Chapter Text
Gojo Satoru.
He’s leaning lazily against the mission board, blindfolded, spreading a morale that’s infuriatingly effortless, the kind that has you counting every itinerary in your head while he smirks like a cosmic joke.
You want to punch him.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead in the briefing room, sterile and indifferent, but your eyes instantly lock onto the only variable you can’t predict: him.
God, he hasn’t even acknowledged you yet, and already the tension is rigid enough to cut your rationality. You can feel the subtle shift in air, the unspoken recognition that this was not just another assignment. You’ve lived a hundred lives with him, and seen the end of every one; it never turns out well.
“I’m not working with her.” Gojo’s voice cuts through the low murmur.
Light, careless, mocking. His hand nonchalantly taps the surface closest to him as if your presence is an inconsequential aggravation. The words hurt like a bruise, not because they’re new, but because he doesn’t realize how much you already know about him.
The higher-ups glance at each other but continue their reports. “This isn’t a request, Gojo. You need her on this mission. The breach is expanding, and her cursed technique is critical.”
Gojo snorts, amused, as if he’s heard a notably poor joke. “Need her? She just… watches. Passive, manipulative, and she just hides behind everyone else. How is that useful in a combat fight?”
Your jaw tightens. Passive? You’ve dragged curses out of hell, resolved fragmented itineraries, and watched him die hundreds of ways, but stupid, egotistical, cocky Gojo doesn’t see the cost. You don’t say any of that. Not yet. Instead, you lean forward, projecting your words straight to his face.
“Funny. I was going to say the same thing about you. Arrogant. Short-sighted. Obsessed with being the strongest while everything else burns. ”
A jerk in his neck betrays that he's registering the strike. Gojo tilts his head low, but his movement is too sharp, deliberate. “You know they die, don’t you? Every single person I’ve ever cared about?”
I’ve seen it. Felt it. Watched the skies split and take away everything I’ve tried to save. But you hold back the truth. No point letting him know just how many versions of this moment you’ve experienced. You settle for something else: “I know the breach won’t wait for your ego to catch up.”
The mission file hits the table with a loud thud. Coordinates, weather anomalies, predicted casualties. Your body clenches, conversant with the city from the visions. From the nightmares.
“Leave in an hour,” an official says. “And don’t kill each other before you get there.”
You stand, securing the folder under your arm. Gojo’s presence is like gravity; even when you try to ignore it lurking behind you, your movements ellipse around him. At the doorway, you stare back at him, voice low but unyielding. “Don’t get in my way, Gojo.”
His smile is predatory, but his tone holds a teasing tone that doesn’t reach his eyes behind the blindfold as he hums.
You don’t need to see his azure, endless eyes to know what they hold. In every itinerary, you’ve seen them: sometimes reassuring, sometimes cruel, sometimes the last thing you’ll ever see. In this one… you’re not so sure.
The hall outside is disturbingly silent. You can feel the minutiae of the breach, wrong and subtle, heaving at the edges of reality. Things seem to hesitate in their existence for a fragment of a second, as if remembering an itinerary that doesn’t exist. You glance down at your hands, envisioning the countless ways things could unfold, each choice leading to disaster or evanescent hope.
Gojo appears beside you without sound. Always too fast, even when you anticipate it. “You’re thinking too much.”
You know he’s right. But thinking is the only thing keeping me alive long enough to try again. You retort to him, scoffing. “Speak for yourself. You don’t think enough.”
His hand, pale and slender, hovers over the papers still by your arm, but doesn’t touch it. Instead, he halts, as if he’s reading your thoughts through all the layers, physically and mentally. “You’re going to see me die, aren’t you?”
The question should unsettle you, but you’ve lived with it for years. In almost every itinerary, you have. Yes. I’ve seen it. Hundreds of times.
But, you shrug, forcing apathy. “Maybe. But this isn’t one of those itineraries.”
Gojo nods, considering, and he grins overconfidently. “I like it when I live. Makes things more… interesting.”
You swallow against the contortion in your throat, nearly choking. You know better than to get attached to this itinerary, even if it feels like a set reprieve. You know the endgame. And in all of them, he doesn’t survive without cost. Often, it’s you who pays first.
The ride to the mission site, with Ijichi, is reticent but charged. Every shadow, every flicker of light, every breath, makes you flinch, expecting the tear in the world you’ve already seen. The city lays out before you, deceptively normal. But the breach’s existence twists everything around you, distorting perspective in understated ways. You’ve never felt this close to a breach without it screaming in your mind.
Gojo’s at the edge of the city, hands in his pockets, cracking his neck casually, as if ready to fight. “Well, here we are. Ready to see if your precious technique actually matters?”
You don’t answer, instead taking in the scene before your view. Already, indirect deformities ripple through the street, like memories leaking into the present. You can almost hear the voice of possibilities diverging. A shriek pierces the air, a sound too human, too close. Gojo’s blindfolded face turns, but he doesn’t move in any other way.
You take a step forward, readying yourself. Just for an instant, you catch an abnormality: a shadow where none should be, out of place and bending the truth.
It’s emerging.
He shifts beside you, whispering in your ear. “Don’t blink. You’ll miss it.”
You do. Blink anyway. And for half a second, the world is gone, just like in every other itinerary. You see Gojo fall. You see yourself fade. And then the breach screams out louder, mocking you, as if the universe is laughing.
Shit.
The city stenches of smoke and iron. A low hum of cursed energy beneath your feet sends goosepump up your spine. You step cautiously, sensing distortions in the rift the mission brief warned about. Usually, you would stay a safe distance away and let Gojo handle the raw energy and curses. But you already know where this is headed.
A crash rips through the street. You barely blink before a mass of black tendrils erupts from the pavement, slithering toward Gojo with vengeful intent. His grin is exasperatingly calm, completely at odds with the thing around him.
“Wanna bet how fast I could kill this thing?” he teases, swatting a tendril aside like it’s nothing.
You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t a joke. Every version of this moment ends with you–”
He cuts you off quickly, “Me? Dying? Don’t be stupid. You’re just apathetic, as always.”
Your hands fist up at your sides. “And you’re dumb and short-sighted. Maybe you’ll live longer if you really pay attention once in your life.”
The curse surges again. You don’t move immediately, letting Gojo handle the first attack with his effortless precision. But a shift in his stance, a flicker too slow in the aura you’ve already mapped in a hundred dreams, alerts you. You act.
Before he can be touched, you step beside him and manipulate the temporal energy around the breach. In an instant, the tendrils whip past him harmlessly, and he blinks, startled. “What the–? How did you–”
Your eyes are fixed on him, looking through his every muscle, every breath. “You always die here,” you mutter.
His face falters. “For real?”
You glance away, pretending casual, but inside your chest a thousand visions punch your guts: 237 times, each ending the same. His body breaking, lifeless, your hand either holding on or letting go. The pressure of every alternate reality presses against your consciousness.
Gojo’s voice is sharp now. “You’re saying, what, that you’ve seen all of this before? That you know every way I’m going to–die?”
Your shoulders stiffen. “I’ve seen it. Too many times. All dead. And I’ll intervene if you start falling in this one.”
He chuckles, but there’s a tension underneath, an edge you’ve only seen in flashes over fractured itineraries. “And you save me… why? Is it because you’re scared of being wrong?”
“No.” you answer, your voice almost mechanical. “I do it because if I don’t you will die. If I do, sometimes I die. It doesn’t matter. This one’s different. Only slightly.”
Another curse attack explodes from the ground. Gojo moves to intercept, but you step in again, letting the visions guide your moves. An upsurge of cursed energy overtakes you, and you stumble back, disorientated. Gojo is already past you, combating through the tendrils competently, not even looking back at you. He doesn’t stop. Not even close. You inhale sharply, perceiving his ability, his invincibility–how in every fight, he bends the rules and survives, while you can only stay weak, expendable.
He finally turns, still smiling, though there’s wariness. “You’re strange. Different. Tell me, how many times did you save me before this? How many times did you fail?”
You can’t meet his gaze, the weight of 237 deaths pressing down on you. “Two hundred thirty—seven. And they all ended the same.”
Gojo inches closer, the grin fading into a hard edge. “That’s insane. I’m the strongest of all time. You just expect me to… trust that?”
Before you can even respond, you shove him. Your palms collide on his chest, as hard as you can. “Trust it? I don’t even trust myself,” you snapped. “Every move, every fucking breath… I’ve tried all of them. Every deal, every choice, every intervention. Nothing changes, nothing works—except one.”
You know he’s interested, and can guess his question before he even speaks. “Which one?”
You look at him, voice quieter but resolute. “Erasing myself. That’s the only timeline where you survive. And even then… I won’t be here.”
The words hang in the air like smoke, and Gojo doesn’t respond. He just studies you, trying to resolve the confident sorcerer he knows with the haunted, shatterable presence before him. For a moment, the world is silent save for the hum of cursed energy.
Then the curse strikes again, faster, sharper, more numerous with its tendrils. You spring into action, shifting the breach subtly, pushing the tendrils away from him while he effortlessly dismantles the rest. Even at your best, he’s untouchable, and you know it. He fights like a god. Strong, invulnerable, unflinching–yet the visions continue to whisper warnings in your head.
When the last tendril collapses into nothing, Gojo lands lightly, as if gravity itself is his companion. He turns towards you with an unreadable expression.
“You didn’t just help me, you were controlling the fight,” he observes. “You’re clever… too clever.”
Rolling your eyes, you see your hands trembling slightly. “It’s not clever. It’s survival. Yours. Mine. Everyone else’s. I can’t even tell the difference sometimes.”
He shakes his head slowly, letting a small laugh escape. "And here I thought I was the one who lived carelessly. You… you’re a mess. But I get it. Maybe that’s why you exist."
You want to tell him everything. Every vision, every death, every alternate reality where he perished. But you know you can’t–not yet. It would change him. Break him. And somehow, you know that itinerary already exists.
The breach pulses violently. You sense it–another curse is coming, sturdier, more unpredictable. You step back instinctively, watching the energy swell, knowing Gojo could handle it with ease. But you also know that this surge, this moment, will be the next test. A test that no number of visions can fully prepare you for.
Gojo leans towards you, smirking. "You’re tense, you know that? Maybe one day you’ll tell me what’s really going on in that head of yours. But until then… you just keep being my inconvenient partner, alright?"
You swallow, forcing a tight nod. "Whatever. But you know that one slip, one misstep… I can’t save you forever."
For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then he laughs. Too cocky, too arrogant. "I like living dangerously. You might have to catch up."
But deep down, you know it isn’t just danger–its inevitability. Every move, every breath, every choice has been accounted for across 237 timelines. And yet, none of them have led to peace. None of them have led to safety. Only survival for him, at the cost of yourself.
The curse begins to hit, and you feel the familiar urge of visions, the pull of futures that may or may not come to pass. You brace yourself, knowing that in all of them, Gojo is unyielding, untamed. But also knowing, with a silent certainty, that your role is far from over. The cursed energy hums, the city holds its breath, and the next stage of death, literal and potential, is expected.
You’re going to punch him.
Notes:
Hi chat
Chapter Text
The fight shakes the streets before you’ve even got back on your feet again. The city breaks into a disturbance, glass shattering, asphalt buckling. It feels wrong – not just the pressure of cursed energy, but the pull beneath it, like the ground itself is being rewritten. You know this too well: the stress of colliding itineraries, futures vying for dominance. This surge is jagged, enraged, tearing through your chest as if dragging your lungs across shards of glass.
And at the center of it all stands Gojo Satoru.
He looks unreachable–casual stance, blindfold taut, hands loose at his sides as cursed energy ripples from him in waves that distort the air. He doesn’t flinch as curses pour into the streets, grotesque shapes slithering from fractures in reality. He makes survival look effortless. Almost divine.
You hate him for it.
“You’re staring again,” his voice echoes through the din, light but taunting. “Going to do something useful, or just watch until I get bored?”
Your jaw tightens. “I’m not here to amuse you. I’m tracking the curse. If you actually cared about how these tears form, maybe you’d notice them before they swallow the city.”
He laughs–sharp, grating. “So defensive. Guess someone’s touchy about being second-string.”
You want to spit a reply, but your body freezes. In the blink between his words, you see him again–collapsed, blood staining his uniform, the aura of his cursed energy gone still. A vision. Not yet real, but close enough your breath stops. You crush it down, refusing to let it show.
Curses descend in waves. Gojo flickers through them faster than sight can follow, erasing them with minimal effort. You force your attention on the distortions themselves–the seams where reality splits open, trying to prevent the collapse before it worsens. Your cursed technique doesn’t dismantle enemies; it holds the line against the world unraveling.
Still, you feel his gaze linger in the chaos. Not idle. Measuring. Dissecting. You know he’s beginning to notice that you see things he can’t.
The second attack twists into a third, a backlash against stability itself. The air hums with tension, and you step in. Your strength burns fast. Faster than it should.
“Not bad,” Gojo’s voice taunts from nearby. His Infinity pushes curses back effortlessly while you sweat blood just to keep the city intact. “You’re not just a pretty spectator after all.”
“Shut up and focus,” you hiss. “If the breach opens any more, even you won’t–” You stop yourself. The vision claws again at your chest: his body crushed, his eyes dim. You can’t say it. Not to his face.
His head tilts slightly, as if he senses the words unsaid. He doesn’t push. Yet.
When everything finally subsides, silence rings like broken glass. The streets are hollowed shells, trembling with aftershocks. Gojo is untouched. You’re shaking. And that difference festers between you like poison.
Before you can catch a breath, he’s grabbing your arm, leading to a small alley, adjacent to where the curse blood is spreading out on the concrete. When he lets go, you stare, unsure of his moves. The hush is louder than the fight. Every nerve in your body screams to run, but his presence pins you still.
“Two hundred thirty-seven.” His voice is flat. Not a tease. Not a question.
Your head jerks up. His blindfold is gone, probably in his pocket, and the brightest eyes you’ve ever seen bore into you like blades. “Don’t repeat it if you don’t want to know what it means.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I want to know. You muttered it like a curse—like you’ve been counting something behind my back. Odds? Kills? Or something worse?”
Your throat burns. The image of his body broken beneath rubble claws at your mind. You almost choke on it, but words spill before you can cage them. “Two hundred thirty-seven versions of you. All dead.”
For once, he doesn’t laugh.
The silence that follows weighs heavy enough to crush. His gaze sharpens, not with mockery, but with something else–something close to fear, though he buries it quick. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. In that rare moment of stillness, you slip past him.
“Don’t follow me,” you whisper, raw.
But you already know he will.
You choose the nearest motel, and settle down by dropping everything and heading straight to bed. Sleep is a battlefield of its own. You don’t dream–you witness. Futures, fractures, endless roads lined with casualties. You’ve long since stopped pretending you rest at all.
Tonight, the itineraries drag you deep.
You walk among graves.
Tokyo lies in ruins. Skies bruised, flames eating towers, curses roving like carrion beasts. You move through rubble and stillness until you find him–Gojo, sprawled across stone, blindfold torn, chest still. His hand stretches toward nothing.
And then another. And another. Bodies upon bodies, a hundred deaths of the strongest sorcerer, Infinity shattered each time. Laughter silenced. Hope extinguished. The sight piles until your knees buckle and your voice dies brutally at your throat.
Footsteps crunch across the blood.
“Hey,” a voice says–his, but not. Softer. Wrong. A version already dead, or moments from it. He crouches before you, smiling faintly, stripped of arrogance. “You keep watching me die. Must be exhausting.”
Your heart convulses. You jolt awake, gasping, screaming.
Darkness greets you. A quiet room. And Gojo is alive, real, leaning casually against the wall. Waiting. Watching.
“Bad dream?” His tone is lighter than the weight in his eyes.
Your hands tremble, nails digging into your palms. “Don’t–”
“You said two hundred thirty-seven.” His voice dips lower, serious now. “That wasn’t a slip, was it?”
You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “I told you not to follow me.”
He straightens, stepping forward. His shadow closes the space between you. “And I told you I want answers.”
You laugh, bitter and cracked. “You wouldn’t believe me if I gave them.”
“Try me.”
The silence between you stretches taut, heavy enough to suffocate. Your throat aches with truths you refuse to surrender. That every future ends the same. That the graves never stop filling. Instead, you whisper, “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready for the answers to.”
And Gojo grins, grinning like he doesn’t know what he's getting into, reckless fire sparking in his voice. “Good. Then I’ll keep guessing.”
You turn away, pulse hammering, graves still pressing against your ribs. His persistence is a curse all its own–and you already know it won’t let you keep your distance. Not from fate stretching at the horizon. Not from him.
The room is too quiet after the words you refused to say. Heavy silence presses down on the peeling motel wallpaper, carrying the weight of every dead body you’ve walked through in your sleep. You sit at the edge of the bed, fists clenched until your knuckles ache, while Gojo stays leaning against the far wall like the room belongs to him.
You can tell he refuses to leave.
You can also feel his eyes on you even without looking–Six Eyes, sharp and unrelenting, carving through every wall you put up. He’s too close. Too aware. And that makes him dangerous in ways curses never could be.
“Still not talking?” His voice isn’t sharp, but the edges of it cut. He makes every word sound like both a taunt and a dare. “You’ve got a talent for silence. Almost impressive.”
You drag in a breath. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Tell me about it then.” He pushes off the wall, crossing the small space with lazy steps that feel anything but normal. His figure shifts the air, pressing against your skin like static. He crouches in front of you, tilting his head until his blindfold is the only thing you see. “Every time I get close to answers, you throw up another wall. What’s behind them?”
Your throat tightens. Memories flash–the graves, the ruined skylines, his broken body lifeless in every version of the world. You swallow the tremor and say nothing.
His smirk curves up. “Secrets don’t stay secrets forever. Especially not around me.”
The motel lamp flickers, a faint ripple of cursed energy cutting through the night. You sense it instantly–the air bending wrong, the echo of another strong curse forming nearby. Relief washes over you that it distracts him, but it’s short-lived. Gojo doesn’t turn. He doesn’t even flinch. His focus stays locked on you.
“You felt it too,” you murmur.
“Of course.” His tone shifts, more steel than mockery. “But I’m not moving until you tell me what you’re hiding.”
You rise abruptly, brushing past him to the window. The city beyond is too still, too silent, as if holding its breath. Shadows ripple at the edges of buildings, where curses claw for entry into this reality. “If you really want answers, you’ll see them soon enough. They always show themselves.”
Behind you, Gojo laughs, low and humorless. “Cryptic. You and your doom-prophecy act. Charming.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking.” His voice softens unexpectedly, almost earnest. “I’m trying to figure out how much of what you see is real… and how much is just fear eating you alive.”
Your hands tighten against the curtain fabric. You don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s too close to the truth already.
Another surge rattles the distance, the glass humming under its weight. You seize the distraction, grabbing your jacket. “We need to move. Now.”
Gojo blocks the door before you can reach it, towering, immovable. His Infinity hums like a barrier even without being raised. “You’re not running out on me.”
Anger sparks, flaring hot enough to burn through the fear. “I’m not running. I’m saving what’s left of this city while you waste time playing detective.”
For a moment, the room trembles with your cursed energy colliding against his. You expect him to push back harder, to remind you with casual cruelty that nothing touches him. But instead, he studies you with unnerving stillness.
Finally, he steps aside. “Fine. Lead the way, prophet.”
You push past him, knocking his shoulder with the little Infinity still left on, but he shadows you all the way into the streets. The motel fades behind as the city swallows you both in fractured silence.
Somehow the pavement is worse than before. Ash drifts like snowfall, coating the ruins in a ghostly pallor. Cracks gape across asphalt, pulsing faintly with cursed energy, like wounds in the earth itself. Every breath tastes like iron and rot. The stench gets to you first, and you want to retch, more specifically on the man beside you.
Gojo’s stride is confident, careless. He doesn’t look around; he doesn’t need to. His Six Eyes map everything. But you do look, because you can’t stop. Every shadow, every shiver of cursed energy, you track instinctively—not the curses themselves, but the openings.
“There,” you say finally, pointing down a collapsed avenue. “The breach’s anchoring. If it spreads further—”
“I’ll handle it.” His voice cuts, sharp with impatience.
You retort back before you can stop yourself. “This isn’t something you erase with a flick of your wrist. You can’t punch apart the composition of reality.”
He halts, turning to face you fully. The blindfold hides his eyes, but you feel the weight of his stare all the same. “Then what do you suggest? Stitch it together with your little threads of cursed energy until you fall?”
Your silence is answer enough.
He exhales through his nose, half amused, half frustrated. “You’re reckless.”
“Says the man who throws himself into every fight smiling.”
That earns a smirk. “Touché.”
The moment breaks as curses surge from the breach, slithering, twisted forms dragging themselves from the tear. Dozens this time, maybe hundreds. Too many. Their howls scrape against bone, filling the air with feral hunger.
Gojo grins, stretching his neck. “Finally. Something fun.”
You don’t bother responding. Already, you’re weaving cursed energy into the cracks, forcing them closed as best you can while he storms into the horde. He moves like a bolt of lightning given flesh, erasing curses with casual precision. But for every creature he destroys, two more slither out. The breach pulses wider, a wound refusing to heal.
Sweat drips down your temple, your energy burning too fast as you stitch the seams. The visions claw at your chest again—Tokyo buried, Gojo fallen, graves stretching endless. You grit your teeth and keep sewing reality shut, one trembling line at a time.
And then – a crack inside your own chest. Too much. Too fast. Your knees falter.
Gojo’s voice cuts through the chaos, pointed directly at you. “Hey. Don’t you dare—”
You push harder. “Shut up and fight!”
The clash stretches on, curses shrieking as they’re pulled back into the disintegrating breach. Finally, with the last effort, you slam the seam closed. The world exhales, stilling. Ash drifts quietly once more.
You collapse against the ruined pavement, gasping, every limb trembling. Your vision blurs. Gojo steps through the dissipating haze, unharmed, not even breathing hard. His body is tilted slightly as he crouches beside you.
“You’re reckless,” he repeats, softer now. Not mockery. Something else. Something almost like… worry.
You force a laugh, cracked and hollow. “You’re welcome.”
He doesn’t smile. Not this time. Instead, he slips an arm beneath you, lifting you effortlessly as if you weigh nothing. You protest weakly, but he ignores it, carrying you back through the ruins. At a relatively empty space between the roads, he holds onto you, and before you can register his grasp, you’re back to where you started.
The motel room is no warmer when you return, but his occupancy fills it anyway. Gojo’s blindfold is taken off and he rubs his forehead, as if you were a headache, a burden to him. You nearly scoff, but he sets you on the bed, lingering just long enough that you catch the glint of something raw in his expression before the mask snaps back in place.
You close your eyes, too tired to fight anymore. Leaning back on the cheap mattress, your arms cross, and you pout before you know it. “Go. You don’t have to babysit me.”
Silence.
When you open your eyes, he’s still there, leaning against the same wall as before. Calm. Unmoving. His voice is final when he speaks, “I’m not leaving.”
The words hang heavy in the dark, more binding than any curse. And for the first time, you realize he might mean it.
Notes:
YES they will get freaky soon
Chapter Text
The room still smelled faintly of dust and expired detergent. The single lamp between the two beds cast a low amber glow, washing over the mismatched curtains and cracked plaster. You had told yourself you’d get some sleep, shut him out, let the night pass in silence, before you tried to kick him out for an invasion of your privacy. But Gojo had a way of taking up a space until it bent around him. Even when he said nothing, it felt like he was everywhere at once—his dry laugh hiding in the corners, his arrogance caught between your breaths.
And tonight, he still hadn’t left. It had already been a couple days since the mission began.
You sat on the edge of the bed, huffing, staring at the floor as though it would split open and reveal a new itinerary. You had sleep-walked too many times, seen too many variations of this moment. Some where he walked away without a word. Others where you stormed out. And more than a few where you never made it to morning.
But this one—this one was uncharted. The unfamiliarity burned under your skin.
“You’re quiet,” Gojo finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was lazy, mocking, like he couldn’t stand the idea that you weren’t playing into his rhythm. He sprawled across the couch, long legs crossed at the ankles, blindfold tossed onto the nightstand. His crystalline eyes caught the lamplight in ways that made looking at him feel dangerous.
“I was hoping you’d shut up for once,” you murmured.
He grinned. “Ouch. Harsh words, coming from someone who had screamed loud enough to wake the whole block.”
Your jaw clenched. He was talking about the vision a few nights ago—the way you’d jump awake with a cry lodged in your throat, sweat slicking your skin. He hadn’t mocked you then, hadn’t even spoken, just watched with something unreadable in his sight. But now, with the moment safely past, he twisted it into something cruel.
“You really don’t know when to quit,” you said, meeting his eyes.
“That’s my best aspect.” He opened his legs even wider, nearly taking up the whole couch space with his lanky body. “Well, that and being the strongest. Did you forget that part already?”
You let out a sharp laugh. “Strongest? You’re careless. Presumptuous. You think you’re immortal—until you’re not. I’ve seen what happens when arrogance outweighs caution.”
He’s irritated, but the smirk didn’t fade. “And you’ve seen it a hundred times, right? Maybe two hundred? Being cursed with too much knowledge must be so hard, prophet.”
The word prophet cut deeper than you wanted it to. You turned away, staring at the wall. You can faintly see mold forming in the corners, but all you can think about is your next retort to the white-haired human version of a mold sitting on your couch. “You think this is a game. But you’ve died in more ways than I can count. You think being strong is enough. It never is, Gojo.”
For a moment, you thought he’d finally shut up. But he never left tension unresolved; he fed on it.
“So,” he drawled, “in all those little nightmares of yours, did we ever end up in a motel room together?”
You whipped your head back toward him. His grin was wolfish, teasing, but something was hidden beneath it. He wanted to know. Really badly.
Your pulse kicked up. You hated him for asking, hated yourself for knowing the answer. You said nothing.
His grin widened at your silence. His teeth are white, well-kept, clean, and maybe you liked that, the thought of him taking care of something. But you were briefly reminded of his cocky attitude “Huh. So we did.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snapped, out of your thoughts. “Most of those itineraries end with you dead before morning.”
“Mm. Tragic.” He stretched, the movement pulling his shirt up enough to flash a strip of pale skin over sharp hipbones. You forced yourself not to look. “Guess we’d better try harder in this one.”
You left the conversation at that, and allowed your body to fall back onto the bed.
The night didn’t last long.
At 3:14 a.m., a ripple hit—an unrelenting shudder through the air that shook the windowpanes and made your chest tighten. You sat upright. Gojo was already moving, cursed energy crackling faintly around him.
“Another surge?” he asked, already sliding his blindfold back into place. His voice was harder now, stripped of its teasing edge.
You nodded, pulling on your shoes. “It’s close. Stronger than yesterday’s.”
“Good thing you’ve got me.” He winked, though you couldn’t see his eyes anymore. “Stay behind me.”
You glared. “Try not to die.”
He grinned like that was a challenge, and you weren’t sure if he was going to listen to your very important request. Guess you’ll know soon enough.
Your first breath outside was heavy, thick with the metallic stench of curses. The motel’s neon sign buzzed erratically, letters flickering between light and shadow. The street ahead warped in subtle ways—angles bent wrong, shadows crawling too long, the world folding in on itself. A spatial fracture. Dangerous. Unstable.
You felt the threads of probability scatter and collapse, itineraries splintering too fast for you to follow. One by one, they blinked out. Too many of them ended in blood.
Gojo’s presence ahead of you was both reassuring and infuriating. He walked like the distortion was nothing more than a playground, hands loose at his sides, cursed energy thrumming around him like a hurricane on a leash.
You muttered, “Cocky bastard.”
He didn’t turn, but you heard the chuckle in his voice. “I heard that.”
Suddenly, the curse tore out of the walls without warning—a hulking shape of teeth and shadow, eyes like molten glass. It lunged straight for Gojo, claws slicing through warped air. He didn’t flinch. Infinity shielded him, bending the attack away as if the creature’s body existed in a different universe entirely.
“Predictable,” he said.
You hated the way he made it look offhand. Hated that you couldn’t stop watching. Do you hate him? Definitely. Maybe.
But when the curse twisted suddenly, its body folding in unnatural directions to lunge for you, your breath caught. You saw it—the path where you hesitated, where its fingers pierced your chest before Gojo could react. The sharp burst of pain, the world flickering out. You saw your own corpse.
So you moved first. You were not going to lose to Gojo , and definitely not die in front of him, knowing his last memory of you would be being weak.
Your cursed energy flared, pulling at the breach. The curse’s trajectory stuttered, bent, just enough for you to dodge. The claws ripped through air instead of flesh. Gojo blinked.
“Well, well,” he drawled, “you can fight back.”
“Shut up and focus,” you replied, even as your heart hammered in your chest.
The battle was chaos—Gojo’s overwhelming strength clashing with the curse’s warped reality, your visions pulling you sideways through probabilities that threatened to devour your sanity. You hated it. You hated the way you had to trust him. Hated the way you couldn’t stop.
When the curse finally disintegrated into dust and static, the distortion began to settle. The street twisted back into place, neon lights steadying into their usual flicker. Gojo dusted off his hands like he’d just taken out the trash.
“Easy,” he said.
You glared at him, shaking. “You almost got me killed.”
He turned, grinning under the blindfold. “But you didn’t. Guess we make a good team.”
You stomped away right after his words, and trudged all the way back to the motel in spite of him. You already knew he teleported back, because when you entered, Gojo had apparently dropped onto the couch like nothing had happened and taken off his blindfold. His hair stuck up in messy tufts, pale against the shadows.
“You’re shaking,” he observed.
You shot him a look. “No shit.”
“Scared?”
“I’m alive,” you muttered. “That’s all that matters.”
He leaned forward, towards you, and studied your demeanor. His eyes were too bright, too curious, like he was trying to destroy every layer you’d hidden. “You saw it, didn’t you? Yourself dying.”
Your throat tightened. You looked away.
He hums, as if he’s solved a mystery, and you roll your eyes. “Don’t pretend you care,” you deadpanned. “You’ve made it very clear you don’t want me here.”
“I didn’t say that.” He leaned back, stretching again. “I just don’t like the way you look at me, like you’ve already written my funeral.”
Your breath caught. You hadn’t realized it showed.
He smirked. “But hey. If you’re dreaming about me every night, I must be special.”
You threw a pillow at him. He caught it easily, laughing. The sound filled the room, too warm, too alive. For a moment, it almost felt normal. Dangerous, how easily he could make you forget.
The night stretched on, heavy with silence and unsaid words. Gojo didn’t leave. Wouldn’t leave, you corrected yourself mentally. He leaned back against the motel walls, because his long limbs stretched over the couch head, as though daring you to tell him to go. You didn’t. You couldn’t. You didn’t even know why.
You lay back on your bed, staring at the ceiling. the air still tinged with something wrong. You knew sleep would come with visions—more deaths, more endings you couldn’t stop. But for now, the present felt louder than the future.
Across the room, Gojo said quietly, “Don’t die on me.”
You turned your head. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were on the ceiling, his voice low, almost too soft to catch. His throat bobbed up and down before resting, and everything was at peace, too at peace, if that was ever a thing in the cursed world.
For a moment, you wondered if this was one of the itineraries you’d never seen.
And it terrified you more than any death.
The motel room feels smaller tonight. Maybe it’s the way Gojo is leaning like he owns the place, stretched out in a sprawl of confidence that eats up every inch of space. Or maybe it’s the silence—thick, restless, the kind that pulls at your ribs and refuses to let go.
You moved to sit at the little desk shoved against the wall, pretending to write in the mission logbook. The pen hasn’t moved in ten minutes. Gojo notices, of course. He notices everything when it comes to you, though he’ll never admit it.
“Wow,” he teased, breaking the air. “Didn’t know paperwork required staring contests with the wall. Should I call for backup?”
You don’t even look at him. “You’re not funny.”
“Funny-looking maybe.” He grins at his own joke, the smug curve of his lips audible in his tone. “C’mon, don’t ignore me. You’ve been twitchy since the mission. No curses here. No explosions. Just me, your favorite roommate.”
“Roommate implies choice,” you snap.
“Harsh. And here I thought we were building something beautiful—like friendship. Or mutual tolerance. Or, I don’t know, co-dependency? Maybe even more?” He winked and grinned, proud of his answer.
Finally, you glance at him. He’s lounging in sweatpants and a t-shirt, having changed after the mission. Without the usual uniform and swagger, he should look less dangerous. He doesn’t. He looks too at ease, too unshaken, the kind of calm that unnerves you more than a battlefield.
“You take up too much of my air,” you mutter.
He tilts his head, his smile gentle in a way that makes your pulse hitch. “And yet you’re still breathing. Miraculous.”
There’s an edge between you two that neither of you wants to name. It felt too cold in this room, and you knew you had to finish the mission logs nonetheless. You push back from the desk and stand, crossing to the couch—not to sit beside him, but to grab the blanket and yank it toward the chair.
“Oh no, no,” Gojo says quickly, snatching the corner back with absurd speed. “You’re not exiling yourself to the chair. Beds are for people, chairs are for socks and regrets. Sit.”
You shot him a look, pulling the blanket again. “I don’t need your hospitality.”
“It’s not hospitality, it’s common sense. I’m not letting my partner wake up with a crick in the neck when we’ve got real curses to fight tomorrow. Get on the couch.”
The word partner makes something coil tight in your chest. Reluctantly, you let go of the blanket, rolling your eyes as you climb onto the far edge. Gojo makes a show of shifting over, leaving a chasm of space between you.
“See? Civilized,” he says. “Two adults coexisting. Nothing scandalous.”
You’re not sure if he’s convincing you or himself.
The silence creeps back in. But this time, it’s charged. Every breath, every shift of fabric feels amplified. You curl onto your side with your notepad in your hand, facing away from him, but the weight of his attention presses against your spine.
Then his voice whispers. “You said something to the higher ups one time, and I may have overhead.”
You stiffen. “I say a lot of things.”
“This one stuck.” A pause. “About… itineraries."
Your throat goes dry. “Drop it.”
“No,” he says simply, and there’s no mockery now, just curiosity edged with steel. “You said in some of them we were lovers. What did you mean?”
The room seems to tilt. You should lie. Deflect. You’ve done it before. But maybe it’s the hour, or the tension in his voice, or the fact that you’re bone-tired of carrying truths alone.
You turn, meeting his eyes in the dim light. His endless blue irises watching you with a gravity you rarely see from him.
“It means exactly what I said,” you say. “I’ve seen versions of us together. Not like this. Not enemies, not reluctant allies. Something else.”
Gojo doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t laugh it off. He just studies you, unreadable. Then, carefully, “And in those other versions… are we happy?”
The question guts you. You open your mouth, close it, open it again. “Sometimes.” A beat. “But it never lasts.”
He lies back, folding his arms behind his head, pretending nonchalance. “Sounds like you’re the pessimist and the optimist at once. We either love each other or kill each other. Romance, huh?”
You can’t stop the small, broken laugh that escapes you. “Something like that.”
The unsaid words linger, but it’s different now. Less about distrust, more about the chance of possibilities neither of you asked for. He doesn’t press further. He doesn’t need to. The silence says enough.
When you finally drift toward sleep, you feel the faintest brush of warmth at your hand—his, not quite touching, but close enough to remind you he’s there. And though you know too many futures, too many endings, you let yourself stay in this one a little longer.
Notes:
Rumi and Jinu ahh relationship
Chapter Text
The morning creeps in through the slats of the blinds, pale gold cutting across the room. You’re awake before Gojo, or at least you think you are. He lies sprawled beside you, one arm flung across his eyes, his breath even. For once, he looks human—not invincible, not untouchable. Just a man asleep on a rough couch, too small for him too.
You don’t trust it.
Because nothing about Gojo Satoru is ever that simple.
You slip quietly from your resting space, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. The mission reports still wait in a neat pile on the couch armrest, blank pages demanding answers you can’t give. What’s the point of writing them when you’ve already seen how most stories end?
“Leaving without breakfast?”
His voice startles you. Not groggy, not half-asleep—sharp, like he’s been awake longer than you. Gojo pushes himself upright, hair a wild halo, grin already in place.
“Wasn’t planning on cooking for you,” you told him.
“Good. Last time you made eggs for everyone, they tasted like a curse farted on the pan.”
You shoot him a glare, but he’s already stretching, muscles pulling under his t-shirt. He notices your stare—he always does—and smirks like it’s a private victory.
“Relax,” you replied. “It’s too early for your ego.”
“Too early? My ego doesn’t keep business hours. It’s a full-time commitment.” He swings his legs and stands up, padding barefoot across the floor. “So, where were you sneaking off to?”
You hesitate. If you tell him the truth—that you woke with another flicker of a future clutching at your gut—he’ll press. And if he presses, you’ll slip. So instead, you shrug. “Fresh air.”
Gojo blocks the doorway before you can reach it, one hand on the structure, the other brushing through his white hair. “Nice try. But I don’t buy it. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re five steps ahead and hating yourself for it.” He leans down, close enough that you feel his breath brush your cheek. “So, which version of me did you see this time? Hero? Martyr? Or the guy who leaves dishes in the sink?”
You shove at his muscles, which were rock solid, but he doesn’t even budge. Heat rises to your face. “You think everything’s a joke.”
“Not everything,” he says, following. His tone is hushed now, almost careful. “Some things , I take very seriously.”
The words hang between you. You refuse to turn, refuse to ask what he means. Instead, you sneak under his arm and step into the morning air.
You end up walking side by side, reticence stretching but not breaking. The motel sits on the edge of nowhere, roads cracked, telephone wires humming overhead. Gojo’s hands are shoved into his pockets, but you know better than to think he’s relaxed. He’s watching you—waiting.
Finally, he says, “You never answered me last night.”
You don’t pretend ignorance. You tried to incorporate your feelings of irritation in your response. “I answered enough.”
“Not for me.” He kicks a loose stone down the road, watching it hop ahead. “How are we happy in other itineraries? What does that mean?”
You stop walking. “Why do you care?”
Gojo tilts his head, that infuriating smile tugging at his lips. “Because I don’t like mysteries I can’t solve. And you are a walking contradiction. Literally. Cold one second, burning the next. Saying we might’ve been something more in another life, then shutting down the conversation before it gets interesting.”
You fold your arms, defensive. “It’s not interesting, Gojo. It’s a curse.”
“Or maybe it’s a choice,” he counters. “Maybe every version of us is just proof that we’ve got potential. Whether we waste it or not—that’s on us.”
For once, his words resonate deeper than you expect. He speaks like he believes it. Like he believes in you. And it is more unsettling than any cursed spirit.
You adjust your view to face away, as you try to contemplate his thoughts. “You don’t understand what it’s like to know the endings. To watch them over and over.”
“Maybe not,” he admits. “But I know what it’s like to carry weight that crushes everyone else. To smile so they don’t notice. To fight like you’re indestructible when the truth is… you’re not.”
You glance back, agitated. There’s no grin now, no arrogance. Just candor. And you want to feel the same, to relate to him and have him reassure you. No, you instinctively think. Things can never be this way for him.
Back to your room, the persistent unease lingers. Gojo lets himself fall to the couch, sprawling again, while you step by the desk.
“You know,” he says, casual as ever, “in at least one itinerary, I bet you let yourself laugh at my jokes.”
“Unlikely.”
“In another, you probably kissed me first.”
Your voice catches before you speak, and you try to keep it steady, but when you talk back it’s hoarse. “Dream on.”
“Already do,” he says, and it’s too unalloyed to be anything but real.
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you’ve seen this moment, moments plural, the smiles, the touches, the dangerous sensation of it all. And you know how assuredly they end in destruction. So you ignore him.
But the relation between you and Gojo has shifted with every talk. It’s not the suffocating stress of curses lurking in the shadows, nor the stillness of two sorcerers waiting for the next battle. It’s heavier, closer, threaded with something unspoken. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.
Nevertheless, Gojo is relentless. Always has been. Always will be.
He’s leaning against the motel dresser, arms crossed, content with not wearing a blindfold around you . His eyes—crystalline, unbearable in their intensity—don’t leave yours. “You know,” he says, voice deceptively light, “for someone who claims to hate me, you sure spend a lot of time looking.”
You scoff. “I was not looking at you. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I don’t have to. You do a good enough job for me.” He smiles, infuriatingly boyish for a man who can split mountains with a flick of his wrist. He’s raising his eyebrows and teasing. “What’s the verdict, then? Am I still public enemy number one? Or do I move up to… frenemy?”
“Try nuisance,” you shot back. “It suits you better.”
Gojo chuckles, stepping closer to you on the bed, slow enough that you notice every shift in his body, every deliberate inch of space he closes. “Nuisance, huh? That’s one way of calling me unforgettable.”
You stop breathing, struggling on how to inhale air. Is it one in one out? You hate how he does this—jump past your defenses with nothing more than a smirk and a well-timed quip. Hate it, and want more all at once.
“You really think everything revolves around you, don’t you?”
“No,” he says simply. “But I think some things do. Like this.” He gestures loosely between you.
You roll your eyes, but the motion is weak, half-hearted. Because he’s right, although nobody could ever get you to say that. Except him. Maybe. You had already given up on your mental fight.
The hours stretch long into the night, your conversation folding into silences and silences folding back into words, like a paper fortune teller. Gojo has his arms holding him up and his legs spread on the bed, without your permission as the bed was technically yours, but this time his posture isn’t careless. He watches you pace around with your pencil with an edge of sobriety, as if challenging you to admit what you feel.
“So tell me,” he says finally, voice lower, huskier than before, “in all those itineraries you see, do we ever get it right?”
You freeze, your foot hovering above the carpet, halted from taking another step. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I want to know if there’s a version of you that stops running.” His grin is faint now, back to normal at the edges. “Stops pretending she hates me when she doesn’t.”
The words carve into you, sharper than any blade, any curse. You want to laugh it off, to remind him how insufferable he is. But the truth shakes your ribs, exhausting release. “Sometimes,” you say, toying with your fingers. “Sometimes we don’t fight. Sometimes it’s… different.”
Gojo shifts, propping himself on one elbow. “Different how?”
“Don’t push me,” you warn.
“I’m not pushing,” he says, his vision never leaving the sight of you. “I’m waiting.”
Your chest tightens. Because waiting is worse. Waiting means he’s giving you the choice. And choice is far more risky than fate. Behind you, Gojo rises, his footsteps unhurried. You sense him before he’s close—he’s impossible to ignore. When he stops just behind you, his breath stirs the fine hairs at your neck.
“Don’t,” you murmur, though you’re not sure what you’re warning him against.
“Don’t what?” His tone is maddeningly faint, playful. “Don’t tell you the truth? Don’t make you admit you want this as much as I do?”
You spin to face him, the sudden motion putting you centimeters apart. “You’re impossible, and wrong.”
“And yet, you’re still here.” His smirk widens, but his eyes… his eyes are something else entirely. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just hungry. Fierce. Possessive.
You swear you hear the air crackle. Enemy, ally, nuisance, necessity—none of the words you’ve thrown at him make sense anymore. He’s Gojo Satoru, the strongest, the most unendurable man alive, and right now, he’s the only thing anchoring you.
Before you fight the urge, you’re leaning closer, nose meeting.
The kiss doesn’t happen right away. It builds in the stolen glances, in the intentional touch when he brushes your hand while passing the mission reports, in the too-long pauses when your eyes lock and neither of you looks away. It builds until you’re light-headed and dizzy with it, until everything is impossible to bear without it.
And then it breaks.
Gojo doesn’t ask. He never asks. He doesn’t need to. He just comes closer, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. You don’t. His pale lips meet yours, warm, insistent, pulling the air from your lungs. Your desire spreads throughout your body.
You push against his chest—not to stop him, but because the sheer force of him overwhelms you. He catches your wrist with a gentle grip, pulling you closer instead of letting you fall back. The kiss deepens, all heat and defiance and the piercing edge of something you swore you’d never feel for him. You open your mouth enough to let his protruding tongue in, and he tastes too sweet and too inviting.
When you finally pull back, breathless, Gojo’s smirk is smug but tempered with something softer. “So… frenemy, then?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
But your words are hollow, and you both know it.
The rest of the night is a blur of words and silences, of thoughts edged with frustration, of touches that start accidental and end steady. You don’t let it go further—not yet. But the line between enemy and something else has already been crossed. And you know that once crossed, there’s no going back.
But when night falls again, you choose to sleep next to him instead of your bed, sitting side by side with your heads leaning back as his hand drifts closer to yours. This time, you don’t move away.
The space between you isn’t empty anymore. It’s a question, a precarious tie consolidating with every breath, a maybe.
And for now—for a vulnerable second—you let it hold you both.
By the time dawn filters through you, Gojo is stretched out beside you again, his arm draped casually across at your shoulders. You lie awake, staring at the wall opposite, replaying every word, every glance, every stolen moment.
Gojo shifts, his voice a low murmur in the quiet. “Guess this itinerary's looking pretty fun after all.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because for the first time in forever, you’re scared and hesitant of wanting what comes next.
Notes:
Constructive criticism is appreciated
Chapter Text
Every morning after feels unreal, as though the motel walls themselves are struggling to contain the storm of what had happened a few nights ago. You’d told yourself it was a momentary lapse—heat, exhaustion, the pressure of the mission breaking at last. But when Gojo glances lazily at you, smile tugging at his lips, you know it’s more than that. Something changed between you, and there’s no pretending otherwise.
You had spent more and more time with him, and you weren’t even sure why. Did your tolerance of his presence go down? Definitely not.
“Sleep well?” His voice is light, too relaxed, though his eyes betray that glint of satisfaction that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face.
You groan, dragging the blanket over your head. “I’m not talking to you.”
Gojo laughs, the sound boyish, too bright for the heavy weight in your chest. “Then I’ll talk enough for the both of us. You’ll cave eventually. You always do.”
You peek out from under the blanket just to scowl at him. “I hate you.”
“And yet you let me stay.” He winks, standing and stretching as if he were a god. His shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned skin. You hate that you want to stare. Hate more that he notices. “Careful,” he teases, “staring is a dangerous habit.”
You throw the pillow. He dodges easily, laughing as if the both of you hadn’t recently come close to death from the surges. As if you hadn’t kissed him like you wanted him more than you wanted to live.
The mission is over. The curse dismantled, the threads severed, the threat eliminated. The officials had contacted Gojo, calling and telling him everything’s in control. There’s no reason to stay in this place, no reason to share another night in the too-small motel room. And yet, Gojo insists on walking with you back to Jujutsu High, his presence as unbeatable as his cursed technique.
He sat with you in the car, even though he’s able to teleport on command. The wordless tension on the road stretches, neither of you entertaining it. Every so often, you catch him watching you, and every time, you snap your eyes forward at the back of Ijichi’s car seat, which was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
Finally, Gojo says. “So, what are we?”
You frown. “On what?”
“On us.” He says it so casually, like he’s asking about the weather. Like your world hasn’t shifted on its axis since last night. “Are we friends now? Rivals with benefits? Something more poetic?”
Your movements falter. “You’re joking.”
“Maybe.” He’s smiling again, but with a razor-sharp undertone. “But maybe not.”
You’re breathing, faster now, as though you can outpace the question. But his words stay, curling around your ribs, making it hard to act natural. Enemy. Ally. Lover. You don’t know what you are anymore. And you’re terrified to find out. You had never known you were capable of being this scared.
By the time the school gates rise into view, dawn has settled into day. Students train across the courtyard, laughter and conversation a reminder of the normalcy you never really get to touch. Gojo walks beside you, his easy swagger drawing stares from every direction. He doesn’t care. He never does.
But you feel every eye on you, feel the weight of whispers that haven’t even started yet. Because if anyone looks too closely—if anyone sees the way his arm brushes too near yours, the way your shoulders align, the way your cursed energy bends around his laughter—they’ll know. And you can’t let them know.
“Relax,” Gojo murmurs under his breath, sensing the tension in your body. “No one’s looking that hard.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Easy for me because I’m right.” His expression is exasperating, but his words are more sedative than before. Almost gentle. “Don’t waste time worrying about what they see. Worry about what you want.”
The words sting because you don’t know what you want. Or maybe you do, and you’re too afraid to say it. You don’t answer him, and he doesn’t press. But you catch the faint curve of his smile, like he knows anyway.
The hours blur back into routine: reports filed, weapons cleaned, silence adjusting to the spaces where curses used to be. But routine is fragile, weak, easily fractured by the memory of his lips, the heat of his hands, the way your body betrayed you in the dark. Every time you pass him in the hall, every time his laughter cuts across the school, every time his shadow lingers at the edge of your peripheral vision—it breaks again.
Later in the evening, he corners you by the training grounds, where the world is quiet except for the whisper of wind through the trees.
“Still avoiding me?” His voice is low, tinged with amusement. He leans against the wall, arms folded, the picture of infuriating ease.
“I’m not avoiding you.” You say, as if confronting him, and you nearly give in to the limited space between you.
“Then you’re doing a terrible job of it.” He tilts his head, studying you with eyes that see too much. “You can’t ignore this forever.”
You bristle. “Ignore what?”
His grin is sharp. “Us.”
The word lands like a strike, fast and brutal. Your heart lurches. Your tongue stumbles. “There is no ‘us.’”
“Funny,” he says, stepping closer, “because last night sure felt like an ‘us.’”
You flush, hating the way you know you’re about to lie, your body heating up. “That was a mistake.”
He hums, unconvinced. “If it was, why are you still thinking about it?”
Your silence answers him, and his grin only widens. “That’s what I thought.”
You swear you were going to hit him with all the power left in you, then kick him right between his legs, if only he wasn’t this important to everyone. Does everyone include you? Maybe. Probably.
The tension between you doesn’t break. It twists tight, honed, until it’s unbearable. Tonight is the worst. You lie awake, memories replaying in fragments—the touch of his lips onto yours, the heat of his breath, the pull of his hand at your waist. Every sound outside your window makes you think he’s there, waiting just for you to give in and open the door.
And then, suddenly, he is.
A knock at the window, soft but deliberate. You freeze, heart racing, before pulling the curtain back. Gojo stands outside, smirk firmly in place, moonlight catching in his pale hair. His glasses are on, and he’s presumably in what looks like his pajamas.
“Miss me?” he asks.
You slide the window open just enough to grimace at him. “What are you doing here? You could’ve knocked.”
“This was funnier. I couldn’t sleep.” His grin is all teeth. “Figured you couldn’t either.”
“You’re insane.”
“Maybe. But you didn’t shut the window. So I know you want me just as bad.”
You hate that he’s right. Hate more that, when he climbs inside, your pulse doesn’t slow. It quickens.
“You want me badly?” You tease, as he climbs on top of your body.
He’s panting when he gradually leans into your upright position. His lanky arms and legs trap you under him and you’ve never been more turned on. Though that was a secret. Then, he’s close enough that the space between you is heated with something you can’t name. Lust? Greed? Desire?
“This is a bad idea,” you whisper.
“Probably,” he agrees. “Bad idea.”
And then he’s kissing you again.
The contact is different this time. Less rushed, more devoted. Like he’s proving a point. Like he’s daring you to deny him, deny yourself, deny what this is becoming. Your hands press against his chest, but they don’t push him away. They pull him closer.
When you part, breathless, Gojo rests his forehead against yours. His voice is a murmur, joking but edged with something deeper. “Still think it’s a mistake?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because maybe it is. But it’s a mistake you want to make again. And again. And again.
Better now than never, you think. So you’re pulling his shirt off, hands rummaging through his body while he’s biting at your neck. He trails lower and lower with each nip and you bury your face to moan in his slightly messy, pure white hair. He stops after you clutch your fingers around his jawline, pulling away and throwing you a wink before picking his shirt off the ground. Gojo stands up and heads towards the door, as if nothing happened, and you just gape.
“I’ll see you later baby.” Is all he says before strolling out your dorm room. You hate him. God, you hate him so badly. You were going to make him eat his words, you were sure of it.
The mission is over. The curses defeated. But the real conflict—the one between your head and your heart and possibly between your legs—has only just commenced.
And Gojo Satoru? He’s not planning on losing.
Notes:
He's cutie pie
Chapter Text
The return to school was supposed to reset everything. That’s what you told yourself, anyway—that the familiar walls of Jujutsu High would ground you. But when you woke up, you know it doesn’t. If anything, it amplifies it. Because Gojo is everywhere. In the walls too.
He’s loud in the courtyard, obnoxiously stealing snacks from first years. He’s smug in the halls, leaning too close, brushing past you like it’s an accident when you know it isn’t. And worst of all, he’s in your head. Constantly nagging at you. So from the moment you step off your bed, you bury yourself in work, in the endless grind of reports stacked up on your dorm desk.
You’re ignoring all the itineraries that are pounding in your head, especially those where Gojo is present, alive, and in love with you. You would rather watch him die than see him on top of you again, you thought. You step out of your room, planning on delivering the mountain of papers in your hands to the higher-ups.
“You’re avoiding me again,” he says, breaking you out of your head, cornering you yet again in the hallway. “I thought we were past that.”
You shift your arms to better handle the reports, lifting your chin. “You thought wrong.”
His infamous smirk is directed at you now, too pleased with himself to stop grinning. “Funny. Because I don’t remember you thinking it was wrong when—”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll kill you.”
“—you kissed me back,” he says anyway, eyes flashing with mischief.
You shove past him, but he follows, hands in his pockets, the picture of infuriating ease. “You know, it’s almost cute how hard you’re working to deny this.”
You whirl on him, balancing yourself before muttering. “There is no this.”
He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “Then why do you look at me like there is?”
You hate the way your chest tightens, the way your pulse basically sacrifices you to him. You kick him with force, catching him off guard enough to go through his Infinity, which you find yourself doing often. “Go away, Gojo.”
But he doesn’t. He never does.
Training had gone late today, the campus quiet under the hush of the evening. You’re tired, sore, half-ready to collapse into bed after sparring with three of the students at the same time. As you’re approaching, fumbling with your keys, you feel him before you see him. Gojo, leaning naturally against the wall outside your room, like he has every right to be there.
In your memories, you faintly recall this moment, having seen it too many times, ending the same way. You feared this interaction would not be an exception to what would definitely happen next. “What do you want?” you ask, exhaustion sharp in your tone.
He straightens, smirk wicked. “You.”
Your throat tightens. “Gojo—”
He steps forward, cutting you off with a look that’s far more dangerous than his expression. “It’s Satoru. No more excuses. No more running. You want this. Who could not want me?”
You should deny it. You should shove him away, slam the door, pretend your body isn’t trembling with the want . But instead, you don’t move. And he takes your unspoken words for what it is.
Gojo’s hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb strokes over your cheek, deceptively gentle. “Say no, and I’ll stop. But if you don’t…”
The words trail off, unfinished, and you swallow, heart racing. He’s in your mouth before you can change your mind. His lips crush against yours, his hands framing your face as if he can’t bear to let go. The world narrows to heat and breath and the sharp edge of need. You clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer, the taste of him overwhelming, addictive. He groans against your mouth, a sound that sends arousal racing down your spine.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs against your lips, voice hoarse. “Always so stubborn. Always pretending you don’t want me.”
“Because you’re insufferable,” you manage, breathless, as you fumble with your keys.
When you finally open the door, you fall down on your back and he lands right above you. Gojo grins, teeth flashing in the dim light. “And yet, here you are.”
You don’t have a comeback. Not when his hands are sliding lower, not when he’s pressing you against the ground, not when his body is pressed right against your cunt. The heat spirals, surprisingly dizzying, until you’re gasping his name against his mouth.
The laugh he gives in return is dark, satisfied. “Knew you’d break eventually. I think you’re liking this.”
“I hate you,” you whisper, dragging him back down to kiss you again.
And this time, there’s no hesitation.
Your lips are slamming onto each other, and you quickly kick the door shut as he takes both your pants off. Gojo’s fingers wrap around your underwear before ripping it to shreds, discarded nearby.
Then, he’s running his length between your folds, groaning into your mouth and your lewd sounds go right back to his mouth. He pulls away for a second, and you’re too lost in the moment to see a glint of something dark in his eyes. He doesn’t hold your body gently, it’s more harsh and needy, but you don’t not like it so you’re wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling his shirt off.
Gojo’s biting at your collarbone, teasing his tip at your entrance, just enough to make you through your head back and nearly cum right there. He murmurs into your ear. “So fucking tight.”
“So fucking big. ” You answered breathlessly without thinking, not wanting to feed into his ever-growing ego more than necessary.
He chuckles, going back to kissing your skin softly, his head buried in your neck. “You’re so easy to figure out, y’know?”
He thrusts into you all too rapidly, his cock buried too many inches in and you want to scream. You want to tell him to never stop, to keep going, to get you to your release. But you’re too incoherent and too self-respecting to ever give up so you just pull him closer to whisper in his ear. “S’toru… fuck.”
“Fuck is right,” he’s laughing, and he pulls out all the way before slamming back in, your back arching off, clenching tighter around him. “It’s like we’re meant to be, huh? You take my cock so well, you’ll cum soon, won’t you, huh?”
Every word is sent straight between your legs as he’s fucking you harder, and you’re stuttering and gasping for air, his name falling out your lips too quickly. “I think I-I’m gonna–”
“Yeah, you’re gonna cum for me, right? Fuck you’re doing so good. Baby cum got me.” He murmurs, hips rocking towards an unsteadier pace, and you know he’s about to shatter too.
You’re tight around him, holding him close when you let go of everything. Gojo keeps moving in you, the two of you melding when you come down from your high. His cum is hot and thick, filling your insides thoroughly while he finishes with a slowed grind against your waist. He’s kissing you, with enough ferocity that makes you moan loud. You’re suddenly picked up by long arms wrapping around you, and he sets the both of you on your bed while wet and aching. He doesn’t break the kiss when he wraps a blanket around you, and you faintly feel his cock twitching, still inside you.
You flush at the tip touching your walls, and Gojo’s lips tilt upwards enough to make you want to hit him while he pulls your body close to his. He rests an arm behind his head, grin lazy but triumphant. “So… still think it’s a mistake?”
You scowl at him, though your body betrays you, too relaxed against his. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re mine,” he says, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
You want to argue. You want to tell him he’s wrong, that this can’t work, that “enemies” don’t get to love each other. But when he leans over and kisses you again, slow and soft, the words die on your tongue.
He turns your body around, your face in the bed as he sets his hands on your waist, slowly pulling his cock out for what seemed like another round. You turn your head back enough to see his lust-driven expression before mumbling. “Mm… Gojo what are you doing?”
He hushes you, before muttering his first name back to you as a reminder. His pace this time is slower, but he pushes all the way in, fucking down into you. Every time he slammed your body, it made your breath hitch audibly. Every touch sent a new warming flood of pressure, starting from your core, all the way to your head.
You tried not to make as much sound as your body so obviously wanted to. You were too proud to show him how much you liked it, liked him, liked the way he’s about to make you his when he’s hitting it from the back into the deepest pits of your stomach. As if he hadn’t gotten you into bed already.
Your body was showing him in a handful of other ways how much you were enjoying yourself though. Your hands clenched at the blankets on their own accord, your thighs shook with every thrust. If you thought that he might be missing it, he wasn’t. Gojo leaned down, his chest pressed against your arched back, a persistent reminder that you were his tonight. Something pooled inside you at the possibility of something like that being permanent.
“You think this will… hah, distract you from your massive crush on me?” He grunted out, smirking and gesturing at the new position you practically threw yourself in.
“I-I don’t.” You mumble. “Like you.”
Real smooth. God, you didn’t even sound sure of yourself. If he was teasing you before, there was no way he would not know for certain now. Maybe you could brush it off later by saying you were too in the moment from him continuously hitting just the right spot inside you.
Gojo starts to talk again, and you can hear that somewhere in his words he moaned softly, and you had to deny the warmth in you again. “Why’d you come to bed with me then, huh?”
You couldn’t put off your feelings long though, because then his hand wrapped around your front and pressed one long finger against your clit, rubbing small circles on it. Despite yourself, you nearly whimpered when the walls of your pussy started to flutter around him.
“Not gonna cum till you do,” He chuckles. “Come on, cum for me again.”
“No dumbass.” You retorted, as steady as you could, but your body rocked forward with every thrust and you were positive you could not fight it anymore.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Mmm, love it when you talk dirty.”
Suddenly, you felt yourself falling face forward onto the sheets. Not once did he withdraw from inside you. He used his body to pin you down, still on his knees behind you, his huge dick hitting impossibly deeper inside of you. You whined into the sheets, successfully muffling what you did not want him to hear. He had fisted one hand into pulling your back, while the other hand had a merciless grip on your hip. He pounded into you ruthlessly.
“C’mon, baby, wanna hear you.” He grunted out.
You denied him for so long, what could you do but obey at this point? What was left but giving into how he was making you feel? You knew there was no going back.
The first string of moans you let fall heavily from your lips earned you glorious praise from him . “You’re doing so good.” It was deep, said with his chest. You're physically clenched at it.
“I’m… getting close.” You heard yourself nearly whisper to him between thrusts.
You didn’t know what was making him so restless, finding yourself being manhandled by him. His arms enclosed around you, holding you against him. “I feel the same about you, you know.” he breathily told you.
That was all you needed to start cumming around him. The pleasure came to you in white-hot waves, leaving you no choice but to shut your eyes. You felt yourself contracting, tightening incredibly around his length.
He laid you down as gently as he could in his state, desperate to finish. He pounded hard into your overstimulated pussy once, twice, three times more before he pulled out. You felt him start streaking cum onto your back, moaning each time another spurt left him. It felt so warm on your skin.
It was all he could do not to collapse directly onto you, narrowly missing your body when he dropped down onto the sheets beside you. Your face was flushed and still pressed against the sheets. Your body felt hot and used, but pleasured.
Gojo fell onto the side your eyes were facing, rolling over, and you made sure not to open your eyes and look at him. After he recuperated for a few moments, you felt his whole hand brush hair off and out of the way of your sweaty face.
“You with me?”
You mumbled an incoherent response, something that sounded like a confirmation, the ungraceful noise making him grin at you. The side of the bed he was on shifted under his weight, and you could tell without looking he got up from the bed. You felt a pang of heartache hit you square in the chest.
But then you heard the sound of tissues being ripped from the box, and all at once his hands were on you again. He did not really need to use both of them, he only needed one to wipe off the mess he left on your back. But the other hand that held the back of your waist gently nearly broke your heart, and you weren’t even sure why.
Upon finishing wiping you up, you felt Gojo’s soft lips press into the line of your spine, leaving a searing kiss. Something new for you to brood over. Unless he meant what he said in the heat of the moment. You hoped he did. He tossed the tissues in the trash, and assumed position next to you again, using an arm to pull you in close, not caring if you had an objection.
“Satoru I…” You started, looking up to his jawline, whispering, but you couldn’t finish your sentence before you felt your eyes close, tired and worn out.
The last thought that crossed your mind was that when you woke up, you two had a lot to talk about.
Notes:
This was inspired by another oneshot I read a while back
Chapter Text
You noticed exactly five things when you woke up, not from an itinerary vision flashing in your head, which usually had you in fear and conscious before the sun even rose, but from the snores of someone.
Number one, you were clean. After what felt like an all-night sex marathon, you felt relatively clean. The only things on you were dried sweat and a white substance, which you had to assume belonged to Gojo, leading to the next detail.
Number two, you had slept with Gojo. This came more as a shock than anything, as you rapidly eyed the man sprawled on his back beside you, one arm slung lazily over his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips as though even in sleep he couldn’t stop mocking you. For a long moment, you just stared, caught in the dissonance of what had happened the night before and the reality that followed.
Number three, you knew that the morning felt like stepping into a world that didn’t quite belong to you anymore. The sheets tangled at your waist were still warm, heavy with the scent of him. It should have been easier—walking away, resetting the boundary you’d shattered. But something changed in you. That something wasn’t just desire. It was the echo of his words and the way he’d taken care of you with a terrifying certainty. The way you hadn’t refuted it.
Number four, you had to escape. You slid carefully from the bed, pulling on discarded clothes. Gojo stirred but didn’t open his eyes. “Sneaking away? That’s rude,” he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep.
“Not sneaking. Leaving.”
His eyes cracked open, blue cutting through the dim room. He watched you button your shirt, smirk forming gradually. “Leaving what? Me? Don’t want another round?”
You glowered at him, fixing your appearance in front of the mirror. “Not everything revolves around you.”
He sat up, hair disheveled, bare chest stretching languidly. “Funny, because last night, it kinda did.”
You hated the heat rising in your cheeks, hated him and his eye-catching body as he sat up, watching you get ready to leave the room. “You’re insufferable, Satoru.”
“Yet irresistible,” he countered, leaning back on his hands. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind being both for you.”
Number five, you couldn’t deny it wasn’t good, but it was a mistake that you might not be able to redo anymore.
Training resumed that afternoon. The school grounds hung with energy, cursed to be more specific. Students sparring, sorcerers overseeing—but for you, the noise faded into static. Because Gojo was watching. Always watching. And he wasn’t subtle.
“Focus,” you snapped at him during drills, throwing a kick. “This is serious.”
“Relax,” he teased, dodging your strike with infuriating ease. “I am focused. Just not on what you think.”
“Then maybe you should try harder.” You feinted, pushed harder, cursed under your breath when he blocked without effort.
Gojo laughed, throwing you around until you were nearly breathless. “I love it when you’re mad. You should be angrier at me in bed, hah. Did we, y’know… in any other itineraries?"
He gestured his hands in motions you were too irritated to comprehend. You stiffened at the mention of his words though. He’d never asked before—not directly. “Don’t.”
That only intrigued him more. “Don’t what? Talk about it? You’ve been hiding it for so long I’m starting to think it’s less of a technique and more of a secret.”
“Maybe it is.” You answered truthfully, but you felt unsure.
His smirk softened at the edges, stepping towards you, the wind blowing lightly by your side. “Then let me in. Show me.”
Your chest tightened and you tried to focus on the scenery, or rather tried to focus on anything but him. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” he stated. No teasing, no laughter—just challenge, threaded with something uncomfortably close to sincerity.
You turned around, walking away and towards the pile of missions awaiting you at your dorm desk. After the day spent between fighting curses and suffering through visions in your head, you sat on the stairs by the training grounds, the moon hanging low so a silver light reflected over cracked stones.
Gojo stood across from you, blindfold discarded, eyes glistening like twin stars. You raised your hands, cursed energy coiling at your fingertips, as you got ready to show him your cursed techniques. “Careful,” you warned. “It’s not pretty.”
“Neither am I, when I’m serious.”
You closed your eyes, letting the energy surge. When you released it, the world warped—the space between you and him twisting, distorting. Shadows bled from the edges, absorbing sound, absorbing light. For a heartbeat, everything was silence and stillness, an endless abyss that repeated the depths of what you carried.
Gojo didn’t flinch. He came forward, walking through the distortion until he was close enough to touch. His hand found yours, steady despite the chaos. “Beautiful,” he whispered.
You pulled your hand back, breaking the technique. The night rushed in, loud and heavy. “Don’t say that.”
“But it is.” His gaze held yours, unwavering. “It’s terrifying, sure. But so is love.”
You swallowed with every drop of spit left in your dried throat. “This isn’t love.”
“Not yet,” he admitted, grin returning like a shield. “But maybe in another itinerary, it already is.”
The words twisted in your chest. Alternate itinerary. Other possibilities. Could there be a version of you—untouched by curses, untouched by war—where Gojo Satoru wasn’t your enemy but something else entirely? The thought haunted you. You hated that part of you wanted him to reach again. But then, you think of all the things you’ve seen, reminding you of how impossible this was.
The visions come sharper now. It strikes like the eye of a storm, jolts of possibility that seize you mid-step, mid-breath. Today, you had already seen the battlefield, bodies sprawled in the dirt, Gojo’s laugh echoing as he bleeds. Another prevalent itinerary was a rather warm one, absurdly domestic, his sunglasses on your nightstand, his long limbs sprawled across sheets that feel like home, just like this morning.
And sometimes it’s darker, stranger—versions where you’re fighting each other, your cursed energy at his throat, his cursed technique poised to erase you. This was all the doing of your cursed technique, emphasis on cursed. You thought you had control. You don’t. And lately, every vision involves him.
“You keep zoning out on me,” Gojo drawls, arms crossed as he leans his body towards the right, slightly slouching. “I know I’m distracting, but come on. At least pretend to focus.”
You snap out of your thoughts, retorting back. “I am focusing.”
“On me? Or on something else?” His smirk is sharp, knowing. “Every time your eyes glaze, I can tell you’re somewhere else. And if it’s not because you’re imagining me shirtless, then…”
“Gojo,” you deadpan, glowering. “Shut up.”
He steps closer, grin widening. “So what is it? Another vision?”
You don’t answer. How could you? You weren’t about to tell him all the moments you’ve seen where he’s gone. “Thought so. Care to share?” He murmurs.
You look away. “It’s none of your business.”
“Correction,” he says, sitting down by you, his legs stretched out with his hand resting around your shoulders. “I am your business. And if your fancy technique keeps showing me off in other itineraries, then I have the right to know whether I look good in them.”
You push his hand away, pulse quickening. “Not all of them are good.”
For once, his smirk falters, reminding you of previous conversations similar to this. Just slightly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” you say tightly, “sometimes you’re dead. Sometimes I’m dead. Sometimes we’re—” You bite off the words, unwilling to give them life.
His eyes gleam, sensing the omission. “Sometimes we’re what? Married? Rivals? Lovers?”
“Enemies,” you bite out.
He tilts his head, considering. And then, infuriatingly. “Hot.”
The argument spirals when you’re walking back across the darkened campus. He won’t let it go, prodding at the visions like a child poking a bruise. “So tell me,” Gojo says, hands tucked in his pockets, “in all those other itineraries, do we ever… you know.” He wiggles his brows. “Kiss, touch, the whole nine yards like last night?”
You scowl at him. “Unbelievable.”
“And sexy. Don’t forget that part.”
You stop walking. The night air is cool, cicadas humming. “You don’t get it, Gojo. It’s not funny. These visions—they’re real. Or real enough. Futures we might stumble into. And they’re never the same. In some, you’re the reason I die.”
The smile fades from his face. His eyes, uncovered, are impossibly blue in the dark. “And in others?”
You hesitate. “In others, you’re the reason I live.”
For once, he has no comeback. The silence between you stretches, taut with something you can’t name. You begin to walk away, towards the safety of your dorm. You try to shake it off. You press your hands against your eyes, chasing away the remnants of another flash—Gojo’s hand reaching for you, blood staining his clothes, the sound of your own voice screaming his name. But it’s impossible to separate yourself from him now. The technique won’t let you.
And then there’s a knock, a few minutes after you had entered.
You open the door to find him there, leaning against the frame with that maddening ease. “Can’t sleep either?”
“Go away. You know yesterday shouldn’t have happened.”
“Yeah right.”
He steps inside without waiting for permission. You’re too tired to stop him. He sprawls across your chair like it belongs to him, sunglasses dangling from his fingers.
“So. Want to tell me what you saw this time?”
You shake your head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You know me. I’ll understand.”
Your throat is dry. “I saw you dying again.”
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, he murmurs. “That’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Because I don’t lose.”
You laugh, bitter. “Not even against fate?”
He leans forward, grin returned but softer now. “If fate wants to take me, it’ll have to get through you first. Right?”
You reply quickly enough, turning away. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I always keep my promises,” he says, and suddenly he’s closer, close enough that the warmth of him burns through the air between you. “Especially to you.”
You should shove him away. You should argue again, tell him the visions prove that nothing lasts. But instead, you find yourself whispering, “And what about the ones where we could never be together?”
His eyes darken, hungry. “Then I guess I’d still want you. Even if you wanted to kill me.”
His hand brushes yours—innocent, almost—before sliding higher, testing. You don’t pull away. You can’t. Every version of the future screams at you, colliding here, in this moment.
His lips find yours, just like last time, slow at first, then insistent when you don’t resist. The kiss tastes of defiance and inevitability all at once. You clutch at his shirt, cursing yourself even as you melt against him.
“Still think fate’s stronger than this?” he murmurs against your mouth.
You hate that you don’t have an answer. You hate that you want him anyway. And when his hands slip under your shirt, when your breath hitches and you pull him closer instead of pushing him away, you realize that maybe, just maybe, every itinerary was leading here all along.
Light burns behind your eyes, another flash of futures meeting. Gojo’s laughter, his touch, your voices raised in battle and in bed alike. You don’t know which is true, which you’ll become. But for now, in this moment, you let yourself want.
And he takes full advantage.
Notes:
I MAY discontinue I thought of another idea to write
Chapter Text
The thin veil of dawn presses through the curtains, a washed-out pale glow that makes your room look less like a place for rest and more like a faded photograph. Beside you, Gojo shifts, and the whole fragile stillness collapses into awareness.
He’s half sitting half laying out in the chair he refused to give up last night, blindfold perched precariously on his hair like a headband. He looks both ridiculous and powerful, even in sleep. It infuriates you that he can be like this—unguarded, comfortable—as though nothing can touch him.
Maybe nothing can. Except you, you thought, as the memories crawled back into your sense of mind.
You kissed, again. Though this time, he didn’t go further, which upset you more than it should’ve. Gojo pulled back just as quick as he went to your lips, the fleeting touch leaving you starved and practically whiny. But, he had told you that today was important, and no distractions could be risked, so he just winked and went straight to sleep before you could question him more.
You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. And it begins again, flashes. A ripple of fractured visions, one after another—most of them ending in explosions of cursed energy, some with you standing alone, some with the faint afterimage of Gojo’s silhouette falling. You swallow the dread before it climbs too high.
“Staring at me again?” His voice cracks the silence, lazy, smug. He doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn't need to, but the curve of his mouth makes it clear he knows, and that enough is to make you glower.
“Hardly, you mutter, swinging your legs off the bed. “I was staring at the ceiling. Much more interesting.”
Gojo cracks an eye open, ocean-blue gaze glinting with amusement. “Sure. I’d rather be compared to dust than gods anyway. More humble.”
You roll your eyes. “You’ve never been humble.”
He stands up, towering over you by so much that it’s unsettling. He grins before he speaks, so you know whatever he’s about to say will piss you off. “Your room is kind of lame… it’s atrocious to spend all my time here. You should come to mine.”
You scoff, looking around your room. “What are you talking about?” You grit through your teeth, ready to hit him.
He teases, pushing your buttons. “You’re so pissy about it, cause your room is smelly and cheap, like a cursed ghost lives here.”
“The only unwanted cursed entity in my room, I’m looking at.” You deadpan, staring with a grimace on your face as you throw on a jacket, leaving him there.
There’s a mission today. The higher-ups had been vague, as usual. A surge of cursed energy on the outskirts of a rural town, unusual patterns, needs immediate attention. It should be routine, but the problem with your technique is that you already know it won’t be. Not with the way the itineraries shake, multiply, contradict.
And not with the strange constant: yourself.
By the time you’re in the car, the sun has sharpened into a dagger that hangs off the hood of the car. Gojo insists on driving, despite Ijichi and the fact that you’re fairly sure he treats traffic laws as polite suggestions. You grip the handle of the door more than once as he weaves through lanes, humming off-key to some old pop song.
“You know, statistically speaking,” you state as you’re shoved towards your car door by gravity when Gojo swerves. “We're more likely to die in a car crash than by a curse.”
He smirks, wide and aggravatingly. “Good thing statistics don’t apply to me.”
“Arrogant.”
“Hateful.”
You don’t answer, because arguing with him is like arguing with the gravity that has you breathless in your seat: endless, pointless, but secretly addictive.
When you arrive, the air already feels wrong. The scene in front of you is quiet, abandoned, the kind of silence that shudders in your bones. You glance at Gojo. His easy grin hasn’t faltered, but his hands are in his pockets now—relaxed on the outside, armed underneath.
Your technique ripples again. Futures open, stutter, collapse. One version of the street ahead is empty. Another is lined with blood. And in another—you.
Standing there, at the end of the street, is… yourself. Not quite the same. This version’s eyes are sharper, harder, and her clothes are stained with something dark. She tilts her head, studying you with a curiosity that feels like a blade.
Your eyes widen, eyebrows furrowing at the sight, astounding you as you turn to Gojo. “That is disturbing.”
“Well,” Gojo says lightly. “This is new. Did you forget to mention you had a twin?”
“What? You can see… me too?” You stumble, taken aback from his awareness of the visible itinerary before you.
He laughs and you can kind of tell he’s squinting his eyes, attention turned in front of him towards the girl. “This is so uncanny, y’know that?”
“Shut up.” Your voice comes out harsher than intended. “That’s not—”
“Not what?” he prompts, a smile twitching like he can’t help it, even now.
“Not real.” But you’re not sure if you believe it. Your technique has shown you thousands of versions of yourself, all flickering possibilities—but never one stepping into your reality. Never one looking back at you.
The other you smiles then. It’s an unsettling thing, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, the raise of lips you’ve never seen before. She takes a step closer.
“Finally,” she says. Her voice is yours. Colder. “I was wondering when you’d stop hiding.”
Gojo whistles under his breath. “I like her already.”
You scowl at him, heat rushing up your neck. “This isn’t funny.”
“Didn’t say it was. Just saying—if I had to pick between you and Evil-You, she’s got a certain… edge.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Yeah right.”
The confrontation twists as fast as it started. Evil-You—alternate-you—doesn’t attack, not immediately. She circles, questions, mocks. And with each word, you feel the pressure of fractured itineraries grinding at the perimeter of your skull. She’s a branch that shouldn’t have touched this world, and yet here she is, flesh and voice and danger.
Evil-You’s interest seems to be to get you riled up than kill you or something, you thought, as she derides you again. “You don't belong here. You're not enough for the sorcerer world, even though you know that you’ll die soon enough.”
You internally debate on intentionally ignoring her just to stay sane. Gojo stays close, annoyingly calm. Every so often he leans down to murmur in your ear—useless commentary, mostly, meant to irritate you. It works.
“If you fight yourself and lose, does that technically mean you still win?”
“Gojo.”
“Or does it cancel out and I get to claim victory for both?”
“I will shove you into traffic.”
“You’d miss me too much. Also, it’s Satoru.”
The alternate-you finally moves, sudden and unrelenting. You barely have time to react before Gojo’s hand reaches around your wrist, dragging you back, Infinity shielding invisibly between you and the attack. It should make you feel safe. Instead, it makes you burn.
Because he’s right there, close enough for you to scent musk and amaretto accents and something underneath, and even as another version of yourself tries to cut you down, all you can think about is him. His hand, his strength, the ease with which he always positions himself between you and danger.
You hate him for it. You need him for it. Both truths intertwine together until you can’t tell which hurts deeper.
The fight hauls you along. Alternate-you isn’t like a curse—she knows your moves, your weaknesses, your doubts. Every time you lash out with your techniques, she counters with one step ahead, like she’s seen the same futures you have. Maybe she has.
And Gojo—Gojo is laughing through it. Not cruelly, but ecstatic, like this is the most entertaining thing that’s ever happened to him. He taunts both of you, slips between blows, shields when needed, but mostly watches. Testing you. Waiting.
When you finally land a strike, it feels less like victory and more like inevitability. The alternate-you staggers back, grins through the blood on her mouth, and fades into smoke unraveling.
You’re left gasping in the middle of the street, sweat dripping down your spine, the taste of iron in your mouth.
“Hey.” Gojo casually paces to you, leaning down to observe your fatigued stance. “Still you, right? Not the evil-you?”
“Unfortunately,” you pant.
He grins. “Good. I like this version better.”
Your cheeks flush hot. You shove past him, muttering, “Let’s just get back.”
But when his fingers brush your hand as you walk, you don’t pull away. Not immediately. And that tiny contact—the heat of it—feels like the most dangerous possibility of all.
Later, at a nearby motel nearly identical to your previous one, everything’s silent. Not comfortable. Not hostile. Something jagged and unspoken. You sit on the edge of the bed, hair damp from a rushed shower, staring at your hands like they’ll hold answers.
Gojo watches you from the hallway, face unreadable for once. “You gonna tell me what that was?” he asks finally.
You lift your head. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Not even a little.”
You exhale, leaning to the headboard of the bed, staring at the cracked and stained ceiling. “It was me. Or a version of me. Apart of an itinerary that wasn’t supposed to touch this one.”
He steps inside, slow. “So your technique isn’t just seeing possibilities. Sometimes they bled over.”
“Apparently.”
He hums thoughtfully, then crosses the room to sit beside you. Too close. Always too close. His shoulder brushes yours, and you can’t think of any words to represent the tension of his touch.
“So somewhere out there, there’s a version of you that’s evil. Dangerous. Deadly.” He tilts his head, grinning again. “Kinda hot, actually.”
You choke. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe.” He leans in, voice low. “But I like this you. The one who’s mad at me. The one who thinks she hates me.”
Your pulse is unsteady inside you when you mumble back. “I don’t think—I do.”
“Sure.” He shakes his blindfold off, his hair messy in front of his crystalline, clear eyes. You hoped that your feelings could be that clear soon. “Keep telling yourself that.”
And then he kisses you. He’s holding back, though the kiss is relatively rough and claiming, as though daring you to fight back. And you do, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screams at you to do the opposite and push him further.
When it breaks, you’re both stifled, staring, the weight of it pressing down like the inevitability of every future you’ve ever seen.
Gojo smirks, his arms caging around you. “Knew you’d come around.”
You let yourself fall on the bed and turn away from him, pouting when you lose yourself to sleep. You can’t help but think, did the alternate-you really come here to kill you? Was it because something was going wrong and you had to be stopped? Could it be your evolving relation with Gojo?
Notes:
I'm considering adding the students in the story to be funnier
Chapter Text
The unwanted alarm clock that you jolted up to was the sound of none other than Gojo. It takes you a second to register where you are, and another to realize that he is lying next to you, an arm wrapped around your waist, his head buried by your shoulder. His sunglasses are dangling precariously from his nose, and he’s tilted toward you in a way that makes him look stupid.
He’s lounged across the bed as if he owns it, so you had to shift a little, testing how to escape without waking him, but his voice—lazy and amused—cuts through the silence.
“Why are you always running away? And here I thought we were bonding.”
You roll your eyes. “You were drooling and woke me up. That’s not bonding.”
His grin spreads, eyes still closed. “You watched me drool? Hah, can’t get enough of me, huh?”
You grab a pillow and shove it at his chest, but he just chuckles, muffled by the cotton. His laugh is obnoxiously low for this hour of the morning.
“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite behind it.
When you finally manage to slide out of bed, his voice follows you. “Don’t forget—we’re supposed to head back to the school today. You know, that place where you hide behind papers and pretend not to like me.”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “I don’t pretend.”
“Uh-huh. Denial. Classic.”
By the time you both check out of the motel, Gojo is humming under his breath. The walk toward the car is made up of you consistently crossing your arms and retorting back at whatever idiotic thing he says.
“You exaggerate everything,” you tell him flatly.
“Me? Exaggerate? Never. I’m a man of honesty and dignity.” He says while balancing on the edge of the curb like a five-year-old.
You snort. “Dignity? You nearly tripped over your own feet just now.”
“That was choreography. You wouldn’t understand.”
Despite yourself, you laugh—an actual, out-loud laugh. It surprises you as much as it seems to captivate him. His head swivels toward you, grin wide. “Ohhh, there it is. You do have a sense of humor. I knew it.”
“Don’t push it,” you warn.
“Too late. I swear to make you laugh every day. Consider yourself cursed.”
On the road, Gojo drives again, and you rest your head back to just watch the surroundings go by. The itineraries flicker faintly at the edges of your vision—brief, sharp glimpses of alternate futures where he’s silent, or absent entirely—but you push them aside. For now, in this moment, he’s here. With you.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Gojo says suddenly.
You blink. “What thing?”
“The thousand-yard stare. Like you’re zoning out on me.” His tone is heavier than the words deserve, but you feel the weight beneath it.
“It’s nothing,” you dismiss quickly.
“Liar,” he replies without hesitation, but doesn’t press. Instead, he stretches his hand across the car until it lands on your thigh. “Fine, don’t tell me. But at least don’t sit there brooding. You’re bummin’ out my whole area.”
“Shut up.”
When you finally get back to the school, the sun is low on the horizon, covering the campus in gold. The grounds look almost strange after your time away, like stepping back into a dream you’d half-forgotten.
Gojo immediately ruins the serenity by throwing his arms wide and announcing loudly. “Home sweet prison.”
You stifle a laugh. “Embarrassing.”
“Hah, I know you think I’m funny.” He winks at you, then strides a few steps ahead, turning backward to face you as he walks. “Admit it.”
“In your dreams.”
“You know it.”
He walks you to the outer stone steps of the training field, where you sit down. You’re unsure of how the two of you came to find this place to hang out together, but you can’t say that you don’t like it. He’s silent now, stretched back on the grass, sunglasses tilted up on his forehead. You lie beside him.
“You know,” he says softly, “you really did laugh today. Like, a real one. Not just the annoyed thing.”
You turn your head toward him, wary. “So?”
“So… I liked it.” His smile is smaller than usual, but more genuine. “You should do it more often. Suits you.”
For a moment, you don’t reply. The flashes of itineraries push at your vision again—versions of this moment where you don’t answer, where you get up and leave, where you push him away. But in this one, you stay. Because you want to.
You let yourself laugh again, soft and reluctant. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.” he echoes, grin spreading again, wide enough to make you want to smile too.
Minutes later, the sun drapes into the hills, long shadows stretching across the field. “Walk with me,” he whispers to you. Not a command, but close enough.
You consider refusing—just to spite him—but something in his tone is different, so sit up and rise to fall into step beside him. You don’t head toward the dorms immediately. Instead, you wander the long lap around the courtyard, his hands shoved in his pockets, your arms crossed tightly.
“Your technique,” he starts. “It’s changing. I saw it yesterday when you fought, well, yourself.”
You stiffen, remembering the unnerving interaction of alternate-you. “It’s evolving. That’s normal.”
“It’s not just normal. You’re… leaning further in. Letting it pull harder. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it.”
His concern is infuriating, probably because it’s real. He masks it with his grin, his lazy attitude, but beneath it is something steady, heavy, and you hate how your chest tightens in answer.
“I can handle it.”
“Yeah?” He turns his head, smirk edged but eyes subdued. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like it’s handling you.”
You stop walking. He takes two more steps before he realizes, then halts, facing you. The tension is thick enough to choke on.
“Don’t act like you understand my curse,” you murmur. “You don’t.”
“No,” he admits, which isn’t what you thought he’d say. “But I understand what it’s like to be crushed by something you never asked for.”
Then, the world hums only with cicadas and distant wind. You hate that you understand him too well. You fought yourself in your head when you spoke again. “Would you want to train me? Or… with me? I could learn something.”
Gojo doesn’t look taken aback, but he looks like he’s seriously debating before he teases you. “You wanna spend more time with me? You could just ask, y’know. But I’ll be your mentor.”
You’re somewhat relieved, nodding your head down and murmuring a thanks as quietly as you could, trying to prevent extending his ego. He chuckles and leans in. “Don’t thank me yet, I’m not gonna make it easy, I mean, truth is you learn best when you’re a little pissed off.”
Your eyebrows tighten, rolling your eyes in annoyance. “Do I? Or are you just trying to get me to give you permission to be an ass?”
He feigns a devastated expression, rolling his shoulders as he walks away, just to look back and reply. “Well if that’s your attitude then you don’t need my help.”
You rush towards him, brushing past his arm with pleading hands. “No I need it, I do, or do I?”
You’re thinking over your decision when Gojo smirks. You pull away, glowering. “I don’t like that smile.”
He shrugs and by the time you reach the dorms, the sky has deepened to black. Students are inside, the hallways muted. You pause at your door, hesitating. Gojo lingers too, shifting his body like he hasn’t decided whether or not to leave you alone.
“Do you want to come in?” The words slip before you can weigh them.
He pauses, then grins slow, dangerous. “Careful. That sounds like an invitation.”
“It’s for talking,” you snap, heat rushing to your face. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Me? Never.”
Still, he follows you in, glancing around before catching your eyes. “So,” he says with too much ease, like he isn’t breaking every boundary. “You still see me die?”
You narrow your gaze. “Yes. It’s literally my technique.”
His grin grows wolfish. “Do I survive in any ?”
You open your mouth, just to shut it. He observes you, seeing too much, and for a heartbeat it feels like the world’s hanging towards something dangerous—toward the pull you’ve been resisting since the first conversation.
Then he pushes back, suddenly, standing with a hesitated sigh. “Not tonight.”
You blink, startled. “What?”
“Whatever this is.” He waves a vague hand between you, though his jaw tightens. “If I stay, I’ll cross a line. And you’ll hate me for it tomorrow. I know you think we’re a mistake.”
You scoff, masking the strange stab in your chest. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He smirks, but it doesn’t even mean anything. He walks past you, and even though you don’t see his face again, his voice speaks one last time. “I don’t need to.”
And just like that, he’s at the door, slipping his sunglasses back on even in the dim light, leaving you with the fading words—and the strange ache of wanting him to have stayed.
Your eyes stay on the door, wondering if Gojo was still on the other side, feeling the way you did. Without another thought, you sprinted to the door, throwing it open, but no one was there. The hallway’s absence of the person, which you had hoped had been waiting for you, was clear.
Shutting the door, you retreat back to your head of thoughts on what just happened. The silence after he left was unbearable.
You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the ground he had just walked on. YOu didn’t even hear him leave when you got in the hallway. The air still carried the cordiality of his presence, yet it felt impossibly cold without him. It wasn’t rejection, not exactly—more like uncertainty, a wall you hadn’t expected him to build so abruptly. The worst part was that you knew what he referred to.
You pressed your palms against your face. “Idiot,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you meant him or yourself.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled you under, though it was restless. Your dreams were fractured things, laced with slivers of your cursed technique. You slipped through flashes of alternate itineraries as though your subconscious couldn’t hold them back.
You woke with a scream lodged in your throat, chest heaving, tears soaking your pillow. The room was dark, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with ghosts of itineraries you’d never lived, yet somehow held inside you. Your body trembled violently, fear eating through you. You clutched at the sheets, but they offered no comfort, only more proof that you were alone.
And then you felt it—the instant cursed energy outside your door. A heartbeat later, he was there.
Gojo didn’t knock. He never did. The door opened and he stepped inside, hair and clothes creased, a random blindfold pushed askew on his head as though he had left in too much of a rush to adjust it. His usual grin wasn’t there. Instead, his eyes searched for you instantly, and when they found you trembling on the bed, something sharp spread across his face.
“Hey,” he said, but his voice wasn’t teasing. It was steady, almost horrifyingly still. “Breathe.”
You shook your head, tears coming into your vision. “I can’t—”
He was beside you in an instant, not teleporting this time, but crossing the distance like it didn’t exist. His hands hovered for a second, as though unsure if you’d want him to touch you, then settled vigorously on your waist. Amiable. Grounding.
“You’re here,” he murmured. “This itinerary. Right here, with me. Look at me.”
Your eyes met his, and the fights of broken realities slowed. He was real. He was by your side. He was the only anchor you had.
“Gojo…” Your voice cracked, unassertive and shivering, nothing like the sorcerer you pretended to be in every day.
His arms wrapped around you then, pulling you against his chest, and for a terrifying, overwhelming moment, you believed he could shield you from everything—even your own cursed technique.
“Satoru. Call me Satoru, okay? I’m sorry,” he hushed into your hair. The words were raw, not his usual brand of arrogance. “I shouldn’t have left.”
You clutched at the fabric of his shirt, afraid that if you let go, another version of you—another itinerary—would take him away. “You always leave.”
That made him flinch. Just barely, but enough that you felt it.
“Not this time,” he said. His hand rubbed your lower back. “I’m staying. No more walls. No more walking away.”
The night pressed close around you both, and slowly, your tears ended, though your body still wavered. Gojo didn’t let go. He kept you tucked against him, murmuring nonsense occasionally—half reassurances, half absurd comments, clearly meant to make you laugh. At some point, he whispered, “You wanna guess how many meat buns I can stuff in my mouth?” which made you hiccup through your tears.
“Gag,” you feigned a disgusted expression, muffled against his chest.
But you were smiling. Just a little.
And Gojo—he felt it. His chest reverberated with a laugh, candid, as though he didn’t want to break the fragile truce settling between you.
The hours passed, but for once, you didn’t fall back into collapsed foresights. With him there, solid and real, the itineraries seemed to quiet, as though even they recognized that this was the one that mattered.
Notes:
Rookie references because CHENFORD
Chapter 10: 21/11/18
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The mission briefing felt more like a half-scripted comedy sketch than an actual call to action. You sat at the edge of the table, chin propped on your hand, trying not to yawn while the higher-ups droned on about cursed spirits appearing near a derelict industrial district. The words "high-risk" and "potential casualties" were repeated so many times you could literally hear them echoing in your skull. But you’d been through worse. At least, you thought you had.
Gojo leaned against the wall behind the seat you sat on, blindfold in place but posture so casual it was a miracle the elders didn’t combust from annoyance. He tapped his finger against the wall in some rhythm only he understood. You didn’t need to look at him to know he was grinning.
You had woken him up this morning when you suddenly remembered the meeting, shaking him awake before you hurriedly changed right in front of him. At least he hasn’t commented on it yet.
“Try not to look too excited,” you muttered without turning, voice dripping mockery.
“Can’t help it,” he replied, loud enough for at least three officials to hear. “Nothing gets my blood pumping like outdated powerpoints and listening to the world’s oldest sorcerers."
You scoffed, earning yourself stern eyes from across the table. It was worth it.
The briefing ended at last, and soon you found yourself standing at the edge of the ruined district, the stench of rust and mold clogging the air. The cursed energy here was thick, sticky, crawling under your skin like it wanted to sink into your bones. You hated this kind of place. Too many dangers, too many itineraries whispering at once.
Gojo rolled his shoulders, the very image of nonchalance. “Nothing like a little urban decay to start the day. Almost feels like home.”
“Your taste in home décor is disturbing,” you retorted, checking the corner of your blade you found at the school.
“I know, that’s why I’m always in your room,” he said, confident as ever.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m kicking you out. You’re not allowed in anymore.”
“Are you mad cause you were accidentally naked today?” He teased the word like it was the punchline to a joke only he found funny.
The first cursed spirit appeared before you could argue further. A hulking thing with too many mouths and not nearly enough brain. You moved fast, slicing through its shadowy mass, the technique rushing almost effortlessly through you. But as soon as it dissolved, another ripple hit your senses. And then another. And another.
“Damn,” you murmured.
Gojo tilted his head, already rocking on his feet inadvertently. “You wanted me to train you? Show me what you got.”
You wanted to retort back, but the itineraries were already flashing. They pressed in, overlapping, threatening to drown you in images of what could happen. You saw yourself bleeding out on the concrete. You saw Gojo broken in a way that turned your stomach. You saw both of you walking away without a scratch. The collapse of possibilities was blinding.
You fought the cursed technique to pressure it under control. But you faltered.
One second, you were dodging claws from the curse mutations. The next, you weren’t in the district anymore—you were laying on a hospital bed, chest torn open, lungs filling with blood. You blinked and you were back, heart hammering, sweat pouring down your spine.
Gojo’s voice cut through the debris. “Hey. Stay with me.”
You tried. God, you tried . But then it happened.
The curse struck, sharper and faster than you expected, and for a horrifying moment you didn’t move quickly enough. Pain seared your side and you stumbled back, vision blurring. The world tilted. You could feel your cursed energy breaking, tearing at the seams.
Gojo’s presence fired somewhere in the distance, but he was too far, locked in combat with another horde of spirits. He was calling your name, but you couldn’t answer. You hit the ground hard, choking on air that wouldn’t fill your lungs.
This was it. This was one of those futures you’d seen, the ones you thought you could change.
Did you die? It really felt like it.
You woke up hours later, wrapped in bandages, the faint antiseptic sting of Shoko’s basement hospital stinging your senses. The ceiling was cracked, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. And Gojo was sitting beside the cot, blindfold hanging loose around his fingers, face pale. He wasn’t smiling. Not really. It was the kind of expression that told you he’d been seconds too late.
Your sight landed on him, clutching a magazine while he tapped his foot restlessly, only pausing when he saw your eyes open. “Hey,” he whispered. “Thought you ditched me there for a sec.”
Your throat was dry. “You weren’t fast enough.”
He flinched. Just slightly, but enough for you to catch it. “Yeah. I know.”
You turned your head away, ashamed at how raw your voice sounded. “I saw this. I saw it happening. I thought I could stop it.”
“Don’t.” His tone was strengthened now. “Don’t do that. Don’t carry the whole weight of every version of you. You’re not supposed to fix everything.”
You wanted to argue, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you told him. “It felt so real. Like I was already dead.”
He leaned closer, his presence covering the space around you like it always did, impossibly steady. “But you’re not. You’re here. And I’m here. And I’m not letting anything take you away. Got it?”
You nodded, just enough to not strain all the broken bones you physically felt. Glancing at the colored newspapers he was reading, you murmured. “What are you reading, Teen Rebel?”
He stood up and walked to it down on your bed, showing you the papers. “They actually have some pretty insightful political articles.”
You shook your head, holding back a laugh when you read the headline. “Mm-hmm. Oh. Which member is your BTS soulmate?” It’s gotta be Suga, right?”
He looked at you, leaning down to hold you closer to him, his arms wrapped around your waist. You instinctively held him back through his neck. He mumbled breathily into your collarbone. “Yeah, totally. What's a BTS?”
You laughed, really laughed. Letting your head fall back against the thin pillow, Gojo fell too. The fear still clung to your ribs, ice-cold and merciless, but his voice made it a little easier to breathe.
For now, that was enough.
He was next to you, close to you, the only thing that really mattered to you.
The world outside was still, the static of the hospital dulled into background noise, and the only thing you could hear was Gojo’s even breathing beside you. For once, the strongest sorcerer in the world wasn’t bouncing off the walls with reckless energy—he was asleep, stretched out in the bed you had reluctantly given him space in, head shifted just slightly in your direction. Night had come quickly, silence pulling down the energy and conversation.
You should have closed your eyes, mirrored his peace, but instead you lay there staring at him. Something about the sight was disarming. The Gojo you knew was loud, cocky, relentless with his teasing. But now? He looked human. Subdued. Like the man beneath the arrogance wasn’t untouchable after all.
After some time, exhaustion won, and you drifted off too, carried by the strange contentment of him .
It was just past midnight when you woke again. Not to pain, not to nightmares, but to something else—an ache buried deeper than your wounds. A pull you didn’t want to concede, one that made your pulse rush as your eyes drifted instinctively to the man beside you.
Gojo had shifted, now half-slumped against the mattress, his arm draped protectively across your legs as though even in sleep he couldn’t let go. The absurdity of it should’ve made you laugh, but instead heat crawled up your neck. Because suddenly, in the dim light, the closeness between you felt unbearable.
You swallowed hard and adjusted your position slightly, testing the limits of your own restraint. His arm tightened reflexively, anchoring you down, his fingers brushing against your hip in a way that felt anything but accidental—even if it was. Your breath caught.
“Gojo…” The whisper escaped before you could stop it. His name felt dangerous on your tongue, charged in the dark.
He stirred immediately, lids fluttering open to reveal those startling blue eyes, unfocused at first before honing directly on you. A lazy grin tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes yet. “It’s Satoru… you awake already? Don’t tell me you’re ditching dreamland just to stare at me.”
You held back a laugh, and it ran through anyway—too sharp, too nervous. Because under all his usual nonsense, his gaze lingered on you in a way that stripped your defenses raw.
Silence settled between you, heavier than before. Gojo tilted his head, still watching. Then his voice dropped low, low in a way that made your stomach turn inside out. “You okay?”
You nodded, though the tightness in your chest said otherwise. “I just… couldn’t sleep.”
“Mm.” He leaned in closer, close enough that his breath ghosted against your temple, teasing but tender. His hand slid from your hip to lace with your fingers, and suddenly the silent room felt burning.
Desire. Unmistakable, sharp, and terrifying. You’d pushed it down for days after the first incident, buried it beneath banter and stubborn pride, but now it was there—unavoidable, thrumming beneath your skin as Gojo brushed his fingers over your knuckles like you were something fragile.
Your pulse betrayed you, quick and loud in the stillness. He noticed, his attention all on you.
“Careful,” he murmured, that grin changing into something dangerously vicious. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might think you actually like having me around.”
You exhaled shakily, trying to summon a retort. But words refused you, your thoughts incoherent and not responding from the tension.
Everything paused, your breath, your moves, your blinks, until you finally whispered, “Maybe I do.”
His hand stilled, fingers covering around yours more harshly, like anchoring himself. He leaned down, forehead brushing yours, voice just above a whisper. “Don’t run from it.”
He lunged for your neck, the vulnerable part that made you shake when he sunk his teeth in. When his hand ghosted over your waist, your body arched involuntarily toward him. His tongue swiped up, pulling you into a kiss. You felt his smirk against your mouth, but he didn’t joke. Not this time. Instead, his fingers slid lower, brushing over your thigh beneath the thin hospital blanket. You gasped, clutching at his uniform, and he chuckled low in his throat, hoarse. “Sensitive, huh?”
“Shit—” you tried, but the protest broke on a sharp inhale when his hand slipped under the edge of your shorts, fingertips tracing circles on the inside of your thigh.
“Relax,” he murmured, lips caressing your ear. “Let me take care of you.”
Your legs parted before you even realized, and his fingers slid higher, teasing along the edge of your underwear before slipping beneath. The first brush of his touch made you choke out a sound you hadn’t meant to, and he swallowed it with another kiss, deep and consuming.
His fingers moved slowly at first, deliberate, coaxing. He teased right inside you, nails massaging your walls. You clung to him, hiding your gasps against his shoulder as he worked you open with patience that bordered on torturous. The room was too quiet, every breath and stifled moan echoing in your ears, and it only heightened the secret intimacy of it all.
“Pretty,” he whispered against your skin when your hips bucked toward his hand. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”
Heat built fast, curling in your stomach, pulling you just under his steady, unrelenting touch. You buried your face against him, trembling, as the pressure grew unbearable. He pumped in and out evenly, your legs rubbing against his wrist. “Gojo—” you breathed, his name breaking into a prayer.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, quickening his pace just enough. His lips pressed to your temple, your cheek, your mouth again, grounding you as the pressure crashed. Your cry was silenced against his lips as release tore through you, leaving you shuddering in his arms.
He didn’t pull away immediately, instead holding you close, letting you ride the aftershocks while his fingers slowed, conciliating. When he finally drew back, his grin more subtle than you’d ever seen, eyes blazing with something that made your chest ache.
“Guess you really do like having me around,” he teased gently, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead.
You were too breathless to argue, too undone to deflect. So instead, you let yourself fall into him, your limbs intertwining with his steady body. He held your head and hips, breaths bridging into each other. Your heart ran at what felt like a hundred miles and hour, knowing that nothing between you could ever be the same again.
Notes:
I was gone for a bit but I'm BACK