell his corpse. tell the darkness. "they'll say we were too young. too impulsive. too consumed by passion to see reason. they'll make us a cautionary tale. a warning to other young lovers about the danger of defying your families."
your fingers close around the dagger's hilt. it's still warm from being inside him. from being wrapped in his flesh. from his heart's blood.
"but i don't care what they say. i don't care what they think. i care that you loved me enough to die for me. and i love you enough to die with you."
you pull. the dagger resists. it's stuck in his sternum. lodged between ribs. you have to pull harder. harder. until it comes free with a wet, sucking sound that makes you gag.
the blade is heavy in your hand. heavier than you expected. sticky with blood. his blood. still warm. you should be afraid. should be hesitating. should be having second thoughts.
but you're not. you're not afraid at all. you're certain. absolutely certain. the same way satoru was certain when he saw you in that garden. the same way he was certain that love could conquer what hatred had built.
he was right. love did conquer. just not the way anyone expected. you position the blade. press it to your chest. right over your heart. the same place. the same angle. mirror image.
your hand is shaking. you can feel your heartbeat against the tip of the blade—fast, frantic, like it knows what's coming and is trying to beat faster, harder, to make up for all the beats it's about to lose.
"i'm coming," you whisper to him. to his body. to wherever his soul is now. "wait for me. don't be alone. i'm coming."
you think of your mother. your father. they'll be devastated. first marco, now you. both their children, dead in the same tomb. you think of count nanami. he'll be confused. disappointed. maybe relieved—your scandal was going to be difficult to manage anyway. you think of brother benedetto. he'll blame himself. he'll carry this forever. two more dead children to add to his collection of failures. you're sorry for that. sorry he tried to help and this is how it ended.
but not sorry enough to stop. "forgive me," you whisper to all of them. to everyone who'll find you. to the world you're leaving.
then to satoru "i love you. i love you. i'm so sorry i made you wait."
you push. the blade slides in.
not easily. not like butter the way the stories say. skin is tough. muscle is tough. your body doesn't want to die, doesn't want to let this blade in, fights back with every fiber.
you push harder. harder. using both hands now, pressing with all your weight, and— it punches through.
pain. oh god, the pain. it's fire and ice and agony and—you gasp. try to scream but can't. your lungs won't work right. they're filling with something hot and wet. your chest is burning, freezing, splitting open from the inside.
you fall. sideways. against him. your face against his shoulder. your blood mixing with his blood. your dying mixing with his dying.
your hand is still on the dagger. still pushing. deeper. you need it deep. need it to reach your heart the way it reached his. need to make sure—there.
something inside you ruptures. you feel it tear. feel the blade punch through membrane and muscle and into the thing that's been beating for him since the moment you met him.
your heart. it spasms. stutters. skips a beat. two beats. tries to keep going. can't. blood is flooding your chest cavity. filling your lungs. you're drowning in yourself.
your hand finds his. that's important. need to hold his hand. need to touch him. need to—his fingers are loose. still pliable. you twine yours with his. hold on. refuse to let go even though your grip is weakening, even though strength is pouring out of you along with your blood.
"together," you manage to whisper. just barely. your lips against his shoulder. your blood soaking into his shirt.
the pain is fading. that's good. that's—that's not good, actually. that means you're dying. but it feels good. feels like relief. like the thirst is going away, like your headache is easing, like everything that hurt is softening into something warm and distant and almost peaceful.
the darkness is changing. getting lighter. or maybe darker. you can't tell. everything is fuzzy. indistinct. like the world is dissolving into smoke.
your heartbeat is slowing. you can feel it. can count the beats getting further apart.
beat. beat. beat.
his face. you can almost see his face. in the darkness. or maybe not darkness anymore. maybe somewhere else. somewhere bright. somewhere he's waiting with that cocky smile, with his hand outstretched, saying "there you are, i've been looking for you."
beat. beat.
your last thought is not fear. not regret. not sorrow for the life unlived, the children never born, the future stolen.
just this: together. your heart beats once more. then stops.
in the tomb, in the darkness, two bodies lie together. hands joined. blood pooled beneath them. the same dagger in both their chests—his wound on the left, hers on the right, like mirror images, like two halves of one whole.
the jasmine in your hair has wilted completely. brown and dead and releasing that sweet-sick perfume of decay. but your fingers are locked with his. holding on even in death. refusing separation.
together. finally, permanently, catastrophically together. the way you always wanted to be.
"For never was a story of more woe ,
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo."
you get caught between the campus' valedictorian and hearthrob, completely unaware that they're actually twins and not just one annoying person. what happens when your heart gets caught up in the messy drama between rivaling twins?
♡ ₊˚‧ in today's episode. satoshi probably whored himself out to girls on the weekly, so what's the issue with you using him like one too?
♡ ₊˚‧ cw. college au :: lots of smut :: angst :: messy dynamics :: named twin :: jealousy/possessiveness :: messy reader :: semi public sex :: parties :: nerd/delinquent trope :: academic rivals :: fuckboy!bikerjo :: rival!nerdjo
꒰ episode 02 :: masterlist :: episode 04 ꒱
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ has been ecstatic all week. which was odd, considering he's been acting so off. he's ignoring girl's bedroom eyes. ignoring number offers. hell— he even ditched friday's party at sukuna's place. who the hell was he? answer: whatever you wanted him to be.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ keeps thinking back to how you showed up at his doorstep and kissed him like you were trying to suck the soul out of him. the way you grabbed him by the collar and whined his name into his lips. for the first time in awhile, satoshi almost couldn't keep up with a kiss.
that was until he had you on his couch. head buried between your thighs and tonguing on your clit. rolling his tongue piercing on the bud until you were whimpering.
"sato—" you cut off in a whine.
fuck. can't even say his name?
he's never had a girl actually make him hump his own couch because she sounds so pretty while he's eating her out. never had a girl that made his eyes roll back and his throat bob all messy. as he eats your cum and drinks down your squirts.
"babydoll, fuck— s'fuckin' sweet. you really are a sweet girl, huh?" he panted into your thigh. bit down and pressed his tongue piercing against the mark afterwards.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ had you on your back. knees crooked over his shoulders with his big hands on your waist while he stuffed you full of cock. fixated on the way your body fluttered and trembled for him. on how you squelched and creamed him so good until a messy ring smeared his base.
"so needy. needy for this cock baby? y'missed it?"
he's slurring. not even a single fucking drink down and he's slurring. drunk on your kisses and the sweet squeezes of your pussy as he fucked you into his couch. rutting it against the opposite wall and probably a few seconds away from sukuna's noise complaints.
he didn't care. not when he had you choking on his name and barely being able to complete it. not when he had you whining and begging and pleading with him not to stop.
he'd swoop down and tangle his tongue with yours every time you approached another high. slammed his hips faster—and faster— ground his pelvis up into your spasming clit— until you squirted a hot stream and puddled the fabric of his couch even more. fuck. he hoped you'd leave a stain.
little did satoshi know that every time you 'struggled to say his name'— it was because another was on the tip of your tongue.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ really had no idea that you were picturing foggy glasses shoved into his hair. no idea that you were imagining cold blue eyes and a sharp tongue calling you a stupid slut and holding you up against his desk covered in textbooks as he fucked you mean on his cock. he especially had no idea that it was his twin's name in your throat every time he stuffed you to the brim and smooched your cervix.
you should feel bad. you do. you know it's awful. know you're using satoshi in a way that disgusted you to your very core— but what did it matter?
he probably fucked more girls than you could count. probably had them in this position. squeezing their thighs and calling them his babydoll while he rubbed their clit and told them to cum for him.
you knew guys like him too well. unfortunately well. you wouldn't be fooled again. so really— were you in the wrong for imagining his nerdy twin?
you're sure it didn't matter to satoshi anyway. as long as he had a warm pussy to fill and a hit for the night. guess you're both using each other, huh?
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ was eating up all of your attention. he thought he'd have to go back to chasing you down again after that night. but to his surprise, two days later you were giving him eyes in an empty hallway and batting your lashes.
. . . should he really be at fault for the way he shoved you into the lockers with a hand buried in the back of your hair and a hand squeezing your ass? could he really be the one to blame when he crashed his lips to yours and shoved his tongue in your mouth when you were looking at him so sweetly?
"babydoll," he groaned, whined, as he sucked on your tongue. "keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna make sure we get expelled."
and when you nipped at his lip piercing and called his name so softly? he just had to dive back in and kiss you until your knees were shaky. not caring in the slightest for the footsteps that stopped at the foot of the hall.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ for the second time, has never wanted to break his brother's jaw more.
or should he blame you? surely you knew by now that he took this hallway to get to quantum physics class. surely you knew that there was a chance he'd walk down this hallway and catch you face-fucking his brother. right?
the assignment sheet he'd been reviewing in his hand crumpled. fist shaking and jaw tight. fine. fine. if you wanted his brother so bad? you could have him.
it's hopeless anyway. satoru wouldn't even know how to treat you if he had the chance. too inexperienced. too emotionally inept.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ made sure to avoid you like the plague. he never should have let impulse take over. never should have kissed you in that library. fucked you on his fingers so clumsily and made you realise how useless his hands were when they weren't practising equations and flipping through textbooks.
he hated how he still wanted you. how he still thought about you. how he'd bury his face into a pillow and hump on another until he was grunting and cursing your name into the fabric. until he was whimpering it— like some pathetic boy who got his candy stolen.
"I hate you—" he huffed, voice shaking as his hand still had the nerve to squeeze around his tip and rub another pitiful spout of cum out of him.
"I hate you. I h-hate you— fucking hate you." his head tips back, breaths fogging his glasses that hang off his nose. thighs twitching from three orgasms spilled all over his sheets just because he can't get you out of his fucking head.
what did it matter? you're the kind of girl only satoshi would know how to please. and it seemed you knew that.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ was confronted by his best friend, sukuna, one thursday morning. yanked into some empty classroom with his helmet still tucked under his arm and cursing at the pink haired jock.
"the fuck's your problem?" he grumbled.
"should be asking you that shit." sukuna huffed.
he found out very quickly what sukuna was on about. asking if he was okay, if he was on something, if he finally gave in to peer pressure and decided to snort a line of some shit because he absolutely was not acting like himself. not looking at girls, denying numbers, missing parties. it wasn't like satoshi. not the campus heartthrob who just had to smile and wink a pretty blue eye to get whatever he wanted.
"you've been all over that girl." sukuna said. "you've never been this hooked. heard you last night too."
satoshi had to bite back his smirk. right. he had you bouncing on his cock last night. grinding your hips up into his and whimpering for him to help since he's just too big and your poor pussy's struggling. wait—
sukuna's rough hand shook him by the arm. "see? you're fucking spacey. what the hell's going on with you?"
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ got a firm talking to. got told he was actually falling in love— and that vulnerability scared the piss out of him. love? he didn't know how to love— not really. girls liked his dick and his bike and the filthy things he'd whisper in their ear when no one was looking. but love. . . fuck.
the way his heart was hammering said it. the way his chest fluttered when sukuna brought you up.
"what the fuck do I do?" he mumbled, hating how soft his voice was as he raked a hand through his white tuffs. "yeah— okay, maybe I like her. but what the fuck do I do?"
"take her out. maybe somewhere to eat. somewhere fun. can't be fucking her every time you meet up." sukuna flicked his arm.
satoshi winced. then considered it. maybe he could finally take you for a drink like he'd first offered. or maybe a party? a midnight ride?
"yeah well, she wants to fuck me whenever we meet up." he mulled, then shrugged. "guess I can combine the two. maybe that's just her style, y'know?"
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ thought about it a little more than he'd like to admit. spaced out in his classes, spent his lunch scrolling through food joints, hell— he even made a note on his phone. he wasn't good at this stuff. wasn't sure when last he went out on a date. girls usually wanted him for his body and that was it. they cried on his dick and scratched up his back but he never really offered them to hold their hand in some romantic coffee shop or whatever.
it hit him in the dead of night. when he was in bed and on his routinely hour of thinking about you. he phone has buzzed with a gallery memory. a picture he'd snapped from the photo album, of a kid him and satoru at a fair with their parents. satoru was hugging some big stuffie while satoshi lingered behind with a half-eaten funnel cake.
and that's when it hit him. . . a fair. they're fun, there's food, they're cute. that's what the couples in the movies do, right?
he sent you a text immediately. then flopped his phone down onto his chest and grinned at the ceiling like an idiot.
well. until a cold realisation washed over him, and he had to call up his best friend in the dead of night to awkwardly ask for some pointers.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ couldn't believe it. you actually agreed. you were actually standing right beside his bike and holding the helmet he'd handed you. with a cute little dress on and that lip gloss he had the urge to smear in heated kisses. but he held back.
"so you just had another helmet lying around?" you asked, brow arching as you fiddled with the straps.
"nah." he waved his hand. "just snatched one from the store."
he blinked at the look you gave him, then grinned as he took the helmet. plopping it on your head and clasping the strap beneath your chin. "meant I bought it baby. whatdya take me for? a delinquent?"
he flipped the visor up. crooned at your little glare and stroked his thumb on the side of your neck. "you really want me to answer that?" you huffed.
"don't look at me like that."
"or what?"
he pressed his lips to your temple. hand squeezing on your waist as he hoisted you up against him.
"or I'm gonna have to do some nasty things to you right over my bike, babydoll."
he always loved how flustered you got. the way you shoved at his shoulders and huffed at him as you turned away. but despite his wide grin and his low words— he didn't want any of that tonight. he just wanted to take you out. treat you right. if you initiated, well, he guessed he couldn't deny you but. . .
tonight he wanted to try to love you the way that you deserved. just for tonight.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ sent you a text. he couldn't help it. he saw you leave capmus with satoshi. saw the way you were bickering and he was grinning. what, were you off somewhere to fuck like rabbits again? off somewhere to forget about how it was his dick you were begging for in the library? the insecurity, the hurt, it all spilled over into harsh thumbs and harsher words.
gojo satoru: he's good for you. you're both whores.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ got you whatever you wanted at the fair. sweet treats? drinks? that oddly shaped teddy bear that he caught you glancing at when you passed one of those overpriced ring toss games? he made sure to win it for you. had no problem catching the rig in the game. he remembered when his parents would take him and satoru to these fairs and his dad would win the prizes. satoru often got them but— whatever. satoshi didn't wanna focus on that now.
all he cared about was the way you tried not to smile as he victoriously handed you the deformed plushie. "guess that means you owe me a kiss huh?" he hummed, leaning over you like some lovesick puppy.
he didn't catch the way you hesitated. nor the itch in your palms. he was too distracted by your gloss on his lips and the kiss that he melted into. shoulders sagging and heart fluttering as you hooked your arms round his neck. pulled him in deeper. gripped his hair.
he was all dazed. so drunk on your lips and the idea that he was here. kissing you at some fair with butterflies in his stomach and his heart in his hands. he didn't even process your mouth that slipped to his ear.
"I spotted a photobooth not too far. wanna go make some memories?"
as you nipped on his lobe. his chest fluttered.
wait.
that didn't sound very cutesy romantic.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't aware that the only reason you pushed him into that photobooth and climbed into his lap was because you were thinking of his brother. had no idea that satoru had even texted you. that the only reason you started humping on his lap and whining his name into his ear was because his twin had pissed you off and your pussy was throbbing for satoru. not him. but satoru.
he was a fool, really. gripping your waist and drowning on your lips. groaning into your tongue as he bucked up into you. catching on your clit just right and gripping the back of your neck as your pretty moans pitched.
"hah— gonna get us caught." he mumbled. too high on the way you ground on his cock to focus on how he was distracted by lust rather than love. on how you'd turned a sweet kiss into a filthy makeout session in a photobooth.
"that what you want? wanna get caught bouncing on my dick?"
his words were muffled by your heated lips. the hot tangle of your tongue and the dirty grind of you hips. blissfully unaware that you just needed him to shut up so that you could imagine his twin while you ground yourself to an orgasm.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ felt his knees shake as you both eventually crawled out of the photobooth with a strip of filthy pictures. unbeknownst that it was a testimony of you wanting his body because he looked like a man who actually held your heart.
he still folded it. fixated on the perfect shot of you both kissing. then tucked it away in his wallet.
he should have known better. he really should have.
but he was so lost in the fantasy of this date. in the idea that he was doing well for once— treating a girl in a way he never has before. outside of sex. outside of what his fingers, tongue or dick could do. no technique, just tenderness. he gave you his jacket at some point in the night. his heart throbbed at how pretty you looked in it.
yeah. satoshi was a bit oblivious to the way your hands were all over him at the haunted house attraction. he had to push you against one of the walls and kiss you stupid. but it's just because you needed him so bad— right?
yeah. he didn't think much of the way your hand crept on his lap while you both sat down to share a sundae. he just slipped his fingers down and wrapped them around yours. gave you a little squeeze.
he surely wasn't paying attention when you'd kissed him hard as the ferriswheel stopped at the top. all he heard was the fireworks above. all he felt were your hands pushing under his shirt. the way you climbed back into his lap and gripped the back of his hair.
no. satoshi didn't care. all he cared about was that you were kissing him. and it was beneath the fireworks. doesn't get more romantic than that, right?
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ was all loopy as he drove you both back home. his head spinning cause your head felt so warm laid between his shoulders as he steered the bike back to campus. he skipped a red light. didn't even care about the speeding ticket that'll probably await him.
all he cared about were your arms looped around his waist and the fluttering in his chest.
he walked you up to your dorm. told you to keep the helmet, and the jacket. smiled— not grinned or smirked or anything smug of sort.
he smiled when he told him goodnight.
"don't I get one last kiss?"
he couldn't help it. he was greedy for what he thought was his.
and here you both were now. with him pinning you to the opened door. hands gripping your thighs that plushed on his waist. his mouth on yours. hot and hungry and the kind of desperate need that he hasn't felt before with any other girl.
your hands were in his hair again. they always were. holding your mouths together as you rutted your hips into his.
"babydoll," he groaned, withdrawing so that saliva webbed both of your lips. a few messy strings caught on his tongue piercing. his white lashes fluttered over blue eyes practically shaped into little hearts. "you don't know what you do to me."
his breathing was ragged. something clenched in his chest. then lodged in his throat.
something he couldn't quite name but wanted to say anyway as he looked into your glassy eyes and felt your hot cunt throbbing on him through his jeans.
he sucked in a breath. one large hand cupped your face and tilted it up. he drew closer. breaths bated. heart stuttering. "I—"
bzztt!
he cleared his throat. something told him to pull his phone out. the text floating on his screen had him blinking.
toru: dude I need your help.
˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ set you down. smooched you for good measure and apologised. called you his babydoll one last time and told you he had an emergency. satoru never texted him for anything. and as much as he'd love to spend another night between your thighs— his brother came first.
he rushed off. leaving you panting and with a heavy stone in your heart as you shut your door and pressed your back into it.
did you really just do that? did you really just use a man because he had the face of your rival who you fell in love with? because his voice sounded just like satoru's when he said the right thing in the right tone?
you looked at the helmet in your arms. remembered the jacket wrapped around you.
you felt sick.
but you shoved it down. told yourself that satoshi only wanted sex. that you'd never love someone like him. that this was fair transaction.
as you plopped the helmet on your desk and drew a heavy sigh. still hot and bothered between the legs as you flopped onto your stomach into your bed. pulling your pillow closer and burying your face into it with a muffled, exagerated whine at your own heart.
his jacket still felt so warm around you.
sleep. you just needed some sleep. needed to stop thinking about the twins that you were caught in some messy triangle with. your eyes hung heavy. fluttering shut as your breath slowed. body easing into the sheets. you allowed sleep to drift you off somewhere warm.
that was until. you felt a weight press down on top of you.
˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was shaking. actually shaking. his hands were shaking as they snatched your waist. his knees were shaking as they shoved into the bed. he watched you panic. watched you squirm. watched you jerk up— only to freeze when you saw him.
"sat— satoru?"
and he kissed you. harder than he had in the library. harder than in any of his dreams. it was clumsy and fervent. a clash of teeth and tongue.
the worst part? you kissed him back. fuck. you kissed him back. you want him. some part of you wanted him. even though you keep giving yourself to his bastard twin.
he gripped the back of your hair. shoved your face down and rutted his hips against your ass. slow, and rough and haphazard as groans caught in his throat.
he lurched down. nose pressing into your cheek and his cock throbbing against the back of your thigh.
a part of him thought his heart would stop from how hard it was beating. thought he'd pass out from pure hyperventilation with how heavy his breathing was.
his voice was ragged. it didn't sound like him. he didn't feel like himself. didn't know what he was doing— only that he was so. fucking. tired. of seeing you with satoshi.
"you wanted it?" he jammed his hips harder into yours. grinding in frantic bucks. "then you're gonna take it."
teeth clenched. eyes glossy behind his glasses. he shoved your head into the pillow further and nearly whined at your muffled moans as he pressed his panting mouth against your ear.
jaw ticked. breath jagged.
"even if I don't know how to give it. you're gonna fucking take it."
SYNOPSIS ── The blue spring of their youths—and everything after it ends. Your story told from the perspective of your closest friend since childhood, Shoko Ieiri.
PAIRING. ── gojo satoru x reader
TAGS. canon jjk timeline, (or at least as accurate as possible) coming of age, sorcerer!reader, angst, fluff, slice of life, mutual pining, friends to lovers, nostalgia, hidden inventory timeline, the tokyo five plus you, emotional vulnerability, dreams and nightmares, missing scenes, domestic fluff, megumi and tsumiki / dad!gojo dynamic, we love and adore shoko ieiri on this blog
WARNINGS. ! manga spoilers ! depictions of grief & loss, canon typical violence (described but not in detail), use of cigarettes and smoking, character deaths
WORD COUNT. 13.2k
mae's note. my debut work !! thank u for all the support on 'of love & lesson plans', the first chapter will be out by tomorrow hehee but i wanted to share a project i've been working on for over a year now <3 i also PINKY PROMISE my other fics won't be this sad jsjdjskd but i love u all and i'm so sorry in advanced ... but likes and reposts are much loved mwah mwah mwah
inspired by ♪ from the subway train, vansire 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ── ao3 version. playlist. header art twt/@5booosa. dividers by @cafekitsune
The air in December tastes like endings, bitter like smoke and cold enough to hurt.
Shoko stands alone beneath the harsh fluorescent glow of a streetlamp, cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers, the embers burning quietly, steadily, a small star of comfort in between her fingertips. Snow falls in careless spirals, catching in her hair, dusting her eyelashes, melting against her skin.
She watches her breath leave her body, a faint cloud in the chill, and thinks about how strange it is—how terribly quiet the world becomes when there’s nothing left but memory.
She swears it wasn’t always this cold.
i. november, 1989
You were both born in early November, five days apart.
Shoko first—small, silent, blue around the lips. Her mother would later tell her she hadn’t cried, not even once. She just blinked up at the ceiling, like she’d already seen too much of the world. You had come days after—red-faced and furious, shrieking like you’d already been wronged.
Balance, their clanhead called it. One to make, one to unmake.
They grew up in a quiet prefecture, tucked between the mountains, where fog collected on windows in the morning and everything smelled like pine and old rain. Their family was not a traditional jujutsu clan—not in the way the Zenins or the Gojos were—but they still had blood that remembered power, blood that ran strangely cold.
Shoko discovered her technique early—reversed cursed energy, delicate and warm, the ability to stitch together what others could only destroy. It made her quiet, made her thoughtful, made her feel too responsible for things she didn’t understand. You, on the other hand, were all forward motion and fury, manifesting offensive cursed techniques with raw instinct and terrifying precision.
You burned. Shoko cooled. A soldier and a healer.
It wasn't rivalry. It wasn't even contrast, really. It was rhythm—two halves of a heart, orbiting each other, moving through childhood in tandem. You protected her from bullies, from curses, from the dark under the bed. Shoko bandaged your scraped knees, held your hair back with her small hands when you threw up after manifesting your cursed technique for the first time, whispered questions into your shoulder late at night about whether they’d ever be normal.
Neither of you wanted normal. Not really.
So when your mothers had suggested both of you for Jujutsu Tech—you didn’t hesitate. It is the slight chill that Spring of 2005 that Shoko remembers most. Fifteen years old, uniforms they’d taken customized to their liking just a month before—Shoko, with her wide turtleneck and midi skirt. You, in a well-tailored blazer, and much to your mother’s disapproval—a short skirt.
Even after the arguments and bickering, their mothers had cried. Their fathers had barely nodded at them. The train took them away to Tokyo with petals sticking to the window, and their only belongings in duffle bags at their feet. Shoko’s hands were cold where they held yours softly.
She was afraid. You weren’t.
You had always loved the idea of being chosen, and Shoko just didn’t want to be left behind.
And maybe that’s how it all began—not with power, or fate, or bloodlines.
Two girls stepping onto a train together, one chasing strength, the other running away from a world she’d one day have to hold together with her hands.
ii. april, 2005
Jujutsu Tech was nothing like Shoko expected.
She thought it would be colder, older, more like the hospitals she’d passed on the train—tall and sterile and gray. But it was… soft. Vines curling around wooden buildings, laundry strung between windows, the hum of cicadas already testing their voices in the trees. It smelled like dirt and chalk and something faintly sweet, like sakura or summer air caught in the stairwells.
She didn’t talk much those first couple of days. Neither did Suguru Geto.
They met on their first day of class, standing awkwardly apart. Shoko was pressed against the wall, you beside her like a shield, when she noticed him—black hair long just at his shoulder, eyes unreadable, hands folded neatly behind his back like he was waiting for something more important than small talk. He caught her looking, and they didn’t smile, but something passed between them anyway. A kind of shared silence.
Then came Gojo.
She had heard of him before, of course. The honored one, the destined boy of the Gojo Clan. He arrived like a storm—messy white hair, too-tall frame stuffed into the uniform like it didn’t quite belong to him. He talked too much, laughed too loud, tripped over his own shoes, and still managed to radiate something untouchable. He was awkward, undeniably gifted, and absolutely convinced he had nothing to learn from anyone.
Shoko didn’t really like him.
You despised him worse, found him amusing. You would say he was infuriating, sure—but interesting.
“He thinks he’s better than everyone,” you whispered one night, grimacing into your pillow. “But his ears turn red every time I catch him staring.”
Shoko rolled her eyes, gave you a half smile. “He’s insufferable.”
“You're just mad that he said you would look better if you grew out your hair.” you teased.
“That's not true. I like my hair.”
“I like it too.”
“Then why does it matter to me what he thinks?”
But slowly—so slowly it almost escaped her notice—he changed. He started making jokes with them. And regrettably, Shoko would sometimes laugh at something he said. He started sitting with them at lunch. Picked up Suguru’s habit of folding napkins into strange little birds. Borrowed Shoko’s pens and returned them. Awkwardly, with both hands and a muttered thanks.
He began learning them. Their rhythms. Their silences.
It was the end of summer when it started to feel like something real.
Missions were few and far between in those first months. They trained hard, sweat and bruises under the cherry blossoms, sparring on grass that still held morning dew. Shoko hated sparring. She wasn’t built for it—not the way you were, with your reckless cursed technique and even more reckless joy.
But she tried. Because she had to. Because she wouldn’t let herself be the weak link.
And Gojo—he always held back when they fought. Even then, before he understood how to be gentle, he understood that she needed to win sometimes. Needed to prove that she could. He let her land hits, not because she needed help, but because he saw the way she looked at herself compared to the rest of them. She knew that Gojo—the freak of nature he was with those blazing blue eyes—saw her beneath her dry sarcasm and grins and tired eyes.
Suguru, on the other hand, never let her win. But he gave her pointers after. Explained why she slipped, what her stance betrayed. His feedback was quiet, clinical, never cruel. Always gave her a nod and a smile. Shoko trusted him for it.
Those were their blue springs—their youth washed in cloudless skies and laughter and rain-soaked uniforms drying on sun-warmed rocks. Those were the days of early friendships, of discovering who they were becoming.
They took the train into Tokyo for missions, packed into cars half-asleep, heads knocking against windows. You would always take the window seat, with your far too expensive mp3 player and ratty wired earbuds. You’d hum under your breath, fingers tapping a beat on your thigh. Gojo sprawled across two seats, his head inevitably ending up in someone’s lap. Suguru read novels and pretended not to notice you and Gojo’s helpless bickering.
❀
The first storm of the summer comes sudden, like most things that mattered back then. Sheets of water turning the courtyard into a lake, petals plastered to the stones.
Gojo didn’t run for cover. Of course he didn't. He stood in the middle of it all like some idiot, arms outstretched, hair plastered white against his forehead, laughing so loud it made the rain sound shy.
“You'll catch a cold,” Suguru called from the walkway, voice dry as the towel slung around his shoulders.
“Colds are a myth,” Gojo shot back, spinning in a circle, water flying from his sleeves. It wasn't rare back then for Gojo to turn off his infinity, especially for rain storms he used to practically bathe in.
Shoko watched from the step, dry under an awning with a cigarette between her fingers. Smoking was a new habit she’d picked up, in spite of the protests from her friends, in spite of the distaste and the mini interventions and scoldings you’d given her. All these years later, she can’t really remember where it started from.
You had taken the cigarette from her fingers that day and threw it in the rain, leaving her a little frustrated. Then she watched as you tried not to smile, and bolted straight into the storm after Gojo, shoes kicking up water like wings.
The both of you were soaked in seconds—shrieking, colliding, uniforms clinging like second skin. Grinning too bright for the gray sky above them.
❀
They went on their first mission as a full team in late October.
A cursed spirit in a temple in the countryside—nothing particularly dangerous, but big enough to warrant the four of them. The four of you, as it turned out, had garnered somewhat of a reputation in the Jujutsu world by this point, even though it had only been a couple months into your first year. There was Gojo, being who he was, and then there were you and Geto, two special-grade hopefuls, and then Shoko, with her reverse cursed technique. It was hard not to hear the excitement, the chatter from your seniors and teachers and higher-ups and worse, the curses, as they marveled at what potential the four of you possessed.
On their first mission together they took the train, bundled in thin jackets, feet tangled under the seats. You sat next to Gojo this time, your knees knocking occasionally as the train curved through the mountains. You two didn’t talk much, just passed a packet of rice crackers back and forth, you opening them with your teeth and Gojo laughing, soft, like he couldn’t help it.
Suguru fell asleep with his head against the window. Shoko watched the landscape blur, temples and fields dissolving into dusk.
She remembers that October day clearly — because the first time they saw a body together was on a bridge, the river swollen black beneath it, the cold gnawing at their ankles. The mission shouldn’t have had civilian casualties. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Yet their world didn’t care about supposed to.
Shoko stood back as Suguru exorcised the curse, her hands clenching, heart banging against her ribs like it wanted out. When it was over, the corpse of the victim lay sprawled against the guardrail, mouth full of frozen air. A little girl—her hair so matted in blood Shoko couldn’t tell what color it was anymore.
Gojo tried to crack a joke, to distill the buzzing in the air—something stupid about ghosts haunting bridges—but no one laughed, not even him. You touched Shoko's arm, light as breath, and for the first time Shoko wondered if maybe they weren’t weapons at all. Maybe they were just kids with blood under their nails and no way out.
It's that night she remembers all these years later, coming home from the mission. They stayed up talking until sunrise. They lay on futons in someone’s dorm room, the windows open, moths circling the lights.
“Do you ever think,” you had asked, staring at the ceiling. “That we’re not meant to survive this?”
There's a quiet that fills the room, uncomfortable, like understanding the inevitable.
“Don't say that depressing shit,” Gojo said sharply, but his voice still held a hint of something that could’ve been mistaken for vulnerability.
“I'm serious. We're weapons. Tools. They'll use us until we break.”
“Then we don’t break,” Suguru said quietly.
“Or we break together.” Shoko said, so softly no one answered.
That first year, they were just kids. Cursed kids, sure. But kids.
And even though Shoko knew better—even though she could already see the shape of blood and bodies and burials in the future—she let herself believe in nights like those. The four of them sprawled on the floor, laughing at someone’s expense, playing cards and cheap candy wrappers littered on the floor.
In the way Gojo looked at you when he thought no one else saw.
In the way Suguru never raised his voice, but always listened.
In the way you gave your heart like the world hadn’t hurt you yet.
In the way they all leaned on each other like scaffolding, like maybe if they held tight enough, they wouldn’t fall.
iii. june, 2006
Summer in Tokyo hit different when you were sixteen and almost certain you’d die before twenty.
They weren’t supposed to go out—they had curfews, missions stacked like bones at the start of their second year—curses growing restless, schools asking for protection, strange whispers threading through reports about ancient prisons and shifting power balances. Still, they trained. Still, they laughed. Still, they stole naps on rooftops and dared each other to eat expired convenience store pudding.
Still, they were kids.
Gojo whined until Suguru sighed and gave in, and you had tugged Shoko by the wrist before she could protest.
The festival was a crush of lantern light and smoke, sweet batter curling through the air, fireworks cracking open the dark. You darted ahead, yukata swaying, hair pinned up with something glittering like starlight. Gojo stuck by your side, wolfing down skewers two at a time, Suguru following at a distance with his hands tucked in his sleeves, gaze flicking toward the crowd like a man always counting exits, but still roaring in laughter as Gojo almost chokes on his third kebab.
“Try this,” Gojo said, shoving a stick of candied fruit under Shoko's nose.
“I don’t want your leftovers,” she muttered, unimpressed. But after a bit of nagging she took it anyway, quietly unwrapping it and biting through the sugar shell and pretending it wasn’t good—just to spite him.
Fireworks bloomed overhead—white, then red, then a scatter of gold that turned every face strange and beautiful. For a moment, Shoko saw them like strangers: Suguru haloed in crimson, Gojo’s grin carved bright in the dark, and you tilting your head back to watch the sky like it would never fall.
The boom of the next firework swallowed her thoughts, and she let it.
❀
Shoko always thought the end would come like a firework—loud, blinding, impossible to ignore.
But it hadn’t. It came instead like fog. Slow, creeping, impossible to trace where it started.
By the time they noticed it was already over, the fog of it had already filled the room.
She thinks she can trace every lamentable moment of her life back to that August of 2006.
Gojo, Geto, you and the star plasma vessel mission she hadn’t been a part of. When she thinks back on it, she can’t exactly understand what happened in that week to have changed the course of their entire lives. Was it before Gojo died in a bloody mess? Was it after he came back, blood-stained, eyes dark, buzzing with an energy that she acknowledged—with bated breath—had finally crossed to godhood?
Gojo was stronger. Far stronger. Six eyes sharp as knives, his cursed technique threading into infinity like it had always been waiting for him to catch up. The elders watched him now—not as a student, but as a threat. You noticed it too. Started staying closer to him, stepping between him and the higher-ups during briefings.
“They're grooming him,” you told Shoko once. “Not for leadership. For war.”
Shoko looked at you—at the calluses on your hands, the scar on your jaw you hadn’t let Shoko heal.
“They're grooming all of us.”
You didn’t deny it anymore.
❀
There are softer things that year, where Shoko can’t remember the exact moment things changed.
Only that something had slowed, gone hazy. Like the last layer of frost on a windowpane, melting so gently it almost went unnoticed.
It felt like fall had come early. The leaves on the tech’s old trees went gold and red like they’d been waiting to burn. There were still wounds to be tended to, and there were still things they couldn’t talk about from the end of that summer.
But Gojo had grown taller over the summer, like his body had finally remembered he came from giants. His hair had grown shaggier, uniform didn’t fit right anymore, and he refused to ask for a new one. Shoko watched him adjust his cuffs every morning like it was some kind of ritual, then pretend not to notice when you offered him your spare hair tie for his sleeves. He took it without meeting your eyes, and wore it like armor.
Shoko noticed the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way that you had started lingering after training, towel around your neck, laughter caught in your throat like a secret. Or the way Gojo stood straighter when you walked into a room, blinking too slow, like he hadn’t meant to look. Maybe it was how the two of you had stopped fighting in that way you used to—loud, fast, like lightning cracking open the sky—and started teasing instead. Light, easy, ridiculous. Like you didn’t know how else to be near each other.
Shoko noticed it in the quiet, in the pauses between conversations, and in the way you touched your own wrist absentmindedly whenever Gojo spoke, like grounding yourself. She noticed how Gojo—always so proud of his attention span—started forgetting what he was saying mid-sentence if you laughed too loud.
“You're obvious,” Shoko told you one evening, as you stood in front of her dorm mirror brushing your teeth. It was practically your dorm now, too.
You spat into the sink. “He’s worse.”
“You're both insufferable.”
“He’s insufferable. I'm charming.”
“He told Nanami you punched him in the throat during training.”
“I did, so what? He totally deserved it.”
“I just can’t believe he let you in the first place.” Shoko shook her head, and thought of the infinity around Gojo, the invisible barrier between him and humanity. The thing that put him closer to godliness. A smile curling at her lips despite herself, understanding the implications of Gojo turning it off around you. “And yet you still gave him your last Milkis at lunch.”
“It was strawberry-flavored.” a shrug. “I don't like strawberry.”
Shoko didn’t say anything else. Didn’t point out the way you lingered when Gojo wasn’t around, or how your voice got quieter when you talked about him. Didn’t say that she’d seen Gojo staring out windows when he thought no one was watching, fingers tapping the rhythm of your laugh on his thigh.
There was something sacred about their closeness. Something fragile and half-formed, still soft at the edges. Shoko didn’t want to break it by naming it too soon.
She just watched. Just remembered.
Suguru was the only one who never commented.
He saw it too—of course he did—but he never overtly teased, only gave a knowing smile quietly to Gojo who would glare back, but never really poked at the obvious tension between the two. Maybe because he understood it, or maybe because he was the kind of person who noticed things and let them be.
He grew quieter that fall, but not in a way that worried her yet. It was more like he was watching, gathering. She felt like something was shifting behind his eyes, too slow and too early to name yet. He still joked with Gojo, still helped Haibara with his footwork, still spent long evenings reading next to Shoko in the common room without saying a word.
But he didn’t smile as easily. And sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would close his eyes like the world was too loud.
Shoko didn’t ask. She didn’t know how.
Maybe she should have.
❀
It's late November and the mission went fine.
They exorcised the spirit, cleansed the space, burned the remains. But it was what happened after that stuck.
They stayed overnight in a small inn at the base of the mountain, just two rooms—boys in one, girls in the other. The floors were tatami, and the air smelled like cedar and sulfur from the hot springs nearby. it should’ve been peaceful.
But Shoko couldn’t sleep.
You lay on your side, back to Shoko, eyes open in the dark. She listened to the wind outside, the drip of water from a leaky faucet, the quiet hum of something that felt like change.
And then, sometime past midnight, you slipped out of bed.
Shoko didn’t move, just watched the shadow cross the room, slide the door open, and vanish into the hallway.
It wasn't long before Gojo left too.
You weren’t subtle. Maybe you didn’t want to be.
Shoko waited a full minute before getting up. Her feet were cold on the floor. She didn’t know what she expected—to interrupt them, to tease them. She heard echoes in the hallway, but couldn’t make out a word. Just the shuffling of feet, and the wind blowing against the door.
But when she found the two of you — you weren’t touching.
You were standing in the snow-dusted garden outside the inn, facing each other, breathing visible in the cold. Your arms were folded tight across your chest. Gojo's hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets.
You weren’t saying anything, but she felt this air around you two. In your distance, in the heavy breathing and puffs of smoke between your lips, like you had run out of words to say.
Now, you were just looking.
And maybe that was worse. More intimate, somehow.
Shoko didn’t move. She stayed hidden by the shadows, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.
Then you reached forward.
Your hands touching Gojo’s cheek, just barely.
He flinched.
Not away. Not exactly. Just — startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to be real.
Shoko could see it then—how scared he was. Not of you, but of what it meant to want something in a world like theirs.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you said quietly.
Gojo looked at you. “I should.”
“You never say anything you don’t mean.”
“I don’t know how to mean this.”
A pause. Your breath hitched.
“Just don’t look away.”
He didn’t.
And she watched as you leaned in, closing your eyes for your first kiss. How his lashes had brushed against your cheek as he let you pull him in, his hand finding its way to gently hold your waist.
Shoko had left after that — witnessing a moment so intimate she felt shivers just watching it, intruding in it. Or maybe it was the cold that got her. But, she waited to sleep until you went back inside. Waited until you crawled into bed beside her again, colder than before, but smiling softly into the dark.
Neither of you said a word.
Shoko stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how everything had already started to change.
❀
The next few weeks felt warmer, somehow. Like something had opened in their group that wasn’t there before. Not just between Gojo and you—but all of them.
They trained harder. Laughed more. She wanted to believe they were healing the cracks from that August, that the feeling of finality sinking into her wasn’t real.
Even Suguru seemed lighter again. He stopped frowning at the radio when the news came on. Started humming again while he read. He taught Haibara about a complicated binding technique in the training yard one afternoon and let out a laugh when their junior tried it himself. There was a moment—a brief, impossible moment—where Shoko almost believed in forever.
They sat on the school rooftop one evening, all four of them, sky streaked violet and pink and gold. Someone had brought a speaker, and someone else had brought a bottles of various soda. Music played low. She noticed that you had rested your head on Gojo's shoulder, and he didn’t move, just leaned into it like gravity.
Suguru was telling a story about a curse he saw shaped like a crab. Shoko laughed. The wind was cool and sweet. The world didn’t feel like it was ending yet.
“You ever think we’ll get out of this?” Suguru asked, voice low, cigarette between his lip.
“Out of what?” you asked.
“This. Jujutsu. Destruction and death and chaos—whatever it is.”
Gojo stared at the sky. “No.”
“Maybe,” Shoko took the cigarette from Geto’s lips, and took a puff. “but not whole.”
They sat in silence for a long time after that.
The sun set, and Shoko watched the light disappear behind Gojo’s glasses, behind your smile, behind the quiet curve of Suguru's mouth.
It felt like a beginning.
But all she could think about was how beautiful things always seemed, right before they broke.
iv. march, 2007
It’s cruel to her, how the missions only seemed to get worse after that.
Higher-ranked, more volatile, more death. More nights in strange towns with blood on their hands. They started seeing each other less and less. After last August, in the aftermath of Riko Amani’s death, Gojo had been assigned onto more missions alone—acknowledged for the first time in finality as the strongest. Started carrying all the mission files himself, memorizing them down to the street corners. Shoko started collecting more tools, more supplies, more sutures for the clinic at the tech, where she stayed more often than not now. She stopped wearing earrings because they got in the way of her face mask. You had learned how to kill without hesitation.
And she swore Suguru never complained about the missions he went on alone. But now he flinched when they passed playgrounds. Tensed when civilians asked for help. The curses he swallowed grew sharper, crueler. nastier, he had once told her late one night, the word leaving his tongue like he had coughed up bile.
“Don't let them suffer,” he said once, without blinking. “Fast is better.”
Shoko nodded.
She didn’t ask what he meant.
❀
The last mission they took together was in the early spring of 2007, before the start of their third year.
A cult in Hiraizumi—dark rituals, civilian disappearances, cursed users hiding behind holy symbols and incense. They traveled light, only the four of them. It felt like the early days again, for a moment—suitcases and jokes and Gojo making dumb puns as they checked into a cheap ryokan.
But the mission itself was ugly.
Children locked in closets. Blood on the temple floors. Curses formed from fear and starvation, clinging to walls like rot.
Suguru lost control halfway through.
Not of his technique. Not of his mind. But of his restraint.
He killed too quickly. Didn’t wait for surrender, and didn’t leave the last cursed user breathing long enough to answer questions.
Gojo grabbed him by the collar after.
“What the hell was that?”
“They were killing kids.”
“They were running away.”
“And they would’ve kept going.”
Gojo's hand tightened. his voice dropped. “We follow orders.”
“Do we?”
Suguru's eyes burned—hotter than Shoko had ever seen. “Whose orders, Satoru?”
Shoko watched you step between them. A hand on Gojo's chest. Your voice low. “Not here.”
Gojo dropped his hand, and Suguru had turned and walked away, scoffing.
The two of them didn’t speak again the rest of the trip.
❀
Haibara died not long after.
He had been bright—sun-bright, laughter-bright, too-young-to-fall-bright. He said “good morning” like it mattered. He addressed them all formally even when they told him to stop. He sparred with you like he was dancing, ate lunch with his mouth full, had dreams about being a sorcerer who saved people and meant it.
The mission was supposed to be simple.
Shoko remembers the call. A cursed womb, grade 3, nothing extraordinary. She remembers you saying, “they’re strong. Nanami'll be with him. they’ll be fine.”
They weren’t.
What came back wasn’t a body, not really. It was a mess of limbs and red and something too silent to be the Haibara she had known.
Nanami carried him. Wouldn’t let go, even as his uniform soaked a darker shade from the blood.
Shoko stitched Haibara's body together with shaking hands—not to save him. Just so his mother could recognize his face.
You threw up in the courtyard after the funeral. Gojo didn’t speak. Suguru didn’t cry.
Grief had finally split the group like glass under pressure—fracture lines running between them, invisible until the light hit just right.
Gojo got louder. More obnoxious, more ridiculous. He made jokes during meetings, fell asleep in class, tripped over his own feet just to make you laugh.
And you did laugh. Loud and real and reckless. But there was something sharp underneath it. A glint in your voice. A kind of defiance.
Suguru got even quieter.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that meant calm or ease.
This was the kind that clung to him. That narrowed his eyes when he passed civilians on the street. That curled his lip when they reported to elders who hadn’t lifted a hand in battle in years. That made him look at Haibara’s photo like it was a question that would never be answered.
Shoko felt it most at night.
Suguru used to accidentally fall asleep reading in the common room, head tilted back, glasses slipping. Now, he sat up long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at nothing, fingers curled like he was still gripping a weapon.
She said something once. Tried to, at least.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, as they stood in the hall one night. She can’t recall why, or where, but she remembers this moment because there has never been a part of her that hadn’t wished she had pushed back harder.
Suguru looked at her.
His smile was soft, fake. “Yeah.”
By then she knew he was gone.
❀
A couple weeks later, in the midst of an August heatwave — Suguru Geto disappears.
He left a note on the dorm kitchen table and a photo of the four of them.
Just one sentence: I can't do this anymore.
The rest was silence.
Shoko found it first. She read it twice, then sat down at the table and stared at the handwriting until you walked in and asked where everyone was.
Gojo didn’t say anything after meeting with Yaga. Didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the morning.
Though it’s the last time she sees Suguru, she understands this is it.
She had heard, just a little after reading his final note, what he’d done. A town massacred, burned to the ground and cursed residuals that couldn’t have been anyone’s but the man next to her — his own mother and father killed by their only son’s hands.
Yet here he was, lighting her cigarette for her and laughing. At least she could pretend for a moment that this didn’t have to be over.
She gives Gojo a call and waits with Suguru for his best friend to arrive and she wonders if Gojo could change the outcome of this. If Gojo Satoru could save Suguru Geto from himself. But another glance up at him, long hair disheveled, the purpled skin under his eyes deeper than she’s ever seen, and the emptiness behind his smile, that she realizes she doesn’t know the man next to her. Not anymore. Maybe not at all.
So he waves goodbye, and she nods and lets the smoke cloud her lungs.
And she never spoke to him again.
❀
That winter, the sky felt heavier. The air full of ghosts.
You stopped wearing bright colors. Started sleeping in your uniform, like you expected to be called into battle at any second. Gojo trained until his hands bled, and didn’t let Shoko bandage them.
“What if he’s right?” he asked her once. His voice barely audible. “What if we’re just killing things to delay the inevitable?”
Shoko didn’t answer, because she didn’t know. (Because something in her still wanted to believe.)
But by the end of that year she had found herself alone more often.
In the morgue. On the roof. In the silence between patrols. She smoked less, not because she wanted to live longer. Just because it didn’t feel worth the taste anymore.
You had stopped talking about the future.
Gojo stopped calling himself the strongest.
They were eighteen then. Too young to have seen so much. Too old to unsee any of it.
v. 2008
The years felt blurry after.
Like the sky after a firework show, after the beauty of it wears and you are left with the remains. Of the sky billowed in smoke, and the ground covered in ash. Shoko remembers the firework show during the summer festival in their second year, how she had watched the lights change your faces. How when she thinks of Suguru, she remembers him back then, hair in a half bun, wearing a yukata, his profile cast under the red glow of fireworks.
Mission after mission. Report after report. Half-empty dorm rooms. Birthdays that passed unnoticed. Names that became numbers. More curses. More blood. Fewer friends.
By then she had stopped smoking entirely, not because she wanted to live. But because you had always hated the smell.
And for a long time after Suguru left, Shoko couldn’t sleep without dreaming of the morgue.
The lights were always too bright. The steel trays too cold. Her gloves slick with blood that would never dry. In the dream, you always walked in first—whole, alive, laughing. And Shoko would reach for you. Call your name. But you would just smile, step onto the autopsy table, and lie down.
“You're early,” Shoko would whisper.
“I know.” you would say.
Then the door would swing open, and Suguru would walk in next. But his face would be hollowed out, eyes dark like tunnels. He'd sit beside your body, light a cigarette, and say nothing at all.
Shoko always woke up with her hands clenched tight around the sheets, fingers aching.
❀
Gojo never talked about Suguru.
Not once.
Not even on that day all those years ago when he came back from the confrontation in Shinjuku with blood in his nails and grief in his eyes.
He got stronger. Faster. Untouchable.
The elders stopped looking at him like a student and started looking at him like their greatest tool. He didn’t flinch, just started smiling bigger, make louder jokes, wore sunglasses indoors, and flirted and teased and deflected.
Shoko could see it, thought. In the slump of his shoulders, or the way his laugh caught wrong in his throat.
He was grieving like a dam breaking. Slowly and inevitably.
But never where anyone could see.
You stayed close to him after that. Stopped being fire and became gravity. Quiet and steady. The only thing that could bring him back when he started spinning too fast. You were the one who waited outside meetings. The one who kicked open his door and pulled him out of bed on the days he refused to get up, muttering, “If you don’t move, I'll set your curtains on fire.”
He always moved. Shoko thinks that it’s less because he believed in your vague threats, and more because he just believed in you.
Shoko watched it all from the edge.
The way you stopped waiting for him to say how he felt. The way you just stood there—open, unwavering—until he stopped running.
The two of you never made it official. Not with labels. Not with grand declarations or anything, But Gojo started showing up late to meetings because he walked you home.
Shoko didn’t know if it was healing, but for a while, it was peace.
vi. april, 2009
Around this time, the Fushiguro’s arrived.
Megumi. Six years old. Too serious. Too quiet. walked around everyone like he was ready to hit, or be hit. His older sister, Tsumiki. Not older by much, just eight years old, but she was sunshine, warm and motherly beyond her years. Shoko saw that you took to her instantly, buying her hair clips and braiding her hair — showing her how to throw a punch if she ever needed to.
Gojo brought them to the school with a box of takeout and a stubborn glint in his eye. "Don't say anything weird,” he told you and shook. “He already thinks I’m an idiot.”
“He's not wrong,” you smiled, and Gojo pouted at you.
Shoko bent down to meet the boy’s eyes, unsure of what to say. “Hmm. What’s something you like?”
He shrugged, and gave her an unimpressed look. “I like dogs.”
“Me too,” she said. “They’re honest.”
That night, they all sat in the common room eating cold noodles. Gojo told a story about a cursed tanuki that stole his left shoe. Megumi didn’t laugh, but he leaned into his sister when she did. Shoko watched as he leaned by Gojo's side as the lights went out.
You and Gojo had opened your arms and made space for the two of them.
Or maybe you had filled in the spaces left behind.
❀
Gojo cooked more, and wasn't great on his first try, surprisingly. Shoko had to supervise so he didn’t poison anyone, and you would’ve eaten anything Gojo cooked, regardless.
Shoko watched as the four of them fell into something like a rhythm. Not a family. Not quite.
But something softer than she had become used to.
The kids brought color back to the halls when they came to visit. Laughter that didn’t feel borrowed. It wasn't like before—but nothing ever was.
Gojo had bought an apartment for Megumi and Tsumiki, and the two of you stopped by almost everyday that year. You and Gojo made bento boxes. You went on grocery runs. You argued over what show to watch on Saturday nights. When Shoko would come over, Tsumiki would beg to paint Shoko’s nails, and once she had given in with her nails painted badly in rainbow and glitter, and you and Gojo had made fun of her for weeks when Shoko didn’t wipe it off.
You stopped wearing your uniform outside missions. Started wearing sweaters with loose sleeves, earrings again, mismatched socks.
You started reading books and magazines and things that weren’t just mission reports. Bought a plant for their windowsill. Put post-it notes on the fridge.
Shoko found one once that said, “Satoru, if you forget to buy me dorayaki again, I swear to God.”
He forgot anyway, but he came back late that night with flowers.
Shoko watched from the couch as you opened the door, just to see you blinking down at the bouquet like it had grown a second head.
“They didn’t have dorayaki,” he said, sheepish. “But they had these.”
You didn’t speak—just grabbed the collar of his coat and stepped into the apartment hallway with him, shutting the door without looking.
Shoko looked away, and gave them the evening. She hung out with the kids, because they were cooler, and let them sleep on the couch watching movies.
It’s after they had fallen asleep, and you and Gojo were nowhere to be seen, that she sat on the balcony and watched the city lights flicker, listening to the hum of traffic into the night.
For the first time in months, she felt… full.
Not happy. Not yet healed.
But full, like maybe all her pieces had stopped rattling.
Just for now.
❀
She still worked long hours, because the clinic never slept.
New students. New injuries. New names she tried not to memorize.
She stitched and cut and stabilized and cleaned. Practiced her technique until it no longer felt like a gift but a reflex.
She stopped praying, though she had never been good at it anyway.
But every time a body came in, not yet cold, not yet gone, she held her breath.
Please, not them.
❀
They didn’t talk about the past. At least not often.
But sometimes, when you had already fallen asleep and the wind whistled through the hallways, Gojo would sit next to her on the balcony and say things in a tone older than his twenty years.
“He liked soba more than ramen. I never knew that.”
And Shoko would nod.
“He read faster than anyone,” she’d add. “even me.”
“He believed in this more than we did.”
“Yeah.”
Then silence.
Then the night.
Then the world turning, regardless.
❀
Shoko isn’t sure what time it is now, but it feels like a bit past midnight. In here, it’s just the two of you on the couch with the weight of exhaustion like a second blanket. The balcony door is half-open, and the September chill is blowing in softly. There’s a glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, that she keeps forgetting to drink, and you’ve got your legs tucked underneath you, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of those shirts that’s probably his — though neither of you ever acknowledges it out loud.
Shoko tips her head against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling like it’ll tell her the future, and mutters, “I feel so old.”
You laugh, soft, incredulous. “We’re twenty-one.”
“Exactly. And yet my back feels like I’m fifty.” You give her a side glance, smiling.
“My back feels perfectly fine, granny.”
“That’s because you have two little minions who give you back massages whenever you ask. And they can’t say no because you house and feed them.”
You nudge her knee with your own, half-amused, half-affectionate. “They’d starve if it wasn’t for us.”
“They’d at least learn how to cook instant ramen properly,” she fires back, though her tone is fond. She knows it as well as you do—how Megumi sometimes falls asleep at the kitchen table with his homework still out, how Tsumiki always insists on washing the dishes even when her fingers are pruned from her bath. How the apartment has begun to feel not just like a place to sleep, but like the kind of home you were never supposed to have.
It makes her chest ache.
She glances at you again, more carefully this time. “You’re happy, right?”
You blink at her, then tilt your head like you don’t quite understand the weight of the question. “Happy?”
“You know what I mean.” Shoko shrugs, too casual. “With all this — and with him.”
There it is. Not accusatory, just curious, like she’s been holding this thought in her mouth for months, letting it turn over until it smoothed into something she could say without breaking it.
You’re quiet for a moment, your gaze lowering to the glass of wine you still haven’t touched. “It’s not simple.”
“Nothing ever is with him.” She huffs a small laugh, but she doesn’t look away from you.
“Sometimes,” you admit, your voice softer, “it feels like we’re still kids, sneaking out after curfew, daring each other to jump rooftops. And then sometimes I look at him and I feel like—” You break off, shaking your head as though it’s too fragile to name.
“Like what?”
You exhale slowly. “Like he already belongs to the world, and I’m just borrowing him for a while.”
That hits Shoko harder than she expects. She shifts on the couch, watching the way your fingers worry at the hem of your sleeve. There’s something unguarded in the way you say it, something that makes her throat tighten.
Shoko leans her head against the couch cushion, her glass dangling loosely from her fingers. “You talk like he’s a library book or something. Checked out, due back in three weeks.”
You laugh, though it’s small and tired. “Maybe that’s all love really is. Borrowing someone for as long as they’ll let you keep them.”
“Morbid.”
“Honest.” You glance at her, and your smile is crooked, fond. “You know him. He’s… a hurricane in human form. Everyone wants a piece of him, and half the time I feel like I’m just holding on, hoping he doesn’t blow past me.”
Shoko hums, noncommittal, but her eyes are sharp. “And yet you’ve been holding on for who knows how long. Most people can’t even last five minutes with him in a room.”
“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, though your lips curve. “He still leaves his socks everywhere. Still eats candy for breakfast if I don’t stop him. And he—” You pause, and the softness of your voice betrays you. “He still looks at me the same way he did when we were sixteen. Like he can’t believe I’m real.”
Shoko conceals her smile, and masks it with a sip of wine. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
“I think about it sometimes,” you admit. “If we hadn’t met so young. If we hadn’t been thrown together in that pressure cooker of a school — would it have still been him? Would he have still found me?”
Shoko stretches her legs out, her gaze slipping toward the ceiling. “I think he was always going to be yours, you know. Some things just… fix themselves in place before you even notice.”
You fall quiet, staring at the wine in your glass, watching the way the light fractures against it. When you speak again, it’s hushed. “I’m scared, Shoko. I– I think I’m scared of losing him. Of the day the world asks for more than he can give, and I have to watch him walk toward it anyway.”
Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She looks at you — really looks — the girl who grew up at her side, who always chose kindness even when it cost you. You, who Gojo has loved since he was growing into his height, awkward and half-feral with grief and brilliance. You, who still look at him like he’s worth the trouble.
Finally, she says, “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to wonder if you’d grow tired of him. If one day you’d realize it was too much.”
You blink at her, startled. “And now?”
Shoko shrugs, her expression softening. “Now I think — if anyone was ever built to love him, it was you. Stubborn, patient, stupidly brave. He’s impossible, but you’ve always made the impossible look easy.”
Your laugh catches in your throat, trembling somewhere between joy and sorrow. “Don’t make me cry, Shoko.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She lifts her glass in a lazy toast. “To you and him. To sixteen and twenty-one, and however long you can keep borrowing each other.”
You tap your glass gently against hers, the sound ringing low and warm. “To growing older.”
Shoko watches the way your face lights up at the thought, and takes a long sip from her glass. She tries for levity, though it comes out a little rough. “Well, if he breaks your heart, I get to kill him. That’s the rule.”
You laugh—really laugh this time, the kind that crinkles your eyes and warms the air between you. “You’d have to fight him first.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “He’s all bark. I’d win.”
“You’re funny, Shoko.” You smile a little sleepily, and lean your head against her shoulder, the way you used to when you were girls hiding from the elders in the back hallways of the clan compound. She doesn’t move, just lets you settle there, the weight of you a reminder that some things never change.
There’s a long stretch of silence, broken only by the city hum outside. Then, almost shyly, Shoko says, “Well, I hope he loves growing old with you as much as I loved growing up with you.”
You still against her, then let out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t push. That’s never been your language. Instead, she reaches for her wine, takes another sip, and adds, almost casually, “And if he doesn’t, then screw him. You’ll still have me.”
You laugh again, watery this time, and lean closer. “Always.”
❀
In the mornings, she drank coffee alone.
In the evenings, she liked to come to your apartment to the sound of laughter, and nonsense on the TV. To the smell of your cooking, which had gotten better than Gojo’s after a couple months. To Tsumiki and her hands that grabbed Shoko’s wrists and led her to the dining table. To Megumi, who Gojo tried so hard to make smile at his awful jokes.
Sometimes, she let herself believe it could last.
Sometimes, she let herself want more.
That was enough.
vii. 1997
When they were seven, you and Shoko built a grave for a bird.
They’d found it after a storm — a small thing, all bones and feathers, collapsed in the mud beneath a persimmon tree in the compound’s garden. You crouched beside it, poked it with a stick. “Is it sleeping?”
“No,” shoko said. “It's dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Its chest isn’t moving.”
“How do you know?”
Shoko didn’t answer. Just knelt down, tiny hands damp with soil, and began to dig.
They buried it beneath a square stone, lined the edges with pebbles. You picked wildflowers and bundled it with twine from the kitchen. Shoko pressed her fingers to the earth and whispered something she didn’t really understand — a wish, maybe, or a prayer.
They sat there until the wind died down, until your mother called them in, until the sky turned the color of ash.
“We should’ve saved it,” you whispered, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
Shoko didn’t say it, but she knew it then: sometimes you’re too late.
❀
january, 2014
The call comes at 2:19 in the afternoon, a higher-up’s voice, clipped and formal.
“She’s been recovered. We’re bringing you the body now.”
The world doesn’t spin, it just stills. Though Shoko sits at her desk for a long time after, the phone silent in her lap, her hands empty.
Shoko doesn’t ask whose, because there’s only one person left.
She's already standing.
Her coat’s already on.
Her tea’s gone cold. The light in the infirmary has gone muddled and slanted, painting long shadows over everything like a warning.
Her hands move automatically. Clipboard.Pen. Gloves.
The air starts to feel static.
The mission was supposed to be easy. “A clean-up.” A second sweep.She repeats, and repeats. Yet how many other times has she thought this?
You weren’t supposed to go alone, but someone backed out last minute, and you were never one to wait around.
Grade one curse. Warehouse District.
Shoko remembers the briefing because she was in the room. Because you had smiled — tilted your head, chewing gum, loose-limbed and tired. “I’ll be home quick.”
❀
Shoko gets a morbid sense of déjà vu when she sees you laid out on the table, covered with a sheet pulled too high.
But when she sees the body, it doesn’t feel like you.
Not you. Born five days apart. The soldier to her healer. Balance, the clanheads had once called them. One to make and unmake.
Not the same girl who used to share her shampoo, or talk in her sleep. Not the girl who burned bright and reckless and kissed Gojo Satoru like it was the only truth left in the world.
The word balance keeps running through her head as she stares at your face. So still.
No, it wasn’t you. This body is cold, and broken in ways Shoko doesn’t have the words for.
Her gloves are on. Her cursed energy thrums at her fingertips.
But it’s all useless.
The wounds are clean. Carved into you like declarations. Chest collapsed, Ribs fractured inward. Shoko's already cataloging the report in her head. Trachea crushed. Internal hemorrhaging. Cursed lacerations across the sternum.
Then she moves.
Like a surgeon. like a healer with something to prove, even if there’s no one left to prove it to.
She doesn’t try to bring you back. Not really. She's seen too many bodies to believe in resurrection.
She stitches muscle back together like it’ll matter. Seals split skin. Brushes blood from your scalp. A ritual, maybe. or penance. And as she runs her fingers through the ends of your hair, she thinks of being five years old when you had taught her how to braid it.
When she feels her vision blur she whispers, “don’t be stupid,” just like you used to.
Her voice doesn’t tremble until the end.
Too late, she thinks, and she sees a dead bird cupped in your small hands. Wildflowers wrapped in twine.
Too late, too late, too late.
She writes the report with mechanical precision.
Her handwriting doesn’t shake.
She signs it, and place it on top of the clipboard.
Then folds your arms across your chest, straightens your uniform collar, uses a towel to wipe a smudge from your chin, and the drawer of the morgue clicks shut with a hollow finality.
And she finally lets herself cry.
Just once.
Quietly.
Like a confession.
❀
Shoko takes the train without really knowing why she’s chosen this route over the school car. After she explained what she was doing, Ijichi had told her he could drive her with a solemn look in his eyes, always so insistent. She had declined, so now she sits by the window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, the tunnel lights strobing against her reflection until her own face starts to look like a stranger’s.
She's still in her work clothes, still smells faintly of antiseptic and smoke, and the folder in her lap feels heavier than it should. She keeps one hand pressed flat to its cover like she’s holding a wound closed.
People filter in and out of the train at each stop, their chatter muted, just faint shapes moving through her periphery.
She doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The only thing she lets herself look at is the glass, and the snow on the other side of it—each flake blurring against the motion of the city, small and perfect and already gone.
Yaga had told her, after, that Satoru wasn’t told yet, but she wonders if he already knows. If some part of him—whatever raw, uncanny instinct makes him the strongest—registered it the moment your heart stopped. Maybe he felt it like an earthquake deep in his bones, the sudden, wrong absence in the air. Maybe he was sitting on their couch, turning toward the door without knowing why.
Her mind drifts, unspooling memory:
Summer afternoons, the four of them sitting on the roof with drinks to cool the sweat on them. Your hair tangled from the wind. Gojo leaning back on his palms, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head so she could clearly see the way his gaze snagged on you like he didn’t even notice he was staring. The quiet shift over months from banter to something slower, gentler, like they’d started speaking a language that Shoko didn’t know but could still recognize in the spaces between words.
A late night after a mission, all of them exhausted, half asleep in the common room. Shoko had woken to see them leaning together on the couch, your head on his shoulder, his hand resting loosely on yours. The kind of touch that wasn’t accidental.
There had been other moments—quieter, private ones she hadn’t meant to see—that told her this was the thing that had changed him. He'd always been brilliant, unbearable, untouchable. but with you, his edges softened. He laughed differently. He listened.
Now she wonders how much of that she’s about to take from him in a single sentence.
The train slows into her stop, brakes screeching. She rises, folder in hand. She doesn’t know why she carries the hardcopy—maybe it makes it feel more real, more final, more like evidence of something she already failed to prevent.
She had stopped by a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes and a small black lighter for the first time in almost six years. There’s now a cigarette clamped between her teeth, though she hasn’t lit it.
Snow is falling.
It catches in her hair, her sleeves, her lashes.
When she reaches their apartment building, she stops at the bottom of the stairs and thinks about turning around. But she doesn’t. She climbs each step like she’s approaching a grave.
The light’s on under the door.
She raises her hand.
And knocks.
❀
The door opens almost immediately.
And for a second — just one, flickering, incandescent second — Shoko sees the look on his face.
Gojo Satoru opens the door like he expects you to be behind it. Not Shoko. Not grief incarnate. But you. The woman he loves. The only thing in the world that could quiet his mind and hold his entire future in her palms.
He opens the door like someone in love. Like someone relieved. Like someone who still dares to hope.
And then he sees Shoko.
And everything stops.
His face doesn’t fall.
It freezes.
She watches the hope die in his expression. It doesn’t vanish — it dies. Like something physically collapsing inside of him. A structure caving in, silently, under its own weight.
His shoulders lock, and she watches his jaw tense. He doesn’t move aside to let her in, doesn’t say a word.
Just stares.
He looks at her like he had known this would be how it ended all along, but still — still, deep down, some piece of him had been holding on. Had left the light on. Had made her side of the bed. Had waited.
Shoko clears her throat.
The words don’t want to come.
"I’m sorry—she’s gone.”
That's all it takes.
Gojo doesn’t flinch.
But she sees it in the way his hand clenches around the edge of the door. The way his breath leaves him — sharp, shallow, wrong. The way he looks past her, like he’s trying to reframe the hallway, the scene, the moment.
Like maybe he can rewind it.
Undo it.
See you behind her, scolding her for delivering bad news so bluntly.
But Shoko is alone, and the silence is loud.
He steps back, and turns.
Walks into the apartment like everything inside was knocked over.
Shoko follows and shuts the door behind her.
The apartment is dim. Bathed in soft warm light. The heater hums gently in the corner, and there are two mugs on the table, one empty and one half-drunk. Your sweater is still hanging over the back of the couch, sleeves inside out. Your boots are by the door. The windows are covered by sheer white curtains, but the shade of blue that appears just after sunset peeks through, framing the room the same color as melancholy.
Shoko wants to scream.
Instead, she places the folder on the table.
Neither of them look at it.
She taps the folder once, not to push him, but to make its presence undeniable.
“Are you going to read it?”
His back is still to her. She can see the angle of his spine through the thin cotton of his shirt, every muscle tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
With no hesitation, “No.”
Shoko expected that answer, but she still feels something drop in her chest.
“You sure? It’s not… it’s not just medical jargon. I kept it clean. No gore.”
He turns his head just enough for her to see one sharp eye over his shoulder.
“You want me to read the autopsy for the love of my life?”
She pauses, feeling herself hold her breath.
“I want you to know what happened,” she says, voice level. “Exactly what happened. Without the stories you’ll tell yourself later.”
He scoffs—a sound halfway between disbelief and exhaustion—and shakes his head.
“The story I want is that you’re lying.”
Silence.
He pushes away from the counter, crosses to the table. His height makes the space between them smaller without him even trying. He puts a hand on the folder like he might open it—thumb brushing the edge, fingers curling.
And then he just… freezes.
Shoko watches him, and for the first time she sees it—not the usual walls, the sarcasm, the easy dismissal. This is different. This is a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s nothing but rocks and cold water below.
“I can't,” he says finally, and it’s not defiance. It's quiet. almost gentle.
“Why?”
he swallows, eyes still on the folder.
“Because the second I read it, it’s over. She's gone in ink. In numbers. In your handwriting.” he glances up at her, and there’s no shield in his expression now. “If I don't read it, she’s just… late coming home.”
Shoko's throat tightens.
For a moment, she wants to tell him she understands. That she’s done the same—taken certain pages out because the words make her feel sick. But she doesn’t. She just nods, takes the folder back, tucks it under her arm again.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
He’s not moving.
Not breathing, maybe.
His hand rests on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright and she watches his shoulders shake.
Once.
Then still again.
His face is unreadable.
But his eyes — god, his eyes.
Shoko has known him for more than a decade, has seen him bloodied and laughing and blind with pain and victory. But she has never seen him like this.
Not even after Suguru.
Not even after Toji.
This isn’t rage.
This isn’t despair.
This is something else.
Something jagged. Something bottomless.
He looks at her like she’s the executioner. Like she didn’t just bring the news — but she made it true. But maybe, in some way, he’s right to feel that way.
“You’re sure that she’s—?” he asks, voice quiet. She could’ve mistaken his tone for desperation.
Shoko nods.
That's when it happens.
He laughs.
Short, ugly, and bitter.
An instinct, like flinching.
He runs a hand through his hair. Leans back against the counter.
The quiet settles like dust.
Shoko sits down on the couch. something crackles beneath her — one of your notebooks. She picks it up, flips it open without thinking.
The last page is filled with sketches. a little cartoon version of Gojo, grinning, speech bubble saying “have you seen my honey?”
Her throat tightens.
She doesn’t speak.
“I thought I had more time,” he says. Shoko doesn’t have it in her to speak.
“I wanted to take her to Okinawa again. Not for a mission this time. Just because.”
He closes his eyes.
“She never got to see it in winter. She would’ve liked the cold.”
And she stays the night on their couch. Like old times, except there is no wine and no laughter and your warmth isn’t beside her. Shoko never really registered that she’ll never see you again. Even now, it feels like you’ll call her at any moment and ask her if she wants a drink.
But that first night without you, she doesn’t think she could really fall asleep.
And he doesn’t really cry.
But in the morning, he makes coffee with hands that won’t stop shaking.
She drinks hers cold, and so does he. But she watches him press your mug to his lips and set it down again, like it burned him.
❀
august, 2014
Gojo is twenty four, and he’s older than he was meant to be. More tired than he lets on, and somehow still waiting for something that already ended.
Sometimes, when it’s late, and the city is loud, and the stars don’t show themselves—Shoko catches him leaning against the doorway of his apartment balcony, looking at the buildings and cars and passerbys like he’s trying to remember the shape of your face.
And that, she thinks, is love.
Not flowers.
Not vows.
Not even the waiting.
But the remembering.
The carrying.
The way his world stopped. The way he never quite leaves the doorway, just in case you might still come home to him.
viii. 2015
Grief, when it lingers long enough, becomes routine.
Shoko wakes the same way every morning: early, cold. the city a dull hum outside her window. The kettle clicks on. She measures out coffee. Drinks it black, because that’s how you liked it, and then cooks konnyaku because you hated it.
The irony keeps her company.
The mornings are always quiet now. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and stays.
And Nanami leaves the Jujutsu world around that time.
Quietly. Respectfully. Without fuss.
He came to her clinic on a Tuesday, knocked once, sat down across from her, and said, "I'm leaving.”
She didn’t ask why, because she felt like she already knew.
He was twenty three and already looked like he’d seen the end of the world twice.
“You'll be good,” she said softly. “Too good for this place.”
Nanami looked away. “I just want to live like a person.”
She envied him for thinking it was still possible.
Before he left, he placed a small paper-wrapped gift on her desk.
Inside was a lighter, clean, silver, unused.
She held it in her palm for a long time that night.
But she didn’t smoke.
Not yet.
❀
She sees Gojo more often these days.
Not because they talk more, and not because they seek each other out. Just because there’s no one else left.
They don’t need to make plans anymore. They just end up in the same places. The clinic. The faculty room. The convenience store on that street with the broken traffic light.
Sometimes he brings her canned coffee. Never says anything when he hands it to her.
She drinks it anyway.
It’s the only thing he offers that she can still take.
And he laughs a little more now, but it’s not the same.
When he does, it’s wrong. Jagged. Like something trying to escape from under his skin. It reminds her that he’s still grieving, even when he tells her “he’s over it.”
The students adore him. Still think he’s invincible, and think the blindfolds and wit and charm are who he really is.
But Shoko knows better.
❀
december, 2017
Suguru's death didn’t come like she expected, though to her, Suguru Geto had died the August they were seventeen.
From the outside, he went out in flame and fury.
But then again, it feels like he went out quietly. Gently. By Gojo’s own hands.
Because, in the end, that was the only way it could’ve happened.
Not in hatred or vengeance, but in recognition of what they’d been. Of what they’d lost. Of the thin line between who you are and who you become when the world stops making sense.
“It was quick,” Gojo told her afterward, his voice steady, eyes blown wide with something far beyond pain.
Shoko believed him. Not because she trusted the words, but because she trusted the silence between them.
❀
She thinks of Suguru now more than she admits.
Remembers how he used to hum under his breath while taking notes. How he’d hand her highlighters during meetings without looking. How he used to let them braid his hair on missions just to make them smile.
Remembers the way he stood the last time she saw him, on the night of the cursed parade—back straight, curses curling around him like smoke, eyes tired in a way that made her want to scream.
He broke long before he died.
Shoko knows this.
She also knows he would’ve been a wonderful teacher.
If the world had been kinder, and if someone had stopped to tell him that softness wasn’t weakness. That wanting to save people didn’t make him naïve.
That watching them die wasn’t his fault.
❀
Gojo comes to dinner sometimes.
Not often or predictably. Sometimes he just knocks, steps inside, doesn’t take his shoes off properly, and drops onto her couch like he owns the place.
She used to yell at him for that, but now she just lets him.
He eats whatever she makes. Doesn’t complain, even when it’s instant ramen or cold rice or nothing at all.
They don’t talk much during those nights.
But sometimes, he falls asleep.
And sometimes, she covers him with the old blanket you used to use when you were over — just because. Just to remember what it felt like to care for someone who was still breathing.
There's one night that she remembers, after a long day of treating a couple injured sorcerers in the midst of a mission, that she finds him already waiting.
In the kitchen, cutting vegetables.
“What are you doing?” she asks, flatly.
“Trying to give you a break,” he says.
“By mutilating my carrots?”
“They fought back.”
She puffs a breath from her nose and smiles.
It’s the closest she’s come to laughing in days.
He makes curry. It's too spicy. The rice is slightly undercooked — but it’s not half bad.
She eats every bite, and doesn’t thank him for showing up.
They’re not close, not in the way people imagine. They don’t tell each other secrets. They don’t hug. They don’t reminisce out loud. Their bond lies in the memory of what it meant to be sixteen and still whole. Of how it felt watching the strongest boy in the room slowly learn how to be gentle. Of seeing him break and build and break again.
Of surviving the wreckage together.
He keeps her from vanishing. She keeps him from shattering.
They exist near each other.
Orbiting.
Keeping each other tethered.
❀
Shoko's the only one who doesn’t have a grave.
Not really.
Haibara's is now marked in a clean Kyoto cemetery. Suguru's ashes were never recovered, but there’s a stone for him outside his old temple. You have a simple plaque under the oak tree they used to study beneath.
Shoko visits them all, but she doesn’t linger.
Because it’s not the places that hold them.
It’s the way she still turns her head when someone says “Geto” in a briefing. It’s the way she keeps chopsticks in her drawer for four, not one. It's the way she wakes from a dream, disoriented and reaching for an image of herself, of when her hair was cut to her chin and she is surrounded by people who were once her home — before she remembers that no one’s coming.
Though, there's a new photo on her desk now.
Four teenagers. Uniforms on and grins wide.
Gojo has his eyes closed. Suguru is pretending to look annoyed. You’re flipping off the camera. Shoko is mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes crinkled.
She doesn’t remember who took it.
Doesn’t remember what they were laughing at.
But she leaves it there.
Next to the medical files and the pills and the list of new students.
It’s a reminder — not of who they were, but that they were. That at one point in time, the four of them had existed together. That at some point, that was all that mattered.
ix. december 24, 2018
The first snow falls unceremoniously. No warning and no wind to carry it.
Just flakes, slow and fat, drifting sideways over the rooftops of Shinjuku like ash from something that’s already burned.
Shoko watches it from the roof.
She doesn’t move.
Not yet.
It's the holidays, and she hates this time of year. There’s too much pretending, too many bright windows, too many mouths grinning like the world hasn’t ended five times already.
This year, the snow comes early.
And with it—him.
She thinks the city is strange under snow. Not soft. Not pretty. Just muffled, hollowed out. Sirens echo longer. Footsteps vanish quicker. The skyline dissolves behind a white veil, lights blurring like bruises.
She walks through it alone. Past vending machines glazed in frost and power lines sagging beneath the weight. There are paper lanterns swaying over shuttered storefronts, their glow smudged and dim.
Her boots crunch the snow like something brittle and alive. She isn’t wearing gloves. She likes the cold biting at her skin. It feels honest.
She finds him in the square.
Tall. Unmovable. Eyes like winter distilled into glass.
He's facing Sukuna, and there’s no backup. No panic. No speeches or horns sounding in the dark. Just two gods standing where no man should be.
She doesn’t call his name or break the silence. Only stands at the edge of it all, smoke slipping from her mouth, her eyes dry as bone.
He knows she’s there.
He doesn’t turn.
But he tilts his chin, barely, like a gesture carved out of stone.
And she understands, like she did all those years ago in August, when Suguru Geto had lit her cigarette. When he smiled and waved and she had turned away, for the last time.
That this is the end.
Not just of him. Not just of this fight.
But of everything that tethered them to a time when living felt possible.
Springtime in Jujutsu Tech. Sunlight tangled in white hair. You, singing too loudly, Suguru sighing like the world rested in his lungs. Sandos split in half. Train cars rattling at dusk. Leaves falling as soft as promises they never kept.
All of it.
Ending here.
Under a sky in a city stripped down to bone.
He burns too bright, even now. Bends space like a god, cuts air like a blade, shoulders the infinite and makes it look like art. And still—Sukuna is cruel. patient. inevitable.
Shoko watches as it begins: sharp, merciless, a brilliance that blinds and dies just as quickly.
She sees him hold and hold and hold—until he doesn’t.
He doesn’t scream.
He just folds.
Quietly.
Finally.
And the moment he hits the ground, the world doesn’t shatter.
But something in her does.
Everything slows.
The air thickens. Her breath fogs in front of her. Her hands are shaking, not from fear, but because she’s remembering. Nostalgia has always had its way of killing her, of creeping up on her and leaving her feeling sick. There is nothing left to reminisce now, as the last remaining part of her youth lies split in half in the show.
❀
The lab smells like steel and antiseptic, like every failure she’s ever catalogued. Fluorescent lights hum above her, sickly and bright, making her want to tear them out of the ceiling. She doesn’t. She just sets the instruments in place, lines up scalpels with the precision of someone who cannot afford to think.
Yuta lies unconscious on the table, his chest rising shallow, his pulse steady under her fingers. Now, she moves over to the drawer, where she placed Satoru’s body after stitching it back together. When she pulls back the sheets, she touches his hair once, brushes it off his forehead the way she remembers you used to when he was too stubborn to sleep.
Now she stands over him, and for the first time in years, her hands shake.
Not from inexperience. Not from fear of failure.
But from knowing that if she succeeds, it won’t really be him. And if she fails, she will have killed the last piece of her friend’s legacy with her own two hands.
Her cursed technique hums, steady, inexorable. Flesh unravels, rewrites. Neurons glimmer under her touch like constellations in a dark sky. She threads them carefully, patient as a weaver, until she feels something spark. Until she feels him.
Not Yuta, not exactly.
But not Satoru either.
Something between.
A gasp, sharp and wet, tears through the air. fingers twitch. The body arches against restraints she swore she wouldn’t use, but had to.
And then—eyes.
Too blue. Too familiar.
Her knees nearly buckle.
Because for an instant it feels like the dorms again and being a teenager. Then for an instant, she is twenty two again, and she watches Gojo lean down to talk to Tsumiki and Megumi, to give them reassurance, to protect their youth.
But then the boy blinks, coughs, chokes on his first words, staring at his hands. and Yuta is suddenly speaking to her, from Satoru Gojo’s lips.
And it’s not him.
It’s not him.
She forces her hands steady, swallows down the tremor in her throat. “Well, it worked.” She says, clinical, detached. Like she didn’t just carve open time and stitch it into something monstrous.
The snow keeps falling outside.
❀
Later, they ask her what happened. after transferring Yuta back to his own body, after dismantling Satoru, pieces lying on a table in her clinic — while Yuta walks, unscathed.
She gives them the facts. stripped bare, like bone. No softness. No poetry.
“Gojo fought. He fell. He's dead.”
Nothing more, because she refuses to let them dress it in glory, refuses to let them write a hymn where there was only silence.
He was tired.
He died.
And there’s nothing beautiful about that.
❀
She cremates him herself. In the same furnace that once took you. Her gloves are soaked by the end of it, dark and slick, but she doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t cry either. Not this time.
x. 青春
Tokyo feels different after. Like the city is holding its breath, waiting for something that will never come.
That evening, she stops beneath a streetlamp outside the school. Cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers. Snow catching in her hair, turning her into something ghostlike. Embers glow like memories in the dark.
For the first time in forever, she speaks. Not to anyone. Just to the cold, to the shadows that linger in her bones.
“You win.” she whispers.
The lamp above her flickers once, then dies.
And Shoko stands alone in the dark. Utterly. Finally. Completely.
Yet that night, she finds herself dreaming in color that she thought had left her vision over a decade ago now.
Dreams not of blood. Not of battle, or of bodies in a morgue, or the harsh December air.
But of summer. The old apartment bathed in sunlight. Then, you’re next to her, seated cross-legged, fingers deftly braiding Tsumiki’s hair. Gojo at the table, laughing, trying to pry the cap off a bottle of soda with his teeth while Suguru shakes his head, pretending not to smile at him. Somewhere on your balcony, Haibara’s voice rings out, bright with Nanami’s deeper murmur tucked inside it.
Shoko feels a weight in her hands, and forces herself to look down for just a moment just to see that she is holding a camera. She lifts it. Frames them in her viewfinder — her whole heart in one room. Click.
A still life. A stolen moment that no one else notices.
They’re too busy being alive.
(終わり) END.
When August comes, I don’t count the days
Transitory views from the subway train
How strange, when life unfolds this way
In the drift less zone, sky’s prone to stay off-gray
Clouds are omens too, fading at the rate
That most pleasant memories do
mae's note. first chapter of "of love & lesson plans" out tomorrow, and i pinky promise it won't be this sad </3 likes + reposts are appreciated, thank you soso much for reading
toji groans, arm flung over his eyes as he hears you shuffle back onto the bed. the mattress sinks beneath your weight and he feels the drag of your nails along his abs, trailing toward the mess between his legs. everything’s soaked, your thighs, his cock, the damn sheets—and his body’s fucking spent. even his heartbeat is still struggling to slow down from the last round you just wrung out of him.
“we just finished,” he mutters, jaw tense, sweat glistening down his neck from how deep he was buried inside you minutes ago.
you hum as you straddle him, pussy bare and puffy and still dripping, hovering just above the tip of his cock. “twenty minutes is enough recovery,” you breathe out, hips twitching with impatience. “unless… you’re tapping out already?”
toji barks a laugh, shaking his head against the pillows. “you’re fucking insane.”
“you say that like it’s new,” you giggle, then lower yourself, chasing the heat of him as you rubbed your folds against his sensitive cockhead. “and yet you’re hard again already.”
“that’s just my body betraying me,” he says, but there’s a dangerous grin starting to tug at his lips.
“then punish it,” you whisper, leaning down to nip his earlobe. “or should i ride you like a good girl while you whimper under me again?”
he flips you before you can blink.
your back hits the mattress with a squeal and your thighs spread without being asked, welcoming his bulk as he shoves your legs up and folds you in half. your cunt flutters with anticipation as he lines himself up, and you don’t even try to hide the giddy smirk you wear.
“that’s more like it,” you purr, voice syrupy. “show me what that stroke game really looks like, old man.”
toji scoffs— then slaps your pussy hard enough to make you jolt.
“keep talkin’ like that and i’ll fuck the attitude outta you,” he growls.
you moan at the sting, licking your lips. “promise?”
the fourth round is rougher.
there’s nothing sweet about the way he pistons into you now— hips snapping with bruising precision, hands locked around your wrists and pinned above your head as he leans in, mouth dragging along your jaw with hot, panting breaths.
“still think it’s weak, huh?” he grunts, drilling into you harder, the headboard rattling with every movement. “talk now, brat.”
but your voice is wrecked, just moans and breathy little whimpers as your body takes in all, juices leaking out with each filthy slap of skin.
you try. “s-stroke still- mmf- k-kinda mid—”
he smacks your tit just to watch it bounce, then bites your neck.
“shut up.”
you cry out, legs wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him deeper. you love this game. love when he gets like this, mean, rough, and desperate to make you shut the fuck up with his cock. toji always pretends he’s in control, but deep down he’s just as addicted as you.
“you just needed this nasty fuckin’ dick, huh?” he sneers, hips crashing into you like a goddamn machine. “couldn’t even wait thirty fuckin’ minutes before getting needy again.”
your tongue lolls out, and he spits in your mouth without hesitation.
“swallow,” he commands.
obediently, you do.
by the fifth round, you’re shaking.
he’s got you on your knees now, head squished into the pillows, ass up high. your face is wet with tears and drool, and your cunt is throbbing— slick and raw and overstimulated as hell, but so fucking greedy for more.
toji grabs the base of your spine, pushing it down so your back arches even deeper.
“sloppy little cocksleeve,” he growls, landing a harsh slap to your ass. “drippin’ like a whore. and after five fuckin’ loads? still not satisfied?”
you wiggle your ass at him, breathless but smug. “only five? damn. weak performance for a guy with muscles like that.”
another slap cuts the air— making you scream.
“okay- okay! that one stung,” you giggle through the pain, but it dissolves into a moan when he grabs your ass and spreads you open, watching his cum drip from your swollen hole.
“you’re the freak,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. “i’m over here thinkin’ i’m some sex god, but you—” he slaps your pussy again just to hear the wet sound. “you’re insatiable.”
“then fuck me like you mean it, ‘ji,” you taunt, glancing over your shoulder with a tear-streaked smirk.
he grits through his teeth, losing all self restraint, and drives his cock back into you, hard enough to knock the wind out of your lungs.
round six is feral.
you’re spread out on your back, legs thrown over his shoulders as he fucks you full with one hand squeezing your throat. the other rubs brutal circles on your clit, fingers sticky from your release.
“gonna make you squirt all over my cock again,” he pants. “gonna ruin this fuckin’ mattress, huh?”
“d-do it, then,” you choke out, squirming. “make me soak this bitch. bet you can’t.”
he growls, slaps your clit, and leans in close.
“keep testing me.”
you scream when you squirt all over him thirty seconds later.
you cum again in round seven. and eight. and nine.
toji cums deep everytime— groaning into your neck, snarling into your mouth, biting down on your shoulder as he empties his balls inside you over and over. the room smells like nothing but sex. your body is a shaking mess. your poor pussy is stretched raw, fluttering around his cock, fucked so full of cum it’s leaking out in slow, creamy drips.
you should be done.
he thinks you’ve finally called it quits, your body’s gone limp, your mouth slack, but then he feels the slow grind of your hips again.
“…baby.”
“hm?”
“no fucking way,” he groans, voice hoarse.
you blink up at him with hazy eyes, but that familiar glint is still there. that insatiable hunger. your fingers drift to your clit and rub a slow circle, and toji can’t help but stare, hypnotized even as his cock twitches, still buried inside you.
“you’re possessed,” he murmurs.
you smile, breath hitching as you lazily stroke yourself. “don’t tell me you’re already tapping out after just nine rounds.”
toji sighs, but his hips are already rolling again. already fucking you deeper.
“fucking hell,” he growls, dragging your leg up to your chest, pounding into your soaked cunt with renewed vigor. “this pussy’s gonna kill me.”
you grin like the devil.
“you’d die happy, though.”
REPOST !!! pls do not be alarmed and think this is stolen, i wrote this and it’s from my old/deactivated account <3
satoru was the most unserious man you’d ever slept with, hands down.
he practically scrambled into bed, tugging you with him. his kisses were hot and wet, a little frantic with teeth clashing. you were both too impatient for anything slow.
he fumbled with a condom, then pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before settling between your legs. just when he was about to sink in, he stopped and reached over to flip off the light switch.
“satoru, what are you doing?” you whispered, your eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness. “the last time we did this with no lights, you ended up with that awful bruise, remember?”
“shh, baby.” he silenced you with a finger on your lips, then pointed down to where his tip was pressing against you. “look.”
raising an eyebrow, you shifted a little, following his gaze. “oh, my god,” you said, a touch of disgust in your voice. “why is the condom glowing?”
“because it’s glow-in-the-dark! it was on sale!”
“satoru gojo, is this what you were doing when i sent you to the store? you were supposed to get actual necessities, like… eggs and milk!”
“but these are way cooler,” he whined, a finger lightly brushing against your slick cunt.
your breath hitched. “yeah, if you’re twelve, maybe. i don’t want that inside me. who knows what kind of chemicals are in that thing!”
“but- but it glows!”
“don’t we have any other condoms?”
“nope,” he said sheepishly. suddenly, his eyes sparked. “if you really don’t like these, we could always just go without!” the excitement in his voice was almost unsettling.
you just stared at him. he gave you his best puppy-dog eyes.
sighing, your head falls back onto the pillow. “just… just do it.”
you never stood a chance. and even with your eyes squeezed shut, you could still see the faint, greenish glow.
satoru hits it from the back the way he always does: body hunched over yours that couldn’t have felt comfortable for him (not that he minds.) each well-calculated thrust makes your hands scramble for purchase on the sheets, and you’re already huffing ‘n puffing into the pillow when his fingers slip under your jaw, coaxing your head to angle just slightly to the side. you know what he wants—the same thing he always wants, even when he’s inside you. you’re not sure whether it has something to do with his infinity or not, but satoru craves physical closeness like a starving dog.
“turn your face for me,” he whines, with that cheeky petulance that always precedes either something idiotic or devastatingly sweet. “c’monnnn… i wanna kiss my pretty girl,”
you try—god, you do—but another thrust knocks the attempt out of you, leaving your cheek squished against the pillow’s edge. satoru laughs under his breath as you make another attempt to angle your head toward him. your cheek barely clears your shoulder before he’s taking the whole moment for himself by capturing your mouth in a kiss that is as deep as his thrusts, swallowing the sound you make when he bottoms out again. you feel him smile against your mouth.
“there you are,” he praises, stealing what little breath he hasn’t already fucked out of you. his lips are so warm, moving against yours each time his hips snap forward and rip another broken moan out of your throat.
it’s awkward for sure, with his cock stretching your walls and your body arching to take him, he still needs the comfort of your kiss, still needs the soft sigh you make when he slips his tongue in or nibble at your bottom lip. you feel him shudder behind you. deeper thrusts now, more gusto than before, as though that one kiss recharged something vital in him.
