Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You slouched in your ergonomic office chair, staring at the ceiling of your office at Headquarters while contemplating the absolute shit show that was your career choice. Not that you regretted it – someone had to keep these idiots from completely losing their marbles – but holy fuck, did it test your patience on a daily basis.

The fundamental truth about making it in the jujutsu world when you had no cursed technique and no prestigious family name was that you had to be twice as smart and three times as stubborn as everyone else. It was a world built on power, pedigree, and the occasional divine intervention, none of which appeared on your resume.

And when your chosen specialty within this already treacherous ecosystem was therapist to the magically traumatized… Multiply that stubbornness requirement by ten, because these assholes would rather get eaten by a curse than admit they might benefit from talking about their feelings for an hour.

Which was fucking ridiculous, really. Show you a well-adjusted sorcerer, and you’d show them a pathological liar. Nobody completely sane signed up for this gig. You simply couldn’t stare down creatures composed entirely of gnashing teeth and weeping eyeballs five days a week without developing a few eccentricities. 

A light dusting of madness was a job requirement, maybe even a survival mechanism. The real question wasn’t whether a sorcerer needed therapy, it was how many different kinds they needed. CBT for the intrusive thoughts, EMDR for the near-death experiences, maybe some art therapy to process the existential horror… the list went on.

But try telling that to these prideful bastards. One would think that after years of Gojo fucking Satoru – the strongest sorcerer alive and current Head of the High Council – making psych evaluations mandatory, people would have gotten used to the idea. Apparently not. Old habits, like ancient curses, died screaming and clawing.

While the local Tokyo crews and those from nearby prefectures had learned to just suck it up and comply (even if they still bitched about it incessantly – complaining was a sorcerer’s primary love language, right after gratuitous violence and angsty brooding), you still got the occasional out-of-towner who thought they could challenge the system. 

You recognized the attitude instantly, had seen it a thousand times before: the defensively crossed arms, the posture radiating suspicion, the subtle way their eyes flicked toward the exits as if you were poised to leap across the desk with a straitjacket and a fistful of mood stabilizers.

Case in point: that crusty old fart from Nagano who’d rolled in last month, convinced his fifty-odd years of narrowly dodging death somehow made him an expert on everything. He’d attempted to argue that “in his day, sorcerers dealt with their problems the traditional way.” Yes, the grand tradition of drinking themselves into an early grave or dying spectacularly on missions that were way above their grade. Such a fantastic coping mechanism. You’d had to quite explicitly threaten to rip his beard clean off his chin before the old bastard finally sat his geriatric ass down for the evaluation.

And don’t even get you started on the young hotheads fresh out of training and drunk on the toxic combination of unchecked power and profound insecurity. They were somehow even worse than the old guard. They always put up a fight. The number of times you’d had to physically barricade your office door to prevent one of these hormone-fueled little shits from storming out mid-session… You suspected you were developing specific muscle groups just from holding the line against indignant teenagers.

You reached for your coffee mug, only to find it empty. Again. This was your third cup today, and the clock hadn’t even dared to strike noon yet. When your morning had started with a grade 1 sorcerer having a breakdown over their recent mission (while insisting through gritted teeth that they were “perfectly fine, thank you very much”), followed by an urgent consultation with an assistant manager regarding a new recruit showing signs of curse-induced anxiety, you figured you were entitled to all the caffeine you could get your hands on.

At least you’d managed to build enough of a reputation over the years that most sorcerers in the area knew better than to fuck with you. Amazing how quickly people’s attitudes changed when you demonstrated that being just an average sorcerer in terms of raw power didn’t mean you couldn’t fuck them up in a dozen different ways. 

Now, they might not like it, might grumble and glare and drag their feet, but they’d plant their asses on your couch and do the work. Because if there was one thing you’d learned about surviving in the jujutsu world without innate advantages, it was this: you didn’t need a cursed technique when you possessed enough wit and spite to bulldoze through any resistance, metaphorical or otherwise. 

And speaking of resistance... You glanced at your schedule for the afternoon. Oh joy. A first-time evaluation with some hotshot from Kyoto who’d told three different administrators that he’d “rather fight a special grade curse naked” than subject himself to a psych eval. You could already feel a headache forming behind your eyes.

Right on cue, as if summoned by your very thoughts of difficult patients, the door burst open without warning. In strode your afternoon appointment: 19-year-old Nakamura Satoshi.

He was all six-foot-something of imposing presence, built like a brick shithouse with shoulders that barely cleared your doorframe, looking as though he’d been genetically engineered to loom over people. His black hair was pulled back in a sleek topknot that screamed “I spend an hour on this to make it look effortlessly messy”, wearing what you’d come to think of as the standard traditional ensemble favored by the conservatives, and radiating the kind of entitled arrogance that seemed to be Kyoto Jujutsu High’s main export.

Satoshi swaggered across the room in three long strides and flopped onto your couch with all the grace of a falling tree. He immediately adopted a pose of aggressive relaxation, manspreading to take up as much psychological and physical space as possible. The poor furniture creaked audibly in protest, and you sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity oversaw office supplies that you’d invested in reinforced seating after The Incident involving that sumo-wrestler-turned-sorcerer that year.

“Let’s get this bullshit over with,” Satoshi announced to the room at large, already scanning his surroundings with a look of profound boredom. “Got curses to punch, y’know? Better things to do than sit here and talk about my feelings.” 

He punctuated this statement with a sneer that clearly broadcasted his opinion: Feelings are for the weak, and you are wasting my valuable punching time. Classic Kyoto peacocking.

You resisted the potent urge to launch him out the third-story window – not because you doubted your ability to do so, but because he definitely wouldn’t fit through it without property damage. The resulting paperwork would be dreadful. So, you simply moved into your armchair across from him and began the familiar tea-pouring ritual as you introduced yourself.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey from Kyoto, Nakamura-san. Would you like sugar with your tea?” you asked pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just burst in like an asshole. “I also have honey if you prefer.”

Satoshi ignored your pleasantries completely. His gaze continued its dismissive sweep over your admittedly cluttered office. It wasn’t dirty, exactly, just… lived in. Books overflowed from shelves, case files threatened to stage a hostile takeover of your desk, and various trinkets of questionable origin occupied every available surface. His eyes snagged on the far wall, where several framed pictures hung. 

They weren’t high art – mostly goofy animal photos Nobara and Yuji had gifted you when you first got the office, each emblazoned with aggressively cheerful slogans like “This Doctor Can and Will Throw Hands!” (featuring a muscular boxing kangaroo) or “Behave or Get Bonked” (illustrated by a surprisingly menacing kitten wielding a tiny hammer). They were ridiculous, unprofessional, and you loved them dearly.

A derisive snicker escaped Satoshi. Clearly, the boxing kangaroo failed to intimidate. Color you surprised.

You smiled, pretending not to notice his attitude as you set his teacup in front of him. “Shall we start with some basic questions about your current assignment?”

“Yeah, here’s a question,” he cut you off, leaning forward with what he probably thought was an intimidating sneer. “If you’re such a tough cookie, why’d I have to leave my cursed tool with that pencil-pusher downstairs?”

Ah, here we go. Phase two: The Provocation. It was almost comforting in its predictability. Big guys always tried this, like flexing their biceps was a valid substitute for an actual personality.

You took a sip of your tea, maintaining your pleasant smile. “Oh, I just hate cleaning blood out of the rug. It’s imported, you know.” You gestured at the plush carpet beneath your feet. “Such a pain to maintain.”

“Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll try not to splash your blood on your precious—”

His hand dove into his jacket, scrabbling for something near his chest. Confusion slowly replaced his smug expression as he came up empty. He patted his clothes with increasing desperation, like a man who’d lost his keys and refused to accept the humiliating reality.

You watched him fumble for another moment, allowing the panic to build just a little, then, casually, you flicked your wrist. A small tanto blade appeared, nestled comfortably between your index and middle fingers.

“Looking for this, perhaps?” you asked lightly.

Satoshi’s eyes widened. “How did you—?” His face cycled rapidly through confusion, disbelief, and finally settled on sputtering outrage. He launched himself forward, expecting to intimidate you with his considerable size advantage. 

Amateur.

You kicked the coffee table with precise force, sending it slamming into his midsection. The tea set slid precariously close to the edge, wobbled, but stayed put. You’d had lots of practice getting that move just right. You really did like the rug. 

Satoshi let out a very satisfying “oof” as he was forced back into the couch, the air knocked out of his lungs. He grunted, trying to push back against the table. Unfortunately for him, you had better leverage and, more importantly, this table wasn’t just any standard IKEA fare. One of your more thoughtful colleagues had enchanted it specifically for situations like this. To you, it was a normal coffee table. To any asshole on the other side? It might as well have weighed a metric ton.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” you advised calmly, applying just a bit more pressure with your leg for emphasis. He groaned, more wounded pride than actual pain.

The whole production was rather theatrical, but you’d found that a non-lethal dose of targeted humiliation was often the most effective icebreaker, especially when dealing with overgrown toddlers who operated under the delusion that might made right. 

You were pretty sure Satoshi hadn’t actually intended to use the knife on you – just flash it, scare you a bit, establish dominance. Which, fair enough. You conceded that you looked rather harmless and easy to intimidate when you weren’t actively trying not to. Maintaining a constant aura of peak menace all day was just too exhausting. Still, intentions aside, ground rules were ground rules.

You sipped your tea and waited patiently as Satoshi continued to struggle against the immovable table, muscles bulging and veins popping in his neck. A few minutes later, his initial fury gave way to frustrated grunts, then sputtered out as his dignity began to take more of a beating than his diaphragm. Defeated and red-faced, he slumped back against the cushions with a muttered, “Fine.”

“Wonderful,” you beamed at him as you released the pressure, hooking the table back to its original position with your foot. “Then, let’s try this from the beginning, shall we, Nakamura-san?” You opened your notebook again, pen clicking invitingly.

Any normal psychologist would have a stroke, possibly multiple strokes, if they witnessed your standard operating procedures. And you’d definitely lose your license if the board ever found out about your... unique approach to building rapport. Then again, nothing about the jujutsu world was normal. Sometimes, the best therapy started with a good ass-kicking. That’s what you planned to argue if anyone ever audited your files. You’d call it “Aggressive Recontextualization Therapy.” It sounded official enough.

“Let’s talk about your recent mission,” you prompted, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook. “Grade 2 containment in Osaka, correct?”

“Yeah,” Satoshi grunted, still sullen yet noticeably less combative now that his knife had been confiscated and his ego slightly dented. “What’s there to talk about? It’s all in the fucking report.”

You hummed noncommittally, keeping your posture relaxed and your voice steady, projecting an air of calm professionalism you only occasionally felt. “Humor me. Standard containment protocols were initiated at…” you checked your notes, “...approximately 2100 hours?”

“2047,” he corrected automatically then scowled, angry at himself for engaging. “We got the call at 2030. Mobilized in seventeen minutes. Standard response time.”

You nodded. “That’s actually impressive for a night deployment. Most teams take twenty to twenty-five minutes to mobilize after hours.”

Satoshi blinked, thrown off balance by the unexpected praise. “Yeah, well, Ari-san – my partner – she’s really good with logistics. Was good. Is good.” He stumbled over the tense, and something in your chest ached.

“I read the preliminary report,” you said, steering away from his partner for now. “Started as a Grade 2 containment, ended with a Special Grade manifestation. That’s a major tactical shift. Walk me through the point where things went off-script from your perspective.”

He stared at his untouched tea as if the answers were swirling in the cooling liquid. “We had the Grade 2 contained,” he finally said. “Standard sealing technique, everything by the book. Then…” He clenched his fists. “It was like the curse just... evolved. Right there. Never seen anything like it.”

You nodded again, making a brief note. “That’s rare. What were your initial tactical observations when you realized the situation was escalating?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “The curse’s output doubled, then tripled within seconds. I tried to reinforce the seal, buy time to complete the civilian evacuation, but…” He trailed off, then added defensively, “I know I’m new, but I’m not an idiot. The curse’s behavior pattern didn’t match the intel. I could tell it was way above our grade.”

“You made the call to request backup,” you noted. “That was good tactical awareness. Risk assessment is complicated, especially early in your career. You’re balancing multiple factors – civilian safety, team resources, potential escalation…” You pulled out a pack of gummy bears from your drawer and offered them across the coffee table, which had returned to its normal weight now that he wasn’t trying to prove anything. “How long have you been field certified?”

He accepted the gummies with a grimace that might have been trying to be a smile. “Eight months,” he admitted, picking out a red one. “Everyone says that’s why I missed the signs.”

“Eight months isn’t much time to develop pattern recognition for Special Grade deception tactics,” you pointed out. “Hell, most senior operators might miss those signs. There’s a reason Special Grades have such a high casualty rate, and it isn’t because every sorcerer who encounters one is incompetent.”

The gummy bear paused halfway to his mouth. “That’s... not what the review board said.”

“The review board wasn’t there,” you said, throwing Gakuganji under the bus without hesitation. “They’re looking at after-action reports with perfect hindsight. I’m more interested in your real-time tactical analysis. How long between your call and the situation deteriorating?”

“Three minutes, maybe four?” His posture loosened almost imperceptibly as he focused on the technical aspects. “The seal was holding, barely. Ari-san was trying to get the last civilian away, but the curse… It was like it knew. Like it was waiting for us to split our attention.” 

You leaned forward slightly. “Did you notice any other indicators that might have suggested it was masking its true grade?”

Satoshi ran a hand through his hair, looking less like a peacock from earlier and more like an exhausted rookie. “Looking back? Yeah. The way it moved was too... coordinated. But who expects a fucking Special Grade from a routine containment? They don’t teach you that shit in training.” 

“No, they don’t,” you agreed.

The brittle tension had started to fade from Satoshi. Here was someone actually listening to his professional assessment, treating him like a full-fledged sorcerer rather than just a rookie who’d screwed up. Utahime had been right to send the boy to you. He needed this.

“So,” you said casually, clicking your pen. “How’s your cursed energy output been since the incident?”

Keep it clinical, keep it about performance metrics. Nothing personal here, just routine checks.

“Fine,” he grunted, destroying another red gummy bear. “Everything’s fine.”

“Sleep much?”

“Enough.”

“Meaning?”

He shifted, scowling at the floor. “Three, maybe four hours. It’s normal after a mission.”

“Uh-huh. And the shakes? Those normal, too?”

His head snapped up. “I don’t—” Then he noticed his own trembling hand and shoved it into his pocket. “Fuck.”

“Look,” you leaned back. “Your energy flow’s going haywire. I can feel it from here – all choppy and unstable. Seen it a hundred times after rough missions. System gets overloaded, needs a hard reset.”

“I can handle it,” he insisted, but there was less bite in it now.

“Sure, you can. But why burn yourself out when protocol gives you a perfect excuse to catch your breath?” You flipped through his file. “Two weeks administrative leave. Standard procedure after this kind of shit show. Non-negotiable.”

“Two weeks? That’s—”

“That’s the minimum cool-down period to prevent you from going completely to hell.” You cut him off. “Not about you being weak or whatever bullshit you’re thinking. Pure biology. Even Gojo takes mandatory leave, and god knows that’s a pain in everyone’s ass.”

That got a tiny snort out of Satoshi. Progress.

“What happens when I can’t…” he started, then clenched his jaw.

“Brain gets stuck on replay?” you offered. “Keeps running different scenarios, wondering if you could’ve done something different?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why we do tactical debriefs. Twice a week, we break down what happened. Analysis, strategy, the works. We get it all sorted out, filed away properly, so it doesn’t jump out and fuck with your performance when you’re back in the field.”

He eyed you suspiciously. “And that’s... mandatory too?”

“Part of the clearance process,” you confirmed. “Can’t have our field operators running at anything less than peak performance, right? Bad for morale. And insurance premiums.”

He chewed on that, literally and figuratively, as he finished off the gummies. The muscle in his jaw worked for a moment before he finally gave a stiff, reluctant nod. “Just two weeks? Then I’m cleared?”

“Two weeks of actual rest. And regular debriefs until I sign off.” You offered him back his knife. “Here. Try not to stab anyone with it this time.”

Satoshi actually looked embarrassed as he took it. “Yeah, uh... sorry about earlier. With the whole…” He waved vaguely at the coffee table, the picture of teenboy awkwardness. It was mumbled and constipated, but it was an apology. A definite win.

“Please, that wasn’t even in my top ten worst first sessions this month.” You tossed him a fresh bag of gummies. 

His face lit up for a second before he caught himself. Just a kid, really, under all that bravado and bluster.

“Same time next week?” you asked, keeping your tone casual as you made the appointment note.

“Yeah, whatever,” Satoshi grumbled, already digging into the new bag as he stood up. “For the tactical stuff.” 

“Of course. The tactical stuff.”

Satoshi headed for the door, paused with his hand on the knob, then seemed to reconsider. He took a half-step back into the room, still not quite looking at you. “I forgot… Um, thanks… Doctor.”

You offered a small smile. “You’re welcome, Nakamura-san.”

“Just Satoshi is fine.”

“Satoshi.”

Once he’d left, you jotted down more into your notebook. Sleep disruption (3-4 hrs/night), CE instability (observable fluctuation, tremors), intrusive trauma responses, likely survivor’s guilt re: partner (Ari – check status). Priority: stabilize sleep patterns, address guilt via tactical reframing. Responsive to structured, performance-focused approach. Maintain operational focus in sessions. You added a final, crucial bullet point: Order more gummy bears.

Being a therapist in the jujutsu world meant meeting your patients where they were, even if that meant pretending therapy was just another form of advanced combat training. Whatever works, right?

With Satoshi dispatched (and hopefully on the road to being less of a traumatized dick), you had a moment to breathe. Fishing out your phone, you winced as the screen flared to life, displaying approximately eight million notifications from your group chat with your three favorite disasters, the vast majority of them originating from one Kugisaki Nobara.

“SPICES YOU ABSOLUTE TRAITOR” Angry Nail Emoji x5

“TWO CANCELLATIONS IN ONE MONTH???” Angry Nail Emoji x6

“If you reschedule ONE MORE TIME I swear to god”

“I STG IF YOU’RE NOT DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE I’M GONNA PUT YOU IN ONE” Skull Emoji

“ANSWER YOUR PHONE YOU WORKAHOLIC GREMLIN”

“DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE AND DRAG YOU OUT BY YOUR HAIR”

“MEGUMI IS GETTING WEIRD AND ANTISOCIAL AGAIN (MORE THAN USUAL)”

“WE NEED ADULT SUPERVISION BEFORE SOMEONE DIES”

“YUJI MISSES YOU AND IS MAKING SAD PUPPY EYES AT HIS PHONE” Puppy Dog Eyes Emoji

“I MISS YOU” 

“bitch answer me” Knife Emoji

You sighed, rubbing your temples. Adulting was a scam. It consisted mostly of apologizing for being busy and trying not to die. You quickly tapped out a reply before Nobara mobilized a search party or declared you legally deceased.

“I solemnly swear that short of an actual apocalypse, I will be at your apartment this weekend. Even if any world-ending events occur, I’ll bring them with me and we can deal with them over pizza.”

You hit send, hoping the combination of food bribery and extreme commitment would appease her wrath. Her response was immediate:

“YOU BETTER BE. I have witnesses to this promise. Screenshots have been taken and notarized. Evidence will be presented in court if necessary.”

Followed by a flood of heart emojis from Yuji and a single “...” from Megumi that somehow managed to convey both judgment and anticipation in three simple dots.

Shaking your head fondly, you turned to your case files, carefully translating the day’s events into appropriately professional language rather than blunt truths like “had to physically restrain patient with enchanted IKEA furniture to establish baseline rapport.” The notes needed to be detailed enough to track progress but vague enough to maintain confidentiality, and encoded enough that if anyone ever broke into your office, they wouldn’t understand shit. The pile of paperwork never seemed to get smaller. At least, you’d gotten better at creative documentation over the years.

Around sunset, you switched to preparing tomorrow’s lecture materials for Tokyo Jujutsu High. The slides were already done. You’d been using the same presentation for years, only updating the casualty statistics to keep the fear fresh and motivating. You just needed to review the student profiles Yuji had sent over.

Yuji was a natural teacher. He’d slipped into the role seamlessly and was doing an amazing job mentoring the new generation. He possessed an uncanny knack for hammering home the fundamentals, building essential camaraderie among often prickly personalities, and inspiring them to punch curses really, really hard. Which was essential, obviously. His boundless enthusiasm and genuine care for the students could motivate even the most obnoxious teenagers to try their best.

Some things, however, required a different touch. Like getting them to understand the importance of precise cursed energy control beyond “hit thing harder.” Or making them appreciate the subtleties of barrier techniques beyond “big shield go brrr.”

And then there was the crucial task of ensuring the little darlings actually did their goddamn assigned reading. That responsibility, through a combination of seniority and sheer intimidation factor, had fallen squarely on your shoulders years ago, back when you were just an unhinged senpai bullying the first-years into compliance. 

Now, you were the legendary hellraiser who could supposedly smell unread textbooks from a mile away. The young folks still talked about that time when you’d caught someone using their phone to cheat during one of your infamous pop quizzes.

The story had grown wildly in the telling. According to current campus lore, you’d eaten the phone, cursed the offending student to only speak in Disney song lyrics for a week, and made them write a thousand-word apology in their own blood. In reality, you’d just made them stand in the corner holding a full water bottle on their head for two hours while reciting safety protocols. You weren’t about to correct the rumors, though. Fear was an excellent pedagogical tool.

Every generation of students respectfully (and fearfully) called you “Sensei,” even though you weren’t officially on the faculty roster. The best part was that this conditioned fear often followed them into their professional careers. Nothing quite compared to the satisfaction of watching a freshly graduated sorcerer drop whatever they were doing and snap rigidly to attention simply because they spotted the Sensei walking by and were suddenly consumed by war flashbacks to their school days.

And honestly, keeping these idiots alive and compliant required a multi-pronged approach. Yuji had the “cool older brother who believes in you” angle covered; you were the scary “don’t fuck this up or else” senpai-turned-sensei. It was a beautiful symbiosis.

Yuji’s notes highlighted a few promising students who needed extra attention to refine their cursed techniques and a couple of troublemakers who thought being born with a technique meant they could skip the basics. You made a mental note to call on them first tomorrow. Can’t let the reputation slip.

A knock at your door interrupted your lesson planning. A second later, Higuruma let himself in. “Still working, Doctor?”

Higuruma had started the whole “Doctor” thing for you a couple of years back, right after you’d wrestled your PhD in clinical psychology into submission and officially taken over the mess that was the Welfare Department. It was his way of backing you up, a subtle power move designed to lend you some much-needed institutional weight.

Being insultingly young, essentially orphaned, and hailing from a non-sorcerer background was a recipe for being treated like a glorified intern in a workplace dominated by ancient family names and even more ancient grudges. The fact that you’d graduated early, blazed through grad school in record time, and were widely known as Gojo Satoru’s “most spoiled student” (a label that came with its own baggage) hadn’t endeared you to the traditionalists who believed wisdom only came with power and arthritis. Yeah, you needed all the credibility boosts you could manufacture.

At first, when Higuruma and your other allies started calling you Doctor, the predictable pushback came swift and petty. “Not a real doctor!” someone would snipe, usually loud enough for you to overhear in the hallways.

Then Higuruma, Nanami, Kusakabe, or sometimes Shoko herself, if she was feeling particularly charitable (or bored), would remind the complainers that while you might not have an MD, you could perform quite a few tasks reserved for medical personnel. 

During your years as Shoko’s perpetually exhausted (and entirely unofficial) assistant, you’d patched up damn near everyone currently employed at HQ, usually when their injuries hadn’t been life-threateningly enough for Shoko to bother with her fancy healing. Plenty of the veterans walking these halls still sported the crooked scars from your stitch jobs. 

Eventually, the grumbling died down. They could call you Doctor, or they could call you brat and bleed out the next time they got injured and Shoko was drunk off her ass. Their choice.

The sight of Higuruma made you perk up. After a day wrestling with stubborn sorcerers and existential dread, Higuruma was a delightful reprieve.

“Ah, Hiromi-san! I’m just wrapping up now!”

Higuruma strolled in like he owned the place and collapsed onto your couch with the effortless entitlement of someone who knew where the spare key to your apartment was hidden.

“Bullshit,” he stated flatly, tugging off his tie and loosening the top button of his crisp shirt. “You’re done now because we have a sparring session scheduled, and I’m not letting you weasel out of it again.”

You were perpetually behind on your social obligations, a fact your friends never let you forget. Sparring with Higuruma conveniently occupied the murky gray area between work (staying sharp, mandatory physical upkeep) and social activity (hanging out with a friend who occasionally tried to punch you). It was a minor miracle you still had friends at all.

“The paperwork—” you began, gesturing weakly at the leaning tower of files mocking you from your desk.

“Will still be there tomorrow,” he interrupted smoothly.

“Okay, okay!” you laughed, holding up your hands in surrender. “Just let me finish this one thing—”

“You always say ‘one thing’ and then it turns into twenty things,” he drawled, somehow managing to sprawl even more dramatically across your couch.

Watching Higuruma stretch lazily, completely at ease in your cluttered space, you felt a flicker of memory. Your first real encounter after the Shibuya Incident, over six years ago now, had been a spectacularly rocky start, fueled by catastrophic misunderstandings, political schemes, and his antihero homicidal court aesthetic.

Hard to believe this was the same man who’d tried to murder you multiple times during the aftermath of Shibuya. After somehow getting through that initial hurdle of mutual attempted homicide, Higuruma had become one of your closest friends. He was your rock, your sounding board, your personal trainer who nagged you relentlessly about your shitty schedule, and one of the vanishingly few people on this cursed earth you trusted implicitly. Funny how things worked out.

“Remember when you used to try to kill me?” you mused aloud as you gathered your things.

He snorted, cracking an eye open to look at you. “Remember when you deserved it?”

“Rude! I never deserved it. I was a joy to be around.”

“You were a manipulative, evil asshole,” he corrected fondly. “Still are, just a more experienced one now.”

You stuck your tongue out at him very professionally. “This evil asshole signs your mission clearances, you know.”

“And this lawyer can contest them on procedural grounds,” he shot back as he swung his legs off the couch and stood up, his tie completely abandoned now, draped over the armrest. “Now stop stalling.”

“I’m not stalling, just busy!”

“You’re always busy. Come on, Doctor. The training room is calling our names.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine, but if you bruise any more of my ribs, you’re explaining it to Ieiri-san this time. She gets scary when her research time is interrupted for preventable injuries.”

“Deal. Now move it before I carry you down there.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

The look he gave you suggested he absolutely would dare, had done it before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. Some things never changed, like his complete disregard for your dignity when he thought you were being too stubborn for your own good.

Argument was futile. You shouldered your backpack and followed Higuruma out the door.

“I’m telling Yuji you’re bullying me, Hiromi.”

“Good. Then, he’ll stop going easy on you in training, too.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You trust me with your life.”

“Worst decision I ever made.”

His laugh echoed down the hallway as he dragged you down the depths of HQ toward the scent of sweat, ozone, and impending bruises that permeated the training rooms.

You promptly changed into your training gear – loose pants and a fitted top that had seen better days. Higuruma did the same. Even in sweats, he managed to look annoyingly composed, as though he’d just stepped out of a minimalist sportswear catalogue. You envied his ability to look put-together when preparing to inflict pain. The mats squeaked under your feet as you circled each other. 

Higuruma had adopted that lazy predator look that always meant trouble. “Ready?” he asked.

“No, but when has that ever stopped you?”

He started slow, as always – light jabs and basic combinations that you could easily dodge or block. A warmup. Gradually, his movements became sharper, faster, forcing you to stay focused.

“Your left guard is dropping again,” he commented, demonstrating his point with a quick tap to your ribs.

“My left guard is fine,” you protested, only to eat another tap to the same spot. “Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be dropping if someone hadn’t bruised these ribs last week.”

He smirked and picked up the pace. You managed to hold your own for a while, even landing a few hits, though you suspected he let you have those small victories just to keep you engaged. Inevitably, as always, the tide turned.

He slipped inside your guard, his forearm pressing against your throat for just a fraction of a second before you twisted away, gasping. He didn’t follow up immediately, but the message was clear: I could have ended you there.

Frustrated, you went for broke, throwing a wild combination you hoped might catch him off guard through sheer unpredictability. He weathered the storm effortlessly, blocking and weaving, then saw his opening. A sweep took your legs out. You rolled, narrowly avoiding an axe kick that would’ve cracked ribs. Scrambling, you deflected his next strike, but he simply flowed around your defense. 

“Too slow,” he taunted, grabbing your wrist and flipping you onto your back.

You hit the mat hard but managed to trap his leg with yours, trying to drag him down with you. He just laughed and turned it into a pin, his considerable weight settling across your back as he twisted your arm into a submission hold. Damn lawyer.

“Yield?” he asked.

“Never,” you wheezed, squirming indignantly beneath him, trying to dislodge his grip, maybe land a sneaky bite on his forearm if you could just contort yourself enough.

Higuruma adjusted his weight, neutralizing your struggles with minimal movement. Being pinned by someone who could bench press a small car was deeply unfair. Just as you were contemplating the strategic merits of playing dead, your stomach decided to weigh in on the proceedings with a loud, embarrassingly long growl.

You froze. Higuruma froze.

A beat of silence passed, then he threw his head back and burst out laughing at your expense. “Alright, Doctor,” he managed between chuckles, “I’ll make you a deal. Yield now, and dinner’s on me.”

“...this feels like coercion.”

“It is.” He twisted your arm a little further, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his point crystal clear. “Going once…”

“Okay, okay! I yield! Feed me, damn it!”

He released you, still chuckling as he hauled you up. “You’re too easy to bribe.”

“Free food is free food,” you shrugged, rolling your shoulders to work out the kinks and glaring at him half-heartedly. “Even if it comes from my tormentor.”

An hour later, showered and changed back into your work clothes, you were demolishing a bowl of steaming miso ramen at a quiet noodle shop nearby. Higuruma watched from across the small table, sipping his green tea with an expression of fond exasperation.

“When was the last time you ate today?” he asked, observing the speed at which you inhaled noodles.

“Uh…” you paused, trying to remember. “There might have been a protein bar at some point? Around lunchtime? Ish?”

He sighed. “This is why Yuji made me swear to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m a grown adult,” you protested around a mouthful of noodles. “I can take care of myself.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise. Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t get shanked in a dark alley on your way home.”

“That was one time—”

“Three assassination attempts last year alone.”

“Only two of those were serious.”

He gave you a look that suggested your definition of “serious” was concerning, and you weren’t helping your case. “Finish your food. I’m driving you home.”

Later, settled into the passenger seat of his car, you watched the city lights blur past. This used to be Miwa’s job. For years, she’d been the one making sure you made it back to your apartment without getting murdered by any of the numerous powerful and unpleasant people you’d pissed off during your ongoing campaign to clean up the cesspool of corruption that plagued the jujutsu world. The only reason you were still breathing was probably because the truly dangerous people you’d comprehensively fucked over hadn’t quite figured out exactly who was responsible for their sudden misfortunes. You were good at covering your tracks.

Since you’d finally managed to oust the corrupt Head of Finance – a truly odious man who’d been skimming funds for decades – and get Ijichi installed, things had shifted. Someone needed to take over Ijichi’s former operational duties. Who better than your badass guardian angel and the fiercest advocate of Gojo’s administration? Naturally, Miwa had snagged a well-deserved promotion to Acting Head of Operations. Fantastic for her career, but left a gap in your personal security detail. She didn’t have time for daily bodyguard duty anymore between running half of HQ. 

Higuruma had quietly taken it upon himself to fill in the vacant position. These days, he was your primary babysitter. Feeding you when you forgot to eat, dragging you to training, making sure you actually left the office at the end of the day, driving you home almost every night. You often wondered how he even found the time, given his own demanding responsibilities. Maybe you were the reason the poor man was still tragically single at 42. You mentally filed that away under “things to feel vaguely guilty about later.”

The warm glow spilling from under your apartment door should have set off alarm bells for someone living alone. Anyone else might have reached for their phone, maybe a concealed weapon, but you already knew who was inside. Just as he undoubtedly knew the precise moment your key slid into the lock, sensing you even before the tumblers clicked.

Sure enough, as you pushed the door open, a shock of gravity-defying silver hair appeared around the corner, followed by that impossibly perfect face lighting up with pure joy. His blue eyes, usually hidden behind dark glasses or a blindfold when he was out and about, were uncovered now, bright and focused entirely on you. Your stupid heart did a little acrobatic flip it really had no business doing after the day you’d had. Some reflexes, it seemed, never faded, even after all these years.

“You’re home!” Gojo chirped, like this was the most magnificent event of the century.

Not giving you the time to process, he bounded over and scooped you clean off your feet. One moment you were tiredly trying to shoulder your backpack off, the next you were airborne, enveloped in his warmth and the scent of his cologne. It didn’t matter that you’d literally seen him this morning before work; his greetings always operated on the scale of a soldier returning from a decade-long war to find their beloved waiting patiently on the shore.

“Sensei!” you yelped, clinging to his neck as the world whirled around you. “Put me down! I’m getting dizzy!” 

“Don’t care,” he sang, squeezing you tighter. “Missed you.”

“You saw me this morning!”

“That was forever ago!”

The whole living arrangement was a bit unconventional. You had your apartment, Gojo had his penthouse monstrosity across town, but you also each had dedicated rooms in the other’s place. Considering he spent roughly ninety percent of his off-duty hours here, it was safe to say your home was his, too. Not that you minded. He paid the bills, kept the fridge perpetually stocked with fancy snacks, and did the dishes without being asked. You couldn’t ask for a better semi-permanent, overly affectionate housemate.

After another enthusiastic squeeze that threatened the structural integrity of your spine, Gojo lowered you back to solid ground. You steadied yourself with a hand on his broad shoulder while fumbling with your shoelaces, feeling slightly breathless.

“I was gonna take you out to dinner,” Gojo announced, snatching your backpack before you could toss it carelessly onto the floor. “But someone is always eating with Higuruma these days.“

There was a faint edge to his tone that made you glance up. Was he… upset? Nah. He was grinning down at you, all devastating charm and sparkling mischief. Just Gojo being Gojo, then.

“So!” he continued brightly, slinging your backpack over his shoulder and ushering you away. “I bought dessert instead! Go wash up and change! No work clothes allowed for dessert time!”

“Stop pushing me, I’m going! What kind of dessert did you get?”

“It’s a surprise! And don’t take too long changing, or I might eat it all myself!” he called after you.

“If you touch it before I get back, I’ll strangle you in your sleep!” you yelled back over your shoulder.

You huffed on principle, but complied readily because this was the precise comfort you craved after the endless grind. A hot shower, comfy clothes, expensive dessert you didn’t pay for, and… Gojo Satoru. The magic of coming home to him. No matter how brutal life had been to you, he somehow always knew how to make it better, to offer you solace in ways both grand and mundane.

It’d always been that way, hadn’t it? Ever since that fateful day nearly a decade ago when the strongest sorcerer alive had barged into your unassuming existence and decided, for reasons still largely mysterious, that you were his problem to solve, his responsibility to protect, his person to cherish above all else.

Chapter Text

And so began just another night, if you could call anything involving Gojo Satoru “just another” anything. After a quick shower (and an even quicker internal debate about whether or not to put on actual pajamas or just embrace the seductive allure of oversized t-shirt and some worn-soft shorts – comfort won, as it often did), you padded back into the living room. 

Gojo had already queued up that trashy rom-com. It was a cinematic trainwreck of epic proportions, full of nonsensical plot twists, questionable acting, and enough clichés to fill a textbook on bad writing. You both adored it.

He glanced up as you entered, those impossibly blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that always made your heart do a weird, fluttery thing it really shouldn’t. Honestly, after all these years, you’d think you’d be immune. Apparently not. 

“There you are,” he said. “The show’s about to start, and you know how much I hate missing the product placement opportunities.”

He patted the cushion beside him invitingly – an invitation you were powerless to resist, even if you’d wanted to. And honestly, you really didn’t. 

A plate of castella sat waiting on the coffee table. Not just any castella, but the absurdly expensive kind from that fancy bakery across town. Each slice was a perfect golden rectangle, glistening with honey and practically vibrating with sugary goodness. You snagged it immediately as you settled in beside him, tucking your legs beneath you.

“I can’t believe you’re actually excited about product placement,” you said as you took a bite of the castella. It melted on your tongue. Fluffy, sweet, with just the right amount of honey. Gojo knew your weaknesses and wasn’t above exploiting them.

“Excuse you,” he protested, his arm sliding along the back of the couch in that not-quite-touching way that still managed to radiate warmth. “Product placement is an underappreciated art form. Name another medium where you can watch someone have an emotional breakdown while conspicuously holding a specific brand of energy drink.”

You snorted. “Oh god, or that one where the lead suddenly developed an intense passion for a specific brand of instant ramen right before confessing his love?”

“A masterpiece! Tonight’s episode supposedly has a dramatic confrontation in a convenience store. I’m betting at least three branded drinks get knocked over during the fight.”

“Please. They’re obviously going to reconcile over some specific brand of ice cream. It’s always ice cream in these things.”

Gojo perked up. “Want to make it interesting?”

“Absolutely not. Last time we made a bet, I ended up having to wear cat ears to a lecture.”

“And you looked adorable! Even your students thought so!”

“My students had panic attacks when I called on them. They thought I’d snapped. The only person who enjoyed it was Yuji, and he only stopped laughing when I made him wear matching ears. We traumatized a whole generation of first-years that day.”

You shivered at the memory of their wide, terrified eyes.

“Still one of my favorite lectures,” Gojo said dreamily, finally letting his arm drop properly around your shoulders. “Come on, Spices. Just a tiny bet?”

You took a pointed bite of castella. “First, you weren’t even there to witness my humiliation. I had to suffer alone. Second, no bet, no costume. Shut up and watch this garbage with me, or I’m going to bed. Choose wisely, sensei.”

“That again?” he groaned. “We talked about this. I haven’t been your teacher in years.”

“Sorry, sen— uh, I mean…” 

Gojo was right, of course. The “sensei” thing had persisted long past its expiration date, but old habits had a way of digging in their heels. You couldn’t even remember what you’d called him before he became your teacher, mostly because you hadn’t called him anything at all during that first year.

It’d started in a psych ward where your parents had dumped you before fleeing to Hokkaido, washing their hands of their “troubled” child. The events leading to that still gnawed at the edges of your soul, a festering wound that refused to fully heal. You’d awakened your jujutsu ability in the worst possible way, a tragic backstory so cliché it deserved its own angsty rock opera.

Your classmates – the bullies who’d cornered you, forced you into that abandoned, crumbling building on the outskirts of town – hadn’t survived their encounter with the cursed spirit that had made its lair there. You had. Though in the darkest hours, when the nightmares clawed their way back, you still sometimes wondered if survival had been a mercy or just a more elaborate form of punishment.

The scene the police found had been straight out of a horror movie: you, blood-soaked and shell-shocked, surrounded by mangled corpses whose hearts had literally been ripped out and crushed to paste. The official story, sensationalized and twisted, had been plastered across every newspaper in Japan: the little psychopath who’d lured four “innocent” friends into an abandoned building and... well.

The media had loved it. The “Heartbreaker,” they’d called you, which was both technically accurate and deeply fucked up considering you were fourteen and had no idea what was happening. No one believed in monsters. Not the police who’d hauled you away, not the grieving parents demanding justice, and certainly not the judge who’d been ready to try you as an adult until your spectacular mental breakdown had earned you a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward instead.

Gojo found you, eventually. Between saving the world, teaching the next generation of curse-fodder, and generally being the strongest sorcerer alive, it had taken him a year to get to you. A year, you’d later learn, he’d spent all his precious, infinitesimally small slivers of downtime fighting tooth and nail against bureaucracy, calling in favors, and arranging everything perfectly so that once he got you out, no one could ever take you away again.

He’d had Ijichi keeping tabs on you from a distance, making sure the overworked and underpaid hospital staff didn’t “accidentally” lose you somewhere between medication rounds and group therapy sessions. It’d been a valid concern, given the chaos you’d been unwittingly wreaking on a regular basis. There had been a series of escalating incidents that had culminated in the infamous prank war amongst your fellow mental patients, an event that nearly burned down the hospital itself. You’d been grounded for a month after that escapade. Good times.

When Gojo finally appeared, he’d brought you home. He’d even taken actual time off work, something he’d never done before, sending Headquarters into a collective meltdown, just to take care of you.

And yes, those early days were filled with his endearingly awkward attempts at caregiving. He’d bought you new clothes – mountains of them – all in the wrong sizes and horrible color combinations (neon pink and puke-green stripes and similar monstrosity). His cooking attempts had been legendary disasters, often ending with the smoke alarm shrieking and both of you smelling faintly of burnt offerings. 

You still remembered vividly the first meal he’d tried to cook for you. The suspiciously pink chicken had resulted in you spending half the night intimately acquainted with the toilet bowl. He’d hovered anxiously outside your door the entire time, a six-foot-three pillar of guilt, repeating “I’m so sorry” over and over again in a miserable voice, refusing to leave until he was absolutely certain you wouldn’t die of salmonella poisoning under his watch. You’d felt bad for him, in between bouts of violent regurgitation.

Most importantly, he’d waited. He’d let you hide in shadowy corners, watching him with suspicious eyes during your episodes. He’d never pushed, never prodded, never demanded you speak or explain the horrors rattling around in your head. He’d just been there, making himself smaller, less overwhelming, patient and steady, until you were ready to reach back.

That first month, you hadn’t spoken a word, hadn’t made a sound, and it had nearly driven Gojo out of his mind with worry. He’d dragged you to every medical specialist in Tokyo, demanding tests, second opinions, third opinions, only to be told repeatedly that you were undernourished, traumatized, but otherwise physically healthy. One particularly brave doctor had gently suggested, maybe you just didn’t want to talk to him. Gojo had not taken that suggestion well, and the poor doctor had likely required therapy of his own afterward.

The breakthrough, when it came, was comically mundane. It happened on an unremarkable afternoon, after yet another fruitless doctor’s appointment. You were trailing behind Gojo on the walk home, your small hand loosely held in his much larger one – a recent development he’d treated with the reverence of a religious miracle. That’s when a small box of mint chocolate flavored milk in the vending machine became too alluring to resist. You’d been eyeing it for days.

“I want that,” you’d said, tugging his hand.

Three whole words. After a month of silence. The look on Gojo’s face had been priceless. 

“What?” he’d asked softly, as if afraid speaking too loudly might spook you back into silence.

You pointed again at the vending machine. “The milk. The mint chocolate one.”

For a moment, he just stood there, dumbstruck. Then, a slow smile spread across his features, and he practically lunged at the vending machine, fumbling with his wallet like a man who’d just discovered the secret to eternal happiness was dispensed for 120 yen.

“How many do you want? Let’s get them all. Do you want them all? I’m getting them all.” He was rambling, giddy with excitement.

“Just... one,” you mumbled, a little bewildered by his sudden manic energy, but he was already feeding bills into the machine.

“One? No, no, what if you want more later? What if they run out? What if you decide this is your favorite thing ever, and we can’t find it again? We need a strategic reserve!”

You watched in confusion as Gojo systematically emptied the entire vending machine of its mint chocolate milk supply, stacking the small cartons in his arms like a caffeinated squirrel preparing for winter. An elderly woman walking by with her tiny dog gave him a wide berth and a deeply concerned look. He just beamed at her.

By evening, his kitchen looked like the dairy aisle of a major supermarket. Every brand, every variation, every possible permutation of mint chocolate milk that existed in Tokyo had made its way into his fridge, overflowing onto counters and threatening to annex the dining table. What else was he supposed to do? You’d finally asked for something. He was going to make damn sure you had it in abundance.

Funny how habits form, how comfort gets woven into the fabric of your life through the strangest of feedback loops. 

That mint chocolate milk had started out so randomly. A childish whim, nothing more. But then Gojo, being Gojo, had turned it into an avalanche of dairy-based affection, and somehow you’d both gotten caught in this absurd cycle of mutual misunderstanding that ended up defining your relationship.

You’d kept drinking the milk because he’d bought so much of it, because his eyes lit up every time you reached for a carton, because rejecting it felt like rejecting him. And Gojo had interpreted your consistent consumption as genuine love for the drink rather than the Stockholm Syndrome of beverages it actually was. So, naturally, he’d kept buying more. And more. And then, just to be safe, a little bit more.

Neither of you had realized at the time that you were caught in this ridiculous cycle – you dutifully drinking milk to make him happy, him joyfully buying more milk because he thought it made you happy. By the time either of you figured it out, the damage was done: mint chocolate milk had become your comfort drink, your stress reliever, your little piece of nostalgia in a carton.

The taste itself had become synonymous with comfort, with safety, with being seen and cared for in that overwhelming, excessive way that only Gojo Satoru could manage. It wasn’t even about the drink anymore. It was the moment when you’d found your voice again, when you’d reached out and been met with such enthusiastic, ridiculous acceptance that it had literally filled a kitchen.

These days, while you kept a steady supply in your fridge, Gojo still showed up periodically with new and exotic varieties he’d discovered on his travels, presenting them with the same boyish excitement as that first day. Your friends thought it was weird. Your colleagues occasionally made jokes about your “milk addiction.” You’d once overheard Shoko referring to it as your “emotional support dairy.”

How could you explain that it wasn’t about the milk at all? It was about trust built on dairy products and healing measured in milk cartons. It was about the man who had seen you at your most broken and decided that you were worth saving, worth loving, worth an entire city’s supply of flavored milk. Some addictions, you’d learned, had nothing to do with the substance itself and everything to do with the memories it carried, the person who gave it to you, and the quiet language of care.

Then came the separation anxiety phase, though that clinical term couldn’t quite capture the primal fear that gripped you whenever Gojo so much as stepped out of view. The concept of object permanence, a developmental milestone most toddlers achieve with relative ease, had apparently taken a vacation from your brain. As far as you were concerned, Gojo existed in a quantum state – the moment he left your sight, he could simultaneously be anywhere and nowhere, like Schrödinger’s overpowered sorcerer. And that was simply unacceptable.

So, you’d followed him. Everywhere. 

Gojo had started with simple explanations:

“Listen, I just need to grab the takeout from downstairs. Five minutes, tops. See this watch? When the big hand reaches the twelve, I’ll be right back. Promise.”

You’d nod sagely, appearing to absorb every word while secretly calculating the quickest route to tail him through the apartment building, then materialize behind him in the elevator, just as the doors were closing, causing him to jump and nearly drop the bag of katsudon. 

Gojo had attempted more detailed reasoning, complete with visual aids for added persuasion: 

“Okay, so my job involves extremely dangerous curses that could literally eat you. See? Big teeth. Very bad. So you need to stay in my perfectly safe apartment with snacks and absolutely no cursed spirits trying to devour you. Look, this is my workplace. All these red X’s? Areas too dangerous for civilians, especially delicious-looking ones. A.k.a. You.” He’d tapped your nose emphatically.

You’d examined the map carefully, memorized the address of Headquarters printed neatly at the bottom, then somehow beat him to his destination. Despite Gojo taking a taxi, you’d been waiting for him at the main gate when he arrived. He’d just stared at you, then at the baffled security guard, then back at you, a vein throbbing in his temple.

Next, Gojo had enlisted Ijichi, who quickly became collateral damage in this escalating war of attrition. Poor Ijichi. He’d tried everything – triple-locked doors, motion sensors, reinforced windows, even one of those child leashes disguised as a cute animal backpack that Gojo had bought in a moment of sheer desperation. You escaped them all. 

Ijichi would turn around to get snacks or answer a phone call, and poof -- empty apartment and all his security measures still perfectly intact. He once swore he only blinked – literally blinked – and you’d vanished like a ghost through solid walls. The man actually fainted from stress. You’d felt a little bad about that one, but not bad enough to stop.

Ijichi became convinced you had some secret teleportation technique, especially after you managed to escape his supervision seven times in one day, each escape more improbable and psychologically taxing than the last. The truth, discovered much later, was far simpler: you were just exceptionally sneaky, preternaturally quiet, and possessed infinite determination when it came to following Gojo. Also, you were very, very good at picking locks.

The best part, the part that drove Gojo to the brink of madness, was that it was impossible to reason with you because you never argued, never complained, never threw tantrums, or made demands. You just... appeared wherever Gojo went. He’d drop you off at Ijichi’s house, watch Ijichi locked the door, breathe a sigh of profound relief, then drive halfway across town, adjust his rearview mirror, and nearly jump out of his skin to find you sitting calmly in the backseat, small hands folded neatly in your lap, staring back at him with an expression that clearly said, “Nice try, but no.”

“Damn it,” he’d groan, clutching his chest dramatically, “you’re going to give me a heart attack before I’m thirty. How do you even do that?!”

You’d just blink at him through the mirror, offering no explanation.

He tried reverse psychology, hoping to bore you into submission:

“You know what? Fine. Follow me. See how boring my job is. Watch me do paperwork all day. You’ll be begging for Ijichi’s stamp collection in an hour.”

You’d sit quietly beside Gojo in his office at Headquarters for hours, perfectly content, while he waded through mountains of bureaucratic nonsense.

He even resorted to bribery, a tactic he was usually quite successful with:

“If you stay with Ijichi today, just for today, I’ll buy you mochi. The best mochi in the city!”

You accepted the mochi AND still followed him. You’d been an unstoppable force of nature since day one. He just hadn’t realized the full extent of it yet.

Eventually, Gojo couldn’t delay his missions any further, and those weren’t the kind that could be delegated to anyone. If you were going to follow him into dangerous situations anyway, he might as well keep you where he could see you. It was, he reasoned, the lesser of two evils. The greater evil being the heart attack he was surely courting every time you materialized out of thin air.

“You can’t take an untrained, civilian teenager to exorcise special grade cursed spirits!” Ijichi had protested. 

“Watch me,” Gojo had replied.

“This violates at least fifteen workplace safety regulations! Not to mention child endangerment laws!”

“Bold of you to assume laws and regulations apply to me.”

“The High Council will—”

“The High Council can fight me.”

Despite Ijichi’s desperate protests (which carried significantly less weight given his consistent failure to actually keep you contained for more than fifteen minutes at a time), Gojo made the executive decision to just bring you along.

And that’s how you became Gojo’s mission companion, nestled inside his Infinity, clinging to him for dear life and watching with fascination as he casually warped reality and reduced powerful monsters to ash. In your young mind, you’d found your own personal god, and you weren’t about to let him go.

You’d made yourself useful in your own way. Your contributions involved carrying snacks, providing moral support (mostly in the form of wide-eyed stares of adoration), and staying out of the way when he deemed it absolutely necessary. Gojo had also entrusted you with the most crucial duty: Keeper of the Sacred Sunglasses.

“These are very important sunglasses,” he'd say solemnly, placing them on the bridge of your nose. “They’ve seen many battles. Protected these Six Eyes many times. Looked extremely cool in various situations. Guard them well, young Padawan.”

You’d nod with equal gravity, adjusting the glasses as they slipped down your nose, while he pretended not to smile at how ridiculous you looked in them.

Looking back, it was probably his craftiest move – a clever tactic to create a tangible link between you. Every time he placed those stupid glasses on your nose, telling you to “keep them safe,” he was really saying: I’ll always come back for these, which means I’ll always come back for you.

Throughout that year, you barely spoke and never addressed him directly. No name, no honorifics, nothing. Gojo had assumed you were simply shy, an assumption that would later prove hilariously incorrect when you enrolled at Tokyo Jujutsu High (despite Principal Yaga’s strenuous objections) and revealed yourself to be anything but timid.

That was when “sensei” entered your vocabulary, and somehow never left despite years of effort on Gojo’s part to dislodge it. Even as Gojo whined relentlessly, demanding you to call him anything else – Satoru, Gojo, “Supreme Being of Infinite Glory and Unparalleled Handsomeness” (his actual suggestion, which earned him a deadpan stare and a week of you calling him “Supreme Being” in public with no inflection) – “sensei” stuck.

At work, you managed just fine – “Gojo” in casual settings among colleagues to establish a semblance of professional distance, “Gojo-sama” when formality and the assembled audience of crusty Council Elders demanded it. 

Alone with him, your brain defaulted back to “sensei.” Maybe it was because that title marked the first time you’d felt truly secure in your place in his life. No longer just a broken little thing he’d picked up from the loony bin who followed him like a shadow, but his actual student, with a legitimate reason to be by his side. A reason beyond just needing him to survive.

In the present, Gojo was pouting with the dramatic flair of a man who’d perfected the art of petulant sulking over decades of practice. The “sensei” topic always triggered this response, though he’d learned to temper his protests after The Great Name Strike of several years back. 

That battle of wills had revealed your impressive talent for linguistic gymnastics. You’d managed entire conversations without using any form of address, simply resorting to elaborate hand gestures and strategic pokes when you needed his attention specifically. Your monumental capacity for malicious compliance had forced Gojo to admit defeat or risk permanent relegation to nameless entity status within your interactions. He’d lasted three days before cracking.

“One day,” he now sighed dramatically, flopping back against the cushions like the tragic hero of a poorly written play. “I’ll get you to use my actual name. You know, that thing my parents gave me? Starts with an ‘S’, ends with a ‘u’?”

You raised an eyebrow, shoving another piece of castella into your mouth. “Why are you so weirdly obsessed with this anyway? What’s wrong with ‘sensei’? The other guys still call you sensei, and I’ve never heard you give them shit about it.” 

“You don’t understand,” he huffed, managing to sound both mysterious and wounded, which was a special Gojo skill.

“What exactly don’t I understand?”

“Nothing.”

“What kind of nothing?”

“Oh look!” He snatched your empty plate away with suspicious timing. “You’re about to miss the thrilling product placement sequence. I think they’re going to dramatically spill at least two different brands of sports drinks.”

Before you could press further, Gojo pulled you against his side in what was clearly a tactical maneuver to hide his face and effectively shut down the conversation. Whenever he was trying to conceal something, be it embarrassment or vulnerability, he’d use physical affection as a smokescreen. You turned to call him out on his evasiveness, only to get distracted by his perpetually perfect scent.

That was another mystery you’d yet to solve. How did Gojo always smell so good? It wasn’t fair, really. You’d conducted extensive research into the matter – borrowed his cologne (for science), tested his body wash (purely academic interest), even tried his laundry detergent (rigorous scientific methodology demanded it). The results were always disappointing.

On him, it was this intoxicating blend of expensive and comforting at the same time. On you, it just smelled like you’d raided an upscale department store’s fragrance counter then lost a fight with a bottle of fabric softener. It was probably another application of Limitless he wasn’t telling you about, some sort of passive olfactory perfection field that amplified all the good smells and repelled all the lesser scents of mere mortals. Or, he secretly bathed in unicorn tears. Both theories were equally plausible.

Fine. You filed both mysteries – the name issue and the scent situation – away for future investigation. For now, you allowed yourself to be distracted as you settled against him with a contented sigh. He adjusted immediately, wrapping one arm around you while his other hand found your knee, fingers tapping out a soothing rhythm on the skin just below your shorts.

The terrible rom-com droned on. Gojo’s running commentary had devolved into elaborate conspiracy theories about how the lead actress’s handbag was actually the true villain of the series.

“The handbag, Spices. Look at it lurking there, all innocent and designer-branded. It’s been in every major scene. That’s not coincidence, that’s premeditation.”

“The handbag,” you repeated drowsily, your head growing heavier on his shoulder. The castella-induced sugar coma was setting in, amplified by the sheer exhaustion of your day.

“Exactly! First, it mysteriously appears in the coffee shop scene where our leads ‘accidentally’ bump into each other while carrying matching sports drinks, I might add. Then it shows up at the dramatic breakup, perfectly positioned to catch the light during her tearful monologue. And now? Look where it is! Sitting there menacingly next to the convenience store ice cream freezer!”

You managed a vague sound of agreement, something between a hum and a sigh. The combination of his warmth, his scent, and his voice was proving lethal to your attempts to stay awake. His rambling, no matter how absurd, was an effective lullaby.

“You’re not appreciating my genius deductions,” Gojo complained, but his hand had started that gentle motion through your hair that he knew damn well was guaranteed to knock you out. It was a deliberate, affectionate act of sabotage.

“Am listening,” you protested around a yawn. “Evil bag. Very... suspicious…”

Really, though, you were already halfway to dreamland. Gojo noticed. Of course, he did. He noticed everything about you. His animated commentary gradually tapered off into soft murmurs, then silence. He shifted slightly to let your head rest more comfortably against him, and pressed his cheek against your hair. Time seemed to stretch and distort. You were adrift in a sea of warmth and quiet comfort. 

A moment later, his arms slipped under you, one supporting your back, the other beneath your knees. The movement should have roused you, but there was something so inherently safe about being in his arms that your body remained relaxed, trusting. How many times had he carried you like this over the years? From mission sites, from training grounds, from this very couch when you’d dozed off during other terrible shows? Too many to count.

The journey to your bedroom passed in a hazy sequence of half-formed impressions: the base notes of his cologne mingling with the scent of his skin, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, the way he managed to open doors without jostling you at all. He tucked you into your bed the same way he’d done years ago when you were small and scared and plagued with anxiety that only his presence could chase away. 

You registered the soft give of your mattress, the whisper of sheets being drawn up, the tender press of his lips against your forehead. And words, spoken too softly for your sleep-addled brain to capture. Something about them felt important, but consciousness was already slipping away from you.

In that liminal space between waking and sleeping, you found yourself wishing impossible things. Wished he’d stay, slip under the covers and pull you close, let you wake up surrounded by his warmth and that inexplicable scent that had somehow become embedded in your very sense of home. It was a dangerous thought, one your awake self would never acknowledge, let alone indulge. 

Because you knew that it could never be. He was Gojo Satoru. The strongest. And you were… just you.

Gojo seemed to agree with that assessment. You heard the soft click of your bedroom door closing, followed by the sound of his footsteps retreating. The impossible wish dissolved into dreams, leaving behind only a lingering sense of something just out of reach.

Chapter Text

There were many strange things about you – so many, in fact, that listing the normal bits would’ve been more efficient. It’d be a short list fitting on one sticky note. But where’s the fun in that? After all, normal was boring, and you’d built your entire brand on being distinctly not-boring.

Let’s start with perhaps the most baffling item on your long list of personal oddities: Despite your prickly hedgehog personality, your certified insanity, your unsettling fascination with things that would make normal people run screaming, and your concerning workaholic streak, you’d somehow managed to collect and maintain a roster of friends since high school that defied all logic and several laws of social dynamics. 

Then again, these weren’t what you’d call normal people. They weren’t just weird; they were your kind of weird, which meant they were the right flavor of fucked up to not only tolerate your chaos but actively enjoy it.

Exhibit A: Choso.

Your friendship with this former villain turned ride-or-die bestie was definitive proof that the universe had a dark sense of humor, or at least a fondness for irony. The Shibuya Incident had been a turning point for him, though “turning point” was putting it mildly. That very night, he’d casually ditched Kenjaku’s evil schemes to join forces with his newly-discovered brother, Yuji. What followed was a series of events so ridiculous they’d sound made up if you tried to explain them to anyone who wasn’t there to witness the madness firsthand.

Somehow, through a combination of near-death experiences, lousy jokes (mostly from you, your primary coping mechanism), and what you could only assume was cosmic intervention, Choso had appointed himself as your eternal babysitter and saved your ass more times than you could count. His assistance during the final Kenjaku showdown and the subsequent political circus of the High Council takeover had earned him more than just a full pardon from Gojo. He’d gotten the complete jujutsu society membership package. This included a laminated ID card, an official ranking (special grade, no less), and all the bureaucratic trappings that came with legitimate employment in the world of sorcery.

To truly appreciate the bonkers nature of your relationship with Choso, we must turn back the clock approximately six years, to a specific week in the chaotic months following the Council takeover. You still remembered that week with crystal clarity, the kind of indelible memory usually reserved for embarrassing moments from middle school or that one time you accidentally called your teacher “mom.”

The whole affair had started with Choso appearing in your room, which by that point was functionally his room too, given the sheer amount of time he’d spent loitering there. He’d looked uncharacteristically uncertain as he handed you an opulent-looking letter, sealed with the Kamo clan’s crest in blood-red wax. The invitation had arrived with suspicious speed after Choso’s pardon went through.

“They want me to visit,” he’d said, his voice flat but unable to hide the unease in his eyes. He held the expensive paper between two fingers as if it might spontaneously combust. Which, given the jujutsu society’s flair for the dramatic, wasn’t entirely impossible.

Unsurprisingly, those opportunists had salivated at the chance to claim Choso as their own. “Come home. Connect with your roots,” they’d urged in pretentious handwriting, as though Choso had ever known their home and conveniently glossed over the fact that said roots involved their ancestor basically being an evil monster. 

The real bait, the venomous cherry on this poisoned cake, was the promise to help resurrect Choso’s brothers. The math was insultingly simple: add Choso and his resurrected siblings to their roster, and they’d have the firepower to potentially level the playing field against the Gojos and the Zenins.

Choso himself wanted nothing to do with the Kamos, and honestly, who could blame him?  Having Kenjaku, who’d been wearing the original Kamo Noritoshi’s face, for a “father” had somewhat soured him on the whole family experience. That’s like finding out your dad was actually three cursed raccoons in a trenchcoat, except worse because at least raccoons wouldn’t perform forbidden curse experiments on your mother. The only thing that had given him pause was that tantalizing promised “reincarnation ritual” for his brothers.

You’d taken one look at Choso’s face and immediately cleared your schedule. Because that’s what friends did. They dropped everything to make sure their semi-immortal, ancient half-curse bestie didn’t get emotionally manipulated and scammed by an opportunistic old-money family. You’d been intrigued, too. The Kamos were traditional onmyoji. Who knew what dusty rituals they had squirreled away in their archives? And then there was the small matter of their private chef. You’d heard rumors about their kaiseki skills that bordered on the divine, and your stomach rumbled at the mere thought.

That’s how you’d ended up taking a week off to play chaperone on Choso’s family reunion tour to the Kamo compound in Kyoto. Despite being older than several national monuments, Choso had the real-world experience of a newborn deer when it came to modern society and its various pitfalls. As his best friend and bullshit detector, you’d made it your mission to ensure the Kamos didn’t try any funny business with their long-lost “relative.” The promise of luxury accommodations and high-end traditional cuisine hadn’t hurt either.

The Kamo compound was precisely what you’d expect from one of the Major Three – all perfectly maintained traditional architecture and meticulously groomed gardens. The whole place reeked of old money and older jujutsu. The servant who greeted you at the gate was wearing historical court clothing, which was both impressive and slightly ridiculous.

“Welcome home, Choso-sama,” he’d bowed deeply to Choso, and then completely ignored your existence as he led the two of you inside. Standard elitist bullshit.

A cluster of attendants, also in traditional clothing, appeared out of nowhere – two flanking Choso, three behind you both – all moving with synchronized precision. Ostensibly an honor guard, but you’d been in this game long enough to recognize a subtle containment formation when you saw one. Choso caught your eye and raised an eyebrow. You gave him a tiny shake of your head. 

As you went through winding corridors that seemed designed specifically to disorient visitors, you mentally reviewed what you knew about the current Kamo clan head (intel obtained through Ijichi’s extensive and borderline-illegal files): Kamo Hideyoshi, mid-fifties, first grade sorcerer specializing in Blood Manipulation (obviously), and known for being ruthlessly practical despite his conservative posturing. Basically, imagine a feudal lord with a corporate MBA.

The room they led you to was clearly meant to impress: a grand reception hall filled with ancient scrolls and priceless artifacts carefully positioned to demonstrate the clan’s long heritage. Silk paintings depicting ancient battles hung alongside cursed weapons. And ceremonial armor that had probably witnessed more historical events than your history textbooks stood guard in lacquered alcoves, while delicate porcelain worth a small fortune caught the light just so. It was an exquisitely curated display of power, a museum of intimidation. 

You had to admire the psychological warfare of it all. A shame it was entirely wasted on you. You’d spent too many years mooching off Gojo Satoru to be impressed by mere displays of wealth and power. He’d let you use vases more expensive than those to prop open a window before.

“Greetings,” came a measured voice as Kamo Hideyoshi emerged from an inner door with the kind of dramatic timing that suggested he’d been waiting there, posed and ready, specifically for this moment. 

He was exactly as his files described – distinguished in that way that only generational wealth could buy. He wore a full onmyoji outfit, his gray-streaked hair immaculate, carrying the weight of centuries of tradition in his bearing as if he’d been born with a silver spoon and several ancient scrolls already lodged in his mouth.

“We are honored to host our long-lost kinsman,” he went on, his gaze flickering briefly to you, his tone chilling several degrees. “And the esteemed student of Gojo-sama. What an… unexpected pleasure.”

Ah, so the Kamos were still nursing a grudge over the Council Takeover stunt, being the only one of the Major Three taken by surprise. That political humiliation must have really stung their fragile pride. Choso remained silent, only staring blankly at Hideyoshi, who had positioned himself on an elevated section of the floor, forcing you to look up at him. Classic dominance play. Predictable, but still annoying. Since Choso showed no signs of breaking the tense silence, and you suspected he was perfectly willing to engage in a staring contest that might last until the next century, you decided to intervene.

“The honor is ours, Kamo-sama,” you replied smoothly. “We’re looking forward to discussing this fascinating proposition of yours.”

“Very well, then,” Hideyoshi continued, though you hadn’t missed the way his eyes had narrowed or the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. He was clearly displeased that you, a nameless commoner, had dared to speak directly to him without first presenting your genealogy and three letters of recommendation from appropriate noble houses. Tough shit.

The offer, when it came, was as predictably transactional as you’d expected. The primary condition, of course, was that Choso had to officially take their family name, effectively branding himself as Kamo property before they’d lift a finger to help with anything. This honor extended posthumously to Eso and Kechizu – memorial tablets bearing their names would be proudly displayed in the clan’s family shrine alongside generations of illustrious priests and sorcerers.

The promise of ancestral reverence was laid out in lavish detail: Daily prayers would be chanted, fresh food offerings respectfully arranged, incense smoke curling toward the heavens carrying burning paper money and written prayers for their souls. Even their mother whose tragic story still made Choso’s eyes go distant with old pain would have her own tablet, her spirit finally receiving the dignity she’d been denied in life, though you noticed Hideyoshi carefully avoided specifying how their family records would describe her relationship to the clan on that tablet. Mistress? Experimental Subject? “Mother of our Esteemed Kinsman,” probably. Vague and sanitized.

To you, these promises held no weight. Being a sorcerer meant dealing with cursed spirits and supernatural phenomena on the regular, sure, but that hadn’t made you any more spiritually inclined. If anything, seeing the mechanics behind the curtain of those supernatural phenomena had stripped away all the mystery and made you even more skeptical of traditional religious practices. Souls were just jujutsu constructs to you; once they dissipated, that was it.

However, to Choso, who’d been formed in an era when these beliefs were as solid as scientific fact, the offer struck deep chords. The idea that his family wouldn’t be condemned to wander as hungry ghosts, that their souls would find a proper ancestral home with regular offerings – it was the kind of thing that kept him up at night, staring at the ceiling with those dark eyes.

Speaking of ceiling-staring, Choso had his own method for tackling important decisions. While most people might pace, make pro-con lists, or stress-eat their way through difficult choices, Choso employed what you’d come to think of as his “statue mode” – a state of perfect stillness. He’d lie flat on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, and fix his gaze on some invisible point overhead. You’d seen him maintain this position for hours on end, barely even blinking, processing thoughts at a pace imperceptible to mortal minds.

You’d been relegated to your own guest room initially. A perfectly pleasant space, if you were into the whole “modest luxury” aesthetic and didn’t mind being treated like a plus-one they’d rather have left at home. Choso, however, was having none of it. He’d simply insisted you stay with him.

This cohabitation was a habit born from a single request Yuji had made months prior, asking Choso to look after his senpai while he was away. Choso, being Choso, had interpreted this casual favor as a sacred blood oath, a binding contract to guard you with his life until the end of time. You’d tried so many things to fix the situation. None had worked. The vow had been sealed.

The Kamos had been rather scandalized by his insistence. Nevertheless, arguing with Choso about anything related to you was impossible. He developed a very specific set to his jaw that meant moving him would require a full-on brawl, heavy machinery, and possibly an act of God. Rather than risk the inevitable confrontation, they’d upgraded you to his palatial suite, much to the visible distress of several disapproving Kamo elders. It was basically a small apartment, decorated in traditional style but with modern luxuries subtly integrated, you know, the kind of space that screamed “we have money and taste and want you to know it.”

The day crawled by at a glacial pace. You’d spent it sprawled across various pieces of expensive furniture, rotating your lounging position every hour just to make sure your limbs hadn’t atrophied from boredom. Your fingers itched with the urge to go snooping (for entirely altruistic purposes, of course). The Kamo estate was practically begging to be investigated, and you could think of at least seventeen places where interesting secrets might be hidden.

Being a good friend, you’d resisted all nosy temptations and resigned yourself to playing the role of visible companion, staying within Choso’s line of sight so he could focus on his existential contemplation without having to worry about you getting murdered in some dramatic off-screen fashion.

As night fell and the servants lit the paper lanterns outside, casting soft shadows through the shoji screens, you found yourself lying beside Choso on a futon that could have comfortably slept four people and was so plush it felt like floating on a cloud made of money. The silence that had stretched throughout the day finally broke when he rolled onto his side to face you.

“What do you think?” he asked.

You had to suppress a snort at the familiarity of the question. This had become something of a running joke in your circle – the “What Would Spices Do?” approach to problem-solving. WWSD, as Megumi had once sarcastically abbreviated it in the group chat. It was a methodology that had yielded wildly different results depending on the user.

Some, like sweet, disaster-prone Yuuta, took your hypothetical actions as gospel and followed them to the letter (usually with spectacularly chaotic results). Others, blessed with more common sense, typically did the exact opposite of whatever they imagined you’d do and generally ended up better for it. Still, the fact that people consistently used you as their strategic north star, even if only to sail due south, was oddly flattering.

You took your time considering the offer, tumbling it over in your head and poking at it from different angles. “If they’re not bullshitting about the reincarnation ritual,” you said at last, trying to keep your natural cynicism in check. “It might be worth playing their game. We’ve already committed to this field trip, might as well see it through. And hey, having your family honored in the shrine isn’t nothing. Though if you want, we could set up your own altar when you get a place. Something more personal. I’d help you.”

Choso nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you. I would like that. But… if I become a Kamo, it would benefit you as well, wouldn’t it?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Even with Gojo leading the High Council,” Choso explained with unexpected political savvy, “you still need backing from the three major clans. As a Kamo, I could help secure that support. I could protect you better.”

You hadn’t expected this level of political chess from Choso. He’d been growing sharper by the day, like a sword being repeatedly folded and tempered by the heat of this strange new world. The strategic part of your brain immediately started mapping out possibilities. Young Noritoshi, the current Kamo heir, had always been one of the good ones – more progressive than his crusty elders and genuinely helpful to boot. Though ultimately, his loyalty was with his family. Having a true ally deep inside the clan, someone who would back you and, by extension, Gojo unconditionally… The advantages were immense.

You mentally bitch-slapped yourself. 

This was Choso. Your friend. The one who’d literally jump in front of danger for you, who had done so repeatedly, who counted you as his only real friend in this century. You were supposed to be protecting him from manipulation, not calculating how to use him as a political asset, you absolute garbage fire of a human being.

“Hey, no,” you said, shaking your head firmly as you pushed yourself up on one elbow. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on what’s best for you and your brothers. That’s what matters here.”

Choso’s response came without hesitation, stark and simple in its conviction: “Why wouldn’t I worry about you? I must think about what’s best for you. You’re family, too.”

The simple declaration hit you hard. Your chest constricted painfully, and you felt the treacherous sting of tears threatening to make an appearance.

“Thanks, Cho,” you managed to croak out, your voice wavering with all the feelings you were trying desperately not to spill all over the expensive futon.

After several more hours of intense contemplation of the ceiling’s grain patterns, Choso agreed to take the Kamo name. The family wasted no time, immediately launching into preparations for an elaborate ceremony to “properly reconnect him to his bloodline” – their words, not yours. This, naturally, required everyone to dress the part.

Choso was treated less like a person and more like a priceless artifact being prepared for display. He was draped in the family’s traditional onmyoji ensemble: layers of heavy silk in deep indigo and crimson, intricately embroidered with the Kamo clan’s crest and signature water patterns. His hair was washed, oiled, and styled in the classical manner, bound up with ornate pins and a ceremonial headdress that looked both regal and incredibly uncomfortable. The overall effect was striking. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a historical drama, though his perpetually constipated expression somewhat ruined the austere image.

You, as the honored guest, couldn’t escape the dress-up party either. The formal wear you’d packed just in case – your best shirt and pressed trousers – was deemed an affront to tradition and promptly confiscated. Instead, you were being manhandled by a formidable attendant with hands like steel claws who seemed personally offended by your existence. She stuffed you into an expensive kimono, muttering under her breath about “modern barbarians” while yanking your obi tight enough to make breathing optional. Your hair, which you’d thought was perfectly fine, was apparently a blatant insult to their ancestors and required immediate intervention.

You endured it all with gritted teeth and a level of cursing kept strictly to your internal monologue, repeating “For Cho” like a mantra. Starting a diplomatic incident over aggressive hair-combing would probably put a damper on his big day, though you were sorely tempted to find out just how far you could punt the old woman in formal sandals.

Young Noritoshi had been recalled from school for the ceremony, as was proper for the Kamo heir. That morning, you watched with growing amusement as he performed an impressive display of elder-dodging, weaving through what seemed like an endless parade of ancient, scowling relatives to reach you. You wondered if they kept some of them in a temperature-controlled storage room between major clan events.

“Spices,” he gasped out, slightly winded from his social parkour routine.

“Hey Nori,” you replied cheerfully, giving him a helpful thump on the back that might have been a tad too enthusiastic.

He winced, either from the impact or the nickname itself. The “Nori” thing had started after the whole Kenjaku revelation when everyone learned his namesake was actually history’s most evil sorcerer in disguise. The Kyoto students had coined it, and while Noritoshi wasn’t thrilled about sharing a name with seaweed, you figured fair was fair. He’d been calling you Spices without permission since forever. 

After catching his breath, Noritoshi glanced around furtively before dragging you behind a heavy curtain. The conspiratorial move immediately set off your internal alarm bells.

“There’s something you need to know,” he whispered. “About my family’s offer regarding Choso’s brothers... They asked for the remains, yes?”

You patted the oversized bag slung across your shoulder – your personal mobile armory of a collapsible bow, arrows, various odds and ends, and most importantly, six glass tubes containing the remains of his brothers that Choso had entrusted to you when the attendants whisked him away for the preparation. “Got them right here. What’s wrong? Are they planning to welch on the deal?”

“No, no,” Noritoshi rushed to assure you. “They’ll follow through. It’s just... you’re not going to like it.”

“Gonna need more specifics there, Nori. I already don’t like anything about this place. No offense.”

“None taken. Just... promise me you’ll stay calm? Please?”

“Fine, I promise not to shoot anyone or commit arson.”

Noritoshi’s relief was palpable. “It’s about the ‘reincarnation ritual’...” he began, then seemed to struggle for the right words. “There isn’t one.”

“What exactly are you saying?” you pressed, growing impatient with all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense. These clan people never could just spit things out.

“Exactly that. There is no ritual. They’re going to do it the simple way – feed the remains to living hosts. The elders have selected six men from our branch families to serve as vessels.”

You stared at Noritoshi. “They’ll die. Slowly and painfully, as their bodies are horrifically warped and reconstructed. Do they know what they’re signing up for?”

His tight nod and grimmer expression told you more than his words. “They know. Their families have been... handsomely compensated.” He flinched at your expression. “Don’t look at me like that, Spices. I hate this, too, but this is how my family operates. I just... thought you should know what’s going to happen.”

The bag suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. Your fingers found their way to the platinum bracelet on your wrist, tracing the arrowhead pattern – a nervous habit you’d developed whenever you needed grounding or were contemplating potential disasters.

Six lives for six brothers. A perfectly balanced equation. You’d kill for Choso without hesitation if needed. Hell, you’d do it for any of your friends. For Gojo, you’d stack bodies to the moon if that’s what it took to keep him safe. Your moral compass had always pointed somewhere between “highly questionable” and “what compass?” to be honest. But this wasn’t your call to make. It was Choso’s.

“I need to talk to Choso,” you said, shoving aside the curtain and nearly bowling over a passing servant who looked utterly scandalized at seeing you emerge from a dark corner with their precious heir. Noritoshi’s professionally withering glare sent her scurrying away before she could raise the alarm about whatever impropriety she was imagining.

By the time you and Noritoshi reached the ceremonial hall, the pieces were already in motion. An elderly attendant swooped in to shepherd Noritoshi to his proper place at the front of the assembled family members, while you were expertly corralled to the back by a group of attendants whose polite smiles couldn’t quite hide their readiness to tackle you if you tried to start shit. Of course, they placed you with the lesser relatives and staff.

Choso, resplendent in his ceremonial robes, turned to check on you from his kneeling position at the front, his gaze sweeping the room until it found yours. You managed what you hoped was a reassuring smile, though your fingers kept worrying at your bracelet. You’d promised Noritoshi to behave, after all.

The ceremony itself was an ostentatious affair. Ranks of priests in immaculate Shinto garb arranged themselves in precise formations. You watched attentively as they performed the various rites. There was the purification with sacred sake and salt, the presentation of offerings to the ancestors, and the formal reading of lineage. Blood was drawn from Choso and Hideyoshi using the family’s inherited technique and mixed with ink to write declarations of kinship. 

The priests waved ceremonial wands decorated with paper streamers, blessing Choso with each motion. Meanwhile, traditional musicians played court music on ancient instruments. The eerie melodies added an otherworldly atmosphere to the proceedings. You kept your ears primed for any sneaky binding vows hidden in the archaic language, but the Kamos seemed to be playing this part straight at least. The “adoption” officially established Choso as part of the main bloodline, specifically Hideyoshi’s “cousin” – a polite fiction that ignored the inconvenient fact that Choso was technically old enough to be everyone’s great-great-grandfather.

When the main ceremony concluded, Hideyoshi transitioned seamlessly into the next phase of his little production: the so-called “reincarnation ritual.” He’d also promised to welcome Choso’s brothers into the family as soon as they were restored. You didn’t miss the calculating gleam in his eyes. This wasn’t about family; it was about asset acquisition. They wanted to assess the brothers’ potential value and lock them down before any other clan could swoop in with a competing offer for the new merchandise.

The heavy doors at the side of the hall slid open, and the six chosen vessels were led out. They wore matching white robes, their heads shaved, their faces scrubbed clean of emotion, looking solemn and resigned to their fate. They knelt in a line before the altar. Choso frowned, his gaze shifting from the six men to Hideyoshi, a line of confusion creasing his brow.

“What is this?” he asked.

“This is the way, Choso-san.” Hideyoshi’s smile was that of a predator closing a trap. “These men have been chosen with great care – young, strong, and honored to serve the family. They will make perfect vessels for your brothers’ rebirth.”

“No,” Choso replied immediately. “This is wrong. My brothers will not return through bloodshed.”

Hideyoshi’s mask of the benevolent patriarch slipped, revealing the cold steel beneath. “A noble sentiment,” he sneered, “but a bit hypocritical, wouldn’t you say? Need I remind you that you yourself, along with Kechizu and Eso, came to this world through similar means? This is how your kind are created.”

The barb struck home. The pain that flashed across Choso’s face was so sharp and raw it made your fingers itch for your bow. One arrow. Just one, right through Hideyoshi’s smug, condescending face. With the element of surprise, you could probably take out at least a dozen of those wizened elders before they could stop you. That would certainly solve the immediate problem. Also, undoubtedly create a hundred more. Ijichi’s poor heart wouldn’t be able to take the paperwork. And resulting clan war. You forced your hand to relax.

Choso didn’t rise to the bait. His voice was unnervingly calm. “Do not speak of Eso and Kechizu. That was a mistake I cannot undo, but I will not allow it to be repeated. I did not understand many things then, and I have made many mistakes. As their elder brother, it is my duty to show them a better path. I will not have them return to this world suffering for my errors.”

“You are a Kamo now,” Hideyoshi snapped, his patience gone. “You must respect our ways!”

“Then take your name back. I have no need for it.”

Without another word, Choso turned on his heel, his robes sweeping behind him like dark wings. He strode across the hall, grabbed your hand, and suddenly you were being pulled through the stunned silence, past the shocked faces of the Kamo clan. Choso didn’t look back, but once you cleared the entrance, you couldn’t resist throwing a little wave at the dumbfounded clan members. From the crowd, Noritoshi discreetly waved back.

The Kamo estate grew smaller behind you, the ancient buildings shrinking until they disappeared around a bend in the road. Only then did Choso’s grip on your hand relax. Despite his flat expression, you could read the devastation in the set of his shoulders, in the way he stared ahead at nothing. For months, he’d been desperately searching for a way to resurrect his brothers without anyone else getting hurt. It had been an endless parade of disappointments, each failed attempt weighing heavier than the last. 

Everyone had tried to help. You’d practically moved into the library with Megumi, both of you buried in ancient texts until your eyes crossed, searching for any obscure ritual that might work. Even Nobara had swallowed her pride and called her grandmother – a woman she’d sworn never to speak to again after The Incident With The Pickle Jar (a story that still made Nobara turn interesting shades of red when mentioned). Dead end after dead end. The Kamos must have caught wind of this somehow and swooped in with their “solution,” probably assuming they just needed to provide the men for slaughter and all would be well.

The train back to Tokyo rattled through the countryside. The formal attire you both still wore drew attention from the other passengers. Several phones were pointed in Choso’s direction. #MysteriousHotGuyInTraditionalRobes, #TimeTravelingPrince, or #HistoricalHottie would be trending by dinner time, but Choso remained oblivious to his impending social media fame. 

It’s one thing to live without hope. It’s another level of cruel to have that hope dangled just within reach, only to have it brutally yanked away at the last possible second. He sat slumped in his seat, radiating defeat in a way that made you seriously reconsider your decision not to murder Hideyoshi. 

The old bastard was practically begging for a convenient, untraceable “accident.” No one would even miss him. They already had an heir. Noritoshi would make a much better clan head anyway... though the timing wasn’t right. Too many opportunistic elders were circling him like sharks, ready to seize power if Hideyoshi suddenly keeled over. Better to wait until Noritoshi had built a stronger support base. Maybe in three years... You filed that thought away for future consideration under “Project: Kamo Cleanup.” Vengeance was a dish best served cold and with meticulous planning.

“I’m a terrible big brother,” Choso muttered, finally breaking his silence. He ripped at the elaborate headdress, sending ornamental pins clattering to the train floor. His hair, released from its confinement, exploded in a staticky mess that stuck out at bizarre angles.

You dug through your bag of tricks (as you liked to call it) and produced a wooden comb and a handful of rubber bands. Choso automatically turned and ducked his head – a familiar routine that started back when you’d first introduced him to the concept of basic hygiene after his defection. Your fingers worked carefully through the tangles, smoothing his hair into the twin high ponytails he preferred. They ended up uneven, but Choso never seemed to mind your amateur styling attempts. A gentle tap on his arm let him know you were finished.

“First off, that’s bullshit,” you declared as he slumped back into his seat. “You’re literally the best big brother in existence.”

Choso opened his mouth to argue, but you bulldozed right over him: “And second, I think I might have something.”

The idea had been simmering in your mind for weeks, a potential solution you’d hesitated to voice because you weren’t sure how Choso would take it: Yaga’s cursed corpses as vessels.

Despite the scary name, they were essentially stuffed animals. Choso’s brothers wouldn’t be able to restore their original appearances like Choso had managed with his human vessel. What kind of life was that, trapped in plush and fabric? But that was the only option where no one would have to die.

To your surprise, Choso agreed instantly once he heard the idea. “I don’t care what they look like,” he said firmly. “We never wanted to look human anyway. I love them exactly as they are.”

Something clicked in your mind then. You’d finally understood why Choso had initially joined Kenjaku. He’d wanted to create a world where his brothers would be accepted as they were, no human disguise needed. That dream of a world where they belonged might still be far off, but every journey started with a single step, right? And this felt like one.

The moment you returned to campus, you marched Choso straight to Yaga’s office. Luckily, the principal agreed to teach Choso after hearing the full story. His only condition was that once incarnated, the brothers would have to enroll at Tokyo Jujutsu High, become proper sorcerers, and follow the rules.

Yuji had eagerly joined in, and for months, both he and Choso spent countless hours under Yaga’s tutelage to learn the intricate art of cursed corpse creation. Rather than following Yaga’s traditional stuffed animal approach, they leveraged their newfound crocheting expertise, a skill born from the memorable Great Scarf Obsession of 2018 when they’d somehow managed to produce enough scarves to clothe the entire student body and most of the staff. You still had the scratchy pastel blue scarf from that era tucked away in a drawer somewhere.

The first successful resurrection was Noranso – a lopsided teddy bear with uneven ears, one leg slightly longer than the other, and the most soulful button eyes. When those eyes had first blinked and a tiny voice had called out “Big brother!”, Choso completely lost it. He’d made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, collapsing to his knees and gathering the crocheted bear into his arms. You’d never seen someone cry so hard while smiling ear to ear. Yuji had cried too. Even you had to discreetly wipe a tear from your eye.

Creating cursed corpses strong enough to host Death Painting souls proved far more challenging than Yaga made it look. Each brother required countless attempts and literal mountains of yarn. Between Choso’s devotion and Yuji’s determination (and truly astronomical yarn bills, all funded by Gojo naturally), all six brothers eventually found their way to life through hooks, loops, and an absolutely ridiculous amount of brotherly love.

Fast forward to the present day, and your favorite part of visiting campus wasn’t just the nostalgia trip down memory lane or even the now-excellent cafeteria food (a vast improvement you took at least partial credit for). No, the highlight was the instant mob of sentient crocheted plushies that descended upon you the moment you crossed the school’s main gate.

Today was no exception. The brothers had been camping out since dawn, tipped off by Yuji about your guest lecture. While only Shoso, the baby of the family, was still officially a student, the others had made campus their permanent home. After all, the city apartments weren’t set up to accommodate a gang of cursed plushies trying to live their best lives, and Yaga had a soft spot for them.

Shoso, an enormous white rabbit plushie nearly your height, bounced alongside you up the steps, ears flopping with each hop as he excitedly detailed his latest mission. The others orbited around you, each waiting their turn to update you on their adventures.

“Where’s Cho?” you asked, trying to keep track of the colorful parade of yarn-based life forms surrounding you.

“He’s got the second years in Fukuoka! Some kind of field training thing!” Tanso announced. He was a green frog with wonky eyes and an inexplicable bow tie that no one remembered crocheting into his design.

“Big brother promised souvenirs!” Shoso added, his deep baritone still startling coming from such an adorable bunny face. Even after all these years, you still hadn’t gotten used to the cognitive dissonance of their plushy appearances and their distinctly mature, masculine voices.

The training field was alive with activity. Yuji held court among a cluster of first-years, gesturing dramatically as he explained something that probably involved punching a problem until it stopped being a problem. You spotted Satoshi among them, looking less moody than the day before. The young guy had been camping out in the dorms while he suffered through his mandatory “tactical debriefs” with you. Helping Yuji with the first-years was likely his way of avoiding feeling like a freeloader on leave.

“Doctor,” Satoshi acknowledged you with a respectful nod as you approached. Coming from him, that was a warm embrace and a tearful declaration of lifelong friendship.

Yuji perked up when he spotted you. “Hey guys, look who’s here! Your favorite sensei!” he announced to his students. 

A ripple of apprehension went through the assembled teenagers. Shoulders straightened, chatter died. They all instantly scrambled to their feet to greet you. Several visibly paled at the sight of your sweet smile. You grinned wider. Oh yes, this was going to be fun. Nothing quite like terrorizing – sorry, educating – the next generation of sorcerers.

Chapter Text

Your teaching sessions proceeded smoothly: no one tried to challenge your authority, no one attempted to cheat on the pop quiz, and no one got accidentally set on fire. You attributed this success to the fact that the current students had developed both familiarity with your methods and enough self-preservation instinct to behave themselves. It was in the afternoon when you finished up, feeling the pleasant drain of a day well spent terrorizing – er, educating – the youth.

That’s when Yuji pounced. 

“Spices!” He appeared with that earnest expression that always meant trouble. “You haven’t forgotten about Sunday, right? The thing you promised?”

You paused in the act of shoving things into your backpack. “Sunday?” you asked, feigning strategic amnesia.

“The monthly hangout at Nobara’s place. The one you’ve rescheduled twice this month already.”

Ah yes. Nobara’s mandatory ‘we’re best friends and we’re going to have FUN or so help me god’ gathering. You’d been hoping they’d forgotten about your repeated cancellations.

“Yuji, I—”

“Nope!” He held up both hands, taking a precautionary step back. “Before you even start with the excuses, Nobara specifically told me to tell you that if you don’t show up this time, she’ll make sure nobody ever finds your body.”

“She said that?”

“Word for word. She also practiced several different ways to hide a body. It was... educational. Did you know how many ways there are to dissolve—”

“Fine, fine! I get the picture.”

“Great! I’ll come pick you up.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Actually, it is. That’s also an order from Nobara. She said, and I quote, ‘If our workaholic bitch tries to weasel out of this again, drag that ass over here yourself’.”

You snorted. “Charming. She’s got such a way with words.” 

“She cares about you,” Yuji said with a sheepish grin. “We all do.”

“Right. Well, tell our beloved Bara that this workaholic bitch will be there by ten. No ass-dragging required.”

“Will do!”

Mission accomplished. Yuji beamed and bounced away, off to terrorize his next target with excessive cheer and good intentions.

Usually, Choso would be the one to escort you back after your guest lectures, but since he was away today, Satoshi had volunteered for the honor. He’d presented it as a noble sacrifice, supposedly so Yuji wouldn’t have to interrupt his teaching duties. You suspected his motives were less chivalrous and more rooted in a combination of boredom and simple curiosity.

As the two of you settled into seats on the bus back to Headquarters, you immediately regretted not splurging on a taxi. Satoshi’s massive frame made the already cramped public transport feel like a sardine can designed for much smaller fish. You were unceremoniously wedged between his wall of muscle and the rattling window. The bus lurched forward with typical Tokyo traffic aggression, and you had to brace yourself against the seat in front of you to avoid being bounced around like a pinball, while Satoshi barely registered the movement.

He also, surprisingly, turned out to be more talkative/nosy than you’d expected. “So,” he began, breaking the silence about ten minutes into the ride, “why does a shrink need a bodyguard to go around the city?”

You glanced at him sideways. “Excuse me?”

“Itadori was ready to abandon his students to drive you back himself. What do you do that’s got everyone so worried about you traveling alone?”

You shrugged. “I make people talk about their feelings. Many of them ain’t too happy about it.”

Satoshi considered this for a moment, his expression thoughtful. Finally, he nodded. “Makes sense. You must have pissed off plenty of people with that personality of yours.”

Without hesitation, you elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. The resulting impact felt like hitting a brick wall.

“Ow! What the hell—” he yelped, more from surprise than actual pain, though he did rub the spot reflexively. His eyes widened as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually done it.

“At least, I’ve never tried to stab anyone unprovoked during a first meeting,” you shot back.

Satoshi grunted, still rubbing his side. “I wasn’t going to stab you,” he protested, discreetly crossing his arms in a way that would protect his ribs from future attacks.

Drama queen. Like you could actually do any real damage to someone sporting that absurd amount of muscle. Those abs were harder than your elbow anyway.

Resigned to spending the next forty-five minutes wedged between the window and Mt. Satoshi, you decided to embrace the chatty mood he seemed to be in. The view outside was nothing but urban sprawl anyway, the same endless parade of convenience stores, office buildings, and apartment blocks that made up Tokyo’s relentless march toward the horizon. You’d already memorized every advertisement plastered on the bus ceiling during previous commutes, including the one for discount ramen that had been haunting your peripheral vision for weeks.

Leaning back against the window, you studied his face. “You graduated last year, right?”

Satoshi’s guard shot back up instantly. His eyes narrowed, and he got that cornered-animal look of ‘oh god, is this therapy?’ It was honestly impressive how many sorcerers had developed that specific expression around you.

“Yeah,” he answered cautiously, as if the wrong response might result in an impromptu psychoanalysis right there. “What about it?”

“Miss school?”

His eyes narrowed further. “What’s this? Does this count toward my tactical debriefs?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you were surprised they didn’t fall out of your head and roll down the bus aisle. “What’s tactical about making small talk on public transportation? I’m just curious about how things are at the Kyoto campus.” You shifted in your seat, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn’t involve your shoulder being permanently imprinted on his bicep. “I studied here in Tokyo, you know. Only went to Kyoto a few times for school events and official business. Never really had the chance to poke around properly.”

The tension in Satoshi’s shoulders eased, his posture relaxing as he realized you weren’t about to start dissecting his childhood or his relationship with his mother.

“The school itself? Not really. But man, that cafeteria…” A hint of something almost wistful crossed his features. “And the garden. I think you’d actually like it there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And why is that?”

“It’s…” He paused, searching for the right words, then shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “Zen, I guess? Peaceful. You’re a shrink. Aren’t you supposed to be into that kind of thing? Gardens and meditation and all that shit?”

You snickered. “I like gardens well enough, but they sure as hell don’t like me back. The first and last time I visited that famous garden of yours, every single prissy flower in the place just shriveled up and died.”

Satoshi blinked, his expression shifting through several fascinating transformations, landing somewhere between dawning recognition and unholy glee. “Wait a damn minute. That was like... seven years ago, wasn’t it?”

You tilted your head, mentally rifling through old memories. “It was my second year, I think. Went to Kyoto for the Goodwill Event. Yeah, around that time frame. How did you know that?”

“Utahime-sensei mentioned it once during a lecture,” Satoshi said, barely containing his snicker. “Something about a ‘walking disaster from Tokyo’ who somehow managed to instant-kill the entire garden in one go. Gakuganji-sama was convinced it was sabotage, revenge for something. Was he right?”

You let out a long-suffering groan. “Revenge? For what? Tokyo won that year. I can’t believe that cranky old bastard is still holding a grudge over that. It’s been years! And he chased me off campus with a goddamn broom! Like I was some rogue raccoon pillaging his precious garden. I had to run for my life. The emotional trauma alone should make us even.” 

You slumped dramatically against the window. The memory brought back a flood of indignation that hadn’t dimmed in the slightest with time.

You could still remember the horrified gasps from the Kyoto students and the way Gakuganji had stormed toward you, purple with rage, screaming something about “disrespectful Tokyo brats” and the sanctity of his ancient moss. The man had moved with surprising speed for someone his age, swinging what appeared to be a push broom he’d grabbed from the maintenance shed. 

You’d been too shocked to do anything but run as he gave chase across the courtyard, students scattering like startled birds in your wake. The whole thing had been so surreal—being pursued by a venerable Council Elder brandishing cleaning equipment—that you’d started laughing, which had only made him angrier.

Yuuta had eventually found you hiding behind the equipment shed, crouched among rakes and fertilizer bags, still giggling uncontrollably. He’d looked absolutely mortified, bowing and apologizing profusely to everyone within earshot while he half-carried you to the bus stop because you’d been laughing too hard to walk straight.

That incident had been the unofficial start of a years-long feud between you and the old coot. Even now, every time you crossed paths at official meetings, Gakuganji still gave you this venomous look, as if you’d personally murdered his firstborn child. Which, technically, you’d done worse. But that’s another story for another time, one that involved considerably less running and far more political backstabbing.

Satoshi actually laughed at the anecdote. The mental image of the dignified Principal Gakuganji wielding cleaning supplies against a fleeing student had tickled something in that muscle-bound brain of his. 

“But seriously,” he managed between chuckles, “how’d you pull it off? Some specialized technique? Utahime-sensei said they investigated for weeks and never figured out what actually happened.”

“That’s because nothing happened,” you said with a huff. “I didn’t do jack shit. Didn’t even touch the damn plants. Just took a peaceful stroll around the garden, minding my own business. Those green fuckers apparently just don’t like me.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Satoshi said dryly.

You jabbed him in the ribs again, but this time he caught your elbow with an infuriating grin. 

“Maybe,” you suggested, wrinkling your nose at the memory of wilting flowers and Gakuganji’s purpling face, “the plants were just as fed up with Gakuganji as everyone else and I happened to be there at the wrong time.”

“Gakuganji-sama is...” Satoshi started, probably feeling some misplaced obligation to defend his elder.

“If you’re about to tell me he’s a sweet old man who you absolutely adore,” you cut him off, “I will extend your administrative leave for blatantly lying to your therapist.”

Satoshi held up his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t going to say that! Jesus. Look, honestly? He can be... difficult. And all those ceremonial rituals he makes everyone study are completely ridiculous, but...”

“But they’re important and necessary,” you replied. 

Satoshi’s mouth fell open in shock. He’d expected you to take the opportunity to tear into the old traditionalist, and now he looked completely bewildered that you’d actually agreed with Gakuganji’s methods.

You attempted to wave your hand dismissively – a challenging endeavor given the cramped space and Satoshi’s massive frame taking up what felt like three-quarters of the available real estate. Seriously, anyone this huge should be required to buy multiple tickets on public transport and claim their own personal throne instead of squeezing into regular seats with much less impressively built people like yourself.

“I don’t like Gakuganji. That’s for damn sure. But even a broken clock is right twice a day, and I can acknowledge when the geezer does something right. Most sorcerers disagree on this, but Gakuganji is correct that ceremonial rituals have genuine value. It’s not about the rituals themselves, but what you gain by knowing and practicing them.”

Satoshi was staring at you now, not expecting a mini-lecture on educational philosophy during your commute.

“Think about it,” you continued. “Learning those ceremonies teaches you precision, attention to detail, the mechanisms behind sorcery. You learn about associations between elements, how to be exact and thorough in your approach. It might seem like useless busy work when you’re a student, memorizing hand positions and chanting what might as well be nursery rhymes, but that foundation becomes invaluable later for optimizing your cursed technique, crafting effective binding vows, constructing barriers…” You gestured as much as the space would allow. “All of it builds on those same principles of precision and understanding. It’s like… learning basic kata before trying to punch someone in the face.”

Satoshi continued staring, rendered speechless by your impromptu academic discourse. The bus hit a pothole, jostling you both, but his attention never wavered.

“Wow,” he muttered at last. “I... never thought about it that way. If someone had explained it like that back in school, I probably would’ve paid a hell of a lot more attention.”

“I’ll mention that to Utahime next time we talk,” you said, pulling out your phone to make a note. “She’s a fantastic teacher, but sometimes she gets so caught up in the ‘proper’ way of teaching that it’s hard for her to see things from a student’s perspective.”

Your fingers flew across the screen: Talk to Utahime about contextualizing ceremonial ritual instruction for practical application. Consider workshop on educational psychology for instructors?

“You’re actually a really good teacher,” Satoshi said, and there was genuine wonder in his voice.

You side-eyed him over your phone. “Was there supposed to be doubt about that?”

He wisely amended his statement. “Of course not.”

For the rest of the ride, Satoshi opened up like a chatty floodgate that had been waiting years for someone to turn the valve. He rambled about everything from the current state of affairs at Kyoto – classes, training regimens, teaching methods – to work-related topics like mission assignments, ranking protocols, and his various grievances with the higher-ups. The young man had opinions about everything, and once he got started, stopping him would have required either divine intervention or a well-aimed tranquilizer dart.

You’d mastered the art of strategic listening years ago, a skill that had served you well in both professional and personal contexts. It was a kind of conversational jujutsu. You knew exactly when to nod with just the right amount of interest, when to hum thoughtfully and make sympathetic noises that suggested you were deeply invested in whatever drama he was recounting, and when to drop a well-timed “oh really?” to keep him talking. You asked subtle questions to prompt him toward the information you were actually interested in, gently steering him back on track whenever he got too meandering, and contributed just enough of your own gossip to keep him engaged and talking freely.

Sure, you could read about most of this stuff in official reports, but there was nothing quite like getting an honest, firsthand account from a field agent who hadn’t been compromised by financial incentives or political agendas. Raw intel was always more valuable than the sanitized versions that made it into paperwork. It was gold. And all it cost you was a bruised elbow.

True to his promise to Yuji, Satoshi walked you to the main gate of Headquarters with all the vigilant determination of a mother hen guarding her last chick. He even prowled the perimeter, scanning rooftops and shadows for theoretical assassins. Only when he was absolutely, positively, would-bet-his-favorite-knife certain that you’d made it safely inside did he deem his sacred duty complete.

You were heading for Gojo’s office when your phone pinged with an incoming message. You pulled it out to find a text from Higuruma.

Higs: Left my tie in your office yesterday. Grab it for me?

You stared at the message for a beat, then thumbed back a response.

You: bruh you gotta stop leaving your shit in my office

His response came almost immediately, suggesting that he indeed had nothing better to do than sit around waiting for your replies.

Higs: 🙄

You stared at the passive-aggressive emoji for a moment, marveling at the unmitigated gall of this man. A single eye roll emoji. Not even the courtesy of words.

You: did you actually send me an eye roll emoji??? what are you 12

Higs: Says the person who uses ‘ain’t’ in professional emails.

You: thats completely different and you know it

Higs: 👔?

Higs: Blue striped tie, on the left arm of your couch.

You: ofc you remember exactly where you left it 💀 youre the worst

Higs: ❤️

You shook your head at your phone screen, wondering if there was some sort of cosmic law that dictated all millennials must communicate exclusively through single-emoji responses once they reached a certain level of smugness. At least he’d included a heart at the end, the manipulative bastard. You could almost hear his smug chuckle through the text. He knew it would work.

With a long-suffering sigh, you veered down the hallway and doubled back to your office to fetch Higuruma’s forgotten neckwear. The other offices on this floor were mostly empty at this hour, their occupants either out on missions, at home with their families, or just generally avoiding the oppressive atmosphere of Headquarters after dark. The emergency lights cast long shadows across the floor, making the place feel more like a horror movie set than a professional workplace. 

Your office door stood at the end of the hall, distinguished from the others by its decidedly analog security and the small nameplate that had been crooked for months. Somehow it had become part of the office’s charm, like a crooked smile that made everything else a little more endearing. A perfect reflection of its occupant: slightly off-kilter, but unapologetically so.

The locks at Headquarters had been upgraded to digital systems years ago – card readers, biometric fingerprint scanners, the whole nine yards of modern convenience. The security company that landed the lucrative contract just happened to be very good ‘friends’ with the Zen’in clan. Surprise, surprise, the deal had been approved without even a pretense of a bidding process. The Zen’ins had played a major role in backing Gojo as the new Head Councilman, and as things stood, keeping them happy was still a political necessity, even if it meant dealing with their obvious corruption and pretending not to notice the stench of quid pro quo. Politics made for some truly strange and malodorous bedfellows.

When you’d been assigned this office, you’d had that digital bullshit ripped out and replaced with a good old-fashioned mechanical lock. Not just any lock, either. You’d specifically ordered a Mul-T-Lock MT5+, the kind that locksmiths called ‘the nightmare.’ Or at least, that was what the overly enthusiastic salesperson had told you while trying to justify the frankly obscene price tag.

The lock supposedly used a telescoping pin system with inner and outer drivers, false gates, and magnetic elements that made traditional picking techniques completely useless. The key itself looked like something from a sci-fi movie, with cuts on multiple levels and magnetic coding that had to align perfectly for the mechanism to turn.

Technically, calling it ‘impossible to pick’ was an exaggeration. You should know. You’d ordered a second one to mess around with at home and spent an entire week systematically taking apart every component of the practice lock, laying out each tiny spring, pin, and driver on your kitchen table. The magnetic elements alone had fascinated you for hours. 

You’d lost track of time more than once, hunched over your makeshift workstation with a magnifying glass and a set of precision tools, completely absorbed in the mechanical poetry of it all. There was something almost meditative about understanding how each piece fit together, how the whole system relied on every tiny component doing its job perfectly.

Gojo, meanwhile, had been absolutely insufferable about the whole thing. He’d fluttered around your apartment like an oversized, attention-starved butterfly, desperate for you to look at him instead of the pile of metal bits.

“Spices,” he’d whined on day three, draping himself theatrically across your couch. “You’ve been staring at that thing for three hours. I’m starting to think you love that lock more than me.”

“Don’t be silly,” you’d replied without looking up. “I’ve known this lock for three days. I’ve known you for years. Obviously, I love it more. It’s still new and interesting.”

He’d gasped at that. “I can’t believe you just said that. I’m wounded. Devastated. My heart is broken into a thousand tiny pieces.”

“Your heart will survive. Hand me that tiny screwdriver.”

Instead of the screwdriver, he’d slid off the couch and wandered over to peer over your shoulder, his chin resting on your head. “What’s so fascinating about this thing anyway? It’s just a bunch of metal bits.”

“It’s not just metal bits,” you’d explained, holding up one of the telescoping pins. “See this? This little bastard has three different cutting levels. It’s designed to create false feedback during picking attempts. When someone tries to set it, it feels like it’s in the right position, but it’s actually—”

“Boring,” he’d declared, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. “Very, very boring. Unlike me, who is extremely interesting and currently being severely neglected.”

“Sensei, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“I know. That’s the problem.” He’d nuzzled against your head, clearly trying to distract you with the kind of affection that was part genuine and part ulterior motives. “Come on, take a break. The lock will still be there in an hour.”

“I’m almost done figuring out how the magnetic elements interact with the sidebar mechanism.”

“I don’t know what any of those words mean, and I don’t care. I want attention.”

You’d turned around in your chair to face him, and he’d immediately perked up. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being deprived of affection,” he’d corrected, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. “It’s been three whole days of watching you make love to that lock with your eyes.”

“I do not make love to locks with my eyes.”

“You absolutely do. You get this little crease right here—” He’d touched the spot between your eyebrows with a fingertip. “—and you bite your lip when you’re really focused, and you make these tiny weird humming sounds when you figure something out.”

“I never make weird sounds—”

He’d already teleported away, only to reappear on your other side with a cup of coffee. “I brought you caffeine. Doesn’t that earn me at least five minutes of eye contact?”

You’d accepted the coffee gratefully, but the moment you’d turned back to the lock, he’d started up again. Poking your shoulder. Rearranging the components you’d carefully organized. Making increasingly ridiculous observations about the lock’s ‘aesthetic qualities.’ At one point, he’d picked up one of the tiny springs and declared it looked lonely, wondering aloud if it needed a friend.

“Are you actually jealous of a lock?” you’d asked him on day five, when he’d resorted to lying on the floor and sighing every thirty seconds.

“Maybe,” he’d admitted, peeking at you from behind his blindfold. “You haven’t looked at me like that in days.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to solve the mysteries of the universe.”

You’d paused in your work then, really looking at him – all six feet of ridiculous man-child sprawled across your hardwood floor. “The mysteries of the universe are significantly less complicated than you are.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Yes.”

While you had zero interest in a professional career in thievery – despite what certain people might suggest about your moral flexibility – you loved a good puzzle, and locks were exactly that: mechanical riddles waiting to be solved. Any lock could be beaten if you understood its internal logic. If you could disassemble and reassemble it, you could pick it. It was that simple and that complicated.

You hadn’t installed the fancy mechanical lock because you expected it to actually guard your deepest, darkest secrets from determined intruders. If you could pick it, someone else could too. Or they could simply remove the hinges or kick the damn door in. The real point of using a mechanical lock was detection. Digital locks could be compromised without leaving a trace, but try to pick this beauty and she’d tell you all about it. Every scratch, every slightly misaligned component, every tool mark would be a story written in metal about what someone had tried to do to your door.

The key slid home with a satisfying series of clicks as multiple sidebars engaged. You could feel each pin aligning perfectly through the metal in your hand – a mechanical symphony that no electronic beep could match. There was something deeply satisfying about the tactile feedback of quality engineering.

Once inside, you flicked on the lights and spent the next thirty minutes conducting an archaeological dig through your office. You searched every drawer, every shelf, behind every piece of furniture, and under every cushion.  

What you did find was an impressive collection of random shit that other people had decided your office was the perfect storage facility for: 

Three of Gojo’s sunglasses were scattered across various surfaces, including the expensive limited edition pair he’d been frantically searching for last week. Two of his jackets hung on furniture, and half his candy stash had taken up permanent residence in your desk drawer.

Shoko’s lighter sat on your bookshelf next to her spare lab coat, which was sporting fresh cigarette burns and mysterious stains you didn’t want to analyze too closely. Nobara had left behind a makeup compact and some nail polish on your windowsill. Yuji had abandoned a few manga volumes and his spare gym clothes that thankfully hadn’t yet achieved biological weapon status. Megumi’s contribution was a hardcover novel with about fifty bookmarks and his phone charger wound up in that specific way that suggested mild OCD tendencies. Even Miwa had left a promotional pen from some tech conference and a small notebook filled with her own design sketches.

The more you searched, the more ridiculous items emerged from the depths of your office. But Higuruma’s blue striped tie? Nowhere to be fucking found. You pulled out your phone and texted him.

You: searched everywhere cant find it. maybe u already picked it up and forgot??

Higs: No. I specifically left it on your couch. 

You: well its not there now bro

Higs: Did you check under the cushions? All of them?

You: yes??? i literally tore my damn couch apart looking for it

Higs: Strange. I’m certain I left it there.

You: look if i cant find it ill just buy u a new one

Higs: No. I want that specific tie back. It has sentimental value.

You stared at his text, your eye twitching with the sort of repressed rage that had once toppled the entire jujutsu system.

You: sentimental value??? its literally identical to the other two you bought in that 3-for-2 deal last month

Higs: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

You: HIROMI YOU LYING LIAR WHO LIES

Higs: That tie is special to me. It was a gift.

You: from WHO? yourself??? when you bought it at the department store???

Higs: 🤔

 

You wanted to throw your phone at the wall. He was absolutely fucking with you at this point, and you both knew it. The man probably had a spreadsheet somewhere documenting precisely how to push your buttons for maximum psychological impact. 

Maybe he didn’t even leave his damn tie here in the first place. Maybe this whole tie saga was just his elaborate way of getting back at you for attempting to strangle him with his tie that one time during the early phase of your relationship when you were still actively trying to kill each other on a regular basis. Which wasn’t even fair, by the way. He’d tried to kill you first. And you’d only yanked on his tie after he’d tried to bonk you over the head with his magical gavel.

You: I HATE YOU

Higs: No you don’t. Keep looking for my tie, dear.

You: IT’S THE SAME AS YOUR OTHER TWO TIES YOU DRAMATIC BOOMER

Higs: I’m a millennial.

You: THAT’S WORSE

Higs: ❤️

 

You glared at your phone screen. Damn millennial uncle and his passive-aggressive emoji warfare. The little heart at the end was particularly insulting. 

Oh, Higuruma was going to pay for this. You were going to murder him with his own stupid tie, and this time, you were going to succeed. You’d even make it look like an accident. “Chief of the Internal Affairs & Ethics Department Strangled by Own Neckwear in Tragic Fashion Emergency” had a nice ring to it.

While you were contemplating various forms of revenge against Higuruma, your office door burst open with the dramatic force of a SWAT team raid. The sudden intrusion made you jump, your heart rate spiking as if you’d been caught in the middle of actual murder rather than just fantasizing about it.

Zen’in Mai strode in like she owned the building, which she partially did in terms of bureaucratic control. She was hauling a fruit basket this side of the equator. The kind where each piece of fruit had its own passport and frequent flyer miles, harvested by monks on mountaintops and blessed by agricultural deities. Without preamble, she dropped it onto your coffee table with a loud thud, making your papers flutter and your coffee mug rattle against its saucer.

“Gift from Mei Mei,” she announced, brushing her hands together as if ridding them of peasant dust and the contamination of manual labor.

“Oh, thanks! I was just about to—”

“Save it,” she snapped. “You’ve been leaving it at the reception counter for days. It’s taking up space meant for important deliveries.” She made it sound like your fruit basket’s extended vacation at reception was personally responsible for the decline of modern civilization, the fall of empires, and probably climate change, too.

“My apologies. It won’t happen again,” you said quickly. In the universal language of bribes and half-assed placations, you plucked a massive bunch of grapes from the basket and offered it to her. “Here, have some of these. They’re probably good for your skin or something. Imported from some magical grape dimension, I bet.”

Mai’s glare intensified to laser-beam levels, but she snatched up the grapes anyway, because even righteous indignation couldn’t compete with premium fruit. Then, she proceeded to circle the room like a highly judgmental shark who’d caught the scent of disorganizational blood in the water.

Click. Click. Click.

Her heels struck the floor, each step a personal insult. She popped grapes into her mouth one by one, chewing slowly, as her hawk-like gaze scanned your office with mounting horror. It was admittedly rather messy after your frantic search for Higuruma’s tie – couch cushions askew, drawers pulled out, various personal belongings had been relocated to random surfaces in your archaeological dig for non-existent neckwear.

“This is unacceptable,” Mai declared, gesturing at the general chaos. “How do you expect to find anything in this disaster? And these papers… They’re not even filed properly. Look at this mess!” She picked up a stack of reports that had been reasonably organized before your search. “These should be sorted by date, then by priority level, then by department. This is basic office management. A trained monkey could do a better job.”

Click. Click. Click.

She moved to your bookshelf, where Shoko’s lab coat hung like a flag of surrender. “And what is this doing here? This belongs in the medical wing, not your office. The smell alone—” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Do you have any idea what kind of bacteria could be growing on this thing?”

Click. Click. Click.

“And why is everyone using your space as a storage unit? This is supposed to be a therapeutic space, not a damn lost and found.” She held up one of Gojo’s sunglasses. “These cost more than most people’s monthly salary. How can you just leave them lying around like this?”

Click. Click. Click.

“Is this tape residue on your window?”

Click. Click. Click.

“What the hell is that smell? Is something rotting?”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because you weren’t sure yourself. It might’ve been Gojo’s candy stash melting into a sugary biohazard in the drawer. Or maybe Yuji’s gym clothes weren’t as inoffensive as you’d thought, and they were developing their own ecosystem in the corner where you’d tossed them.

“There are three pens on this desk and not a single one of them has ink.”

Click. Click. Click.

“By the way, your nameplate is still crooked. How do you even walk in here every day without fixing it? Don’t you have any self-respect?”

Click. Click. Click.

Mai’s commentary continued for a solid ten minutes, a scathing audit of your professional and personal failings as represented by the state of your office. You weathered her critique storm patiently – minimal retorts, occasional nods – having long since accepted your role as Mai’s favorite target for improvement, a position that came with regular visits and detailed lists of everything you were doing wrong with your life. 

Mai had high standards for everything, which made her excellent at her job in the Department of Administration & Resources, where her ability to spot a misplaced comma from fifty paces was considered something approaching supernatural talent. She could detect filing errors through walls, sense inefficiency like a bloodhound, and had once reorganized an entire department’s worth of paperwork in a single day while simultaneously implementing a new digital filing system that had reduced processing time by thirty percent.

After Gojo’s rise to Head Councilman, Headquarters had gone through a major restructuring: new departments with clearly defined responsibilities, new workflows that actually made sense, new furniture with ergonomic back supports that didn’t make you feel like you were being slowly tortured by office equipment. All of it required competent hands at the helm.

Mai, having decided that fieldwork involved far too much actual field and not enough climate control, had returned to Tokyo post-graduation to take up the mantle of office efficiency goddess. She’d made this decision after exactly one mission that had involved crawling through a swamp at three in the morning, emerging covered in mud and righteous indignation about the complete lack of proper facilities in the wilderness. She never looked back. Somewhere along the way, she became indispensable to the daily functioning of the entire building.

Despite her eternally hostile disposition (aimed mostly at you, for reasons that could be traced back to your school days), her meticulous attention to detail and tireless work ethic had immediately turned her into a beloved protégé of the Department Chief, Fukui Mizuki. Thanks to Mai’s organizational prowess and ability to anticipate problems before they became disasters, sweet old chronically overworked Mizuki could now take days off to go on vacation with her daughter instead of being chained to her desk by a mountain of paperwork.

Once Mai had finished both the grapes and her comprehensive critique, you seized the brief window of opportunity when she paused to breathe.

“While you’re at it, can you pick out a nice bouquet for Mei Mei, too? I’ll wire you the money.”

“I’m not ‘at it,’ Spices,” she sneered disdainfully. “I’m never at it. I’m Human Resources and Facility Management. Not your personal assistant. Why the hell do I always have to run your errands?”

“I know, I know,” you grinned shamelessly. “It’s just that you have actual taste, unlike us peasants. You know how Mei Mei is. You’re probably the only person in this building who can pick something she won’t immediately throw into a compost bin. Please? I’ll transfer the money right now.”

Mai responded with a hand gesture that definitely violated several HR policies she herself had written, but mercifully didn’t berate you further. She returned to the fruit basket, and plucked out a couple of exotic things that looked vaguely like mangoes and starfruits on steroids.

“Payment up front, and I’m adding a handling fee,” she called back as she walked out, her heels now clicking even more aggressively, as though they were trying to Morse code their disapproval directly into the floor.

“Done and done!”

You had the transfer completed before Mai reached the door. The last thing you needed was to forget and incur her wrath later on. You’d find all your office furniture mysteriously replaced with cacti if you did.

Deeming Higuruma’s tie a lost cause – probably consumed by the same office gremlin that ate all the good pens and periodically reset the coffee machine settings – you grabbed a couple of tangerines for the road and marched toward Gojo’s office. When you arrived, he was hunched over his laptop at his giant mahogany desk, looking adorably frazzled. His blindfold was pushed up onto his forehead, and he was leaning so close to the screen it was a wonder he hadn’t left a nose print on it.

Gojo brightened up instantly at the sight of you as if you’d brought a personal sunbeam into his drab, paperwork-filled existence.

“Still working?” you asked, dropping your backpack on his couch and sauntering over.

You didn’t need to look closely. One glance at the screen, at the cramped text and the impossibly tiny scroll bar, told you what he was agonizing over: Yuki’s proposal. All 300+ pages of her argument for standardized civilian jujutsu training.

“There’s no way we can convince the Elders to go along with this,” Gojo muttered, running a hand through his hair in frustration, making it stick up at even more impossible angles. “They’ll have collective heart attacks just hearing the title. I can already see their blood pressure monitors exploding in unison.”

“The case study results from her pilot program actually look promising,” you offered, trying to inject some much-needed optimism into his doom spiral before it achieved critical mass and took out half the building. “Maybe we could get Gakuganji to greenlight a larger trial at his school first? He’s been quite reasonable about new initiatives lately.”

You mentally cringed at yourself for speaking positively about Gakuganji twice in one day, a development that surely signaled either personal growth or the onset of some sort of neurological condition. The old man was probably having an unexplained sneezing fit over in Kyoto, wondering why his ears were burning and if someone was speaking his name in vain. 

Gojo, clearly too exhausted to notice your unexpected defense of your eternal archenemy, just blinked at you. “You got to the results section already? How? I’ve been staring at this thing for hours and I think I’ve barely made it past the theoretical framework. My eyes are starting to cross.”

“Text-to-speech,” you shrugged. “I just let my phone read it to me while I do other things. Nothing like learning about experimental jujutsu applications while folding laundry

You migrated to your spot – the custom-built windowsill behind his desk. Gojo scooted back in his chair so he could sit close to you, the distance between desk and window calibrated for this exact arrangement. His laptop balanced precariously on his crossed knees as he slouched closer to your position, his face scrunched in concentration, squinting at the screen like the words might rearrange themselves into something more palatable if he just glared at them hard enough.

Originally a scout and ambush specialist, you were naturally drawn to high places with good sight lines, positions that let you watch people come and go while remaining relatively invisible yourself. You needed to see exits, entrances, potential threats. You’d never quite shaken that instinct, even though you rarely went on missions these days and your current job involved more talking than lurking. 

Gojo knew you liked perching there, understood your need for elevated vantage points where you could keep an eye on everything without feeling trapped or vulnerable. So when he’d renovated his office a few years back, he’d made this windowsill larger and deeper, specifically so you could sit more comfortably without worrying about falling or cramping up during longer visits. 

There were even cushions in your favorite colors, plus a cashmere blanket folded neatly in the corner for when the air conditioning got too aggressive. The whole setup looked ridiculous, like the kind of elaborate nest people constructed for their spoiled cats at windows, complete with all the amenities a discerning feline might require for optimal lounging and judgment of passersby. You loved every inch of it.

Settling into your nest, you started working on the tangerines. The orange skin came away in satisfying spirals first. Then you carefully picked away every single thin white thread – the pith that would make the fruit bitter and stringy. It was a tedious process that most people skipped, but you’d always been particular about these things. Each segment had to be perfect, clean, with no trace of the bitter white remnants that could ruin the entire experience. 

“You’re incredibly obsessive about fruit,” Gojo observed. 

Because I want only the best for you, you thought.

Out loud, you just said, “Shut up and keep reading. Or you won’t get any.”

When you had the first tangerine completely clean, you broke it into segments, turning each piece over to inspect for any missed threads. Satisfied with your work, you held one up to Gojo’s lips. He opened his mouth automatically, still focused on the screen, and you dropped the piece onto his tongue. He chewed thoughtfully, the sweet juice clearly hitting the spot because he made a small sound of appreciation, the stress lines around his eyes temporarily smoothing away.

“Good?” you asked.

“Mmm,” he hummed in response, which you took as approval and a request for more.

You continued the process – peel, clean, segment, feed. Whenever Gojo finished chewing, he’d open his mouth expectantly like a baby bird waiting for its next meal, and you’d dutifully deposit another piece of fruit. Sometimes, he’d catch your fingers briefly with his lips, a fleeting contact that sent tingles up your arm. Occasionally, juice would run down your wrist, and you’d have to pause to lick it away. Gojo would glance up during these moments, his eyes tracking the movement. Then he’d blink, shake his head slightly, and return to his reading with renewed determination, leaving you to wonder if you’d imagined the weight in his gaze.

Contrary to Mai’s firmly held convictions about your character (which painted you as some sort of semi-feral creature who’d been raised by particularly uncivilized wolves), you weren’t a complete barbarian who wiped sticky fingers on clothes or furniture. Once you were done with the tangerines, you cleaned your hands with wet wipes from the small pack you always kept in your pocket. Then you draped one arm over Gojo’s shoulder, and he leaned back in his chair, pressing even closer to you so that you could settle more comfortably on the windowsill while maintaining contact.

While Gojo waged war with the proposal, you plugged in your earbuds and started an audiobook, occasionally playing with his hair, tracing the shell of his ear, or running gentle fingers along the side of his neck.

As you sat there, your mind began to drift down paths you usually tried to avoid. This was nice. Too nice, perhaps. The thought crept in uninvited, the way uncomfortable truths always did when you were feeling most at peace.

This wouldn’t last. It couldn’t.

Gojo would have to get married eventually. Maybe soon, if the increasingly pointed comments from his family were any indication. The Gojo clan had been growing more insistent about the matter. Their whispers had grown to murmurs, then to outright demands. You’d spied on enough hushed conversations to know that the pressure was mounting with each passing month. 

Most clan folks married early, often in their twenties, cementing alliances and securing bloodlines while they were still in their prime. And here was Gojo at thirty-five, practically geriatric by those ruthless standards, without so much as an engagement to show for it. Hell, without even bothering to date anyone. His continued single status was becoming something of a scandal, an unprecedented offense to those who viewed his genetic potential as a resource to be managed. The strongest sorcerer alive, and he couldn’t even fulfill this basic duty to his bloodline? The indignity of it all was a constant source of mockery among the other clans.

The expectations were crystal clear, even if unspoken. He’d need to marry a woman from a prominent family, someone who could match his status and strengthen his political position. Someone who could consolidate power, produce strong offspring, and navigate the complex web of clan politics with the grace and cunning that the role demanded. Someone who understood the weight of the Gojo name and could carry it appropriately. 

All the things you decidedly were not. All the things you could never be.

And when that inevitable day came, you wouldn’t be able to be with him like this anymore. The whispers about your relationship already slithered through Headquarters, manifesting in sly glances, conversations that died the moment you entered a room, kept in check only by the potent antibiotic of Gojo’s displeasure. Everyone knew better than to let that gossip reach his ears.

A married Gojo would change everything. No more feeding him fruit while he worked, no more casual touches that lingered just this side of plausible deniability. No more having him all to yourself. There would be no justification for these quiet moments, this closeness that everyone politely pretended not to see.

It wouldn’t be fair to monopolize so much of his time and attention that should rightfully belong to his wife, his children, the family that would become his real priority, his actual responsibility, the people who would matter in ways you never could. 

You could already picture it: the gradual distance, the growing boundaries, the way these moments would become first rare, then nonexistent, replaced by family obligations and the demands of a life that had no room for whatever this undefined thing was between you. You’d become a footnote in the story of his life, a brief chapter that people would skip over to get to the important parts: the marriage, the children, the legacy.

You knew Gojo had never been close to his parents or anyone in his family, knew that he’d grown up surrounded by people who saw him as a weapon first, heir second, and person last, if anyone bothered to see the person at all. You genuinely, fiercely wanted him to have his own family, to experience the kind of unconditional love and belonging that had been denied to him in childhood. 

You wanted him to have what he deserved, which was everything good the world had to offer and then some extra for interest.

You wanted him to have someone who would choose him not for his power or his political value, not for the way his name looked on invitations or how his presence could shift the balance of a room, but for the man he was behind all those expectations and responsibilities. Someone who would see him first thing in the morning with messy hair and creased pajamas and think he was perfect exactly as he was. Someone who would love his terrible jokes and his sweet tooth and the way he hummed off-key in the shower, all the small human details that made him more than just a collection of impressive abilities and inherited obligations.

You wanted him to have children who would run to him with scraped knees and homework questions, who would see him as just ‘Dad’ rather than ‘The Strongest,’ the terrifying figure everyone either feared or wanted to use. Children who would argue with him about bedtime and steal his dessert and love him with the kind of uncomplicated devotion that didn’t come with terms and conditions attached.

You wanted him to experience the simple, profound joy of being loved for no reason other than that he existed, that he was theirs and they were his, the kind of love that asked for nothing but presence and gave everything in return, that didn’t require him to be the strongest or the smartest or the most useful, just himself, flawed and tired and perfectly imperfect.

And at the same time, the selfish, wounded part of you was terrified of what it would mean for you. Where would you fit in his life when it was properly ordered, when he had someone whose claim to his affection was legally and socially sanctioned? What place would there be for a person who existed in the ambiguous spaces between definitions?

Your melancholy thoughts stuttered to a halt when Gojo suddenly took your hand, lifting it from where it had been absently patting his chest with the mindless comfort of a cat kneading a favorite blanket. Not looking away from his screen, he pressed a soft kiss to your palm, a casual and unconscious gesture that detonated a fresh, bittersweet ache right in the center of your chest. The touch was somehow both comforting and heartbreaking.

You thought about his request that you stop calling him sensei and examined your own resistance to such a seemingly simple change. Maybe your reluctance ran deeper than simple habit, roots that had grown too deep to transplant without killing the entire plant. 

Maybe you just weren’t sure what would happen if he stopped being your sensei. The title was safe, defined, socially acceptable. A reason to be close to him that no one could question or challenge, like a diplomatic immunity that protected you from the whispers and speculation that followed your every interaction. Without it, what framework existed to explain your relationship? 

If Gojo wasn’t your sensei anymore, then what would you be to him? A friend, maybe. A trusted colleague. A crafty strategist he consulted whenever the need arose, yet no longer had any personal reason to seek out in the quiet hours of the evening.

Someone who cared too much about a man who would always belong to something bigger than himself.

Someone who would have to learn to love from a distance, to watch him build the life he deserved with someone else, from a quiet seat on a windowsill that would no longer feel like home but a viewing gallery for the memory of tangerine juice on fingers and the ghost of a kiss pressed to an open palm.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t been lying to Satoshi about having a knack for pissing off powerful people. In fact, that was the understatement of the century. The jujutsu world’s upper echelons were a seething nest of vipers, many of whom would love to see your head separated from your body and mounted on their walls. 

Thankfully, only a select few knew who to blame for their various misfortunes. At the very top of this illustrious shit-list – scrawled in angry red ink and decorated with little voodoo doll doodles – sat Gakuganji Yoshinobu: Council Elder, Head of the Education and Sorcerer Development Department, and your personal nemesis.

Gakuganji was a walking, talking monument to everything wrong with jujutsu society’s old guard, a relic wrapped up in traditional robes and topped with an expression of perpetual disapproval that seemed to have been permanently chiseled onto his face at birth. At the ripe old age of eighty-two, the fact that this fossil wasn’t fertilizing daisies and was still kicking – more specifically, still kicking in your direction at every possible opportunity – was nothing short of miraculous. Or cursed. Definitely cursed.

Making Gakuganji a Department Head after the High Council’s restructuring had not been a pleasant decision. It had been a gut-wrenching sacrifice that made you want to projectile vomit all over the official appointment papers. Your entire crew had fought you on it tooth and nail. Gojo had threatened to resign on principle, and Shoko had just looked at you over her cigarette with an expression that said, ‘You can’t possibly be this masochistic.’ Hell, even you had wanted to punch yourself in the face for suggesting it, but it had been strategically necessary.

You and the geezer had been locked in a state of mortal combat since you were eighteen. What began as a petty squabble over school events and his precious zen garden (seriously, who gets that incensed over plants?) had since metastasized into a blood feud worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy. The political intrigue and personal vendetta ran so deep you could have powered Tokyo’s electrical grid with the sheer force of your mutual loathing.

Some days, you fantasized about strapping Gakuganji to a rocket and launching him into the vast emptiness of space, where he could be smug and self-righteous to his heart’s content without inflicting his misery on the rest of humanity. You’d even done the math once during a boring budget meeting. The cost-benefit analysis had been tempting. Unfortunately, rocket fuel wasn’t in the Council’s annual budget. Yet.

As much as Gakuganji made you want to commit elder abuse, he was an essential piece on your chessboard. A bishop, maybe – diagonal movement, stuck in his ways. Or perhaps he was more like a rook – rigid, predictable, and terrible at handling any situation that required nuance but effective when aimed in a straight line. While the metaphor needed work, the point remained.

Staging that coup had felt a lot like speedrunning a video game – difficult but straightforward, with clear objectives and a linear path to victory. You had your boss battles (literal and metaphorical), your power-ups (again, both literal and metaphorical), and your final showdown. The real challenge came after the credits rolled, in the mundane day-to-day grind of keeping the broken machine running while trying to replace its corroded parts without causing the whole thing to explode in your face. 

You’d seized the throne. Now what? 

As a certain wise old man had once relentlessly drilled into your head: You couldn’t fix a corrupt system by just lopping off its head and sticking a new one on top. That wasn’t reform; it was just rebranding the same old bullshit with a shinier logo. Revolution was easy. Evolution was the tricky part.

It was the difference between winning the war and governing a country, between pulling off a dazzling heist and managing a bank’s tedious ledgers, between the biological act of making a baby and the slog of raising a functional adult who didn’t vote for morons. One required grand gestures and explosive moments; the other demanded endless patience, a thousand bitter compromises, and the ability to smile sweetly through gritted teeth while plotting fifteen moves ahead.

Keeping Gakuganji around had been one such necessary evil. The geezer was basically jujutsu society royalty, one of the most senior Council Elders, with a lineage so ancient it probably included actual dragons. By not only keeping him in power but actively promoting him, you were sending a clear message to the traditionalist faction: the new regime understood ‘respect’ – provided they played nice and stayed in their designated lane. Fall in line or fall behind.

Because Gakuganji had backed Gojo’s ascension, however unwillingly and under extreme duress, he had to be publicly rewarded for his ‘loyalty.’ Politics was ninety-nine percent theater, after all, and this play needed its crotchety, conservative straight man to balance out Gojo’s… well, everything.

The other prominent families, watching this pillar of tradition bend the knee (metaphorically, you were pretty sure his actual knees had fossilized sometime during the Taisho era), had either learned from his humbling example or at the very least, learned to keep their heads down. For now, anyway. You weren’t naive enough to believe it would last forever. 

The added benefit of giving Gakuganji this shiny new title was that it had effectively alienated him from his old cronies. His fellow fossils now saw him as a traitor to their decrepit cause, a turncoat who had sold out for a seat at the new kids’ table. Cast out by his former allies and trapped by his public endorsement of Gojo, he had no choice but to continue cooperating. He was isolated, neutered, and perfectly positioned as your watchdog over the very system he once ruled.

Divide and conquer. Checks and balances. Politics 101.

Of course, being a cunning old coot who’d been at this game since your parents were still in diapers, Gakuganji understood all the machinations. Your fingerprints were all over the gilded cage he now occupied. Naturally, this only made him despise you more.

In Gakuganji’s mind, you were basically Lucifer in business casual: the bane of his existence, the corruption of all things holy, the disruption of his precious order, pure evil incarnated. You were an affront to centuries of established tradition, and he saw it as his sacred duty to expunge you from the earth. To be fair, his assessment wasn’t entirely wrong, but still annoying as hell when his righteous indignation manifested as regular attempts on your life.

Over the years, Gakuganji had tried to get rid of you through an impressive array of creative methods. There had been the classic assassination attempts involving humorless men in dark suits lurking in darker alleyways, the elaborately orchestrated ‘accidents’ (that near-miss with the crystal chandelier during the New Year’s gala had been your favorite), and his true magnum opus: the masterful manipulation of others into targeting you. 

That last one had been the reason behind those wild months of mutual homicide attempts between you and Higuruma. In a delicious twist of fate that probably gave the old man a stress-induced ulcer, his plot had backfired spectacularly. Not only did you survive, but you’d gained a fiercely loyal friend/pseudo big brother out of the whole ordeal. So, no complaints there.

Thank whatever deity watched over chaos gremlins such as yourself that Gakuganji’s success rate was abysmal. Despite being a decidedly average sorcerer with decidedly average jujutsu abilities, you’d proven surprisingly difficult to murder. You’d overheard him once compare you to wild weeds – disorderly, audacious, destructive, and impossible to eliminate. Coming from a man whose entire life revolved around meticulously pruned bonsai trees, it felt like the highest form of praise.

And yet, the repeated failures never deterred him. His annual attempts to ruin your life had become such a reliable tradition that you’d feel somewhat neglected if a year passed without at least one attempt to fuck with you. Like clockwork, this year’s offense came right on schedule, the moment Gakuganji arrived in Tokyo for Council business.

Council Elders were conveniently exempt from mandatory psychological evaluations – a perk of their lofty status. The official justification was that they never saw fieldwork. The real reason, of course, was that they were typically the ones inflicting trauma, not receiving it, and nobody particularly wanted to document that in triplicate.

This exemption was a mercy to the world at large. The thought of you and the average Elder alone in an enclosed space was the kind of scenario that would end in collateral damage, lengthy insurance claims, and possibly a small crater where the building used to be. The jujutsu world, already held together by bureaucratic duct tape and willful ignorance, might not survive the fallout.

However, the chain of command dictated that if an Elder wanted to ‘talk’ to you, they could drag you from whatever you were doing at will. You had to comply, smile pleasantly, and pretend this was all perfectly reasonable. It was a loophole in the system that Gakuganji enthusiastically and repeatedly exploited.

So it came as no surprise when, the moment his crusty ass touched Headquarters ground, you were summoned. He’d chosen one of those absurdly large conference rooms, a cavernous space of dark wood and echoing silence designed specifically to make people feel small and insignificant. Intimidation by interior design was a classic Gakuganji move.

After a customary sweep of the doorframe for any last-minute surprises, you pushed open the heavy mahogany doors. The hinges creaked with the sort of ominous authority that suggested they’d been oiled with the tears of junior sorcerers. And there he was, already installed at the far end of the sprawling table like a gargoyle perched atop his favorite cathedral.

“Good afternoon, Elder Gakuganji,” you chirped sweetly. “How’s life been treating you?”

The wrinkles around Gakuganji’s eyes deepened as he dissected the cheerful greeting for its hidden malice. “Well,” came his eventual response.

Not bothering to wait for an invitation that would never come, you eased yourself into a leather chair. You made sure to leave three empty seats between you – close enough to antagonize, far enough to give you a precious half-second of reaction time should he finally snap and decide to demonstrate why strangling was considered a traditional art form among his generation. Survival was a game of inches and forethought.

Gakuganji’s face soured. Your casual posture, the deliberate lack of a deferential bow – it was a calculated performance of disrespect, and it was clearly giving him acid reflux.

“So, what can I do for you today?” you asked, maintaining your professional therapist voice. “This must be urgent, summoning me here right away instead of going through the proper scheduling channels.”

Gakuganji let out a disdainful huff. “Some matters are too important to be delegated to your digital calendars and automated reminders.” 

With a grunt of effort, he heaved a massive binder onto the desk. It landed with a solid WHUMP, the force of its impact making you flinch. The thing was a behemoth of black leather and metal rings, thick enough to stop a bullet, and looked like one of those crazy weights Yuji and Maki used to hurl around the gym while showing off their superhuman strength to anyone unfortunate enough to be watching.

“Here,” he hissed. “The papers you requested.”

“You brought hard copies?” you asked incredulously. “All the way from Kyoto? You could have just emailed me the files or used a flash drive.”

Gakuganji’s face contorted into an expression of such profound contempt that it probably took years of practice to perfect. 

“These are not trivialities to be zapped through the ether,” he sneered. “As far as the world is concerned, these documents do not exist.”

“Right,” you muttered under your breath, “because hauling around the equivalent of a small library is definitely more secure than a tiny encrypted drive that I could swallow if I had to.” 

The comment earned you another withering look. You’d already grabbed the binder before he could change his mind and take his non-existent documents elsewhere. The moment your hands made contact with the thing, you realized you’d underestimated its weight by several orders of magnitude. You had to brace your core just to drag it across the desk. God, the whole contraption felt like it weighed roughly half as much as you did. What the hell was this thing bound with? Lead? The fossilized bones of his ancestors?

You managed to wrangle the colossal binder open with only minimal grunting. You refused to give Gakuganji the satisfaction of watching you strain like some helpless office worker confronted with outdated technology. As you began scanning through the contents, you could feel his gaze on you, watching like a hawk for any sign of... whatever he was hoping to see. After a moment of this creepy surveillance, he let out a theatrical sigh.

“You made Gojo a king,” he mused, gesturing at your general existence. “And for what? Is this truly what you want to do for the rest of your life? All this thankless work in the dark? No one will ever know the sacrifices you’ve made.”

“That’s rather the point,” you snickered, glancing up to flash him your best shit-eating grin. “Since when did you start caring about my happiness? Feeling paternal all of a sudden? Planning to adopt me next?”

The condescending smile that slashed across his wrinkled face belonged to predators in nature documentaries, the moment just before they pounced on something small and furry. 

“Oh no,” he purred. “I merely pity you. No matter how many kingdoms you build for him, how many impossible problems you solve, a king needs his queen. Not… a shadow. You will never truly stand beside him in the light. There will never be a real place for you in his life.”

Okay, the old bastard hadn’t lost his touch with age. If anything, he just got more vicious. That was a direct hit, a poisoned needle sliding straight between your ribs, lodging into that one soft spot.

Your fingers froze over the page. “What are you getting at, Gakuganji?” you asked, your eyes went cold as you abandoned all pretense of polite discourse.

“Gojo is to be married,” Gakuganji announced. “By the end of this year.”

For a split second, you felt the world tilt, your lungs seizing in your chest. It was the sensation of stepping off a curb that was higher than expected, that moment of free fall before your foot found solid ground again. On the outside, not a single muscle on your face moved. Your expression remained as unchanged as Gakuganji’s outdated views on proper etiquette.

Slowly, you straightened in your chair, tilting your head in a flawless imitation of detached curiosity. “And I assume we have a shortlist? Do share with the class.”

Gakuganji studied your face, visibly disappointed by the glaring lack of tears or hysterics. “The Zen’in and Kamo clans both presented their most eligible daughters, of course,” he began, testing the waters. “As did several other prominent families of suitable lineage and impeccable breeding.”

“Skip the suspense, grandpa. You wouldn’t be telling me this if a decision hadn’t already been made. Spill it.”

His smile widened, revealing teeth that had seen better decades. “The daughter of the main Inumaki line.”

“Ah,” you nodded as if he’d just confirmed the weather forecast. “Kazuko, then. An interesting choice. I hadn’t considered her in the running.”

“You are acquainted with her?” Gakuganji asked, genuinely surprised this time.

You waved a hand in his direction, turning a page in the binder for effect. “I know everyone worth knowing in this business. It’s part of my charm.”

“And you are truly unbothered by this news?”

“Should I be?”

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches as you locked eyes across the polished expanse of mahogany. Your fingers itched to touch your bracelet, but you kept them still. Any sign of nervousness would be blood in the water, and Gakuganji was the species of shark that could smell weakness from three districts away.

Gakuganji’s weathered face creased into deeper lines as he studied you, hoping to catch some microscopic twitch that would betray your true feelings.

“So it was never about Gojo at all, was it?” he asked slowly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you scoffed. “Please don’t tell me you’ve spent six years thinking I raided an entire ancient political system just because I wanted to get into a man’s pants. That’s just sad, even for you.”

The leather of his chair creaked as Gakuganji leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach in that particular way that always preceded his most condescending sermons – fingers steepled, thumbs pressed together, the very picture of a man who believed himself to be the greatest person in any room he entered. 

“What you’ve been doing all these years… Perhaps the Head Council position is what you’re really after? And Gojo…” His lips curled around the name like it tasted bad. “He’s merely a convenient placeholder. A battering ram to clear out your enemies until you have consolidated sufficient power and are old enough to take the throne for yourself.”

The words slithered across the space between you like venomous snakes seeking warm flesh to sink their fangs into. You could practically hear the subtle click as the trap was set, could see the cold satisfaction glinting in his eyes as he prepared to spring it.

“That’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it?” Gakuganji spat. “For all your grand speeches about progress and reform, you’re cut from the same blighted cloth as the rest of us. All these supposed changes, and that boy is still nothing but a weapon. The only thing that’s changed is the hand on the leash. Now, instead of serving the Council, both he and the Council serve you.”

Something snapped inside you. The rage that bubbled up was familiar. Years of education, meditation, therapy training, and general adulting hadn’t actually made you any more serene. They’d just taught you better ways to hide the fact that deep down, beneath the tailored blazer and the therapist’s practiced smile, you were still very much that feral creature who would love nothing more than to lunge forward and claw Gakuganji’s eyes out of his skull.

You channeled that murderous energy into a single motion. Your hand slammed down on the binder, snapping it shut with the deafening crack of a gunshot. The force sent a plume of aged paper dust billowing into the air, drifting directly into his face. He flinched, his eyes squeezing shut instinctively before he caught himself and tried to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Let me make something crystal fucking clear,” you said as you rose from your chair. “This isn’t about me, or sensei, or your sad little power fantasies. This is about making sure kids aren’t treated like disposable ammunition for your archaic wars. It’s about building a world where ‘sorcerer’ isn’t a synonym for ‘early grave’ and ‘acceptable collateral damage.’ A system that will keep working long after you and I are both rotting in the ground.”

Not giving Gakuganji so much as a breath to formulate a retort, you planted your hands on the desk, leaning forward until you loomed over him with your full height. The angle let you look down your nose at him in the precise way you knew made his blood boil.

“I have zero interest in that moldy throne you all seem to be drooling over. But if you’re so determined to cling to your narrative, allow me to correct your shoddy analysis: Gojo Satoru has never been a weapon to me. I thought you, of all people, would have figured this out by now – I am the weapon. He is my shield, and I am his sword. We chose those roles ourselves. We’re in this together. Though I understand that concept might be a bit advanced for your generation.”

“This will not end well for you, you naive child,” Gakuganji snarled. A vein pulsed angrily in his temple.

You merely chuckled. “Funny, that’s what you said six years ago. Yet here I am, still ruining your day. Now, thank you for the delivery service. But I have actual work to do. So unless you plan on coming up with some fresh material, don’t waste my time with your dusty theatrics again.”

Hoisting up the heavy binding, you headed for the doors. “By the way,” you added with a casual glance back over your shoulder. “You’re not as indispensable as you like to imagine, grandpa. Might want to write that down somewhere and act accordingly.”

With that parting shot, you strolled out of the room as Gakuganji sputtered in impotent outrage behind you.

You threw the doors shut only to collide with a familiar broad chest. Your heart performed a series of frantic backflips as you looked up into Gojo’s unreadable expression. Those damn sunglasses were doing their usual job of hiding whatever thoughts might be lurking behind them, leaving you to navigate by the subtle geography of his face: the set of his jaw, the imperceptible tilt of his head, the way his mouth wasn’t quite smiling but wasn’t quite not smiling either.

The standard wards on the conference room, designed to block cursed techniques, had masked his presence from your senses. You’d been so focused on Gakuganji’s theatrical performance that you hadn’t even thought to check for eavesdroppers.

So that had been Gakuganji’s true play all along.

The old bastard had gotten bored with simple murder attempts and decided to try his hand at relationship drama. Rather than going for your head this time, he’d aimed for your heart. That marriage bomb had been bait dangled to provoke you, meant to make you say something hurtful, something unforgivable, something that would drive a wedge between you and the one person who made this whole insane enterprise worthwhile – all while said person was conveniently positioned to overhear every word.

Not bad, for an old fossil. You had to give Gakuganji a solid 7/10 for creative sabotage, points deducted only for the theatrical overreach and his continued failure to account for the fact that you and Gojo had been through worse storms.

Gojo offered no comment on the verbal sparring match he’d just overheard, no indication of whether he’d caught the whole performance or just the grand finale. The corner of his lips quirked into a soft smile that instantly began to dissolve the sharp shard of ice Gakuganji’s words had lodged in your heart.

“Let me get that for you,” he murmured, plucking the giant binder from your arms. 

The thing that had nearly given you a hernia looked like a paperback novel in his hands as he balanced it effortlessly in the crook of one arm. His other hand found yours, fingers lacing through your own. With a gentle tug, he started leading you down the hallway, unbothered by the curious glances and hastily averted eyes of passing staff members.

The walk to your office passed in comfortable quiet. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he dropped the binder onto your couch, where it sank into the cushions with a weary sigh. 

He turned to face you, raking a hand through his silver hair. “I was going to tell you,” he said, his voice unusually subdued.

You hopped up to perch on the edge of your desk. You’d always liked high places. Plus, it provided a slight height advantage when conversing with terminally tall men who refused to slouch.

“Kazuko’s a good match,” you offered, swinging your legs to burn off some of the leftover restlessness.

The statement was objectively true, which somehow made it both easier and harder to say. Inumaki Kazuko was perfect: a first-grade sorcerer in her late 20s – beautiful, accomplished, and most importantly, politically valuable. 

Unlike her younger brother Toge, whose inherited technique made normal conversation impossible, her version manifested as something the family diplomatically called ‘Siren’ – a variant of Cursed Speech that only activated through singing.

This meant she could communicate normally, hold conversations at dinner parties, and generally function in society without accidentally cursing people into the next dimension. It was a rare trait among the Inumaki bloodline. As Gojo’s wife, she’d be able to handle all the tedious clan politics, hold her ground against the various vipers that populated high society, and look absolutely stunning in formal photos.

The only reason you hadn’t considered her as a potential candidate was because the Inumaki clan had historically stayed out of politics. They were old money, old power, probably older than dirt itself, but they’d always floated above the succession crises and power struggles that periodically convulsed the jujutsu world.

Their sudden willingness to throw Kazuko into the ring meant they were finally picking a team in this ongoing political reshuffling. A long-term alliance with the Inumakis would boost Gojo’s position both in prestige and raw power. It might even help patch things up between Toge and his family, which would be nice, considering how much the guy missed them, even if he’d never admit it. 

The whole arrangement was so perfectly advantageous it had likely given the Gojo clan elders collective orgasms when they stamped their approval on it.

Gojo, however, didn’t seem to share their enthusiasm. “It’s my parents’ idea,” he said flatly. “I don’t want a political marriage.”

“Then it won’t happen,” you replied without a sliver of hesitation.

He blinked, thrown by your easy agreement. “Seriously? You’re not going to give me the whole lecture about duty and sacrifice? No PowerPoint presentation on the long-term strategic benefits?”

You grinned. “We established this from day one, didn’t we? No doing shit you don’t want to do.”

Well, except for his mountain of paperwork and mandatory vacation days, but that was different.

Gojo moved to stand in front of you, stepping into the space between your knees. Even with your elevated perch, he still managed to loom. “So what’s the plan?” he asked, taking your hand in his. “Are you gonna terrorize my parents into submission?”

“I’ll think of something,” you promised. 

Over the years, you’d nudged the Gojo clan into plenty of decisions they thought were brilliant ideas they’d come up with all by themselves. How hard could it be to delay one marriage? Only until Gojo found someone he actually wanted to wake up next to every morning for the rest of his life.

“Just kidding,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle this myself. I’m a big boy, you know.” His gaze dropped to your hand, thumb brushing over your ring finger, tracing an invisible line almost wistfully before his trademark grin snapped back into place. “Though I have to admit, watching you putting Gakuganji in his place never gets old.”

“God, I’m so tired of his bullshit. He just won’t quit!”

“Hey, you’re the one who insisted on keeping him around. We all tried to talk you out of it, remember? I’m pretty sure Nanami offered to make it look like an unfortunate, entirely accidental tragedy at least three separate times.”

You groaned dramatically and slumped forward, letting your forehead thunk against his chest in defeat. His arms came up around you automatically. The gesture was both comforting and made it hard to maintain your righteous indignation about spiteful old men who refused to die of natural causes.

“Wait a minute,” you muttered into his shirt, taking a deep inhale. “You smell like me. Are you wearing my fragrance again?”

It was definitely yours, except somehow it smelled better on him. Mixed with his natural scent, the notes became richer, warmer, as though they had been custom-blended for his skin chemistry. Such a Gojo thing to do – steal your stuff and then make it work better than it did on you in the first place.

“I like how it smells,” he said, not even pretending to be sorry about his blatant theft.

“Buy your own bottle. I’m almost out because someone keeps using it without asking.”

“I’ll buy you a new one if you share. It smells better when it’s yours anyway.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Does it have to?”

After a few more minutes of bickering about fragrance theft and his general audacity, Gojo shifted topics. “My family’s hosting a thing next week,” he said, his fingers idly twisting a lock of your hair. “Come with me?”

You snorted. “Have you forgotten what happened at the last clan gathering I attended? I’m pretty sure some of your aunts still require sedation at the mention of my name after that ikebana incident.”

“To be fair,” Gojo shrugged. “That ikebana was hideous. You did everyone a favor by accidentally destroying it. Besides, this is just an informal get-together. Nothing serious. No ikebana in sight, I promise.”

“And what, precisely, happens at these ‘informal gatherings’ of yours?”

“Oh, you know. Talk to boring people. Drink overpriced champagne. Dance a little.”

“So, three things I’m terrible at,” you said, ticking off fingers. “None of those stuffy people want to talk to me. I literally can’t drink. And I don’t even know how to dance.”

“I’ll do all the talking,” Gojo countered smoothly as though he’d already thought this through. “You can just stand there and look murderous. We’ll skip the drinks and hoard all the fancy desserts for ourselves. And as for the dancing… I can teach you.”

Before you could come up with more excuses, he stepped back just enough to pull out his phone. “Actually, why wait?” His fingers flew across the screen. “Let’s have our first lesson right now.”

“What? Here? In my office?”

“Why not?”

His face lit up as he found whatever track he was looking for. The opening notes of a waltz drifted through the air – something soft and sweet. The kind of music that made you think of those swooning period movies where women wore restrictive dresses and stared meaningfully out rain-streaked windows while contemplating the symbolic nature of candlelight.

“Come on,” Gojo coaxed, extending his hand with an exaggerated, princely flourish. “It’ll be fun.”

When he looked at you like that, eyes bright with mischief and that boyish charm that had gotten him out of trouble since he was five, resistance was futile. You still had an hour before your next appointment anyway. What was the worst that could happen? Slipping off the desk, you took his offered hand.

“Okay,” he started. “First, posture. Stand up straight. No, straighter than that.”

You straightened your spine until you felt like a soldier at attention, earning a low chuckle from him.

“Not that straight. Just… confident. Like this.” He demonstrated with the kind of natural grace that was frankly insulting to the rest of humanity. “Right hand goes here—” He placed your hand on his shoulder, then took your left hand in his right. “And I put my hand… here.” His left hand settled on your waist with a touch so light you barely felt it.

“The basic step is really simple,” he continued. “It’s just a box. Forward, side, together. Back, side, together. Think of it like you’re drawing a square with your feet.”

“A square. With my feet. While moving backward. And not falling on my ass.”

“Trust me, it’s easier than it sounds. We’ll start slow. Ready? And one, two, three…”

The first step went surprisingly well. You managed to step back without falling over. The second step involved moving sideways, and you only wobbled a little. You were starting to think maybe this wouldn’t be a complete disaster, that you might actually have some hidden reservoir of grace you’d never discovered, that—

WHAM.

A sharp pain shot through your side as your hip bone made violent acquaintance with the hard corner of your desk.

“Ow,” you yelped.

“You okay?” Gojo asked, instantly steadying you as you stumbled, his other hand hovering uncertainly over the impact zone.

“Yeah, just…” You rubbed the sore spot and looked around your office with new eyes. “Maybe we need a bit more space?”

What had seemed like a perfectly adequate workspace five minutes ago was revealed to be a booby-trapped obstacle course. Every piece of furniture seemed strategically positioned to cause maximum bodily harm. Alright, Mai definitely had a point. You needed to declutter.

“Here,” Gojo suggested, gently steering you toward the small area near the window that was marginally less cluttered with potential hazards. 

You repositioned yourselves in the slightly larger space, ignoring the filing cabinet lurking ominously in your peripheral vision. Gojo walked you through the steps again. You made it through a full turn, and even a second, before you misjudged the distance and brought your heel down squarely on his foot.

“Shit! I’m sorry—” You tried to lift your foot quickly to minimize the damage, only to stumble and step on his other foot.

“It’s fine,” he laughed, keeping you upright. “They’re just feet.”

“This is a total disaster,” you muttered. “Maybe we should just accept that I’m rhythmically challenged.”

“No way,” Gojo disagreed. “Your coordination is fine. You move perfectly when you’re fighting. Complex footwork, timing, balance – you’ve got all of that down.”

“That’s completely different. When I’m fighting, I’m not trying to match someone else’s rhythm.”

“But you do it with Higuruma, twice a week,” Gojo pointed out. “Seems like you sync up with him just fine.”

You frowned. “Are you seriously comparing dancing to combat training right now?”

“I’m just saying you trust Higuruma enough to follow his lead. Can you try trusting me for five more minutes? Please?”

That plea made you pause. When you looked up, his expression had changed. The easy grin was still there, and yet it seemed different now. Suddenly, this felt like it was about a lot more than just learning to waltz in your cluttered office.

“Okay,” you nodded grimly, squaring your shoulders, and got back into position. 

If this mattered to Gojo – and for reasons you couldn’t quite decipher, it clearly did – then it mattered to you, too. Even if it meant sacrificing his feet, your dignity, and several pieces of office furniture in the process.

You tried again, jaw set with determination. This time, you were going to nail it.

Back, side, together. Forward, side, together. Holy shit, you were actually doing it! You were dancing! You were graceful! You were floating across the—

CRASH.

Your elbow caught the lamp on your side table, sending it teetering on the brink of annihilation. Gojo released your hand to lunge and snatch it mid-air, a breath away from shattering on the floor. The lurch, however, threw off both your balance and the pitiful scraps of rhythm you’d managed to find.

“Sensei, stop!” you groaned. “This is just not working.” 

A hot flush crept up your neck. You moved to pull away, ready to wave the white flag and suggest relocating this torture session to the training rooms. At least there, you could tackle him to the ground as you did with Higuruma and call it even.

Gojo didn’t let you escape. His arms came around you, drawing you firmly against his chest. “We can make it work,” he whispered. “We can make anything work. Just… stay with me.”

The failed waltz stance dissolved into an embrace. The shift in position brought your ear right against his chest, close enough to hear the steady thump of his heartbeat under the melody. His chest rose and fell steadily under your cheek. Your arms found their way around his waist without any conscious decision on your part. 

“There,” he murmured, his chin coming to rest on the crown of your head. “Much better.”

And it really was. 

Instead of fumbling through proper steps, you simply swayed together. The music gently wrapped around you, creating a little bubble where the outside world couldn’t intrude. No politics, no clan drama, no marriage arrangements or Council schemes or any of the thousand other things that usually occupied the real estate of your mind. 

Your eyes drifted shut as you let yourself melt into him. The act felt dangerous for all sorts of reasons you couldn’t quite remember right now and honestly didn’t want to think about.

One of his hands spread warm and solid across your lower back. The other hand wandered up to settle between your shoulder blades, his fingers drawing abstract patterns that might have been secrets written across your skin or might have been nothing at all. Either way, it was making your brain go all fuzzy and delightfully useless.

The gentle back-and-forth motion was barely movement at all – more like being rocked by invisible waves, breathing together, finding the same rhythm. The hand on your back pressed you incrementally closer, until there wasn’t even a whisper of space between you.

“See?” he murmured into your hair. “Not so difficult after all.”

You made a noncommittal humming noise that could have meant anything from ‘you’re right’ to ‘shut up and keep holding me like this forever.’ Honestly, forming actual words felt like entirely too much effort when his fingers were doing that drowsy, hypnotic thing at the nape of your neck. 

The waltz flowed into something even softer as the piano notes fell like gentle rain, each one carrying the weight of love and loss and everything in between. His thumb brushed against the spot just behind your ear, and you had to bite down on the inside of your cheek to swallow a sound that would have been too much of a confession.

This wasn’t dancing in any technical sense of the word. But it was definitely better. No complicated steps to memorize, no audience to impress, no chance of demolishing another piece of office decor. No one was leading and no one was following; you were simply moving as one. Just you and him and the music and the gradual realization that you never wanted this moment to end.

Gakuganji had been right about one thing: you would always be the shadow, the architect who worked in the dark so your King could stand in the light. That was the role you’d chosen, the sacrifice you’d made peace with. 

The thing was, sometimes, despite all your precautions, the light found you anyway.

The music had stopped at some point, fading so quietly into silence that you hadn’t even noticed when. Neither of you moved to break apart. The world rushed back in, but it was muted, held at bay by the circle of his arms. In that silent space, you clung to him just a little tighter, and he answered with a mirrored pressure, holding you right back.

Oh, you were so, so very screwed.

Chapter Text

If there was a single person on this earth who could be considered your bestest friend – yes, you were fully aware that “bestest” wasn’t a real word, but fuck proper grammar when it came to matters of the heart – it was Itadori Yuji. 

If there was also a single person on this earth who had come closest to successfully murdering you by a staggering statistical margin, it was also Itadori Yuji.

The man had a special talent. Professional assassins had tried and failed. Ancient sorcerers had plotted your demise and been foiled at every turn. Council Elder Gakuganji had dedicated what you conservatively estimated to be sixty percent of his geriatric rage to seeing you six feet under, mobilizing resources that could have funded a small war, all to no avail. 

Yet somehow, Yuji had nearly punched your ticket to the afterlife multiple times without even trying.

This wasn’t a reflection of any malicious intent on his part, of course. Yuji was and always had been humanity’s golden retriever in a six-foot package of muscle and sunshine. His heart was pure, his intentions golden, and his capacity for accidentally creating life-threatening situations bordered on the supernatural.

Over the years, you’d developed a working theory that he had some sort of secret cursed technique involving a passive field of destruction that warped the laws of probability around him. Under his influence, mundane activities turned into extreme sports and extreme sports into near-death experiences.

If your enemies had any real strategic sense, they’d stop sending overpriced assassins and just hire Yuji to bake you a cake or invite you out for a casual afternoon of... well, literally anything. Your odds of survival would plummet exponentially, and they’d save a fortune on hitman fees.

The morning of the long-dreaded, twice-rescheduled, and contractually obligated monthly hangout with your friends, you were jolted from a perfectly good sleep. Not by the civilized beeping of an alarm clock like a reasonable human being, but by the guttural rumble of an engine that vibrated through your floorboards, rattled your teeth, and made your neighbors’ baby three apartments over start crying. 

You didn’t need to look. You knew that sound. It was the mating call of the Itadori Yuji in his natural habitat, and it meant your peaceful morning was about to become significantly less peaceful.

Still, masochist that you were, you dragged yourself to the window to confirm your deepest fears. There he was, astride that chrome-plated instrument of torture (otherwise known as a Kawasaki Ninja H2 SX SE). 

At twenty-two, Yuji was now an instructor at Tokyo Jujutsu High, widely regarded as the kindest, most inspiring, and most beloved teacher the school had seen in decades.  He’d grown into his frame, shedding the last vestiges of teenage awkwardness for the sculpted build of a man who frequently punched his way through concrete walls. 

Dressed in scuffed combat boots, black jeans that seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the sheer volume of his thighs, and a leather jacket that strained heroically across his broad back, he looked like the protagonist of a very different, much spicier kind of story. He pulled off his helmet, shaking loose his perpetually messy pink hair, and shot a grin up at your window.

Objectively, he was hot. Subjectively, he was a menace to your personal safety. The sight of him – so bright and handsome and oblivious of the trail of destruction he left in his wake – made your stomach clench with a fresh wave of PTSD. All you could think was: That beautiful bastard is going to kill me someday.

The first time he’d almost killed you was a freebie. You couldn’t hold it against him, not when it technically wasn’t even him doing the almost killing. That near-death experience occurred about six years ago during the Shibuya Incident, back when you were still young enough to think you were invincible and stupid enough to believe that your cunning made you untouchable. 

Yuji hadn’t been in the driver’s seat for that one, what with Sukuna hijacking his body for a homicidal joyride through the city, but you’d still been there. You still remembered the feeling of being an insignificant insect in the path of a walking apocalypse, saved only by the barest thread of luck and a little bit of strategic backstabbing. That one had been a close call. A city-leveling, mass-casualty event kind of close call.

The second time, however, was entirely his fault. It had been an act of such thoughtless, well-intentioned violence that it was a perfect encapsulation of his entire being. He’d shown up at your office after a mission, bubbling with excitement over some new street food stall he’d discovered, brandishing a skewer of something fried, battered, and vaguely seafood-esque.

“You have to try this!” he’d insisted, shoving the questionable meat-on-a-stick directly under your nose. “It’s life-changing!”

He hadn’t been wrong about the life-changing part. It had almost changed your life from a state of “being” to “not being.” You’d taken one bite, declared it delicious, and promptly gone into anaphylactic shock. Turns out, you possessed a hyper-specific allergy to a type of Okinawan sea snail that was otherwise perfectly edible for everyone else. You hadn’t even known it even existed, let alone that it was a key ingredient in Yuji’s new favorite snack. You’d spent the next five minutes clawing at your neck on the imported rug while a panic-stricken Yuji tried to administer the Heimlich maneuver for a problem that was decidedly not Heimlich-related. 

The only reason you were still alive to tell the tale was that Shoko had chosen that exact moment to stroll into your office looking for printer paper. She’d taken one look at your purple face, Yuji’s tears, and the offending skewer, rolled her eyes like this was just another Tuesday, and calmly jabbed an EpiPen into your thigh. 

“Update your fucking medical files,” she’d said, lighting a cigarette over your gasping, gradually-less-purple body. “Also, Itadori, stop crying. Your senpai is fine.”

Close call number two. Strike two. Whatever you wanted to call it.

The third time… the third time was the motorcycle.

About a year ago, Yuji had gotten really into the underground street racing scene, because apparently being a jujutsu sorcerer who regularly fought nightmare creatures wasn’t providing his daily recommended dose of adrenaline anymore. It wasn’t a fair competition – normal humans couldn’t match his reflexes or his ability to reinforce his body with cursed energy – but Yuji didn’t care about winning. He never did. He just loved the speed, the thrill, the feeling of pushing a machine to its absolute limit. 

Of course, you’d been vehemently, vocally, violently opposed to the whole thing. You hated motorcycles. They were loud, obnoxious, environmentally irresponsible, and offered precisely zero protection from the unforgiving asphalt. In your professional opinion, motorcycles were just elaborate suicide machines with better marketing.

Then, he’d shown up at your door that one night, fizzing with a pre-race high, his eyes bright with reckless joy. And your stupid, overprotective instincts kicked in. You couldn’t stop him, but maybe you could mitigate the disaster.

The logic had seemed simple at the time: if you were sitting on the back of his bike, screaming bloody murder directly into his eardrum, he might be inclined to be slightly more careful. You’d be like a human seatbelt. A very loud conscience strapped to his back. Surely, with his easily-squishable senpai on the line, he wouldn’t push the limits quite so aggressively. He would, at the very least, make some token effort not to kill you in the process.

That assumption had been your first mistake. Your second mistake had been getting on the fucking bike.

The moment the race started, Yuji had become a different person – a focused, adrenaline-fueled demon of speed. Your blood-curdling screams of terror were lost to the wind and the thunderous roar of the engine. You had fundamentally misunderstood Yuji’s capacity to develop hyper-focus. When he leaned into the first corner, you realized you were not a deterrent. You were simply baggage.

The crash, when it inevitably came, had been cinematic in its terror. There had been that corner he took just a hair too fast, another rider clipped his rear wheel, and suddenly, you were no longer bound by the tedious laws of gravity that had governed your entire life up to that point. 

You were launched. Catapulted. Yeeted into the great unknown.

The world dissolved into a nauseating blur of asphalt, the acrid smell of burning rubber, seizure-inducing flashes of neon and streetlights, and a primal scream you belatedly realized was your own. One moment you were clinging to Yuji for dear life. The next, you were tumbling through the night air toward what you were certain would be a very messy and very permanent end to your brief but eventful life.

Except it wasn’t.

In a feat of cosmic slapstick, your involuntary flight path was intercepted by the open back of a passing laundry truck that was, miraculously, filled with a fresh delivery of fluffy, five-star hotel futons. The impact was like landing on a cloud. Before you could even process your good fortune, the truck hit a massive pothole, bouncing you out of the futon pile and back into the open air. 

Your second flight was mercifully shorter. It concluded when you landed squarely on a twenty-foot-tall inflatable promotional mascot for “Jolly Jellybeans,” a candy brand whose marketing department had decided that their ideal spokesperson was a purple blob with cold, dead eyes. There was a long, mournful wheeeze as Jolly Jellybean sustained a critical blow from a flailing human, and it slowly, tragically, deflated beneath you, depositing you gently onto the pavement below.

You hadn’t suffered so much as a single scratch. Physically, anyway. Your soul had several new stress fractures, and you’d developed a new phobia of both motorcycles and inflatable advertising materials.

When Yuji – who’d skillfully slid with the bike and escaped with only minor road rash – found you trembling on the curb, his face had gone a shade of white you didn’t think was available in the human spectrum. He’d spent the next month waiting on you hand and foot, catering to your every whim, cooking your meals (carefully avoiding anything that might contain exotic marine life), apologizing roughly every fifteen minutes. He’d sworn off racing forever.

He’d lasted exactly thirty-seven days. The moment your glares softened from “I will end your bloodline and salt the earth where your ancestors are buried” to a more manageable “I am mildly displeased with your existence,” he was back on that death trap. The thrill, the speed, the pure adrenaline rush of flirting with mortality – it was a drug he couldn’t quit.

A buzz from your phone broke your reverie. It was Yuji.

Yuji: yo bestie if ur not down here in 5 im coming up! bara says ur door is fair game lol

You threw on the first clothes your hands touched, grabbed your backpack, and stomped downstairs to meet your doom. Or as the rest of the world called him, your best friend.

“Absolutely fucking not,” was the first thing out of your mouth as you burst through the building’s entrance, your finger pointed at the motorcycle. “I’m calling a taxi.”

Yuji’s grin didn’t waver. If anything, it widened like he fed on your terror. “Aw c’mon, Spices. Don’t be like that. Sunday traffic’s gonna be brutal. We’ll be sitting in a taxi for hours. You know how Bara gets when we’re late.”

“Better late than a human smoothie on the pavement,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I’m not getting on that death trap.”

Yuji had the audacity to look wounded by your perfectly reasonable stance on not wanting to die horribly. “It’s not a death trap!” he protested. “And I promise I’ll be careful. I’ll go super slow. Like, grandma-on-her-way-to-the-grocery-store slow.” He held up a second helmet. “Look! I’ve got safety equipment. Barely used.”

“Probably because your last passenger was launched into low orbit and never seen again,” you muttered darkly.

“That was ONE time, and I still feel terrible about it! But real talk – What’s scarier, this bike, or an angry Nobara who’s been waiting with a hammer and a color-coded list of every time you’ve ditched her in the last six months?”

Fuck. He had you there, and the smug bastard knew it. The mental image of Nobara – probably already three drinks in, definitely holding that cursed hammer she carried everywhere, absolutely keeping a spreadsheet of your social failures – was somehow more terrifying than potential vehicular manslaughter.

Yuji pushed the helmet at you again. You ignored it. Instead, you reached into your bottomless backpack and whipped out your own helmet. It was a top-of-the-line Arai Corsair-X, reinforced with every conceivable safety feature known to mankind. It was also the most offensive shade of canary yellow ever inflicted upon the human retina. Attached to the top were two springy, plush bee antennae, each tipped with a fuzzy yellow pom-pom.

Gojo had bought it for you after the Jolly Jellybean incident, claiming it matched your “prickly but secretly sweet” personality and would “make you more visible to other drivers.” You loathed the thing, yet you wore it every single time Yuji coerced you onto this two-wheeled death trap. Despite its offensive appearance, you knew it was the best money could buy. Everything Gojo bought for you was.

Yuji took one look at it and burst out laughing. “The Bumble-sensei helmet! You still have it!”

“It has a five-star safety rating,” you grumbled, shoving the ridiculous thing onto your head and buckling the chin strap. The antennae waggled in cheery defiance of your mood. “And if you call it that stupid name again, I will walk.”

“Whatever you say, Bumble-sensei,” he grinned and started the engine, patting the passenger seat he’d modified specifically for you. “Hop on!”

Every cell in your body screamed in protest. This was stupid. This was reckless. This was how you ended up as a cautionary tale told to first-year students during their “Why You Should Always Think Twice Before Getting On Motorcycles With Itadori-sensei” safety lectures.

But then you looked at Yuji’s back, at the broad set of his shoulders, at the friend who had faced down death with and for you. He was sunshine and recklessness and a loyalty so pure it was a force of nature. And despite the near-death experiences, or maybe because of them, you trusted him. Not to be safe, never that. But to be there.

With a long-suffering sigh that was ninety percent performance and ten percent genuine terror, you swung your leg over and settled onto the seat behind him. Your hands found their place on his waist.

“You gotta hold on tighter than that,” he said over his shoulder.

“I know the drill,” you gritted out, wrapping your arms fully around him, pressing your chest against his broad back and locking your fingers together over his stomach. 

“All set?” he asked.

“Just try not to kill me,” you mumbled into his back, squeezing your eyes shut.

His only answer was another bright laugh – everything wonderful and terrifying about him captured in a single sound. Then the bike lurched forward, and you were off.

For the first two blocks, Yuji was a model of vehicular civility. He cruised at a speed that could be reasonably described as “legal,” stopped fully at stop signs, and even used his turn signal in a manner that suggested he knew what it was for. The bee antennae on your helmet bobbed gently in the breeze, their yellow pom-poms dancing like tiny cheerleaders celebrating your continued survival. 

You were beginning to relax. Your death grip on his waist loosened to a friendly hug. Your shoulders unclenched from their position somewhere near your ears. Perhaps, you dared to think, Yuji had matured. Perhaps age and responsibility had tempered his destructive impulses. Perhaps… You should have known better.

The promise he’d sworn on his very honor evaporated into a cloud of exhaust fumes once he spotted a sliver of an opening between a delivery van and a city bus. The engine, which had been purring contentedly, let out a hungry roar as Yuji dropped a gear and twisted the throttle. Your arms tightened back into a death grip around his middle. The ridiculous bee antennae flattened against the back of your head as they battled the violent onslaught of aerodynamic drag that threatened to rip them – and possibly your head – clean off.

“YOU SAID GRANDMA SPEED YOU PSYCHO!” you shrieked.

“NAH, THIS GRANDMA IS COOL!” he yelled back with infuriating cheer. “SHE DOES DRAG RACING AND CROCHETS LUCKY CHARMS FOR HER TURBO!”

You considered various forms of retaliation, most of which were impractical at this velocity and would likely result in both of you becoming a permanent part of the road’s surface. Resigning yourself to your fate, you focused on the one thing that could distract you from your impending demise: interrogating your best friend about the well-being of his students, who were presumably also in constant peril.

“SO,” you shouted, trying to time your words with the momentary lulls between engine roars, “How’s the new class doing?”

Yuji’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Oh man, you’re gonna love this! You know that curse containment basics unit?”

“I do. Because I wrote the damn curriculum!”

“So get this – They managed to flip the containment field inside out! Trapped themselves in there with this Grade 3 slug thing!”

As he spoke, he got more animated, a terrible development when one is operating heavy machinery through dense urban traffic. He lifted his right hand off the handlebar to gesture emphatically, presumably to illustrate the concept of a reverse-prison or perhaps the approximate size and disposition of the angry slug creature. 

Suddenly deprived of half its steering input, the bike wobbled alarmingly, drifting into the next lane and directly into the path of an oncoming cement mixer whose driver laid on the horn with the righteous fury of a man on a tight schedule and did not have time for this bullshit.

Your life flashed before your eyes for what was, by your count, the fourth time that morning. You squeezed him so tightly you were surprised you hadn’t cracked one of his ribs. Yuji, unbothered, simply corrected his course with a flick of his wrist. Then, in a display of politeness that would have been cute if it weren’t completely insane, he lifted his left hand from the handlebar – his left fucking hand, the one that was supposed to be controlling the clutch – to wave an apologetic gesture at the enraged truck driver, whose continued honking suggested he had several opinions about young motorcyclists and their cavalier attitude toward traffic safety.

“It was actually pretty funny,” Yuji continued conversationally. “You should’ve seen them trying to play it cool, like ‘yeah, we meant to do that!’ Meanwhile, this curse is just... oozing everywhere.  It wasn’t dangerous, just… super gross.” He shuddered dramatically.

“So you just left them there?” you asked through gritted teeth, prying one eye open to watch a row of parked cars zip past in a solid line.

“Me? Oh, I didn’t have to do anything! Satoshi just walked up and one-punched the barrier! Poof! Problem solved.”

“He’s settling in okay, then?”

“He’s awesome! The kids are a little scared of him, so they actually listen. I haven’t had to break up a single fight all week. It’s amazing. Hey, Spices?”

“WHAT?”

“Can I keep him?”

Your brain, already under siege from sensory overload and mortal terror, short-circuited. For a solid three seconds, you forgot that you were rocketing toward your doom and were consumed by the sheer absurdity of the question.

“YUJI,” you yelled, enunciating as clearly as you could, “Nakamura Satoshi is a grown-ass man with a job and a family in Kyoto who would like him back. He is not a stray cat you found under a dumpster. You cannot ‘keep’ him!”

You could picture it: Yuji leaving out bowls of protein powder and energy drinks around the faculty lounge, making soft clicking noises to coax Satoshi into staying permanently.

“But he likes it here,” Yuji whined, conveniently ignoring your point about Satoshi’s existing life and commitments. “I don’t think he has any friends in Kyoto! He’s lonely!”

“Then hang out with him! Invite him for drinks! Take him to karaoke! Don’t try to adopt him! Also, slow down or I swear I’ll tell Bara about that time you—”

“How’s your week been?” he interrupted hastily, actually slowing down enough for you to notice the little reduction in wind resistance.

“Now that you ask,” you groaned, seizing the topic change, “Hiromi has been an ass again!”

“What’d he do this time?” Yuji asked, his interest piqued. Any story that involved you complaining about Higuruma Hiromi was prime entertainment for him.

“He keeps dragging me to practice, saying my left side’s weak. Yeah, no shit it’s weak. He keeps hitting it. I swear he’s a sadist who gets off on my suffering!”

“He’s just looking out for you!” Yuji said reasonably, though his attempt at being the voice of sanity was somewhat undermined by the way he chose that exact moment to weave between a taxi and a scooter in a maneuver that made a flock of crows scatter in alarm. One of them made direct eye contact with you. You could swear it shook its head in pity.

“Looking out for me, my ass! He sat on me for five minutes last week! It’s not training. It’s just bullying with extra steps! And don’t even get me started on the mind games!”

“Mind games?”

“He texted me the other day, swearing he’d left his favorite blue striped tie in my office. Made me search for a full half hour. I tore the place apart. Never found the damn thing. You know why?”

“Why?” Yuji asked impatiently, now deeply invested in this saga of workplace harassment and missing neckwear. He was hanging on every word, which meant his attention was definitely not where it should be – namely, on the road.

“Because he was fucking with me! He has two other ties that look exactly the same. I know because I was there when he bought them during a three-for-two sale. But no, he insisted that specific tie had ‘sentimental value.’ Sentimental value! It was a gift, he said. From who? The discount rack at Takashimaya?”

Yuji barked out a laugh so loud it was audible even over the engine. “Classic Higs! God, you two are so weird together.”

“He’s the weird one,” you fumed, your indignation reaching new heights. “I’m perfectly normal. I just happen to be surrounded by lunatics.”

“Maybe he just wants to talk to you more?” Yuji offered, completely missing the point of your complaint. “Like, maybe the tie thing was just—”

“So he beats me up and gaslights me? What is he, twelve? What’s next, is he going to pull my hair and put gum in my— WAS THAT A RED LIGHT? YUJI WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT TURN—”

“Shortcut!” he announced cheerfully, banking hard and zooming down an alley that was definitely not meant for vehicles. “Don’t worry, I do this all the time! It cuts like five minutes off the trip!”

That was it. That was the final straw. Your self-preservation instincts, which had been steadily frayed and systematically abused over the course of this nightmarish journey, finally reached their breaking point and snapped.

Without thinking too much about it, you gathered a chunk of the muscle and flesh at his side, right above his hip, where the leather jacket didn’t offer as much protection, and you pinched. Not a playful nip. It was a vicious act of war, executed with all the finger strength you’d developed from years of stress-ball squeezing during budget meetings and department disputes. You summoned the power of a vengeful crab and unleashed it upon his unsuspecting flank.

The sound that ripped out of Itadori Yuji’s throat was not the sound a twenty-two-year-old, six-foot-tall, notoriously powerful first-grade sorcerer should ever make under any circumstances. 

“YEEOWCH!” he shrieked. It was high-pitched, undignified, and suggested that despite all his supernatural strength and combat training, he was still vulnerable to the ancient and terrible power of a really good pinch.

The sudden pain made him jerk involuntarily. The handlebars twisted in his grip, and the Kawasaki fishtailed violently across the road. The rear tire screeched in protest, leaving a dark slash of rubber on the asphalt. For a terrifying second, you were sideways. You saw a lamppost, a fire hydrant, and the crow from earlier, who was now perched on the fire hydrant, looking both horrified and morbidly curious about how this disaster was going to conclude.

A car horn blared. A cyclist screamed. You saw your entire life flash before your eyes. Again. It was mostly paperwork and Mai’s criticism.

This is it, you thought. This is how the story ends. Killed not by an ancient curse or an overpriced assassin, but by a ticklish idiot on a sport bike in a back alley.

And then, just as quickly, Yuji’s elite sorcerer instincts kicked in. With a grunt, he threw his entire weight against the slide, wrestling the bike back under control. The machine groaned and bucked, but ultimately bent to his will. The horrifying sideways slide corrected itself into a smooth stop, perfectly parallel to the curb, directly in front of an apartment building, which your brain dimly recognized as Nobara’s place despite the fact that most of your cognitive functions were still busy processing the trauma of the last thirty seconds.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world was blessedly still. Yuji was panting, his shoulders heaving. Your own heart was trying to batter its way out of your ribcage. Then, the sounds of the city rushed back in – the distant traffic, the chatter of pedestrians, the accusatory cawing of the traumatized crow.

Slowly, Yuji twisted his head to glare at you over his shoulder. “What was that for?!” he demanded. “You could’ve gotten us killed! That was super dangerous! I can’t believe you would—”

You lifted your head, flipping up your visor to glare back at him, the bee antennae on your helmet quivering with your righteous fury. “Oh?” you hissed. “Now you care about danger? Did that thought occur to you at any point during the last twenty minutes of illegal street racing?”

Yuji had the grace to look chastened. “Uh… Well… We’re here!” he deflected brilliantly, gesturing vaguely to Nobara’s apartment building, as if announcing a great victory.

You didn’t answer. You were concentrating very, very hard on not throwing up inside your fancy bee-themed helmet. Carefully, you unpeeled yourself from his back, swinging a leg that felt like a wet noodle over the seat. Your feet hit solid ground, and your knees immediately decided to retire from their load-bearing responsibilities. You stumbled and had to grab onto the still-vibrating bike to keep from collapsing in a heap on the sidewalk. Pulling off the helmet, you took a deep breath of air that didn’t taste of adrenaline and terror.

Yuji was already off the bike. “See?” he said, beaming again. “Told you I’d get you here in one piece. And we’re five minutes early!”

You stared at him. At his bright, innocent, impossibly punchable face. At the friend you loved more than almost any other. At the beautiful bastard who was, without a shadow of a doubt, going to be the death of you, literally and probably before you turned thirty.

With great effort, you raised one trembling hand and jabbed a finger at his chest.

“One day,” you said shakily. “I’m going to kill you. And they’re never going to find all the pieces.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughed, slinging one arm over your shoulder and pulling you against his side. “I love you, too.” Then, not waiting for you to formulate an appropriately scathing response, he leaned down and dropped a smacking kiss on your forehead. “Come on, Bumble-sensei. Let’s get moving before Bara actually comes down here swinging.”

And that was the paradox of Itadori Yuji: he was sunshine weaponized, hope given human form, the kind of person who made you believe that maybe the world wasn’t completely fucked after all. He’d die for you without hesitation, and more than that, he’d live for you, too. No force on earth could stop him from showing up at your door with that stupid grin and dragging you into even more stupid adventures.

You supposed there were worse ways to live. Safer ways, certainly. Saner ways, absolutely. But none of them would have been half as interesting. And none of them would have been with your best friend.

Chapter Text

By the time you got to Nobara’s apartment, the adrenaline had mostly subsided. It was like surviving a small war. You felt older. Wiser. Significantly more in need of a drink you really shouldn’t have.

The door flew open before Yuji’s thumb had even fully lifted from the intercom button. And there she stood: Kugisaki Nobara in all her terrifying Sunday morning glory. Most people looked vaguely rumpled on Sunday mornings with marks from their pillowcase still pressed into their cheeks, that universal expression of “why am I awake” stamped across their features.

Not Nobara. Nobara looked like she’d just stepped out of a magazine shoot. Not one of those disheveled “I woke up like this” spreads that required three hours of professional styling to achieve the perfect simulation of carelessness, but an actual, genuine moment of effortless perfection that made you wonder if she’d made some sort of deal with the devil. Probably not, though. Nobara didn’t make deals. She made demands, and reality had learned it was easier to just comply.

At twenty-three years old, Nobara was a successful first-grade sorcerer, an absolute vision, and – this was the important part – completely aware of both facts. She wore a pair of silk pajama pants in a deep burgundy, paired with a matching camisole. Her long auburn hair, freshly washed and still damp at the ends, gleamed with the self-satisfied sheen of expensive hair products and good genetics.

This was the woman who had single-handedly saved your skin. 

Not in battle. Well, yes, also in battle, but that wasn’t what you were thinking about right now. No, Nobara had saved you from something far more insidious: the relentless march of time and the horrifying effects of a high-stress job on one’s face.

It had been years ago now, but you still remembered it. Nobara had taken one look at your face and declared it a humanitarian crisis. Her exact words had been, “Oh my god, when was the last time you moisturized, you feral raccoon? Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t think I can handle the truth.”

She’d then staged an intervention that involved forcibly dragging you to a department store (one of the fancy ones with the terrifying makeup ladies who looked like they could kill you with a contour brush) and dropping an obscene amount of Gojo’s money on a multi-step skincare regimen, consisting of products with names like essences and serums and ampoules, none of which you could differentiate, honestly. 

You hadn’t actually followed the whole thing – who the hell had time for that? – but you had done your best to stick to the basics: Cleaning your face. Slapping on some moisturizer that smelled vaguely of ginseng and false advertising. A bit of sunscreen now and then, when you remembered the sun was a giant ball of skin-damaging radiation, which was more often than never but less often than you’d admit to Nobara.

Thanks to that bare-minimum effort at self-care, you now looked less like a feral raccoon emerging from a dumpster and more like a moderately well-rested human being who just happened to be a feral raccoon on the inside.

Nobara tossed her hair over one shoulder in a move so effortlessly dramatic it could have been professionally choreographed – possibly was professionally choreographed, given her modeling gigs – leaned against the doorframe, and fixed you both with a withering stare.

“You’re late,” she accused.

You glanced at your watch. It was 9:58 AM. “No, we’re not. We’re actually two minutes early.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” she sniffed, unlatching from the doorframe to grab your arm and haul you inside. “Being on time is late. Being early is on time. That’s just basic civilization.” 

She completely ignored Yuji, who was hopping on one foot in the entryway, trying to toe off his combat boots without untying them —a doomed enterprise if ever there was one, but Itadori Yuji had never met an impossible task he wouldn’t attempt with misguided enthusiasm.

“The sheer disrespect,” Nobara continued. “I was about to send out a search party. Or, you know, just assume you were dead and start divvying up your belongings. I call dibs on the nice armchair. Death by mysterious circumstances would really streamline the whole inheritance process.”

“I’m not dead,” you pointed out, reasonably.

“Yet,” she corrected, steering you deeper into the apartment. “The day is young and your decision-making is historically terrible.”

Instead of arguing with Nobara (ill-advised), you did what any loyal, loving best friend would do in that situation: you threw Yuji so far under the bus he probably came out the other side with tire treads imprinted on his ass and a newfound understanding of vehicular manslaughter.

“It was his fault,” you declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Yuji. “He insisted on taking the ‘scenic route,’ which involves violating at least seven major traffic laws and nearly getting us flattened by a cement mixer.”

“Hey!” Yuji protested, finally liberating himself from his boot with a violence that sent it skittering across the floor. 

His objection was half-hearted at best, though. He knew the rules. When Nobara was on the warpath, someone had to be sacrificed for the good of the pack, for the continuation of the species, for the slim hope that maybe her wrath could be satisfied with a single offering. Today, it was his turn. Tomorrow, the wheel would spin again. Such was the natural order of things.

Nobara’s sharp gaze shifted to him, and Yuji actually flinched. “A cement mixer? Again?” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “Tiger boy, what have I told you about trying to impress people with your driving skills? No one is impressed. They’re just terrified.” 

Before he could mount a defense, not that he had one, she’d crossed the distance between them and grabbed his ear. “Go wash your hands. Both of you,” she commanded, dragging him toward the bathroom. “You have road filth and poor life choices all over you. I won’t have you contaminating my Sunday.”

“Ow, ow, okay, I’m going!” Yuji yelped, allowing himself to be manhandled, long since accepted that resistance was not only futile but would result in additional ear-pulling. His protests echoed down the hallway, gradually fading into the sound of running water and muttered complaints about “not being that dirty” and “cement mixers coming out of nowhere.”

As you headed inside, gratefully unmauled for the moment, you heard the soft sizzle and smelled the comforting aroma of dashi and soy sauce wafting from the kitchen. Your stomach, which had been too occupied with the adrenaline of Yuji’s driving to remember it had opinions about food, suddenly woke up and announced its presence with a traitorous gurgle.

Peeking around the corner, you saw Fushiguro Megumi already there. He stood with perfect posture, one hand holding a pair of cooking chopsticks, the other resting on his hip, watching the tamagoyaki roll. He glanced up, offering a small nod of acknowledgement that served as his version of a warm and enthusiastic greeting. This was peak Megumi hospitality.

He was wearing an apron, a surprisingly cute one with little black cat designs all over it and tiny paw prints along the hem. It was so at odds with his grumpy demeanor that it looped back around to being perfectly in-character. Of course, Megumi would wear a cat apron. Of course, he’d wear it without a trace of self-consciousness or irony. The man contained multitudes, all of them varying shades of Done With Everyone’s Nonsense.

“Morning,” he said flatly. The word was less a greeting and more a neutral acknowledgment that yes, it was indeed morning, and yes, he was aware you existed.

Once you and Yuji were both officially degreased and sanitized to Nobara’s exacting standards, you migrated to the dining table. Megumi began setting out plates and bowls. He placed a simple but perfect Japanese brunch before each of you: a bowl of steaming rice, a small dish of his own homemade pickled cucumbers and daikon radish he’d brought over, rolled tamagoyaki omelet, and a bowl of miso soup. A pot of freshly brewed coffee sat in the center of the table. It was the Megumi Special – the only meal he ever made, really, but one he had perfected to an art form.

“Are we ever going to have anything else?” Nobara complained anyway, because Nobara had never met a perfectly good situation she couldn’t find fault with. She was already reaching for her chopsticks though, which rather undermined her protest. “Some variety would be nice. Omurice, perhaps? Is that too much to ask?”

Megumi slid a bowl of rice in front of her, his face remained in its default setting: mildly irritated neutral. “Yes. Cook your own damn food if you want something else.”

“I’m the host,” she made a face at him. “The host provides the scintillating conversation and the impeccable ambiance. The guests provide tribute and labor. Those are the rules.”

“Those are your rules,” Megumi shot back, settling into his spot with his own bowl.

Sensing she was losing this battle, Nobara immediately pivoted to a new target. “Speaking of rules,” she said, pointing a chopstick at your backpack where you’d dropped it on the floor. “Gumi, check that thing.”

“What?” you asked through a mouth full of tamagoyaki.

“I want that backpack checked,” Nobara repeated, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Make sure our workaholic gremlin here doesn’t have a laptop hidden in here. Or any case files. Or mission reports. Or anything that even smells like work. This is a designated No-Work Zone, as established by treaty at the summit of last month when you tried to ‘just quickly review some notes’ and ended up disappearing for four hours. I will enforce it with violence if necessary.”

“I wasn’t going to—” you started.

“Lies,” Nobara interrupted. “Gumi, the backpack. Now."

Megumi’s dark eyes narrowed on you with suspicion. You held his gaze, trying to project an aura of innocence. It didn’t work. It never worked on Megumi. With a long-suffering sigh, he got up, rounded the table, and picked up your backpack.

“Hey! That’s an invasion of privacy! There could be… private things in there! Personal items! Things of an intimate nature!”

“Like what, your diary?” Yuji asked, finally looking up from where he’d been steadily demolishing his food.

“I don’t have a diary.”

“That’s exactly what someone with a diary would say,” Nobara observed.

Completely ignoring you, Megumi unzipped the main compartment and proceeded to shamelessly excavate its contents right there on the floor, holding up each item for judgment. Yuji and Nobara leaned forward in their chairs, watching with the ghoulish fascination of people witnessing a juicy public shaming.

“Aha! No laptop,” you declared triumphantly. “I am capable of taking a day off. Now you all owe me an apology for your baseless accusations.”

Still ignoring you – really, it was getting impressive at this point – Megumi held up your collapsible bow. “Okay, fine, this makes sense,” he conceded, setting it aside with the neatly packed quiver of arrows. “First aid kit, meds, water, snacks… all standard.” He pulled out the next item. “Three different types of industrial-grade zip ties.” He paused, looking at you with a deeply judgy expression. “Why?”

“You never know when you’ll need to secure something,” you said defensively. 

“Kinky,” Nobara commented with a smirk, causing Yuji to snort coffee through his nose and then spend the next thirty seconds coughing and wheezing while Nobara patted his back with too much force.

Megumi continued his dig through your life choices. He unearthed your notebook (battered and dog-eared), a handful of pens in various states of functionality, your spare phone charger (the cable fraying at one end because you kept forgetting to replace it), some random receipts that had been in there for months, and then his hand stilled. He pulled out the velvet roll containing your lock-picking set. He just stared at it, then at you.

“It’s a hobby,” you mumbled. “It’s mentally stimulating. Like sudoku, but with more practical applications.”

“Practical applications for breaking and entering,” Megumi deadpanned, placing the set carefully to one side. His hand went back in, and his brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I have two questions. First: Why do you have half a lemon in a Ziploc bag?” 

He held the thing up for his audience. The lemon half sat there in its plastic prison, slightly desiccated, definitely judging you.

“For scurvy,” you replied instantly.

“For... scurvy?”

“Yes.”

“This is modern Tokyo. We are not eighteenth-century pirates on a six-month voyage with no access to fresh fruit.”

“You can’t be too careful,” you insisted. “Scurvy is a silent killer. Well, not silent. Your gums bleed and your teeth fall out. But it sneaks up on you. One day you’re fine, the next day you’re a pirate with scurvy. I’m being proactive.”

“By carrying around half a lemon,” Megumi said.

“A fresh half lemon,” you corrected. “I replaced it last week.”

Nobara looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh, her hand pressed over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Yuji had given up all pretense and was grinning openly.

“And second,” Megumi continued, not to engage further with the lemon discourse because that way lay madness, “why in God’s name do you have a map of the city’s sewer system?”

He held up the professionally laminated map, complete with color-coding and handwritten annotations marking what you’d determined were the best entry and exit points. You’d put effort into this. You’d put resources into this. Someone at a print shop had helped you laminate this and had probably gone home that night with questions about their customer base.

“That…” you began, scrambling for a plausible explanation. “…is for tactical urban navigation! You never know when you’ll need an alternate exit route!”

Megumi sat there for a moment. “There is no situation in which a normal person would need zip ties, a lock-picking set, half a lemon, and a sewer map.”

“Maybe I’m not planning on being a normal person,” you huffed. “Maybe I’m planning on being a prepared person. What if there’s a sudden city-wide curse outbreak? Or a zombie apocalypse? What if we just get a sudden, overwhelming urge for lemonade? You’ll be thanking me then! You’ll be grateful for the lemon!”

“Spices got a point about the lemonade,” Yuji chimed in thoughtfully, nodding like you’d made a genuinely compelling argument. “Fresh lemon juice is really refreshing. And it’s good for your digestion.”

Megumi fixed him with a soul-crushing glare that immediately silenced him. He dropped the map back onto the pile of your questionable belongings. “You’re a hazard,” he concluded, his tone suggesting this was not up for debate, “to yourself and everyone around you. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.”

He began gathering up your assorted junk to stuff back into your backpack. What he didn’t know, what none of them knew, was that he hadn’t even gotten to the hidden compartments. The really fun stuff was still safely concealed in the false bottom and the side pocket you’d had specially sewn in. The emergency cash. The spare identity documents. The tactical knife. The compressed blanket. The waterproof matches. The fifty feet of paracord. The thing you weren’t supposed to have but definitely had anyway.

“See?” you said to Nobara, gesturing at the pile with your chopsticks. “This is why I have to carry all this stuff. To protect everyone. From myself, mostly, but also from unforeseen citrus-deficiency emergencies.”

Nobara laughed, bright and clear, her head tilting back. “Alright, weirdos, that’s enough free entertainment. Eat. Gumi’s eggs are getting cold, and if he gets any grumpier, he’s going to start spontaneously generating cursed spirits.”

The bickering ceased as hunger took precedence. The conversation drifted aimlessly, from Yuji’s latest teaching disaster to Nobara’s complaints about a photographer who didn’t understand her angles, to your own dramatic retelling of Higuruma’s tyranny. Through it all, Megumi remained mostly silent, but his presence was felt in the way he’d refill your coffee when it got low, or push the dish of pickles closer to Yuji when he saw him eyeing them, or place an extra piece of tamagoyaki in Nobara’s bowl when she wasn’t looking. 

He was the group’s quiet center of gravity, holding you all together without ever needing to say a word. Some people showed love through grand gestures or eloquent speeches. Megumi showed it through pickled vegetables and coffee refills and wearing cat aprons while cooking breakfast.

Finally, plates were cleared and bellies were full. It was time for fun. Or at least, time to attempt fun. Results might vary.

“So,” Yuji said, leaning back in his chair, hand on his stomach. “What’s the plan? Bara, what do you wanna do?”

Nobara heaved a theatrical sigh that could have won multiple awards in different categories, resting her chin in her hand and batting her eyelashes at him. “Oh, I don’t know,” she drawled. “Why is it always up to me to be the Director of Fun? It’s exhausting being this creative and thoughtful all the time. Planning fun things for you ungrateful heathens is a full-time job.”

You snorted into your coffee, nearly inhaling it. “You love it. You have a color-coded binder for potential group activities. I’ve seen it.”

“That is a vicious rumor,” she said immediately. “The point is, the burden of entertainment shouldn’t always fall on the prettiest person in the room. It’s a lot of pressure.”

Yuji, bless his wonderfully simple and dangerously literal heart, took a moment to seriously consider Nobara’s proposition. Then, he puffed out his chest and declared, “Well, if so, then the burden doesn’t fall on you.”

The temperature in the room dropped approximately fifteen degrees.

Nobara’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows, which you knew for a fact took ten minutes and a very expensive gel imported from Korea to achieve that exact arch, shot up to her hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Because Gumi’s clearly the prettiest,” Yuji finished firmly, oblivious to the fact that he’d just signed his own death warrant. He turned to Megumi as if to present irrefutable evidence to a jury. “I mean, look at his cheekbones. And his jawline. And eyelashes! They’re super long. I didn’t even know guys could have eyelashes like that without, like, extensions or whatever. And his hair is all soft and fluffy, too! It looks so nice. I bet it smells good—”

“Yuji,” Megumi said, his voice a low warning, “stop talking.”

“—and he’s got that whole mysterious brooding thing going on, which is hot—”

“I’m serious, Itadori. Stop.”

“—plus he’s tall, which helps, and his eyes are like—what’s the word? Soulful? They’re soulful eyes—”

“Finish that sentence and die,” Megumi interrupted. His glare, which had been simmering at a low intensity, cranked up to a high-powered laser beam aimed directly at Yuji’s stupid face. 

“What?” Yuji asked.

If looks could kill, Yuji would have been a fine pink mist decorating Nobara’s tasteful wallpaper, possibly ruining her damage deposit. Yuji just grinned, completely immune to Megumi’s death threats through years of exposure and potentially mild brain damage.

“If you keep talking,” Megumi said, “I will summon Mahogara. Right here. Right now.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Nobara gasped. “The property damage—”

“Try me.”

It was strange to think that you’d been friends with these morons for the better half of a decade now. They had seen you at your worst, and you had bailed them out of situations that would have given a normal person a lifelong facial tic. So much had changed since those early days at Tokyo Jujutsu High. You had all grown up, more or less. Filled out. Developed things like credit scores and the ability to cook more than instant ramen. Learned how to do taxes and schedule dentist appointments and pretend to be functional members of society.

Yet, in moments like this, when Yuji was grinning like an idiot, Nobara plotting elaborate revenge, Megumi contemplating homicide over brunch, it felt like no time had passed at all. You were still those kids, really. Just taller and with more scars, both visible and otherwise.

The real problem with this level of long-term friendship, however, was a logistical one that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore: you had officially run out of things to do. 

This was a genuine crisis. You had exhausted every form of entertainment available to a group of semi-functional adults in the greater Tokyo metropolitan area. Museums, parks, arcades, karaoke bars, restaurants, shopping districts – you’d done it all. Multiple times. Some of it until you were sick of it. Worse, you had been unceremoniously, and often permanently, banned from most of the good spots.

You’d done the standard stuff, of course. Eating out was a staple, as was karaoke. Until that incident at the place in Akihabara that you’d all agreed never to speak of again. Board game nights had seemed like a safe, wholesome activity... until Nobara flipped the Monopoly board after Yuji bought both Park Place and Boardwalk in the same turn, declaring the game a “patriarchal celebration of predatory capitalism.” She’d made some valid points, actually, but the board was never quite the same after it hit the wall.

Then there was poker, an activity from which you had been unilaterally banned by Nobara and Megumi after three consecutive weeks of taking all their money. They’d insisted you were cheating. They had no proof, of course. No marked cards, no hidden aces up your sleeve. You weren’t that sloppy. You were a professional. But they had an unshakable conviction that no one could be that lucky, that good at reading people’s tells, that consistently successful without some kind of unfair advantage.

You maintained your innocence. You had simply been blessed by the poker gods, you’d explained. You couldn’t help it if you had a natural gift for psychological analysis. Was it your fault that Yuji’s left eyebrow twitched when he had a good hand? That Nobara bit her lower lip when she was bluffing? That Megumi’s already minimal expressions became somehow even more minimal when he was uncertain? The ban stood anyway. Democracy was tyranny, apparently.

Shopping trips had been another early casualty. That one wasn’t your fault. You could stand there with clean hands and a clear conscience, pointing the finger of blame squarely at Nobara. She had gotten herself blacklisted from several major department stores in Ginza, which was actually impressive when you considered that Ginza department stores wanted beautiful young women with disposable income to spend time in their establishments. It was basically their entire business model. But Nobara had managed to exhaust even their patience.

Her process was a thing of retail legend, whispered about in break rooms and documented in incident reports: she would meticulously try on every single item in her size, take a hundred glamorous selfies in the dressing room mirror for her social media. Then, after hours of deliberation, hours during which multiple sales associates would be deployed to assist her and entire sections of the store would be effectively monopolized by the Kugisaki Nobara Experience, she would return everything to the beleaguered staff with a laundry list of complaints about the shoddy stitch quality, inferior fabric choices, unflattering cuts, disappointing drape, and general failure to meet her standards. She would purchase exactly nothing.

“It’s called having standards,” she’d said when confronted about this behavior. “I’m not going to settle for subpar craftsmanship just because something has a fancy label. That’s how they get you. That’s how they win.”

The final straw had come when a department manager had politely suggested that perhaps the fitting rooms were meant for customers who were seriously considering a purchase, and Nobara had launched into a twenty-minute speech about consumer rights, the social contract of retail, and the moral bankruptcy of fast fashion. She’d been escorted from the building by security. Her photo was now in a binder somewhere, probably labeled “DO NOT ENGAGE.”

Arcades had been Yuji’s downfall, which was tragic because he loved them with the pure, uncomplicated joy of a golden retriever discovering a tennis ball factory. He loved the noise, the lights, the thrill of competition. His enthusiasm was so great, his button-mashing so powerful, that he had a habit of physically breaking the machines. Not on purpose – Yuji would never deliberately destroy property – but through sheer, concentrated excitement channeled through his unnaturally strong hands.

You’d all watched in horrified silence as he’d gotten a little too into a match of Street Fighter II. In his excitement to execute a perfect Shoryuken, his fist had gone clean through the machine’s cabinet. The screen had flickered, hissed, and died with a sad little pop. 

“I won, though,” he’d said weakly. “Did you see? I totally landed the Shoryuken.”

Yuji was now on a first-name basis with the security guards at most of the major Taito Stations in the city, none of whom were allowed to let him inside. They’d been polite about it, at least. One of them had even seemed sympathetic, patting Yuji on the shoulder and saying, “It’s nothing personal, kid. You’re just too strong for the machines. Maybe try a sport or something.”

Even escape rooms, which seemed like a perfect fit for a group of people who literally solved paranormal mysteries for a living, had ended in disaster. You’d only tried that once. That had been enough.

Your team had been doing quite well, solving puzzles at a record pace.  You'd cracked codes, found hidden keys, solved riddles. It had been fun, relaxing in its low stakes. Then, after forty-five minutes of this, Megumi got bored. 

He’d looked at the locked final door, then at the three of you still futzing around with the puzzle mechanics. He’d sighed and then melted into his shadow, reappearing five minutes later on the other side of the final locked door, holding the staff’s master keycard that he’d acquired through means he steadfastly refused to explain. 

“Found it,” he’d said, waving the keycard in your face. “We win.”

“That’s not—” Nobara had started.

“We’re done here,” Megumi had interrupted, already walking toward the exit.

The manager, who had looked genuinely terrified, had refused to disclose the details of the incident. All you knew was that Fushiguro Megumi was now on a city-wide ban from all escape room establishments for reasons that involved “exploiting structural weaknesses,” “unauthorized access to restricted areas,” and “causing existential dread among the staff.” The attached report had been entirely redacted.

So you’d moved on to more… unconventional pastimes. Things that skirted the edges of your professional lives without actually crossing over into “work.” Like camping in notoriously haunted locations, not to exorcise anything, just to see if the legends held up to scrutiny. 

This had led you, last autumn, to the Aokigahara forest at the base of Mount Fuji, in pursuit of the Crying Bride. The urban legend had been catnip for Nobara. A scorned woman, a vengeful spirit, a story of feminist rage from beyond the grave – she was a fan before she’d even packed her bug spray.

“A woman’s righteous anger is the most powerful cursed energy source of all,” she’d proclaimed, packing her hammer and a new tube of waterproof mascara. “I need to be ready in case we have an emotional bonding moment. If I’m going to commune with a vengeful spirit, I’m doing it with properly defined lashes.”

“You know ghosts don’t care about your makeup, right?” you’d pointed out.

“That’s the kind of defeatist attitude that keeps you from reaching your full potential,” she’d replied, unbothered.

So the rest of you had dutifully packed your gear. You brought the actual supplies and tactical equipment. Yuji brought marshmallows for roasting and a ukulele he didn’t know how to play. Megumi brought a book and an aura of profound skepticism.

You’d paid an exorbitant fee to a shifty-looking local man who called himself a “paranormal guide.” He’d led you deep into the woods as night fell, his voice dropping dramatically as he recounted the tragic tale of the bride with hand gestures and sound effects. The forest had been appropriately atmospheric: trees pressing in from all sides, the darkness thick once you’d moved beyond the reach of the parking lot lights, the path narrow and winding.

“They say… on nights like this…” the tour guide croaked, pointing a trembling finger into the darkness, “you can still hear the weeping of her tormented soul!”

On cue, a faint sobbing drifted through the trees. High-pitched, mournful, the kind of crying that sounded like someone’s heart was breaking in real-time.

Nobara gripped her hammer with righteous purpose. “Do you hear that? That’s the sound of justified feminine rage. That’s the sound of a woman who was done being disrespected.”

Yuji nervously started strumming a single, discordant note on his ukulele. “Should we... do we have a plan? What if she’s really mad?”

You and Megumi exchanged a dubious look. You couldn’t sense any cursed energy. Not a single drop. Not even the faintest whiff of spiritual presence. This place had all the spiritual presence of a 7-Eleven. 

This is bullshit, you told Megumi with a quirk of your lips. Let’s just find the source so we can go home, he replied with an eye roll toward Nobara, who was now creeping forward with her hammer raised, muttering something about solidarity with wronged women throughout history.

It took less than ten minutes to find the “ghost.” Truly a new record for exposing paranormal fraud.

Huddled behind a mossy boulder was a pimply teenager in a slightly-too-large wedding dress that had probably been purchased from a discount costume shop. The hem was muddy. The veil was askew. He was furiously tapping on his phone. The heartbreaking sobs were coming from a stuttering JBL Bluetooth speaker perched on a tree stump.

“Hey,” you called out. 

The kid jumped about three feet in the air, letting out a startled squeak that was decidedly un-ghostlike. His phone went flying, landing in a patch of ferns.

“Shit! Fuck! You weren’t supposed to—” He scrambled for his phone, the wedding dress tangling around his legs. “The Wi-Fi out here is shit!” he complained, finally retrieving it and glaring at the screen with genuine indignation. “How am I supposed to provide a premium haunted experience with these download speeds? The audio file keeps buffering! Do you know how embarrassing it is when the ghost crying just stops in the middle of a sob? It ruins the whole ambiance!”

There was a long silence. Nobara lowered her hammer. Yuji stopped strumming his ukulele. Megumi rolled his eyes again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you said.

The kid – who was the paranormal guide’s nephew – had spilled the entire story. He was sixteen, saving up for a gaming PC, and this was better money than working at the convenience store. Years ago, the townsfolk had invented the Crying Bride to scare away a big corporation that wanted to build a luxury golf resort on their land. The strategy had worked beautifully. The corporation had pulled out, citing “local cultural concerns” and “possible spiritual complications.”

But then, thanks to the internet and its insatiable appetite for spooky content, their little local ghost story had gone viral. Some paranormal blogger had written it up. Then it hit Reddit. Then YouTube. Then TikTok. Tourists and ghost hunters started showing up in droves. Seeing a golden opportunity, the locals had pivoted from grassroots activism to a full-blown tourist scam with guided tours, overpriced merchandise, and a rotating cast of high schoolers paid five thousand yen an hour to cosplay as a heartbroken spirit in the woods.

“Business is actually pretty good,” the kid had admitted, adjusting his veil. “Especially during October. We get, like, fifty people some weekends. My cousin made enough last year to buy a car.”

You hadn’t known whether to be angry or impressed. The sheer audacity of their hustle was almost respectable. Your group had marched back to the parking lot and demanded a full refund from the “guide,” who’d tried to protest until Megumi stared at him in that way Megumi had. You’d gotten your money back, plus a lifetime ban from their tours after Nobara called their business model “an insult to authentic female rage.” She’d been legitimately angry.

On the way out, you’d spotted a gift shop and bought a souvenir keychain for Gojo. It featured a cartoon ghost bride with enormous eyes and an incongruously cheerful expression, saying in comic sans font, “I got ghosted in Aokigahara!” You’d put the keychain on Gojo’s office desk the next day while he was in a meeting. He’d then sent back a photo of himself holding it with both thumbs up and a text that read: “FIVE STARS ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ WOULD GET SCAMMED AGAIN.”

A sharp snap of fingers in front of your face pulled you back to the present.

“Earth to Spices,” Nobara said, leaning over the table. “You with us? Or were you busy plotting world domination in there?”

“Just reminiscing,” you said, taking a final sip of your coffee. “About all the fun we’ve had. And all the places we can’t go back to.”

“A badge of honor,” Yuji chirped.

“A cautionary tale,” Megumi grumbled.

“The past is the past,” Nobara said. “Today, we forge a new, glorious memory. I’ve decided what we’re going to do. Today is going to be an Art and Craft Day!”

Yuji perked up. “Oh, awesome! Are we making friendship bracelets? Or maybe some pottery? I’ve always wanted to try pottery.”

“Something much better,” Nobara said mysteriously. “Something that requires focus, skill, and results in a beautiful, functional piece of art. Follow me, my loyal assistants. Our project awaits.”

She swept dramatically out of the dining area and into her bedroom. The three of you exchanged glances – Megumi’s expression already sliding into resignation, Yuji’s still hopeful, yours somewhere between curious and deeply suspicious – before following her like ducklings trailing their unhinged mother duck.

And there, occupying a significant portion of the floor space, which was already limited because she owned approximately seventeen thousand items of clothing and refused to get rid of any of them, was a colossal IKEA cardboard box. Printed on the side was a name that looked like a cat had walked across a keyboard: FÅFÄNGA. Below the name was a simple line-drawing of an elegant, multi-drawer vanity table with a large mirror and approximately one million tiny, inscrutable parts. The box had clearly been sitting there for a while, judging by the thin layer of dust on top and the way it had settled slightly into the carpet.

Nobara placed her hands on her hips, beaming at the giant box as if it were a masterpiece she had sculpted herself. “Behold!” she announced. “Our art project for the day!”

There was a moment of stunned silence as the three of you stared at the box.

Yuji was the first to break, because Yuji had never learned the value of keeping his mouth shut. “Bara,” he said slowly. “That’s furniture.”

“And?” Nobara’s eyebrows rose challengingly.

“It’s not an art project,” he said, poking the box with his toe. “That’s manual labor. That’s work. The thing we’re supposed to be taking a break from.”

“How dare you,” Nobara scoffed, deeply offended by this characterization of her vision. “How dare you reduce this to mere ‘manual labor.’ This is the ultimate art form. It is the art of creation itself. It requires you to interpret abstract diagrams, much like a sculptor interprets a vision. It demands precision and a delicate touch, like a painter with a brush.” She picked up the flimsy paper instruction manual that had fallen out. “And at the end, if we follow the sacred texts and work together in harmony, we will have brought a beautiful, functional object into this world.”

She paused for dramatic effect, reaching into the box to pull out a small plastic bag filled with an alarming number of screws of various sizes, wooden dowels, cam locks, and one single, useless-looking Allen key that was definitely too small for any of the visible hardware.

“It’s the same as any other craft,” she concluded triumphantly, shaking the bag so the contents rattled ominously. “Just more productive. More practical. We’ll have something to show for our efforts!”

“We’ll have injuries to show for our efforts,” you muttered.

“Time for assignment!” Nobara said, either not hearing you or choosing to ignore you, pointing to each of you in turn. “Gumi, you’re good at reading instructions. You’re Head Architect. Chief Engineer. Master of the Sacred Texts.”

Megumi accepted this with a resigned nod. He’d known this was coming.

“Yuji, you have the muscles. You’re Department of Heavy Lifting. Minister of Moving Large Objects. You will fetch, carry, and hold things in place.”

“I can do that!” Yuji agreed, flexing his massive arms.

“Spices, you have dexterous fingers from all that… whatever it is you do with your hands. You’re Master of Fasteners. Monarch of Small Parts. You will screw things together and make sure nothing falls apart.”

“Compelling title,” you said dryly.

“And I, naturally, shall be the Project Manager,” Nobara continued, gesturing to herself with both hands. “I’ll provide artistic direction, quality control, and essential moral support. I’ll make sure we stay on schedule and on vision. I’ll be the guiding light, the north star, the—”

“You’re going to sit on your ass and complain while we do everything,” Megumi finished.

“Exactly,” Nobara said, unashamed. “Leadership is about delegation. Now stop questioning my methods and let’s get to work! This vanity isn’t going to magically assemble itself!” She clapped her hands together decisively. “Chop chop! Daylight’s burning! Well, not really, we’re inside, but you get the idea!”

Despite his complaint, Megumi was already crouched down by the box, studying the instruction manual Nobara tossed his way with a look of grim determination. His expression suggested he was already identifying potential problems and calculating the probability of success. The probability appeared to be low.

Yuji was experimentally prodding the box, probably assessing if he could just lift the entire thing, flip it over, and dump everything out in one go.

“Don’t,” you warned. “The pieces are organized in there. If you dump it, we’ll spend an hour just sorting everything.”

“But it would be faster—”

“Just don’t.”

Arts and Crafts Day. Of course. In this crew, even relaxing was a high-stakes construction project with a high probability of missing pieces, pinched fingers, and at least one major argument over the correct orientation of a drawer slide. 

It was, in other words, just another perfect Sunday with your favorite people. You rolled up your sleeves and prepared for battle.

Chapter Text

The official IKEA instruction manual for the FÅFÄNGA vanity estimated the assembly time at ninety minutes for two people. This, you concluded somewhere around hour four, was a work of fiction written by a sadistic Swedish comedian with a PhD in psychological warfare and a minor in breaking the human spirit.

What had begun with Nobara’s bright-eyed optimism (“How hard can it be? It’s just a table with a mirror!”) had, predictably, degenerated into a grueling war of attrition fought on the plush carpet of her bedroom. The carpet itself, which had started the afternoon as a respectable piece of home furnishing, now bore the scars of this conflict: indentations from knees and elbows and a fine coating of sawdust that would probably never fully vacuum out.

The room was a disaster zone, a battlefield littered with the casualties of Swedish engineering: sheets of pressboard, bafflingly similar-looking wooden panels, and about a thousand tiny plastic bags of hardware. Each bag was labeled with a cryptic alphanumeric code designed to be just one letter or number off from another, almost identical bag, as though IKEA’s labeling department were staffed entirely by people who enjoyed watching others suffer. 

You’d found three different types of screws that looked absolutely, completely, identically the same to the naked eye, but which Megumi insisted were different lengths. He’d measured them with his phone. He’d been right, damn him. They differed by two millimeters. 

In the center of it all, the half-formed skeleton of the vanity stood. It leaned slightly to the left in a way that suggested either structural compromise or a developing personality disorder.

Your designated roles, so clearly defined at the outset, had begun to blur under the fog of war. Head Architect Megumi had abandoned the sacred texts entirely. The manual, with its cheerful, wordless illustrations of a gender-neutral cartoon figure pointing vaguely at things, had proven to be less an instruction guide and more a series of abstract art pieces open to wild interpretation. Was that figure pressing down on the panel, or merely gesturing toward it philosophically? Were those stress lines indicating force, or just... decorative? The manual wasn’t telling.

Megumi was now on his knees in the supplicant position of the truly defeated, his dark hair falling forward into his eyes, holding two pieces of wood together at what he claimed was a ninety-degree angle. The muscles in his forearms were taut with the effort of maintaining this position while simultaneously refusing to admit defeat.

“The pre-drilled holes don’t line up,” he announced for the fifth time, and each repetition had grown slightly more hollow, slightly more despairing. “They’re off by at least three millimeters.” 

“Maybe you have it upside down,” Nobara suggested helpfully from her command center on the bed, where she was scrolling through her phone, ostensibly looking up video tutorials, though you’d noticed she’d been on Instagram the whole time while occasionally offering pearls of project management wisdom.

“I don’t have it upside down,” Megumi gritted out. “Panel G has a finished edge. The diagram shows the finished edge facing out.”

“Well, did you try flipping it?” she pressed, because she wasn’t the one currently holding two wooden panels while crouched in an uncomfortable position.

“If I flip it, the finished edge will be facing the wrong side and it will look like shit.”

“It’s the back. Just flip it. No one’s going to see the back.”

“But I’ll know,” he hissed, his eyes flashing. 

That, apparently, was the end of that discussion. The vanity, for its part, continued leaning slightly to the left.

Yuji, the Minister of Heavy Lifting, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to hammer a wooden dowel into a hole that was, to anyone with functioning eyesight, clearly too small for it. Instead of using the rubber mallet you’d found in Nobara’s toolbox, he was using his fist. The dull, rhythmic thudding was starting to get on your nerves.

“Yuji,” you said, not looking up from your own personal hell. “There’s a mallet for that. A real one. That I put right next to you.”

You were the Monarch of Small Parts, a title that sounded far grander than the reality of your situation. You were currently trying to screw one of the drawer slides into place. The screw was the size of a grain of rice. The Allen key provided was a flimsy piece of metal that felt like it would bend if you breathed on it with too much conviction. It had already developed a slight curve from the torque you’d been applying, giving it a sad, defeated look that you felt in your soul.

And the hole it was supposed to go into was at such an awkward angle that you had to contort yourself into a position that probably violated several articles of the Geneva Convention just to reach it. Your shoulder was screaming. Your wrist had gone numb ten minutes ago. You were now operating on spite alone.

“My hand is a mallet,” Yuji replied cheerfully. Thud. Thud. “See? It’s working.”

You could hear the grin in his voice. You did not look up to confirm its existence. Some things were better left unwitnessed.

“You’re going to give yourself a splinter,” you said, finally wrestling the screw into submission and instantly moving to the next one, because there were seven more of these per drawer slide and eight drawers total, and you’d stopped doing the math because it made you want to cry.

Thud. Thud. “Nah, I’ll be fine.” Thud. The dowel made a small splintering sound that Yuji seemed determined to ignore. “Hey, Spices? What do you think this little circle thingy is for?” 

You glanced up. Yuji was holding a cam lock between his thumb and forefinger, rotating it slowly. His face bore the expression of baffled curiosity that you’d seen on nature documentaries, usually on primates discovering tools for the first time. 

“That’s a cam lock,” you explained through clenched teeth as the Allen key slipped for the tenth time, scraping a layer of skin off your knuckle. “You put it in the big hole, then you turn it with a screwdriver to lock the screw from the other piece in place. See the arrow? It has to point toward the hole the screw is going into.”

Yuji blinked at the tiny arrow embossed on the metal. “Ohhhhh. That makes so much sense! I was just putting them in randomly.”

The words hung in the air. Randomly. Randomly.

Time seemed to slow. A cold dread washed over you, starting at the base of your skull and trickling down your spine. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in Nobara’s bedroom. The half-assembled vanity loomed before you, suddenly menacing, full of terrible secrets.

“Yuji,” you said slowly. “How many of those have you put in already?”

He looked over at the partially assembled main frame, where several cam locks were visible. A few of them – more than a few, actually, now that you were looking – were pointing in the wrong direction.

“Uh…” Yuji did a quick count, his lips moving silently. “Like, six?” The question tone made it worse.

You closed your eyes. The darkness behind your eyelids offered no comfort, only a vision of the vanity collapsing in slow motion, drawers falling out, Nobara’s makeup cascading across her bedroom floor in a tsunami of bronzer and broken glass. 

You took a deep breath in through your nose – the therapy training was finally paying off, see, you were using proper techniques – held it for four counts, and released it slowly through your mouth. You were feeling serene. You were feeling centered. You were absolutely, definitely, certainly not going to pick up the rubber mallet and introduce it to your best friend’s skull at high velocity.

Probably.

“We have to take it apart,” Megumi said from behind you, having overheard the entire exchange. 

His voice held the quiet resignation of a man who had expected nothing less, who had perhaps even predicted this outcome the moment Yuji had picked up his first cam lock. He was still holding Panel G. He might never put Panel G down. Panel G might be his life now.

“What? But we just put it together!” Yuji whined. He gestured at the frame as if its very existence proved his point. “Look at it! It’s like... assembled and everything!”

“It’s not ‘together’ if it’s wrong,” Megumi sighed, already grabbing a screwdriver. “It’s going to fall apart the second Nobara puts something heavy on it.”

The threat of Nobara's wrath was enough to quell any further protests. And so began the Great Disassembly, a bitter and demoralizing process that involved backtracking through ten pages of inscrutable diagrams. Arguments broke out. Accusations were leveled. A screw fell into the carpet and disappeared, possibly into another dimension, never to be seen again.

Nobara, from her command center, documented the entire fiasco on her Instagram story with a series of tastefully filtered photos (she’d found a filter that made even abject failure look aesthetically pleasing) and captions dripping with performative exasperation: “When you ask for help and get incompetence instead 💅 #DIY #SendWine #MyFriendsAreUseless #IKEA #HelpMe #TheyMeanWell #ButNotWellEnough.”

She added a poll: “Should I replace my friends? Yes / Absolutely Yes.”

The vanity frame lay in pieces once more. You stared at it. It stared back, somehow smugly, as if it had known all along that this was how things would end. You were beginning to understand why some people just hired professionals.

It was sometime during hour six, deep into the second attempt at reassembly, that disaster struck.

“Okay, Gumi, I think I figured it out!” Yuji announced, having abandoned his war with the cam lock – now installed correctly, thanks to Megumi’s grim determination and a level of micromanagement that would have impressed a military logistics coordinator – in favor of a new and substantially more hazardous challenge.

He was now attempting to hoist the single largest, heaviest component of the entire assembly: the main tabletop piece. This wasn’t just any tabletop. This was the crown jewel of the FÅFÄNGA collection, distinguished by the fact that it had the massive mirror pre-attached. It was an awkward, unwieldy slab of particleboard and glass that probably weighed more than you did.

“Wait, that part goes on last,” Megumi warned. “We haven’t attached all the support struts yet. It says right here—” He snatched up the manual and jabbed at Step 47, which showed the tabletop being gently lowered onto a completed frame, supported by multiple structural elements that were notably absent from your current reality.

Yuji grunted, getting the piece up to waist height anyway. “If we get this on, we can see what it’s supposed to look like. It’ll be motivating! Like when they show you the picture of the finished recipe!” He turned to you, the mirror swaying dangerously. “Spices, can you get ready to screw in the side panels once I get it in place?”

“No, I cannot,” you said, scrambling to get out of the way. “Because it’s going to fall. There’s nothing to attach it to yet. You’re ignoring the Head Architect.”

“Don’t be so negative,” he huffed, taking a shuffling step forward.

And that’s when his foot caught on a stray piece of corrugated cardboard. It happened in surreal slow motion. Yuji’s eyes widened in a comical “oh shit” expression. His body, governed by the unyielding laws of momentum and gravity, tilted forward. The heavy vanity top began its descent. And you were directly in its path, still scrambling backward on your hands and knees like a crab in a horror movie, except the crab was losing and there was no dramatic music to make your death seem meaningful.

This was it. Itadori Yuji’s fourth documented attempt on your life. You didn’t even have time to be angry. Your only thought was a detached, almost academic curiosity about whether a particleboard tabletop directly to the skull would be an instant kill or just leave you with a traumatic brain injury and a lifelong fear of Swedish furniture.

Just as the shadow of the falling mirror loomed over you, a hand clamped onto the back of your neck in a decisive grip that yanked you backward. You yelped as your body left the ground. Megumi whipped you out of the way just in time, sending you into a graceless heap a few feet away as the vanity top slammed into the floor where you had been a fraction of a second ago. He had saved your ass. Again. You were really starting to lose count.

CRACK.

The sound was sickeningly loud. A splintering noise followed by the shuddering impact that vibrated through the floorboards. Somewhere in the apartment below, someone’s picture frames probably rattled on their walls.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. 

Then, Nobara shrieked. “MY FÅFÄNGA!” she screamed, leaping off the bed. She stomped over to where Yuji was frozen in horror and brought her foot down, hard, on top of his.

“OW!” Yuji yelped, hopping on one leg.

“You imbecile!” she raged, pointing at a small but noticeable chip on the corner of the pristine white tabletop. “You could have broken it! Do you see that?!"

The mirror was miraculously intact. However, on the corner of the pristine white tabletop was a chip. Small, but visible. A triangle of particleboard now exposed, the coating cracked in a spider-web pattern around the impact point.

“Do you know how long I waited for this to come back in stock?! I will end you, Itadori Yuji! I will disassemble you and sell your organs to pay for a new one!”

“Glad to see you’ve got your priorities straight,” you wheezed, pushing yourself up into a sitting position.

“You’re basically immortal at this point. My vanity is not!”

As Nobara continued to berate him, listing all of his personal failings, his lack of grace, and his general unsuitability for delicate tasks, Yuji barely registered her threats. He made horrified hand gestures in your direction.

“Spices… I’m so sorry… Are you… Oh my god, I almost…” He looked like he was about to be sick.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, holding up your hands demonstratively, “Not a scratch. See? Gumi’s got good reflexes.”

“You were in the way,” Megumi shrugged, trying to play it cool despite the fact that he was sporting the same look he’d had after every real battle, the one that said he was mentally replaying the last thirty seconds and calculating all the ways it could have gone wrong.

“Thanks,” you said, patting his knee. Then, you added because you knew he was worried, “Seriously, I’m okay. It’ll take a whole lot more than a piece of Swedish flat-pack to take me out.”

It was true. You were a creature of pure spite and stubborn resilience. Your enemies had tried everything from curses to assassins to political sabotage. Yuji had tried to kill you with shellfish, motorcycles, and now, home décor. Yet here you were, still breathing, still a menace to society. It was, you thought with a strange sense of pride, your one true talent.

“But do try,” you continued, turning back to Yuji with a pointed look, “to avoid making any other attempts on my life this year, yeah?”

Yuji nodded frantically, still looking green around the edges. 

Nobara had stopped yelling. She was now kneeling beside her wounded furniture, running her fingers over the chip. “I can fix this,” she murmured. “Wood filler. White paint. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.”

The near-miss seemed to shock everyone back into a state of grim productivity. After Yuji had apologized for another ten minutes and Nobara had declared she would be deducting the emotional damages from his share of the pizza budget for the next three months, a fragile truce was formed. 

Yuji, now chastened and twice as careful, followed Megumi’s instructions to the letter. You, having stared death-by-laminate in the face, found a new and profound appreciation for the subtle differences between Screw #103413 and Screw #103414. Even Nobara got off her ass to help, holding pieces steady and offering surprisingly useful input on drawer alignment.

Slowly, painstakingly, the FÅFÄNGA began to take shape. The hours bled together in a haze of particleboard dust, muttered curses, and the repetitive, oddly satisfying squeak of screws tightening into place. The light outside faded from amber to deep purple to the sodium-orange glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. 

Someone’s stomach growled. You weren’t sure whose, possibly all of yours in harmony. The room had grown stuffy. Yuji’s hair was plastered to his forehead. Megumi had stripped down to his t-shirt, his button-up jacket discarded in a corner sometime around hour seven. You’d stopped checking the time because it only made things worse.

When the final drawer was slid into place, it was dark outside. Fully dark. Night had fallen while you were locked in mortal combat with Swedish engineering. 

The vanity table stood in the middle of the room, gleaming and white and beautiful. All eight drawers opened smoothly. The structure was solid and level. It didn’t lean. It didn’t creak ominously. It looked, against all odds and expectations, like something you might actually see in the showroom floor of an IKEA.

It was also, you all noticed simultaneously, not quite finished. Sitting forlornly on the carpet was a small plastic bag containing three screws and a lonely-looking wooden dowel.

“Are those… important?” Yuji asked tentatively.

Megumi picked up the instruction manual, now wrinkled and stained with what might have been sweat or tears, and flipped through the last few pages. His brow furrowed. His eyes scanned the diagrams. His lips pressed into a thin line. 

“I have no idea where these go,” he shrugged.

“But… everything works,” Nobara said, cautiously opening and closing one drawer after another. 

Nothing fell off. The mirror wasn’t wobbly. The structure didn’t emit any concerning creaks or groans. The vanity, by all observable metrics, was functioning exactly as intended.

“Maybe they’re just… extra?” you suggested. “A little gift from the good people at IKEA? A bonus dowel, for your troubles?”

“IKEA does not give gifts,” Megumi said. “They give you existential despair.”

There was another long pause. You all examined the vanity again, circling it like investigators at a crime scene. It did not look like it was missing three crucial screws that would cause the entire structure to spontaneously collapse into a pile of expensive kindling. The mirror reflected your suspicious faces back at you. The drawers sat innocently in their tracks. The legs stood firm against the carpet.

“Well,” Nobara said, breaking the silence with a decisive clap of her hands that made you all jump. “The drawers open. The mirror isn’t cracked. And it looks fabulous. I’m calling it a win.”

And that was that. You all came to a silent agreement. If it works, it works. Don’t ask questions. Don’t go looking for problems. If something seems to be holding together through forces you don’t understand, you accept the miracle and move on. That philosophy had served you all well in both furniture assembly and life as jujutsu sorcerers in general. Sometimes curses didn’t follow the textbook rules. Sometimes techniques worked for reasons nobody could explain. Sometimes the best approach was to nod, smile, and not interrogate the universe too closely about its methods.

“I’m ordering pizza,” Nobara announced, pulling out her phone. “We have bled for this vanity. We have suffered. We have nearly died… Well, Spices nearly died, but we were all traumatized by proxy. We will feast like the victorious warriors we are.”

The pizzas that arrived an hour later were from Pizza Studio Tamaki, a place in Roppongi where the owner had apprenticed in Naples and treated dough with the reverence a Shinto priest might reserve for holy scripture. The delivery person who brought them looked slightly intimidated by the amount of food you’d ordered. Four large pizzas for four people were perhaps excessive by normal standards, but normal standards had no place in a post-IKEA world.

The boxes felt heavier than regular pizza boxes, more substantial, as if the cardboard had been specially selected to be worthy of their contents. They radiated warmth and the kind of smell that bypassed your conscious mind and went straight to the primitive part of your brain that understood comfort on a molecular level. Inside, the pizzas themselves were art. Perfectly blistered crusts, puddles of creamy buffalo mozzarella, San Marzano tomatoes that tasted of sunshine, and prosciutto sliced so thin it was translucent. 

The four of you sat on the floor of Nobara’s bedroom in a loose circle, using the flattened pizza boxes as plates, facing the newly assembled vanity table like it was a sacred altar.  Each bite seemed to repair something in your soul that the FÅFÄNGA had damaged. The day’s frustrations turned into communal satisfaction of a shared ordeal successfully overcome.

“It is beautiful,” Nobara sighed, gazing at the vanity with the love and pride of a new mother. A smear of tomato sauce decorated her chin, but she was too content to care. “So worth the trauma. So worth Tiger Boy nearly committing murder.”

“I said I was sorry,” Yuji mumbled, already on his third slice, cheese stretching between his mouth and his hand.

“You’ll be sorry for years,” Nobara said cheerfully. “I’m never letting you forget this. I’m telling this story at your wedding.”

“I’m not getting married.”

“You will eventually. And I’ll be there. In the front row. With photographic evidence.”

After the last slice was gone (fought over, negotiated for, finally split between you and Yuji) and everyone had lapsed into a carb-induced coma, Yuji stood up, stretched, and cracked his knuckles. “Alright,” he said, shaking out his arms. “Where do you want it?”

“Against the far wall,” Nobara said, pointing languidly from her position lying on her back. “By the window. So the natural light hits it in the morning.”

With the easy strength that had almost been your undoing earlier, he lifted the entire vanity table by himself and carefully carried it over to the spot Nobara indicated, having finally learned his lesson about watching where he walked. He set it down gently, then stepped back to let Nobara inspect the placement.

She got up, circled it, considered the angle relative to her bed, the distance from her closet, the way the window light would fall across it. She made him move it two inches to the left. Then one inch back to the right. Then she declared it perfect.

While Nobara began arranging her extensive collection of beauty products on its surface, you retrieved the small bag of mysterious spare screws from where it had been sitting on the carpet. You found your backpack in the corner where Megumi had set it hours ago, when you all still had hope and energy and an intact sense of your own competence. You dug through the bottomless thing until you got to the roll of heavy-duty packing tape (of course, you had packing tape), and carefully taped the bag to the underside of the vanity, hidden from view.

“What are you doing?” Megumi asked.

“Just in case,” you said, smoothing the tape down. “If something falls off later, we’ll know where to find the right screws to fix it.”

Megumi watched you for a moment longer, then let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire day. He stood up, dusted the pizza crumbs off his pants, and looked at Nobara, who was now humming happily as she organized her lipsticks by color gradient.

“Kugisaki Nobara,” he said, his voice completely flat.

“Hmm?” she replied, not looking away from her task. She was debating between two nearly identical shades of mauve.

“If you ever, ever ask me to assemble another piece of furniture for you again, I will burn your apartment to the ground. And then I’ll summon my dogs to piss on the ashes.”

Nobara grinned, unrepentant. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You say that now, but you know you’d do anything for me. You love me too much.”

Megumi didn’t answer. He just kept glaring. But he didn’t deny it, either. Nobara’s grin widened. She’d won. She always won. She turned back to her lipsticks, humming a pop song and continued her organizational work with renewed vigor.

The ride home was a different experience altogether. It was as if the demon of speed that had possessed Yuji on the way to Nobara’s had been exorcised by the holy rites of IKEA assembly and left in its place a cautious, considerate, and law-abiding citizen. He stuck to the speed limit. He used his turn signals. He left a sensible, parent-approved following distance between his front tire and the bumper of the car ahead. He even stopped completely at stop signs. Completely. Foot down, engine idling, waiting the full three seconds before proceeding. 

The cool night air felt gentle against your face. The bee antennae on your helmet bobbed calmly rather than straining backward in aerodynamic protest. The city lights blurred past at a reasonable pace. This development was so out of character that it was, in its own way, more unnerving than his usual recklessness. A calm Yuji, a careful Yuji, was a suspicious Yuji.

This level of cautious behavior meant only one thing: he was nervous. And there was only one topic in the entire world that could transform Itadori Yuji from a fearless dumbass into a jittery mess of anxiety.

He pulled up in front of your apartment building and cut the engine, just sitting there for a long moment, hands resting on the handlebars, staring straight ahead at the lit entrance of your building. Finally, after what felt like a small eternity, he worked up the courage to speak, turning his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder. 

“Hey Spices,” he began. “I, uh… I need a favor.”

“Shoot,” you said, even though you’d already known before he opened his mouth. Taking off your Bumble-sensei helmet, you ran a hand through your hair, fluffing it back into some semblance of order. 

“My junior high class reunion is coming up. And, well, I got invited,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, like he’d been rehearsing them. “And I know you’re super busy, and you’ve got so much on your plate with work and everything, but I was thinking… It’s been a while since I went back, you know? To Sendai.”

He paused, taking a breath. “I want to visit my grandpa, too. Since Satoshi is here, he can help with the first-years’ training while I’m away, so you don’t have to worry about that part. I already asked him, he said it was fine, so that’s all covered. I just need…”

You looked at his back, at the way his shoulders were tensed up, and your heart ached for him. Yuji carried so much for everyone else, always smiling, always shouldering burdens without complaint. He so rarely asked for anything for himself.

“It’s okay,” you said as you swung your leg over the bike and landed on the solid “You haven’t had time for yourself in a long time. Go. I’ll take care of… things.”

Yuji’s tense shoulders slumped. He took off his helmet and turned around fully to face you with a grateful, wobbly smile on his lips. “Really? You’re sure? Because I can—You don’t have to—if it’s too much—”

“I’m sure,” you confirmed. “I’ve got it. Go see your friends. You deserve a break.”

“I’ll only need a few days,” he said quickly, as if afraid you might change your mind. “I’ll be back by next Monday, I promise! Maybe even Sunday night if I can catch an earlier train!”

Next Monday. That meant he’d be gone for the entire coming weekend. The same weekend as the Gojo clan’s “informal get-together.” The event you’d foolishly, impulsively, and now very much regrettably promised Gojo you would attend with him. The “favor” Yuji was asking now would throw a spectacular wrench directly into the gears of your upcoming week. The idea made your stomach do a slow, unhappy churn. But looking at Yuji’s face so full of hope and relief, there was no other answer you could give. You’d walk through fire for him. 

“Sure,” you smiled. “Fine by me. Take your time.”

Yuji’s face split into his signature thousand-watt beam. “Thank you so much, Spices,” he beamed.  He practically vaulted off the bike and wrapped you in a hug that lifted you clean off your feet.

“You’re the best,” he chirped. “Seriously. The best. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I know,” you replied, hugging him back. “Now put me down before you crush my ribs. I need those. They’re structurally important.”

He released you with a final, enthusiastic squeeze. “I’ll bring you back a souvenir! Something good, I promise. Text me if something happens or if he—”

“Just try to have a good time,” you cut him off, knowing where that sentence was going and not wanting to hear it. 

Yuji nodded, his throat working as he swallowed something that might have been emotion, then got back on his bike, slipping his helmet on. He waved you goodbye over his shoulder and then accelerated down the street, disappearing around the corner in a flash of red taillights and triumphant noise. His good mood had reawakened the speed demon.

You stood on the curb and watched him go. One problem solved, you thought. Another one created. The cosmic balance remained intact. You were going to a Gojo clan party with the “favor” he’d asked.  What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Text

You were tired. Your body ached in several places – your back from contorting yourself to reach impossible screws, your knees from kneeling on the floor for hours. You stumbled into your apartment, ready to collapse onto the nearest horizontal surface and remain there forever. 

But as the door swung open, the silence you expected was filled with something else: The low thrum of a guitar. The notes were simple and clean, weaving a melody that was soft and sweet, tinged with a faint, unnameable melancholy.

You dropped your bee-themed helmet on the shoe rack by the door and toed off your shoes, leaving them in a messy pile instead of arranging them neatly like you usually did because your back was screaming. The music pulled you forward. You padded down the short hallway, your footsteps silent as you made your way into the living room. 

Gojo was there. He was sprawled on one end of your couch, legs crossed comfortably, an acoustic guitar resting in his lap. His blindfold was off, discarded on the coffee table next to a half-empty glass of wine. His eyes were closed. His head was tilted slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration as his fingers moved with a gentle confidence over the fretboard. His hair was still damp from a shower, clinging to his temples and the nape of his neck. A single drop of water broke free from a lock of hair and traced a slow path down his neck, soaking into the dark fabric of his t-shirt. He was so completely absorbed in the melody that he hadn’t even registered your arrival.  

As usual, though, you couldn’t stay undetected around Gojo for long. His fingers stilled on the strings and those striking eyes fluttered open, immediately finding yours.

“There you are,” he smiled, moving to put the guitar down. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Before he could get to his feet, you crossed the living room in three quick strides and placed your hands on his shoulders, firmly pushing him back down into the plush cushions of the couch. He let out a soft “oof” but made no move to resist. The air around him smelled of steam and the scent of your body wash. Of course, he’d used yours. The man had no concept of personal property when it came to your things.

“Just stay there,” you said.

Gojo complied, relaxing back against the cushions and readjusting the guitar in his lap.  “Rough day?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in your disheveled state.

“You have no idea,” you groaned, dropping your backpack to the floor. Then you collapsed onto the couch next to him, sinking into the cushions with a groan of profound relief. The couch had never felt so comfortable. You might never leave it.

“Did you at least have dinner?”

“Nobara ordered pizza from that place in Roppongi you like. I think my blood is now ninety percent cheese and artisanal olive oil.”

“Good,” he chuckled. “That’s the ideal blood composition, actually. Very healthy. I read a study about it.”

“You did not.”

“But it should be true.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

“So,” Gojo said, angling his body toward you. “What kind of trouble did you all get into? Got banned from any new establishments? Should I be expecting repair bills?”

“I’ll have you know we were perfectly well-behaved,” you announced indignantly. “We stayed in and participated in a wholesome team-building activity. Like responsible adults.”

“Uh-huh,” he snickered. “And this ‘wholesome activity’ wouldn’t happen to involve property damage or minor felonies, would it?”

“Okay, there might have been some minor property damage and one murder attempt,” you conceded, fishing your phone from your pocket. “But that was Yuji’s fault. Look, I’ve got photographic evidence.”

You started scrolling through your camera roll, a digital chronicle of the day’s descent into madness. Gojo leaned in closer, his chin practically resting on your shoulder. 

“Right, so here’s where it all started,” you said, showing him a picture of the massive IKEA box. In the photo, Nobara stood beside it with one foot propped on top, striking a victory pose. Megumi was just a blur of dark hair in the corner, trying to escape the frame. 

“Look at her,” Gojo said, his voice warm with barely suppressed laughter. “So full of hope.”

“We were all fools,” you said solemnly.

You swiped to the next picture. It was a selfie of you. In the background, out of focus but still visible, you could see Megumi and Yuji locked in what appeared to be a philosophical disagreement over the correct application of a wooden dowel. Megumi was holding the instruction manual, pointing at it aggressively, while Yuji was just holding up the dowel, looking baffled.

“Ah,” Gojo said sagely. “The point where it all goes wrong. Standard IKEA protocol, usually hits around Step 5.”

“This was Step 2,” you replied grimly. “One hour in. We hadn’t even gotten to the complicated parts yet. Morale was beginning to waver. Alliances were being tested. The structural integrity of our friendship was showing early signs of stress fractures.”

Gojo’s shoulders shook with laughter.

You swiped again. This one was your masterpiece. You’d switched to the wide-angle lens to capture the full scope of the disaster. You were making a face that was somewhere between a grimace and a cry for help. In the background, a blur of motion showed Nobara’s hand about to connect with the back of Yuji’s head. You could almost hear the smack just from looking at it. Yuji’s expression, visible in profile, showed the dawning realization that impact was imminent and unavoidable.

“Here we have our Project Manager,” you narrated. “She was implementing some... hands-on performance feedback with the Manual Labor Department.”

“Looks effective,” Gojo observed.

“It was. We had to take the whole thing apart and start over after this.”

Gojo threw his head back and laughed heartily. It was one of your favorite sounds in the world.

You showed him a few more: A picture of a single screw on the carpet with the caption “The Enemy.” A shot of Megumi in his cat-themed apron, which made Gojo laugh so hard he had to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. A Boomerang of Yuji repeatedly trying and failing to fit a drawer into its slot.

Finally, you got to the last photo, the victory shot, taken while you waited for pizza delivery. Nobara sat regally at the completed vanity. The rest of you were crowded around her. Yuji gave a double thumbs-up. Megumi looked like he had stared into the void and the void had stared back, offering him a tiny, useless Allen key. And you… you looked like you’d just survived a natural disaster, your eyes were wide and haunted, throwing up a peace sign with a hand that was visibly trembling.

Gojo nudged your arm with his elbow. “You’re sending me all of these, right?”

“Already on it,” you said, selecting the photos and sending them to him. His phone buzzed on the coffee table a second later.

You slumped there for another minute. Your head felt heavy, your eyelids even heavier. You could probably fall asleep right here, leaning against Gojo, and it would be the best sleep you’d had in weeks. But you were covered in a fine layer of IKEA dust, dried sweat, and existential despair.

“I need a shower,” you declared, pushing yourself up from the couch with a groan. Every joint in your body filed formal complaints. “Keep that guitar handy. I want to hear the rest of whatever you were playing when I’m done.”

Gojo smiled up at you. “Deal.”

As you walked out of the room, you glanced back over your shoulder. He was watching you go. He didn’t look away until you’d turned the corner, and even then, you could feel his eyes on your back. The guitar played a single soft chord, then another, the melody picking up where it had left off.

When you returned in the comforting embrace of your favorite sleepwear, you had a fresh towel draped over your arm. Gojo was still in the same spot, his focus returned to the instrument in his lap.

He’d picked up the guitar sometime during his high school days. Geto had been the one to teach him the basic chords at first. But Gojo, being the competitive show-off he was, couldn’t just be good at something. He had to be the best. It was pathological, maybe, or maybe just who he was at his core: someone who couldn’t accept limitations. He’d thrown himself into learning, practicing every day, studying music theory, listening to recordings, and before long, he’d surpassed Geto. It was a recurring theme in their friendship, you supposed.

For Gojo, the guitar was an artifact of his youth, a repository of his best memories and the home of a wound that refused to fully heal. It was the laughter of a friend he’d once loved more than anything, the weight of a loss that had reshaped his entire world. These days, he didn’t play often. He only picked up the guitar when something was truly weighing on his mind, when he needed a way to process things that even you, despite your best efforts, couldn’t help him with.

You perched on the arm of the couch, watching him for a moment as his fingers danced over the strings. Then, you took the towel from your arm and unceremoniously dropped it on top of his head. He flinched, startled out of his musical trance, but he didn’t stop playing.

“What’s this?” Gojo asked. You could hear the smile in his question.

“Serious business,” you replied, and began the meticulous work of drying his hair.

Going to bed with damp hair wasn’t going to kill him, obviously. He wouldn’t get a cold. In fact, due to some infuriating genetic quirk, he’d probably wake up the next morning with his hair looking perfect and effortlessly styled. 

Still, you enjoyed taking care of him. These simple acts were a tangible expression of the things you couldn’t always say out loud. Of the feelings that lived in your chest, too big and complicated and terrifying to name, that would sound absurd if you tried to voice them. So instead, they manifested in your hands and attention and the space you made for him in your life.

And Gojo, for his part, seemed to crave the attention. He was so often the caregiver, the protector, the strongest person in the room responsible for everyone else. These were the moments he could let someone else take care of him, when he could be the one receiving instead of giving. He leaned toward you, bowing his head to make it easier for you to reach.

You took your time, making sure to get the hair at his nape and around his ears, where it always seemed to dry last. Your fingers worked through the strands section by section, methodical and thorough, the way you approached most things worth doing. The towel grew damper. His hair fluffed up under your attention, standing up in soft white tufts that made him look like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. It would settle into perfect style in a few minutes, because the universe loved him that way.

As you worked, he started playing again, more intentionally, humming along with the melody now. It was the same one you’d heard when you first walked in, something he’d been working on, on and off, for as long as you could remember. You’d catch fragments of it at the oddest moments: him humming it while he was cooking, spatula in hand and that faraway look in his eyes, or tapping out the rhythm on his steering wheel when he was driving. It would appear for a few weeks, then disappear for months at a stretch, always a little different, a little more complete each time it returned.

Once his hair was reasonably dry, no longer dripping but just cool to the touch, you set the towel aside, draping it over the back of the couch where it would inevitably slide off later and end up on the floor. This was the natural order of things in your apartment. Gojo had progressed from humming to singing quietly under his breath, the words emerging so softly they were barely more than shaped air, syllables you could sense more than hear. 

Curiosity finally got the better of you. “Did you write lyrics for this?” you asked, trying to sound casual about it, like you hadn’t been wondering for months.

“Mm. Just messing around with some ideas,” he admitted, his fingers never stopping their dance across the strings.

You could see a faint flush creeping up his neck. The tips of his ears went pink. Actually pink, which was frankly adorable. Was he… embarrassed? Gojo Satoru, who had never met a spotlight he didn’t like, was actually embarrassed about his songwriting? And then his eyes fluttered open and they sparkled with that particular light that meant he’d just had an idea and you weren’t going to like it. 

“Actually,” he said, drawing the word out. “Want to help me finish them?”

You blinked. “What? No. I can’t write lyrics.”

You were good with words, yes. Good at analyzing them, breaking them down into component parts to find the hidden meanings and intentions, the subtext beneath the text. Good at deploying them strategically, using the right phrase at the right time to get what you wanted, to defuse situations or escalate them depending on what was needed. That was what made you good at both therapy and politics, two fields that were, when you got right down to it, mostly the same thing with different dress codes.

You were excellent at reading fine print, at catching the implications in contracts and proposals that other people missed. You even outclassed Takaba Fumihiko when it came to puns and dad jokes, which was saying something considering the man’s technique literally ran on comedy.

But lyrics? Poetry set to music? That kind of creative expression that came from somewhere deeper than strategy or analysis? That was just… impossible. That required something you weren’t sure you had.

“Why not?” Gojo asked, his tone reasonable, like he was asking why you wouldn’t try a new flavor of ice cream rather than why you wouldn’t expose your creative inadequacy. “You write all those reports and proposals that actually get people to do things. And your pop quiz questions are genuinely terrifying. That takes talent. Real creative sadism.”

“Sensei,” you laughed, sliding off the armrest to sit properly beside him on the couch. “Writing a strategically-worded petition for increased funding for the Department of Education is not the same as writing a song. I can’t write lyrics. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Sure you do,” he insisted stubbornly. “You start at the beginning. You write what you feel.”

“I feel like I would be terrible at writing song lyrics,” you said dryly.

“Come on, Spices,” he coaxed, turning his full attention on you. “Just try. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t even have to be good. We just have to try. Together.”

Together.

You looked at his handsome face, so bright with hope and excitement that your resolve began to crumble. You were powerless against that look. You always had been. It was a fundamental weakness in your character that Gojo had long since learned to exploit shamelessly.

“Fine,” you grumbled, trying to sound reluctant even as something in your chest warmed at the prospect of creating something together. “But I’m telling you right now, it’s going to be shit.”

“It won’t,” Gojo grinned brightly. “It’ll be perfect because we’re doing it together.” 

The declaration was so sincere that you had to look away before you did something stupid like tear up over song lyrics you hadn’t even written yet. You fetched your battered notebook and your best pen, then settled beside him. Opening the notebook to a fresh page, you found the blank white space staring at you, intimidating and full of potential for failure. Your hand hovered over the page, pen poised, frozen with performance anxiety.

Gojo started playing the first few notes of the melody, the opening bars you’d heard when you first came home, but stopped when he saw how you were clutching your pen.

“Hey,” he said softly, setting one hand on the guitar to still the strings. His other hand reached out and gently patted your white-knuckled grip. “Don’t think so hard. There are no right or wrong answers here. It’s not a test.” After a pause, he added, “Sometimes, it’s okay to just take the first step and see where the road leads.”

His fingers brushed over the back of your hand. The reassuring gesture made some of the tension in your shoulders dissolve. You took a breath and loosened your grip on the pen.

“I’ll go first,” he offered, understanding without being told that you needed something to follow before you could forge your own path. A template. A pattern. Something to show you it was possible.

Gojo repositioned his fingers on the fretboard and began the song again, from the very beginning. The simple, sweet notes filled the room, and this time, he sang along.

“Why does the sun rise every morning? Why do we need air to breathe…?”

The world stopped. Your eyes blurred. The pen nearly slipped from your fingers. Your breath caught in your throat, trapped there by the sudden pressure in your chest.

You recognized those words. They weren’t just lyrics he’d come up with on the spot, weren’t just placeholder phrases he was testing out to see how they sounded with the melody. Those were the exact words he’d said during a difficult conversation you’d had years ago. You’d asked him why he’d picked you up from the wreckage of your life, taken care of you, kept you around when even your own parents hadn’t wanted you, when you were nothing special, when you brought nothing but complications and expense and risk to his life, when you’d been convinced you were fundamentally unlovable.

Gojo had looked at you like the question itself was absurd, like the answer was so obvious it didn’t need stating. But he’d stated it anyway, “I don’t know, Spices. Why does the sun rise every morning? Why do we need air to breathe? Why do I keep thinking about you when I’m away on missions? What new treat should I bring back for you this time?”

Because some things just are. Because some things don’t need justification or explanation. Because some things exist outside the realm of logic and reason, in that space where the heart makes decisions the brain can’t articulate.

Gojo still remembered. After all these years, after all the battles and the politics and the endless stream of crises, he still remembered that conversation. He’d kept those words, had carried them with him, had woven them into music.

His voice had trailed off into a hum as he continued to strum. The melody transitioned into the next section, a progression of chords that felt hopeful, reaching toward something unnamed. The music asked questions his voice hadn’t finished asking. He looked at you, his eyes patient and encouraging.

Your heart was doing something wild and painful in your chest. Your fingers found their way to the familiar weight of the platinum bracelet on your wrist, tracing the arrowhead pattern engraved in the metal, the sharp angles and clean lines that you’d memorized through thousands of anxious repetitions. 

You listened to his advice. You didn’t think, or at least, you attempted not to think, tried to shut off that part of your brain that wanted to analyze and strategize and find the perfect combination of words. You didn’t try to be clever or poetic. You just looked at him, at the man who had seen you at your most broken and had never once turned away. The man who’d given you a home when you had nowhere to go, who’d believed in you when you couldn’t believe in yourself, who’d become so woven into the fabric of your life that you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

You opened your mouth, and you sang the first words that came into your head, your voice a little unsteady: 

“Why do rivers always find the sea? Why do you feel like home to me?”

You continued, your voice gaining a little more confidence as the words found their rhythm, fitting themselves into the spaces Gojo had left for them in the melody. 

“These are the things I never questioned. Before I knew you, before I knew me…”

The confession slipped out before you could second-guess it, before your brain could catch up and stop you from being quite so transparent. Gojo’s fingers stumbled for just a fraction of a second, so briefly anyone else might have missed it, but you caught it. You always caught the small things with him. His expression remained encouraging as he smoothly recovered, transitioning into the chorus, singing his part, the melody swelling:

“And I would search a thousand lifetimes, just to find my way back to your side…”

The line soared with longing and devotion. He held the last note, letting it ring out and fade naturally, and then he looked at you, his eyes bright, waiting for you to complete it

Your mind went blank. Nothing. Just static. Just the pounding of your heart and the awareness of him looking at you. Panic fluttered in your throat

You scribbled the first two verses down in your notebook, trying to buy yourself time. The chorus needed a response, a continuation of his thought. What was the other half of that sentiment? What did you say to someone who’d search a thousand lifetimes for you? What was equal to that kind of devotion? How did you match that without sounding trite or cliché or like a greeting card?

“Just to find my way… something something…” you trailed off, frustrated, with your inability to conjure words when you needed them most. You made an annoyed gesture with your pen. “That’s not playing fair, sensei. Nothing good rhymes with ‘side’. You’ve set me up for failure.”

“Oh really?” His eyes sparkled with amusement as he started listing words. “Hide, tide, ride, guide, wide, pride,…”

He was showing off now, the syllables rolling off his tongue easily, proving his point with the thoroughness of someone who couldn’t resist being right. It was part of his charm, if you were feeling generous. Part of his insufferableness if you weren’t.

“Just to find my way back to your tide? That makes no sense. It sounds like I’m a boat. A very needy boat that can’t navigate properly.”

“What about ‘guide’?” he suggested.

“Just to find my way back to your guide?” You shook your head. “Now I sound like a lost tourist. ‘Excuse me, sir, I seem to have misplaced my guide, have you seen him? He’s very tall and has terrible taste in sunglasses.’”

“Okay, what about ‘ride’?”

“That sounds—no. We’re not putting that in a song. That’s not the kind of song this is.”

“‘Wide’?” he offered, attempting innocence and failing spectacularly.

“Just to find my way back to your wide?” You made a face. “Your wide what?”

Gojo was fully grinning now, clearly enjoying your struggle far too much. “You’re overthinking it, Spices.”

“I’m thinking exactly the right amount!” you insisted, gesturing with your pen again for emphasis. “You can’t just throw rhyming words at a song and hope they stick. They have to mean something. They have to make sense in context.”

“Do they?” His tone was teasing, but there was something else underneath it, something gentler. “Or do they just have to feel right?”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. Damn him. He had a point, and he knew it, and he knew that you knew he knew it.

“Fine,” you muttered, looking back down at your notebook, at the incomplete chorus staring up at you. “Let me think.”

He played the chorus melody again, more slowly, giving you space to feel it instead of just hear it.

You closed your eyes, shutting out the visual world. It wasn’t just about finding your way back, you realized. It was about what you found when you got there, what waited at the end of all that searching. It was about safety. It was about light.

You opened your eyes, reached for your notebook, and scribbled a few words in the margin, crossed them out, then tried again. You sang the line softly, testing the syllables against the music. 

“I’d cross the darkest oceans wide… To be the place you come to hide… No, that’s not right, either. The second line sounds creepy. Like I’m a closet.”

Gojo laughed again, and this time, you found yourself smiling with him. The pressure you’d felt was beginning to ease, replaced by the simple fun of playing this game with him. He started the chorus one more time:

“And I would search a thousand lifetimes, just to find my way back to your side…”

You took a breath and sang, your voice a little stronger this time:

“A million miles and a world so wide… Just to be the one who stands inside… Your light.”

There. That felt right. Not a perfect rhyme, but it felt emotionally true, and maybe that mattered more than technical perfection. Maybe the heart of the thing was more important than its construction.

Gojo seemed to agree. His fingers flowed into the next verse, a bridge that felt different from the rest, quieter, more introspective. He sang the first two lines, his voice dropping to an almost-whisper.

“We built these walls up, stone by stone… A fortress we could call our own…”

It was your turn again. The fortress. You understood what he meant. The years of shared secrets, unspoken understandings, the bubble of your own private universe. You looked at the notebook, the lyrics starting to fill the page, words crossed out and circled and connected with arrows. You thought about the years spent in the shadows, being the sword to his shield, the hidden hand that moved pieces on the board while he stood in the spotlight. About the sacrifices and the quiet victories that no one else would ever know. The words came, rising from somewhere deep:

“You were the secret I kept safe inside… The only truth I couldn’t hide…”

Gojo’s fingers stilled on the strings, the music stopping abruptly. He looked at you, his blue eyes so unguarded it felt like you were staring directly into his soul. For a moment, you thought he was going to say something. But then he just took a slow breath and started playing again, moving into the final, soaring part of the song.

He didn’t sing this time. He just played the melody, giving you the space to finish the story. The music was a question, an invitation, a hand held out in the dark. This was the final verse. The conclusion. Where did the road lead from here? Where did you want it to lead?

You looked down at your bracelet. You thought about tangerines and late-night conversations, all the million tiny moments that had built this indefinable thing between you. For years, you had walked a careful path alongside him. Never too close, never too far. A perfect, sustainable, and agonizing orbit. But orbits decay. Paths converge. Sometimes you spend so long watching your feet, making sure you don’t stumble, that you forget to look up until you’ve already arrived at your destination.

Your voice, when you sang, was steady, clearer than it had been all night. The words emerged fully-formed, as if they’d been waiting all this time for you to find them. Each line was a step closer to something you’d been circling for years, spiraling inward toward a center you’d been too frightened to examine.

“And all this time we’ve walked the line… Your hand in mine, a silent sign…”

You hesitated, your own heart thrumming in time with the music. The next part was the hardest. It was the leap of faith. The step off the ledge into empty air. It was everything you’d been too scared to say, too afraid to even think. You scribbled furiously in your notebook, the words pouring out faster than you could write them down.

“We’ve reached the place where our roads meet… So take my heart, it’s yours to keep.”

There it was. The offering. The truth.

The final note from the guitar was a shimmering chord that seemed to hold all the years and all the unspoken feelings within it. Gojo let it ring out, fade naturally, the sound waves rippling through the room and then dissipating into silence.

You didn’t dare to look at him. You stared down at the notebook, at the words you had just written in increasingly illegible handwriting. Your hand was shaking. Your mouth was dry. You wondered if you’d just made a terrible mistake

After a moment, he spoke. “Let’s sing it again. From the top.”

You nodded, still not looking up, not trusting yourself to meet his eyes.

Gojo started the song again, and this time, you sang it together. Your voices, so different in pitch and timbre, found a harmony you hadn’t expected. Something that shouldn’t have worked but did anyway, the way mismatched things sometimes fit together better than pieces designed to match. His voice, clear and strong, carrying the melody; yours, softer and more textured, weaving around his like ivy around a trellis. The lyrics weren’t just words on a page anymore. They were a conversation, a confession, a shared history set to music.

When the last note faded for the second time, the silence that followed was different. It was full. Full of everything that had just been said, everything that had just been felt.

“What do you want to call it?” you asked.

Instead of answering, Gojo gently took the pen from your hand. He leaned over, and in your notebook, at the top of the page filled with your messy, frantic scrawl, he wrote down: Forever and Some More.

“Forever and some more,” you repeated.

“Yeah,” Gojo said. “That sounds about right.”

You sat there together on your couch, his guitar forgotten beside him, your notebook open in your lap, the song complete between you. Slowly, you turned your head to look at him and found he had been looking at you the whole time. He hadn’t leaned back or shifted away to create distance. If anything, he’d leaned in even more.

Your faces were close. Too close. So close that the rest of the room blurred into soft focus, leaving only him sharp and clear and overwhelming in your field of vision. You could see the flecks of a darker blue in the brilliant cyan of his irises and the faint constellation of freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. His breath was a warm whisper against your skin, smelling faintly of wine. Your noses were almost touching, separated by an inch of charged air.

Some distant, logical part of your brain began screaming. It was a far-off alarm bell ringing in a room you’d already evacuated. This was the danger zone. This was the line. This was the precise point in every similar interaction over the past years where one of you would pull back. Usually him. Almost always him, actually.

Gojo always pulled back. 

Ever since that disastrous training session under the rain, all the way back when you were seventeen and impulsive and thought that threatening him with nudity was a perfectly reasonable combat strategy. You still remembered the phantom chill of the air, cold rain soaking through your clothes, plastering your hair to your face. The sudden awareness that had flared between you, the realization that you were standing too close, breathing too hard. You remembered the abruptness of his retreat, the way he’d stumbled backward. The invisible wall he’d erected between you that day, he’d meticulously maintained ever since. 

Gojo was the master of creating space when there was none, of injecting a joke into a moment that had grown too heavy, of finding a reason to stand up, to move away, to check his phone – oh, look, a text message that couldn’t wait. He’d answer a non-existent call, the phone pressed to his ear while he paced to the other side of the room, having an animated one-sided conversation with nobody, while you sat there knowing what he was doing and why. He’d suddenly remember something that needed his attention or a meeting he was supposedly late for, even though you both knew his calendar was clear. He’d come up with literally anything that would give him an excuse to remove himself from proximity to you.

He’d hug you freely, carry you when you were drunk or tired. He’d tease you daily and mercilessly, would invade your space and steal your food and use your shower and fall asleep on your shoulder during long car rides. He’d do all of that, but he would never, ever let himself cross that line. The line you were both standing on right now, actually.

But not tonight. Tonight, he stayed. He held your gaze, his lips parted as if he were on the verge of speaking but had forgotten the words. Or maybe he’d never known them to begin with. Maybe there weren’t words for this.

Maybe your brain had checked out for the day. It had clocked in at 11 AM for a battle with Swedish engineering, endured a near-death experience, and had just been subjected to an intense collaborative songwriting session that felt suspiciously like a therapy session where you were both the patient and the doctor. The system was overloaded. All higher cognitive functions were offline. Your usual programming of self-preservation and emotional distance had crashed. Blue screen of death. Fatal error. The backup generators had failed to kick in.

Maybe there was a curse in the air vents, you thought with slight hysteria. Some special grade entity that fed on common sense and good judgment and left its victims prone to spectacularly bad life choices. That seemed plausible. It was certainly a more comforting explanation than the alternative: that you were about to do something incredibly reckless, entirely of your own free will, with full awareness of the consequences.

Gojo still wasn’t pulling back. And for some reason you couldn’t fathom, you weren’t either.

Spurred on by the accumulated recklessness of the day, fueled by the words you’d just written, the truth you’d just sung into existence and couldn’t take back now, you made a decision. Or maybe the decision made itself. Maybe it had been made years ago, and you were just now acting on it.

You closed the distance and pressed your lips firmly to his. The kiss was decisive. You committed fully to the action, the way you committed to everything once you’d made a decision: all in, consequences be damned.

For an eternal second, there was only the soft, warm pressure of his lips against yours. They were just as you’d always imagined they would be: perfect. Gojo went completely still, every muscle in his body locking up simultaneously. His eyes, which had been half-lidded and heavy, widened in surprise. He looked stunned, as though he couldn’t quite process what was happening, as if the reality of your mouth on his was so far outside his expectations that his entire worldview needed recalibrating.

That was when the alarms in your head, the ones that had been ringing faintly in the distance, suddenly became a full-blown, five-alarm fire siren directly in your ear.

Oh God. Oh fuck. What have I done?

The panic hit. Your stomach dropped through the floor. Ice water flooded your veins.

You’d misread the signs. You’d misinterpreted the song, the closeness, the look in his eyes that you’d thought was longing but was probably just... what? Friendship? Affection? The kind of love that didn’t involve mouths? You’d seen what you wanted to see instead of what was actually there. You’d projected your own feelings onto him and convinced yourself they were mutual when they clearly, obviously, painfully weren’t.

Perhaps he did love you, in his way, but not that way. Not the way that made you want to kiss him stupid and wake up next to him and build a life that was more than parallel lines that never quite touched. You’d taken a decade of trust and companionship and set it on fire because you couldn’t control your own stupid, selfish heart for one more goddamn minute. Because you couldn’t be content with what you had, had to reach for more, had to ruin everything by wanting things you had no right to want.

The mortification was so intense it felt physical, a hot flush that started in your chest and raced up your neck to your face until you knew you must be bright red. You probably looked like a tomato. A stupid, impulsive tomato.

Your mind scrambled desperately for an escape route, for any way to undo what you’d just done, and failing that, any way to remove yourself from this situation before you had to witness Gojo’s rejection, before you had to hear him stammer out some explanation about how he valued you as family, how he didn’t see you that way, how this was a mistake.

You could run. You should run. You were good at running, both literally and metaphorically. You had your go bag packed and sitting in your closet just in case. You could be out the door in three seconds. In a taxi in five minutes, less if you ran really fast. At the airport by midnight, on the first international flight you could book with your phone, destination irrelevant as long as it was far away.

You could start a new life in another country. Tibet, maybe. You heard it was nice there, peaceful, isolated, full of mountains you could hide behind. You could join a monastery. Shave your head. Take a vow of silence so you’d never have to talk about this, never have to explain to anyone why you’d fled Japan in the middle of the night. “Venerable Spices of the High Mountains” sounded very dignified. You’d make it your new career goal.

You were approximately one second from activating your escape plan when the pen Gojo was still holding dropped from his fingers, clattering unheard onto the hardwood floor. Then, his arms were around you. One hand slid around your waist, pulling you from your seat on the couch until you were half-sprawled across his lap, your weight supported by his thighs and his arm. The other came up to cradle the back of your head, his long fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place, not trapping you, but reassuring you. A hand that said stay, don’t run, I’ve got you.

And he kissed you back.

The kiss was as soft and sweet as his ballad, as tender as the melody that had started all of this. It was a question and an answer all at once: is this okay? yes, this is okay, this is more than okay, this is everything. His lips moved against yours tentatively. He tilted his head, deepening the angle just a fraction, and you responded instinctively, your own lips parting on a shared breath. You could taste the wine on his tongue, could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, surprise or pleasure or relief, you couldn’t tell. The vibration of it traveled through your entire body.

You melted against him, all the tension draining away as you surrendered to the sensation. Your hands, which had been frozen at your sides, found their way to his shoulders, gripping the soft fabric of his shirt. The calloused tips of his fingers traced a gentle pattern on your scalp, little circles and swirls that made you press closer, that transformed this from a kiss into a conversation conducted entirely through touch and breath and the small sounds neither of you could quite suppress. His other hand pressed more firmly against your lower back, pulling you closer still, eliminating what little space remained between your bodies until you could feel the heat of him through your clothes, could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

The panic in your chest dissolved into a feeling so vast and overwhelming it had no name, so big it couldn’t fit inside your ribcage, expanding until you thought you might burst with it. It was bigger than happiness, deeper than relief, more complicated than simple joy. It felt, more than anything, like peace. The kind of profound, settled peace that came from knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be, with exactly who you were meant to be with.

When Gojo finally, reluctantly, drew back, it was only by an inch. Maybe less. Just enough to breathe, to see each other’s faces, not nearly enough to feel like separation. Your foreheads came to rest against each other. You were both breathing a little too fast, your chests rising and falling in unison.

“Sensei,” you breathed, the word slipping out automatically, unconsciously, the way it always did.

“I haven’t been your teacher in years,” Gojo reminded, the words a familiar refrain, one he’d said so many times before.

Suddenly, a fresh wave of panic seized you, different from the first one but no less intense, no less terrifying.  This wasn’t the panic of thinking you’d misread the situation. This was the panic of realizing you’d read it right, and now you had to deal with the consequences.

The line had been crossed. The ambiguity of your relationship, the plausible deniability you had clung to for so long, the ability to tell yourself and anyone who asked that you were just friends, just close colleagues, just two people who happened to spend an inordinate amount of time together, had been reduced to ashes in a single moment. 

There was no going back. The cat was out of the bag. The genie was out of the bottle. Pick your metaphor. The point was, this was irreversible. There was no justification for this. No acceptable social script. Friends, even the closest of friends who shared apartments and trauma and inside jokes, did not kiss each other on the mouth. With tongue.

So what did this make you? What did this mean? What happened now? The questions swirled in your head. Your whole body tensed. 

“Oh no,” you heard yourself say. “This is... this is a very bad idea.”

“Is it?” Gojo asked, seemingly unbothered, but you could feel the subtle tension in his posture as he registered your rising anxiety. “Do you regret it?”

The question was absurd. You didn’t regret it. How could you regret something that had felt like the most right thing you’d done in years, maybe ever? You’d die happy now. You could walk out of this apartment, get hit by a bus, and your last thought would probably be, “Well, at least I got to kiss Gojo Satoru.” 

You couldn’t say that out loud, though. That would be too desperate. And creepy. And would make him think you had some sort of elaborate shrine to him hidden in your closet, which wasn’t entirely untrue. There was that box of photos and mushroom keychains and silly trinkets and the shirt he’d left behind that one time that you’d kept longer than was socially acceptable and maybe a few strands of his hair you’d found on the couch and saved. But he didn’t need to know about that.

So, you just shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “Of course not. I don’t regret anything. It’s just… This complicates things. I mean, we really shouldn’t… You're... you. And I'm... me. And you still need to get married… And obviously I can’t… I’m not even…”

Your anxious rambling about clan politics, social expectations, and the general impossibility of your situation was cut short by the feeling of his lips on yours again. The quick peck silenced you more effectively than any words could have. Your brain stuttered to a halt, derailed completely by the simple press of his mouth against yours. A slow grin spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The glint of mischief was back, bright and dazzling and completely unapologetic.

“You might be right,” he conceded, his tone deceptively serious, though his eyes were dancing with mirth. “It could be a very, very bad idea. Possibly the worst decision either of us has ever made, and we’ve both made some spectacularly bad decisions.” He leaned in a fraction of an inch, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But based on my preliminary data, I’m not entirely convinced yet. I think we might need to test it a few more times. Just to be certain, you know?”

Then, as if to demonstrate his commitment to rigorous methodology, he gave you another peck on the lips. And another on the tip of your nose. And one more on your forehead for good measure. The shameless audacity was so quintessentially Gojo that you couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled up out of you, starting as a choked little gasp and then spilling out. It shook your shoulders, made your chest feel lighter, pushed out some of the anxiety that had been crushing your lungs. The panic receded, chased away by the sheer ridiculousness of the man in front of you. 

Gojo was right. Maybe you did need to try it a few more times. To gather more data for a comprehensive risk-benefit analysis. To test the hypothesis under varying conditions. To ensure reproducibility of results. Who were you to argue with science? You’d always been a fan of empirical evidence. More testing was clearly required. It would be irresponsible not to be thorough.

You both leaned in at the same time, the laughter still lingering on your lips as they met again. And you kissed again, slower this time, tasting the shape of each other’s smiles. And again. And again. Just to be completely sure, of course. But also to make up for all the years you hadn’t, for all the moments you had pulled back, for all the time you’d wasted being careful and scared and convinced this could never happen. 

Each kiss was a little deeper, a little longer than the last. Each was a story. One for the tangerines. Another for the shared laughter over terrible rom-coms. A deeper one for the unspoken fears and shared nightmares.

You were home. Finally. After years of wandering, you were home. Not your apartment, though you were sitting on your couch surrounded by your things. Home was this: his arms around you, his heartbeat steady under your palm, his breath mixing with yours, his smile against your lips.

Forever, and maybe a little more.

Forever and Some More

Verse 1:

Why does the sun rise every morning?

Why do we need air to breathe?

Why do rivers always find the sea?

Why do you feel like home to me?

Pre-Chorus:

These are the things I never questioned

Before I knew you, before I knew me

Chorus:

And I would search a thousand lifetimes

Just to find my way back to your side

Cross a million miles and a world so wide

Just to be the one who stands inside your light

Verse 2:

We built these walls up, stone by stone

A fortress we could call our own

You were the secret I kept safe inside

The only truth I couldn’t hide

Chorus:

And I would search a thousand lifetimes

Just to find my way back to your side

Cross a million miles and a world so wide

Just to be the one who stands inside your light

Bridge:

And all this time we’ve walked the line

Your hand in mine, a silent sign

We’ve reached the place where our roads meet

So take my heart, it’s yours to keep

Outro:

I’d search a thousand lifetimes more

Just to find what I’ve been looking for

A million miles to your shore

You’re what forever’s for

Chapter Text

You’d politely gone to your separate beds last night like two well-behaved teenagers at a chaperoned dance, because doing more felt like tempting fate. It felt like asking for too much, like being greedy after the universe had already granted you an impossible wish. You had a distinct, irrational fear that disrupting the fragile cosmic balance any further would trigger the apocalypse. Or at the very least, cause some minor deity who’d been paying attention to smite you for your audacity. You imagined them up there, finger poised over the smiting button, just waiting for you to push your luck.

Gojo hadn’t pushed for more, either, which was likely a sign that he, too, suspected the universe was watching. He’d walked you to your bedroom door, pressed one last kiss to your forehead, and whispered a “goodnight” that sounded thicker, rougher, and more full of feeling than the word had any right to be. You were grateful for his restraint, really, even if part of you’d wanted to drag him into your room.

Despite your exhaustion, sleep had been elusive. You’d tossed and turned, your mind replaying the first kiss on an endless loop. His initial surprise, the softness of his lips, the taste of wine and hope. It had all felt too good to be real. You’d eventually drifted off, only to wake up in a cold sweat before dawn, gripped by a primal terror.

For a disorienting moment, you couldn’t remember why you were scared. Then it all came flooding back. Holy fuck. You’d really done it. 

Kissing Gojo Satoru had felt like a violation of some fundamental law of the universe. Not the minor regulations, either. This was up there with dividing by zero, or successfully folding a fitted sheet on the first try, or finding both socks after doing laundry. It was something that wasn’t supposed to happen in this reality. By doing it, you were convinced you’d thrown the entire cosmos out of alignment. Your one moment of happiness had certainly caused a tear in the fabric of spacetime. A butterfly had flapped its wings in your living room and somewhere, a continent was sinking into the ocean. This was all your fault.

It sure felt like it, anyway. What else could explain the way the world seemed both brighter and infinitely more fragile this morning?

You lay frozen in your bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for divine retribution. After five minutes of this (the universe, apparently, was taking its time), you cautiously swung your legs out of bed. The floorboards didn’t crumble beneath your feet into some howling void. The walls of your apartment didn’t dissolve into primordial chaos. The sun was shining through your window with an almost offensive cheerfulness, as if it had no idea of the precarious state of things, cosmically speaking.

You crept out of your room like a thief in your own home and padded down the hallway, watching out for any potential signs of impending doom. The morning news reported no locust swarms, no rivers turning to blood, no frogs falling from the sky, though in fairness, it was still early. Your phone remained quiet. No frantic texts from Ijichi about Headquarters spontaneously combusting or being swallowed by a conveniently timed sinkhole. The apocalypse, it seemed, was running late. Still, anxiety churned in your stomach.

Then you saw him.

Gojo was puttering around in the kitchen, barefoot and domestic, wearing a plain t-shirt and a pair of your pajama pants that were criminally too short for him and revealed a scandalous amount of ankle. He had his back to you, shoulders relaxed, and he was humming that song under his breath as he whisked eggs in a bowl with more enthusiasm than the task strictly required. He looked happier than you had ever seen him in the nearly ten years you’d known him. 

The sight acted like a direct injection of serotonin into your frazzled nervous system. The world-ending anxiety in your chest eased. Whatever cosmic catastrophe you might have caused, it clearly hadn’t reached this kitchen yet.

Breakfast was surprisingly, unnervingly normal. Gojo had attempted tamagoyaki. His version was a little wonky and browned on one side, but it was made with an enthusiasm that compensated for its lack of technical perfection.

He chattered away about the parts of Yuki’s proposal he’d managed to read, a petition from the tech team for new communication devices. From there, he segued into a story about a cat video he’d seen online. He didn’t bring up what happened last night. Not once.

Part of your brain – the part still convinced this was all an elaborate dream your desperate psyche had cooked up – was pathetically grateful for the reprieve. The rest of your mind, however, began to get nervous again.

Why wasn’t Gojo saying anything? Did he regret it? Was this his way of signaling that it had been a momentary lapse in judgment, and that the best way forward was to pretend it never happened? Was he trying to spare your feelings by gently sweeping the whole thing under the rug? 

Oh god, had you hallucinated the whole thing? Maybe you’d just passed out on the couch and dreamed up the entire scenario, your subconscious giving you what you wanted since reality wasn’t going to cooperate. Maybe right now you were actually still unconscious on the sofa, drooling on a cushion while Gojo slept peacefully in the guest room, blissfully unaware that your sleeping brain was busy writing fanfiction about him. Your own hands started to tremble, and you had to clutch your coffee mug to hide it.

Your gaze kept drifting to his lips, your brain helpfully providing HD flashbacks of how they’d felt against yours. You practically waterboarded yourself with coffee trying to focus on literally anything else, gulping it down so fast you nearly gave yourself a caffeine overdose on top of your existing anxiety. You had to perform the grounding techniques you usually taught the kids.

Identify five things you can see. The coffee maker (safe, neutral). The crack in the ceiling you kept meaning to fix (very unsexy). A stray crumb on the table (perfect, totally unsexy). Gojo’s perfect eyelashes, unfairly long and— No, not that. Pick something else! A water stain on the wall. There. Much better. Completely unkissable.

You desperately tried to distract yourself by running budget projections in your head. When that failed to hold your attention, you started mentally reciting the DSM-5 criteria for Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which you were definitely experiencing in real-time. 

Studying psychology had been a good idea. You should thank Nanami. Again. Probably for the hundredth time, though at this point, who was counting? Thank him for his terrifying lectures and withering glares that had scared you into actually trying something else beyond sorcery, his relentless insistence that you pursue higher education.

“An unexamined life is not worth living,” Nanami had quoted at you. “And an uneducated mind is a liability. Go to university. Study something. Anything. It will be good for you. Or I will make your life a living hell until you do. Your choice.”

Nanami’s brand of terror-based motivation had worked wonders, the same way an avalanche works wonders at clearing a mountain path. Now, armed with years of studying the human mind (starting with the disaster zone that was your own), you had just enough tactical self-awareness to keep your shit semi-together. Without that education, you’d probably be having a full-blown meltdown right now instead of just a quiet, internal one that you could later write up as a teaching example.

You made it through breakfast without completely losing it. You chalked it up as a monumental victory in the ongoing war against your own brain. You even managed to contribute to the conversation with coherent sentences. But as you stood at the sink, mindlessly rinsing dishes while Gojo hummed and dried them with a dish towel, your brain decided to kick the spiral into overdrive.

What if you’d been terrible at kissing? 

The thought was mortifying, but not entirely implausible. You’d been too busy with school and politics and trying to rebuild the entire jujutsu society from the ground up while also keeping all your friends alive and preventing the next apocalypse. Dating hadn’t been a priority. Dating hadn’t even made it onto the list of things to consider.

Now that you thought about it, you didn’t have any experience. Your first kiss didn’t count. Absolutely not. That had been less a romantic encounter and more a traumatic event. You forcefully shoved that memory back into the locked box in your brain where you kept all the other things you’d rather not think about

So really, your practical experience was zero. And Gojo… Just look at the man. He was a work of art. People literally fell over themselves just to be in his presence. His dating history, while something you’d never pried into and he’d never offered, must be extensive. Probably filled with gorgeous people who knew what they were doing. His standards, therefore, must be very high. And you’d shown up with your non-existent skills and… what? Disappointed him so badly that he was pretending it never happened?

But… Everything seemed to go so well last night. He’d kissed you back. Enthusiastically. Thoroughly. He hadn’t complained. He’d seemed—

Unless he was being nice about it. 

What if he was being polite? So polite that he’d pretended to enjoy it so he wouldn’t hurt your feelings. That sounded like something he might do. Your stomach lurched. God, you were going to be sick.

Your spiral into anxiety-induced madness was rudely interrupted by the mundane reality of having to adult. Meetings didn’t attend themselves. The jujutsu world didn’t save itself, more was the pity. You both stood by the door, putting on your shoes, the silence stretching between you. 

You reached for the handle at the exact same moment Gojo did. Your fingers brushed against his. In a movement so smooth it was clear he’d been planning it, Gojo slid his arm around your waist, tugging you flush against his chest. His other hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. And he kissed you.

All your frantic worries, all your insecure, overthinking nonsense, went poof. The feeling of his lips on yours was just as wonderful as you remembered, maybe even better now that you weren’t half-convinced you were hallucinating or having a stress-induced psychotic break. 

The kiss was slow and thorough, a deep, unhurried exploration. It left you breathless and dizzy, your hands fisting in his shirt to keep yourself upright because your knees had decided to stop functioning. The taste of the coffee on his tongue triggered a random wild thought. 

“Hey, uh,” you blurted out the moment he broke the kiss. “If you ever eat any weird seafood, especially Okinawan sea snails, maybe give me a heads up? Like, several hours in advance?”

Gojo blinked at you, his brow furrowed adorably in confusion. Which, fair. That had been possibly the least romantic thing anyone had ever said after a kiss. Then, his expression cleared as the connection clicked. 

“Right,” he chuckled, pecking your nose. “Your bizarrely specific, near-fatal allergy. Don’t worry. If it means I get to do this every day, I will gladly swear off all Okinawan marine life forever. I’ll become a vegan if I have to.” He paused. “No, wait, that’s too far. But sea snails are definitely cancelled. They’re not allowed within a hundred meters of me.”

Then, he kissed you again.

The drive to work should have taken fifteen minutes tops. Your apartment wasn’t that far, a straight shot down three main streets, the kind of commute people would literally kill for. But you nearly ended up late because Gojo took a sharp turn down a quiet side street lined with generic office buildings and parked the car.

“What are you doing?” you asked as he cut the engine. “HQ is two blocks that way.”

“I know,” he said, turning in his seat to face you with a grin that spelled trouble in capital letters. “But we’ve got time.” He glanced at the car’s clock. 8:35 AM. “And I think we need more data points for my hypothesis from this morning.”

“What hypothesis?” you asked weakly, already knowing and hating that you were going to let him convince you of whatever absurd logic he was about to deploy.

“The one about us kissing actually being a good idea,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky tone, and unbuckled his seatbelt. “Possibly the best idea. But I need more evidence.”

“Sensei, we have to go to work,” you protested without much conviction. “People will be looking for us. Ijichi will have a panic attack if you’re not in your office by nine.”

“Ijichi can wait,” Gojo murmured, leaning across the center console that separated your seats. “He’s good at panic attacks. It’s one of his core skills.”

You should have put up more resistance. You should have cited workplace professionalism or basic adult responsibility. Instead, you just watched, hypnotized, as his face drew closer, as his long eyelashes brushed against his cheeks when his eyes fluttered shut. Next thing you knew, his lips were on yours and resistance became a foreign concept.

You were vaguely aware of the world outside the car, delivery trucks rumbling past, sirens wailing in the distance. It all seemed to be happening on another plane of existence. The only thing that felt real was him. The smell of your fragrance on his skin, the slight rasp of morning stubble against your chin, his presence filling your senses until there was no room for anything else.

This was insane. You were making out in a car. In public… ish. On a Monday morning. You had spreadsheets waiting for you, and reports to file, and a long list of traumatized sorcerers who needed your help. You had Adult Responsibilities™.

But then his lips left yours to trail a searing path down your jaw, pressing a soft kiss to the spot just below your ear that you didn’t even know was sensitive until approximately three seconds ago, and suddenly spreadsheets seemed very, very unimportant. Who needed Excel when there was this?

“Sensei, stop,” you whispered, breathless and unconvincing. “We’re going to be late.”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed against your skin, his lips moving to your neck. “Probably.” He didn't sound particularly concerned about the prospect. In fact, he sounded downright pleased with himself. “We can blame traffic. Or a curse. There’s always a curse somewhere.”

You tried to muster some semblance of resistance. You placed your hand on his cheek, intending to gently push him away. A strategic retreat. A tactical regrouping. You just needed to create a little bit of space so you could get your brain working again.

It was a good plan, in theory. In practice, however, Gojo Satoru was not easily deterred. He’d built a career on being undeterrable. He turned his head and shamelessly pressed a kiss into the palm of your hand. Then, he began kissing your fingers, one by one, taking his time with each. 

Your brain officially short-circuited. Your hand, which was supposed to be pushing him away, went limp. He was playing dirty, and you had no defense against this kind of attack. It was unfair. It was manipulative. It was also, you had to admit with the tiny corner of your brain still capable of honesty, incredibly enjoyable. 

He finished with your pinky finger, giving it an extra little peck before releasing your hand. Then he kissed you on the mouth this time, and you were lost. You had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been five minutes or five hours. 

When Gojo deigned to release you, you were both breathless. A lock of his silver hair had fallen across his forehead, giving him a roguish, just-been-thoroughly-kissed look that made you want to start the whole process all over again.

“Okay,” he exhaled. “We can go to work now.”

You gave him a slow blink, still trying to remember how to form words. He laughed, leaned in, and gave you one quick kiss. “Don’t look at me like that, Spices," he teased. “Or we’re never making it out of this car.”

That was enough to snap you back to reality. You fumbled for your backpack, grabbed the small compact mirror you kept for emergencies, and audibly gasped at your reflection.

“Damn it,” you squeaked, scrambling to tame your mussed hair. “I can’t go into work looking like this. Everyone will know.”

“Know what?” Gojo asked innocently as he pulled out into the street. “That their boss is a very generous and enthusiastic kisser? Because that’s just factually accurate. I’m not seeing the problem.”

“Shut up. This isn’t funny. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Nah. You look wonderful. Everyone’s gonna love it. I think seeing you a little flustered could be good for morale.”

“My face isn’t a tool for corporate morale-building!”

“Fine, fine,” he said, though he was grinning.

After Gojo pulled into the underground parking lot at HQ, you spent another solid five minutes meticulously fixing your appearance. Hair smoothed down. Lips no longer quite so kiss-swollen. Collar straightened. You made absolutely certain that there was no physical evidence of the fact that you’d just been making out with the ultimate boss of the jujutsu society in his car. 

Despite your effort, you still look a little too… happy. There was a lightness in your eyes that wasn’t usually there on a Monday morning. A small, persistent smile you couldn’t seem to get rid of. You looked like someone who’d just had a very good morning, and that was almost worse than looking disheveled.

You’d never thought this job could get any more stressful. But here you were, not even 9 AM, already hiding evidence and worrying about inter-office gossip. What a wonderful way to start the week.

The morning descended into the special kind of hell reserved for Mondays at a bureaucratic institution that ran on equal parts ancient magic and existential dread: overflowing inboxes, endless paperwork, meetings that could have been emails, and a truly staggering number of people who believed their personal crisis was the most important thing in the world and required your immediate, undivided attention. 

It was also, you quickly discovered, a morning saturated with paranoia. Every casual glance from a colleague felt like an interrogation. Every polite greeting in the hallway seemed to contain a hidden layer of suspicion. Was that a knowing smile? Did you reek of Gojo? Of course you did, though it’d be more accurate to say he reeked of you, given his habit of “borrowing” your fragrance and your clothes and basically anything that wasn’t nailed down. 

Not that anyone else knew about his klepto tendencies, or that he’d spent the night at your apartment, or that he was currently walking around smelling like your shampoo and body wash. That thought did absolutely nothing to help your paranoia.

Your first meeting was a cross-departmental check-in, a mandatory gathering of department heads and team leaders designed to foster synergy and communication but which mainly cultivated a collective yearning for death by caffeine overdose.

As usual, you’d picked a seat in the middle of the long conference table, a strategic position that allowed you maximum observational range while keeping you out of the direct line of fire from any speakers with the unfortunate habit of raining spit down on their audience when they got particularly passionate about quarterly metrics. Also as usual, Higuruma slithered into the chair to your right with the smug entitlement of a man who knows exactly how to get under your skin and considers it a hobby.

The meeting trudged through its opening pleasantries in slow motion. You were halfway through Mizuki’s presentation on budget allocations for the next fiscal year when Higuruma launched his first attack.

“Find my tie yet?” he asked, his voice pitched just low enough that only you could hear it.

You ignored him, your eyes fixed on the PowerPoint slide detailing projected expenditures for the Department of Operations & Exorcism. Mizuki was a meticulous planner, her charts color-coded and cross-referenced, but they were not particularly engaging at 9:47 on a Monday morning when you were running on minimal sleep and maximum anxiety.

“Spices,” Higuruma whispered, a little more insistently this time. “My tie. The blue striped one. The one with sentimental value.”

“There is no fucking tie, Uncle,” you hissed back without moving your lips, keeping your gaze locked on the screen. 

“I’m certain I left it on your couch,” he insisted.

“You’re imagining it. You should probably get those false memories checked out. Might be early-onset dementia.”

Higuruma ignored your medical diagnosis with the contempt it probably deserved. “Has anyone else been in your office lately?” he asked, and he actually sounded serious now. “Any unexpected visitors? People who might have... touched things?”

“Hiromi, a great many people have access to my office. I’m a therapist. People are literally obligated to be there.”

“So, you’re saying it’s possible for someone to get in and touch your belongings without your knowledge,” he mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “This is a serious issue, you know. I could run a full security audit for you if you’d like. Pro bono.”

The suggestion was so drenched in bullshit that you had to grip your pen tighter to keep from stabbing him with it right there in front of Mizuki and her beautiful budget projections. Your office might look a bit cluttered to the untrained eye (or a lot cluttered, if one asked Zen’in Mai, who had nightmares about it and once lit candles in prayer for your organizational skills) but it had its own internal logic. 

The signed original of the treaty that restructured the High Council and Headquarters lived in the false bottom of the third drawer of your filing cabinet, nestled between decoy expense reports and takeout menus from places that had closed years ago. Your backup burner phone was taped to the underside of your desk. The emergency stash of high-end chocolate was hidden behind a copy of Abnormal Psychology and Modern Life on the second shelf. 

You would notice immediately if a single paperclip was out of place, let alone an entire tie. This was your space, and you knew every inch of it. The idea that someone could just waltz in and steal Higuruma’s imaginary tie without you noticing was insulting to your professional paranoia.

But arguing with Higuruma when he was in this mood was a waste of breath. He was enjoying gaslighting you far too much to be reasoned with. The little twinkle in his eyes gave him away. He was probably already picturing the mountain of unnecessary paperwork he could generate with his fake investigation.

This behavior, you decided, could not be allowed to continue uncorrected. Under the cover of the conference table, hidden from the view of your colleagues who were all pretending to care about budget projections, you drove your elbow into his ribs. It wasn’t a very hard hit, more a firm, pointed statement, but you’d aimed for that specific spot below his ribcage that always got a reaction.

Higuruma let out a soft grunt, the sound swallowed by the drone of Mizuki’s presentation and the general ambient noise of people shifting in their chairs and suppressing yawns. “Was that really necessary?” he mouthed silently, shooting you a look of betrayal.

You just smiled sweetly and gave him a subtle nod. Yes. Yes, it was.

He retaliated immediately, of course, because Higuruma had never met a battle he didn’t want to escalate. “Since you’re feeling so energetic,” he murmured, leaning in close for maximum intimidation effect. “I was just looking at my schedule for the week. We have our sparring session on Wednesday. And another one on Friday. I think we should focus on core strength and defensive drills. You know, to prevent any… unforeseen vulnerabilities from being exploited.”

You glared at him. “Oh, fuck off. You started this shit.” 

“Don’t I always?” he smirked.

“Doctor? Higuruma-san? Are we interrupting your private conversation?” 

A disapproving voice from the front of the room cut off your petty squabble. You both snapped to attention to find Mizuki with her hands on her hips, looking at you and Higuruma with the weary expression of a schoolteacher who had just caught her two most frustrating students passing notes in class. Again.

Higuruma had the grace to look embarrassed. A faint blush crept up his neck. “Apologies, Fukui-san,” he said, sitting up a little straighter and folding his hands on the table like a penitent schoolboy. “We were just clarifying a point.”

“Were you?” Mizuki asked, her tone dry as dust, her gaze shifting toward you with the kind of pointed expectation that made it clear she was waiting for the person with “Doctor” in their title to provide a better excuse. 

She was not buying Higuruma’s bullshit, not even a little bit. To be fair, the pie charts on the screen were objectively quite boring, and she’d been droning on for a good fifteen minutes about digital infrastructure that could have been summarized in three sentences.

“Of course, Mizuki-san,” you smiled at her brightly. “I was just asking Hiromi-san if the proposed changes would have any impact on the new inter-departmental ethics guidelines he’s drafting. But please, do go on. You were just explaining the new digital signature requirements for Form 22-B.”

When Mizuki still looked doubtful, you continued smoothly. “You pointed out that the new system will reduce processing time by an estimated fifteen percent quarter-over-quarter, which is significant given our current backlog. But you also noted there are initial concerns about system integration with the legacy payroll software, particularly for Grade 4 and below sorcerers who are paid on an hourly basis rather than salaried. You suggested a phased rollout, starting with salaried employees, to work out any bugs before implementing it across the board.” 

You pretended to give it a little consideration, tilting your head. “It’s a good plan. The phased approach will minimize disruption and give us time to course-correct if there are unforeseen issues. My only concern is whether the tech team has the bandwidth to manage two separate payroll systems during the transition period. They’re already stretched thin with the new curse-tracking database implementation. We should probably get a projection from them on the required man-hours and resource allocation before we approve the timeline. Otherwise, we might be setting them up for failure.”

The entire room was silent. Several people were staring at you with expressions ranging from impressed to vaguely horrified. Higuruma was looking at you with something that might have been pride or might have been concern about what other conversations you’d been monitoring while appearing distracted.

Mizuki appeared caught between being pleased that you’d actually been listening and annoyed that she no longer had a valid reason to scold you publicly. “Very well,” she nodded stiffly. “That’s… Yes, that’s an excellent point about the tech team’s capacity. I’ll follow up with them after this meeting. As I was saying…” With that, she turned back to her death-by-PowerPoint presentation.

This was a specialized form of multitasking that you’d developed over years of working in intelligence and espionage. It allowed you to maintain a cover conversation while simultaneously absorbing and processing another, like running two separate audio tracks through your brain simultaneously. You could be bickering with Higuruma about his imaginary tie and still file away every detail of Mizuki’s report. Intel was everywhere if you knew how to listen for it. And you’d gotten very, very good at listening.

“Show-off,” Higurma breathed against your ear the moment Mizuki’s back was turned

“Bite me,” you snickered smugly, keeping your voice equally quiet.

“Oh, I've got something better planned for Wednesday.”

A shiver crawled down your spine. The threat was clear. You might have won the battle of the elbow, but Higuruma was definitely going to win the war. He was going to kick your ass from one end of the training room to the other, and there was nothing you could do about it. Well, nothing short of faking your own death to get out of practice, and that seemed a little extreme even for you. Probably. You’d revisit the idea if things got really bad on Wednesday.

“You’re such a petty bitch,” you muttered under your breath, pretending to jot down notes while actually doodling angry stick figures.

“I learned from the best,” he whispered back, his tone sickeningly sweet. “Remember that time you replaced all my briefs with cat memes? Every. Single. Page.”

“That was educational,” you said primly. “You needed to learn about work-life balance. You were working sixteen-hour days. It was a mental health intervention.”

“I had a meeting with the Ethics Committee in twenty minutes.”

“And didn’t they comment on how much more relaxed you seemed?” You kept your face perfectly neutral, your pen moving across your notepad like you were capturing every word of Mizuki’s thrilling explanation of amortization schedules and depreciation curves. 

“They thought I was having a mental breakdown,” Higuruma hissed. “One of them tried to refer me to you for therapy.”

“See? I was drumming up business. Expanding my client base. That’s just good marketing.”

“I’m going to make you cry.”

“Bold of you to assume I have feelings left to hurt after this meeting. Mizuki’s killed them all.”

Higuruma had to disguise his laugh as a cough, which earned him a sharp look from Mizuki. “Higuruma-san, do you have something to add about the Q3 projections?”

“No, Fukui-san,” Higuruma said quickly, straightening in his seat again. “Just expressing my agreement with the proposed changes.”

“Your agreement sounded remarkably like cursing,” Mizuki observed dryly.

“Passionate agreement,” you interjected smoothly. “Hiromi feels very strongly about fiscal responsibility. He often gets emotional when he sees balanced budgets.”

Mizuki’s narrowed gaze darted between you and Higuruma, signaling clearly that she was not paid enough for this and had certainly not signed up for this level of nonsense when she’d accepted her promotion. “Perhaps you could save your passionate agreement for after my presentation?”

“Of course,” you both said in unison, which only made you look more suspicious.

She turned back to her slides with a heavy sigh, and you felt Higuruma’s elbow dig into your side, not as hard as you’d jabbed him, just enough to convey I’m watching you and this isn’t over. You responded by stepping on his foot under the table. He retaliated by stealing your pen right out of your hand. You stole it back and held it out of his reach.

This went on under the table and out of sight for another thirty seconds – grab, swat, grab, swat – until you both realized you were acting like actual children and forced yourselves to stop, sitting up straight and pretending to care deeply about Mizuki’s breakdown of departmental overhead costs and the thrilling implications of the new depreciation schedule for cursed tool acquisitions.

You’d have to find a way to get back at Higuruma properly later. Something good. Something that would really make him suffer.

You could “accidentally” spill coffee on his favorite Armani suit, the charcoal one he wore to important meetings. Hide his car keys somewhere truly diabolical, like taped under his own car in a spot he’d never think to check. Superglue his expensive Mont Blanc fountain pen to his desk. Sign him up for a dozen different cat-of-the-month clubs under his work email. The man was severely allergic to cats, which made it even better. He’d spend weeks trying to unsubscribe while sneezing constantly and cursing your name between antihistamines

Or, you thought with growing delight, the nuclear option that would cut deepest: you could replace his fancy single-origin Ethiopia Yirgacheffe coffee beans with decaf. Not just any decaf, but the cheapest, most soulless decaf you could find. Yes, that was it. Decaf. That would be a fate worse than death for a coffee snob like Higuruma. He’d never suspect until it was too late, until he’d already had three cups and couldn’t figure out why his soul felt so empty, why the world seemed so gray and meaningless, why nothing brought him joy anymore.

So absorbed were you in plotting Higuruma’s decaf downfall, you didn’t notice the other presence in the room that was focused entirely on you.

You didn’t notice the way Gojo was watching you from his seat at the head of the conference table. You didn’t notice that his easy, relaxed posture had turned rigid, almost military straight. That his pen was no longer doing the irritating tap-tap-tap against his notepad that drove everyone crazy. 

You didn’t notice the strange look in his eyes, hidden as they were behind the dark lenses of his glasses, the way his gaze had locked onto the space between you and Higuruma that had grown tiny during your squabble, your heads bent close together. You didn’t notice how it might look to someone watching who didn’t understand that this was just how you two operated: siblings who couldn’t decide if they wanted to hug or murder each other on any given day.

You didn’t notice any of it, too busy planning petty vengeance and trying to survive the meeting without falling asleep or committing actual violence.

But Gojo noticed everything and he was not happy about what he was seeing.

Chapter Text

Once you’d escaped the soul-crushing vortex of the departmental meeting, the rest of the day passed in a blur of what you’d come to think of as “operational triage.” The brief window of morning happiness with Gojo was a fond memory you didn’t have time to savor as you were buried under an avalanche of administrative duties. You shoved it into the “handle later” compartment of your brain.

The jujutsu world never slept, and its bureaucracy, you’d discovered through years of bitter experience, was even more relentless than its curses. At least, curses had the decency to be exorcised. Paperwork just multiplied. Your desk looked like it had been hit by a localized hurricane made entirely of paperwork, forms, and the accumulated despair of everyone who’d ever filed a request with your department. The leaning tower of files on your left had achieved mitosis at some point during the meeting, spawning smaller, equally menacing satellite piles that threatened to annex your entire workspace like an invasive species. Your coffee mug was somewhere under there. You could smell it. You just couldn’t find it.

If your professional life were an emergency room, Mondays were the days after a major catastrophe, and you were the doctor frantically running around with a clipboard, making hard decisions about who to treat first, who could wait, and who was already a lost cause.

The funding requests alone ate up an hour of your life you’d never get back. Each form was its own special kind of headache, from reasonable equipment upgrades such as new communication devices, reinforced training equipment, basic medical supplies, to absurd requests that made you question whether some people understood what the word “budget” meant. There was the memorable request for a “tactical nuclear penguin,” which you still weren’t entirely sure was a translation error, a very specific curse-fighting technique you’d never heard of, or someone’s idea of a joke. You’d flagged it for follow-up. Maybe it would make sense with context. Probably not, but maybe.

The compensation claims that followed were even worse. Medical bills from curse-related injuries that the insurance company who was “friends” with the Kamo clan refused to cover because “supernatural workplace hazard” wasn’t in their policy language. Disability claims from sorcerers whose bodies had given out after years of service, who could no longer fight but still had decades of life ahead of them and bills to pay. Death benefits for families, which you had to process with clinical detachment because if you thought too hard about the names on those forms, about the people you’d known who were now just claim numbers, you’d never get through the day. Each one required documentation, verification, cross-referencing with mission reports.

Then came the vacation days, which were their own special kind of battlefield. Many sorcerers were still convinced that taking time off was a sign of weakness. You’d spent years fighting that toxic mindset, implementing mandatory leave policies and practically forcing people to go on vacation for their own good. It was slow going. 

One first grade sorcerer had tried to decline his mandatory leave four times. You finally had to resort to threatening to show his high school yearbook photo to the new recruits if he didn’t get his ass on a plane to Okinawa by the end of the month. He’d gone pale when you’d whipped the photo out and spent the entire week before his departure muttering dark threats about revenge and how you’d “pay for this transgression.” But he’d gone to Okinawa and he’d come back two weeks later looking actually rested for the first time in years, complaining about the beach and the relaxation but also quietly admitting that maybe he’d needed it. He’d even bought you a souvenir. You’d counted it as a win.

The most difficult and most important part of your afternoon was reviewing cases and making referrals. Sometimes, the problems a sorcerer faced were beyond the scope of talking. Sometimes, what looked like anxiety was actually a complex neurological issue. Sometimes, depression wasn’t just situational but a chemical imbalance that no amount of cognitive behavioral therapy could fix on its own. These were the cases you had to flag for medical intervention.

You’d briefly considered studying medicine back in the day. The idea of becoming a psychiatrist had been tempting. It was the perfect fusion of your fascination with the human mind and the practical ability to prescribe medication. But that path would have required over a decade of medical school and residency, a luxury of time and dedication you simply hadn’t possessed in the aftermath of the Shibuya Incident.

The world had been on fire, quite literally in several locations. The jujutsu society had shattered, and the pieces needed to be put back together. You’d been neck-deep in a storm, and you’d needed to be useful right then, not ten years later.

Being pragmatic to a fault, you’d chosen a different route. Psychology had offered a faster, more direct path to the skills you needed. Besides, you’d reasoned, you could never be a better healer than Shoko, nor could you hope to compete with the experienced psychiatrists who had spent decades honing their craft. You’d seen what true expertise looked like, and you knew your own limitations.

Instead of trying to compete in their arena, you’d focused on what you were good at, on the niche where you could be not just competent, but the best. You became the first line of defense, the triage specialist who could spot the difference between a bad day and a breakdown, between stress and a stress disorder. You were the one who could look at a sorcerer fresh from a mission gone sideways and know which kind of help they needed, whether that was a shoulder to cry on, a kick in the ass, or an immediate referral to someone with a prescription pad.

Over the years, through a combination of professional networking, careful vetting, and some admittedly unhinged recruitment tactics (which may or may not have involved exploiting gambling debts and leveraging well-placed blackmail material), you’d built a small, trusted network of psychiatrists. These were professionals who knew about the jujutsu world and could handle the brand of trauma sorcerers brought to the table without immediately reaching for their own anxiety medication. Most importantly, they knew how to keep their mouths shut and their paperwork clean.

Getting a sorcerer to actually see one of these psychiatrists was never easy. They would cross their arms, glare at you, and insist they were “fine.” But you’d perfected your approach over years of trial and error, and you’d discovered their greatest weakness: their desperate desire to never have to talk to you about their feelings ever again.

The conversation usually went something like this:

“For the last fucking time, I’m not crazy,” they’d snap, scowling at your bookshelf as if the psychology textbooks were personally insulting their mother.

“I never said you were,” you’d reply calmly, clicking your pen. “But let’s be real here. You haven’t slept more than two hours a night in weeks, and yesterday you tried to exorcise the office coffee machine.”

“That thing is definitely cursed!”

“I think your symptoms might respond better to a medical approach. You’ve made good progress with our sessions, but we’ve hit a plateau. This is the next logical step.”

“I don’t need a shrink!”

“Technically, I’m the shrink,” you’d point out. “This would be a medical doctor. An M.D. You know, a ‘real’ doctor.” This was a cheap shot, but it often worked.

“I’m not taking happy pills!”

“It’s not about ‘happy pills.’ It’s about getting you the right tools for the job. You wouldn’t go fight a first grade curse with a plastic spoon, would you? Same principle. We’re just upgrading your weapon.”

The decisive blow always came when you played your trump card. “Tell you what,” you’d say, leaning back and letting out a theatrical sigh. “Go see Dr. Tanaka, follow his treatment plan, and you won’t have to come see me for your mandatory debriefs anymore. No more talking about your feelings with me. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

The sorcerer would grumble. They’d complain about the commute, about the hassle, about having to talk to a civilian who didn’t understand how sorcery worked, maybe throw in some creative cursing about the state of modern medicine. Eventually, though, the grumbling would subside as they weighed the pros and cons. A few months with a “real doctor” in exchange for freedom from you? It was a deal too good to pass up. They’d agree, not because they believed they needed help, but because it was the most efficient way to get you out of their lives.

Whatever works, right? You didn’t care if they went because they were genuinely seeking help or just trying to escape your clutches. The end result was the same: they got treatment, you got results, and everyone pretended the whole thing was their idea in the first place.

Today’s list was short but difficult. A junior sorcerer from the provinces showing signs of acute PTSD after a disastrous mission. A veteran from the intelligence division whose paranoia was escalating beyond the baseline professional requirement into something more clinically significant. Both would put up a fight. Both would eventually cave, because the alternative was more sessions with you, and nobody wanted that. You typed out the referral emails. Another crisis averted, another fire put out. Just another Monday in the life of everyone’s least favorite therapist.

At 12:30 PM, your phone buzzed with an incoming text.

Higs: Can’t do lunch today. Drowning in paperwork hell. Mai’s coming to collect you btw. Try not to get into a fight in public this time 🙃

You stared at the message, feeling personally attacked by both the words and the passive-aggressive emoji. “Collect you.” As if you were some sort of feral creature that needed to be trapped and transported, sedated for everyone’s safety. You were an adult, for fuck’s sake – a semi-first grade sorcerer with a PhD hanging on your wall and everything. And yet, to your friends, you were apparently an unruly toddler who required constant supervision to ensure you didn’t wander into traffic or try to eat glue or start a fistfight with a salary man over the last convenience store sandwich. The worst part was, their assessment wasn’t entirely without merit. 

You left Higuruma on “seen.” It was petty, but pettiness was one of the few pleasures left to the professionally cursed. Let him stew in the uncertainty of whether you were mad at him or just busy.

Five minutes later, the door to your office swung open. Mai didn’t knock. Knocking was for people who were uncertain of their authority. Mai had never been uncertain of anything in her entire life. She didn’t bother with hello either, just strode in on heels that clicked against the floor like a countdown timer, already looking annoyed. 

“Lunch,” she commanded, making it sound less like a meal suggestion and more like a military order that would result in court-martial if disobeyed.

“Nice to see you, too, Mai,” you grinned, grabbing your backpack. “You’re looking amazing today.”

“And you look like you’ve been living in a hedge. Move it, disaster.”

The small udon shop was five minutes’ walk from HQ, which meant it was three minutes if you were Mai and walking with purpose, or seven if you were you and got distracted by an interesting cloud formation. It was your usual spot. 

The owner, Old Man Watanabe, was a wiry specimen who had seen too much to be bothered by anything anymore. This is a valuable quality in anyone, but especially in someone who serves noodles to jujutsu sorcerers for a living.

Watanabe had once served a bowl of perfect noodles to a sorcerer who was actively bleeding from three different stab wounds and hadn’t even blinked, just offered him an extra napkin and suggested the bleeding fellow sit on the vinyl seats rather than the fabric ones. He’d seen sorcerers conduct hushed, intense meetings over bowls of steaming broth, watched them seal cursed objects on his tables between courses, and once, memorably, a new recruit had accidentally activated his technique and turned all the soy sauce in the restaurant into hostile, sentient puddles that had to be reasoned with. Watanabe had just sighed, fetched a mop, and added a modest “hostile condiment cleanup fee” to the bill before bringing out fresh soy sauce. The man was unshakeable.

The two of you settled into a small booth in the corner – the one with the wobbly table that Watanabe never got around to fixing, probably because he knew you’d just sit there regardless. Mai immediately began her customary litany of complaints, which was as much a part of her personality as her perfect hair and her resting bitch face.

“I swear to every god that’s ever existed,” she muttered, using a wet wipe from her purse to scrub down a section of the already-immaculate table. “This is ridiculous. Am I your mother? No. I am the Deputy Chief of Administration & Resources. I have actual important work to do. I shouldn’t have to spend my lunch break making sure you don’t forget to eat.”

Watanabe arrived with your usual orders before you’d even placed them. Kitsune udon for you, tempura udon for Mai. This was either excellent customer service or low-level precognition. With Watanabe, it could honestly go either way. The moment the steaming bowls were placed on the table, Mai’s chopsticks went to work. She carefully, methodically, began plucking every single shiitake mushroom from her broth and transferring them to your bowl.

“Honestly,” she continued, her mushroom relocation program running parallel to her complaint subroutine. “I can’t wait for Miwa to get back from Germany. Then she can resume her babysitting duties and I can get my life back.”

Plop. Another mushroom joined its brethren.

“I’m getting her a welcome home gift. Something really nice. I’m thinking a framed photo of you with ‘Your problem now’ in calligraphy.”

Plop. Plop.

“Maybe add some sparkles. Make it really festive.”

Her tirade concluded precisely as the final shiitake plopped into your udon. A small, perfect mountain of mushrooms now sat atop your noodles. There were at least ten of them.

This whole mushroom thing had been going on for years. It had started back in high school, during what historians would later refer to as The Great Gachapon Crisis of 2018, though no historians were actually recording such things, which was probably for the best.

Mai had spotted the hideous mushroom keychain dangling off your backpack. The thing was objectively awful – a bulbous toadstool in a color that could only be described as “diseased red-orange,” with a facial expression that suggested it was experiencing some kind of existential crisis. It was one of Gojo’s endless gachapon spoils, won during his “I shall get that specific shroom for you and no one can stop me” phase that had left the entire school drowning in plastic trinkets. The whole student body had gotten ugly mushrooms. Nobara had gotten a miniature Mjolnir. Yuji had gotten a dozen tiny vegetables that he’d tried to eat and thankfully hadn’t actually ingested. 

For some inexplicable reason that probably made perfect sense in Mai-logic, she had interpreted that ugly piece of plastic as a heartfelt declaration of your undying passion for all things fungi. As if you were some sort of mushroom enthusiast. A mycophile. Someone who spent their weekends foraging in forests and getting misty-eyed about spore prints.

You were a clinical psychologist. You had, hanging on your wall in an only-slightly-cracked frame, a doctorate that theoretically qualified you to understand the human mind. You had written papers on cognitive distortions and pattern recognition. And yet you could not, for the life of you, figure out how that particular logical leap had occurred in Mai’s brain. 

The human psyche was a fascinating labyrinth of contradictions and complexities, a maze of meaning-making and narrative construction, but this – this specific cognitive connection between “owns one (1) mushroom keychain of dubious aesthetic value” and “must be sustained entirely by mushrooms like some sort of mycological vampire who will wither and die without regular fungal transfusions” – was beyond even your professional understanding.

Initially, you’d assumed that Mai was just offloading the mushrooms on you because she secretly hated them and you were a convenient disposal unit. It seemed like a very Mai thing to do – to find a passive-aggressive way to get what she wanted while pretending to do someone a favor.

But then, the evidence to the contrary had started piling up. There was the time she’d ordered a side of expensive, truffle-infused sautéed mushrooms “for the table” at a restaurant that definitely did not cater to jujutsu sorcerer salaries then slid the entire plate in front of you with a pointed look. Or the time you were sick and she showed up at your door with a thermos of mushroom soup she’d bullied one of the cafeteria staff into making at 11 PM. She’d thrust it at you, told you not to die because the paperwork would be annoying, and left. The gesture had been so unexpectedly… sweet, in its own bizarre way, that you’d been too stunned to say anything.

By the time the truth dawned on you, that this wasn’t just Mai being Mai, but Mai genuinely believing she was performing a cherished act of friendship by feeding you mushrooms at every possible opportunity, it was far too late. The statute of limitations on correcting a mushroom-based misunderstanding had long since expired sometime around the third year, probably around the time she’d special-ordered those matsutake mushrooms from that one specific mountain because she’d read somewhere that they were “the best” and in her opinion, you deserved the best shrooms. You’d eaten them. They’d tasted like expensive dirt.

How could you possibly look Mai in the eye and say, “Hey, remember all those mushrooms you’ve been lovingly force-feeding me for the past six years or so? Yeah, about that. Turns out I’m actually pretty neutral about them. They’re fine, I guess. A little rubbery. Definitely wouldn’t have been my first choice for a defining personality trait.”

The social awkwardness would be unbearable. You would both spontaneously combust from the sheer concentrated cringe of it all. At this point, you’d consumed enough mushrooms of different varieties to qualify as part-mushroom yourself on some sort of technicality. Maybe you did like mushrooms now. Stockholm Syndrome, but for mushrooms. Fungi Syndrome? You’d have to workshop the terminology.

“Thanks, Mai,” you said, fishing a mushroom out of your bowl and taking a dutiful bite. It tasted… like a mushroom. Vaguely earthy. Decidedly rubbery. Fine, if you didn’t think about it too hard.

“Don’t get emotional about it,” she sniffed, though you caught the faintest hint of a pleased blush on her cheeks. “I just hate food waste.” She slurped her noodles, her critical gaze still fixed on you. “Speaking of Miwa, have you heard from her lately? She’s been quiet.”

“She’s fine,” you said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. “Just, you know, super busy. Germany. Studies. Time zones. Very... German things happening.”

“You sure?” Mai asked, her eyes narrowing. “Because I sent her a link to that limited edition Fendi handbag she’s been lusting after for six months. It finally went on sale, fifty percent off. I even sent her the coupon code for free international shipping.” 

Mai held up her phone to show you the damning evidence. One message. One link. One beautifully formatted shopping opportunity. And below it, after three hours of silence that spoke volumes: a single thumbs-up emoji.

“That’s not a Miwa response,” Mai concluded. “Miwa does not acknowledge a fifty percent discount on limited edition Fendi with a soulless emoji. Something is wrong.”

Mai’s concern was well-founded. Miwa was indeed acting strangely. But she wasn’t in trouble. Not the kind Mai was imagining, anyway. No curses, no injuries, no international incidents requiring diplomatic intervention or creative paperwork. You knew this for a fact. 

You also knew that Miwa hadn’t been responsive because she was, at this very moment, probably chained to her laptop in a tiny apartment in Berlin, fueled by instant coffee and sheer willpower and the kind of obsessive determination that had made her a first grade sorcerer despite having been born with no innate talent whatsoever.

The “problem,” if you could call it that, wasn’t her academic pursuits in Germany. The real situation was far more... literary. 

Since the tender age of seventeen, Miwa had been living a double life as a fanfiction author of staggering prolificacy and fame. This was not a hobby. This was not a casual pastime. This was a calling.

Over the years, she had built a veritable empire on a foundation of smut. Her pen name – which you would not be uttering, not even in the privacy of your own mind, for fear that thinking it too loudly might somehow manifest it into the physical world – was whispered in fandom circles with the reverence usually reserved for religious figures, people who’d successfully completed Dark Souls without dying, and that one person who could actually explain the Fate/Stay Night timeline without having a breakdown.

She had amassed tens of thousands of followers across multiple platforms who analyzed her every word like ancient scholars pouring over sacred texts and engaged in elaborate theological debates about her character interpretations in comment sections that stretched on for literal miles. Her body of work was so vast, so intricate, so consuming that it had spawned its own wiki. A wiki. Complete with character relationship charts and timeline analyses that cross-referenced events across seventeen different AUs. Someone had created a drinking game based on her narrative tropes. Multiple people had gotten matching tattoos of quotes from her stories.

It was genuinely miraculous that Miwa had any time left to actually practice jujutsu sorcery or perform basic human functions like eating and sleeping. You suspected she didn’t, actually. Sleep, that is. You had a theory that she’d transcended normal human sleep patterns sometime around her thirtieth novel-length work and now existed in a state of caffeinated semi-consciousness that allowed her to function on pure creative mania.

Miwa was, in certain corners of the internet, a living legend. A god. The kind of Big Name Fan of such magnitude that could crash a server just by posting a new chapter. There were rumors – unconfirmed, but persistent – that she’d once caused a website to simply cease existing under the weight of simultaneous user traffic when she’d dropped the finale of a popular series at 3 AM on a Tuesday.

The reason for her recent radio silence was simple and entirely self-inflicted: she was in the brutal final week of ‘Fic-Wri-Mo,’ the annual grinder where masochistic writers attempt to post a new chapter every single day for a month. Surviving it was considered a badge of honor. Surviving it while also maintaining quality was the stuff of legend. Doing it while also completing a graduate program in a foreign country was either heroic or deeply unhinged, possibly both.

Miwa was currently on day twenty-seven. She was going to make it. She always did, somehow, even if it meant sacrificing sleep, sanity, and all social obligations on the altar of her update schedule.

You knew this because you were one of Miwa’s most devoted readers. This was not information you were proud of. This was not information you advertised. This was information you guarded with the same fervor you applied to keeping classified jujutsu information out of civilian hands, because in many ways it was more dangerous.

You’d been following her work for years, from the day you’d stumbled upon her very first story by accident during a bout of boredom-induced internet wandering. You’d been there for every update since. You’d never missed a chapter. You’d never left a comment – that would be self-incriminating – but you’d been a silent witness to her creative empire, watching it grow from a single tentative story to a sprawling multimedia empire with fanart and fanfiction of fanfiction and people writing songs inspired by her work.

Anyway, no one in her real life knew about it. Not Mai, not her old classmates from Kyoto, not even her closest friends who’d known her since she was a teenager with an unfortunate haircut. She’d managed to keep her two worlds completely separate – an impressive feat of operational security that you, as a fellow purveyor of secrets, deeply respected. 

You’d never told Miwa you knew. She still had no idea. You’d taken every precaution to ensure it stayed that way. You’d created a burner account with a username that couldn’t be traced back to you, used a different browser, cleared your history religiously, never referenced anything specific in conversation no matter how tempted you were to quote a particularly good line. You’d once bitten your tongue so hard it bled when she’d made a joke that was a direct reference to one of her stories and you’d almost, almost laughed before anyone else could have gotten it.

Telling Mai the truth was, of course, out of the question. 

First, it wasn’t your secret to share. You respected the sacred bonds of fandom anonymity, that unspoken code that said what happened in fandom stayed in fandom, even if you happened to know the author in real life. Especially then. Violating that would be tantamount to treason.

Second, revealing it would invite a whole host of questions you absolutely did not want to answer. You could see the conversation unfolding in your mind:

“Wait, you read fanfiction?” Mai would ask, recoiling with horrified judgment as if you’d just confessed to a taste for cannibalism.

“How did you even know it was her?” she’d press, because Mai never let anything go, ever, and you’d have to explain that you’d spent a week cross-referencing writing samples, comparing the story to Miwa’s school essays, analyzing word choice patterns, sentence structures, and stylistic tics until you’d confirmed the match with ninety-eight percent certainty. Which would make you sound less like a friend and more like a deranged stalker with a forensic linguistics hobby.

“What’s the fic about?” would be the inevitable follow-up, and you would have to choose between lying and telling her that her best friend’s most popular work, the magnum opus that had spawned wikis and drinking games and matching tattoos, was a 300,000-word filthy smut fic between two characters who were very obviously based on Gojo Satoru and... you. 

You, specifically. Your mannerisms, your background, your personality, even the thing you did with your hand and your bracelet when you were nervous. It was all there, translated into fiction but unmistakable to anyone who actually knew you. She’d filed off the serial numbers, changed the details just enough to maintain plausible deniability, but it was you.

The level of anatomical detail alone – and there was considerable anatomical detail, because Miwa Kasumi didn’t do anything by halves – would cause Mai to have a heart attack. The tags on the story included things like “Explicit Sexual Content,” “Slow Burn,” “Mutual Pining,” “Sensei with Benefits” and, most damningly, “Emotionally Constipated Idiots.” The comment section was a warzone of people losing their minds over the character development. Someone had written a 5,000-word analysis of the use of hands as a recurring motif. Multiple people had compared it favorably to published romance novels. One commenter had said they’d “never felt so seen by a depiction of avoidant attachment style” and that they were “in therapy now because of this fic.”

It had changed lives. It had won awards – fandom awards, but still. There was fan art. So much fan art. Some of it was quite good. Some of it was extremely explicit. You had not looked at the extremely explicit fan art. That would be crossing a line. You had limits.

Well. You’d looked once. You were only human.

The point was, you were taking Miwa’s secret to your grave, and possibly the grave after that one, and if reincarnation was real you’d take it to that life too. Mai could never know. No one could ever know.

So you just shrugged, trying to look reassuring. “She’s fine, Mai. Probably just swamped with her thesis. Academic tunnel vision. You know how focused she gets when she has a deadline. I’m sure she’ll be back to her normal self once the semester’s over.”

“I guess,” Mai said, though she still looked suspicious. “You’d help her if something was wrong, right?”

“Of course,” you said, and this, at least, was the complete truth. “You know I’d look out for Miwa.”

That seemed to satisfy Mai. She knew that for all your many and varied faults, your loyalty to your friends was absolute. If Miwa were in actual trouble, you would already be on a flight to Berlin to fix it, armed with a lock pick kit, zip ties, half a lemon, and a sewer map of the wrong city. That was your role in this strange, mismatched, dysfunctional family of yours. You were the fixer. Mai knew this. Everyone knew this. It was the only thing about you that everyone agreed on.

“Fine,” Mai finally conceded, appeased. “But if I don’t get a properly punctuated, multi-paragraph text with at least five heart emojis from her by the end of her semester, I’m booking a flight. And you’re paying for my business class ticket.”

“Deal,” you agreed easily, because you knew Miwa’s writing challenge was scheduled to end on Thursday. You made a mental note to text her a reminder to perform some basic social maintenance once she emerged from her creative cave.

The conversation drifted to other things – work complaints, gossip about other sorcerers, a scathing review of the new procurement forms Mai was trying to implement. It was a normal lunch. 

At the back of your mind though, you couldn’t stop thinking about this morning, about Gojo, to be precise. It all felt like something straight out of one of Miwa’s stories. You wondered, with a jolt, if she had any idea how close to the truth she’d been writing all these years. And more importantly, how would she react when she found out this wasn’t fiction anymore?

***

By the time you finally clawed your way to the bottom of the last file, the sun had already set. You’d managed to clear your desk of the most pressing crises, deferring the less urgent ones to the next day. You packed your things, turned off the lights, and headed down the hallway, your destination predetermined.

As you approached Gojo’s office, you could see the light still on under his door, spilling into the otherwise dim corridor. The rest of the administrative wing had gone dark hours ago. Normal people went home at normal times.

A part of you, the part that had been running on a low-grade hum of anxiety all day, finally relaxed. He was here. He hadn’t changed his mind or fled the country.

When you pushed the door open and let yourself in, you found Gojo still neck deep in work, the picture of a man engaged in a losing battle with an immortal, paper-based enemy. Reports and binders were stacked around him in precarious towers. He was muttering to himself, one hand raking through his hair while the other moved his pen across a document with the jerky, frustrated movements of someone who would much rather be punching something, perhaps the person who’d written this particular report. 

This was the reality of his job, the side of being the “Sorcerer King” that didn’t make it into the legends. The myths were all about power and glory, dramatic battles and impossible victories. Nobody sang songs about the time Gojo Satoru spent six hours reviewing budget allocation proposals for regional offices. But this was the job. The real job. The part that actually mattered.

Gakuganji, in his infinite and profoundly incorrect wisdom, saw Gojo as your puppet, a handsome figurehead you’d installed on the throne while you pulled all the strings from the shadows. The old coot pictured you whispering in Gojo’s ear at every meeting, dictating policy, making all the real decisions while Gojo just smiled and waved and looked pretty and collected the glory. He probably even imagined you locked in your office cackling maniacally as you plotted world domination.

The irony was that nothing could be further from the truth.

Gojo was no one’s puppet. He was the Head of the High Council because he chose to be, and he took that responsibility seriously. He read every single mind-numbingly boring report. He sat through every tedious meeting. He talked to the clans, listened to their grievances, and handled their intricate and often ridiculous political games with a surprising amount of patience for someone who could end any argument by simply ceasing to hold back. The fact that he didn’t just crush every irritating problem with overwhelming force was, you thought, a sign of remarkable restraint. Also probably why he went through so many pens.

Major issues were never decided just between the two of you. They were a team effort, discussed, debated, and dissected in a circle: you, Gojo, Shoko, and Ijichi. Sometimes, when the problem was too complex or too niche for your makeshift cabinet to handle alone, you brought in reinforcements. You’d seek second opinions from Higuruma, Nanami, Kusakabe, even Mei Mei for certain matters. Sometimes, you’d pull in your friends, too. You tried to do things the right way, to build a system based on collaboration and expertise, not on the whims of a single, all-powerful leader or his supposed shadowy kingmaker. 

It was exhausting. It was slow. But it was better than what had come before, and that had to count for something.

You’d never bothered to correct Gakuganji’s paranoid fantasies. If anything, you encouraged it. In a way, his misplaced blame was a strategic asset. You were happy to be the villain in his story. As long as he was busy trying to ruin your life, he wasn’t trying to destabilize the fragile system you were still in the process of rebuilding. You’d gladly be the lightning rod, the scapegoat, the person everyone loved to hate if it meant Gojo could do his job without constant attacks from the old guard. You were his sword, but you were his shield, too, in a way people didn’t always see.

Gojo looked up as you entered. The stress lines around his eyes softened and a brilliant smile broke across his face, so bright it could have powered the entire building if someone could figure out how to hook it up to the electrical grid. You were fairly certain Tokyo’s energy crisis could be solved if they could just find a way to harness whatever reaction occurred in Gojo Satoru’s brain when he was genuinely happy like this.

He pushed back from his desk, held out his hands, and made absolutely no effort to hide the expectation in the gesture. 

You dropped your backpack and the takeout bags on the coffee table and walked straight into his arms. He pulled you in and kissed you like he'd been waiting for it all day. Like he’d been thinking about it through every tedious meeting and terrible report. His lips were warm and demanding in a way that suggested this was, in fact, the only thing that mattered in the entire world, and everything else could wait.

You returned the kiss with equal fervor, equal relief. A full day of paperwork and petty squabbles with colleagues were forgotten, fading in the undeniable rightness of being with him.

“Hi,” you murmured against his lips when he finally – reluctantly, if the way he chased your mouth was any indication – let you come up for air.

“Hi yourself,” he said. “I was starting to think I’d have to file a missing persons report.”

“Just fighting the good fight,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the piles of paperwork. “You know, slaying the great beast of bureaucracy. The beast has many heads, and they all require signatures in triplicate.”

“My hero,” he said, and somehow made it sound both teasing and sincere.

Dinner was a quiet affair, eaten at his coffee table. You’d ordered his favorite: katsudon from that little place that made it just the way he liked it, with the egg slightly runny and the pork extra crispy and the sauce that perfect balance of sweet and savory. 

You ate and you talked. You told him about your day, about Higuruma’s ridiculous tie-based harassment and your plans for decaf-related vengeance that would be both petty and justified. He listened, laughing in all the right places, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a sort of tension leaving his shoulders. 

Gojo told you about his own day, about a frustrating call with Zen’in Naoya (who was apparently still laboring under the delusion that anyone cared about his opinions on anything), and a productive meeting with the tech team about upgrading the mission dispatch system. The conversation had the comfortable texture of something well-worn and reliable, precisely like a thousand other evenings you’d spent in this office, and yet it was completely different.

After you’d cleared away the empty containers, you stretched, feeling the pleasant heaviness of a good meal, and moved toward your usual spot by the windowsill.

“Where are you going?” Gojo asked, catching your hand before you’d made it three steps. He’d gone back to his throne-like office chair.

“To my nest,” you said, pointing at the cushions by the window where you’d spent countless hours doing your own work while he did his.

He tugged on your hand, pulling you toward him. “Nope. New spot.” He patted his lap invitingly.

Your breath caught. Your brain, for once, was silent. You’d sat on his lap before, but those instances had been rare, fleeting, and usually justifiable by external circumstances. When you’d been upset and he’d pulled you down for comfort. When you’d been drunk and flopped onto him in a moment of poor judgment and excellent instinct. When he’d been acting childish about something and you’d sat on him in mock-exasperation to physically prevent him from doing something stupid.

It had always felt a little too intimate, a little too close to the line, a little too hard to rationalize away as just friendly affection. It was, you had to admit in the quiet privacy of your own mind, your favorite place to sit in the entire world, but you’d rarely let yourself indulge in it. It had felt like cheating somehow, like taking something you weren’t entitled to. 

Now, he was offering it to you freely, without pretense or justification. You didn’t need an excuse anymore. You didn’t need a reason beyond “I want to” and “he wants me to.” You could just... have this. The concept was strange enough to make your chest feel tight.

You settled onto his lap, not facing him, but sideways, curling into the space he’d made for you. His arm came around you, holding you securely. You leaned against his broad chest, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. You closed your eyes and just… breathed him in. He was so warm.

Gojo adjusted his position, making you more comfortable, then reached for the last of the reports on his desk. The pages rustled as he picked it up. You felt the slight shift of his muscles as he took notes with one hand, his other arm remaining wrapped around you, his hand resting lightly on your thigh. 

Before he’d made it through the first paragraph, you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head. Soft, gentle, almost absent-minded, like he'd been unable to resist. Then another, his lips lingering just slightly longer the second time, as if he was savoring the simple ability to do this now, whenever he wanted.

“You’re distracted,” you murmured.

“I’m not,” he protested, his voice vibrating against your ear. “This is me being extremely focused and professional.”

“You’re kissing me while reading reports.”

“Multitasking,” he said, punctuating this by pressing another kiss to your temple, then your forehead.

You tilted your head up, and he took the invitation immediately, catching your lips in a brief kiss before reluctantly pulling back. “Okay, now I actually do need to finish this,” he said with a sigh. “Meeting in the morning. Yaga will skin me alive if I haven’t finished my required reading.”

“Mm,” you agreed, settling back against him.

You could feel the low rumble of his voice in your chest as he started reading the report aloud under his breath, a habit he’d developed for dense documents to help him focus. The sound was a hypnotic lullaby. 

Every few minutes, he’d pause to press another kiss to your hair, your forehead, wherever he could reach without having to move too much. Each one felt like a small confirmation that you were actually here with him and he was allowed to do this now.

Unable to help yourself, you turned your face to press a kiss to his jaw, his neck, the small patch of skin just above his collar. Nothing heated, just a physical manifestation of your contentment.

“You’re definitely distracting me now,” he groaned, shifting in his seat.

“Should I move?” you asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

“No,” he answered firmly. “This is my favorite way to do paperwork now. All future reports will be read exactly like this. I’m making it policy.”

You smiled against his neck, feeling something warm and bright unfurl in your chest. “That seems like an abuse of power.”

“I’m the Head of the High Council. I can abuse my power if I want to. It’s in the job description. Right under ‘look intimidating’ and ‘sign things very fast’.”

He pressed another kiss to the crown of your head, then seemed to get distracted by the task, pressing several more in succession, as though he’d been storing up all these casual affections for years and could finally spend them freely.

You turned your face up to him, and he abandoned the report entirely for a moment, cupping your cheek with his free hand and kissing you properly, slow and sweet and thorough, the kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your brain go pleasantly fuzzy. When you broke apart, you were both smiling like idiots.

“Report,” you reminded him.

“Right. Report. Very important.”

Gojo picked up the report again with a dramatic sigh, but his hand returned to your thigh, and within moments he was dropping little kisses on your head again while murmuring about equipment requisitions.

Here, now, everything felt so simple. The political maneuvering, the clan expectations, Gakuganji’s hatred, your own insecurities – it all felt distant, like a storm happening in another city, on another continent. It couldn’t touch you here.

This, you thought drowsily, was infinitely better than the windowsill. You could stay here forever. You could build a small house here, in this space between his chest and his arm, and live out the rest of your days in perfect contentment. The lingering anxiety from the morning dissipated completely. 

The world hadn’t ended. The apocalypse hadn’t shown up. The sky hadn’t fallen. Your friends hadn’t staged an intervention. Gakuganji hadn’t somehow sensed a disturbance in the force and filed seventeen complaints.

You’d just gone to work. Done your job. Fought with Higuruma about ties. Had lunch with Mai. Cleared your desk of crises.

And then, at the end of the day, you got to come home.

Chapter Text

The first few days of the week settled into a new sort of rhythm, the way water finds its level after a stone’s been thrown in. Except the stone was Gojo Satoru, and you were the water, and the metaphor was getting away from you.

On one hand, it was business as usual: endless paperwork, demanding colleagues, and the general low-grade chaos of keeping the jujutsu world from imploding.  On the other hand, you were now operating with a secret humming under your skin, a low-voltage current of happiness that made everything seem both more manageable and somehow also more complicated.

Gojo insisted on driving you to work every morning. The kisses in the car had become your favorite part of the routine. You’d officially given up pretending to resist. As far as you were concerned, morning smooching sessions were a necessary part of a balanced work-life-what-was-happening-to-your-life routine now. 

The day would continue in small invasions of joy. You’d get a text in the middle of a tedious meeting that was just a string of heart emojis, twelve of them, which seemed excessive until you remembered who you were dealing with. You’d be buried in reports and suddenly smell your his cologne, and you’d look up to see Gojo leaning in your doorway, not saying anything, just looking at you with a soft smile before disappearing again. 

These were small things, but they added up. And the fact that they were slowly reprogramming your brain chemistry was, you told yourself, perfectly normal and not at all concerning. The resulting perpetual state of looking vaguely flustered became your new baseline.

Mai had already commented on it, because Mai commented on everything. “You’re glowing,” she’d said with a suspicious squint when you passed her in the hallway. “It’s disgusting. Are you taking new vitamins? You’d better tell me what they are.”

“It’s the magic of fiscal responsibility,” you’d lied with a straight face, gesturing with the budget report you’d been carrying as if it were a holy text. “Balancing spreadsheets is good for the soul. You should try it sometime.”

She’d stared at you like you’d just sprouted a second head. A very, very weird head that said stupid things about spreadsheets. Her look had conveyed an entire novel’s worth of judgment, one of the long Russian ones with everyone dying of consumption at the end.

On Tuesday, you’d gotten an email from Satoshi asking to have his appointment bumped up. “Got stuck playing babysitter for some of Itadori-senpai’s brats this week,” the email had read, his casual adoption of the “senpai” honorific a silent admission of respect that he would probably deny with his last breath if you called him on it. “Might as well get this mandatory bullshit over with so I can focus on keeping the little shits from accidentally exorcising themselves.”

When he’d swagger-stomped into your office on Wednesday afternoon, the change in his demeanor was noticeable. It wasn’t a complete personality overhaul. Satoshi was still, at his core, a grumpy young man trapped in the body of a walking brick shithouse and was making it everyone else’s problem. 

But the brittle, defensive anger from your first meeting had mellowed somewhat. He still radiated the same entitled arrogance that seemed to be a factory standard for Kyoto graduates, but it was tempered now, less a performance and more a habit. The difference between someone actively trying to be an asshole and someone who’d simply gotten very good at it through years of dedicated practice.

Satoshi didn’t burst into the room unannounced this time. What you got instead vaguely resembled a knock, even if it sounded more like he’d punched your door as a courtesy warning that he was coming through regardless of your feelings on the matter. Progress came in many forms. Sometimes it came in the form of technically-violence-but-we’ll-call-it-knocking.

Rather than flopping onto your couch like a sack of moody potatoes, he lowered himself down with the sort of grudging deliberation that suggested he’d considered fighting it on principle and then decided it was too much effort. The session was already off to a better start than the first one – a bar so low it was practically a tripping hazard but nevertheless cause for mild celebration. There were no concealed weapons, no attempts to intimidate you with the sheer force of his muscle mass, and no need for you to deploy the enchanted IKEA coffee table. A marked improvement by any metric.

“Tea?” you offered brightly.

“Whatever,” he grunted, staring at the ceiling as though it held the answers to the universe’s most profound questions, or at least a few decent reasons why he had to be here talking about his feelings instead of literally anywhere else doing literally anything else.

You poured Satoshi a cup of tea anyway and slid it across the table. He ignored it for a solid minute, then picked it up and took a reluctant sip

“How’s your partner?” you asked. You knew the answer already (you’d checked on Ari this morning) but you wanted to hear it from him. There was a difference between facts on a medical chart and facts spoken aloud by someone who cared.

“They moved her out of the ICU,” he said, and the tension in his shoulders eased almost imperceptibly. “Got her in a regular room yesterday. Docs say she’ll bounce back fine. Just gonna have some scars to show for it.”

“That’s good to hear, Satoshi.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled into his teacup. “She’s already bitching about the hospital food, so you know she’s back to being a pain in my ass.” 

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face before he remembered his Grumpy Bastard™ brand and squashed it. You pretended not to notice. Survivor’s guilt was a heavy burden, but knowing the other person had made it through lifted a significant portion of that weight. Not all of it. Never all of it. But enough to finally take a full breath.

When you asked Satoshi to walk you through a specific moment of the Osaka mission again – a standard trauma-processing technique disguised as a request for strategic analysis – he pulled out his phone to check the mission log for the exact timestamp. As he unlocked the screen, you noticed it. On his home screen, among the usual social media crap and gaming apps, was the unmistakable icon of an ebook reader. Well, wasn’t that interesting.

From a clinical perspective, he was recovering better than you’d expected. You ran through your standard check-in questions, still carefully disguised as “tactical debrief” because heaven forbid anyone admit they’re actually in therapy. That would require acknowledging feelings, and feelings were against the terms of service for being a jujutsu sorcerer.

Sleep was still erratic, but he’d managed five consecutive hours last night, a new record. The hand tremors were less frequent. His cursed energy control was stabilizing, you could feel it.  

The emotional side of things, however, was still a fortress. Well-defended, heavily armed, featuring a moat filled with alligators and hot oil to pour on anyone who tried to scale the walls. But you were never one for breaking down doors. Frontal attacks were inefficient and resulted in unnecessary casualties. You’d always preferred the sneaky approach: infiltration, misdirection, finding that one loose brick in the wall and wiggling it until the whole damn fortress came down on its own while its owner was distracted by something shiny.

Today’s session was productive and reassuringly professional. You could easily sign off on his report, pencil in the next appointment, and send him on his merry way with a gold star sticker if you thought he wouldn’t take it as a mortal insult. But you kept thinking about Yuji’s upcoming Sendai trip and Satoshi being left behind. Yuji would be gone for days, and without his energetic social presence to drag Satoshi along, sometimes literally, the young sorcerer would be left to his own devices. 

Boredom was a dangerous thing for someone recovering from trauma. It left too much room for the darkness to creep back in, for the intrusive thoughts to find purchase in the silence.

“Well,” you said, closing your notebook and stowing your pen. “That’s all I have for you today, Satoshi. You’re making excellent progress. Same time next week?”

He nodded, already preparing to stand, looking relieved the ordeal was over.

“Oh wait, one more thing,” you added, casually leaning back in your chair as if the thought had just occurred to you.

He froze, hand hovering over his phone, eyeing you with suspicion. “The fuck now?”

You pushed up from your chair and meandered over to your office bookshelf. It was, as Mai loved pointing out whenever she visited, an absolute disaster zone. Books crammed in sideways, stacked horizontally when the vertical space ran out, the whole thing one wrong sneeze away from a literary avalanche that would probably require professional excavation. You also had an extensive personal lending library of your favorite titles, strategically seeded among the psychology textbooks and case study binders, carefully curated for this kind of therapeutic ambush.

“So,” you mused, trailing your finger along the book spines, “I heard Itadori’s heading out of town?”

You needed something specific here. Something with enough plot hooks to reel him in, but also dealing with the right themes: trauma, survivor’s guilt, finding your feet after life kicks you in the teeth. You skipped past the heavy literature and the trashy romance novels that you absolutely did not read during breaks and would deny under oath. Ah, there it was.

“Yeah,” Satoshi grunted, watching you warily, not understanding where this was going but suspecting it was some kind of therapeutic trap. Which, fair enough, it totally was.

“You know, I just finished this one,” you said, pulling a thick paperback from the shelf. “It’s pretty damn good. Might keep you entertained while you’re stuck on babysitting duty.”

You tossed the book his way. He caught it on reflex, looking down at the cover with a wrinkled nose, as if you’d just handed him something foul-smelling. The cover art featured a dramatic fantasy landscape: jagged mountains, a swirling purple sky, a lone figure doing their best heroic pose against a sunset. The title sparkled in that over-the-top silver font fantasy publishers love so much. It was a classic of the genre, a well-worn hero’s journey that you’d read half a dozen times. You’d prescribed it to other patients before with some good results.

“What the hell is this?” Satoshi scoffed, flipping it over to read the back cover synopsis. His lip curled in disdain. “Magic swords? Ancient prophecies? Fucking elves? This is some nerd shit. I don’t do fiction. It’s stupid.”

You’d expected this reaction. In the hyper-masculine, tradition-bound world of jujutsu society, especially the Kyoto faction, admitting to a fondness for something as “frivolous” as fiction was probably seen as a weakness. Real men punched curses and brooded dramatically in corners and maybe, if they were feeling particularly adventurous, grunted approvingly at each other over beer. Reading about dragons and spaceships? That was for lesser mortals.

“Oh?” You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes and raised an eyebrow instead, going for mildly curious. “And what makes it stupid?”

“It’s not real,” Satoshi said, as if this were an irrefutable, conversation-ending point that would make you nod wisely and take the book back and apologize for wasting his time. “Just made-up crap. Why waste time reading about fake problems when we’ve got enough real shit to deal with?”

“Interesting perspective,” you said, which was therapist-speak for “that’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week, but go off I guess.” “Then this should be easy for you. I want you to read this book.”

He snorted. “And why the fuck would I do that?”

“Consider it part of your cognitive retraining,” you replied, making this up as you went along, but it sounded official enough. “Read it. And while you’re reading, write down every single thing you think is stupid about it.”

Satoshi’s face did this amazing thing where it tried to express confusion and outrage simultaneously and ended up somewhere in the vicinity of a constipated scowl. “Let me get this straight,” he spoke slowly. “You want me to... read some fantasy bullshit and bitch about it?”

“Exactly,” you confirmed, nodding encouragingly. “Make it competitive. Keep score of which character pulls the most dumbass moves. Analyze their tactical errors. Rate their decision-making on a scale of one to ten. What could they have done differently to be less stupid? How would you have handled the situation if you were in their place? And if it helps,” you added, leaning forward conspiratorially, “make it a drinking game.”

That got his attention. “A drinking game?”

“Hell yeah. Every time someone makes a brain-dead decision? Take a shot. Character ignores perfectly good advice? Drink. Love interest creates drama because they can’t use their fucking words? Two shots. You know how these things go.”

You were definitely skating on thin ice here. Suggesting a person drink to cope with their feelings was generally frowned upon in legitimate therapeutic circles. It was probably grounds for losing your license, in fact. The ethics board would have an absolute field day with this one.

But you weren’t dealing with a civilian accountant struggling with workplace stress. You were dealing with a traumatized, emotionally constipated nineteen-year-old sorcerer who would rather set himself on fire than talk directly about his own trauma. 

You had to meet people where they were. If that meant weaponizing their arrogance and love of alcohol to trick them into externalizing and analyzing their own thought processes through the safe proxy of fictional characters, well... whatever got results. You could apologize to your graduate school professors later.

The corner of Satoshi’s mouth twitched. He was trying not to be interested in this absurd game. He was failing. The idea of drinking while judging others for their stupidity seemed to appeal to Satoshi on a fundamental, almost spiritual level. You’d known it would. It was, after all, a time-honored tradition among jujutsu sorcerers. 

“And next session,” you concluded, leaning back in your chair with the air of someone offering a very reasonable deal, “instead of talking about you, we’ll talk about them. We’ll break down their stupid decisions, what they could have done differently to be less stupid, who you think was the most competent person in the entire goddamn kingdom.”

Satoshi considered this for a moment. Reading a stupid fantasy novel: fine, whatever. Writing down his complaints: he did that anyway, mentally, about everything. Getting drunk in the process: sold. And best of all, the promise of a session where he didn’t have to talk about his own trauma, but could instead spend an hour righteously judging fictional characters for their flaws. Irresistible.

“Fine,” he grunted with considerably less hostility. “But if this book’s as shit as it looks, you’re paying me back for the booze I wasted on it.”

“Deal,” you agreed with a grin. “And Satoshi? I expect a proper report. Five pages minimum, single-spaced, twelve-point font.”

You weren’t actually expecting a written report, obviously. That would be asking for a minor miracle, possibly involving divine intervention. The day Satoshi voluntarily turned in a five-page essay about his feelings, even if those feelings were “this elf is a fucking moron,” was the day you’d buy a lottery ticket. But plant that seed now, and maybe he’d end up scribbling down some notes on his phone. Maybe those notes would turn into paragraphs. Maybe those paragraphs would involve him actually processing something.

Baby steps were still steps. Toddler steps counted. Hell, you’d take crawling at this point.

As he got up to leave, book tucked under his arm like contraband he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be caught with, he hesitated at the door. 

“So… uh…,” he shifted his weight sheepishly. “Which character’s the biggest dumbass in this thing?” 

“No cheating. Read it yourself and find out,” you shot back with an exaggerated wink that made him roll his eyes so hard you were briefly concerned for his optical health.

Satoshi actually cracked a laugh – a real one – as he walked out, and you could hear him whistling some mangled pop tune down the hallway, the sound of someone whose mood had lifted without them noticing it happening. Poor bastard had no idea he’d just been expertly bamboozled into bibliotherapy and therapeutic journaling.

Bibliotherapy was a legitimate psychological treatment with actual research backing it up and everything. Using literature to help people process emotions, explore difficult situations through the safe distance of fiction, identify with characters who’d been through similar struggles – it was all perfectly respectable.

But convincing a jujutsu sorcerer to engage with a text for emotional processing? Never going to happen if you called it what it was, if you sat them down and said, “let’s explore your trauma through the lens of this fantasy novel about loss and recovery.” They’d run screaming. Or, more likely, punch something expensive.

Frame it as a tactical challenge, though? Make it a competition? Give them professional encouragement to talk shit about everyone else? Now you were speaking their language. The journaling was just bonus stealth therapy, getting them to process emotions without the pressure of direct questioning, without the vulnerability of admitting these were their own fears they were projecting onto a character named Thorian Stormbreaker or whatever.

The drinking game component wasn’t ideal, you had to admit. In a perfect world, you’d be able to use more conventional methods. CBT worksheets. Mindfulness exercises. Controlled exposure therapy in a nice, safe, supervised environment.

The jujutsu world, unfortunately, was far from perfect, and if you wanted to keep these idiots alive and functional and something resembling mentally healthy, you had to accept some creative compromises.

You stared at the new gap in your bookshelf where the novel had lived. At least it was quality stuff. The characters weren’t total idiots, despite what the cover art suggested. They generally made decent choices under pressure. They were messy but tough people who dealt with their own flavors of trauma and eventually crawled their way to something like healing. It wasn’t a neat process. There was backsliding and mistakes and moments of profound stupidity. But they got there.

And most critically for Satoshi’s liver health, while the characters had their moments of catastrophic decision-making that would qualify for shots, they weren’t constant fuck-ups. The pacing was decent. He’d get tipsy, maybe pleasantly drunk if he was really committing to the bit, but wouldn’t end up in the ER with alcohol poisoning, explaining to a doctor that his therapist had prescribed this. 

Probably. Maybe. You made a mental note to check in with him in a few days, just to make sure.

***

The sparring session with Higuruma that evening wasn’t as bad as you’d feared. He didn’t make you cry. He didn’t even go for your ribs, despite the many creative and highly descriptive threats he’d made earlier in the week involving your internal organs and what he planned to do with them – something about introducing your spleen to your pancreas through the medium of his elbow, if memory served. In fact, he was suspiciously gentle.

It wasn’t obvious at first. The warm-ups were the same brutal affair they’d always been, the initial drills just as demanding as ever. But as you moved into full sparring, you started to notice it. The punch that could have bruised your kidney was just a light tap to your side, a reminder of an opening, not a punishment for it. The sweep that should have taken your legs out from under you was just a brush against your ankle. 

Higuruma was pulling his punches. He was still correcting your form, pointing out weaknesses, but there was a distinct lack of his usual smugness about it all. No commentary about how your grandma could have blocked that, and she’d been dead for 18 years. No observations about your reflexes being comparable to those of sedated livestock.

The whole session was... pleasant. Which was deeply unsettling. Higuruma did not do “pleasant.” His entire teaching philosophy was built on the twin pillars of “if you’re not crying, you’re not trying” and “pain is just weakness leaving the body, preferably through brutal impact with the floor.” Pleasant was an affront to everything he stood for, to his very identity as someone who believed that suffering built character and that character was best built through strategic application of elbows to soft tissue.

After a final pin that you practically gift-wrapped and handed to him (seriously, a first-year student could have seen that setup coming), you found yourself sprawled on your back on the mat, arms and legs spread out, chest heaving, sweat plastering your hair to your temples in a way that was definitely not doing you any favors.

Undignified? Yes. But it felt good to just lie there for a second, becoming one with the mat, contemplating the ceiling tiles and your life choices in roughly equal measure. The ceiling tiles were boring but stable. Your life choices were neither of those things.

Higuruma sat down beside you, cross-legged and perfectly composed, not even breathing hard. He looked like he’d just finished a light yoga session – serene, centered, probably thinking about tax law or whatever it was he thought about when he wasn’t beating people up for their own good. Meanwhile, you resembled something the cat had dragged in, dragged back out, then possibly ran over with a lawn mower.

“Alright, out with it,” he said.

You blinked at him. “Out with what? My lungs? I think they’re on the floor over there somewhere.”

“What’s on your mind?” he pressed, ignoring your attempt at deflection. “You’ve been nervous about something.”

Higuruma was right, of course. You were always nervous about something. It was your factory setting, the baseline of your entire personality, the default state of your existence. You were a chaotic creature built from anxiety and spite, held together with caffeine and sugar and sheer willpower. Usually, you were good at putting on a performance for the world – confident, capable, ruthless, occasionally unhinged. You played your role so well that most people bought the performance wholesale, never questioned the receipts, never noticed the seams.

But it was the ass-end of a day that had felt approximately forty-seven hours long, possibly more if you counted the minutes individually, which your brain had been doing since about 2 PM. The metaphorical stage lights were off, the audience had gone home, and you just didn’t have the energy to keep the mask on. 

Besides, this was Higuruma. He was one of the few people you trusted enough to see you without armor – the you that were tired and scared and insecure and perpetually convinced that everything was about to fall apart.

The temptation to spill everything was overwhelming. But you couldn’t tell Higuruma the real reason for your increased twitchiness. 

You couldn’t just say, “Oh, you know, nothing much. Just finally kissed the man I’ve been hopelessly in love with for literal years, who, by the way, is supposed to marry a perfectly lovely woman from an important family for political reasons that are Very Important and Definitely More Important Than My Feelings, and now I’m having an existential crisis about whether I’ve accidentally butterfly-effected the entire jujutsu world into chaos while simultaneously wondering if this makes us an actual thing or if we’re just... whatever the fuck this is. Also, his tongue does this thing that— Actually, never mind. Got any sage advice? Perhaps in bullet-point format?”

Higuruma would have an aneurysm. Or worse, he’d be practical and start outlining the ramifications of inter-office relationships with a superior, complete with flow charts and risk-assessment matrices that would make you wish for the aneurysm option. You adored the man, truly, but you were not in the mood for a full-scale consultation on the matter of your catastrophic love life that would inevitably conclude with “this is a terrible idea and you should stop immediately.”

So you hadn’t told anyone. How could you? You hadn’t even processed it yourself. The thoughts just kept spinning in circles like a hamster on a wheel, except the hamster was on fire and the wheel was also on fire and everything else was on fire.

What were you and Gojo now? 

Were you… dating? 

The word felt strange and ill-fitting. Sure, there had been a lot of kissing. Fantastic kissing. Mind-meltingly good kissing. But also deeply, profoundly confusing kissing.

He hadn’t exactly asked you out on a date. He hadn’t defined… anything. There had been no conversation, no clarification, no “so, about us” moment. Was this it? Was this your life now? A series of stolen moments and unspoken maybe-somethings? Were you meant to be operating on vibes alone? Because your vibes were terrible. Your vibes were having their own separate crisis.

Had Gojo just accidentally become what Miwa had so eloquently termed, in a truly cursed fic tag that still haunted your nightmares and appeared behind your eyelids when you tried to sleep, your “Sensei with Benefits”? 

You cringed so hard your entire body tensed. Hell no. Absolutely fucking not. You refused to be a cautionary tale on AO3 with a concerning number of kudos. You had some dignity left. Not much, admittedly, but some.

You knew Gojo well enough to know he didn’t do things lightly, especially not things that mattered. Despite the rampant office gossip about his supposed “body count,” a mythology fueled by his good looks and playful personality and the general assumption that anyone who looked like that must be having constant sex with everyone in a five-mile radius, you knew the reality was different.

Maybe there was some truth to those stories in his youth, perhaps back in his wild days before you’d come into his life to witness them firsthand. But ever since he’d taken over as the Head Councilman, he hadn’t been with anyone. No man, no woman, no casual flings, no mysterious late-night visitors. Radio silence on the romance front.

And you would know.

You were nosy by nature, a professional snooper with years of experience in other people’s business and a truly impressive network of informants. You had eyes and ears everywhere, cultivated through years of strategic gift-giving and knowing precisely who needed what favor when. 

You knew everyone’s dirty laundry: who was cheating on whom, who was fucking whom during lunch breaks in the storage room on the third floor (which, frankly, was unsanitary and they should be ashamed), who had a secret gambling problem that was getting less secret by the day, and who was hiding a questionable collection of antique cursed dolls in their attic that definitely needed to be reported to someone.

If Gojo had been seeing someone, you’d have caught wind of it. You’d have known within forty-eight hours. You’d have known what they ordered for dinner and whether they were a morning person and what their opinions were on pineapple as a pizza topping.

You knew for a fact that Gojo’s romantic life for the past six years at minimum had been a barren wasteland. If his love life were a houseplant, it would have died from neglect and someone would have thrown it out years ago.

You’d always assumed it was because he was too busy, that the crushing weight of his responsibilities had killed his sex drive entirely, a common and tragic side effect of saving the world on a regular basis. That thought had always filled you with a strange sadness. 

Well, that theory was thoroughly debunked now. 

At least, the sex drive part. Based on the… uh, evidence pressing against you every time the smooching got too heated, that part of him was functioning just fine. Better than fine. Enthusiastically. With great vigor.

You felt a blush creep up your neck at the memory of this morning’s session in his car. That had been intense and extremely educational and had left you with some very specific knowledge about Gojo Satoru’s physical responses that you did not know what to do with.

So why hadn’t he said anything? No official statement of intent, no formal acknowledgment that the fundamental nature of your relationship had shifted. No conversation whatsoever. Just kissing. Lots of kissing. Truly impressive amounts of kissing. But no words about the kissing.

Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of conversation? A relationship check-in? A status update? Something? A “what are we?” talk that everyone dreaded but that was apparently necessary for the proper functioning of human civilization?

You’d counseled enough people to know that making assumptions was the fastest way to fuck things up. You couldn’t just upgrade someone to “boyfriend” status because he’d been kissing you silly every chance he got. Right? That seemed like a bad precedent to set.

Maybe you should bring it up. Just… ask. Use your words like an adult. Maybe he was waiting for you to bring it up. Maybe you were both waiting for the other person to bring it up and you’d just wait forever like two idiots in a romantic comedy who couldn’t communicate to save their lives, and eventually you’d both die of old age without ever having The Talk, and they’d bury you in adjacent plots and your ghosts would still be too awkward to discuss your feelings.

God, this was exhausting. Relationships were exhausting. No wonder everyone needed therapy. You needed therapy just thinking about needing to have this conversation.

To make matters worse, Higuruma was still looking at you with so much concern that it felt wrong to lie to him. He deserved some truth. So you offered him a piece of the truth, a smaller, more manageable problem that was still a real source of anxiety.

“Gojo’s family is throwing some fancy party this weekend,” you said. “I… sort of promised sensei I’d go with him.”

Higuruma frowned. “...Okay? What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” you groaned, gesturing vaguely at your own existence, “is me. I’m the problem. I don’t fit in with those people, Hiromi. They hate me. They’ve always hated me. I’m going to look out of place. I’ll wear the wrong clothes, or say the wrong thing, or accidentally insult some ancient great-aunt who holds the family’s entire fortune in a trust fund and then she’ll write Gojo out of the will and he’ll end up living in a cardboard box under a bridge and it will all be my fault because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut for three hours. I’m going to embarrass him.”

Which, historically, was not an unfounded fear. There had been incidents. The ikebana incident being the most famous, but certainly not the only one.

Higuruma stared at you for a beat, processing this confession, before letting out a snort of laughter. “Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about?”

“It’s a valid concern!” you protested, propping yourself up on your elbows to glare at him properly. “Do you have any idea how much those people judge everything? Their judgment has judgment. They probably have a specific way you’re supposed to breathe in their presence that I don’t know about.”

“First off,” Higuruma said, holding up one finger, “Gojo is the head of his clan. I don’t think anyone can make him homeless at this point. Second,” another finger went up, “you’d look fine in a potato sack. Everyone in this building agrees on that. There was a poll.”

“What poll—”

“And third,” he continued, steamrolling right over you, “you don’t need to prove anything to those people. Gojo wants you there. That’s what matters.” 

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, flopping back down onto the mat with a dramatic thud. “You’re not the one who has to make small talk with his third cousin twice removed about the fluctuating price of antique cursed artifacts while they judge your posture and find it wanting.”

“If you’re worried, I’ll take you shopping. My treat. We’ll find you something you’ll feel confident in. Something expensive enough that they’ll respect you on principle alone. And bulletproof, if necessary.”

You peeked out from under your arm to snicker at Higuruma. “You want to be my stylist? Seriously? I’m not taking fashion advice from a man whose entire wardrobe consists of twenty identical suits and who is currently obsessed with three identical ties he bought on a clearance sale at a department store that’s going out of business.”

“They were fifty percent off—”

“They’re polyester, Hiromi.”

Your sass earned you what it deserved. Higuruma reached out and pinched your nose between his thumb and forefinger, holding it hostage.

“Ow! Leggo!” you squawked nasally like a congested duck. A deeply offended duck.

“Apologize for slandering my impeccable taste in neckwear. I’ll have you know those ties are timeless classics. They’ll never go out of style.”

“They were never in style!” you accused, squirming indignantly on the mat, swatting at his hand and trying to dislodge it through sheer force of writhing. 

Higuruma held firm, his smirk widening into something positively evil. Defeated on the direct assault front, you resorted to your secret weapon: targeted tickling. Your hands shot up and found the ticklish spots under his ribs that he’d tried very hard to pretend didn’t exist. As your fingers wiggled against his side, Higuruma’s smirk turned into a choked gasp. He tried to escape, but you were relentless, your attack strategic and merciless. His composure shattered into helpless wheezing laughter.

And it was this absurd scene – you, flat on your back on the floor, your nose still pinched by Higuruma who was looming over you, trying to maintain his grip on your nose with one hand while simultaneously fending of your tickle attacks with his other, both of you cackling like lunatics – that Gojo walked in on.

He’d swapped his usual work attire for training gear: a black t-shirt and sweats that did nothing to downplay the fact that he was basically a Greek statue come to life, with a towel draped carelessly around his neck. He must have come looking for you when you didn’t show at his office. He looked relaxed, happy even, like he’d been planning to crash your training session and maybe show off a little.

Then his eyes landed on you, specifically, on you and Higuruma in your current absurd position, and he went still as stone in the doorway. The easy expression on his face flickered, barely noticeable but there. The temperature in the room, which had been warm and full of laughter, seemed to drop by twenty degrees. 

Higuruma seemed to notice the shift in atmosphere at the same time you did. His laughter cut off abruptly, and his hand fell away from your face

“Sensei!” you beamed, bouncing up to sitting, your exhaustion instantly gone and a giddy, uncomplicated joy filling your chest at the sight of him.

“Didn’t see you there,” Higuruma said, nodding at Gojo as he pushed himself up from the mat.

“Just dropped by,” Gojo replied breezily. A smile snapped into place as he sauntered over to where you were, ruffling your hair affectionately, the gesture familiar and fond, but there was something slightly off about it. “Looks like you two are having fun. How’s our resident disaster doing, Higs?”

“Making progress,” Higuruma deadpanned. “I think with another decade or two of training, Spices might actually learn to throw a proper punch.”

“My punches are always proper!” you protested.

Higuruma simply shrugged at your outrage, his expression suggesting that the evidence spoke for itself and the evidence was not in your favor.

You moved to punch him – with proper form – just to prove your point, but Gojo caught your hand before you could make contact. It was an unconscious gesture, reflexive, the kind of movement that happened without thought. The moment his fingers closed around your fist, you felt him tense, like he’d moved on instinct and only just realized what he’d done and how it might look. He covered the slip smoothly, hauling you to your feet in one fluid motion that sent you stumbling against his chest.

“Whoa there,” he laughed, steadying you with his hands on your shoulders.

Before you could complain about being manhandled or even fully process Gojo’s weird mood swing, he’d already let go and turned to Higuruma. “Up for another round?” he asked, and there was something in his voice that made the question sound less like a friendly inquiry and more like a challenge. “I could use some exercise before I head home.”

Higuruma frowned, his sharp eyes flicking between you and Gojo. He knew something was off. You could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to piece together the undertone of the sudden tension. Being the astute man that he was, he didn’t call Gojo out on it, not here, not in front of you.

“Why not?” Higuruma said, his smile easy and unconcerned, though his eyes were watchful. “Been a while since I had a decent fight.”

You looked between them, confused and increasingly uncomfortable. Something felt wrong. Gojo’s smile was still in place, but it had taken on that quality it got when he was being pleasant about something that annoyed him. Higuruma, for his part, was still neutral and relaxed, though his posture had shifted in a way that suggested he was actually prepared for real violence. 

“Right,” you said awkwardly, stepping back and gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Well, I should probably—”

“Stay,” Gojo said, his eyes still fixed on Higuruma. “You can watch. Might learn something about proper form.”

Higuruma’s smile sharpened in return. “Always happy to provide a demonstration.” He looked amused now, as though he’d just figured out the punchline to a joke you weren’t in on.

You stood there on the edge of the mat, suddenly feeling like an outsider in your own training session, watching as they moved into position.

This was fine. They’d sparred before. This was a completely normal thing that was happening and definitely not some kind of pissing contest over... what? You?

No. That was ridiculous. You were reading too much into it, letting your anxious brain conjure problems that didn’t exist. Gojo was just in a mood. He got like this sometimes, restless, itchy for a fight, needing to burn off excess energy that built up from sitting in meetings all day and being responsible and not punching the people who desperately needed punching.

This had nothing to do with you. Right?

These damn men were bad for your mental health. You sighed and moved out of the way, settling in to watch from the bench at the far end of the room. A safe distance, you hoped. Far enough that you wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire of whatever this was.

You had the distinct feeling you were about to learn something, though you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know what it was.

Chapter Text

The sparring match between two Special Grade sorcerers who were both feeling Weird About Things™ went precisely as anyone with two brain cells to rub together might have predicted: with structural damage to the training facility, a palpable testosterone miasma filling the room, and a thoroughly traumatized viewing audience of one.

If Hakari Kinji ever found out about this missed opportunity, he would never let you hear the end of it. You could already hear his voice in your head, rising to that pitch of aggrieved entrepreneurial outrage:

“Do you have any idea what kind of numbers we could have pulled? The betting pools alone!”

Hakari would mourn the lost revenue for years. Decades, probably. He’d deliver passionate lectures on the economic irresponsibility of failing to livestream a grudge match of this magnitude. There would be charts, provided by Kirara. Detailed spreadsheets with projected earnings, betting odds broken down by technique and duration, profit margins highlighted in accusatory yellow. The man would probably create a special category in his yearly budget reports: “Missed Opportunities That Keep Me Up At Night.”

As it was, in the moment, your brain was too busy blue-screening to even think about potential gambling revenues or livestream metrics. You were barely processing what was happening in front of your eyes, let alone monetizing it. Some primitive part of your hindbrain was cycling through variations of “oh no” on an endless loop.

Gojo and Higuruma were going at it like they were headlining a pay-per-view MMA event, competing for a championship belt made of pure ego. Naturally, neither of them was really going all out. If Gojo had deployed Limitless, Headquarters would be a crater and you’d be atoms scattered picturesquely across three districts, possibly forming a new and exciting element on the periodic table. Higuruma, likewise, wasn’t summoning his gavel or opening a domain to put Gojo on trial for Crimes Against Vibes. 

There was no budget for a new building at this time of year. Mizuki had been extremely clear about that in Monday’s meeting, with visual aids and everything. So large-scale property destruction was off the table. But make no mistake: they were still very much overdoing it for a simple “friendly spar” between long-time colleagues who respected one another. 

The air crackled with cursed energy. Something that might have been a support beam groaned ominously overhead. You were developing a stress headache.

There was no point in interfering, though. Stepping between them would be like stepping between two high-speed trains that had both decided, independently and with great conviction, that the same stretch of track belonged to them. You were so far out of your weight class here, you might as well be in a different sport entirely. 

Yuuta, the only person with enough raw power to tank a hit from either of them without exploding into a fine red mist, was currently out of the country doing important Yuuta things. Yuji might survive based on durability alone, but even he wasn’t dumb enough to wade into this blender. 

Both Gojo and Higuruma were grown men, ostensibly possessing fully developed frontal lobes and at least a passing acquaintance with rational thought. They were certainly old enough to know better than to accidentally kill one another during a… let’s call it a sort of primal, non-verbal conversation happening through the medium of violent physical contact.

Since Gojo had specifically asked you to watch, you decided to be a dutiful student and observe. And honestly? From a purely aesthetic standpoint, it was an extremely good view.

Gojo and Higuruma were both objectively hot men in their own right. This was simply a fact, the way gravity was a fact, or the way water was wet. You could argue against it, technically, but you’d be wrong and also probably blind.

Gojo was sprawling athleticism, all long limbs and explosive power wrapped up in a deceptively lean package. Higuruma was grounded and solid, an immovable object to Gojo’s unstoppable force. Where Gojo moved like he was personally offended by physics, Higuruma moved like a landslide: inevitable and impossible to redirect once he’d committed to a direction.

The fight opened with testing jabs, a quick exchange of blows blocked and countered. Then the pace accelerated because “taking it easy” wasn’t in either of their vocabularies. 

Gojo launched a high kick that would have taken a normal man’s head off. Higuruma ducked under it smoothly, pivoting on one foot to drive an elbow toward Gojo’s midsection with a precision that spoke to either excellent core control or a barely suppressed homicidal streak. Gojo caught the elbow in his palm with a smack that echoed through the room, twisting to use Higuruma’s momentum to introduce him face-first to the floor.

But Higuruma, proving that mass and agility weren’t mutually exclusive, dropped his center of gravity, hooking a leg around Gojo’s knee to stabilize himself. What should have been a very embarrassing takedown converted smoothly into a close-quarters clinch that was, if you were being honest, getting a little hard to watch professionally. 

They stood locked together for a moment, muscles straining, chests heaving, a deadlock of raw strength.

“Sloppy on your right,” Gojo sing-songed, though his teeth were gritted and there was a vein popping prominently in his forehead. The cheerful tone didn’t quite match the visible effort.

Higuruma’s response came out as more of a grunt than actual words as he pushed back against Gojo’s grip. “Rich, coming from someone who announces his kicks.”

They separated like magnets suddenly reversed, prowling in a tight circle before crashing back together. 

Gojo feinted left before striking right with crazy speed. Higuruma, usually Mr. Cool-Calm-and-Collected, was matching Gojo’s aggression blow for blow, giving as good as he got. He caught Gojo’s wrist, twisted, and tried to force him to the mat. Gojo just laughed and spun out of the hold, using his height advantage to loom over Higuruma, pressing him back toward the wall.

The sweat was starting to glisten on their skin now, visible even from where you sat. Shirts were clinging in interesting places, mapping the shapes of backs and shoulders and arms. Hair was getting tousled. Faces were flushed with exertion, lips parted as they dragged in air.

It was, indeed, an educational experience.

Your overactive imagination, spurred on by Gojo’s earlier insistence that you watch and learn, decided to take his instruction very literally and apply it to… alternative contexts that would definitely not hold up in any accredited educational institution.

You watched Gojo’s hands – large, strong, fingers spread wide – gripping Higuruma’s shoulder to gain leverage, and your brain immediately supplied helpful images of those same hands elsewhere. On your hips, for instance. Tangled in your hair, perhaps. Holding you down against a mattress instead of pinning a sparring partner to a training mat, with significantly less clothing involved and significantly more…

You blinked hard, trying to dismiss the thought. It didn’t work. Your brain was being very insistent about this. Extremely generous with the details. You hadn’t asked for this level of specificity, but here it was anyway, rendered in high definition.

You watched the way the muscles in Gojo’s forearms flexed and bunched as he strained for leverage, and wondered what it would feel like to have those arms wrapped around you properly, lifting you up, pressing you against various vertical surfaces throughout the building. The wall. A door. That desk in the conference room that was definitely sturdy enough, you’d leaned against it plenty of times, it could handle…

Focus, you told yourself sternly. You’re here to observe combat techniques. Your imagination, however, had opinions about what constituted a combat technique.

You watched the flush spreading up Gojo’s neck, the sheen of sweat making his skin glow under the harsh lights, and you wondered how he’d look flushed for entirely different reasons. Sweating for entirely different reasons. Making entirely different sounds. The kind of sounds people made when they were engaged in other kinds of physically intensive activities.

The rational part of your brain, which was getting smaller and quieter by the second, pointed out that you should probably look away now. The significantly larger, louder part of your brain that was currently running this operation told the rational part to shut up and let it enjoy the show that Gojo had specifically invited you to watch.

As the fight progressed, you continued with your suspiciously thorough analysis of Gojo’s biomechanics. The way his core engaged to absorb impacts. That was important. Relevant. The kind of thing a serious student of martial arts should definitely notice and file away for future reference.

How his back muscles rippled as he moved. Also educational. Very instructive regarding proper form and muscle engagement.

The raw power in his thighs as he maintained balance, shifted weight, drove forward. Crucial information. You were learning so much about weight distribution and leverage. So much.

Your brain, now fully committed to this totally professional line of inquiry, supplied increasingly thirsty observations disguised as technical analysis such as:

The grip strength necessary for that particular hold implies significant finger dexterity and fine motor control.

If he can maintain a headlock on a 190-pound man with one arm while defending against strikes with the other, the practical applications of that kind of strength and coordination are... extensive.

Is it getting warm in here, or is it just the sheer density of pheromones currently being released into the atmosphere? Should we check the ventilation system? This seems like a safety concern.

Gojo pinned Higuruma’s wrist to the mat, fingers wrapped completely around it. Note the confident grip, the way he knows exactly how much pressure to apply, how he can feel the resistance and adjust accordingly.

He twisted out of a hold with a fluid roll of his shoulders and hips. Excellent range of motion, very flexible.

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his neck, traced the line of his throat, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. Wonder what that tastes like. Probably salty. Would definitely like to conduct empirical research on this question. For science.

He pushed his hair back from his forehead with one hand and your brain just started making incoherent keysmash noises like a computer trying to process too much data at once.

You shifted on the bench, very casually crossing your legs and adjusting your clothes for no reason whatsoever. Just getting comfortable. Normal fidgeting. Nothing to see here.

You became suddenly, acutely aware of your own breathing (When had the air gotten so thick?) and took a long sip from your water bottle, as if hydration was the issue here. 

This was purely academic interest. Just studying advanced human kinetics. And applied physics. And the tensile strength of various muscle groups.

Which happened to involve watching two extremely athletic men grapple with each other while wearing increasingly sweat-soaked clothing. In excellent lighting that was doing obscene things to the light-and-shadow situation happening on Gojo’s collarbones.

Science. This was science.

You should lick those collarbones, your brain suggested sagely. STOP, you told your brain firmly. Your brain did not stop.

Gojo twisted mid-strike, and his shirt rode up just enough to reveal a strip of skin at his lower back, the dimples at the base of his spine, and your brain just went for it: Oh, you could put your thumbs there. Press down. Just grab his hips and dig your nails in while…

You took another sip of water. A longer one. Maybe you could just drown your brain. That seemed like a reasonable solution at this point.

“Still leaving that right side wide open,” Gojo panted, dodging a hook from Higuruma.

“And you’re still overreaching,” Higuruma replied coolly, catching Gojo with a solid body blow that made him grunt. “Gets sloppy when you’re showing off.”

“I never show off,” Gojo grinned, spinning out of range and wiping sweat from his jaw with the back of his hand in a gesture that should not have been as attractive as it was. “I display excellence. There’s a distinction.”

“The only distinction is who you’re trying to impress.” Higuruma spared a split-second glance in your direction. “Speaking of which—”

“Eyes on me, Higs,” Gojo snapped, closing the distance between them so fast you almost missed it.

He drove Higuruma back with renewed ferocity, forcing him toward the edge of the mat with a combination of strikes that appeared like he was trying to physically redirect Higuruma’s attention through blunt force. The banter died down, replaced by the heavy thud of impacts, the squeak of shoes on rubber, and labored breathing.

The match dragged on. Another ten minutes. Fifteen. Neither man was yielding so much as a millimeter of ground. It wasn’t exactly malicious. They weren’t actively trying to murder each other, which was good, because the paperwork would have been horrendous. But the competitive energy had reached levels usually reserved for reality TV finales and custody disputes.

Something was being proven here, though whether it was to each other, to themselves, or to the very confused person sitting on the bench trying not to compile another detailed analysis of muscle group engagement and its potential alternative applications... that remained unclear.

Eventually, biology intervened. Not theirs, they probably could have kept this up for hours given their ridiculous stamina, but yours.

A loud, unignorable growl ripped through the training room, audible over the sound of heavy breathing and scuffing shoes. Your stomach had lodged a formal complaint with management. It demanded sustenance, and it demanded it now.

The sound was so absurdly loud it broke the testosterone-fueled trance. Gojo and Higuruma froze in the middle of a grapple, Gojo holding Higuruma in a loose chokehold while Higuruma had Gojo’s arm trapped in an extremely uncomfortable joint lock. They looked at each other. Then they looked at you.

You gave a small, helpless shrug. Your stomach growled again, just to emphasize its point.

Gojo cracked first, dissolving into wheezing laughter. “Call it?” he asked, slapping Higuruma’s shoulder like he was tapping out, except he was laughing too hard to make it look proper.

“Draw,” Higuruma conceded, releasing Gojo’s arm. 

In response, Gojo let go of the chokehold. They collapsed onto their backs on the mat, sprawling side by side, chests heaving, staring up at the lights.

“You’re not bad, old man. For a lawyer.”

“And you’re tolerable. For a trust fund baby.”

They hauled themselves up, bumping shoulders as they stood, the earlier tension converted through some mysterious alchemical process into the easy camaraderie of men who had successfully beaten the shit out of each other and bonded over it. They helped each other up properly, clapping backs and complimenting techniques like nothing remotely weird had happened at all.

You stood up from the bench. “Are you two done destroying the facilities? Or should I go tell Mai to order some more plaster for the walls?”

“All done,” Gojo beamed at you, looking disheveled and sweaty and annoyingly hot. He draped his towel around his neck and skipped over, wrapping a heavy, damp arm around your shoulders. “Ready to go? I’m starving, too. I think I burned about ten thousand calories just now.”

“You reek,” you informed him, scrunching your nose, but didn’t pull away.

“Excuse you, this is the scent of victory,” he declared, sounding deeply offended by your lack of appreciation for his post-workout musk.

“It was a draw,” Higuruma corrected mildly from where he was gathering his things, dabbing at his face with his own towel. 

He walked over to join you both, looking only slightly less disheveled than Gojo. His gaze tracked from Gojo’s arm around you, then to your face. There was a question there. Several questions, actually.

“Good workout, Spices,” he said, voice neutral but eyes sharp.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Very... educational.”

Higuruma gave you a Look. A significant, heavy Look with a capital L. It communicated very clearly: We need to talk about this. We need to talk about what I just accidentally got dragged in, what just happened here, and why Gojo Satoru is suddenly acting like a territorial wolf guarding his favorite bone.

You met his gaze with a bright, blank smile that acknowledged nothing and deflected everything, pointedly ignoring the subtext. “See you tomorrow, Hiromi. Ice that shoulder, yeah?”

He exhaled, accepting temporary defeat. “Night.”

“Night, Higs,” Gojo replied on your behalf, entirely too cheerful.

As Higuruma’s footsteps faded down the hallway, you felt Gojo finally release whatever tension he’d been holding. The arm around you relaxed, became less of a statement and more of a comfortable weight.

“Your place or mine?” he asked, steering you toward the door.

“Mine,” you decided. 

If you were going to have a difficult conversation, you wanted home field advantage. Your space. Your rules. Your ability to kick him out if necessary.

“Home it is,” he agreed easily, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, leaving a damp imprint on your skin.

***

You decided to skip the cozy sit-down dinner at the izakaya you’d initially planned. Given Gojo’s current “I must assert dominance over everything that breathes” mood, he’d probably end up challenging some poor waiter to mortal combat, try to establish supremacy by arm-wrestling the chef, or start a territorial dispute with another customer over the best table. Better to contain the disaster zone to a controlled environment where the property damage would be limited to things you owned. You made a quick detour to grab katsu curry from the place near HQ before retreating to the relative safety of your apartment.

The short drive home was quiet. Gojo didn’t turn on the radio. He didn’t fill the silence with his usual chatter about work gossip or random thoughts about clouds and their relationship to human existence. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console, inches from your knee but not touching it. You watched the city lights blur past the window, Tokyo going about its oblivious evening while your mind performed elaborate acrobatic routines trying to figure out what the hell you were going to say.

Once home, you headed straight for the shower. The hot water helped ease the physical tension in your shoulders, but the knot in your chest remained stubbornly tied. When you finished, Gojo took his turn in the bathroom without a word, just a brief squeeze of your shoulder as you passed each other in the hallway.

You went through the motions of setting up dinner. Takeout containers were opened, chopsticks laid out, water poured. Everything neat and organized because if you couldn’t control the conversation you were about to have, at least you could control the placement of the chopsticks. The food smelled amazing, but your stomach was doing anxious little flips that had nothing to do with hunger. 

The training session had been educational. You’d learned some things. About combat techniques. About tension and how it manifested. About how Gojo looked when he was fighting for something that mattered to him, even if he wouldn’t say what. About how your brain handled seeing him like that.

But the real problem wasn’t gone. If anything, it felt bigger now. More present. Harder to ignore. And you were going to have to talk about it.

While the sound of the shower ran, you paced around the kitchen. Needing something to do with your hands before they decided to do something inadvisable on their own, you opened the fridge. There, gleaming under the LED light, was your emotional support dairy. You grabbed a carton of mint chocolate milk.

Mainlining liquid sugar right before a meal wasn’t a good habit, that much you knew. Higuruma had snitched on you to Shoko once after catching you demolishing three cartons in one sitting, and she’d lectured you about it. Multiple times. At length. She’d gone on about disrupted digestive systems and blood sugar spikes and the insulin response and the subsequent crash that would leave you shaky and irritable.

Right now, though, you didn’t give a single damn about your insulin response or Shoko’s disappointed face or the judgmental way Higuruma had raised one eyebrow when he’d caught you that time. Desperate times called for dairy-based emotional support. 

The straw punched through the foil seal with a satisfying pop, and you took a long pull of minty comfort.  The cold sweetness hit your tongue, chocolate and mint flooding your system. For approximately thirty seconds, the world felt marginally more manageable. Like maybe you could handle this. Like maybe you were a functional adult capable of having difficult conversations. By the time you’d drained the first carton, you felt slightly better. You were actively eyeing a second carton, weighing the benefits of additional emotional fortification against Shoko’s inevitable lecture, when the bathroom door opened.

Gojo emerged in a cloud of steam, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt he kept at your place. His skin was flushed pink from the heat, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, his hair a wet silver mess plastered to his skull. 

He padded into the dining area and flopped onto the chair across from you, wearing the sheepish expression of a teenager who knows he’s in trouble but is hoping that if he looks pathetic enough, he might escape with just a warning. The look was completely at odds with the aggressive alpha-posturing he’d been performing an hour ago.

You sighed, abandoning the idea of a second milk carton. Some situations required more direct intervention than dairy therapy. You crossed to where he sat and commandeered the towel he was clutching uselessly in one hand, doing nothing productive with it. He slumped forward, face-planting into your stomach while you attacked his hair, rubbing perhaps more vigorously than strictly necessary. 

For a man who could manipulate space at the atomic level, he was startlingly incompetent at basic hair maintenance. Or maybe he just liked making you do it. Either way, he melted against you, palpably relieved that you weren’t shouting at him. He’d clearly been expecting you to chew him out for his behavior. To be angry about the pissing contest with Higuruma, about the territorial nonsense, about whatever the hell that whole display had been about. Maybe he was afraid you’d break up with him over this. 

Though that would require you to have been together to begin with, which was still something of an open question, a conversation you should have had before it reached the post-jealous-tantrum towel-drying stage of your relationship.

You worked in silence for a few minutes, rubbing the towel over his scalp, scritching behind his ears and across his undercut the way he liked that usually made him go boneless and stupid. Once his hair upgraded from “waterfall” to “merely damp,” you tossed the towel aside and stepped back with crossed arms, looming over him disapprovingly.

“So. Want to explain what that testosterone-fest with Hiromi was really about?”

Gojo went through his entire repertoire of avoidance tactics in rapid succession. He averted his eyes. He turned his head, feigning immense interest in the pattern of your wood flooring. He picked at a loose thread on his pants. He hummed a noncommittal note that wasn’t actually a word in any known language.

“Sensei,” you prompted, voice flat and unimpressed.

“It wasn’t anything,” he mumbled, his voice pitching into that deflective register he used when he was trying to lie but knew he was bad at it and was hoping you’d just let it slide anyway. “Just… you know. Training stuff. Checking your progress. Making sure he’s teaching you right.”

“You almost punched him through a wall. Twice.”

“I held back!” Gojo argued, finally glancing up with something approaching indignation, though he dropped his gaze again the moment it met yours. “And c’mon, he can take it. He’s strong. Really strong. One of the best sorcerers we have right now.”

Gojo hesitated, and you waited, recognizing the quality of silence that meant more words were trying to find their way out.

“Actually,” he continued after a beat, the words rushing out a little too fast, as though he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. “Higs is pretty amazing. Super smart. Like, genuinely brilliant, not just book-smart. Considerate. Takes care of people. Makes sure they eat properly and get home safe and everything.”

You squinted down at Gojo, suspicious. Was this... was he trying to sell you on Higuruma? Was he giving you the man’s LinkedIn profile? His Tinder bio?

“Got his life together outside of work too,” Gojo added, warming to his theme now. “Stable. Reliable. No debt, probably. Definitely knows how to do his own laundry and is good at cooking.”

This was getting weirder by the second.

“And the best part,” Gojo looked up at you then, his expression weirdly, unsettlingly earnest, like he was about to share a profound truth that would change your entire perspective. “His parents are dead.”

You stared down at Gojo. He stared back up at you, looking for all the world as though he’d just made a profoundly insightful point that you should obviously be nodding along with. Possibly taking notes about. Maybe thanking him for bringing it to your attention.

“Hold up,” you said slowly. “Did you just list ‘being an orphan’ as a positive character trait?”

“Yeah,” Gojo nodded with complete sincerity, oblivious to how unhinged he sounded. “Think about it. Whoever ends up with him won’t have to deal with any in-laws. No family drama. No clan politics. No old people breathing down their neck about heirs or tradition or proper behavior. Just two people, free to live their lives however they want. No interference. No expectations. No…” He gestured vaguely, searching for the word. “No complications. He’d make a great husband for anyone who needs a husband.”

Your brain briefly went offline, rebooting several times before it could process the absurdity of what Gojo had just said to you with his whole chest. 

In Gojo Satoru’s warped worldview, shaped by a lifetime of suffocating expectations and toxic family dynamics, the absence of parents wasn’t a tragedy to be mourned. It was a feature. A selling point in the dating marketplace. A box to check on the list of desirable qualities. The ultimate green flag that moved someone from “good boyfriend material” into “ideal husband territory.”

It was such a perfectly, absurdly Gojo thing to say that it actually made something click in your mind. 

A piece of a puzzle you hadn’t even realized you were solving suddenly slotted into place, changing the entire picture. Years of accumulated data points – odd comments, strange reactions, inexplicable behavior that you’d filed away under “Gojo Being Gojo” – rushed forward all at once, reorganizing themselves into a pattern you’d never seen before because you’d been standing too close to it, like one of those optical illusions that looks like random noise until you step back and see the image hidden inside.

You thought back to the beginning. To all the ways Gojo had spoiled you rotten since day one. 

The avalanche of mint chocolate milk that had filled his kitchen, cases upon cases of it, more than any reasonable person could drink before the expiration date. The mountains of clothes in the wrong sizes and horrible color combinations but the best fabrics. The outrageous gachapon mushrooms that had been his obsession for weeks, spending obscene amounts of money on capsule machines until he’d gotten the specific mushroom keychain you wanted. 

The endless stream of gifts that appeared without occasion or reason. Not for your birthday, though those were excessive enough to be genuinely embarrassing, but just... because it was Tuesday. Because he’d seen something in a shop window and thought of you. Because it existed and you didn’t have one yet, which was a problem that needed immediate correction.

Gadgets you’d never asked for and didn’t know how to use. Expensive meals at restaurants you couldn’t pronounce the names of, where the menu didn’t have prices because if someone had to ask, they couldn’t afford it. Limited edition merchandise from anime you’d mentioned liking once. Souvenirs from every mission he went on, snacks and postcards and trinkets from places you’d never been, probably never would go, but he’d thought you might like them so here they were.

Whenever you needed something, whenever you so much as vaguely mentioned wanting something in passing, even hypothetically, even as a joke, Gojo didn’t just get it for you. He got the best version of it. The most expensive version money could buy. And he got three of them, just in case one broke or you didn’t like the color or you wanted to give one to a friend or the universe spontaneously combusted and you needed a backup for the backup.

You had always chalked it up to his personality, because what else could it be? What other explanation was there?

He was Gojo Satoru. Excessive was his baseline. He had effectively infinite money and zero impulse control and no one else to spend it on except maybe Megumi, who violently rejected luxury out of spite. Of course, he’d lavish everything on you. Of course, he’d be over-the-top about it. That was just who he was.

“I gave you every comfort and luxury so you would know how you deserve to be treated,” he’d said so himself, a long, long time ago, before you’d even understood what he meant by it. Before you’d had the framework to properly parse those words and understand the weight they carried.

You’d taken his words at face value back then, the way you took most things about him at face value when you were younger and dumber and hadn’t yet learned to look for the layers underneath. You’d thought he just enjoyed providing for people he cared about, enjoyed seeing you happy, enjoyed the act of giving itself. 

You’d been too young to see the warning signs, too inexperienced to understand what you were looking at, too naive to recognize the shape of the thing growing between you, wrapping around you both like vines, binding you together in ways you hadn’t consented to because you hadn’t known you needed to. 

Even as you grew older and presumably wiser, as you learned more about the world and its various cruelties and the specific ways they shaped people, twisted them, broke them and reformed them into new, terrible configurations, you’d lacked the specific context necessary to truly comprehend the depth of what was happening right in front of your face.

But now, in this very moment, standing in your kitchen watching Gojo earnestly explain why dead parents were a romantic advantage, you finally saw it. Clear as day. Obvious in retrospect, the way these things always were.

Gojo hadn’t just been acting weird over Higuruma these past few weeks. This wasn’t a sudden bout of jealousy triggered by finding you tickling another man. This wasn’t new. This wasn’t even about Higuruma.

This was a pattern. A long-standing, deeply ingrained pattern that had been running in the background of your entire relationship for as long as you could remember. For years. Perhaps, even before he’d loved you the way he loved you now. 

From the very moment he’d crashed into your life and decided you were his, his responsibility, his person or whatever capacity his brain had filed you under, Gojo had loved you. 

It hadn’t been this kind of love at first, of course. Platonic love. Familial love, maybe, though neither of you had functional reference points for what that should look like. The kind of love that let him ruffle your hair and steal your snacks and show up unannounced at three in the morning because he was bored and you were the only person who would tolerate him.

Even then, even back in those early days when the love was simple, the pattern had been there. And he’d loved you enough to be very, very good at hiding it.

Chapter Text

Your mind flashed back to all incidents that had seemed confusing at the time but now made heartbreaking sense.

There was the sweater from years ago, when you’d gone thrifting with your friends in Shimokitazawa on one of those aimless days where the only goal was to wander through cramped shops and see what treasures you could unearth from the archaeological layers of second-hand clothes.

You and Ino, both possessed of a similar appreciation for low-effort fashion and lousy sense of humor, had struck gold in a bin marked “Miscellaneous Knitwear, ¥500.” Buried under a layer of moth-eaten cardigans and someone’s rejected Christmas sweaters, you’d found two nearly identical oversized knit sweaters covered in a truly deranged pattern of geese wearing top hats and monocles.

They were scratchy and hideous and basically free. The absurdity of them had made you both laugh. Ino bought them without a second thought, handing one to you with a huge grin. You had both worn your matching monstrosities for the rest of the day, looking like you belonged to a particularly ill-advised cult dedicated to waterfowl.

That evening, you’d bounced home full of thrift store victory, modeling your masterpiece of bad fashion for Gojo. You’d spun around to show off the largest goose on the back, pointing out the questionable stitching and the inexplicable single pocket that was too small to hold anything larger than a single piece of wrapped candy.

“Check it out!” you’d laughed, shoving your phone in his face to show him the photo Nobara had taken of you and Ino posing dramatically in your new acquisitions, both of you pointing at each other’s geese. “Ino-senpai got one, too. We’re officially twins now!”

Gojo had smiled and said it looked great on you, but there’d been something tight in his expression you hadn’t been able to place. You’d shrugged it off. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he had a headache. Who knew with Gojo?

The very next week, you came home to find a pristine white gift box on your bed. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper so delicate you were afraid to touch it, was the most beautiful sweater you’d ever seen in your entire life. It was a limited edition piece from a designer whose name you only recognized because Nobara had once spent an entire afternoon ranting about their prices, showing you Instagram photos and doing elaborate calculations about how many months of her salary it would take to afford even their cheapest item. This wasn’t their cheapest item.

“Just saw it and thought of you,” Gojo had said, leaning in the doorway, trying to look casual but vibrating with anticipation.

That sweater was a work of art, spun from cashmere so soft it felt like a cloud. The color was a subtle cream that brought out your eyes and made your complexion glow. The cut was impeccable. It would drape just right, hit at precisely the right length, make you look effortlessly elegant without trying. 

Objectively, it was the nicest piece of clothing you’d ever owned. And that was the problem. 

You’d been terrified to wear it. What if you spilled coffee on it? What if you snagged a thread? What if someone bumped into you on the train and transferred their lunch onto this priceless garment? What if you looked at it wrong and it disintegrated from sheer disappointment in its owner?

You ended up treating the sweater like a museum artifact, folding it carefully in tissue paper and placing it on the highest shelf of your closet, taking it out occasionally just to look at it, saving it for a “special occasion” that had never materialized because no occasion ever felt special enough to risk destroying something that expensive. 

Meanwhile, the demonic goose sweater became your go-to comfort wear, the thing you reached for on bad days and lazy weekends. You wore it constantly, aggressively, until the elbows started thinning and one of the geese lost its top hat and the hem began to unravel.

You’d known Gojo was disappointed you never wore his gift. You’d felt it every time he asked about it, a casual “Haven’t seen you in that sweater” that wasn’t casual at all. You’d explained. It’s too nice for everyday wear. I’m saving it for something special. I don’t want to ruin it. I’ll wear it soon, I promise. He’d let it drop. You hadn’t understood then how it must have looked from his perspective.

When you’d bounced in wearing that stupid thrift store find, beaming and laughing, Gojo hadn’t seen what you saw. He hadn’t seen a fun bargain. A lucky find. An inside joke between friends. A silly moment of joy that cost basically nothing. He’d seen you beaming over something Ino was a part of, a matching set that excluded him.

The designer cashmere sweater wasn’t just clothing. It was a counteroffer. It was his attempt to outbid Ino in the auction for your comfort and affection that no one else knew was happening. An auction where Gojo was simultaneously the only bidder and somehow still losing.

You like sweaters? His gift had said. I can give you the King of Sweaters. I can give you something Ino can’t afford. I can give you luxury. Choose mine. Choose me.

In his mind, the math was foolproof: if you smiled that brightly at a 500-yen raggedy sweater with demented geese on it, imagine how happy you’d be with a 300,000-yen cashmere masterpiece! If something cheap and scratchy made you laugh, something expensive and perfect should make you deliriously happy. It should make you love him.

To Gojo, who’d never been allowed to just be enough on his own, who’d learned that affection was something he bought or earned or bargained for but never something freely given, the sacrifice of money was the easiest, most tangible way to say “I love you” in a language he’d been taught everyone understood.

Money was simple. Money was clear. Money couldn’t be misinterpreted. Or so he’d thought.

Unfortunately, the equation had backfired. 

You’d seen an object so precious it induced anxiety. Something too valuable to use, too perfect to touch, too nice for someone so disaster-prone like you. You’d hung it in the closet to protect it, to preserve it, to keep it safe. An act of reverence out of love for the gift and the giver.

Gojo had seen you choosing the cheap, scratchy thing Ino bought for you over and over again, day after day, week after week, while his love hung in the dark, untouched. He interpreted your care (“I don’t want to ruin it”) as incompatibility (“I can’t relax with him. He’s too much. I’m more comfortable without him.”). 

Gojo equated value with price tags because that’s what he’d been taught his entire life. That his worth was measured in power and money and the things he could provide that others couldn’t. That love was a transaction, and if he just offered enough, paid enough, gave enough, eventually he’d be worth keeping.

Meanwhile, you equated value with comfort and shared experience and the ability to wear something until it fell apart without fear, with inside jokes and easy laughter and things that didn’t make you anxious.

Your refusal to wear the gift in his mind as something so much worse than rejection. It had translated as proof that he’d been right all along. That he was too much. That his love was a burden. That you couldn’t bear the weight of it touching your skin. That even when he gave you everything, it still wasn’t the right thing. That he still wasn’t enough.

And then there was the sushi, which should have told you everything you needed to know if you’d been paying attention.

You’d been out with Nanami one afternoon, exploring some of his favorite old-man haunts, and he’d taken you to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall sushi shop run by a single chef who barely spoke and didn’t need to. The counter had been worn smooth by decades of elbows. The wooden stools wobbled. There was exactly one small shelf of sake bottles and a handwritten menu that hadn’t been updated since the 90s.

You’d taken a selfie of the two of you at the worn wooden counter, your cheeks puffed out with rice, Nanami looking mildly scandalized beside you but with the tiniest hint of a smile, and sent it to Gojo with a string of happy emojis.

Two days later, Gojo had whisked you away to some ultra-exclusive Ginza sushi temple where reservations required booking six months in advance and probably a background check, where a single meal cost more than the entire monthly inventory of Nanami’s little shop. Maybe more than the shop itself. The restaurant was all clean lines and expensive minimalism. Soft lighting. Hushed voices. The kind of place where you felt like you should whisper and sit up straight and definitely not take selfies.

The chef, a stern-looking man who was apparently some living legend in culinary circles, stood directly in front of you and crafted each piece like he was performing Shakespeare, placing it on your plate with a solemn announcement of its origin and optimal consumption method in a voice that brooked no argument. 

This chu-toro was from Oma, where the bluefin were blessed by the ocean gods themselves. You must eat it within three seconds of plating or the flavor profile would collapse. This kohada had been aged for exactly forty-eight hours and required precisely one drop of nikiri applied to this specific location. The wasabi was ground fresh from a root older than you were, hand-grated on sharkskin in a circular motion at a forty-five-degree angle. 

Every piece came with instructions. With pressure. With the weight of tradition and expertise and judgment. You’d felt like you were taking an exam where the stakes were someone’s ancestral honor.

“What do you think?” Gojo had asked when you’d taken the first bite, his eyes sparkling.

You understood now, years too late, he’d been waiting for validation, for you to declare it the best sushi you’d ever had. Better than Nanami’s humble spot. Proof that Gojo could provide better experiences, care for you better, love you better than anyone else possibly could. That he could give you things no one else could access. That he was worth choosing.

But back then, sitting at that immaculate counter with the legendary chef watching your every move, you’d been freaked out by the whole performance.

Were you holding your chopsticks correctly? Were you appreciating the subtle notes of the vinegar in the rice with sufficient reverence? Should you be making some kind of face to indicate your awareness of the fish’s quality? Would it offend the chef’s ancestors, possibly the spirits of the fish themselves, if you reached for the soy sauce? 

The most expensive meal of your life had also been the most stressful.

“It’s… very fancy,” you’d managed to squeak out, and oh god, you could still remember the way those words had felt leaving your mouth. Wrong. All wrong.

The way Gojo’s face had crumpled, just for a second, just a flash of hurt before he smoothed it over with a bright, brittle smile. It still haunted you. You’d spent the rest of that dinner overcompensating with frantic praise, gushing about every piece, every flavor, making enthusiastic noises, trying so hard to perform the joy and appreciation you knew he wanted to see, that you felt you owed him given how much this must have cost, how much effort he’d put into securing the reservation. But the damage was done. You’d both known it. The evening had limped to its conclusion like something mortally wounded.

Gojo had tried to buy you the “best” experience, not understanding that “best” was subjective, that it couldn’t be measured in yen or Michelin stars. He’d seen the famous chef and the exclusivity and the impossible-to-get reservation as markers of effort, as proof of how much he cared, and therefore as a direct measure of his love. A love that could be calculated and compared and ranked.

See how much I’m giving you? See how hard I’m trying? See how much you mean to me?

He couldn’t grasp that what you’d loved about the meal with Nanami wasn’t the quality of the fish or the skill of the preparation or the perfect ratio of rice to neta. It was the quiet privacy of it. The ease. The freedom to laugh and talk and make stupid faces without being watched, without being judged, without having to perform gratitude for every perfect bite, without feeling like you were constantly on the verge of doing something wrong.

Gojo, who had never known a single moment of true privacy in his entire life, who had been watched and evaluated and assessed since the day he was born, couldn’t see the value in something he’d never been allowed to have.

He’d thought he was showing you love. Showing you that you deserved the best, that he could give you anything, that you’d never want for anything as long as he was there. Instead, he’d been showing you the bars of the cage he’d lived in his whole life, gilded and beautiful and suffocating, and asking if you’d like to step inside.

But the memory that made your gut clench the tightest was the one about your mug.

During your first semester at university, you’d won a cheap ceramic mug at an academic conference. It had the mascot of the psychology department – a brain wearing glasses – printed on it crookedly. It was magnificently ugly, but you loved it because it represented one of your very first academic achievements outside the shadow of the jujutsu world, a tiny symbol that you were on the right path, that you were building a life for yourself. You’d earned it with your own mind, your own effort. It was yours in a way few things in your life had ever been.

You used it daily for years. It became part of your morning routine, part of your identity, part of the architecture of your ordinary, hard-won life and the first thing you reached for when you stumbled into the kitchen half-awake and desperate for caffeine.

Eventually, the handle chipped. A crack left a jagged edge, sharp enough to scratch your hand if you held it wrong. You’d complained about it one day while Yuji and Choso were over, showing them the thin red line it had left across your palm, laughing it off as your own clumsiness because that’s what you did. You made light of small hurts.

Yuji, with his enormous golden heart, had come up with the idea to crochet a thick, colorful sleeve to wrap around the handle. He’d stayed up late working on it, had frogged and restarted the same section four times to get the tension right. Choso had helped make a matching coaster, too.

The mug had become even more precious then, wrapped in friendship and care, proof that broken things could still be loved, could still be useful, could still be enough just as they were.

A few days after that, your mug was gone from your desk. In its place, sitting on Choso’s crocheted coaster that now looked sad and out of place, was a high-tech, self-heating smart mug that could probably launch a small rocket if you pressed the right combination of buttons.

Gojo had beamed when you found it, had clearly been waiting for you to find it. “It keeps your coffee at the exact temperature you set it to!” he’d announced proudly. “No more cold coffee! And look—” He’d grabbed your phone, fingers flying across the screen. “It has an app!”

He’d downloaded the app to your phone without asking and then enthusiastically showed you how you could customize the settings for different types of drinks, how it could sync with your calendar and remind you to stay hydrated. He’d spent hours researching it, reading reviews, finding the best one, the most expensive one. He’d been so excited. So proud of himself. He’d expected you to be thrilled, to throw your arms around him and thank him for solving your problem so completely. 

All you felt was a cold, hollow ache spreading through your chest like frost.

He’d seen you struggling and his first instinct had been to eliminate the struggle entirely. Yuji’s crocheted sleeve had been a band-aid. Gojo’s smart mug was the cure. It was him saying, I will use my power and wealth to ensure you never experience discomfort again. I will fix everything. I will make the world perfect for you. 

He didn’t understand that you hadn’t wanted a cure. You’d loved the old mug because of its history, its flaws, the love that had gone into patching it up. He’d thrown away a piece of your life without asking, without even thinking to ask, because to him it was just a broken object that needed replacing. He’d crossed a line you hadn’t even known existed until he’d obliterated it, and the worst part was he’d done it out of love.

You and Gojo rarely fought. Your relationship had always been gentle and full of laughter and affection. You bickered, sure, teased each other, disagreed on small things. But you didn’t fight. You had fought then. God, you had fought.

“Where is my mug?” you’d demanded, your voice shaking with fury. “Where the hell is my damn mug, sensei?”

“I threw it out,” he’d said, baffled by your anger, by the tears already forming in your eyes. “It was broken. It was cutting your hand. I got you a better one—”

“You threw it out?!”

“It was hurting you—”

“It was mine! It was mine and you had no right! You can’t just throw away my things because you’ve decided they’re not good enough—”

“I was just trying to help—”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

The look on his face when you’d started heaving ugly, gasping sobs had been pure incomprehension. He’d reached for you and you’d stepped back, and something in his expression had cracked wide open.

Naturally, Gojo had apologized and groveled and done everything short of ritual prostration. Panicked by your tears, by the sight of you crying over something he’d done, by the way you’d stepped away from his touch, he’d actually gone dumpster diving in the building’s garbage area, digging through trash bags in his expensive clothes, his nice shoes, not caring who saw him or what they thought. He’d retrieved the old mug, washed it carefully and presented it back to you like a knight returning a holy relic, his hands shaking, his eyes desperate and red-rimmed, and you’d realized with a jolt that he’d been crying, too.

You’d taken the mug back. You’d forgiven him, because how could you not when he looked at you like that. You’d let him hold you, felt him shaking against you with relief, felt the way he’d buried his face in your hair like he was trying to crawl inside you and live there. But you’d known even then, that he hadn’t really understood what he’d done wrong.

He understood that he’d upset you. He understood that he shouldn’t have thrown away your belongings without permission. He understood that this was a boundary, a rule, something he wasn’t allowed to do.

But he didn’t understand why you’d wanted to keep something broken. Why you’d cried over a cheap mug when he’d bought you something so much better. Why his solution – his perfect, expensive, thoughtful solution – had been a betrayal.

To him, it had been love. Practical, tangible love. I see you hurting, so I’ll make it stop. I have infinite resources and I’ll use all of them to make your life perfect.

To you, it had been erasure. A message that your choices, your history, your attachments to imperfect things weren’t worth preserving. That everything could be replaced with something better. That brokenness was a problem to be solved rather than a reality to be accepted, to be loved anyway.

And underneath that, in a place you hadn’t wanted to look at too closely, had been a darker fear: What if you could be replaced too? What if your cracks got too deep, too sharp, too inconvenient? What if one day he looked at you the way he’d looked at that mug, as a broken thing that was inconveniencing him, that needed fixing, that would be so much better if he could just upgrade it? What if one day you woke up and found yourself thrown out, discarded, replaced with someone who didn’t come with all this baggage? Someone shinier. Someone less complicated. Someone who didn’t flinch at expensive gifts or cry over garbage.

Most recently, there had been the lock-picking sets, and you’d been too exhausted to even process what it meant at the time. 

You’d been hunting for a rare vintage set you’d seen in a book. You’d casually mentioned to Gojo that Higuruma had a lead on a few specialty shops that might have it and had promised to take you on a hunt that weekend. 

Higuruma wouldn’t tell you the addresses in advance because apparently the shops were in neighborhoods he considered questionable, and he was worried you’d get excited and go alone and end up mugged or worse. You’d grumbled that you were a semi-first grade sorcerer and definitely could take a few thugs in a fist fight, but secretly you’d been looking forward to the adventure.

Just the day before your planned field trip with Higuruma, a mountain of boxes had appeared in your office. Gojo had hired some expert curator who’d scoured every auction house, every private collection, every obscure antique shop from Hokkaido to Okinawa and procured not just the set you’d wanted, but every variation of it that had been manufactured since the 18th century. Fifty of them in total.

“Now you never have to search for them again!” he’d announced, sitting on your desk and grinning.

You’d stood there, staring at the sheer volume of metal and velvet and history, feeling something inside you go very quiet and very still. Too tired to even be angry. Too tired to explain. Too tired to watch him not understand.

He’d ruined it without even knowing. He’d taken the anticipation, the thrill of the search, the simple joy of spending a day with a friend, and he’d solved it.

When you’d talked about the adventure with Higuruma, about wandering through shops and maybe finding nothing and that being okay too, Gojo had heard something entirely different. He’d heard: I am going to spend a long amount of time walking through dark streets with a man who isn’t you, relying on him for safety instead of relying on you. 

It must have triggered every fear he’d been carrying. If Higuruma protects you, if Higuruma provides the adventure, if Higuruma gives you memories and experiences and joy, then what is Gojo’s purpose? What’s to stop you from realizing you don’t actually need him at all?

Gojo had to be the one to provide everything. He had to be the source of all your happiness. By dumping the surplus of antiques at your feet, he was trying to say, Look how useful I am. Look how easy life is with me. Higuruma is making you wait. He is putting you in danger in bad neighborhoods. I can give it to you NOW and safely. Choose me. Please. Choose me.

You’d thanked him and smiled and said all the right words. Somehow, Gojo had still known you weren’t really happy. Perhaps he’d loved you so much, for so long, that he’d memorized all your tells. He’d deflated and taken your hands in his and apologized, still believing it was just about timing or execution or not getting the right ones. Still not seeing that the problem wasn’t the gift itself but what it represented, what it took from you. Still not understanding what he’d done wrong but knowing somehow that he’d hurt you again. That he’d failed again.

You’d let it go because you loved him too, because you couldn’t bear the wounded look on his face. So you’d squeezed his hands and told him, it’s fine, it’s wonderful, thank you, and you’d both pretended to believe it.

Each incident, on its own, had just seemed like Gojo being… Gojo. Over-the-top, a little tone-deaf, absurd in that way only the obscenely wealthy could be, but always well-intentioned. Always coming from a place of genuine love and desperate desire to make you happy.

But strung together, illuminated by this one insane comment about Higuruma’s dead parents, the pattern was suddenly, painfully clear. This whole time, while you were terrified about fitting into his world, he had been just as insecure about his place in yours.

All these years, he’d been competing. With Ino, with Nanami, with Yuji, with Higuruma. With anyone who got close to you, who offered you something he couldn’t: normal companionship. He thought he had to constantly prove his value, constantly out-give, out-do, out-provide, terrified that if he stopped for even a second, you’d realize you could be happier with someone less… much.

The reason Higuruma was an ideal husband in his mind wasn’t just about the dead parents. It was about everything Higuruma was that Gojo wasn’t. 

Normal. Grounded. Unburdened by legacy. Capable of walking down a street without being recognized, without being watched, without warping reality around him just by existing. Capable of giving you a life that didn’t come with the constant threat of clan politics and assassination attempts and the crushing expectations of an entire society.

Higuruma could give you mundane problems. Normal couple arguments about whose turn it was to do the dishes or what to watch on TV. A life where the worst thing that happened on a Tuesday was traffic or a bad day at work, not a special grade curse trying to kill you because someone wanted to hurt Gojo and you were the softest, most vulnerable target in his life.

Gojo hadn’t been angry with Higuruma. He’d been envious. 

He didn’t hate Higuruma for getting close to you, for making you laugh, for teaching you and spending time with you. He hated himself for not being the kind of man who could offer you that kind of peace.

The realization made you dizzy, like the floor was tilting under your feet, like gravity had suddenly reversed and you were falling upward into nothing.

Gojo had been trying so hard, for so long, to earn your love, to show you he loved you in the only way he knew how, through a language of grand gestures and monetary value. In his world, in his life, love had always been transactional. He was valued because he was useful. He was wanted because of what he could do. So he must prove his worth. Prove it again. Never stop proving. 

And you, in your own fear, in your own desperate attempt not to be a burden or ask for too much or presume anything, had consistently misunderstood, had unintentionally rejected his clumsy offerings of affection, again and again and again.

No wonder he hadn’t said anything. No wonder he hadn’t defined what you were to each other, hadn’t put a label on it, hadn’t ever told you that he loved you or asked if you loved him back.

He didn’t dare. Too afraid that if he asked you to choose, you’d choose someone else. Or worse, that you’d say yes out of obligation, out of guilt, out of some sense that you owed him for all he’d given you. That you’d say yes and mean no and he’d be able to see it in your eyes, would spend the rest of his life knowing you’d settled for him when you could have had someone better.

And in his mind, you already had rejected him. A dozen times, if not more.

So much pain you’d inadvertently inflicted on each other, so many small wounds that had never healed because neither of you had even realized they were bleeding. All because you had never truly talked about the things that mattered. Because you loved each other so much that you avoided conflict at all costs, both of you so desperate not to lose what little you had that you’d never risked asking for more. 

You’d learned to read each other’s moods, to tip-toe around the tender places, to let things go rather than push, to smile and forgive and move on because the alternative felt too dangerous. 

You’d been so afraid of asking for too much that you’d asked for nothing. 

He’d been so afraid of not being enough that he’d tried to be everything.

So you’d both just... endured. Suffered quietly. Misunderstood each other with the best of intentions. Built up years of tiny fears and unspoken hurts that had calcified into Gojo picking fights with Higuruma over imagined rivalry, into you crying over a mug, into both of you desperately in love and completely convinced the other person could do better.

Your eyes burned, and then tears were rolling down your cheeks before you could stop them. Quiet tears at first, then something bigger, something that made your breath hitch and your chest heave. Years of confusion and fear and love with nowhere to go spilled out all at once.

Chapter Text

The sight of your tears, as it always did, detonated a panic in Gojo Satoru that no Special Grade curse had ever managed to inspire. He went from The Strongest to The Most Helpless in the span of a single heartbeat.

“Hey, no, don’t—” he rushed to say, his words tripping over each other in their haste to stop whatever was happening. “Please don’t cry. Spices, look at me. It’s okay. You don’t have to do this, okay? You don’t owe me anything. Not a single thing. God, I shouldn’t have even… I get it. I do.”

Gojo was doing that thing again. That noble, self-sacrificing, catastrophically wrong thing he always did when he thought you were unhappy. He was trying to give you an escape route, to build you a bridge to a life without him, fully prepared to light himself on fire to illuminate the path. A human lighthouse, guiding you to safer shores while he burned down to the rocks.

“You don’t have to be with me,” he continued, attempting something that might have been a smile on a different face, in a different universe where he wasn’t currently dying inside. “Seriously. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy. That’s… That’s all that matters, right? Whoever you’re with. Wherever. I’ll be fine.”

Gojo Satoru was not fine.

He was, in fact, profoundly miserable. In the corner of those brilliant blue eyes, you could see the telltale glint of unshed tears, held back by nothing but stubborn willpower. His hands were twisting together in his lap as he fought the urge to reach for you. You could see it in the tension of his knuckles, in the way his fingers flexed and clenched and went white at the tips. He was trying to give you space, to respect your decision, a decision he’d already made for you in his head, the one where you walked away and he let you go because that’s what people do for the ones they love. They let them be happy. Even if it destroys them.

He looked so earnest. So silly. So tragically, heartbreakingly in love yet so convinced he didn’t deserve to be loved back. So completely, utterly wrong about everything. And also so damn delicious.

In the face of such a magnificent display of idiocy, there was only one appropriate course of action.

You stepped forward, closing the space he’d so painstakingly created. His breath hitched as you moved into his personal orbit. Your hands came up, framing his pale face between your palms. You took your time studying the details: the perfect shape of his lips, the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose, the unfairly long lashes clumped together with moisture, the tension in his jaw.

His eyes fluttered shut. He was bracing for impact. He probably thought this was it. A final goodbye kiss before you walked out of his life and ran off into the sunset with Higuruma, or joined a monastery in Tibet, or did whatever it was people did in the dramatic final act of the tragedy he’d written, directed, and was now starring in inside his own head. He’d probably already composed your farewell speech for you.

To his profound astonishment, you squished his cheeks together, distorting his perfect features into a comical fish-pout. His eyes snapped open, wide and confused and somehow even bluer.

“Wh—”

He didn’t have time to process this bizarre turn of events, didn’t have a moment to ask what fresh madness had taken hold of you now, because you’d already opened your mouth, tilted your head, and sunk your teeth into his right cheek.

It wasn’t a playful nip. You took a good bite. Not enough to break the skin or tear off flesh, but with enough pressure that he’d really feel it. The faint, clean taste of his skin filled your mouth, mixed with the salt of your own tears that had dripped onto his face.

It had been a long, long time since you’d bitten anyone. In the chaos of the last decade, between study and therapy and politics, you’d forgotten how deeply satisfying it was, this primal, wordless form of communication that cut through all the bullshit. Sometimes, teeth said what words couldn’t. Sometimes, you just had to bite the man you loved to get him to shut up and listen.

Gojo tensed for a split second, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth, but he made no move to pull away. He didn’t even raise his hands to stop you. His entire body went slack, slumping with a weary resignation that said ah, yes, as he accepted the pain. 

Of course, he did. This, for him, was familiar territory. Pain and affection, twisted together like vines that had grown that way so long you couldn’t separate them anymore. Every scrap of love he’d ever received since childhood had come at a price, itemized and accounted for. Every moment of closeness had to be paid for, in one currency or another. Suffering was the toll he paid to be allowed these little pieces of happiness. It only made sense that he should suffer for this, too. 

How could you even begin to convince him that wasn’t true with you? Where did you start untangling a knot that had been tightening for thirty-six years, pulled tighter with every loss and every person who’d taken something from him? More of your tears fell and splattered against his skin, adding to the general wetness of the situation.

When you released him, an angry-red crescent of teeth marks was imprinted on his cheek. He looked up at you with those sad, beautiful eyes, waiting for the next part of the punishment.

Resisting the feral urge to lick the marks you’d made, or just bite him again because he looked so damn delectable sitting there like that, you settled for a firm pinch on his other cheek to even things out.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said firmly.

“But…” Gojo started.

“I want to be with you,” you cut him off, enunciating every word like you were trying to teach them to a very slow, very beautiful child who’d been hit on the head one too many times. “I thought that would be fairly obvious by now.”

Gojo looked genuinely stunned, as though this were a shocking plot twist in a story he thought he’d already figured out the ending to.

The density of the man was a marvel of physics. He could perceive the flow of cursed energy on a molecular level, track movements faster than sound, see things others couldn’t dream of, and yet somehow he’d completely missed the lovesick idiot standing directly in front of him. You’d been transparently pining for the better part of a decade. How had he not noticed?

“You’re sure?” he asked carefully, his voice threaded with a doubt that was starting to piss you off. “Maybe you should, I don’t know, take some time? Think about it properly? It’s possible what you’re feeling right now isn’t really... I mean, you’ve never actually been with anyone, so—”

Ah. There it was.

The core of his fear wasn’t just that you’d leave, though that was certainly part of the catastrophic forecast playing in his head. The real terror was that you’d stay for the wrong reasons. That you’d say yes out of pity or obligation or some misplaced sense of gratitude. That your inexperience meant you couldn’t possibly know your own heart, that you’d mistake platonic affection for love, hero worship for genuine desire, and one day – maybe tomorrow, maybe years from now – you’d realize your mistake. You’d see him clearly for the first time, understand what a monumental error in judgment you’d made, what a terrible deal you’d signed up for.

By then, it would be too late. Either you would leave him – a prospect he was now certain he wouldn’t survive, not after getting a taste of this – or worse, so much worse, you’d stay out of guilt or kindness or the sunk-cost fallacy.  You’d trap yourself in a lie, and that lie would slowly suffocate whatever genuine affection had once existed between you, poisoning it by degrees until there was nothing left but resentment and the empty husk of what might have been.

They were reasonable concerns, you supposed, from a certain deeply traumatized point of view. A logical progression of thought for someone who’d spent his entire life being used. That didn’t make them any less frustrating or any less likely to make you bite him again.

“I’m an adult!” you groaned, throwing your hands up, exasperated beyond measure. “I know what I want! And I want to be with you! The only reason I’ve ‘never been with anyone’ is because you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to be with, you moron! If you don’t stop this, I’m going to bite your whole head off!”

Judging by the expression on Gojo’s face, somewhere between startled and vaguely concerned, he wasn’t entirely convinced of your position. But he did seem to recognize that pushing the point any further would result in serious, committed violence of the dental variety. The threat of decapitation by teeth was apparently sufficient motivation to make him back down.

“Okay,” he mumbled, finally brave enough to take your hand. “Sorry. I’m sorry for saying stupid stuff.”

As usual, the moment he sensed you were at the end of your rope, his programming reasserted itself: when in doubt, appease. Smooth things over by offering something shiny and expensive to make the bad feelings go away. Throw money at the problem until it either disappears or at least looks prettier while it stays.

“Hey, I know!” he brightened abruptly. “There’s this amazing onsen ryokan in Hakone I’ve been meaning to take you to. Private onsen in every suite. Every suite, can you imagine? The views are insane. We should go! This weekend, after the clan gathering.”

He was babbling now, gesturing animatedly with his free hand, so excited at the prospect of showering you with money again. 

“We’ll both need to relax after dealing with all those old fossils anyway, right? And they have, like, eight different kinds of baths. There’s one with sake in it. Actual sake, not just sake-scented, though I’m not sure why anyone would want to pickle themselves before dinner, but apparently people pay extra for it. And they bring the whole multi-course kaiseki dinner right to your room so you don’t have to see other people if you don’t want to, which, honestly, is the main selling point of any vacation as far as I’m concerned.”

“No,” you said the moment he paused his frantic sales pitch to take a breath.

His grin faltered. A flicker of that old hurt crossed his face, the look of a child who’d offered up his favorite toy and been told it wasn’t good enough. But he was a creature of habit, and his primary habit was trying to buy your happiness with increasingly creative applications of his credit card. He rallied quickly.

“Okay, not Hakone then. You’re right, too touristy this time of year anyway. What about a weekend trip to the new resort in Karuizawa? Or we could do Sapporo! Or if you want to get out of Japan entirely, there’s this place in Bali I heard about that—”

You sighed and solved the problem by climbing into his lap. One leg swung over his thigh, then the other, straddling him properly. As expected, the move effectively shut him up. He gaped at you. His mouth was still open – he’d been about to mention something about Bali’s beach villas, probably – but no sound came out. His hands hovered uselessly in the air like he’d forgotten what hands were for, before reluctantly settling on your waist.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” you said.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “Are you still mad at me?” 

“No, I’m not mad at you. I just want to stay home. With you.”

Gojo blinked, dazed, as if the concept of “staying home” – just existing without the need for fancy backdrops or expensive distractions or any of the elaborate set dressing he usually employed to make himself feel worthwhile – was a foreign language he’d never heard spoken before. You could practically see him mentally scrambling for the next offer, the next upgrade. Perhaps he could redecorate your entire apartment? Gold leaf furniture? A chandelier? Anything?

Before he could start suggesting interior design renovations, you pressed your attack.

You slipped your arms around his shoulders, tangling your fingers in his hair. You brought your faces close, until your noses were almost touching, until his breath was ghosting across your lips.

“I want to binge the rest of that trashy rom-com with you,” you murmured against his mouth, your lips brushing his with each word. “Let’s stay at your place. Use your giant TV. Nap on your giant sofa. Order takeout and do nothing all day.”

His breath went shallow as you tightened your fingers in his hair

“It’s what I want,” you said, and sealed it with the ghost of a kiss that barely qualified as contact. “Just you.”

There.

You’d finally done it. You’d taken the first step. Or maybe the second step, since you’d also been the one to kiss him first and trigger this entire chain of events. After a decade of silence and misunderstanding, of dancing around each other and never quite saying what you meant, you had finally told Gojo in plain, simple, unambiguous terms exactly what you wanted.

Not the gifts. Not the luxury. Not the world he could buy for you with a swipe of his card and that careless Gojo money he seemed to think was his only real value.

Just him. Just this. Just the two of you on a sofa, doing absolutely nothing of consequence, together.

For a beat, Gojo hesitated. His hands trembled on your waist. His throat worked as he swallowed against something invisible – doubt, disbelief, the stubborn conviction that this couldn’t possibly be real. It was the last reflexive flinch of a man conditioned to believe he shouldn’t have this. That joy, the uncomplicated kind that didn’t come with strings or expectations or a bill due at the end, wasn’t meant for him.

You watched the war play out across his face in real time. The old programming was fighting against this new, fragile thing you were offering him. The part of him that wanted to accept warring with the part that had learned, through painful repetition, that wanting things only led to losing them. His eyes searched yours, looking for the catch, the fine print, the hidden price he hadn’t calculated yet.

You held his gaze calmly. Your fingers traced gentle patterns against the back of his neck, a quiet reassurance that you were still here, still choosing this, still choosing him. Not the idea of him. Not what he could give you or buy you or do for you. Just him.

His expression shifted. A small crack at first, then widening. The defensive tension in his shoulders began to ease, degree by degree. Then something in him gave way entirely. A surrender in the set of his shoulders. A releasing of breath he’d been holding since approximately 1989. The dissolution of whatever wall he’d been desperately shoring up between what he wanted and what he thought he was allowed to have. You watched it happen, watched him make the choice to trust this, to trust you, to let himself have something good without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 “Alright,” he whispered, and his voice was rough with something that might have been relief or wonder or both. “Let’s do just that.”

And then he kissed you properly. 

His arms wound around you, banding across your back, crushing you against his chest until the air was squeezed from your lungs and you couldn’t tell whose heart was trying to break through whose ribs. His palm traced a searing path down the groove of your spine, each vertebra a note he played on his way down, a song written just for you. The friction of his hand against the thin fabric of your shirt was so intense, you had to grab the back of his neck just to keep from melting into a puddle of oversaturated nerves on the floor. 

Your fingers dug into the junction of muscle and bone on his neck, feeling the frantic pulse thrumming there under his skin. He breathed a series of small, needy sounds into your mouth, and you answered by raking your fingernails over the freshly buzzed undercut at the nape of his neck.

A shiver wracked his entire frame, violent enough that you felt it everywhere. In your bones. In your teeth. In parts of your anatomy that were rapidly developing very strong, very vocal opinions about the proceedings and where they should go from here.

Good thing you’d always kept a bit of nail length. Turned out it was a tactical advantage in any situation, including this one.

Unconsciously, instinctively, you rubbed yourself against him. You couldn’t get enough. This hunger had been simmering for so long, and now that it was finally allowed to surface, to exist in the open air without apologizing for itself, it was ravenous. The glide of his palms over the fabric on your back, your sides, was nowhere near enough to sate the inferno he’d lit inside you. 

You wanted skin. You wanted friction. You wanted so much more.

His hands, demonstrating excellent navigational skills, continued their journey south.  They bypassed your waist with only a brief appreciative pause, skimmed over your hips, and settled quite sensibly on your ass. His long fingers splayed wide, gripping you while he arched his back with a powerful flex of his core that tilted your pelvis forward, grinding you against him, pressing your bodies even closer. 

And oh. Oh, hello.

He was hard. Not getting-there hard. Not possibly-aroused hard or ambiguously-interested hard. Fully, enthusiastically, left-absolutely-nothing-to-the-imagination hard. 

You felt the distinct length and shape of it through layers of fabric that suddenly seemed criminally thick. Your brain, helpful creature that it was, instantly supplied a series of highly detailed and anatomically questionable diagrams illustrating precisely what was happening in his pants, along with several enthusiastic suggestions for what could happen if those pants were to, say, tragically cease to exist.

Of course, you weren’t immune to the situation, either. Your own body, which had been operating on a professional level of numbness for years, had decided to wake up and get involved in current events. Interesting locations that had previously just been neutral geography were suddenly sensitive. Your clothes, perfectly comfortable five minutes ago, now felt too tight, too constricting, an intolerable barrier between your skin and his. 

The hands currently occupying your ass were doing excellent work, truly outstanding, 10/10 performance, would recommend, but you desperately wanted them to migrate to other severely neglected regions. Preferably, the ones currently throbbing with a very pointed and specific agenda. 

You wanted him between your thighs without any textile barriers whatsoever. You wanted everything he had to give and then some extra on top of that, just because you were greedy and he had made you this way, and frankly, he should take responsibility.

Yet, despite the clear physical evidence that he was ready and willing to proceed, Gojo was still holding back. His mouth was both desperate and careful. His hands gripped you but didn’t dare to wander further. The subtle tension in his shoulders said he was fighting a war with himself and only barely winning by a technicality. For reasons beyond your comprehension, he was still afraid of something.

That wouldn’t do. Not at all. You hadn’t spent years pining uselessly and the past few days in emotional purgatory just to have him stop at “heavy petting in the kitchen like nervous teenagers.”

Determined to ruin whatever pathetic scraps of control Gojo was clinging to, you broke away from the kiss. He made a wounded noise, chasing your lips, but you evaded him, leaving him gasping and dazed while you traced a slow path of open-mouthed kisses down his chin, his jawline, enjoying the faint rasp of his evening stubble against your lips.

That was when you noticed it. The bite you’d left on his cheek had already started to bloom into an angry-looking bruise. He hadn’t bothered healing it. 

The image of the great Gojo Satoru – Head of the High Council, living legend, general menace to society – swaggering into work tomorrow morning with blatant teeth marks on his face was objectively hilarious. You could picture it already: the double-takes, the strangled gasps, the poorly concealed staring, the sound of several people walking into walls because they forgot how peripheral vision worked.

The fallout, however, would be catastrophic.

Jujutsu Headquarters ran on gossip and caffeine in roughly equal measures, with shamelessness providing emergency backup power. The offices would explode. Zero work would get done. Not that much got done on a normal day, but this would be a new record low. Productivity would plummet to negative integers. People would be anti-productive, somehow managing to undo work they’d completed last week.

Someone would take a high-resolution telephoto picture with a camera they definitely weren’t supposed to have. They’d send it to the best forensic analysts in the country (paid for with unauthorized budget allocations), and by end of business day, they’d have a 99.9% match to your dental records with a full report including bite force analysis and probable emotional state at the time of attack. 

By midnight, every major clan, conservative faction, and slighted curse user would have dispatched assassins to your apartment with instructions to make it look like an accident.

Running for your life from ninja hit-squads was excellent cardio, admittedly, but it would severely interrupt your schedule. You had work to do, friends to see, a life to live, and a boyfriend – was he your boyfriend now? You should probably clarify that at some point – to extensively smooch. Being dead or living as a fugitive was extremely inconvenient for your weekend plans, which currently involved a giant sofa, takeout, and doing absolutely nothing of consequence except each other.

For the sake of national security, workplace productivity, and your own continued survival, you made a brief detour back to his cheek. You pressed your lips gently against the bruise. When you moved away, his skin was pristine. 

Evidence destroyed. Assassins thwarted. International incident averted. Crisis management at its finest. Someone should give you an award for your service to the greater good. You’d accept payment in the form of one (1) Gojo Satoru, please.

Satisfied with your crime scene cleanup, you dragged your mouth down the column of his throat, licking the sensitive hollow where his pulse hammered out a rhythm that could probably be classified as medically concerning. You nipped at the tendon there, not hard enough to bruise this time, mindful of tomorrow’s optics and your desire to not be assassinated, but still sharp enough to make his hips buck up involuntarily against yours.

“Spices—” he groaned, his voice wrecked. His fingers dug into your ass, caught in that delightful limbo between wanting to urge you on and trying to slow things down.

Naturally, you interpreted the ambiguity as enthusiastic encouragement. You rocked against him, putting pressure where you knew it would do the most damage to whatever remained of his composure. 

Gojo hissed through his teeth, his head falling back, exposing the full length of his throat to your mercy, or lack thereof. The rigid length of his erection pressed more insistently against you, making your own body throb with a corresponding need that was rapidly approaching unbearable. 

Beneath you, the chair gave an ominous creak. It was a sturdy piece of furniture, good quality and built to last, but it had its limits. And those limits were apparently “two full-grown sorcerers aggressively attempting to merge into a single entity.” The chair seemed to be suggesting, in the universal language of protesting wood and strained joints, that perhaps there were other locations in the apartment better suited to this activity. The table. The floor. The very good bed in the bedroom that was literally designed for this. Even a wall would be an improvement at this point.

You were about to take its wise counsel and suggest a strategic relocation to the nearest flat surface when, once again, your stomach intervened with a loud and deeply unsexy growl.

You hadn’t even remembered you were hungry. Your brain had been occupied with other, more pressing biological imperatives. But your stomach, that traitorous organ, had not received the memo about the change in evening plans.

The sound broke Gojo out of the haze. His hands, which had been in the process of sliding under your shirt, stilled. And then, slowly, reluctantly, they withdrew from their mission back to safer territory. The coiled tension in his body slackened, replaced by a tremor of suppressed laughter that shook his entire frame.

“Okay,” he wheezed, his voice still thick and husky. “Okay. Timeout. You need to eat.”

“I’m not that hungry,” you protested, clinging to his shoulders with both hands, trying to re-establish the connection. “I can eat later. Let’s just—”

Your stomach emphatically disagreed with this assessment by releasing another long, mournful growl that sounded suspiciously like the roar of a majestic beast awakening from a thousand-year slumber and demanding sacrifice.

Gojo threw his head back and laughed. “Nope,” he said, grinning at you with his eyes crinkling at the corners. “We’re not doing anything until you’re fed.”

With the unfair advantage of his ridiculous strength, he lifted you off his lap. You dangled there for a humiliating second, looking like a disgruntled koala being evicted from its eucalyptus tree, before he set you down on your feet.

The loss of contact was physically painful. You glared at him. He was sitting there, legs spread, adjusting the waistband of his pants in a spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to hide the very obvious evidence that he was just as eager as you were. His hair was a mess, his lips were red and swollen, and his shirt was rumpled from your grip. He looked like a masterpiece of debauchery, and he was refusing to finish what he started.

“Come on,” he commanded, pointing a long finger authoritatively at the takeout container sitting abandoned and forgotten on the table. “Eat. ”

You looked at the curry. You looked at the extremely distracting situation happening in Gojo’s pants. You looked back at the curry with a sense of profound betrayal.

It was a difficult choice, but the combined forces of Gojo’s stubbornness and your stomach’s continued vocal protests left you with no viable alternative. You stomped grumpily back to your side of the table and flopped into your chair with as much dramatic emphasis as you could physically manage, which was quite a lot. You’d been training under Gojo for years. You knew how to make a scene.

You ripped the lid off the takeout container. If the pork had ever gained crispiness in its tragic little life, that glory was long gone now. The rice had achieved room temperature at best. The sauce had congealed at the edges into something vaguely geological. The whole thing looked pathetic compared to the feast you had been planning to make of Gojo Satoru, who was still sitting there looking delicious and knowing it.

You shoveled a spoonful of cold rice and lukewarm pork into your mouth, chewing aggressively while maintaining unbroken, accusatory eye contact with him across the table. If looks could kill, he’d be a small pile of ash. If looks could file legal complaints, you’d have him in court.

Gojo just watched you, leaning back in his chair with a look of utter contentment on his face. He rested his chin on his palm, his eyes soft and warm as they traced your features while you angrily consumed your mediocre dinner. He didn’t look frustrated by the interruption. He didn’t look disappointed or regretful about stopping. He looked like a man who had everything he wanted right in front of him and couldn’t quite believe his extraordinary luck.

“Good?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

“Stop looking so smug,” you mumbled around a mouthful of rice. “I’m plotting your demise right now.”

“I know,” Gojo sighed happily, as though this was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to him. “Eat your carrots, too.”

You narrowed your eyes at him in what you hoped was a threatening manner and not the look of someone who was finding him even hotter for being bossy about vegetables. He had the audacity to wink at you, like this was all very amusing and he wasn’t in mortal danger.

This wasn’t over. Not remotely. The moment this stupid, mandatory meal was finished, you were going to get your hands on him again. Proper hands. All over him. He wasn’t getting away this time. The very second the last grain of rice was gone, you were going to demonstrate exactly why he shouldn’t have stopped.

You were going to peel those pants off him with your teeth if you had to, while maintaining aggressive eye contact just to make a point.

Just wait, Gojo Satoru. Just wait.