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pampushky · 2 months ago

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his words so contrived

Alpha! Lando Norris/Omega! Lauda! Reader - chapter 3 - 4.9k

TW: no mention of abuser other than as him. mentions of abandonment and severe physical trauma in the form of a house fire. lore drop on the main character too!!

I'm back!! Bit of a jumpy chapter this time, getting some world building and establishing familial ties!

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Mid-September, 2007. Hof bei Salzburg, Österreich.

Niki, at the ripe age of 58, feels much too old to be going through raising a pup again. Yet here he is, carrying you in one arm while making scrambled eggs with his free hand, all while you’re half in your wolf form, half in your human. Your tail thumps against him as you whine, fuzzy ears flattened to your head when he once again hushes you, urging you to be patient.

“But I want ham!”

“We don’t have any, maus,” He can’t help but laugh, looking at your grumpy little face, and the sharp teeth that poke out from under your top lip. Your proper canines were coming in— the upper two already in and sharp. He’d really have to make sure you knew how to properly shift, sooner rather than later. And he’d definitely need to read up on what proper child-rearing looked like now, his boys had been born in the early 80’s, and, well, things had certainly changed since then. Especially given your circumstances.

If raising a normal child alone was hard, then raising a very traumatized and mildly disabled pup would be a whole other ball game. Niki didn’t even know where to start, even with all the books on modern child-rearing and trauma-informed parenting that Marlene had gotten for him. It was all new.

Point and case, it was now decidedly healthier to let pups figure out their forms on their own, and it was no longer… taboo, to have your children running around with their more animalistic traits on full display when running to the grocery store. Even when going to the track to watch a practice, or to listen to the Ferrari drivers rant, Niki isn’t shocked anymore to see how many drivers also have a set of wolffish ears or their tail out, aside from in the car. Hell, Nico had been prancing about as a wolf, yapping and howling happily when he’d seen you in the paddock. After some coaxing, you’d even come out of your shell a little bit to play with the other German. Once you’d met Lewis, though, it’d been all over. He was your hero, letting you cling to his back as he sauntered around the track in his big, lumbering canine appearance while Niki did his job.

Granted, you would be stared at regardless, especially with the mottled scars on your face and neck. Your scalp had, by some miracle, been mostly missed in the flames that had claimed your mother’s life. One of your fluffy ears was gone, a bumpy ridge of skin where your pale white fur should have shown through. Though your hair was growing back rather choppily, due to the emergency buzz cut the hospital had given you just a year before. It’s unfortunately, the only feature you don’t share with your mother, or Niki. It had been the same color as his sons— but now it’s near white. From the stress, according to your pediatrician.

Who, ironically, is also one of the reasons that you’re now legally, Niki’s pup. Clinging to him as he cooks breakfast. Altogether, he’s not doing too bad this time around when it comes to parenting. You’re picking up German quickly. You're advanced in many subjects, and the therapy (both physical and mental) is doing wonders for you.

“Eggs are for dummies,” you grumble, face against his shoulder as you glare at the pan, your good ear flattened against your head. “I don’t like eggs. S’not good meat.”

“That’s not true,” Niki sets you down, to look at you sternly for a second. “Eggs are full of protein. They’re good for you. Meat is protein. Eggs are like super meat. Now, do you want cheese or not?”

You squint at him suspiciously, not bothering to answer the question. “My other grandma said good wolves eat only meat.”

There it is again. Another mention of the oddities of your Dam’s pack. Very traditional it seems, teaching you about the proper place of each designation.

“Was your other grandma a race car driver, like I was?” Niki asks, and you tilt your head as if thinking, before then grinning at him as you shake a ‘no’ out. “Richtig. Eggs will help you grow into a big strong wolf, like Lewis or Micheal.” Niki sighs, and you immediately brighten, ears popping up in interest. You’re too much like Lukas and Mathias, both of them had a similar phase of only being able to partially shift. Perhaps your biological father had, too. But Niki pushes that down, and instead turns his attention to getting the eggs from the pan, hoping they haven’t burnt.

“Can we see them again? Will Lukas and Matt be there?” You start to squirm beside him, and he laughs, loud and happy. “Please please please—”

“I will call and ask,” Niki says, when the eggs are finally cooled enough that he feels safe enough to give them to you without you burning the roof of your mouth or tongue. “Eat these slowly, bitte meine maus—”

“Danke!” And you eat from the plate with a ravenous hunger and stare at him expectantly for more when you finish your eggs in minutes, one of your little fangs jutting out over your lower lip. You look at the empty plate, and then to him. “More?” And then a look of concentration settles on your face. “Mehr?”

“You need to eat slower,” Niki sighs, and crouches down to be on your level, ignoring how his knees pop, and the way you whine, little ears folding down as he looks at you. “I’ll always have food for you to eat.”

“But what if you don’t?” You whimper, and he pulls you into a hug, hating how your scent has lost the youthful, milky aroma a pup should have. You don’t smell at all like a pup your age should– your scent glands had been damaged by the flames of your mother’s home burning. Too mature, with only a hint of the milky smell associated with youth. You’re even having trouble picking up on the scents of others, needing to get much closer to them. Your therapist and pediatrician had recommended a service dog. Whenever you present, part of Niki is worried. Worried that you’ll think yourself inadequate of a much too harsh world for those who were injured and disabled.

“I promise, so long as you are my pup, I will make sure you will never want for food again.” Niki whispers, bending down to look you in the eyes. Ignoring how his knees pop and groan as he kneels beside you. Hands coming to cup your cheeks. “And you will always be my pup. No matter what anyone may say.”

Mid February, 2024. London, England.

Oscar lets out a low, appreciative whistle when he steps into your London flat. Logan is already there, helping you unpack while Mathias and Lewis argue about what music should be put on. Niki is ordering takeout and rolling his eyes over some vegan order Lewis insisted on making. And Lukas is very dramatically telling your new service dog, Eggroll, about how terrible his day has been. Holding her to his chest and walking around the living room. She perks up when she sees you, and lets out a loud bay, wanting to be closer to you.

When she is let down, she pads over to you happily, tail wagging and droopy ears lifted ever so slightly. Her claws click on the wood floors, and she bays again when she realizes someone else is with you, laying immediately with her nose in her paws, as if to express her disgust. Oscar holds out his hand while Lukas settles to rest his chin on top of your head, complaining about how you need to get better snacks if he’s expected to visit often. But Eggroll’s eyes are back on you, your devoted little lady following your every step as you make your way into the living room, Oscar behind you. The beagle then jumps onto the couch and lets out a dramatic sigh. She doesn’t need to work right now, not while you’re surrounded by those you consider your pack. So she rolls on her back, asking for belly rubs while looking up at you pitifully. Like she didn’t pull an entire pumpkin roll down from the counter that you’d baked last week.

“Nice place. A bit far, though,” Oscar says as he witnesses Mattias and Lewis start to wrestle on the floor while Logan just carefully sets a little nick-nack from the box he’s unpacking onto the window sill, admiring the little figurine.

“Not really. It’s like… half an hour?” The American approaches, leaning down just a bit to gently press his nose against Oscar’s, greeting his courting partner happily. “Plus, that’s nothing to how far people have to drive sometimes. The nearest Walmart—”

“So American of you to mention Walmart,” Lukas grumbles dramatically, but there’s a fondness in his tone as he pulls the skinny man in to ruffle his hair, earning a squawk of protest from Logan, before your older brother leaves to go lay beside the dog.

“Besides. I’d rather have a better work-life separation this time around,” your tone is dry, and for a moment, a flash of guilt crosses Logan’s face before it’s gone, replaced by a smirk.

“Holding onto your hatred for Lando isn’t a good work-life balance!” He says in a sing-song voice, and that makes not only Lewis temporarily stop wrestling with Mathias on the floor, but also makes Niki cover the receiver of the phone with one of his hands, looking at you in confusion. Your cheeks puff up, and without even saying anything, your two closest friends in the world are now badgering you about how consistently annoyed you still are with Lando Norris after just a week of working with him in preparation for Spring testing.

“He’s a brat,”

“And you aren’t?” Niki says dryly, which makes you puff up again, this time with your chest. Niki looks at you, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, the scar tissue scrunching slightly. “I spoiled you rotten, meine kleine Maus.”

“Favorite pup,” Mathias mutters, but it’s sweeter, his chin on top of your head like Lukas had done after he’s done getting up off of the floor, smugly glaring at Lewis from where he was nestled. “I mean, you behaved better than we did.”

“Not really,” Niki tuts, walking over to cuff one of Mathias’s ears, laughing as he sees the more wolf-like traits on her head. “You didn’t see her throwing a tantrum over not having ham.”

“Ham?” Logan tilts his head. “You threw a tantrum over ham?”

“I was like, six!”

“And you were the most adorable little thing in the world,” Niki sighs, shaking his head as he puts his chin in his hand, a small smile on his face. “So tiny. You would constantly want my attention. Kept hanging onto my legs whenever we were in public.”

“I remember those days,” Lewis says wistfully, as if remembering how you used to cling to him whenever Niki was off working at Ferrari before transferring to Mercedes when the team reformed. “I think I got a picture of that framed, somewhere. Where you were tugging on my ears during a break between free practices.”

“Ah! Yes, I did get that for you. When she was interning at Mercedes, under Bono,” Niki grins, and looks back at you, pride deep in his eyes. “My pups. All so talented. So smart. Look at you all now!”

Lukas, Mathias, and yourself don’t even have time to protest when he starts to babble in German over you, looking at the little trio in front of him fondly. Lukas looks like he wants to combust. Mathias is stone faced as usual, but the pink flush on his skin does little to hide his embarrassment, especially in front of so many people he considers pack.

“Sisi,” you whine, putting the heels of your palms into your eyes, groaning loudly in embarrassment as your pack starts to move around you, working to make the task of unpacking go quicker as everything settles back into place.

One more person joins the fray, with Nico Rosberg happily prancing into the flat just thirty minutes later. You go straight to pouting in his arms, and he just looks smugly at his mate. Niki goes back into the kitchen to help Mathias organize and clean everything on the countertops. Lukas has stocked the cupboards and cabinets.

“They’re horrible, I know, Nesthäkchen.” Nico coos, and you just curl further into him, sniffing quite dramatically as Lewis chuffs, hiding his laughter as he noses at his mate’s hairline. “So mean.”

But there is a knowing look behind his eyes, as he meets Lewis’s gaze. Both are grinning. Wordlessly communicating with each other in a way only they can do.

Oscar watches this all a bit curiously, as he and Logan help slide several books into place on one of the many bookshelves around the room. His breathing stutters whenever Logan’s fingers so much as brush against his. And he wonders if he’ll be able to communicate with Logan the way Lewis and Nico can. Or even Niki and Marlene, despite the fact they weren’t together anymore.

Another brush of Logan’s fingers against his makes his breathing nearly stop when it turns into the American lacing them together, and slowly bringing Oscar’s hand to his mouth, placing a sweet kiss on the back of his hand. Blue eyes sparkle with mischief as he looks back at him, smiling when Oscar flushes pink.

Caught you. Logan’s eyes seem to say.

Maybe they will be able to communicate like that one day. But until then, Oscar will settle for this, as he shyly smiles at Logan.

Early August, 2005. Hof bei Salzburg, Österreich.

You are finally cleared to leave the hospital. After nearly five months in the hospital— the longest stay being for three of those months in a private hospital in Vienna— you are allowed to leave.

Marlene had helped him pack the day before. Lukas and Mathias had cuddled you for hours in their canine forms, both of them soothing your anxiety. You’d fallen asleep like that after dinner before they’d left to go make sure the house was ready. You were still hugging the scented wolf plush that was doused in their scents when morning came and it was time to leave.

And the funniest part? You’re not even awake when you do leave. Asleep in Niki’s arms, drooling slightly as he holds you, your unbrunt cheek pressed against his shoulder. There’s no paparazzi, no worries about anyone getting a picture of you before you are ready to make a public appearance, not this time.

So Niki hunkers down for the three-hour drive, sitting in the back seat of the car while Micheal drives. Because, Micheal, even now, even when on a break is more than willing to help out the elder German-speaking driver as he adjusts to raising a child. Again.

“She is tiny,” Micheal marvels while looking at your sleeping form, from where he waits by the car, opening the back door for Niki. “Are you sure she is really almost five?”

“She’s a runt,” Niki murmurs, speaking German so you don’t understand him. You’ve taken to the language well, but you’re still getting used to everything. “She will grow. This… chaos hasn’t helped. Her therapist said she will eat more, when she adjusts.”

“Poor thing,” Micheal coos, eyes soft. And Niki can tell he’s thinking of his own pups. “She is a Lauda. A good, strong Austrian lion.”

“No, Laudas are rats,” Niki corrects, smiling down at you as you shift in his arms, mumbling a slurring string of English in your sleep. “...the rats survive in the end. But… perhaps she is more of a mouse. Fierce but small.”

“A mouse?”

“Clearly you never heard stories of them in labs.” Niki shifts you in his arms, letting you snuggle against his chest. You’re all but bald, the hair fully shaved. He’s been letting you steal his baseball cap whenever you go outside. Letting you hide the shaggy mess your hair currently is. “Mice may be smaller… but they are twice as fierce. Just as clever. Only more compact. Faster.”

“How do you know about how mice act in labs?”

“Mathias talks quite fiercely about how unfair the treatment is,” Niki chuckles, while thinking of his son. “He’s quite close with the Hamilton boy… the one that McLaren is helping to raise up.”

The drive is otherwise quiet. You wake up an hour in, yawning loudly and showing off the little fangs you’ve grown. You had lost your first milk tooth while in hospital. Your right lower canine. And Niki had gone all out for it. Wanting you to feel as loved and welcomed into his pack as possible. He would have had the entirety of the grid there, had it not been a Monday right after a race.

But Micheal had made time. Coming into the room with his pups and mate, grinning broadly, and listening to you shyly talk about what the tooth fairy had brought to you. Your new sire may have gone… slightly overboard, showering you with gifts. But so had your older brothers! Lukas and Mathias had snuck in sweets that you definitely weren’t supposed to be eating, for the sake of the medications you were on. You were surrounded by all the gifts, many of them you hadn’t even come to open yet.

Little did you know you had a mountain of gifts waiting for you at the house. A whole room to yourself, right across from Niki’s.

“Sisi… where’we at?” You blink, your words still slurred from sleep. Just as you shake your head a bit, as if to wake yourself up, your ears lengthen, fluffy and soft. You’d started calling him Sisi, an easier way for you to pronounce Sire. “Gotta pee.”

“Hallo, little mouse!” Micheal looks back for just a second, grinning. “I’ll pull over soon, Kleiner.”

You just hum, peeking out the window from where you’re settled in Niki’s arms. Eyes wide as you look at the tall mountains around you while Micheal pulls into a place to stop. You don’t protest when Niki doesn’t let you walk on your own, even though you can, just hiding your face a little bit more in his neck as you go outside of the car. There aren’t any paparazzi around, too caught up in other issues. But a few eyes bulge out of people’s heads, seeing Micheal Schumacher and Niki Lauda at a gas station. You’re now in Micheal’s arms, carefully repeating the names of candies and sodas that are unique to the German-speaking world while Niki pays for a few softer snacks, already doctor-approved from an extensive list of foods.

You sit in the backseat on Niki’s lap while softly chewing on sliced apples and watching the world blur outside the windows. Micheal chatters happily, talking about how much fun you’ll have living with Niki. You fall back asleep after your snack and curl up against your Sisi, knowing that you’re in the safest place possible now.

When you do arrive, you’re surprised by most of the German-speaking grid being there. You cling to Niki most of the time, but hesitantly open up, answering shyly when spoken to. Nico Rosberg, a young, yet promising star, is the first to make you smile besides your grandfather, rolling over on his back while you shriek in delight, play fighting.

Late February, 2024. Sakhir, Bahrain.

“Miss Lauda— any comments on the tension between yourself and your driver? A bit of trouble in paradise, would you say?”

Jenson’s words are careful. Almost kind. You want to growl at the layers he’s woven into his question.

“You mean not being a kiss-ass?”

The former McLaren driver splutters for a second, before laughing loudly as he looks at you. The camera seems to focus on your scowl. The first day of spring training, and you’re already being hounded.

“No, I’m being serious. I’m just not a kiss-ass. Why do people think that’s a big hint at tension?” You grumble, your grip on the mic a bit tighter. You’re not wearing the normal makeup. Too hot, even during what is supposedly a cold season in Sakhir. Damn your sensitive skin, and damn the insistence that spring testing always be so far away! “You must remember your time at McLaren, Button.”

“Jesus, you’re like your father.” Jenson rubs a hand down his face, looking at you with a partially hidden smile. You can see the PR officer in papaya just behind him, a horrified expression on her face at your bluntness and overall hostile demeanor. “Well, thank you for your comments, and it’s great to see you back in the paddock, even if it’s not with Williams.”

The moment the cameras cut, he winces at his final sentence. You just stare at him blankly, about to ask why he’d even had to mention the team, while the press officer practically jumps on you, giving you an earful about how bad that went. You just look miserable, the entire time. Jenson knows exactly what went down— he’d been the one to pull Logan off of him.

And Eggroll?

Laying at your feet. Unfortunately not alerting to anything around you that could possibly trigger you, which means you have no excuse to blow her off. Or snarl at Jenson for his roping you into an interview when all you wanted to do was curl up in your nest at the motorhome before your next briefing. But the Beta looks like a kicked puppy already, so you soften, taking in a deep breath, and then pushing the air out through your nose.

Traitor. You look at the beagle. Who just relaxes even more, her little high-vis vest and multiple service dog patches scuffing against the ground.

“Maybe don’t let them talk to me then.”

“You’re a Lauda!”

“And?” You don’t even look at her as she lectures you. Your left ear is ringing, making your head pound as you stalk forward. “I am very aware of that.”

“They’ll want to talk to you!”

You just grunt, walking as fast as your leg allows. Eggroll beside you, eventually letting out a very sharp bark at the PR officer when her voice gets just a bit too shrill.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to them. Isn’t that sort of Oscar and Lando’s job?” You retort back, your upper lip drawn back as you look at her. Eggroll licks your ankle, soothing the anger and anxiety that threatens to spill out. You pause, and then bend down to lift up the dog into your arms, letting her lick your face until the acrid scent of your anxiety fades. No one else but you can smell it. The scent blockers made sure of it. “....I am not a driver. I am not my grandfather nor a racer. I do not want to be interviewed unless it’s scheduled and approved by Andrea or Zak.”

The PR officer bites down on her lower lip, eyes flashing with just a bit of annoyance as you leave to go sit in a private area of the McLaren Motorhome.

Every motorhome was required to have rooms that could lock from the inside for anyone to nest in. Nesting was traditionally thought to be an omega’s task, typically done to self-soothe during heats or stressful situations. But, that hadn’t been the case for nearly thirty years, with more and more studies showing that nesting was a natural behavior that all designations took part in.

You took advantage of that, using it to hide your actual designation while being able to nest in a private room to ground yourself. Breathe in, breathe out. Scent-blocking patches off. Snuggled against Eggroll and the plush wolf that smelled like your pack, and the soft rabbit of your dam’s scent. It wasn’t perfect— some of the subtleties of the long-lost scent were missing from the little plush bunny Niki had given you when you were first put in his care. Eggroll nuzzles into your side, laying on top of you for deep-pressure therapy like she’s been trained to help keep you calm. Your nose is pressed into the side of the little rabbit, and you close your eyes very briefly.

Mountain rain. Slightly-rotten leaves. Firewood. That’s what your mother had smelled like. But it’s… it’s still not quite right. And maybe it’s the nostalgia for the woman you hardly got to know, and the milky scent that had once clung to you, but it’s never been quite right.

According to Niki, you’d never smelled like a pup should when he first found you. Your initial panic presentation in the hospital had made you lose your natural pup scent. No milkiness. None of the sweetness that you were meant to smell like. It had thrown your Sisi for a loop, apparently, and then made him even more protective of you.

While you had no memories of that time— and quite honestly, perhaps only one or two blurry ones of your dam from before the fire— you knew the scent wasn’t right. There was something missing.

Something you’d never be able to smell after the fire. All you do remember about your dam is warmth. Blurry images of being curled up against her on a green, plaid couch. Soft purrs that had since almost faded completely. You don’t remember her voice. You don’t remember her face. You do have a picture of her with you as an infant, tiny fists balled up and your mouth open in a wail. And she’s still smiling at you, a sliver of her teeth visible while she looks at you in her arms, her hair pulled back and out of her face.

Now you only have the first name she’d given you when you were born and the same designation she had. You turn in the nest a bit, studying the little rabbit you’re cuddling into. Eggroll shifts a little, adjusting, and continuing to lay on you, pressing her wet nose into your neck.

They’d gotten the scent from the few pieces of clothing that had survived the fire. Under all the scent of the burned house, a dangerous mix of chemical fire and melted plastic, was your dam’s scent, and how Niki had been able to get you the little rabbit.

Breathe in, breathe out. Try to come to terms with everything all over again. Eggroll’s back paws dig into your stomach, forcibly grounding you, and without even thinking, a whimper slips past your lips and you just close your eyes to sleep as you curl deeper in the nest, only vaguely aware that there are faint footsteps pacing outside of your locked door, heading towards the single-digit nesting rooms.

Lando needed to find the nesting suites. He’s well exhausted after the first day of testing, and has been itching to curl under the blankets he’d carefully packed, scented like his Dam and Sire, with his little nieces and littermates, and even Carlos and Max. His pack. People who made him feel loved and needed even when they fought.

When he passes the teen-number doors, he stops when he smells something heavenly in the middle of the open area where all the doors to the suites are. It’s a wide hallway, with soft yellow lighting and a plush carpet. A few hampers to throw blankets in. A few doors are already closed, showing they’re in use. But the twelth door… that’s where the scent is coming from! A scent that’s screaming for him to follow it and find the person it comes from.

Morning rain. Freshly fallen leaves. Peach cobbler.

He doesn’t know who smells like that in McLaren but he has to find them. The instinctual alpha part of his brain tells him so— they’re important, they need to be cherished, they need to know how badly he wants to know them!

Even if Lando knows what door the person’s in, he’ll never know who they are until he sees them walk out, if he ever does. The nesting rooms are meant to be private for a reason. So Lando takes a final forlorn look at door number twelve, and goes into number four, holding onto the beautiful scent as he presses the blankets into a border of the plush mattress.

Find scent. Find and protect and love, his inner alpha whimpers, despite his more logical side knowing that he would be in quite a bit of trouble if he so much as brushed against the door while his instincts were in control. So he melts into his canine form, tucks his paws under his head, and takes a nap, pushing away the stress of the day and focusing on the wonderful scent of the mystery person behind door twelve, and wondering just who could make him feel so weak in the knees without even getting a chance to see them.

tags: @charlesgirl16 @boo8008 @the-holy-trinity-l @laura-naruto-fan1998 @amalialeclerc @vellicora @st0rmzi3 @poppyflower-22 @hiireadstuff @seonghwaexile @mrsmelinda

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x reader

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mymoonisgrey · 13 days ago

Text

you, my love, are All I Need.

synopsis: After the tragedy of the Star Plasma Vessel incident, Satoru Gojo loses more than just his closest friend, Suguru Geto—he loses the one person who made the chaos of his world feel bearable. She was his light, his tether to something more human, and just when he dared to imagine a future with her, fate cruelly severed their bond. With her sudden disappearance in his third year at Jujutsu High, Satoru is left reeling, torn between his duties as the strongest sorcerer and the ache of searching for someone he may never find.

pairings: gojo satoru x reader. (og jujutsu au.)

chapter warnings: profanities, mild violence, brief jealousy.

wc : 9k+

all i need's playlist!

series masterlist.

a/n: how’s everyone’s monday been? 😊

previously.

December 2007

“You’re doing exceptionally well.”

Sato’s voice is a low rumble that sends shivers crawling up your spine—ones you’d like to scrape off with a wire brush. He watches you with a strange intensity, his smile oily and unreadable. “Makes me wonder if we should start recruiting grade one sorcerers or higher for this program.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Yeah, good luck with that. Everyone I’ve worked with so far fits your usual category: foreign, low cursed energy, expendable in your eyes.”

His smile widens, smug and patronizing. “You’ve been paying attention. I like that. It means you’re learning.” He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “And I assume you’ve been keeping your profile low? No slip-ups about your affiliation, why you’re really here, or your... connections?”

Your jaw tightens, but you nod. “Captain Shepherd’s the only one who knows the truth. He figured out I’m a special grade. He also knows I was pulled out of Jujutsu High too early.”

Sato’s expression falters for just a moment, his eye twitching with irritation. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your goddamn mouth shut?”

“He’s not an idiot!” you snap, unable to hold back your frustration. “He’s a thirty-five-year veteran! He’s seen enough soldiers to tell the difference between someone like me and your usual recruits.”

Sato slams a hand on the table, making you flinch. “And what’s next? Are you going to tell me he knows the whole damn story? That the reason the higher-ups handed you over to me was because of him?”

Your anger fizzles as his presence looms over you. His scarred face, hardened from years of battle, and his piercing gaze bore into your resolve.

You manage to steady your voice, quiet but firm. “He’ll find me.” Your hands clench into fists under the table. “And when he does, I’ll tell him everything—what you did, what the higher-ups did. He’ll kill all of you.”

Sato stares at you for a long moment before chuckling darkly. “Oh, is that what you think? Go ahead, tell him. Let him come. He’s as good as dead.”

You recoil slightly, your confidence wavering under his mocking tone.

“Don’t hit me with the ‘he’s the strongest’ crap,” Sato sneers. “We can kill him, and you damn well know it.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and oppressive.

Then you shake your head, defiance sparking in your eyes. “The higher-ups would never let that happen. Gojo’s their golden child. Their prodigy.”

“Not the higher-ups, sweet thing.” Sato’s voice drops, his tone condescending and venomous. He leans forward, his face mere inches from yours. “Us.”

Your breath catches.

“And the higher-ups would let you do that?” you ask, your voice edged with disbelief.

“They need us more than they need him,” Sato spits, slamming his palm against the table again. “We clean up their messes. We do the dirty work. Without us, the whole system falls apart. So, if you love him, you’ll shut your goddamn mouth. Or things will get ugly.”

It isn’t the threat to your life that makes your blood run cold.

It’s the threat to his.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You don’t exactly acknowledge him trailing behind you, his presence hot and unyielding, because your focus is on the bodies of your fallen comrades—laid out in neat rows on stretchers, or worse, on tarps. Some were intact, but others... dismembered, unidentifiable. You swallow thickly, the bile rising in your throat.

Satoru is silent. His usual easy charm is buried beneath the weight of what he’s seeing. This wasn’t the jujutsu world he knew—pristine, organized, full of promise. No, this was raw and ugly, guns and missiles replacing talismans and hand signs. The air was thick with the sharp smell of gunpowder and blood. He glances around, his blue eyes scanning the navy camo uniforms, the weary faces of foreign sorcerers—low-grade curse users drafted from all corners of the globe. They didn’t sign up for glory; they were cannon fodder, drafted to protect a system that didn’t want them.

You stumble forward, weaving through the chaotic hangar. Aircraft sit proud and powerful—some parked, others taxiing, and a few roaring to life as they prepare for takeoff. Around you, the injured are escorted to the med bay, their groans and cries blending with the hum of engines.

“Watcher!” Shepherd’s gruff voice cuts through the noise. You turn your head, dazed, your severed hand clutched protectively to your chest. Leslie walks toward you, her sharp eyes softened by relief, a tablet cradled in her hands. Shepherd claps a heavy hand on your shoulder, halting your shaky steps.

The sudden stop makes Satoru bump into you from behind. His chest brushes your back, and he mutters a quick, “Sorry,” before stepping to the side, his eyes flickering to your hand.

“Good to see you all alive,” Leslie says, tapping on her tablet. Her professional demeanor doesn’t hide the relief in her tone. “Team 2-11 was just sent off to China. A group of curse users unleashed a significant number of spirits—grades unknown.”

Shepherd frowns, his jaw tightening. “They need backup?”

Your head snaps toward him, disbelief etched on your face. Your exhaustion screams louder than your words ever could. Not now. Not again.

“I recommend you stay on standby,” Leslie replies, her voice even. “You never know when things get ugly, Shep.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Appreciate it, Les. Yer free to go.”

Leslie nods, casting you a brief, knowing glance before retreating.

“Shep—my hand—” you start, but he interrupts with a pointed nod toward your chest. “Ye’ gotta get that checked out,” he says firmly.

“No shit,” you mutter, glaring at your mangled hand as if it had betrayed you.

Satoru’s gaze lingers on your injury. His sharp intake of breath doesn’t escape Shepherd’s notice. The older man steps between you two, his weathered hand reaching out to stop Satoru from following you further.

His fingers meet resistance.

Shepherd flinches slightly, his hand repelled by an invisible force—the faint shimmer of Satoru’s infinity.

“What the hell was that?” Shepherd grunts, pulling his hand back.

Satoru turns slowly, his expression calm but his eyes hard. “Need something, General?” His voice is polite, but the disdain is unmistakable.

“It’s Captain,” Shepherd corrects, his tone measured and steady. “And you’re not supposed to be here.”

The words hang heavy in the air, a quiet warning. This wasn’t a place for outsiders. No students, no high-grade sorcerers—no one who might challenge the facade of order and control.

Satoru feels it too. The weight of trespass. But he’s not leaving. Not yet.

“I understand,” he replies smoothly. “I won’t overstay.”

“Y’know, kid,” Shepherd begins, his sharp gaze assessing. “We can arrange a helo to take ye back to Tokyo or Kyoto—whichever school yer from.”

Satoru tilts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Appreciate the offer, but I can teleport.”

He doesn’t wait for Shepherd’s response, slipping past the man and continuing after you. His eyes take in everything—the chaos, the desperation, the quiet resignation of those around him. This wasn’t a battlefield; it was a meat grinder.

But his gaze always comes back to you.

You haven’t stopped moving, your steps unsteady but purposeful. He quickens his pace to catch up, falling in step beside you, his voice soft. “Let me see your hand.”

“Stay out of it,” you snap, your tone sharper than intended.

Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. His voice drops to a whisper, carrying an edge of quiet intensity. “Not happening.”

You don’t understand why you’re being mean, why your tone is sharp and your words laced with coldness. Your love—your Satoru—was standing right in front of you.

Maybe it was Sato’s threats echoing in your mind. His warnings of what would happen if you let Satoru get too close. Wasn’t it better to push him away, to pretend you didn’t care, than to sign his name on a death sentence?

Your combat boots strike against the metal flooring as you continue walking, and Satoru, undeterred, stays on your trail.

“Why are you still here?” you ask, glancing back at him with a hint of malice in your voice.

“I came with you on the plane?” he replies, like it’s obvious.

“Teleport away.”

“No.”

“Stop following me, then.”

“You’re the only one I know here.”

“Do you?” you snap, your voice low and biting as you push open the door to a sterile room. The sharp chemical scent reminds him of the infirmary back at Jujutsu High, a place he’d visited far too often.

“The fuck does that mean?” Satoru frowns, stepping into the room after you as the automatic door slides shut with a quiet hiss.

You ignore him and start unbuttoning your uniform, struggling with the motion since your injured hand makes the task painstakingly slow. You need to check your body for bruises, the aftermath of your fall from the crashing plane still fresh in your mind and aching in your muscles.

Satoru watches in silence, his throat tightening as his six eyes take in the sight of you. The struggle in your movements, the injury you cradled protectively, the exhaustion etched into your expression—it all unsettles him.

Without thinking, he steps forward, his hands lifting instinctively to help.

“Let me—”

“Don’t,” you snap, flinching back at his sudden closeness. The recoil stings him more than he expects, but he doesn’t retreat.

“You’re hurt. Let me help,” he insists, his voice softer but still firm.

“I don’t need your help,” you bite back, gripping the fabric of your uniform and turning away from him, willing your fingers to cooperate despite the tremor of pain.

“You do,” Satoru counters, his tone growing more intense, a desperation laced beneath the words. “You can’t even unbutton a damn shirt right now, and you’re acting like I’m the enemy.”

Your breath hitches as his words strike a nerve.

“You don’t get it!” you snap, finally turning to face him, your eyes blazing with frustration. “You don’t understand what this place is, what it does to people! You shouldn’t even be here!”

“I don’t care about this place,” he says firmly, stepping closer. “I care about you.”

You flinch again, your resolve wavering under the weight of his words. Satoru notices, but he doesn’t stop.

“I’ve been looking for you for two years,” he continues, his voice quieter now, raw with emotion. “Years, and I never stopped. Don’t tell me to walk away now that I’ve found you.”

You want to argue, to push him away again, but the sincerity in his eyes holds you captive.

Still, you turn your back to him, resuming your struggle with the uniform. “You should have left me lost,” you mutter under your breath.

Satoru doesn’t let the comment slide. “Lost? Is that what you think? That I could just give up on you?”

He steps closer again, his breath catching as his six eyes absorb the details he hadn’t fully seen before—the changes in you. The soft curve of your waist, the toned strength in your arms, the way your figure had grown more feminine, more breathtaking. Despite the exhaustion that clung to you, despite the pain you clearly felt, you were beautiful in a way that made his chest ache.

“Stop staring,” you mutter, your tone defensive, but there’s a tremble beneath it.

“I can’t,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You freeze at the confession, your hands stilling.

“I can’t because I’m trying to figure out how to keep you from slipping away again,” he says. “How to make sure you don’t shut me out.”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, silence fills the room, heavy and suffocating.

“Let me help,” he pleads again, softer this time, almost a whisper. “Please.”

This time, you don’t flinch when his hand hovers near yours, offering without demanding. His gaze is steady, unyielding, but so full of care that it makes your walls crack.

Satoru doesn’t let go, even when your hand jerks in his hold, the motion sharp and defensive. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough to stop you from walking away again.

“Let go,” you mutter through clenched teeth, your voice low and dangerous.

He shakes his head, the stubborn tilt of his jaw igniting something volatile in you. “No. Not until you let me help.”

“You don’t need to help,” you snap, yanking your hand free. “I’ve got this. I don’t need—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice cuts through yours, sharp and unrelenting. “Because it’s not true, and we both know it.”

You glare at him, the heat of his gaze locking with yours, but it only fuels the fire building in your chest. “You think you know me? You don’t know a damn thing.”

“I know enough,” he replies, his tone steady but charged. “I know you’re hurting. I know you’re trying to carry this on your own. And I know that’s not you.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you turn away from him. “You don’t know me anymore, Satoru. Things are different. I’m different.”

He steps closer, and you hear the faint rustle of his uniform as he moves, his presence looming behind you like a shadow you can’t outrun. “You think I can’t see that? You think I can’t see how much you’ve been through?”

“Then stop trying to fix it!” you snap, spinning to face him, your chest tight with frustration. “Stop acting like you can waltz in here and make it all better. You don’t belong in this world, Satoru. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“And whose fault is that?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You left. You disappeared, and I—I spent two years trying to find you. I’m here now, and you’re telling me to just walk away? That’s not happening.”

His words hit harder than you want to admit, but you shove the feeling down, burying it beneath the ice you’ve built around yourself.

“You don’t get it,” you say, quieter this time, but no less sharp. “You don’t belong here. You’re a sorcerer. You’re the strongest. You’re—”

“Human,” he interrupts, his tone softer but no less determined. “I’m human, too, and I’m standing right here, trying to be here for you. You can hate me for that all you want, but I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence that follows is heavy, your breath caught in your chest as you struggle to form words.

“Fine,” you bite out finally, your voice low and controlled. “Stay. But don’t get in my way.”

Satoru watches you, his jaw tightening, his gaze searching yours for something—anything—that might give him a clue to what you’re really thinking. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You turn away, focusing on the task at hand, pretending he’s not standing there, his presence a constant weight on your already strained nerves.

He doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he lingers, his eyes following your every move as you peel back the layers of your uniform with stiff, precise movements. When you struggle with a button, his hands twitch at his sides, itching to help, but he knows better than to reach out again.

The fabric slides from your shoulders, revealing smooth, unmarred skin. Your cursed technique’s regenerative properties have left your body untouched by scars or bruises, a stark contrast to the destruction you’ve endured. But to him, it’s proof of your strength, a reminder of how untouchable you once seemed—and maybe still are.

His breath catches, the sight of you momentarily stealing the air from his lungs. You’ve changed, matured. The lines of your body are more defined, your movements fluid yet restrained. You’re... breathtaking, and it’s not just the way you look. It’s the presence you command, even when you’re at your most vulnerable.

You catch his gaze in the reflection of a nearby steel cabinet, and your eyes narrow. “What?”

He swallows hard, his usual charm faltering as he scrambles for something to say. “Nothing,” he mutters, turning his head to give you some semblance of privacy. But the image of you, raw and unguarded, is seared into his mind.

“Get used to it,” you say flatly, misinterpreting his silence. “This is the world you walked into. It’s ugly, it’s brutal, and it doesn’t have room for people like you.”

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable. “Then I’ll make room,” he says simply.

You scoff, grabbing a roll of bandages from a nearby tray. “Good luck with that.”

As you wrap your hand with practiced efficiency, the faint glow of your cursed technique flickers around the wound, sealing it slowly but effectively. You feel his gaze on you again, unwavering and intense. His persistence grates on your nerves, but there’s a small, traitorous part of you that wants to believe him.

But you don’t. You can’t.

“You’ll leave,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “Eventually, you’ll realize you don’t belong here. And when you do, don’t come back.”

His reply is immediate, his voice low and firm. “Not a chance.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because if you do, you’ll crumble.

And you can’t afford that. Not now. Not ever.

You're quiet as you strip down, staying in your underwear—and he’s usually quiet, watching you like he’s been starved of sight, but this is different. He’s not seeing you with lust, not right now. His gaze isn’t hungry, it's desperate—yearning. There’s a raw intensity in the way he takes in your body, as though trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with the one from two years ago. He’s struggling, quietly, because you seem to deflect his attempts to reconnect, to bridge the gap between you two.

But why?

You know he can feel it. Both his heart and soul scream that something is wrong. He just doesn’t understand why.

You feel shy under his gaze, the weight of it pressing into your skin like a brand, even though he has every inch of your body memorized. Every curve, every scar, every freckle. You know he does. Even two years apart, even with the pain of that time, you glance at him. Blink. The question hangs in your eyes—why are you looking at me? It’s the unspoken plea in your stare, but he doesn't look away.

His voice breaks the silence, awkward and too loud. “You’ve grown.”

“Excuse me?” you mutter, turning to face him, not fully aware of the way your breasts strain against that flimsy bra provided by the task force. It barely covers anything—half of it, at best.

He gulps, his hands flexing at his sides before he rubs the back of his neck, his expression flustered and unsure. He doesn’t want to sound like a creep, but damn it, he’s just noticing what’s right in front of him. “Y-you’ve... grown?” he repeats, his voice cracking slightly, trying to sound casual.

You almost want to laugh, but it comes out like a breath, empty. “Um... Thanks? You're... buffer?” You don't quite meet his eyes as you mumble the words, keeping your gaze fixed anywhere but on him.

He blinks at you, taking in your awkward attempt at deflecting the situation. He looks down at himself—his uniform tight around his chest and arms, muscles straining at the seams from the training they’ve been putting him through. “Thank you—training.”

“Must be vigorous,” you respond, distracted, but the words are clipped, your voice trailing off as your mind races with the real reason for your discomfort.

“Yeah... well, they make it vigorous for me,” he chuckles darkly. It’s humorless, a low sound that hangs in the air between you two. You get the hint. They’re exploiting him, just like they did to you—taking away everything that made you both feel human.

You want to tell him. You want to scream it all out, spill every secret. But the thought of him getting hurt, of the higher-ups turning their eyes on him, keeps your lips sealed. Sato’s words—those damn words—still echo in your mind, cutting deep.

“And you accept?” you murmur, your voice quiet, strained, as you crack your fingers back in place and pour disinfectant over the raw wound in your hand. The sting is sharp, but not as sharp as the words you wish you could say.

Satoru is quiet, taking a few slow steps toward you. He stands right behind you, his presence overwhelming. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the familiar warmth you once sought. His body language is tense, his eyes unwilling to leave the sight of you, but he tries to stay focused, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. But you know it’s no use. His eyes linger, and for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed.

“I needed a distraction,” he says finally, his voice low as he takes the disinfectant from your hands, his touch soft but firm as he begins tending to your injury.

“From what?” you whisper, your voice faltering slightly as you fight the tightness in your chest.

He’s quiet for a moment, the words seemingly stuck in his throat. But then they come, gruff, low, raw. “You,” he mutters, his hand stilling over your wound for a second. He’s not even looking at it. He’s looking at you. “Your sudden disappearance... Thought you fucking died on that godforsaken mission you were sent to. Turns out they lied.”

Your breath hitches, a quiet sting of guilt piercing you. You didn’t mean to hurt him like this. “I came here,” you say, your voice betraying you with its sharp edge.

“Willingly?” he presses, his eyes piercing you with that intensity, like they always did when he was seeking the truth, seeking to understand you.

“Yes,” you lie, barely believing the words as they leave your mouth.

“Why?” he presses again, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s a quiet desperation behind the question, a longing for something—anything—that would make sense of this fractured puzzle you’ve become.

“...I needed more money,” you say, and the words feel like ash on your tongue.

He scoffs, disbelief flooding his face. “Girl, c’mon, I had money.”

“The fuck does that have to do with anything?” you hiss, the frustration bubbling up, the walls closing in.

“I’m sayin’ you didn’t need money. I took care of you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, well, I needed money, and—” You trail off, not wanting to finish the thought. Not wanting to voice the lies that have kept you alive all this time.

Satoru stitches your hand up carefully, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so strong. He could use reverse cursed technique on you, but he’s not Shoko, and she never trained him for this. Besides, he knows your cursed technique will regenerate in no time. The wound will heal, and there won’t be a trace of it.

“You know your eyes twitch when you lie, sweetheart?” he mutters under his breath, his tone teasing, but his focus never wavers from the task at hand.

Your heart skips a beat. “I’m not lying—”

“I already know the specific way people get drafted here,” he continues, his voice low and knowing. “Foreign, low cursed energy, and it’s not voluntary. The higher-ups throw them here with no backtalk.” His eyes stay focused, but you feel the weight of his words like a crushing wave. “You’ve been through this before. You’re not stupid. You know how it works.”

You wince when he pinches your skin to get the needle through. “How did you know I was in the fucking task force?” you snap, your voice trembling with the sudden wave of frustration.

“Shoko and I saw some woman I thought was you—she had the necklace I fucking gave you—and she asked for her name, and we did some research on the old cranky computer.” He’s still working, his words flowing with ease, like he’s not talking about the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened to you.

You stay quiet, your mind racing. “Hana,” you breathe out, her name tasting like hope on your lips.

She made it out.

“Atta girl. Told you you were smart.” Satoru bites his lip, continuing to stitch up the wound. His movements are practiced, steady, but you can see the storm in his eyes. “So, if my calculations are correct—you’re just foreign. That’s one box ticked in their list of preferences for sorcerers who get thrown here,” he murmurs, his voice soft, but there’s a sharpness to it now. “But what about the rest? You’re special grade. You have high cursed energy. So why?”

Your heart stops. The question hovers in the air between you, thick and suffocating. You can’t say the truth. Not when it could cost him everything. Not when it could mean his life.

“Money. They pay a lot here,” you breathe, the words stilted as you try to force yourself to believe them.

Satoru scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah, okay—whatever. I believe you.” His voice softens slightly, a tired edge to it. “But I don’t care anymore. I fucking found you. That’s what matters. You’re not dead.” His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t let it show. Not fully.

And it hits you harder than you want to admit. You feel something twist deep in your chest, but you don’t let it show. Not to him.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The shooting range seemed like the perfect place to blow off some steam—at least it did when you first walked in. You hoped, maybe, Satoru wouldn’t follow you here, but of course, he did. You pity him in a way; you’re the only familiar face for him in this cold, strange place.

“You can always just... teleport back home and then come back if you want. You know where I'm based now,” you mutter, wiping the sweat from your forehead with your black tank top.

Satoru’s eyes briefly flick to your midsection, but he quickly drags them back to your face, a subtle shift in his gaze that doesn’t go unnoticed. His jacket is tossed on a nearby table while he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, his white button-up shirt loosely unbuttoned, likely for air—or for dramatic effect. You can't really tell.

"I could," he replies, his voice smooth, but there's an edge of something more lurking underneath. "But I haven’t seen you in two years."

You don’t respond right away, trying to ignore the unsettling way his presence feels like it’s suffocating you. Were you still soft inside there? Would you still sing him to sleep, play with his hair while he pawed at your body like it was the most natural thing in the world? That’s how it used to be, wasn’t it?

You bite your lip, a little too hard. He notices. He always notices.

“Why?” you ask quietly, trying to keep your voice steady despite the storm inside you. The pressure from his gaze is too much, but you won't break. Not here, not now.

"You know why, don’t play coy. You’re my girlfriend," he replies, and it sounds too natural, too casual. Like it’s obvious, like it hasn’t been two years of separation, pain, and complications.

“I think... we haven’t seen each other for two years. I don’t think we’re still dating,” you say softly, your tone almost as indifferent as you can manage. You cock your gun and focus on aiming at the targets in front of you. Anything to distract yourself.

Satoru doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “We didn’t have a verbal breakup, and I still don’t believe you’d leave me willingly.”

You scoff, trying to maintain a facade of indifference, but deep down, his words sting in a way you hate to admit. “You think that highly of yourself?” you retort, avoiding his eyes as you keep your focus on the target.

But in your chest, there’s a hole. You want to hug him, go home with him, return to the life you once had. But you can’t. You know the cost. Sato’s warning echoes in your mind.

"I think highly of our love for each other," Satoru says, sitting up straighter, his gaze sharpening, a bit of vulnerability creeping through the cracks in his confidence. "You still love me, right?"

The question hits you harder than it should. You freeze for a moment, unsure of what to say. If you tell him yes, things could get messy. If you say no... you’d be lying to both of you.

You’re saved by a cheerful voice breaking through the tension.

“Hola! Hola!” Alec greets as he enters, a wave of lightness following him. You smile at him politely, grateful for the interruption.

But Satoru, he doesn’t hide his displeasure. The shift in his cursed energy is immediate, a sharp spike of possessiveness and frustration. His brows furrow, a crease appearing between them as he watches Alec move towards you.

"You look fresh," you smile at Alec, who grabs a heavy-looking rifle, clearly eager to blow off some steam himself. "Dios mio, tough day today—but we made it out. Of course, I'd cheer up!" He laughs, his energy infectious, but his eyes catch Satoru’s for a second, and the tension thickens.

“Don’t like the gun?” Alec asks, glancing at Satoru as he loads it with ease, an almost theatrical nonchalance to his movements.

Satoru raises a brow, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “I think guns are cool, just barbaric for sorcerers to use.”

Alec laughs sheepishly, his energy still bubbling with excitement. “Well, we’re barely considered sorcerers, that’s why we’re here—"

He cuts himself off when he notices what he was spewing. “I shouldn’t be saying this to a jujutsu student, right?”

You smile, trying to keep things light. “Yeah, you shouldn’t. But he already knows everything,” you say, glancing at Satoru, whose calm demeanor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The smile on his lips is polite but cold.

Alec stares at you in disbelief for a second, then back at Satoru. "The hell! Did you tell him? You'll get into trouble!”

You shake your head, barely containing the laughter that wants to escape. “No, Alec. I didn’t.” But the look in your eyes says more than words could.

"Whatever, chica," Alec shrugs. "If you get hurt, please leave me out of it. I still love you, though." He gestures to Satoru with his gun, an easy smile on his face. “Introduce him to me.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, sensing Alec’s teasing nature. He decides to play along, though something about the situation makes him feel oddly... free. Here, no one knows him. He’s not the feared Satoru Gojo. He's just a guy, and in this moment, that feels kind of nice.

“I can speak for myself," Satoru says, his tone light and unbothered.

Alec shoots him a look, clearly eager to get the conversation rolling. “Come on, man. Don’t be shy. Tell me who you are.”

“My name’s Satoru,” he says with a grin, relaxed. "I’m a student at Jujutsu High, twenty, graduating this year in my fifth year. Came here because she’s my girlfri—"

“We used to be in the same class, we’re friends,” you interject quickly, shooting Satoru a warning look—one that says to keep some things quiet.

Alec’s eyes widen. “What the—you were at Jujutsu High? So, you’re twenty too? Why the hell are you here?”

“Low cursed energy, like the rest of you guys,” you fake a smile, trying to keep things light despite the pang in your chest.

Satoru’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.

Liar.

Alec lets out a low whistle. "So you came here for her? Damn, that’s some real friendship, man! My friends would sell me for a bag of taquitos," he laughs, shaking his head.

Satoru laughs too, and there’s a genuine warmth to it this time. He’s enjoying this, this weird, ordinary little moment in the chaos of everything. “Tell me more about yourself,” he says, surprising Alec with his interest.

Alec’s eyes light up, the excitement clear in his voice. “Well, Alec. twenty-six, I’m from Mexico, but I was born in Tunisia. One of my parents was a jujutsu sorcerer— my mother. Lived my life there—so many Japanese people live there, and tons of jujutsu sorcerers. There’s even a district, like in every country. So when I came to Japan to study jujutsu and get stronger, hoping to join that district, my cursed energy was... low. So they threw me here,” Alec says with a shrug, then adds with a grin, “But I’m happy! I’ve got friends, and a cool captain.”

You raise an eyebrow at his last statement, a sarcastic edge in your voice. “Shepherd is cool?”

Alec nods vigorously, smiling wide. “Hell yeah!”

You roll your eyes and grin. “Alec, if he hears you say that—ten reps of push-ups,” you mutter under your breath.

Alec laughs nervously, knowing you’re probably right. "Yeah, yeah, chica. But still, I love the old guy, even with the push-ups."

Satoru examines the rifle in his hands, his fingers tracing the cold metal. He’s silent, focused, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his gaze as he inspects the weapon. His cursed energy vibrates around him, filling the room with an almost tangible hum.

“Can I try it?” Satoru’s voice is smooth, measured—his tone more a statement than a question. There's a quiet challenge to it, but it's undercut by the calmness that only he can manage.

Alec, still recovering from the earlier explosion, nods and grins, his eyes glinting. "Sure, Saturn," he says, completely unfazed, as though it's the most natural thing in the world. He fumbles with his words a little, clearly struggling to pronounce "Satoru," and just goes with it.

Satoru doesn’t correct him, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays the annoyance flickering beneath his cool exterior. "Saturn," he repeats quietly under his breath, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing how far Alec's teasing might go.

You suppress a smirk. Alec’s obliviousness to Satoru’s irritation is a running joke, and you can’t help but find it mildly amusing.

Alec’s grin only widens as he watches Satoru adjust the rifle. “I like it. Saturn suits you. You know, big, powerful—kind of like the planet, right?”

Satoru’s hand tightens around the rifle. “Saturn’s a planet, Alec,” he mutters, his voice dry. “Not my name.”

But Alec’s too distracted to notice. “Whatever, man. It’s catchy. And you’ve got that, you know, planetary vibe. Makes sense to me.”

You can see the subtle annoyance creeping into Satoru’s face, but he bites his tongue. “Can we just... do this?” he asks, his patience thinning.

Alec shrugs, seemingly unphased by Satoru’s subtle irritation. “You’re the one asking to try my gun, Saturn.” He laughs, as if this is some kind of inside joke that only he finds hilarious.

You give Satoru an apologetic look, but there’s a part of you that finds this exchange amusing—if only because you know Satoru’s patience only stretches so far, and Alec doesn’t seem to be letting up.

Satoru takes the rifle from Alec’s hands and steadies himself. “Let’s get this over with.”

You step in, guiding his hands lightly. His cursed energy surges subtly beneath his skin, wrapping around the weapon as he tries to infuse it. The rifle hums with power, vibrating under his control—but then, a flicker of his immense energy causes it to backfire, an explosion of cursed energy erupting from the weapon, sending shards of metal in all directions.

You instinctively duck behind Satoru, who is already lifting his Infinity. The world slows as his barrier expands, and you’re shielded from the flying debris by the familiar, invisible force surrounding you both.

Alec stumbles back, eyes wide. “Dios mío! Saturn!” he exclaims, more out of shock than fear. His hands are raised, as if he expects the next explosion to be any second. “I didn’t know you were that strong!”

Satoru lowers his hand, his Infinity flickering back to its neutral state. His expression is cool, but there’s a small twitch in his brow. “It was an accident,” he says, almost in a deadpan tone. He glances at Alec, who’s still frozen in place. “I... got carried away.”

Alec laughs nervously, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Holy shit, man. I thought I was gonna die.”

Satoru turns his gaze back to the rifle in his hands, the metal now slightly dented from the explosion. He shakes his head, clearly frustrated but trying to mask it. “I need more control.”

“Guess Saturn’s a bit too much for this little thing,” Alec says, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe try something smaller. This gun can’t handle that much energy.” He holds out a pistol instead, his tone light but with a touch of genuine concern. “Try this.”

Satoru takes the pistol, his fingers curling around it with a practiced ease. He holds it up to his face, inspecting it for a moment before glancing at you. The air between you both feels thick—an unspoken understanding lingering in the space.

You step in close to him, your breath catching as you guide his hands once more, feeling his energy surge under your fingertips. The proximity is almost unbearable, the tension between you two sharp enough to cut through the air.

“Remember, just a little at a time,” you remind him quietly, your voice steady but laced with something else you can’t quite place.

Satoru’s gaze shifts to you, his eyes locking onto yours for a brief, lingering moment. “I know,” he says, voice soft, but there's something charged in the way he looks at you.

You focus, but there's no denying the tension building between you both. The familiarity of his presence stirs up old feelings, things you try to keep buried under layers of steel and resolve.

Slowly, Satoru pours his cursed energy into the pistol. This time, it's controlled. The weapon hums with power, but the energy is focused, directed. The shot rings out, precise—an almost unnatural accuracy as the bullet hits the target dead center.

Satoru lowers the gun, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That’s better,” he murmurs, his tone satisfied but still, there’s that underlying irritation in the way Alec continues to tease him.

Alec, not noticing the subtle shift in the air, claps his hands. “Nice! Now that’s what I’m talking about, Saturn! You’re a natural!”

Satoru raises a brow, his patience finally wearing thin. “Please stop calling me Saturn.”

But Alec, ever the oblivious one, just laughs. “What? It’s a good name! You’re strong as hell, Saturn, deal with it!”

Satoru glances at you, and for a moment, the two of you share a quiet, charged look. The air between you both crackles, the weight of the past two years hanging heavy in the space. You can feel the old connection, the tension—it’s still there, undeniable.

You let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. “You’re lucky he’s not serious,” you mutter, giving Satoru a half-smile.

Satoru smirks, but it’s tinged with something more—something deeper, something he isn’t ready to voice. “I’ll let him have his fun for now,” he says, voice laced with dry humor.

Alec cheers in the background, unaware of the silent exchange between you and Satoru. “Damn, Saturn, you’re gonna make a great addition to the team!” “Addition?—no, he’s not a part of us,” you say, and Alec frowns.

“Well, I get that, but he’s pretty far from the hocus pocus school right now. Unless he can teleport to Tokyo, he’s sticking around here for a while, right?”

“He can tele—”

“I can’t teleport,” Satoru shrugs, lying. Alec gives you a ‘see?’ look, clearly amused.

You gape, turning to Satoru. “What? You don’t think I’m capable?”

“You’re more than capable.”

“Then I’ll help y’all out until Shepherd sends me home,” Satoru shrugs casually.

“Where would you sleep, huh?” you retort.

“You guys don’t have extra rooms or something?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Yes, we do,” Alec interjects, “but those are for prisoners—criminals we take hostage.” He smirks. “But she’s got a pretty big room since she’s Shepherd’s favorite, apparently. You can stay there!”

“Why’re you making the decision, Alec?” you sigh, exasperated, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“C’mon, doll, I like him!” Alec whines playfully.

Satoru’s brow twitches at the nickname, irritation flashing briefly in his eyes. He doesn’t like Alec calling you doll. He’s aware it’s probably just a nickname here, but hearing it still grates on him. It makes him feel... something. A slight twinge of jealousy. He doesn’t show it, though. He knows Alec doesn’t mean it the way he interprets it.

“See? He likes me, doll,” Satoru says, dragging out the word as he looks at you with a look you identify as his jealousy. You’ve seen that look way too much for you to forget it.

You want to blush, but the irony is too thick. Instead, you just groan in annoyance. “Whatever, we’ll see with Shepherd,” you mumble, reaching for your gun again.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You somehow managed to sneak an extra plate from the kitchens. Shepherd’s strict orders allowed one serving per soldier—ensuring everyone got their share. But you had a guest. A guest who, you knew, ate a lot. You even sacrificed some of your portion, piling more onto his plate.

More rice, more miso soup, more seaweed, more seared tofu. It wasn’t fancy—just sustenance. Basic proteins and fiber meant to keep everyone functional, not satisfied. The higher-ups didn’t care about soldiers here any more than they cared about anyone outside their elite circles. The realization stung: sorcerers at Jujutsu High were glorified, while the rest of you were discarded when no longer useful.

Balancing the plates, you pushed open the door to your room to find Satoru sitting on the edge of the bed. The sight caught you off guard for a second. The bed was big enough for two, but the thought of sharing it with him—after all this time—felt too... intimate.

“Um... I’ve got food here,” you said softly, shyness creeping into your voice as you approached him, holding out the bigger plate.

Satoru looked up at you, his lips quirking into a faint smile. The scene felt almost domestic, like you were... his wife.

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking the plate from your hands.

“I’m sorry it’s not much,” you added quickly, almost apologetic. “This is all they serve here—what they’re allowed to serve.”

He glanced down at the plate before his gaze returned to you, something tender lurking in his eyes. “Good thing I can teleport then,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar playful lilt.

Before you could respond, he reached under the bed and pulled out a crinkling plastic bag—a 7/11 logo emblazoned across it.

Your jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he said, grinning smugly.

“You didn’t just teleport to get yourself food,” you accused, crossing your arms.

He tilted his head, correcting you with a casual, “Got us food, sweetheart.”

“You’ll burn your eyes out,” you muttered, trying not to smile.

“For you and my belly? Worth it.”

You gave up, rolling your eyes as he pushed the bag toward you. Inside, you spotted greasy onigiri, a couple of bento boxes, and a can of your favorite drink. You hadn’t had anything like this in what felt like years.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unable to hide your gratitude.

As you both ate, Satoru glanced at your plates, noting the uneven portions. His own was piled so high it looked like the plate might crack under the weight. “You didn’t have to give me half your tofu,” he said, pushing a few big pieces back toward you.

“They’re for you,” you mumbled.

“Thanks, baby, but I came prepared,” he teased, gesturing toward the 7/11 haul.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too much. It was small, but it felt like old times—before everything fell apart.

“So, you always sleep here?” he asked through a mouthful of rice, his cheeks puffed like a squirrel.

The sight nearly made you giggle. “No. Just after missions like these. This is a moving base. There’s a little house by the coast I stay in with Shepherd.”

“Shepherd? The old gruff buff guy?” he asked, raising a brow.

You nodded. “He kind of... took me under his wing. Said something like me was too precious to waste here.”

“I agree with him,” Satoru said, his voice softening.

For a moment, silence settled between you, filled only by the sound of eating. Then, he broke it. “Come home with me,” he said, the vulnerability in his voice catching you off guard. “God knows Shoko misses you—Yaga-sensei too. I miss you.”

You hesitated, your grip tightening on your plate. “I can’t,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve gotten too used to this life.”

“Liar,” he said, his tone sharper now. “I’m not leaving until you come home with me.”

“This is my home,” you replied, setting your plate aside as your chest tightened.

“I’m your home,” Satoru said, his voice quiet but firm, his jaw tightening as his eyes bore into yours.

The words hung in the air like a challenge, daring you to deny them.

You looked away, focusing on the empty plate in your hands. “That’s not fair,” you murmured, your voice trembling ever so slightly.

“It’s the truth,” Satoru countered, setting his plate down beside him. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his crystalline eyes piercing through you. “You don’t belong here. You know that.”

Your throat tightened, and you clenched your fists. “You think I chose this?”

“I think someone made you believe you didn’t have a choice,” he said, his voice softening. “But you always have a choice. You had one when we first met, and you have one now.”

You swallowed hard, the familiar ache in your chest rising. “It’s not that simple, Satoru.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, standing up. His height, his presence—it was overwhelming, and it reminded you of how small you felt in his orbit. “What’s stopping you, really? Is it fear? Guilt? Or is it because someone here convinced you you’re only useful if you stay?”

You flinched, and he caught it. He always did.

“It’s complicated,” you said, stepping back as he stepped closer.

“Then uncomplicate it,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading.

Your back hit the wall, and suddenly, there was nowhere else to go. He stood in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, but not close enough to touch. His hands clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back.

“Satoru,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please don’t do this.”

“I have to,” he said, his voice breaking ever so slightly. “Because if I don’t, I’ll lose you. And I can’t... I won’t let that happen.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. The raw vulnerability in his words, in his eyes—it was too much.

“You think I haven’t missed you?” you asked, your voice cracking as tears welled up. “Every day, I think about what I left behind. About what we had. But I can’t go back. Not yet.”

“Why?” he asked, his voice trembling with frustration and hurt.

“Because I’m not the same person anymore,” you said, your tears finally spilling over. “And I don’t know if I can be her again.”

He reached out then, his fingers brushing against your cheek, wiping away a tear. “You don’t have to be her,” he said softly. “Just be with me. That’s all I need.”

For a moment, you let yourself lean into his touch, let yourself imagine a world where things were simple again. Where you weren’t bound by duty, by fear, by the chains you’d willingly wrapped around yourself.

But then reality crashed back in.

You tried to move away, but the sound of his fist slamming into the wall froze you. The reverberation rang in your ears, the dent just inches from your head. You stared at the deformed metal, then back at him, your chest tight with fear—or something far more complicated.

His breaths came sharp, his hand still pressed against the wall as if steadying himself. But his eyes—his eyes locked onto yours with a desperation that made you want to cry and scream all at once.

“Goddamn it, talk to me—tell me the truth.” His voice cracked, raw and unrelenting.

“This is the truth!” you snapped back, your voice trembling despite the sharpness of your words. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but this is my life now! So just—just leave. Or we can sit down, eat whatever junk you teleported for, and pretend this didn’t happen.”

You didn’t mean it. Not really. But the words flew out, your defenses building faster than you could think.

“I’m not fuckin’ leaving,” he bit out, his voice low, gravelly, and trembling with anger. “I’ll figure you out—I’ll break through this. I’m so damn tired of everyone lying to me. Leaving me.”

The last words hit you like a punch to the gut. You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him something—anything—but all you managed was a quiet, choked, “Please.”

Something in your voice stopped him. His arm dropped, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He stepped back, giving you space, though the tension between you remained, thick and suffocating.

You didn’t move at first. Your legs felt like jelly, and your heart thundered so loud you swore he could hear it. But when he finally sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, you willed yourself to follow, each step feeling heavier than the last.

He exhaled sharply, breaking the silence. “It’s fine,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “I found you. That’s all that matters.”

You hesitated before sitting beside him, close enough to feel his warmth but far enough to keep the invisible line between you intact. The food sat between you, untouched for a moment, until you quietly picked up your portion.

You ate in silence, the tension slowly ebbing, though the ache in your chest remained. Every now and then, you’d glance at him, at his furrowed brows and clenched jaw. And as much as you wanted to stay angry, to cling to the walls you’d built, a part of you wanted to reach out—to touch him, to soothe the storm raging inside him.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you focused on the meal he’d risked so much to get, the quiet words he hadn’t spoken but had been etched into every action, every look.

For now, this was enough.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Sleeping next to Satoru felt strangely natural, even after everything. The rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from him—it all felt like coming home. You hadn’t felt this kind of peace in two years, and before you knew it, you were slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But Satoru didn’t share the luxury of rest, not fully. His body craved it, sure, but his heart and mind couldn’t stop racing. He was right here, next to you, after two agonizing years of chasing ghosts and dead ends. He didn’t want to waste a second.

He studied your face like it was a map back to better days, tracing the curves and lines with his eyes, then with his fingertips. Carefully, reverently, as if you’d vanish if he pressed too hard. Your lashes fluttered slightly, but you stayed asleep, your lips parted in soft, even breaths.

His chest tightened as he leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours. Just one kiss, he thought. You wouldn’t wake up. You wouldn’t mind. Right?

The kiss was featherlight, a gentle press of lips that tasted like a bittersweet promise. Satoru stayed close for a moment longer, letting his forehead rest against yours, breathing you in.

Finally, he pulled back and exhaled slowly, threading his fingers with yours. It wasn’t just to hold you close. It was to anchor himself, to remind him that this wasn’t a dream. You were here, and for the first time in a long while, the crushing weight on his chest began to lift.

If you woke up and tried to leave, he’d know.

But more than that, he just needed to feel connected to you, even if it was only through the quiet strength of your intertwined hands.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

“I don’t understand why I’m here,” his voice echoed quietly, the calmness in his tone like it always had been, barely betraying the weight of his past decisions. “I’m... a criminal under your records.”

The room was thick with tension, the air almost vibrating with the intensity of what was at stake. The elderly voice of the higher-up rumbled through the shadows, commanding authority with its gravelly resonance.

“Yes, you are—" the voice boomed, thick with years of experience and frustration, "but in the end, you hate the Zen’in, don’t you? They want to overthrow our system, impose their own ideals—Naoya had us fooled. We thought we were making progress with him, but... no.” There was a pause, an exhale heavy with regret. “We need your help. We can’t do this without you.”

A small silence followed, like a crack in the conversation, as the man stood still, his face a mask of indifference. He didn’t move, didn’t twitch a muscle as his mind ran through all the motives, all the options laid before him.

“And why the hell would I care?” he finally spoke, his voice still flat, yet there was a deeper edge to his words now, cutting through the tension. “I have my own reasons, my own motives. Your visions, your politics—don’t concern me. And neither does the Zen'in family.”

The elderly figure in the shadows could feel the defiance in his words, the weight of years of pain and betrayal weighing heavily in his heart. But this wasn’t about politics anymore—it was personal.

“You’re different,” the voice rumbled again, with a certain conviction. “Naoya wants to eliminate sorcerers. You know he’s after Gojo, specifically. You care about him, don’t you? After all, everyone does. Isn’t that right?”

A slight shift in his expression betrayed the fact that the mention of Gojo had struck a chord.

“Sure,” he muttered, his voice softening ever so slightly as memories of his old friend flickered through his mind. “You can say that. But why do you need my help?”

“Because," the elder’s voice dropped to a more sinister level, "you were once labeled the strongest. The one who could end it all. If you help us, we won’t detain you. You won’t be a prisoner after this is over. We’ll let you vanish, disappear. Go into hiding again. No one will come after you.”

His lips twitched, a humorless chuckle escaping his throat. He turned slightly, his gaze steady as he let out a low sigh.

“You all lie,” he said, eyes narrowing, a ghost of disbelief and bitterness lurking in his voice. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because Naoya Zenin is a threat,” the elder responded with chilling finality. “He cannot—he will not—be allowed to control the jujutsu society. And neither will anyone like him. We need you to ensure that doesn’t happen. Help us, and we’ll keep our word.”

The man stood there for what seemed like an eternity, contemplating the offer. His mind was a battleground of pros and cons, the weight of the past and the present crashing together in a maelstrom. There were risks, of course. But he couldn’t stand by and watch as the world he once knew spiraled into chaos. Not without doing something.

And, if he was being honest, a small part of him still cared about the ones who had cared for him—Gojo... and you. You had been kind to him when no one else had. And perhaps... just perhaps, there was a chance to make things right.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silence, his voice broke the stillness. “I accept.”

The elder chuckled, a satisfied grin creeping across his face. “Good. You’re a smart man. Welcome back—Suguru Geto.”

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