Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘I’m sorry, but I am looking for something long term.’

Utahime’s brow twitched in irritation. The text read like something haunting her from beyond the grave. Specifically because she’d heard this before. Multiple times, actually.

She was starting to think she was cursed.

Not the kind of curse she could exorcise, unfortunately—though she’d honestly rather face down a grade one than another one of these breakup texts.

Shoko would roll her eyes, pour her a drink, and tell her she just hadn’t found the right one yet. Easy for her to say. Shoko didn’t have a pattern of men fleeing at the exact same stage—right when things started to feel serious.

She set her phone down on her desk with a sigh, rubbing at her temples. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear someone was orchestrating her failures.

Which sucked, because now wasn't the time for failure. At twenty-seven it had been made very clear to her that she either acquire a husband or have one chosen for her.

Hiroto had been a fine choice, she thought. Nice, kind, the type who held doors open, bought her flowers, even said he admired her work as a teacher. They’d only been on two dates, but she could picture it—maybe. If she squinted.

It wasn’t fireworks, but it was respectable. Stable. Far better than whatever stiff, humorless bureaucrat her parents would eventually force on her.

Which was why it stung all the more when the ‘sorry, looking for something long term’ text landed like a hammer. Two dates in. Two dates, and he was already bowing out.

No. The dates had been fine—she was sure of it. They’d laughed, found things in common, even split dessert. He’d kissed her at her apartment door, for heaven’s sake.

There was no way they had gone poorly.

She picked her phone back up and stared hard at the glowing screen.

Not this time. This time she was going to fight.

‘I am as well. I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding. Maybe we can talk over coffee?’

Her thumb hovered over the send button, heart pounding like this was some kind of battlefield maneuver instead of basic human communication. Coffee. Normal. Reasonable. Not desperate.

She hit send before she could overthink it.

The three little dots appeared instantly. Relief loosened her shoulders—until they vanished. Then appeared again. Then vanished.

She scowled. What the hell was he typing, a dissertation?

Finally, the reply pinged.

‘That’s kind, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m sorry.’

Her stomach dropped. Twice rejected in under five minutes. That had to be a new personal record.

“No way,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at her phone like it might confess. The dates had gone fine. She knew they had. So what was it then? Coincidence? Bad luck? A curse?

‘Can I ask a reason why?’

She hit send without thinking as her classroom door slid open and students poured in. She pushed her phone back into her desks drawer and stood, willing the exchange into the back of her mind.

But surely, there has to be a reason for this.

She didn’t look at her phone again until after work, not until she was back in the safety of her own home with a hot cup of tea curled on the couch. Her bag felt like a bomb, one where she was doomed to find out exactly why she was unlovable for anything more serious than a one night stand from a bar.

The instant her thumb brushed the screen, a cold pit opened in her stomach. Her notifications lit up like flashing warning signs: seven from the local idiot—and two from Hiroto.

She ignored Gojo. Seven texts, all memes, stupid selfies, probably nothing to worry about. Her pulse still thudded in her ears, a low, relentless drum.

Then she opened Hiroto’s message.

‘I assumed we’d be exclusive.’

Then a photo.

Her eyes widened at the image. Her own face, soft, flushed, unguarded, was pressed against a shoulder. Her hair tousled, her lips slightly parted in sleep, alluring in a way only her drunk self could be. She traced the cream frill of her off-the-shoulder top—it was what she had worn last weekend to bar hop with old friends, the biweekly tradition.

She studied the shoulder she leaned against. Broad. Familiar. But maybe she was imagining it. Maybe it was just some stranger from the bar who happened to have the same build, the same shade of shirt. It could be anyone.

And yet...

A shiver ran down her spine, a tiny, stubborn prick of recognition she couldn’t quite shake.

No. No. She shook her head slightly, willing herself to breathe normally, to dismiss the thought. Just a shoulder. Could be anyone. Right?

Still, the pit in her stomach didn’t ease, her palms damp against the phone.

She shoved the infernal device onto the coffee table and wrapped her hands around her mug, then stared at the blank screen from afar. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, louder as time went on.

It’s just a shoulder. Just a shoulder. Don’t read too much into it.

She had been drunk, tired, careless. The world was full of shoulders. Broad, soft, just-leaning-on-shoulders that had nothing to do with the man-child shed known for over ten years. Absolutely nothing.

But she couldn’t stop staring at the cream frill of her top, the dark navy shirt she rested against, the sliver of a hand she could see wrapped around her wrist. It all felt familiar. Too familiar. Her stomach clenched at the thought, and a small, irrational panic bubbled under her ribs.

Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she was imagining patterns where none existed.

It has to be someone else.

That’s the rational thought, the one she clung to desperately.

She sipped her tea, hoping it would soothe her jittery nerves, but the warmth in her hands didn’t reach the pit in her stomach. She replayed the night in her mind: who she had talked to, laughed with, leaned against. The memory was fuzzy, fragmented. But somehow, just somehow, the image in her phone wouldn’t let her go.

Her fingers itched to call Shoko, to have someone reassure her that she was being paranoid, hell have her tell her again that this man just wasn't ‘the one’. That she was safe. That was normal. That wasn’t a reality where the delusion was right.

And yet, beneath the layers of denial, a tiny, infuriating thought started to worm its way through.

Satoru Gojo.

She shook her head violently, muttering to herself.

No. Just a shoulder. It could be anyone.

But even as she tried to force the thought away, a small, reluctant corner of her mind whispered the truth she wasn’t ready to admit.

This was exactly the kind of stunt he would pull.

Chapter Text

The train ride was dull, the windows dripping with rain droplets and the skies over casted with grey the whole way to Tokyo.

She had kept the picture to herself for a full week, unsure how to even approach the topic. It had only been a year since her parents had gotten serious about her marrying, and six months since she started a genuine search on her own.

Happiness would come from something tolerable, something that she could learn to find comfortable, she had decided then, fully giving up on some teenage version of love that would find her. Like most people within the clans, her parents would go with whatever match would seat them with more power. Regardless of her wishes. If it came down to it, that is.

She was lucky in that regard, at least. Her parents did care for her, wanted her to follow her own path, but the path of a sorcerer is set in stone.

Fight. Die. Or produce for the next generation. Regardless of your status.

As a teacher, and nearing her thirties, she had already made her path clear. After her accident she decided the children that came after her would be better off with someone that cared.

Especially after what had happened. To her and her friends.

Semi-grade one would be her stopping point. And marriage and children would be the next goal, whether she liked it or not.

She frowned, leaning her head against the cool glass of the window, and sighed.

Could she even see herself with kids? A husband? A life outside of what it was like now?

She closed her eyes, staring at the darkness of her eyelids, seeing nothing.

The thought alone made something twist uncomfortably inside her. She tried to imagine it—a kitchen light, someone waiting for her, laughter echoing off the walls—but the image flickered and fell apart before it could take shape. She couldn’t see herself sitting still that long, couldn’t see her hands idle, couldn’t see herself belonging anywhere that quiet.

What kind of wife would she even be? The kind that checks the windows for curses before bed? The kind that leaves halfway through dinner because something started screaming three blocks over? The kind that came home covered in blood and bruised so deeply she can barely walk?

She huffed a quiet laugh, humorless.

The rain outside thickened, blurring the world into silver streaks. For a moment, she watched her own faint reflection in the glass—eyes tired, shoulders drawn in—and wondered if she’d already made peace with being alone.

Or if she’d just gotten used to it.

The train began to slow, the overhead lights flickering as the conductor’s voice droned something about arrival and exits. She straightened automatically, brushing a hand over her jeans, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as though any of it mattered.

Tokyo.

The city lights bled through the storm, bright enough to make the wet streets shine. Even through the fogged window she could make out the movement—the press of umbrellas, headlights, life continuing in the rain. She stepped off the train and was hit with the smell of wet concrete and diesel, the noise of evening crowds rushing for shelter.

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. A message from Shoko.

‘Already at the bar. You’re late. Bring an appetite. And maybe trauma support.'

A faint smile tugged at her lips. Some things never changed, thankfully.

She swiped to the local ride app for a cab, unfurling her umbrella as she stepped into the elements to wait on the curb. It arrived quickly, and she slipped inside without notice.

The ride was uneventful, the car warm and smelling faintly of citrus cleaner. Outside, the rain kept drumming against the windows in a soft rhythm. She watched the city pass by in smeared colors—neon signs melting into puddles, storefronts flashing by too quickly to read. The driver hummed quietly along to a pop song on the radio, and for a moment she almost envied him—the simplicity of having a destination and nothing heavier to carry.

When the car turned down a narrow side street, the noise dulled. The bar was tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a laundromat, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. The yellow light spilling out onto the slick pavement looked almost soft in the rain, almost inviting. The kind of place you only found if you already knew it was there.

She thanked the driver and stepped out, closing her umbrella with a snap before ducking under the awning before the rain could stick to her clothes. The sign above the door flickered once, humming faintly, and she let herself smile.

Shoko always picked places like this—half hidden, half falling apart, but with the best sake in the city.

She took a slow breath, wiped the rain from her sleeve, and pushed open the door.

Warm air and the smell of grilled skewers hit her immediately, wrapping around her like a blanket. The low hum of conversation filled the small space, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses.

It didn’t take long to spot her.

Shoko sat at a corner table, legs crossed, cigarette balanced lazily between her lips, a bottle of beer already waiting. Her gaze flicked up at the sound of the door, eyes narrowing in faint amusement as she recognized her.

She slid into the seat across from her, setting her phone down on the table with a soft click. The chair creaked as she leaned back, studying her friend. Shoko looked exactly the same—tired, sharp-eyed, beautiful in that effortless, dangerous way.

“So,” Shoko called, voice dry. “What brings you here on an off week?”

Her stomach twisted instantly, and suddenly she was glad she’d placed her phone face down on the table.

“Can’t a girl visit her favorite doctor without an interrogation?” she deflected, reaching for the bottle of beer laid out for her.

Shoko exhaled as if the cigarette in her mouth were lit, eyes half-lidded and unimpressed. “You could,” she said, “but you don’t. Not unless you’re dying or gossiping. And since you’re still breathing…”

“Rude,” she pouted, pouring herself a glass.

“Accurate,” Shoko countered, “You’re supposed to come next week. What’s with the schedule change?”

She shrugged, studying the way the bottle of beer in her palm caught the lights overhead. “Just needed a change of scenery.”

“Mhm.” Shoko leaned forward, chin propped on one hand, her smirk returning. “Something’s eating at you.”

The silence stretched between them until the waitress arrived with skewers. Shoko thanked her with a nod, still watching closely.

Finally, Shoko broke it with a quiet, “You know, for someone who teaches kids about keeping calm under pressure, you’re a terrible liar.”

Utahime sighed, rubbing a thumb over the rim of her bottle. The words sat heavy on her tongue, simple but somehow embarrassing to say out loud.

“It’s my parents,” she admitted finally.

Shoko’s brow rose. “They’re not sick, are they?”

“No.” She took a sip, staring into her drink. “Just...persistent.”

“Persistent?”

Utahime gave a short, humorless laugh. “About me getting married.”

Shoko leaned back, the smirk creeping back in. “Ah. You said something about that a few months ago. The great clan tradition of subtle emotional warfare.”

“More like constant reminders that I’m not getting any younger,” she said, scowling. “They’ve started sending pictures again. Prospects. Family introductions. It’s like they want me to pick one from some lineup.”

“Maybe you should send some back, pick someone who has scars and lined with tattoos, they will love that,” Shoko said dryly.

Utahime rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased a little. “It’s not funny. They’re serious this time. They said if I don’t start taking it seriously, they’ll start arranging meetings themselves.”

Shoko gave a low whistle. “They’re pulling out the old clan tactics, huh?”

“Apparently, being single at my age means I’ve brought shame upon the family name.”

Shoko raised her glass in mock sympathy. “Tragic. Truly. The horror of an independent woman.”

“Shut up,” Utahime said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“You came all the way to Tokyo to complain about your parents?”

“Maybe,” she lied.

Shoko’s eyes glinted as she leaned forward. “So, tell me—does this sudden anxiety have anything to do with that guy you were seeing?”

Utahime froze halfway through her drink. “What guy?”

Shoko gave her a look that could peel paint. “Don’t play dumb. The one from Kyoto. The civil servant or accountant or whatever he was, grade two but out of the force. You came in last month insisting he was ‘nice’ in that voice that means you hate him.”

Utahime groaned, covering her face with one hand. “He was nice.”

“Yeah, that voice,” Shoko said dryly. “What happened?”

Utahime didn’t answer. Instead, she went for her phone, unlocking it and swiping quickly to the last conversation she’d had with Hiroto.

She pushed the screen across the table toward Shoko, wordless.

Shoko raised an eyebrow, picking up the phone and scanning the messages. A slow grin spread across her face, one that knew exactly what she was looking at. “Ah. So this is what’s got you wound tighter than a cursed spring.”

Utahime leaned back, crossing her arms, pretending nonchalance. “Go ahead. Read it. Tell me what you think.”

Shoko's fingers pinched and pulled the screen, scanning the image.

“Oh, that's him alright,” she said, laughing dryly.

She hated that she didn't even need to ask. That the question was clear just from a glance. Venom coiled in her throat, ready to coat her words.

“It’s him, Shoko. He’s the one ruining all my prospects,” she finally snapped.

Heat rose in her chest, a familiar, searing fury. Gojo, the only person who could make her this angry. The infuriatingly careless, infuriatingly charming idiot. She clenched her fingers around her bottle of beer, jaw tight, mind buzzing with every stupid thing he’d done to her since they were teenagers.

Shoko set the phone down gently in front of her and shrugged. “He was saving you from yourself,” she said lightly. “He wasn’t the right one. And knowing you, you'd settle just to get your parents to shut up.”

Utahime stared at the screen, tension still coiling in her chest, ready to explode in the way she always did when it came to Gojo.

“Why does he get to decide that? About him—and the three before that?!”

Shoko leaned back, smirking faintly. “You didn’t even like the last three, did you?”

Utahime opened her mouth, then hesitated.

“And you don’t know that Gojo messed with any of them,” Shoko continued, voice sharper now, cutting through the heat of her anger. “So maybe he was just…keeping you from wasting time on the wrong people. He knows you just as well as I do. And you don't like to listen.”

Her chest tightened, her thoughts twisting in on themselves. Each notion bounced off the next. Gojo…keeping her from wasting time? What did that even mean? No one had the right to decide who was right for her—not him, not anyone.

Her fingers drummed against the table, jerky and impatient, betraying the tension coiling beneath her calm exterior. She took a furious swig of her drink, ready to get roaring drunk, tension radiating off her in waves.

Then—

A sudden shift in the air. A presence beside her.

She jumped slightly, finally looking up, and froze. Gojo was there, sliding into the seat next to her like was just running late. Her jaw tightened, heat rising in her chest. She hadn’t sensed him coming. Hadn’t even noticed until he was right there.

She turned sharply to Shoko, eyes blazing. “Did you tell him I was here?”

Shoko gave a casual shrug, lips twitching with suppressed amusement. “Maybe. I might have said something earlier.”

Shoko pushed back her chair and stood, grabbing her coat. “I’ll be outside for a smoke,” she said lightly, already moving toward the door.

Utahime watched her go, jaw tight. As soon as Shoko disappeared through the door, a string of curses began forming in her mind.

She had specifically refrained from texting or calling Shoko about the picture because of her close proximity to Gojo. There was no telling when he was near or what lengths he would go to torture her.

So, she had waited, asked her to meet up on a Friday night that she normally wouldn't be here.

Her jaw clenched, eyes flicking to Gojo beside her.

He leaned back slightly, grin spreading across his face, teaming with mischief. “Wow,” he said, almost singing, “Hime, if you glare like that too much your face might freeze like that," he said, offering a fake frown of concern.

“You weren’t invited,” she snapped, voice rising. “And don’t call me that,” she said, then returned to inspecting the label on her beer, trying to ignore the stares Gojo was already eliciting from the small establishment.

“Always so mean,” Gojo pouted, fingers flipping to the back of a menu for whatever sugar monstrosity he could find.

Utahime’s eyes snapped toward Gojo again, ready to explode. “Do you realize everyone is staring? You’re an idiot wearing a blindfold in public! And reading a menu while doing it!”

"What? It’s fashionable. And mysterious.”

“Fashionable? Mysterious?!” her voice rose, hands gesturing in exasperation. “You look like a lunatic! People are staring at you!”

Gojo leaned back again, grin still in place. “Hey, I had a mission before this. Can’t be helped. Maybe you shouldn’t just show up randomly in Tokyo next time either.”

“Randomly? I planned this!”

“Then maybe don’t ignore me—then I won’t have to crash your girl date,” he hummed, snapping the menu shut.

She wanted to growl, to scream, to take his blindfold and choke him with it. His version of a conversation was sending her random pictures and memes he thought were funny. Multiple times. Every day.

“Besides, who's going to make sure you get home?” he said, grinning into the air like he was about to win some contest, “Hiroto?”

The word landed squarely on her, a spark igniting a fury only Gojo could provoke. She had no words—just the sharp, simmering rage that always followed him.

She pressed her lips together, forcing a calm she didn’t feel, gathering herself in seconds with the sheer will of not wanting to lose. Not this time.

“Hiroto? He’s…at work today,” she said casually.

Gojo’s grin faltered for a split second, just long enough for her to feel a tiny flicker of victory.

“Oh yeah?” he said, turning fully to her, teaming with renewed mischief. “Is that so?”

“Yup,” she said, popping the word, “things are great with us, he would be here, but you know how it is.”

“Really.”

She fixed her gaze on the tabletop, careful not to let even a flicker of emotion show. But beneath the surface, she let herself savor the way his voice flattened at the notion that his antics had failed, for once. It was a small, private victory—and it felt delicious.

She wanted more.

“Yeah, really. Things are…great with us. So good, in fact, that we might even get married someday,” she added, keeping her tone light, like some teenager in love.

“Interesting.”

The word hit her like ice. No grin, no sparkle in his voice—just a flat, unreadable tone.

She paused, the victory curdling.

Shit.

“God, I feel better now,” Shoko’s voice broke the tension as she slid back into her seat, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to her coat. Her gaze lifted to Gojo, “so how was the mission?”

Gojo’s grin returned, wide as ever. “Gross, smelled like death. Grade One, though—totally reckless. Took it out solo, and let me tell you—”

Utahime closed her eyes, willing his voice out of her mind as he bragged endlessly. She was still stuck on what had just happened, the horror she had just invited.

How royally screwed she had made herself.

Ten years, and she knew when Gojo was thinking, planning, being his worst.

And that had been it.

Fuck.