Chapter Text
You had a problem. A very tall, unforgivably narcissistic, and fatally handsome problem.
Gojo Satoru.
Oh, it had to be mentioned that the problem was actually your husband. Yes, you were married to your problem.
Don’t misunderstand here. Gojo Satoru was extremely good-looking (did I mention that already?), had a lissomely sculpted body, owned a pair of the most beautiful eyes anyone has ever seen, and of course (who could forget?) – he was the golden boy of an ancient Japanese clan. But even this lucky combination of exceptional traits did not make him perfect. After all, Satoru was only human and humans are fallible. I will say it again: Gojo Satoru is fallible.
And his flaw, in your case, was in the fact that he failed to nurture excitement and novelty in his marriage. A very typical failure indeed, and yet that was exactly the pit Satoru fell in. It was as if after the initial period of thrilling romance, he just stopped caring. And so did you. (Did you?)
The two of you were a young married couple living in your upmarket high-rise apartment. You were both financially secure – him with his bloodline’s fortune, and you with your job at an overseas branch of a reputable law firm – and you were both attractive (although, naturally, your eyes could never compare to his). But what use were your looks if neither of you was excited by the other anymore...?
You silently asked this question of the Problem, who was seated across from you at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee and browsing his phone.
“You’re glaring,” the Problem said, with his cerulean eyes, barely concealed by black shades, remaining peeled to his phone screen.
“Did you know that glaring is a function your eyes are capable of?” you returned a bit too venomously than you intended.
The corners of Satoru’s lips quirked up at the salt in your voice, his immediate attention still on his phone. “I did. But why are you glaring?”
“I didn’t say I was glaring,” you said, injecting feigned friendliness to your voice. “I just said that our eyes have that function.”
Satoru sighed with a smile. “So this morning we’re getting an anatomy lesson?”
The witty, unflappable jerk.
“Sure. After all, it’s been a while since we had any anatomy lessons in this apartment,” you shot back – a backhanded quip at the fact that you and Satoru haven’t had sex in months. Your relationship was so charged with sour estrangement that neither of you initiated intimacy anymore. Oh, you were hoping your husband would catch the exact meaning of your words...
Of course he did. Satoru lowered his phone on the table and his ocean eyes calmly glided from its screen over to you.
“Finally we agree on something,” he said, idle smile lining his lips.
You exhaled through your nose as your sour smile morphed into a bitter glare. The two of you held a charged staredown across the kitchen table until you stood up, dropped your dirty dishes in the sink and walked out of the kitchen.
The casual, imperturbable jerk.
As you drove to work that morning with your hands gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles turned white, you mulled over the morning's exchange.
Such sarcastic half-baked back-and-forths were the only mode of conversation in your marriage now. Long gone were the days when you and Satoru would talk to each other openly and sort out your differences by listening to each other and finding a compromise. No feelings were expressed anymore, no wishes and desires were voiced, and definitely no vulnerabilities.
You wondered when it all changed. After all, in the beginning everything was magical. Sure, your personalities were the same back then: Satoru, with his unabashed narcissism, boyish charms and attractive self-confidence; and you, with your sharp wit, an equally sharp tongue, and an unmovable pride. You were similar - and that was what made you two click so well at the start. You had been a match to his inflated ego and he relished the fact that you could hold your own against him.
But as time went by, this similarity in your personalities ended up becoming the downfall of your marriage. Too much pride resided in your apartment alongside the two of you. This pride went to bed with you, it woke with you, it pulled out a chair and sat with you as you two ate together, just like it did this morning. This pride permeated every interaction and every little displeasure you had with each other.
Your egos were too big to say “Sorry” to one another and seek compromise in any conflict. Your egos prevented you from talking through your differences and trying to understand each other. And eventually, your egos even made it impossible for you to touch each other – tenderly, lovingly, or otherwise - until you stopped touching each other altogether.
You figured your husband was over you. Every sign pointed to this conclusion. He didn’t love you anymore. You were a bad match for him. The wrong Mrs Gojo. How else could his aloofness and estrangement be explained?
It stung. Although you were adamant that it stung your pride – and not your feelings. Because you didn’t love him anymore either. Why would you love someone who didn’t love you ?
If he loved you, why would he spend all of his time on his work? Yes, yes, you knew the importance of what he did. You were sure that cleaning up Japan of its multitude of curses was hard – much harder than grinding as a lawyer in a prestigious law firm. But you still failed to feel bad for him. After all, he called himself the strongest jujutsu sorcerer, so his job should have been a piece of cake for him. And if so, why couldn’t he spare a little time on you? There were no more dates. No more trips together. No more intimate conversations. No more cuddling. No more lovemaking. Not even fucking. Zero. Nada. Zilch.
His prolonged absences from your shared home became even worse after the arrival of his new first-year students, especially of Itadori Yuuji. You met him once, and even bore witness to the grotesque curse that resided in his body - through the vulgar mouth that opened up on his flesh in your presence. The curse scared you so much that you had nightmares about it for a whole week afterwards, which were so intense that you even confessed to Satoru about them. But he didn’t even bat an eye as he casually assured you that they would pass.
The uncaring, selfish jerk.
With the exception of that sinister curse, Yuuji himself was a lovely boy – lovely enough to snag all of your husband’s attention. But you wouldn’t be jealous of a young, innocent boy. No, you wouldn’t be so petty.
So instead, you would take the high road and do what you have been doing for the past several months to ease your frustrations and energise you, since your husband couldn’t (wouldn’t). While he was out on his yet another late-night mission tonight, you would dress up and go to your favourite nightclub to drink and dance until your lungs burned and your muscles twitched. It was Friday, there was no date proposal from Satoru (duh), so your evening was wide open.
A couple of hours later, over at Jujutsu Tech, Satoru sat in an empty classroom with his feet crossed on top of his desk.
“Five days,” he said to himself and his long fingers tapped the desk.
To an oblivious spectator his words wouldn’t make sense. So to clarify, what Satoru was counting were the days since you had spoken to him last. Aside from this morning’s sarcastic exchange, the last time you had spoken to him was exactly five days ago. And yes, that time it was just as acidic.
He would mark today in his mind so he could restart the count of how many more days it would take for you to speak to him again. Naturally, he wasn’t counting your grunts, scowls, hums, and exhales as conversation – and of these you produced many…
Satoru was obviously aware of what was happening in his marriage. It was nothing like how it was in the beginning. Winning you over when you two first met wasn’t easy, but he relished the challenge because the rewards were well worth it.
You two had clicked on a molecular level. Your romance was exciting and fresh, and he could never get enough of how, whenever you saw him, you would run and jump in his arms with the goal of knocking him down. It never worked, but he loved having all of your undiluted love and competitive energies being directed at him. You were both so open, authentic and thrilling with each other back then that it felt like one long saccharine summertime daydream. A daydream in which you and him also fucked like bunnies. Every. Single. Day.
If he had to recall from his recent history, though, the last time you two had sex was several months ago when you were so pissed off at each other, and were yelling loud enough for all of your neighbours to hear, that he eventually got sick of it and bent you over the kitchen counter. At the time you eagerly spread your legs for him and you two fucked it out like there was no tomorrow, but after that incident neither of you initiated sex ever again. You silently refused to touch each other, even accidentally.
Not that Satoru didn’t want to. After all, you were still just as attractive and lush as you had been when you first started dating. Your body proportions were still immaculate, and you carried that same haughty allure around with you wherever you went. Your work outfits, although seemingly modest and professional, still hugged your figure in all the right places and accentuated your lines. Satoru knew you had them all tailored to your body. He knew how much you cared about your appearance, your job, your daily routine, your diet, the cleanliness of your apartment – in other words, you cared about everything except him .
This morning’s toxic exchange, coupled with your unmodulated glares, added weight to his surmise: you hated him. You hated your husband. And he didn’t know why, given that you weren’t considerate enough to tell him.
Satoru exhaled through his nostrils, irritation rumbling deep within his chest. He was itching to barge into your office right now, warp you out of there by force into some wilderness and get you to scream out all of your hate, frustrations and displeasures at him. Or, if you decided to play your tight-lipped game with him again, he could just as easily fuck your brains out right on the dirty ground and force you to do all of the above. Or he could throw you off of the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro and then dive in after you himself, thus entering your names into the Buzzfeed countdown for the Most Notable Couples’ Suicides (A/N: that’s actually called ‘homicide’, Satoru)… In other words, his hands were itching to do something . Anything was better than what was happening in his marriage now: bitter, venomous little clashes that kept poisoning both of your souls.
Suddenly his phone rang in his pocket. He casually took it out and answered it without checking the caller’s name. He knew it wouldn’t be you.
“Gojo-san, excited Itadori-kun is on his way to you,” Nanami Kento said in his stoic tone over the line.
“Why is he excited?” Satoru asked, his mind still on top of Mount Kilimanjaro.
“That’s a strange question considering you think everyone is excited to interact with you,” Kento delivered in his dry wit.
Not everyone. Not his wife.
Kento resumed. “For the past week Itadori-kun and I have been pursuing a cursed presence in the city, which you will be aware of, since the mission was initially under your name. I’m not able to accompany him on today’s scouting, so please do me the favour of accompanying the student in my place.”
“Gojo-sensei!”
Said student was already stepping through the door and even Kento could hear his excited voice on the other end of the line.
“I couldn’t possibly deny the request of my beloved kouhai, ” Gojo said to the phone, his eyes on the teen.
Kento sighed on the other end, which translated to “Stop dumping your supervision missions on me and acting magnanimous when you’re handed them back.” But instead, what he said was, “Appreciate it,” and hung up.
“OK then Yuuji, you ready to finally corner that curse?” Satoru turned his attention to his student, his voice fully reverting back to that of Gojo-sensei.
“You bet!” the teen replied, eyes fiery.
It was a few minutes past 11 when Gojo and Itadori were walking through the Tokyo streets side by side. It was a busy part of the city, with bars, casinos and nightclubs lining the street on both sides and loud chatter mingling in the air.
“So, Yuuji, this is where the nightlife of the city takes place and all the exciting night folk gather,” Gojo announced in his best tour-guide voice.
“Sensei, I didn’t ask,” Yuuji said monotonously.
“And over there is the red light district,” Gojo ignored his student's remark and pointed a long finger to the far-off alley. “Shall I take you there sometime? The prices are reasonable even for a student, you know.”
“Sensei, you’re married…” the boy responded, the monotony in his voice replaced by second-hand embarrassment for his teacher.
They continued to walk like this for some time, with Satoru completely used to young women in evening dresses ogling him as he walked past, while Yuuji felt a bit flustered under the same and thus kept his eyes peeled straight ahead.
“Where was the last place you spotted the cursed residue?” Satoru asked, cheerful and patient.
“Just up ahead. Should be around that corner,” Yuuji recalled.
So they rounded the corner and arrived at yet another busy street, this one lined with even more night clubs - dance music blaring from them in all directions.
“It was here,” Yuuji pointed to a small intersection.
The two sorcerers eyed the intersection and the surrounding area, but no cursed presence could be felt. With his hands nestled in his pockets, Satoru took super long strides with his super long legs right into the centre of the empty intersection.
“Hmm,” the tall sorcerer hummed conspicuously as he examined the ground, and then did a 360 scouting of the area. As he was rotating in place, his eyes suddenly fell on a familiar figure of a woman dancing in the window of one of the boisterous nightclubs. A very familiar figure. Too familiar.
He zeroed in on the figure for a few moments until all doubt cleared from his mind. Removing his blindfold wasn’t even necessary. It was his wife. Except that she wasn’t dressed like his wife usually did. The clothing you were now wearing was in direct contrast with your professional lawyer outfits: it was a black satin mini dress that exposed your lithe collarbones and dipped just below your cleavage, cinched your waist, and its flowy skirt was so short that with each of your twirls, the skirt hovered and exposed your plump butt in black lace underwear.
And, oh boy, did you twirl. You twirled, danced, jumped and grooved the way he had never seen you do before – not even in the heydays of your marriage. Your waist, shoulders and neck rotated fluidly to the music, and your hips isolated from the rest of your body, giving an unforgettable show to the multitude of men clustered around you. You looked buzzed, comfortably tipsy, and you accompanied each sway of your sensual hips and waist with a dazzling smile.
Satoru’s head thrummed with his body’s rising temperature. Nausea was bubbling deep within his oesophagus.
“Uh, sensei? You’re standing in the middle of the street…” Yuuji approached his teacher who was staring pointedly at something across the street. He didn’t understand what had his teacher frozen like that, but someone else caught on quickly…
“Oho ho, what do we have here?” a deep, grating voice resonated from the newly formed mouth on Yuuji’s cheek.
“Ah! You!” the teen was momentarily caught off guard by the cavity appearing all of a sudden.
“She’s that brat’s wife! And look at her dancing and giving a show to those guys! She looks even more delicious than that feisty Voodoo girl…” the King of Curses continued, his voice every bit salacious. “I wonder how many of those guys she fucked already? Oi brat, let’s pay her a visit!”
Yuuji was growing more and more flustered with each of Sukuna’s taunting words as he did his absolute best to shut the mouth up, but to zero avail.
Satoru glanced back at Yuuji. Sukuna’s words did their trick. He was pissed off. But he couldn’t hurt the curse without hurting Yuuji. So he took a deep, strained breath and returned his attention back to his wife, who was dancing with careless abandon inside the loud building.
He reached for his phone in his pocket and scrolled through his Messages app. He had to scroll for some time, which made all the more pronounced the fact that him and his wife didn’t text often... He finally found your name and texted you.
‘Hi baby, you up?’
As soon as he pressed Send, he looked back at you. As if on cue, you stopped dancing and reached into your little cross-body bag and pulled out your phone. He saw you read his message and look momentarily panicked. But you quickly regained your composure and texted back.
‘Hi baby. Yeah for a little bit, but about to go to bed. You coming soon?’ – read the message that had just pinged on Satoru’s phone.
He couldn’t believe it. You were lying through your teeth.
‘No. Mission till dawn, the usual. Goodnight.’ – he typed and pressed Send.
When he watched you read his message and saw how you were overcome with obvious relief at the fact that he wasn’t coming home yet, Satoru’s blood straight-up boiled in his veins.
'Goodnight.' – you texted back, which Satoru read to the tune of Sukuna laughing hysterically behind him, before the curse finally receded back into Yuuji’s body of its own volition. The King had a great night. Poor Yuuji had been too shocked by what was happening to effectively silence him.
But Satoru couldn’t care less about the curse’s entertainment. His wife, who he thought was at home, soundly asleep in their marital bed, was out here dancing in a sleazy nightclub in the skimpiest dress he had ever seen on her and, on top of that, was lying to him as naturally as she was breathing. Satoru felt like he was hit by a train.
A shrill scream was heard in the opposite direction from the club, a few blocks down.
“Sensei, it’s the curse!” Yuuji felt horribly uncomfortable calling his teacher at a time when he was going through what clearly seemed like a personal crisis, but he had no choice. They were on a mission.
“Let’s go, Yuuji,” Satoru regained his composure instantly, his voice deep and focused, as he turned around and headed in the direction of the curse.
Just as he had promised you, Satoru arrived home around early dawn. He noted that you had come in already and were now indeed in bed.
Coming into his own home felt strange now. Nothing seemed as it was. Everything felt like deception.
The apartment was pristine and tidy, as usual. He walked into the bedroom and everything was just as immaculate there. There was absolutely no trace of your short clubbing dress or your little cross-body bag.
You were soundly asleep on your side of the bed, looking as perfect as always. It was dark, so Satoru removed his blindfold and examined your face as he stood by the bed. Your face was fresh, no makeup traces, not even any traces of exhaustion. Based on the utter lack of evidence, it seemed like he'd imagined you dancing away at that club, surrounded by a swarm of guys. But he didn’t. Even Sukuna confirmed that it was you.
He got into your shared bed that night, looking at your lithe back and not knowing who you were. Sure, your marriage was falling apart at the seams and he suspected that you hated him. But he still never doubted your loyalty. He didn’t think it was your style to be deceptive, inauthentic. He had somehow imagined to himself that deception was beneath you – that even if you didn’t care how it would affect him, per se, it would still wound your precious pride to be playing games.
It went without saying that tonight your husband’s preconceived notions of you were torn to shreds.
The next morning Satoru woke up and realised that you had already left the bed. He showered, brushed his teeth, dried his snow-white hair and went through all the motions on autopilot. His mind kept racing back to the image of you happily dancing at the club. He recalled how you were showing those guys around you all the expressions you haven’t shown him in months. Happy, flirty, capricious, joyous, excited, playful – were all the faces you wore for them last night. Or were those your real faces, and instead, the ones you showed Satoru were the fake ones...?
Such thoughts swirled incessantly in his head as Satoru eyed you from across the kitchen table during your joint breakfast time, a useless ritual. His Six Eyes dissected every inch of your body from behind his shades, as he looked for any traces of your nighttime activities. But those were extremely hard to find. You looked fresh, put together, and tiredness didn’t show itself anywhere on your features.
But then the Six Eyes weren’t called that for nothing, were they...?
Your morning face was completely bare and had no makeup on - except for the well-blended layer of concealer under your eyes. There it was. He suddenly remembered that you naturally sported dark circles – a genetic trait – but you were usually comfortable with showing them. The only times that you weren’t comfortable were when they turned a deeper shade of purple due to your lack of sleep or high stress. And that was when you usually felt the need to cover them up even if you felt no necessity for any other articles of makeup.
This morning you chose to cover up your dark circles and, boy, did you do it well.
Satoru stared at you in incredulity. You were pretty much impeccable at the job of covering up your nightly outings. For you to be so good at this, you had to have done it for a long time. How long have you been doing this behind his back? Why not tell him? Why lie to him? What was the purpose of this?
While a storm of questions was brewing in your husband’s mind, you were quite casually focused on your phone as you sat across the table from him. The roles had been reversed from last morning – he was the agitated one and you were the annoyingly calm one.
“You’re not glaring at me today,” Satoru finally remarked, his icy blues piercing you from over his lowered shades.
“Hm? Should I be?” you asked chirpily, as you got up to remove your empty dishes.
You indeed weren’t glaring at him today. In fact, you seemed content, even joyful, as if you had managed to blow off some steam last night...
What happened in that club? Did you…?
You walked past Satoru upstairs, as he turned in his seat to follow you with his eyes.
“I wonder how many of those guys she fucked already?” Sukuna’s vile words resonated in Satoru’s mind and he shattered the glass of water he was absentmindedly gripping in his hand.
His wife may have been cheating on him.
Fuck.