Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Utahime’s first thought that morning was the scent.

The light through the curtains was the same pale Kyoto dawn as always—but the air itself felt different on her tongue. Dense. Sweet in a way that clung to the back of her throat. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if she was imagining it.

Then an ache behind her neck flared, a dull throb that pulsed down to her shoulders. It was enough to get her to move, if only to get it to stop.

When she swung her legs over the bed, the floor was cool enough to make her hiss. Even that felt wrong—like her body couldn’t calibrate to the world anymore. Her wrists ached, a thin, restless burn that made her rub them together before realizing how sensitive the skin felt.

Maybe she’d caught something. A flu, or a curse with an offset. She tried to laugh at that, the sound weak even to her own ears.

Still, she moved to get ready for the day as usual.

The kettle warmed in the kitchen while she leaned against the counter, eyes half-lidded. The faint bitterness of green tea filled the kitchen—and still, under it, something else. A thread of sweetness that wasn’t hers, wasn’t the tea, wasn’t anything familiar. It made her stomach twist.

By the time she locked her front door, every seam of fabric felt too tight. Her throat was dry, her chest too heavy, and she couldn’t stop swallowing. The train ride to Kyoto Campus was a blur of scent and static—too much perfume, too much sweat, too much everything. She pressed her sleeve against her nose, breathing through the cloth just to keep from gagging.

The city outside looked normal, and that was somehow worse.

If she’d woken up to screams or curses in the streets, at least the world would have made sense.

Instead, everything went on as usual—just sharper, louder, alive in a way that set her teeth on edge.

She made a note to stop by the infirmary when she got in. Maybe Shoko could tell her she was dying of something mundane through a video call.

But as the train slowed into the station, a flicker of unease ran up her spine. Her pulse picked up for no reason she could name.

By the time she stepped through the campus gates, her nerves were frayed raw. Something was off. Wrong.

The air shimmered faintly with residual cursed energy, threads of it crawling along the wards. That wasn’t unusual on a bad day—but the smell was. Metallic, sharp, and sweet. Like blood mixed with spring blossoms.

She stopped just inside the courtyard, scanning. Paper seals—thick ones, drawn in Tengen’s unmistakable script—fluttered against every doorway.

Her stomach dropped.

Tengen’s talismans? That never happened. Not unless…

A manager she recognized hurried past with an armful of charms, muttering something about containment protocols.

“Utahime, go back inside,” he called, breathless. “Orders from above. No one unassigned should be outside right now.”

She ignored him, of course.

Her steps carried her toward the nearest dormitory almost on their own. She could feel the air vibrating. Some of the students she passed inside looked pale, sweat beading at their temples; others just irritated, confused, picking at their uniforms like the fabric itched.

Managers were frantic, pushing them into rooms and sticking the papers over top. Barriers that would seal them inside for who knows how long.

“Sensei?” one girl called weakly as she studied seal on the wall. “What’s happening?”

“Stay inside,” Utahime said gently. “Don’t open the door for anyone until we lift the talismans. Understood?”

The girl nodded. Her pupils were blown wide. And Utahime shut the door and let an administrator seal her inside.

By the third years dorms, her head was swimming again. The same sweetness in the air, but thicker now, coating her tongue. Every breath felt like fire.

What is this? A curse field?

No. She’d know that kind of energy anywhere. This wasn’t external—it was everywhere, leaking out of people like heat.

She finished pressing a talisman to a frame and straightened, wiping sweat from her brow. That’s when she saw them—the faculty, gathered across the courtyard through the window of the door.

And at the center, unmistakable even at a distance, was Gojo.

He was talking animatedly, hands slicing through the air, the usual smug grin carved across his face. Multiple members already looked like they wanted to die, withering under his antics.

And yet—her pulse jumped. Not the usual ‘oh god he’s talking again’ irritation—something low, electric, dragging down her spine. She pushed through the doors of the final dormitory and stepped outside.

He turned toward her.

It was subtle at first, a shift in his posture, the smile faltering as though someone had flipped a switch. Then the air changed again. Dense. Charged.

Her knees almost gave out. It hit her like a taste—savory, rich, something that filled her lungs and rolled across her tongue like umami. She froze, swallowing like it was real.

Gojo stiffened too. The muscles in his jaw flexed; his head tilted, blindfold catching the light. For one suspended heartbeat, they just stood there, caught in the same invisible current.

Then—

“Gojo! We move now!”

Gakuganji’s bark shattered the air. The tension snapped like a wire. Gojo turning to the man with a jump.

She blinked hard, realizing she’d taken a step forward without meaning to.

Gojo didn’t look back. He turned toward the massive inked circle painted on the ground, its lines glowing faintly with cursed energy—a teleportation array big enough for an army.

She paused at the sight, breathless.

They’re teleporting the entire faculty?

That had never happened before. Not for anything.

She straightened, forcing her voice steady, and approached her colleges. “What’s going on?”

“Briefing in Tokyo,” someone answered, already stepping into the circle.

Gojo glanced over his shoulder, a smirk snapping back into place. “You’re late, Utahime.”

“Shut up,” she snapped automatically, but he didn’t bite. Didn’t even grin. Just turned away and waited for her to step inside his spell. She did, silent, trying to focus on her breathing, and let the light swallow her whole.

The world snapped back into focus with the cold clarity—and the heavy scent of too many people packed into one space.

Utahime staggered a step, bracing a hand against her thigh until her vision steadied. Around her, the grand lecture hall of Tokyo Tech buzzed with noise and heat, the air thrumming with restrained panic.

The room wasn’t built for this many. It felt too small, too bright, too alive.

She spotted Shoko across the crowd as she was herded away from the circle and almost sagged in relief. Pushing through the crush, she caught her friend’s sleeve. “Shoko. What the hell is going on?”

Shoko’s brow was damp, her face paler than usual. Even she looked strained. “I don’t know,” she said, voice hoarse. “They called everyone in ten minutes ago. It’s bad.”

Shoko fished something from her pocket and handed it over: a simple medical mask. “Put this on. It’s helping a little.”

She hesitated, but pressure in her chest was unbearable now, like her own heartbeat was pulsing against her ribs. She tugged the mask on, inhaled—

—and exhaled, relief short-lived. It dulled the edge of the air but didn’t erase it. The world still smelled: sharp edges of people she knew, threaded with faint, metallic sweetness underneath.

“Thanks,” she said. Shoko nodded and turned, pulling her up one of the set of stairs and towards the back of the room, finding a pair of seats in the packed space and setting them down. It was better here—quieter, like the gazes couldn’t reach her anymore. She’d never been the type to care about attention, but right now it scraped against her skin.

Through the mask’s thin filter, her thoughts began to settle. She scanned the room: teachers, sorcerers, faculty, even windows packed along the walls. Her stomach twisted as she counted heads—more appearing every second as Gojo’s teleportation ring flared, depositing groups who were quickly ushered aside.

Not everyone seemed as affected as she and Shoko. Maybe a fifth of the room wore masks. The rest were alert, tense, eyes darting as if waiting for something—someone—to snap.

Her eyes flicked toward the stage again as the air shifted. A flare of cursed light streaked across the floor, and in an instant, Gojo and Geto materialized through the teleportation array.

Gojo’s hair caught the overhead light, haloed with that impossible white, his blindfold hanging around his neck, face unguarded. Utahime’s stomach turned violently; she had to grip her chair. A scent hit her full force—warm, savory, intoxicating, suffocating—and it made her nearly gag. Geto was beside him, calm and controlled, but her attention refused to shift. All of it—the crowd, the papers, the murmurs—blurred around Gojo. The man was a storm, and she was caught in its eye.

Her knees ached; her skin prickled under her clothes. Even through the mask, she could taste him on her tongue: ozone, salt, heat, an underlying sweetness that clawed at her resolve.

Someone whispered Shoko’s name. Utahime blinked, shaking herself. She tried to focus, to force her eyes elsewhere—but Gojo’s gaze had lifted, up towards the back of the room, and held her there. Her body betrayed her, tightening painfully with every instinct she couldn’t name.

The low hum of voices cut off when Principal Yaga stepped onto the stage. Gojo finally turned from her, and she watched the back of his head move to the opposite side of the room. She willed herself away from him, almost painfully, and to Yaga standing at the podium.

For once, he didn’t look relaxed. His hands were steady, but his jaw was tight. “Everyone,” he began, his deep voice carrying through the hall. “Thank you for arriving so quickly.”

No one breathed.

Yaga glanced at the packet an assistant was passing out—fresh from the printer, still warm, the top page littered with typos. She took one, staring at the header.

Emergency Notice: Seal Disruption Event.

Yaga took a slow breath. “This morning, at approximately 5:27 A.M., the containment seal placed upon the innate instincts of sorcerers was broken.”

The words hit like a curse.

Murmurs rippled through the room, rising into shouts.

“A seal—what kind of—?”

“How long has it—?”

“What instincts—?”

Yaga’s hand slammed down on the podium. “Enough.”

The sound carried something under it—something that hit her square in the chest, forcing the air from her lungs. Her body obeyed, before her mind could question it, stilling instantly.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Yaga looked shaken by it, but kept going. “We’ve uncovered documentation from before the sealing. A classification system—an ancient hierarchy that ranked sorcerers not by strength, but by…by biological nature.” He hesitated, as if the words themselves were dangerous. “Alpha. Beta. Omega.”

The room erupted again, louder this time. People ripped off their masks, some shouting, some wheezing. The scent in the room was turning oppressive—sharp, thick, alive.

Shoko leaned forward, hands gripping her knees, whispering, “I can’t breathe.”

Utahime tried to focus on the paper in her lap, but the letters swam. Her skin burned. The pulse in her neck was a drumbeat she couldn’t calm.

“Quiet!” Yaga barked again. The force of it made her head jerk.

He looked grim now, eyes dark beneath his heavy brows. “Not even Tengen can recreate the seal. This change is permanent. You will all need to adapt. Read the packet carefully and report to myself or Gakuganji with any immediate complications.”

Her chest heaved. The mask was suffocating now, the air thick with something heavy and—god, it was him.

That scent again. Ozone, salt, and warmth. Savory, intoxicating—

Gojo.

Her fingers clenched around the edge of her chair. She couldn’t see him in the crowd, but she didn’t need to. The smell of him was everywhere, threading through the chaos, curling around her like smoke.

Her vision tunneled.

“Utahime?” Shoko’s voice was distant.

She couldn’t answer. Could barely sit still. The air was too hot, her pulse too high. Something in her knew that if she didn’t move now, she’d suffocate.

Before Yaga could finish another sentence, Utahime was already on her feet.

Someone shouted her name, but she was gone—slipping through the crowd, out of the room, down the corridor. It stretched endlessly, walls blurring at the edges of her vision. Every footstep echoed too loudly, each sound amplified by the blood pounding in her ears.

She didn’t think. Instincts she didn't understand carried her forward, dragging her through the building. Every scent she passed—metal, perfume, sweat—spiked her nerves, but none of them mattered. Only one signature threaded through them all, pulling at her like a lodestone.

Her head swam. Thoughts tangled and slipped through her grasp. She tried to focus, to conjure something coherent, but her body was already ahead of her, reacting before her mind could catch up. Doors flew past, some locked, some barred by talismans. She ignored them all, her hand brushing against walls for guidance, her mask doing little to temper the heat rising in her chest.

Breath came in short, sharp bursts. Her stomach clenched, legs trembling, but she couldn’t stop.

A corner came into view, then another, and finally a familiar plaque on the door.

Satoru Gojo.

Her pace faltered, legs threatening to give out beneath her, and pushed inside.

The room was alive with him. The lingering traces of his scent filled the air—warm, savory, and utterly overwhelming. Her knees buckled, and she pressed a hand to the doorframe, steadying herself and ripping off the mask.

She inhaled, shallow, frantic. The air here was thick with him. Every fiber of her body screamed at her, aching to touch, to breathe him in fully.

“Gojo…” she whispered, barely a breath, more to the room than the man.

Her chest heaved. The silence of the office pressed down on her. She stumbled forwards, catching herself on his desk, her body leaning over ungraded papers.

A sudden pulse of energy drew her attention, turning her body back towards the door with feverish attention.

One that wasn't her own.

Gojo stepped through the doorway, chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon.

He froze mid-step when he caught sight of her. Light caught the strands of his hair, haloing him, and the scent hit her like a tidal wave. Warm, sharp—overpowering enough to make her stomach twist violently. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she planted them firmly, desperate for control.

Gojo’s hand held Yaga’s thick packet loosely, paper crumpling slightly in his grip. He glanced down at it, then back at her, his brows furrowing. “Utahime…” His voice was low, rough, a growl hiding behind the words. Empty of his usual teasing antics.

“I—” She shook her head, trying to force rationality into the whirlpool of heat and tension clawing at her chest. “I don’t…I don’t know what’s happening.”

He took a cautious step closer, though every movement seemed heavy, like he was moving through water. His eyes were wide, unfocused, yet sharp, scanning her body like he was trying to memorize it in seconds. The air between them was charged, thick with the smell of him, and something in her curled tight, coiling into instinct before thought could even surface.

Gojo’s gaze flicked to the packet in his hand, then back at her, jaw tightening. The pulse in his neck and wrists betrayed him—swollen and urgent. Every instinct was screaming, and neither of them knew what to do with it.

“I—I can’t—” He shook his head, frustrated, and the words caught in his throat. His hand twitched, almost reaching out to steady her, to touch, to do something.

Gojo’s eyes widened at his words, pupils dark, swallowing the sharp blue hues, as he took a shaky step closer. He gripped the packet in one hand, but his other hand twitched almost unconsciously.

Her stomach flipped violently at the sight of him so close, and she pressed her back into his desk, the edge of it digging into her spine. The air between them vibrated with something primal, and every instinct in her screamed to run—but she couldn’t move.

Before she could react, his hands were on her upper arms and he guided her backward toward the couch against a far wall.

And then, almost before she could comprehend it, he swept her down onto his thigh, her knees pushing against the inside of the opposite leg. His chest pressed lightly against her side, the faint warmth of his body overwhelming. The scent of him hit her full force. She squirmed in his grasp, one large hand planted firmly on her waist, holding her there as if to keep her from fleeing.

“I… I can’t focus,” he growled, voice low and ragged, thumb brushing unconsciously along her hip. “You—read it. Out loud.”

Her throat went dry. Her instincts screamed both protest and obedience, and before she could think, she took the packet from him. His hand brushed against her wrist as she grasped the pages, and she froze for a moment. She tried to pull away, tried to protest, but her body refused. Every nerve ending was alive, buzzing with tension and heat she couldn’t name.

“Just…read it,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes half-lidded, utterly unseeing of anything except the way her body responded to him.

Her voice wavered as she began to read, words from the packet sounding strange and heavy in the office air. “Betas—generally unaffected by the release of the seal, their instincts minimal compared to Alphas and Omegas…”

She trailed off for a moment, eyes flicking up at him. Gojo’s gaze was dark, unblinking, fixed on her as though memorizing her in a way that made her chest tighten. His other hand flexed against his leg, restless.

Then, almost without thought, he reached for one of her hands and pried it from the packet, rubbing the inside of it against his own, pinning it against his chest. She froze—the skin there hot, sensitive, nerves flaring under the touch. He released her and raised his hand to her face, the subtle warmth and scent hit her full force.

It was intoxicating. Metallic and musky, with that unmistakable savory edge she hadn’t realized she’d been craving. She caught her breath, trying to force the words out, trying to stay composed, but her voice was trembling.

His wrist was red and swollen, like hers, and the instinctive recognition of it made her whimper quietly under her breath as he dragged it down her neck. He retracted his hand at the sound, returning it to where it had come from with a sharp inhale.

“Keep reading,” he whispered, voice rough, almost pleading. His wrist pressed lightly against her own again, the scent enveloping her, unravelling her thoughts.

She swallowed hard, letting her voice carry the next line, obeying anyways. “Omegas—small, sensitive, the pairing to an Alpha—”

Gojo inhaled sharply, his presence suffocating and magnetic. Her fingers twitched on the packet, on his wrist—every part of her body alive and responding to him in a way neither of them understood as she spoke.

Omegas. Small. Submissive. Made for an Alpha in every way.

Her voice shook as she moved to the next section. “Alphas—large, stronger instincts, heightened awareness of Omegas. Dominant tendencies manifest physically and chemically…often unconsciously. Interaction with Omegas can trigger—”

Gojo’s wrist pressed lightly, insistently, against hers again, warm and swollen, almost pulsing. His scent rolled over her in waves again. Her breath caught, chest tightening, body responding in ways she had no words for.

Her fingers trembled on the packet—and instinctively, she pressed her wrist into his, letting the heat and pressure connect. It was tentative at first, a testing touch, but the reaction was immediate. His muscles tensed, and the scent intensified, wrapping around her like a living thing.

Her words stammered slightly, but she forced herself to continue. “Alphas are attuned to Omegas’ pheromones…even subtle signals can trigger behavioral and physiological responses. The stronger the Alpha, the more—”

She paused, aware of the growl rumbling low in his chest, unfamiliar even to her ears, and the packet fell from her grasp. Every instinct in her body twisted, straining toward him.

Gojo’s eyes fluttered closed briefly, inhaling through his nose. “Don’t stop…read it,” he rasped, voice rough, strained, as if the act of her reading aloud was the only way he could keep himself sane. She reached for the packet in her lap, grasping it again with trembling fingers and finding her place on the first page.

She swallowed, pulse hammering, wrist still pressed to his, and continued, voice quieter, more intimate, “…even subtle signals can trigger behavioral and physiological responses. The stronger the Alpha, the more—powerful the effect on nearby Omegas.”

The words hung between them, alive and electric. Her body hummed under his touch, under the heat and the scent, and even as her rational mind struggled to stay anchored, her instincts—their instincts—were taking over.

Because there was no doubt about it.

Satoru Gojo was an Alpha.

And Utahime Iori was an Omega.

Chapter Text

“Utahime!” 

The fog in her mind cracked, light bleeding in through the fissures. Everything rushed back too fast. Her pulse thundered in her throat, her skin flushed and trembling, her lungs dragging in the heavy, charged air. 

Gojo’s eyes snapped open—too bright, too wild, like someone waking mid-fall. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. They just stared at each other, wide-eyed, caught between awareness and something too raw to name. Their breaths mingled, shallow and uneven, the air between them humming with the echo of what they’d just done. 

Reality came in fragments. The thick scent clinging to her skin. The heat curling low in her stomach. The weight of his hand still firm around her waist, his fingers trembling just slightly. Their wrists still pressed together, swollen and throbbing, as if the contact might soothe the ache it caused. 

The packet slipped from her grip again, tumbling uselessly to the floor. 

“Utahime! We have to go! Now!” 

The voice broke through this time—Shoko. She knew it was Shoko. Rationally, she knew from her tone that this was serious. But her body wouldn’t listen. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t even look away. 

Fourteen years of bickering and exasperation, of sharp words and easy rhythms, of pretending they didn’t understand each other—and now she was looking into the same sea-blue eyes that had always glittered with mischief, only to find them stripped bare. 

There was no grin, no teasing spark—just something raw and startled. 

A sharp inhale snagged in her throat. 

Whatever barrier that had always kept them separate felt suddenly, terrifyingly thin. 

“Gojo!” 

Another voice—deeper, urgent—cut through the air. 

Geto. 

The sound hit Gojo like a live wire. 

He shifted beneath her, muscles locking under her own. The soft confusion in his expression vanished, replaced by something older, sharper, animal. The room seemed to hold its breath a second before a sound tore out of him—a low, guttural growl that made the air tremble. 

It rolled through her spine where she sat on his thigh, reverberating inside her bones. 

“Gojo—” she managed, but her voice cracked, her throat dry from the thick, electric air between them. 

He didn’t look at her. His focus was fixed on the doorway, on the energy pressing in from beyond it—familiar, but wrong. 

It wasn’t cursed energy. 

It was heavier. Denser. Something that resonated against the primal thrum still curling beneath her skin. 

Something new. 

The moment stretched, soundless—then shattered. 

Gojo snapped, eyes blazing with pale, fractured light. The hand on her waist rose, fingers threading against one another. The air distorted before she even registered the movement. Pressure hit like a wave—sound bending, walls groaning, the world itself recoiling under the force of it. 

“Gojo—wait!” Shoko’s voice broke through, sharp with alarm. 

Too late. 

His power surged outward in a pulse of instinct. Utahime felt it before she saw it—the sting of static against her skin, the room vibrating with restrained violence. 

There was a dull thud, a rush of displaced air, and both Shoko and Geto were flung backward out the door, the space between them sealed with a shimmer of warped light. 

She gasped, hands clutching his shirt as the distortion settled. 

He was breathing hard now, jaw tight, eyes unfocused—still half-caught between awareness and the wild instinct driving him. His arm came around her again, anchoring her to him like a reflex, pulling her body closer like it was life or death. 

Her heart stuttered. She could feel every tremor in him—the ripple of his pulse against her chest, the heat, the confusion. 

Then— 

Scent him. 

The thought didn’t sound like her. It wasn’t words so much as command, slicing through her panic and reason alike, the echo of it pounding in her skull. 

Scent him. 

Her body reacted before her mind caught up, instincts clawing at the edges of her composure. She could smell him everywhere—the sharp, electric edge of ozone layered beneath something darker, richer, achingly familiar—and suddenly her throat felt too tight, her fingers trembling where they clung to him. 

Then, Geto’s words cut through the charged air, his body filling the cracked frame of the doorway once more.  

“Utahime...move, or Satoru will hurt you.” 

The second he said it, something inside Gojo snapped further. His head whipped toward Geto again, eyes flashing with pale, untamed light. A guttural growl ripped from his chest, low, feral, and trembling with raw protective instinct. 

Scent him. 

Utahime’s heart leapt into her throat. She could feel the vibration of his growl through her bones, the pressure of his energy pressing outward, pushing the very air away from him. Every muscle beneath her tensed, pulling her closer as if her body were a lifeline he couldn’t let go. 

Scent him. 

Gojo lunged forward slightly, just enough to warn, her body coiled into his the only thing stopping him. The growl deepened, vibrating through the floor, through her, shaking everything in the room.  

Scent your Alpha now! 

Her mind screamed at her in shards of instinct. Every fiber of her being buzzed with the pull of his presence, the raw surge of his protective spiral, the urgent, undeniable demand to respond. Her breaths came fast, her fingers gripped harder, and then suddenly, a surge. 

Her wrists moved on their own, both of them landing against either side of his neck. The reaction was immediate, a tether that bridged the storm raging inside him. His body relaxed beneath her, the taut coil of muscle softening. His head dipped slightly toward her, eyes wide but no longer wild—alert, attentive, wholly present. 

She dragged the swell of the inside of her wrists down, pushing and folding the collar of his coat, fighting the instinctive urge to whimper. The contact hummed between them, a pulse that anchored them both. 

Slowly, his hand rose to cup her face. Then, almost in echo, she felt the same touch mirrored, a wave of calm washing over her frayed senses. Like she was being reassured of something she couldn't yet name. 

He smiled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing as his free hand moved to the blindfold still resting around his neck. With a careful motion, he lifted it and pulled it over his head, and her hands moved instinctively to let him, then returned to his skin. 

Then, he pushed it over her own face, letting the fabric drape across her skin. It settled like fire against her neck, tracing the line of her collarbones, singing through every nerve ending. 

And in that charged, fragile moment, she knew—it meant something. Something profound, something neither of them understood but knew. 

Her hands lingered for a moment longer, feeling the warmth and steady pulse beneath her. Then, carefully, she began to ease herself back, shifting her weight just enough to release the press of her against him. 

Gojo’s hand stayed on her, gentle, even as she pulled away. His eyes followed her every motion, alert, watchful, but softened—no longer spiraling, no longer dangerous. 

Her pulse still raced, her senses still tingling from the surge, but slowly, she allowed herself to pull her wrists from his neck, letting her fingers slide off the taut lines of muscle. The room felt enormous now, the residual energy humming faintly in the corners. 

Then, finally—achingly—she stood, breaking their connection. 

Before she could take another step, a mask—thin, fitted, saturated with the sharp, biting scent of peppermint—was slammed over her nose. The scent hit instantly, cutting through the haze of adrenaline and raw energy, sending a shock of clarity straight to her brain. 

Her eyes blinked rapidly, tears forming at the corners, and she coughed softly, still catching her breath. 

Almost simultaneously, Geto mirrored the action with lightning speed. Another mask, identical, pressed over Gojo’s face. His body stiffened, a shiver running through him, and his eyes blinked rapidly as the sharp scent yanked him fully back into reality. 

Before she could gather her bearings—or even comprehend the damage that had just been done—she was yanked backward, stumbling down the hallway, and iron like grip around her arm. 

“Keep up!” Shoko barked. 

Her senses were still frayed from the surge and the peppermint, her chest pounding, every nerve on edge. Her legs moved almost of their own accord, carrying her through the winding corridors as the world blurred around her, following nothing but the insistent pull of her friend. 

They didn’t stop until they reached the lower levels: first the infirmary, sterile and probably smelling faintly of antiseptic, then the mortuary. The air down there was cold, bone-deep, pressing against her skin. 

Shoko let go of her arm only once the doors swung shut, ripping her own mask off and choking on the cold sterile air. 

The chill of the mortuary seeped into Utahime’s bones, a chill racing up her spine. Her eyes flicked to the rows of empty tables, then back to her friend, before she finally took off her own mask. 

“That was close,” Shoko said, voice still catching as she struggled to steady her breath. 

Utahime nodded, chest heaving, letting the cold bite fall over her scattered senses, allowing her to think. 

“What the fuck is happening?” she finally whispered. The words slipped out before she could stop them, unfiltered. Swearing was usually reserved for Gojo, and she winced at the sound. 

“Did you read the packet?” Soko asked. 

Utahime felt her cheeks singed. 

“Gojo made me read the first page...” she muttered, trying not to glare, but failing just slightly. 

Gojo. Infuriatingly handsome. Infuriatingly strong. Infuriatingly annoying. Whatever had just happened back there, all she knew was that she was furious at him—furious that he’d pulled her into whatever spiral that had been, furious that she’d been powerless to stop it, and furious that, somehow, she still felt tethered to him even now. 

“God, you stink like him,” Shoko said, waving her hand in front of her face as if that might help. 

Utahime blinked, the cold from the mortuary biting at her nose, but she lifted her wrist anyway—only to recoil instantly. 

“Well, how the hell do I get it off me!?” she snapped, waving her hands frantically, the mix of peppermint, lingering adrenaline, and Gojo’s scent starting to drive her up the wall. 

“I guess it doesn't matter,” Shoko said, ignoring her outburst and picking up a packet from one of the tables, “they were too embarrassed to write more than just the first page.” she held out the pages. 

Utahime took it hesitantly. Then flicked past the first page, then another, then another. It wasnt even a written document, just scans of texts centuries old and barely legible. 

“What on earth are we supposed to do with this!?” she asked, fury starting to radiate. 

“Who knows,” Shoko sighed, pulling a cigarette from her pocked and stuffing it between her lips, “they are moving all the Alphas to Kyoto though.” 

“Kyoto?” 

“Yes, and were staying here.” 

“Why?” 

“Do I really have to say it?”  

Utahime flushed, tossing the packet down onto the table again.  

No, she didn't have to say it. It was clear that the reactions between Alphas and Omegas were volatile and a mystery. She just hoped everyone got out of that room safely.

“Yaga’s asked me to research this shit,” Shoko muttered, flicking a lighter between her fingers. 

“Shoko!” 

“I’m twenty-nine not fifteen senpai.” 

Utahime sighed and sank onto a cold metal chair in the corner of the room. Her chest hammered, her mind replaying the surge—the growl, the tether, the overwhelming pull of him. 

Of the one idiot she can't stand. 

It wasn’t just adrenaline or fear. She could feel it deep in her body, in the tight coil of nerves and heat that had flared when she’d touched him, when his energy had spiraled around her. The instinct had been undeniable, primal. 

She was an Omega. That much she could not deny. 

Every shiver of awareness, every pounding heartbeat, had confirmed it. The way her body had reacted, the way her senses had screamed for him—him—and the way she had instinctively anchored him...it all screamed one truth. 

Her hands clenched in her lap.  Whatever had just happened wasn’t something she could control or hide. Not from Gojo. Not from anyone. 

“Utahime?” 

She hummed in response, lifting her gaze to Shoko, who was staring at her. 

“You have his blindfold around your neck still.” 

Chapter Text

There were many things Utahime imagined when she decided to become a teacher at the age of twenty-five. Long nights hunched over lesson plans, the steady rhythm of grading papers, the quiet pride of seeing her students grow stronger under her guidance. She expected exhaustion, too—of the kind that sank into her bones but felt earned. 

What she didn’t imagine was staring at a group of teenagers with a straight face trying to explain the term ‘slick’ six years later. 

“And we need this because...?” Maki asked, her voice still in part disbelief over the world’s current events. 

Although, to be fair, Utahime was too. Even a week later. 

The world had shifted overnight—without warning—and now she was supposed to pretend that this was normal. That the sudden reemergence of instincts sealed away was just another chapter in the syllabus. 

She cleared her throat, straightened the notes on her clipboard, and said as evenly as she could, “Because, apparently, it’s a...requirement...of our new biology.” 

The clearing of her throat afterwards did not help. 

“Have you...seen it, Iori-sensei?” a small voice squeaked from the back of the room. 

Miwa—still just as terrified as day one. 

Every head in the room turned toward her. 

Utahime froze. For a single, horrifying second, she genuinely considered pretending she had, just to ease the nerves. Then she remembered she was the adult in the room and forced a thin, professional smile. 

“Miwa,” she began carefully, “this is new to me as well, so I have not.” 

“Then what's the point in telling us?” Nobara’s voice cut in. 

Utahime exhaled through her nose. “Because knowledge is the difference between control and chaos. And I would rather you understand what’s happening over panic when it does.” 

“That’s assuming understanding helps,” Maki muttered. 

“Maki,” Utahime warned. 

Maki lifted a brow but said nothing more. 

“Sparring,” Utahime ordered, her voice cutting through the murmurs that followed. "Now.” 

She watched them scramble, the restless energy in the room finally finding a target that wasn’t her. As the door slid shut behind the last student, she let out a slow breath, pressing her fingers to her temple. 

She slid into Gojo’s desk chair, its familiar stiffness somehow comforting. It was ridiculous, sitting here in his space, surrounded by trophies of a teacher who clearly did not take anything seriously.  

She could picture it now: Gojo, standing in front of a group of young Alphas, flailing his arms in some ridiculous attempt to teach this horrific form of sex-ed while the students (and probably Gojo himself) tried not to laugh, utterly confused about what constituted “proper” behavior in a post-seal world. 

Not that they knew themselves. The texts were old, from a section of the vault that appeared when the seal broke, and they had barely made a dent on them. Shoko was doing a good job of dissecting and picking out the bits of information that they needed to alert the world of. Reports on findings were being made daily for the adults, but the students were her responsibility, as always. 

She pressed her palms to her temples, trying to calm the rising panic that threatened to fracture her focus. Every instinct, every impulse—hers, theirs—was unpredictable, and the margin for error was vanishingly small. A single misstep, a single poorly timed lesson, could turn curiosity into chaos. 

She needed a drink. 

With a resigned exhale, she pushed herself upright and stood, leaving the classroom behind. Her boots echoed down the empty hallways, and she took a glance briefly outside to make sure all the Omegas were staying within the protective veil before continuing. Each step brought her closer to the infirmary, where she knew Shoko would be surrounded by piles of dusty tomes, deciphering centuries-old knowledge. 

“So? How was it?” Shoko asked as she pushed through the doors, face first unto a yellowing novel. 

“Horrific, Shoko,” she said, trying not to hiss at her friend. “I don’t know why you even bother asking.” 

“I bet,” Shoko laughed instead, “human sex-ed is bad enough.” 

Utahime marched forwards and snatched a paper from Shoko’s desk, reciting the words of her latest write up. 

“Slick!? Ruts!? Heats!? Scent glands!?” She swallowed hard, trying not to stutter. “Mating?” Her eyes narrowed. “And what on earth is ‘knotting’!?” 

“Might want to hand that one out as a homework.” 

“Ew!” she slammed the paper back down like it was infected, shivering in disgust and trying to think of a way she could burn the words she just read from her mind. “Shoko, please tell me you are kidding.” 

Shoko leaned back in her chair, a small grin tugging at her lips. “Nope. But think about it—if they don’t learn this now, the chaos later will be tenfold. You survived the classroom today, didn’t you?” 

Utahime threw herself down onto an empty cot. “Of course, I'm going to teach them what they need to know,” she sighed. “But it feels like this is some sick curse over biology.” 

“That's just because I'm on the medical tomes first,” Shoko tapped the book she was over with a pen, “they keep talking about suppressants and scent blockers, and I think I might be able to replicate them.” 

Utahime sat up a little, blinking. “Suppressants? You mean...like we can stop the smell?” 

Just the thought made her nervous. The way she had acted under it, the way he had acted. She had always been close with Gojo—in the way one might stand close to a raging inferno. Fascinated, wary, half certain that one wrong move would burn her alive. 

But not that close. 

Shoko shrugged, flipping a page, “at least temporarily. Although I've seen a few warnings that going for too long without a heat can cause damage to the body.” 

Utahime stared at her. “Damage—Shoko, what kind of damage?” 

“The vague, terrifying kind,” Shoko said flatly, scanning the next passage. “Apparently, the body starts overproducing hormones to compensate, which can cause...behavioral instability. Emotional volatility. Sometimes even temporary memory loss.” 

Utahime pinched the bridge of her nose. “So, let me get this straight. We can stop the heats, but if we do it too long, people start losing their minds?” 

“Pretty much,” Shoko said, utterly unfazed. “It’s a delicate balance. Think of it as putting a lid on a boiling pot—you can’t keep it sealed forever.” 

Utahime groaned. “Perfect. Because what we needed right now was a time limit on sanity.” 

Shoko leaned forward, resting her chin on a palm. “Well, the students probably won’t have one for a few years. Plenty of time for their bodies to adjust. Us, on the other hand...” She gave a small, humorless smile. “We’re a bit overdue.” 

“This is disgusting. I am finding a padded room and having you lock me inside. I don't care.” 

Shoko actually laughed at that—soft but genuine. “Hey, look on the bright side. At least we finally know why Gojo and Geto are so freakishly huge. Biology’s been cheating for them this whole time.” 

“Gojo was a twig in high school,” Utahime spat. Her mind conjuring up his annoying boyish face. She still remembers the first time she met him when he was fifteen. 

‘I didn’t know they made sorcerers fun-sized.’ 

Fun-sized. He called her fun-sized while he stood there with legs too long for his torso in a uniform that was swimming on him. He looked like a drowned puppy and had the audacity to call her fun-sized. 

He’d grinned afterward too—wide and unbothered, like her glare was the highlight of his day. Then he’d tilted his head and added, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure people can still see you in a crowd.’ 

She’d nearly launched her shoe at him on the spot. 

Even now, the memory made her jaw tighten. Somehow, no matter how many years passed, Satoru Gojo still managed to sound like that same smug brat every time he opened his mouth. 

“The kids these days would even call him twink,” Shoko mused, entertained by the idea. 

“A what?” 

Shoko grinned, leaning back in her chair. “It’s...basically someone who’s annoyingly cute and a little scrawny. Fits him perfectly back then.” 

Utahime blinked at her. “...Annoyingly cute and scrawny? That’s your description?” 

Shoko shrugged. “Hey, it’s concise. And accurate. That is until the summer between our second and third year.” 

“Don’t—” Utahime held up a hand, groaning. “Remind me.” 

Still, she imagined it anyway. Gojo appearing at the gates of Tokyo Tech like some god carved out of marble—wider, taller, half his baby face already gone. The kind of change that made people stop mid-sentence. It had been so striking she froze, because frankly—what the fuck. 

He’d grinned when he caught her staring, too. Of course he had. One hand on his hip, glasses glinting in the sun, the picture of smug teenage triumph. 

‘Miss me, short stuff?’ 

She’d wanted to strangle him then and there. 

And he had never let her live it down. Not once. 

Even now, years later, just the memory made her scalp prickle. Every encounter with him since felt like a rerun of that moment—him basking, her fuming, Shoko and Geto laughing somewhere in the background. 

She sighed, falling back into the cot with a cry. “Why is every bad memory in my life shaped like that man?” 

Shoko hummed without looking up, used to this by now. “Because the universe has a sense of humor.” 

Utahime threw her arm over her eyes. “A cruel one.” 

“Mm. At least he’s useful now. Sort of.” Shoko flipped a page, the dry rustle of paper filling the pause. “Yaga’s been on him nonstop about control drills with the young Alphas. Apparently, his instincts are off the charts.” 

Utahime dropped her arm and stared at the ceiling. “Of course they are.” The words came out flat, resigned. “Because why wouldn’t he get stronger through this disaster?” 

Shoko’s mouth twitched. “Maybe check on him. See if he’s behaving.” 

Utahime shot her a look. “I’d rather stick my hand in a blender.” 

“Suit yourself,” Shoko said lightly, jotting down notes.  

Utahime sat up, dread settling like a weight in her stomach. “Have you even heard from them?” 

“Nope,” Shoko said, flipping another page. 

Utahime frowned. It wasn’t like them—either of them. Mei Mei had been in communication, but that was after she’d frantically fled to America muttering about the end of society itself. Geto and Gojo, though? Radio silence. Not a single text or call. A rarity.  

“That’s...weird,” Utahime said, trying not to sound as uneasy as she felt. 

Shoko hummed in vague agreement, eyes still scanning the tome. “Weird’s one word for it. I sent a report request through the channels two days ago. Nothing. Either they’re ignoring me—” 

“—or something’s wrong.” 

Shoko glanced up at that, pen pausing mid-tap. “You think?” 

Utahime hesitated. The thought had been gnawing at her all week, but saying it out loud made it heavier. “I don’t know. But Gojo doesn’t shut up. If he’s quiet...” 

“Then something’s definitely wrong,” Shoko finished, sighing. 

The room fell into silence for a moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights louder than before. 

Then— 

The door slid open. 

“Ah—excuse me, Iori-sensei, Shoko-sensei,” Ijichi stammered, clutching a clipboard to his chest like a shield. His eyes darted between the two women before landing somewhere near the floor. “I was told to, um, collect the...uh...bedding from the dormitories.” 

Utahime blinked, momentarily derailed. “Bedding? Why?” 

Shoko sighed and stood from her desk. She crossed to a storage cabinet in the corner, muttering something under her breath about how this job kept getting weirder by the day. After a moment of rummaging, she pulled out a large black bag—heavy, overstuffed, and sealed tight. 

“Here,” she said, handing it to Ijichi. “Fresh ones. Should help them settle down for a while.” 

Ijichi nodded, looking both grateful and vaguely uncomfortable. “Right. Thank you, Ieiri-san.” 

“Wait!” Utahime held out a hand, stopping Ijichi in his tracks, “help what?” 

Shoko looked to the celling as if she was willing herself to remain calm. “Our...pheromones...have a calming effect on them.” 

Utahime blinked. “Our what?” 

Shoko exhaled slowly, like a teacher explaining something to a particularly stubborn student. “Pheromones, Utahime. The omegas’ scent helps ease the alphas’ agitation. Keeps them from tearing through reinforced walls, or each other.” 

Ijichi shifted awkwardly by the door, clearly regretting his timing. 

Utahime’s mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed, “So—you’re telling me that bag is full of—” 

“Blankets,” Shoko supplied dryly. “From the dorms.” 

“Blankets,” Utahime repeated, voice climbing an octave. “You’re handing out scented blankets to unstable alphas like—like catnip?!” 

Shoko shrugged. “It works.” 

Utahime stared, horrified. “And you’re fine with this?” 

“Fine?” Shoko’s lips curved into a tired half-smile. “No. But it’s better than mopping up blood every few hours.” She waved a lazy hand, as if to brush off the thought. “Besides, it’s from the entire dorm. They won’t be able to tell which omega it came from exactly.” 

Exactly. 

Exactly what? 

God, is that what they were being reduced to now? Living sedatives? Breathing medicine for unstable men? 

She hadn’t said it out loud to Shoko—yet—but that’s what it felt like. Especially with the way everything was shaking out. The hierarchy. The divide. 

All known Alphas were biological males. All known Omegas were biological females. Simple. Clean. Brutal. 

And Utahime was starting to think Shoko was deliberately pretending not to see it. 

Her jaw clenched, pulse pounding hot in her ears. Reduced to pheromones. To blankets. To chemical balance. 

“Unbelievable,” she hissed, pushing up from the cot so fast it squeaked against the floor. Her hand dove into her pocket, fingers closing around a scrap of black fabric. 

“Here,” she snapped, thrusting the folded blindfold at Ijichi hard enough that he flinched. “Give this back to Gojo.” 

He blinked, startled. “Gojo-san’s—?” 

“Yeah,” she bit out, fury vibrating in every word. “Since we’re all apparently trading pieces of ourselves to keep the great Alphas calm, he can have his damn accessory back.” 

Shoko exhaled, slow and quiet. “Utahime—” 

But Utahime was already turning away, chest heaving, teeth grinding so tight her jaw ached. 

Fuck this new world. 

Chapter Text

Sleep came in fits, like she was grasping at the thought of it instead of the thing itself. The sheets clung to her skin, damp with sweat, every shift making the air feel heavier. It had been like this since that day—since the world changed. 

A week and four days later, it had only gotten worse. 

And worse yet, she didn’t have that stupid blindfold anymore. 

She hated the way Gojo made her blind—how he made her move without thinking, feel without permission. For a full week she’d kept that blindfold close: in her pocket, under her pillow, always within reach. She hadn’t even realized her fingers would find it in the dark, curling around the fabric like a habit her body refused to break—purring at the thought before she could stop herself. 

And now it was gone. And she was being punished for it.  

But she’d die before she admitted that—to anyone. Especially him. 

She could already picture it—the look on his face if he ever found out. That ridiculous grin, the lazy lean against a wall, hands in his pockets. 

‘What, miss me that much, Hime?’ 

Her stomach turned at the imagined lilt of his voice, the mockery tucked behind every word. He’d drag it out too, just to watch her squirm. He always did. Hidden behind a smirk and a strip of fabric over his eyes. 

Heat prickled beneath her skin, sweat gathering at her collarbone as anger and embarrassment tangled in her chest. God, she could almost hear him laughing. Even when he wasn’t there, he found a way to haunt her. 

Her skin itched beneath damp fabric, the air thick enough to taste. With a muttered curse, she shoved herself upright. The room tilted for a heartbeat before she caught her balance and stalked to the dresser, flicking on a small lamp on the way by. 

She peeled off the clammy layers and pulled on a fresh pair of shorts and a tanktop—soft cotton, dry, blessedly cool. A small short-lived relief. She yanked her hair up, wiping the sweat from her neck with the back of her hand, and stared at her reflection in the school issued mirror above the dresser. 

Her eyes looked tired. Mean. Someone she barely recognized stared back. 

She forced her hair up into a tight knot, as if it could wring some control back into her body, and cinched it there with a hair tie waiting on the dresser. Her fingers lingered at the nape of her neck, tracing the hot, angry swell she now knew all too well. 

Her mating glands. 

They burned under her touch, bright and pulsing. She pressed harder, almost in defiance, letting the heat radiate into her fingers. The irritation, the raw ache of it, only made her more aware of how much this world had already started to claim her, force her into a box. 

Her jaw clenched. She hated this. Hated that she could feel it, hated that she knew what the swells even were, hated that she wanted to curse the sensation and herself all at once, just to get it all to stop. 

A flicker of light caught her eye in the mirror's reflection. She turned towards it, staring through the panes of glass separating her from the outside. Across the campus, somewhere in the faculty building, a single window glowed. Her brow furrowed. At first, she tried to tell herself it was nothing—a stray bulb, bad wiring, an administrator catching up on paperwork. 

She glanced at her phone perched on the nightstand. 2:00 a.m. 

That was...strange. 

She should have ignored it. She wanted to ignore it. But even as she turned back to the dimly lit dorm room, the pull tugging at her chest was insistent, impossible to shake. Her instincts hummed beneath the surface, restless, dragging her gaze back toward that lone, glowing room. 

She tore her gaze from the light long enough to grab a scrap of paper and a pen from her desk. With a few swift strokes, she scrawled a note and stuck it to the dorm room door, leaving it open so that her students wouldn’t worry. 

"Gone for a walk. Back soon." 

Her heart thudded as she stepped into the corridor. The protective veil around the first-year dorms hummed faintly, a thin barrier meant to keep them safe. Safe—or trapped. She pushed the thought aside, letting the pull guide her, dragging her toward the faculty building across campus. 

The night air was thick, warm, and sticky against her skin as she slipped out of the dorm entrance. Every step toward the glowing window made her pulse quicken, her chest ache. She paused at the edge of the veil, watching the light flicker, questioning her sanity.  

But still, she stepped through. 

By the time she reached the faculty building, the single light remained, spilling a narrow beam into the dark hall from beneath the door. She froze at the threshold, hand hovering over the handle, breath catching. Something about this felt wrong—and yet, irresistible. 

Her hand trembled, but she couldn’t stop herself. The pull was too strong, gnawing at her chest, twisting her pulse. 

She pushed the door open. 

It hit her first—Gojo’s scent, sharp and familiar, just enough to make her stomach twist. Not as overwhelming as before, but enough to make her breath catch. 

And then he came into view. Black jacket, blindfold still over his eyes, calm as always. 

Before she could scream, he exhaled—a low, tired sigh—and stepped forward, grabbing her arm with surprising force. His grip didn’t hurt, but it left no room to pull away. He lifted her wrist to his nose, pressing it lightly against his face and inhaling through his nose. 

Her chest tightened. Heart pounding, mind screaming—until, finally, she reclaimed a sliver of control, a shard of herself cutting through the haze. 

“Gojo—” she snapped, jerking her arm away and slapping his hand with enough force to startle him. “What the hell are you doing here!” 

He froze for a heartbeat, the blindfold hiding his expression, but his posture relaxed slightly. “Huh,” he said, almost amused. “This is my room Utahime.” 

Her eyes swept over the room, finally taking it in. It was small, sparsely furnished, but every corner spoke of him. A single bed against the far wall, perfectly made despite the hour. A desk littered with notebooks, pens, and a few textbooks stacked haphazardly, as if he’d been working here just moments ago. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf held a mix of heavy academic tomes and dog-eared novels, some leaning precariously. A small fridge probably stuffed with sweets and sugary drinks. 

The walls were mostly bare, save for a single framed photograph—Gojo, younger, standing in front of some festival stand, that same lazy grin she knew all too well, flanked by Geto and Shoko. The light she had seen from outside spilled from a desk lamp, warm and steady, painting long shadows across the floor. 

She glared at him, hard, forcing herself not to give in, suddenly certain that his stupid scent wasn’t going to overpower her. Yes. This was his room. She could admit that. But that wasn't the point. 

“No. Why the hell are you in Tokyo?” she demanded, voice sharp, eyes blazing. 

Gojo tilted his head, the blindfold hiding his eyes, but Utahime knew—she could feel it. The faint hum of power, the intensity of the Six Eyes, sweeping over her in a silent assessment. He studied her for a long moment, and her stomach tightened under the weight of his gaze. 

Finally, his voice broke the quiet. “Why’d you give it back?” 

Her jaw clenched. “Because I felt like it,” she spat. 

Gojo said nothing. He just stood there, utterly still, as if the silence itself were another kind of question.  

Her fingers curled into a fist at her side until her nails bit the skin. Heat and fury coiled in her chest. Her students, the tiny brood of Omegas shed been nurturing, can be thrown off by this. She leaned forward a fraction, voice low and tight as wire. 

“If you don’t get your ass back to Kyoto right this second,” she spat, every syllable dangerous, “I will murder you.” 

The words landed hard in the room. For the first time since she’d stepped inside, something like surprise crossed him—small, invisible, but real; the faintest shift of his shoulders, a sound almost like a chuckle strangled off. 

Gojo’s lips curved into that wide, infuriating grin, the kind that made her blood boil even as it made her pulse stutter. 

“Utahime—” he sang, voice light, teasing, “are you flirting with me?” 

“Get out. Now,” she said, voice low and cold. “And while you’re at it—where the hell is your phone?” 

Gojo’s grin only widened, leaning into the calm, teasing arrogance that drove her crazy. “Awh, do you miss talking with me? It’s okay—I'd miss talking with me too.” 

Utahime’s teeth clenched. Every word, every tone, tugged at that awful, unignorable pull in her chest. “Gojo,” she ground out, voice sharp as steel, still trying to find the right words that would get him to leave. For the sake of her and the children under her care. 

“Hey, Utahime,” he said, tilting his head just enough to unsettle her, “can I try something?” 

Her stomach tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to say no, to push him out, to flee—but the pull in her bones, the heat at her neck, the memory of him close, made her pause. Her glare sharpened, voice like a whip. “If it’s stupid, I swear I’ll—” 

He held up a hand, calm, almost disarming, and his voice softened, the wide grin gone. “Just...close your eyes.” 

“Absolutely not!” she snapped. 

“Why not?” 

“The last time I closed my eyes around you,” she shot back, “I ended up with a hand full of whipped cream on my face!” 

He tilted his head, that calm, teasing edge returning. “I don’t have any here,” he said lightly. 

Utahime narrowed her eyes. 

He let out a slow, exaggerated sigh, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. There’s some in the fridge,” he admitted. 

She strode to the fridge, yanking it open. Her eyes immediately landed on a full canister of whipped cream and at least four boxes of assorted sweets, stacked haphazardly on the shelves. 

Her jaw tightened, and she couldn’t stop the incredulous snort escaping her. “Gojo,” she said, slow, “you’re a grown man. A grown man with a fridge full of sweets?” 

She didn’t wait for an answer—honestly, she didn’t want one. Snatching the can of whipped cream from the door, she stormed into his tiny bathroom, popped the top, and emptied it into the sink before turning on the water, letting the stream wash it away. 

“I was going to eat that,” Gojo pouted as she threw the empty can into the trash.  

“With what!?” Her mind immediately flashed to the image of Gojo unhinging his jaw like a snake, swallowing mouthfuls of the sweet monstrosity directly from the spout. She waved her hand as if to erase the thought. “Don’t answer that.” 

“You’re so mean to me,” he whined. 

“Shut up,” she snapped. “You’re not attractive when you talk.” 

“Oh?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “So you do think I’m attractive?” 

“What do you want, Gojo?” she demanded, exasperation lacing every word. 

Her students, she must protect them. 

“Close your eyes.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I don't want to get punched in the face.” 

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t trust you, not when you say that,” she muttered, the words tinged with hesitation. 

“Trust me, Hime,” he said softly, tone almost pleading now, the teasing gone. 

Her fingers twitched at her sides. The pull—the undeniable, stubborn pull in her chest—won, just barely. With a slow, defeated sigh, she closed her eyes. 

For her students, nothing more.

The world narrowed to darkness, and she could feel him inch closer, the warmth of his presence brushing against her awareness. Every nerve in her body hummed in warning, but she stood rigid, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. 

His hands found her upper arms, closing around them. Her muscles tensed; the instinct to recoil flared, but she forced it down, her eyelids flickering open in return. 

“Closed,” he demanded. 

She swallowed hard, forcing her eyes back shut, the tension coiling tighter in her chest as she braced herself. 

“Gojo, if this is another one of your pranks I’m going—” 

Wet stinging heat landed over a swollen glad on the back of her neck. She gasped, eyes snapping open, fingers reaching for the fabric of his jacket as his mouth sealed over her flesh and pulled. He lingered, drawing heat from beneath her skin as if siphoning the ache itself. The burn eased, replaced by a slow, spreading calm that sank down her spine. 

She drew in a sharp breath, then steadied. The tension in her shoulders unwound, fingers loosening in his jacket until the only thing holding her upright was the press of his hands on her arms. 

When he finally released her, the skin throbbed faintly, but calmed, no longer on fire.  

Without a word, he shifted, his breath tracing the curve of her neck to the other side, fanning out over her lips briefly.

A flicker of hesitation, more reflex than resistance, vanished when his mouth found the opposite point. Another slow pull, heat drawn and swallowed. She didn’t stop him; couldn’t have, not while the last of the week’s strain drained from her shoulders into his grasp. 

A faint tremor rippled through her, subtle at first, then building until her breath stuttered. The calm he’d left behind turned liquid, gathering low in her belly—slow heat rising from her center and spreading outward in quiet, relentless waves. 

He felt it too; she felt the small shift in his jaw before he broke contact. One last brush of breath against her skin, then he drew back, straitening again to his full height. For a moment, the space between them hummed, charged and silent.  

“Fuck,” he whispered. 

His hands fell from her arms, and in one smooth motion, he tugged his jacket off, tossing it aside and revealing a black t-shirt underneath. The sudden movement startled her, yanking her from the lingering haze of calm that had settled over her. Her pulse spiked, her muscles tensing as if she’d been abruptly yanked awake. 

Then she watched, horrified, as he fell to his knees before her. 

“Do me, please,” he begged, breathless. 

Her fingers instinctively curled into fists at her sides. The calm he’d left behind still hummed through her, but the pull in her instincts surged again, bright and insistent. Her mind scrambled, trying to assert control over the warmth pooling in her chest and the sharp tug of his presence. 

“I...what?” she breathed, voice tight, caught between defiance and that strange, unshakable draw she couldn’t fully ignore. 

“Come on,” he urged softly, leaning just a fraction closer. “They hurt. Please.” 

She blinked, forcing herself to steady her racing pulse. She studied him carefully, watching the way his shoulders tensed, his chest heaved, searching for any sign of a trick. Slowly, she let her hands rise, fingers brushing the fabric of his blindfold. She paused for a heartbeat, weighing every possibility. Then, she lifted it just above his hair, holding it there, suspended between curiosity and caution. Finally, she let her eyes meet his. 

For a moment, the world seemed to still. His eyes were...different. Empty of teasing, of arrogance, of any trace of mischief or malice. 

Desperate. 

The raw, almost pleading intensity in them caught her off guard. This wasn’t the Gojo she knew—the infuriating, untouchable idiot—but someone exposed, unguarded, in a way that made her chest tighten and her mind scramble. 

Without warning he pushed her hands away, ripping his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, taking the blindfold with it. The sudden movement sent a jolt through her, pulling her fully from the lingering haze. 

“Gojo...Maybe we should go get Shoko,” she whispered, hesitation threading every syllable. Her eyes flicked away, searching for an excuse to step back, to reclaim the part of herself that the tension had stolen. 

He moved closer, his shirt forgotten on the floor, the air between them tight with heat. His voice came low and unsteady, stripped of its usual confidence. 

“It has to be you,” he said softly, almost desperately. “Only you. Please.” 

She bit the inside of her cheek, staring at the strongest sorcerer in hundreds of years—on his knees, begging. 

For what, she didn’t know. Only that somehow, someway, he had taken the burn at the back of her neck and quenched it for the first time in days. 

Her breath trembled as she drew it in, a single decision forming in her chest. 

“Close your eyes.” 

He did so, without hesitation.  

Her hand trembled as she reached for him, slow and uncertain, the air between them taut as a drawn wire. Every inch closer made her pulse stutter, the tremble in her hands traveling to her legs. Her fingertips brushed the back of his neck—and she froze. The skin there was burning hot, feverish, the swollen glands angry and raw beneath her touch. She blinked, an exhale catching in her throat as she took in the faint red marks and jagged lines marring the skin. 

“Gojo,” she gasped, voice breaking through the hush. “They’re covered in scratches! What have you been doing?”  

He didn’t answer. 

A faint, strangled sound left him—a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, but close—and he leaned forward just enough that his forehead nearly touched her shoulder. 

“Please,” he whispered again, the word breaking into a quiet, desperate whine. 

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Her hand hovered where she’d touched him, the heat of his skin thrumming against her fingertips, her mind fighting the instinct that urged her closer. But the sound he’d made—the way his shoulders trembled, his power flickering faintly in the air like a candle on the verge of going out—pulled something deep in her chest taut. 

Before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned in. Her breath grazed the back of his neck, and she felt the faint hum of his cursed energy crackle under her lips. The swollen glands radiated heat, searing through the thin space between them. 

Tentatively, she let herself do what he had done—drawing close, steadying herself with a hand against his shoulder. The warmth gathered beneath her mouth, sharp and electric, then slowly began to ebb, the fevered energy sinking away as if being drawn out as she sealed her lips around it. 

Gojo exhaled, the sound small but shuddering, his body going still beneath her touch. The oppressive heat in the room shifted, lightening, until she realized her own heartbeat had synced with his, his pulse threading against her lips. She let her tongue lash out, tracing over the heat, his taste punching a hole through her chest. 

Savory and warm, with a faint metallic tang and an almost imperceptible sweetness, it made her pause, heart skipping a beat. She exhaled sharply into his skin, breathless, wanting. 

Pleading. 

The room shifted. Hands found her waist, pulling her taut against the planes of his carved chest. She whimpered, the heat at her sides pooling to her core like a siphon. The hand she had placed on his shoulder shifted, threading into his undercut as she slowly lapped over the heat, cooling it. 

She lifted herself from his skin reluctantly, holding a whimper in her throat, the hand in his hair tightening around his silk-white strands as he held her firmly against him. 

“Gojo,” she breathed, his name nothing more than a sigh. “I—I have to do the other side.” 

He grunted, a puff of breath fanning across her skin where his head rested against her shoulder. Slowly, she pushed herself upward and rotated to the other side of his head, finding the identical marred gland on that side. 

She sank down again, drawing the heated gland toward her mouth, letting her tongue trace over the faint scratches, savoring the taste. The intensity of him—the heat, the pulse, the sharpness of his scent—pressed into her senses. Gojo rumbled beneath her, his hands moving to lock his arms around her completely, holding her steady as the energy between them thickened and hummed. 

And—goddamnit—she melted. Into him, into this, whatever it was. She released the gland, its heat gone, leaving only a flat red patch behind, and panted, another hand threading carefully through his silken hair. 

She swallowed hard, struggling to clear her mind, to decipher the heat pooling inside her, to understand why her hands shook and her legs trembled. Every pulse of her heartbeat seemed amplified, echoing in her chest and throat, as if the rhythm of the world itself had shifted. Her skin tingled where they connected. Her breath caught in uneven gasps, the air too thick, too warm, pressing against her lungs. A tremor ran up her spine, and she pressed her free palm against his shoulder. 

“Gojo,” she breathed again, her voice threading down a spiral she wasn’t sure she could stop. “Is that...better?” 

A low, approving hum vibrated through him, soft and almost reluctant, carrying the weight of satisfaction and relief. The sound pressed against her chest, making her pulse stutter. 

Slowly, his hands eased, releasing her. The sudden absence of pressure left a hollow ache where his touch had been, and she blinked, trying to breathe as she was forced to stand on her own. He leaned back onto his heels, catching her gaze with his—sea-blue, beautiful eyes, they always had been. But something this time sucked the air from her lungs, and she feared it might not return. 

“Thank you, Hime,” he murmured. 

She swallowed hard again, determined to steady her body under his gaze. 

“You will...go back to Kyoto now?” she asked, her voice still a hoarse whisper. 

His eyes dulled, only for a moment, but enough to make her ache. “Yes.” 

Then he bent to retrieve the shirt he had abandoned on the floor and stood, once more towering over her—a sudden return to normalcy that left her cold, almost aching. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, iron bleeding onto her tongue, replacing the lingering taste of him. 

She watched him turn toward his bed, where his coat lay, as he found the opening of the shirt in his hands. 

“Shoko...Shoko said you and Geto aren't responding to her emails,” she forced into the silence, an attempt to return to normalcy that failed. “She was...worried...you never go silent.” 

Gojo paused, just for a heartbeat, before his shirt was suddenly pressed over her head. It happened so fast she barely registered it, and by the time she realized, his hands were already guiding her arms through the sleeves. 

“Gojo—” she whimpered, pressing her eyes shut, the heat in the air refusing to dissipate. 

“We will soon. Promise,” Gojo whispered, stepping back and leaving her there, drowning in his shirt.  

She opened her eyes and watched as he zipped his jacket back on and replaced his blindfold. He turned, hands threading together in a familiar pattern, ready to do exactly as she had been asking.  

“You can sleep here,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “If it will help, that is.” 

“Okay...” she murmured, her gaze falling to the object in question. 

“And Hime,” he added, forcing her gaze back, his body facing her now, “don’t send that back,” he warned, voice dark, almost a growl. 

And then he was gone. 

Chapter Text

She blinked at the empty space Gojo had left behind. It was always like this—him slipping in and out of her life like a cyst that always grew back. Only this time, instead of cursing him out and throwing something that never managed to make it past his stupid infinity, she just stood there—speechless, drowning in a shirt that wasn’t hers. 

He’d taken the warmth with him, pulling the heat out of the room, the tug in her chest flatlining with his absence. Cold crept up from the floorboards, winding its way up her legs, her torso—brushing over the flat, red mark of her glands and making her shiver. She shifted, and her thighs slipped against each other too smoothly, too nicely, like she was— 

She gasped. 

What— 

She stormed into his shitty, school-issued bathroom and flicked on the light. It flickered twice before settling into a weak yellow glow. She yanked her shorts down—underwear with them—and shoved a hand between her thighs. 

No. 

She yanked her hand back, her fingertips glistening with a thick, syrupy sheen that smelled faintly sweet. Not normal. Not human. 

Slick. 

She braced herself against the counter and looked down. The insides of her thighs were smeared and sticky, her underwear below dark and soaked through with the same substance. 

She froze mid-inhale. 

No, no, no. 

She rubbed at the mess with trembling fingers, as if she could erase it, but it only spread—glossy, clinging, still warm. Panic climbed up her throat, burning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to her. Not like this. 

Not with him. 

She looked up, her reflection in the mirror above the sink looked foreign—flushed, wide-eyed, wearing his shirt, the collar hanging loose around her neck, askew and slipping off one shoulder. For a second, she wished she wasn’t a teacher, that she had the privilege of being oblivious to what she had just discovered. 

But she’d read them. Every report, every word—whether she wanted to or not. And here she was, fingers trembling, chest tight, heat coiling in her lungs, covered in slick that she had no concept of until thirty seconds ago. She should have stopped. She should have shoved him away and gone for Shoko, pushed past the pull, the instincts that she still didn’t understand. 

But she hadn’t. 

Her wide eyes narrowed into a glare, her cheeks burning hot with shame. 

And that made her furious. Furious at him, furious at herself—for giving in, for freezing instead of fighting. For the single, unbearable truth that in that moment, she hadn’t even thought about stopping. 

Satoru “let me try something”—fucking Gojo. 

She slammed a hand over her neck, over the now-flat gland, finding nothing more than tacky skin. Like she had traded something for it. Like she’d handed him a piece of herself without even realizing it. 

She didn’t want him. Or any ‘Alpha’. Ever. 

She’d gone so long untethered, keeping herself distant, keeping every part of herself locked away behind a sweet smile and a soft disposition. Men hadn’t been part of her life, not in a way that mattered, and she had worked to make sure it stayed that way. She had stopped it from happening before, countless times, forced suiters away with obtuse sweetness to thick that they gave up. Resisted urges. Guarded herself like it was her life’s work. 

She wouldn't be reduced to nothing more than a breeding sow to pass on her technique. Not like the women before her. She would be strong, independent, earn things on her own, live her own fucking life. 

And now she got the pleasure of going through what, horrifyingly, was a second puberty at the ripe age of thirty-one—and it was responding to Satoru Gojo of all people. The man who had spent over a decade making her scream, tearing down the carefully crafted façade that had kept her safe, who reveled in her anger and loved to watch her squirm. 

She yanked her shorts back up, wincing at the shock of cold as the damp fabric contacted her skin, and stormed back into his room. His voice rattling around in her skull, powerless to stop it. 

‘You can sleep here, if it will help, that is.’  

No. Absolutely not. Never. Actually, never. 

She tore the shirt over her head and flung it to the floor, letting it hit with a sharp crack of fury. She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled, not sparing a single thought for what remained inside. Next time that stupid light came on, she promised herself, she wouldn’t even glance in its direction. 

Determination had always gotten her through the day, the month, the rest of the year. It was what had made her a teacher, what had earned her a semi–grade one rank with nothing more than what most people dismissed as a support technique. It was what she clung to—the thing she strived to embody beneath the mask. 

Sweet, soft Utahime. 

That’s what they’d whispered about her growing up. 

She’d hated it. Hated them. 

She wanted out. Of the box they’d built around her. Of the name that never quite fit. Of the version of herself that smiled too easily just to survive. 

Determination was the key. Just keep going. Don’t give in. And most importantly, don’t give up. She wouldn’t tell Shoko what happened—wouldn’t tell a soul. She’d go back to before. Back to ignoring him. 

They had simply helped each other, like they always did. Friends help friends—begrudgingly, of course. That’s all it was. 

A plan. Yes, a beautiful plan to lock the whole thing away. One that was currently about to implode in her face. 

“Let me check your glands.” 

Utahime froze, staring wide-eyed at Shoko—a stray piece of lettuce hanging from her lips as she froze mid-chew. Her students—blessed, oblivious distractions—were on lunch break. She had decided to take hers with Shoko, like always, perched on an unused cot and eating whatever the administrators had scrounged up for the day in the infirmary. 

Ham and cheese sandwiches, to be exact.  

“W–what—” she choked, swallowing before the bite was even half-chewed. “They’re fine. Great, even.” she wiped her lips. 

Shoko narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “You didn't even put the ice pack on them this morning.” 

Shit. 

“I...I already used one earlier,” she said, voice pitching higher than she meant it to. 

Shoko hummed, turning to her desk and dragging a hand over the surface. “Geto called me this morning.” 

The sandwich in her stomach curdled. That—he wouldn't. 

“Oh yeah?” she managed, her tone painfully casual. 

“Yeah. It was weird.” Shoko lifted a hand, cupping her chin in mock introspection. “He sounded...way too happy.” 

“That’s— that’s good.” 

“You smell nice today. New body wash?” Shoko asked, switching topics at breakneck speed. 

Utahime let out a strangled breath. Had she spent an hour scrubbing herself raw so she wouldn’t reek of Satoru Gojo? Yes. Had she considered that dousing herself in half a bottle of the mystery perfume from the back of her dresser might make her—the girl who famously wore light, natural scents—a tad suspicious? 

No. Of course not. Because this was Gojo she was dealing with—logic didn’t apply. 

“I—” 

“Utahime,” Shoko interrupted flatly, “let me see them. Now.” 

She didn’t even answer before Shoko lunged across the room. Utahime flailed, her half-eaten sandwich flying into the wall as she tried to guard what had now become her life’s greatest secret. But it was useless—Shoko’s fingers found the edge of her white kosode and tugged. Hard. 

“Utahime,” Shoko breathed, scolding her like a child who had been caught in a lie—odd, because she was usually the one doing the scolding. 

“I am going to fucking murder him,” she growled into the air, wanting the threat to reach all the way to Kyoto. 

She could already see him—Gojo, all grin and bluster—opening his big, stupid mouth to Geto the second he returned last night, probably telling the whole story with dramatic flair, maybe even laughing about how pliable she’d been for him. 

“What the hell did you two do?” Shoko asked, still stunned, taking a cautious step back. Utahime watched her friend reach for the back of her neck absentmindedly, something like envy flickering across her gaze. 

“I—” Utahime started, then stopped. “Please...don’t tell anyone. No reports.” 

Shoko’s eyes flicked to hers. “Fine,” she said, nodding. “No reports.” 

Utahime let out a breath, sitting up rigidly, attempting to say it as clinically as possible. 

“He...licked them.” 

Shoko froze, her eyes widening. “He—what?” Her voice pitched, a mixture of disbelief and horror. “Utahime...you let him do that? That’s—dangerous. Reckless. Absolutely insane!” 

Utahime flushed, trying to square her shoulders and hide the flutter of panic in her chest. “I didn’t...I mean—I—HE TOLD ME TO CLOSE MY EYES!” 

“AND YOU LISTENED!?” 

“...Yes...” 

“Utahime,” Shoko said, running both hands down her face in exasperation, “you’ve read the reports I’ve written, right? You know what those are for, right?” 

“Yes! But you said that can only be done if were both in...heat...and he—” she squirmed, bile rising in her throat. “Please Shoko don't make me say it.”  

“No, say it Utahime.” 

“If he's...knotting—oh god I'm going to be sick.” 

Shoko threw her hands up. “Utahime! Do you understand how dangerous that is? How reckless! You can’t just—just let him do things like that! You’re like the poster child for the doorway to unprotected sex right now!” 

Utahime shrank back, cheeks burning. “Listen, he did it. And then he got on his knees and begged, Shoko. Begged. What was I supposed to do!?” 

“Wait...you did it back!?” 

Utahime’s jaw snapped shut at the accidental admission. Then, quietly, she tried to inject logic into the air. 

“It...it wasn’t like the first day. We were in control of ourselves. And they burned so bad, Shoko. I could barely sleep.” 

Shoko sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She walked around her desk and sank into her chair. “How did he even get into the building?” she asked. 

“...I saw a light on in the faculty building...” 

“You saw that light on the first-floor last night and went to go investigate? It's outside the veil Utahime. I saw it and thought it was some overworked admin doing paperwork.” 

Utahime went quiet, her mouth suddenly dry. She had thought the exact same thing—had even hesitated, tried to stop herself—but the tug in her chest had been relentless, impossible to ignore. 

Did Shoko not feel that? 

Her eyes darted to her friend, searching for some flicker of understanding, some sign that she wasn’t alone in this. But Shoko’s expression was tired, almost detached—oblivious to the pull entirely. 

As if it hadn’t existed at all. 

“I—” she started, then stopped. Unsure how to even approach the subject. Unsure if she wanted to. Because if she asked, and Shoko stared at her like she’d grown a second head, she wasn’t ready to think about what that meant. 

“He wouldn’t try anything. It’s Gojo,” she finally said instead. Safe. Distanced. 

“What was it like?” Shoko asked, leaning into a palm.  

Utahime stared down at fingers, picking at her cuticles out of habit. “It was...nice...it let me sleep. I guess.” 

“Interesting,” Shoko said, her voice finally calm. 

“It won't happen again,” Utahime reassured her. 

“Well,” Shoko said, standing and walking around her desk. She opened the tan cabinet shoved against the wall, pulled a few capped tubes from inside, and turned back, thrusting them toward Utahime. “Have him spit in these next time you see him. I want to run some tests.” 

“I just said it wouldn’t happen again!” Utahime protested. 

“Please," Shoko snorted, "you two can never stay away from each other."

“That’s not true!” 

Shoko stood there silently, arm held out. Utahime felt heat rise to her cheeks under that calm, all-knowing gaze that only Shoko seemed to possess. Finally, unable to take it any longer, she snatched the plastic tubes from her hand. Just to get her to stop. 

“Let’s go get some more books from the vault,” Shoko said, stepping toward the door. 

Utahime followed, stuffing the plastic cylinders into her pockets as if they might burn her hands if she held them any longer. 

Chapter Text

The chalk snapped between her fingers. 

Utahime inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her teeth, and reached for another piece before any of them could comment. 

“Let’s try this again,” she said, turning back to the board where half an equation hung unfinished. “If a mission pays ten thousand yen an hour on site, and you waste two of those hours waiting for Gojo-sensei to stop talking in the car, how much money have you lost after taxes?” 

A beat of silence. 

Then Nobara’s hand shot up, perfectly manicured fingers glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Trick question,” she said. “Time spent listening to Gojo-sensei ramble is priceless.” 

Utahime closed her eyes. “Minus ten points.” 

Maki leaned back in her chair, twirling a pen. “Do we actually get graded on this?” 

“Yes. And before you ask—” Utahime slammed the chalk back down on the board, “—yes, you must show your work.’” 

That earned a collective groan. She ignored it and started writing out the next example. 

Practical Arithmetic for Sorcerers, she’d called the lesson. It was supposed to help them manage pay, expenses, and mission reimbursements—basic math every sorcerer should know. But of course, Gojo’s students thought numbers were optional. That money just magically formed in one's palm at the end of the day. 

“—and before anyone quotes him again,” she added sharply, catching Nobara’s mouth already opening, “I don’t care what Gojo-sensei said about ‘trusting your intuition’ Intuition doesn’t provide you with food.” 

Gojo’s response would be what it always was. Our lives are short. They learned this in middle school. Math is boring. We can teach that on site while killing curses, easy. 

Really, she had come to this morning’s class tired, needing something easy to fill the day. And this should have been it. 

But then again, nothing was ever easy when it came to Gojo, students included.  

They had started whispering—again—and the faint clatter of a pencil being flicked across a desk made her eye twitch as she wrote a new problem out on the board. Utahime didn’t turn, just spoke over her shoulder. “Whoever threw that can stay after and write a five-page essay on the national debt.” 

That shut them up fast. 

“Alright,” she said finally, tapping the chalk against the board, “if any of you can explain how we got from line one to line three without skipping half the process, you may leave early.” 

No one moved. A few exchanged looks, like she’d just asked them to solve quantum physics. 

Utahime sighed. “Thought so.” 

She rubbed the chalk dust from her fingers, leaving pale smudges on her skirt. “Homework’s the next three pages in your workbook. Show your work. Don’t listen to whatever nonsense Gojo filled your heads with unless you want to fail spectacularly.” 

There were groans, a few muttered complaints, and then the shuffle of chairs scraping against the floor as the students began packing up. Maki, thankfully, followed Miwa out without comment. Nanako was right behind them, buried into her phone, probably trying to rip the parental lock off it. Nobara lingered just long enough to murmur something about Gojo’s lessons being ‘more fun’ then left in a huff. 

Utahime didn’t rise to it. 

She just watched them go—uniforms wrinkled, laughter spilling into the hallway, all of them bright and young and unbothered—and felt that familiar ache behind her eyes. 

Teaching these kids was one thing. But trying to co-teach them, even temporarily, with a man who took nothing seriously? 

That was an entirely different curse. 

Restlessness found her again later that night, exactly three days since she had last seen Gojo. She woke, her phone blaring the time back at her like some sort of fucked-up prophecy. 

2:00 a.m. 

Her neck ached, a dull whisper of what it had been before, but enough for her to notice. She reached up and brushed her fingertips over one of the glands at the back of her neck, sighing at the new warmth. She was thankful her students weren’t dealing with this. Shoko had said it was because they were so overdue for a heat that their bodies were rebelling, flooding them with hormones without actually knowing how to trigger the event in question. 

Thankfully.  

A few moments ticked by as she stared at the ceiling. Then a pull—low and sharp in her chest, like a wire being tugged, yanked her upwards mid sigh. Her head tuned on instinct, eyes blinking toward the window. 

Across the dark stretch of campus, a single light burned in the faculty wing. 

Her stomach sank. 

She fell back against her pillow, dragging the blanket over her head.  

Nope. 

But her pulse betrayed her, quickening under her skin like it remembered something her mind didn’t want to. The warmth at her neck flared faintly, the pull in her chest tightening until it bordered on pain. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to breathe past it. Peeking out from under the blanket and staring at the glass that separated her from the outside. From him. 

But then the light blinked. 

Once. Twice. Then a third time. 

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. 

The flicker continued. On. Off. On. Off. A slow, maddening cycle. 

Her pulse jumped, anger chasing the heat up her neck. 

The light went dark again. And stayed that way for long enough that she thought he had given up. 

Then it started strobing. 

“Oh my god.” she groaned. The window was pulsing like some deranged lighthouse. “He’s doing this. He’s actually doing this.” 

She could see him in her mind—smug grin, one hand in his pocket, the other probably flipping the switch like it was the funniest thing in the world. Because of course it was. Satoru Gojo, twenty-eight years old and still operating with the maturity of a middle schooler. 

Her chest throbbed again, that strange tug deep under her ribs pulling tight. 

“You are not a dog,” she told herself through gritted teeth. “You are not going to answer that.” 

The light blinked slowly twice more, then held steady, glaring into her window like it was waiting. 

She threw her blanket off completely, a strangling a scream in her throat before it could be vocalized. Unbelievable. She marched to her dresser and yanked a sweatshirt from the drawer—her own, soft, pink, and just enough to cover her glands from the idiot who apparently thought licking them was a good idea. 

She tugged on her shoes, no socks, and stuffed the three plastic vials from Shoko into her pocket. Then she stormed out of the dorm, determination and fury propelling every step. She stepped through the protective veil without hesitation, marching into the faculty building and right to his door. 

She opened it—hard—without knocking, the door slamming against the wall with a loud crash. 

The light was still on. 

Gojo looked up from where he sat at his desk, one elbow propped against a stack of papers he clearly hadn’t been reading. His white hair a mussed like he had just crawled out from bed and clad in another black t-shirt and sweatpants. 

Utahime stood there, chest heaving. “Are you insane?” she hissed. 

He blinked once, expression neutral. “Oh. You’re awake.” 

“Awake?” she repeated, voice pitching higher. “You—” she gestured wildly toward the window “—were flashing your lights at two in the morning like some sort of bat signal!” 

Gojo tilted his head, lips twitching. “It worked, didn’t it?” 

“Where the hell is your cellphone?” she hissed, “are you trying to wake the students!?” 

“Would you have answered if I did?” he asked. 

Her mouth snapped shut. 

“Thought so,” Gojo said lightly. “Yaga took all our phones—for safety.” 

“For safety?”  

“Turns out some of us aren’t so good at keeping calm with these changes.” Gojo shrugged. “I stole mine back yesterday.” 

“Of course you did,” she huffed. Just like Gojo—rules for thee, but not for me. She crossed her arms, glaring at him. “What the hell do you want Gojo?” 

Gojo leaned back in his chair, stretching until it creaked. “Can’t I just want to see you?” 

“I’m going to hit you,” she hissed, rubbing her temple. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on in the next ten seconds, I swear—” 

Gojo sighed dramatically, spinning his pen between his fingers. “You’re no fun, you know that?” 

“Gojo.” 

The teasing edge in his grin faltered for half a heartbeat—barely—but she caught it, and her gaze must have given that away. 

“Fine,” he said. “I can’t sleep.” 

Utahime blinked and took in his hair again—messy, wild, reminding her of when they were in school and he had no idea what a brush was. Then her eyes drifted to the bed, the freshly made sheets now flipped open on the small, full-size mattress. 

“Gojo,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing, “have you been sleeping here?” 

Gojo shrugged. “It’s my room. Why not?” 

“Because you’re not supposed to be here! We have no idea what kind of—” she paused, forcing her mind away from the memory. “effect you can have on the Omegas!” 

“So, you,” he said, tone flat. 

She froze, glare sharpening. “Yes. Me, Gojo. I know that’s hard for you to think about,” she hissed. 

The room fell silent. 

Something in the air soured. 

His scent—that mix of umami and heat she wished she didn’t notice—sharpened, turning harsh, almost fiery. 

Almost angry. 

Her gaze flicked to the heap of black fabric on the floor, right where she’d left it. But now it felt like a bomb waiting to go off. Her pulse sputtered, skin prickling under Gojo’s searing gaze. 

His chair rolled backwards as he stood. He was always taller than anyone she's ever known, having to lean just to get through some doors, but it was never something she had actively thought about. 

But now she did.  

Every step he took toward her made the air between them taut, thick with heat she could feel pressing against her skin. Her pulse stuttered again, her chest tightening as though the room itself had shrunk. The heap of black fabric on the floor suddenly felt like a trigger, a fuse already lit, a warning she hadn't heeded.

Yet she couldn't move. 

He stood before her, too close, and closed a hand around her wrist. Gentle, but firm, unwilling to let go if she tried. Then, without a word, she was moving—across the room, stepping over the black shirt, and onto the too-small bed. He lay down on his side, pulling her with him, then tugged the covers over their heads. 

She could only stare, wide-eyed, brown into blue, breathless, powerless to stop it, the heat of his exhales brushing against her cheek as the blanket sealed them together too closely. 

After a moment, he smiled softly, his scent returning to that impossible flavor she had started to crave. “This is like that one time,” he said, huffing a chuckle at the end. 

“What?” she asked, still trying to fight to regain herself from being so close.  

“The one time I drank,” he said, his smile blinding. 

The memory hit her sharply: his room during third year, a game of Life spread across the floor, pieces scattered in the scramble. And him—her palm pressed over his mouth as he grinned through it, his body shielding her from the door under a thick blue blanket. 

“That's because you were so loud that Yaga actually came to do rounds, idiot” she muttered. 

“You thought it was funny,” he said, inching closer. 

The memory came alive under her fingertips, and she pushed her palm against his mouth.  

He only grinned wider. 

Just like back then.  

“And then Shoko and Suguru—” he spoke into her palm, but she cut him off before he could finish. 

“Yes, I remember,” she said, a smile creeping onto her lips. 

It shouldn't have been a funny memory. Because actually it was one of the dumbest things she had ever done. A week into twenty-one and she had already been coerced by her kohai’s into buying them booze. Worse, she brought it back to a school of all things. 

But still, a laugh escaped her, her palm tightening over Gojo’s face. 

Gojo, in his infinite wisdom, had whisked her under his covers at the sound of the dormitory building's door slamming open echoing down the hall and into his room, as if a lump the size of two people wouldn’t be suspicious. Geto and Shoko, drunk and nearly incoherent, had stuffed themselves into his closet.  

When Yaga opened the door, she could feel his furious glare through Gojo’s body—so much so that she started laughing, and Gojo returned the favor by sealing her mouth with his hand. 

It was too much, too funny in the haze, and soon they were both laughing at each other—until a loud crash signaled Geto and Shoko falling spectacularly out of the overstuffed closet and onto the floor, ruining any chance of escape. 

Gojo grabbed her wrist, gently moving it from his mouth and down his neck as she laughed softly.  

“He made us run laps daily for two weeks for that,” he whispered, eyes softening at the memory. 

“He didn't even report me,” she snorted.  

“That's because he thought we corrupted you.” 

“You also vomited all over my pants later,” she huffed, annoyed. 

Yaga, who must have been exhausted from having to teach both Geto and Gojo for three years, had merely confiscated the alcohol, barked at them all to go to their own rooms, and left. They hadn’t, of course, and kept trying to play the now-ruined board game on the floor. 

That was until Gojo decided to become his best impression of a spiked burr on her clothes after a walk in the woods—hanging over her while crying about his head. Which promptly led to a vile mix of beer and doritos landing in her lap. 

She shuddered at the memory of the smell. 

“You got me back though, a lot,” Gojo sighed, moving the inside of her wrist to his cheek and closing his eyes. 

“That’s your own fault,” she grumbled. 

“I just make sure you get home.” 

“I never asked you to.” Her eyes narrowed as her fingertips brushed into his hairline as he moved. 

She didn’t drink like that anymore. She wasn’t twenty-three, rebelling against some invisible force only she could comprehend. But she remembered him—always there, teleporting her home even when she was fighting him off like a cat. 

And, without fail, she vomited every time. 

He opened his eyes and stared at her flatly, turning his mouth slightly into her wrist while maintaining eye contact. “God forbid I make sure a girl gets home alright while she’s wasted.” 

She glared at him, teeth gritting. Without a word, she yanked her wrist back, tugging it out of his hold with a sharp motion. 

Gojo only sighed, rolling his eyes in that infuriating way that made her pulse spike. “You’re the only girl I know who hates being treated like one.” 

She shot him a sharp look, chest tightening. “I can take care of myself, Gojo.” 

Gojo only hummed in response, his eyes wandering down to the impossibly small gap between their bodies. His hand shifted to her front pocket, digging inside. She let him, knowing him well enough that he wasn’t going to cause trouble. 

Yet. 

“What’s this?” he asked, holding up the plastic tubes between them. 

She flushed, the sight of them bringing back the reason why she had them in the first place. “Shoko...wants you to spit into them.” 

Gojo raised a brow, a flash of amusement streaking across his gaze. She waited for him to start teasing her, but it never came. Instead, he flipped the covers off their heads, and placed them carefully on his nightstand. 

“Later,” he said, then let out a resigned sigh and closed his eyes. 

She watched him for a while, closed eyes, hair still sticking up in wild angles, her lips tightening into a thin line. 

“Gojo?” she asked quietly. He only gave her a flat grunt in response. “Why are you here?” 

“Because I’m tired,” he said, voice low, eyes still closed. 

“Don’t you have a room in Kyoto?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said, “but people keep bothering me.” He sighed. 

“So you come here and have me come bother you?” she asked, annoyance sharpening her voice. 

“You’re different...” he said, voice drifting. 

She sat and watched him again, trying to fight down the blush that threatened to escape. Gojo was wrong—it wasn’t that she didn’t like being treated like a girl, it was that she couldn’t afford it. 

And sitting in the bed of what was, sadly, one of the most attractive men she knew, hearing him sleepily say she was different did things to her chest she didn’t enjoy. 

“What's happening over there?” she asked, trying to change the subject. 

“Ugh, Utahime—” he whined, lips pulling into a pout. “Just go to sleep.” 

“Excuse me, I never said I was going to sleep here,” she shot back. 

That got him to open his eyes. 

“Fighting. Lots of really dumb fighting,” he said, his exaggeration doing little to help his case. 

“You’re not—you're not getting hurt, right?” she asked, instinctively worrying, regardless of whether it was logical or not, like she did for all her friends. Shoko used to tell her she needed to start smoking weed. She had refused, of course.  

Gojo snorted a laugh. “You're also the only one who keeps forgetting who I am,” he said, smiling. Brightly. Like the words could carry them through the next year—or maybe the next decade. 

He was wrong, though. How could someone forget who Satoru Gojo is? Strongest sorcerer of the modern age. The first person in four hundred years to be born with both Limitless and the Six Eyes. 

A monster many called him. But she knew better. Maybe that’s why she kept slipping when it came to him. Kept worrying when she shouldn't.  

She rolled her eyes. “Sorry that someone has the audacity to worry about you.” 

“Someone has to, I guess,” he said. 

She eyed him warily, not liking where the conversation was headed, knowing the details it entailed. 

Satoru Gojo—ripped from his parents the second he opened his eyes, raised as a living weapon. The story always made her stomach curdle. 

“Are you going to spit into the cups now?” she asked, masking the tension in her voice with a sigh. 

“No,” he said, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. 

“Why not!? It’s for Shoko, not for me!” 

“Because then I wouldn’t have anything to keep you here.” 

She slammed a hand over his eyes, pushing hard and clawing for some much-needed space, blushing furiously. “You can’t just say stuff like that to people!” 

“Well, Utahime, the truth hurts sometimes,” he said, not even lifting a finger. 

She gritted her teeth, glaring at him sharply, before yanking her hand away. She rotated, one shoulder pressing up against his chest, and turned her head away. 

“Theres a pecking order being established, that's why there's fighting,” Gojo said, offering an olive branch. 

She turned her head back. “But why? They’re your friends, and your students.” 

“Yeah, we know. That’s why it sucks.” 

“So what, you guys are just constantly at it over there?” she asked. 

“Not as bad as before. I honestly think it’s the sausage fest we’ve got going on,” he said. 

Utahime let out a long sigh, straightening her head and raising a hand to look at the inside of her wrist. “Is it really that comforting?” she asked quietly. 

“Yes.” 

“You could use the blankets Shoko is sending over, you know,” she said. 

“It’s not the same.” 

“How is it not the same, Gojo?” she asked, turning her body back toward him. 

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice quieter than before. “It’s just not.” 

She studied him wearily, not liking where this was going, not liking where the pull in her chest was taking her. He was soft right now, eyes tired, honest in ways he usually wasn’t. 

“If I stay, you’ll spit in the cup for Shoko?” she asked, the words raising her pulse. 

“Of course,” he said, smiling softly. 

She sat up and tore the pink sweatshirt over her head, unwilling to wake up with a crick in her neck from the hood even if it meant protection. Then she laid back down. 

“Turn off the light,” she ordered, trying to keep herself calm, trying to convince herself that this was just necessary. 

Gojo shifted silently under the covers for a moment, then rose to his feet. He reached the door, closing it softly. 

For a moment, she held her breath, watching him with wide eyes, pulse hammering. 

Then the room went dark. 

He returned to the bed, sliding back under the covers with a soft sigh. The only illumination now was the faint glow from the window, washing his face in silvery light. The air between them thickened, the quiet heavier, warmer. 

The bed was far too small for the two of them. She shifted slightly, settling against him as best she could without making the situation more than it had to be, the heat from his body pressing in a way that was both overwhelming and oddly comforting. 

Gojo’s steady breathing filled the silence, slow and even, and before long, her eyelids grew heavy in return. The tension in her chest eased, replaced by the gentle weight of exhaustion. 

He murmured something unintelligible, a soft sound that made her lips twitch into the faintest smile. 

Eventually, even the small bed felt big enough, and sleep claimed her alongside him. 

In the morning, she woke to the space beside her still warm, his scent lingering in the air, mingling with the faint trace of his body wash from the bathroom, and vials sitting filled on the bedside table. 

Chapter Text

“...Utahime...” 

“No, stop asking.” 

“But it’s so long.” 

“That’s your own fault, Gojo.” 

Gojo made a noise somewhere between a dying walrus and a deranged puppy as he hunched over his desk, papers spilling in a loose stack across the wood. The faint glow of his desk lamp caught in the curve of his jaw, the only light left on in the room. 

Behind him, Utahime lay curled beneath his sheets, face half-buried in the pillow that still smelled faintly like his soap. The air was warm and heavy, the hum of the heater mixing with the relentless scratch of Gojo’s pen working against his 9AM deadline. 

“At least tell me what he normally gets, and I’ll just give him that!” he said, voice rising in manic frustration. 

“No! You assigned the work, so grade it!” Utahime screeched back. 

This was a mistake. A big, fat, giant mistake. 

She briefly wondered how long she could endure the pain of ignoring him if she just went back to her own room—but decided against it the moment a sharp stab pulsed behind her ribs. 

“It’s seventeen pages! Double-sided! Single spaced!” 

“You should’ve set a page limit.” 

“Its title is ‘Idol Life: Why Nobuko Takada Should Be Allowed to Date’!” 

“Then don’t assign work without approving the topic!” 

Gojo groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. The paper crinkled under his elbow as he slumped forward, utterly defeated. Utahime looked away before he could continue; she could picture the next few moments of the scene perfectly—a dramatic tilt of his shoulders, another pathetic whimper, exaggerated misery meant to get her to do what he wanted. 

She already knew how this would end. The ridiculous paper would earn a high mark, as much as she hated to admit it. For all his obsession with that idol, Aoi Todo was brilliant—top of his class at the Kyoto branch. But, of course, Gojo wouldn’t know that. Academic scores meant nothing to him, so he had never bothered to check them, even though their school system had at most twenty students at a time. 

She rolled over and pulled his blanket up to her chin. He deserves the suffering.  

“If you are going to force me to sleep here at least be quiet about it,” she hissed, closing her eyes and intent on ignoring him for the rest of the night. 

The next few moments were a flurry of papers being shuffled, a few desperate scratches of his pen, then the groan of his chair rolling back across the wooden floor. 

“You’d better not have given him a random grade,” she growled, eyes still closed. 

Silence. Maddening, blessed silence. A rare gift when it came from Satoru Gojo—if she weren’t currently curled up under his blankets, that is. 

Footsteps padded across the floor toward the bed. Then came the sharp sound of a zipper, slicing through the quiet—a warning of what was to come. A rustle of fabric followed, then the soft thump of his jacket landing on her side. 

She ground her teeth together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction to whatever ridiculous display he was attempting now. 

A light tap next—his blindfold, she guessed, landing atop the pile. Then another rustle. Another weight. His shirt. 

Then came the unmistakable clink of a belt being undone. 

Her eyes snapped open. She twirled around like a storm turning on its axis and hurled the entire heap of clothing at him with a sharp smack, aiming for his head. 

“GO DO THAT IN THE BATHROOM!” 

Gojo laughed as he dodged and the clothes hit him square in the chest. “Hey, hey! Watch the face!” 

He stumbled backward, cackling, clutching his half-undone pants as he scampered toward the bathroom. His laughter echoed off the walls, wild and unbothered, his belt clinking loosely with every step. 

“Gojo!” she shrieked, sitting up so fast it nearly gave her a headache. “Put on your clothes like we agreed!” 

The bathroom door slammed shut, cutting off his laughter—almost. A few muffled snickers still escaped through the crack under the door, followed by the sound of running water and his sing-song voice, far too pleased with himself. 

She fell back against the mattress with a groan, throwing the blanket over her head. This was a mistake, though the corner of her mouth twitched despite her best efforts.  

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open again. Gojo stepped back inside. She didn’t bother to look, not wanting to know if he was about to start another one of his games. But he must’ve been done for the night—his desk lamp clicked off, and then the mattress dipped under a new weight beside her. 

“You know,” he said, his voice far too close to her ear to be comfortable, “a lot of people would pay good money to cuddle with me.” 

“Is that before or after they hear you open your mouth?” 

“So mean,” he pouted behind her.  

She sighed, annoyed, but rolled toward him despite herself. The sheets shifted between them, the fabric catching against her bare arm—soft, warm, carrying the faint scent of his detergent, whatever cologne he’d used that morning, and that stupid natural scent that he seems to possess now that made her mouth water. 

Why? Why was she doing this? Because it felt nice—infuriatingly nice. Like standing under a shower at the perfect temperature, or curling up beneath a blanket fresh from the dryer while the world outside froze. 

The air between them was heavy with heat, the kind that clung to skin after too long. His breathing was steady, almost lazy, and she hated that it made hers want to match. 

Whatever this pull was—this quiet, invisible tug that settled deep in her chest whenever he was near—it was doing everything in its power to close the space between them. And the longer she let it happen the worse it got. 

Shoko had asked her to be a test subject for her trials the day after their first night together. But Utahime hadn’t expected an optional want to turn into a need so quickly. 

She finally opened her eyes to find his already on her—half-lidded and luminous in the silver spill of moonlight filtering through the blinds. The faint light traced the line of his cheekbone, the soft fall of his hair, the lazy curve of a smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing. His eyes glowed with the power of Six Eyes even now—two ridiculous, glowing flashlights that refused to turn off even at this hour. 

The air between them felt fragile, suspended—like a glass about to shatter. Her pulse thudded once, hard, echoing in her throat before she forced herself to look away. 

“Where the fuck is your shirt?” she grumbled, eyes darting anywhere but his chest. 

“Must’ve misplaced it,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly casual, the corners of his mouth tilting into a smirk. 

Her jaw twitched. “Gojo, we agreed—you wear clothes. All of them.” 

“Okay, then give it back.” 

“That—” she swallowed hard, heat crawling up her throat. It had been such a good night so far—quiet, steady, the scratch of a pen against paper and his occasional sighs the only sounds. So much so that she had forgotten she even put the stupid thing on. 

“This is not your only shirt,” she glared at him, willing the blush out from her cheeks and back down her throat. The cotton brushed against her shoulder, and it made her skin prickle. 

“C’mon, Hime,” he groaned, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like he was asking for patience from the heavens. “You know it’s way better when it’s skin to skin. And I'm wearing sweatpants!” 

“We made an agreement,” she hissed, pulse starting drum in her neck. “I’m only doing this for Shoko.” 

“Sure sure,” he waved a hand in the air, “now just give me my usual.” 

She narrowed her eyes, the weight of the blanket pressing against her chest like armor, her jaw tight with both irritation and something else she refused to name. Refused to even think about. 

Then he was moving—down the bed, his absurdly long legs probably dangling off the end. He shifted closer, tugging the blanket from her gasp and pressing against her, nuzzling into the curve of her neck, while dragging one of her hands into his hair.

She wished—multiple times per day—that she’d never found out about Gojo’s preferences. Yet here she was, treating the world’s strongest sorcerer like a baby being coddled, all the while her chest betrayed her with every shallow breath. 

She moved automatically, dragging her fingers through his undercut and up into the longer strands. His hair was soft, just like it looked, spilling through her fingers like silk. He shivered against her, then wrapped his arms around her waist, tightening her to him in return. 

The maddening exchange she’s found herself in every single night for two weeks. Wrapped around Satoru Gojo like his lover. 

And she hated it. Hated feeling like she needed him like air to breath. But doing this was better than having her body ache, her glands sore, and a voice in her head screaming at her to go find something she didn't even understand.  

This moment might have even been nice if she got the chance to settle into it and forget—might have—if Gojo could ever keep his mouth shut for more than ten minutes at a time. 

“Oh yeah,” Gojo groaned as she dragged her nails across his scalp, voice low and husky, “just like that.” 

“No,” she said instantly, yanking her hand away and pushing on his shoulders. A sharp ache pulsed behind her ribs, but she ignored it. “We’re done.” 

“Noooooo,” Gojo whined, his arms tightening around her waist. “I’ll stop.” 

“You say that every time.” 

“I promise!” 

She let out a long exhale and returned to him, knowing full well it was a lie. Her hand settled back into his hair as she let her head fall back into the pillow. Gojo sighed at the contact, genuine from the way it sounded.  

They went on like that for a while, her fingers weaving through his hair, the soft warmth of his breath brushing against her collarbone, each exhale heat against her skin. She let herself sink into the calm, feeling the tug in her chest twist and stretch into something else—something that whispered of comfort, of safety, though she couldn’t quite name it entirely. It made her feel like a cat sprawling in the sun, half-lidded and purring at nothing more than the gentle warmth pressing against its fur, and she had to fight a small, soft sigh that threatened to escape. 

“You smell so good,” Gojo murmured, his voice low, the teasing finally gone. 

She hummed in response, tilting her fingers to trace the nape of his neck, letting the fine strands slip between them. He shivered under her touch, and the movement pressed him closer, as always. 

“Like me, and candy,” he breathed, and the words felt strange and intimate, soft against the curve of her shoulder. 

“Great,” she said flatly, though her stomach fluttered and her fingers lingered, betraying her calm tone. 

Exactly what she needed—to smell like candy to the man whose diet consisted entirely of it. 

“Hime,” he breathed against her shoulder, “what do I smell like?” 

She opened her mouth to respond with a typical snark meant to get him to shut up, but the words failed her. 

Because he smelled savory—rich and earthy, an umami flavor that made her stomach twist, tinged with a faint, teasing heat that made her want to drag her tongue along the side of his neck just to see what it tasted like. 

She swallowed on nothing again, her skin starting to spark under his touch. Then she felt it—his mouth opening, an exhale that burned against her neck. 

“Gojo!” she snapped, fisting his hair and tugging sharply, forcing her glare to meet his eyes, which had suddenly gone flat and unamused. 

“Please,” he said, deadly serious. 

“No, you know better,” she hissed. 

She released his hair, letting the tension fade, and settled back against the mattress. Gojo shifted beside her, releasing his hold around her waist so she could move again. 

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sounds were the faint hum of the heater and the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing. Her chest rose and fell against his, her pulse gradually slowing as the sharp edges of desire and irritation faded. 

Finally, he shifted upwards and plopped his head down on the pillow like a defeated puppy. “Goodnight, Hime,” he murmured, his voice softer now. 

She closed her eyes, letting out a long, shaky exhale, then turned to her other side. “Goodnight, Gojo.” 

He draped an arm over her, tugging her closer gently. She stiffened for a second, then allowed herself to melt into him. 

Because fighting was harder than accepting whatever this was. 

She found Shoko the next morning in the vaults, scanning through boxes of scrolls and tomes. The room was larger than she had expected, its walls lined with texts so numerous she could hardly believe no one had noticed any had gone missing. Dust motes drifted in light of a small lamp on the floor, and the faint, musty scent of old paper filled the air. 

“How was he?” Shoko asked, not bothering to turn around as she rifled through a stack of scrolls. 

“Same as always, stupid and infuriating,” Utahime grumbled, crossing her arms. 

“And you?” Shoko asked. 

Utahime sighed. “The same.” 

Normal. Somehow. Maybe better than normal, but she couldn’t tell anymore. 

“I’m jealous,” Shoko chuckled. Utahime’s gaze drifted to the bulges at the back of Shoko’s neck under her lab coat—ice packs, probably a sad attempt to get her glands to settle down. She wondered how Shoko was even managing to sleep these days. 

“Maybe you can...ask Geto?” Utahime offered. It wasn’t like he would deny her.

Utahime and Gojo were friends—under an agreement to get through whatever this was. She would never admit it, but she wouldn’t trust anyone else to do this other than Gojo. Any other man in her life seemed to see her as a small, meek girl who needed them. Gojo, even though he called her weak, acknowledged her in ways the rest never did and trusted her judgement without question when the time came. 

Shoko and Geto, on the other hand, always seemed to have something going on that never fully manifested. She wasn’t even sure they hadn’t slept together in the past thirteen years. 

The life of sorcerers was complicated enough without romance. Especially for the few special grade sorcerers. She was sure that was why it had never led to anything.

But now was different. It was clear that the relationships between Omegas and Alphas were symbiotic in ways they didn’t yet understand. And Shoko needed a clear head to gather proper data. 

“I would, but it’s not like he can just teleport over here without Yaga or the higher-ups noticing,” Shoko laughed, dragging a book from a top shelf. 

Utahime’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. A hot, prickling tension coiled in her chest—irrational, sudden, and wholly unbidden. The thought of Gojo even being suggested as a solution for Shoko twisted something inside her, sharp and instinctual, leaving her stomach tight and her hands clenching at her sides. 

She didn’t even own his nightly comfort. And yet, the image of him there, laughing and leaning toward Shoko, sparked a flare of possessive panic she couldn’t name. Her pulse thundered in her ears as if her body had decided this was not acceptable, even if her mind knew it made no sense. 

Shoko, of course, remained oblivious, absorbed in the spines of the books she pulled down. 

She forced herself to take a slow, measured breath, willing the heat crawling through her chest to dissipate. It was ridiculous, she had no right to feel this way—no reason to feel this way. But her body refused to listen. Every instinct in her screamed at her to stake some claim, even though she didn’t know what that claim would look like. 

She shifted slightly, pressing her palms against her thighs to stop her fingers from trembling. Her gaze flicked to the floor, then to a row of scrolls she pretended to examine, anything to keep her thoughts from spiraling. 

A sharp clatter made her flinch—Shoko had dropped a book. Her heart lurched, irritation and jealousy knotting together, twisting into a strange, bitter sweetness.  

She could hear Shoko moving, stacking books, humming softly, completely unaware of the storm brewing a few feet away. Her jaw clenched. The irrationality of it all made it worse—the jealousy wasn’t based on anything real, and yet it felt primal, uncontrollable, like a warning flare flaring to life inside her. 

Finally, Shoko paused and straightened, her eyes sweeping over the room. “Utahime?” she called, her voice cutting through the taut coil of her thoughts. 

Utahime startled, realizing she’d been holding her breath. Her stomach flipped, and she forced herself to blink and appear composed, masking the wildfire of possessive panic that had gripped her only moments before. 

“There’s,” she swallowed, “a lot here.” 

“Yeah,” Shoko laughed, easing the tension. “I keep thinking the same thing myself.” 

“Yeah?” Utahime prodded, curious and wanting to think of anything else.

“Yeah. Like, if this side of us was sealed away, why is there a whole library just waiting for us?” Shoko said, posing it as a question. 

Utahime shuffled forward, placing a palm flat against a stack of books. 

“Like someone left them here for us?” she asked. 

“Exactly. Like someone left them here for us,” Shoko confirmed. 

Utahime looked down at her palm, then up at the shelves of books spanning an impossible length. 

Like someone sealed them away for a reason, knowing they would be needed in the future. 

Chapter Text

There was a time, back when they were younger—when Gojo was a freshly graduated sorcerer and Utahime was still clawing her way toward her semi–grade one status—when Gojo was somehow even more unbearable than he was now. 

She’d mostly forgotten about how, up until he was about twenty-two, she’d considered him the most insufferable brat alive—despite his talent and stature, and especially after he’d traded his sunglasses for those ridiculous white bandages. 

He had been relentless. Constant. Showing up at her apartment or on her missions just to get a word in before poof—vanishing again. He’d steal things, like the new ribbons she’d bought for her hair, or the very last snack out of her pantry while she was at work. Move objects around her house to make her think she was losing her mind then laugh at her about it later. And, somehow, always appeared on her nights out with Shoko and Nanami, invited or not. 

It felt like a lifetime ago—a time when, looking back, they were just two kids with the emotional volatility to match. She’d been snappier back then, quick to anger, her expression twisting into rage at the slightest provocation. He, in turn, had pushed boundaries that didn’t need to be crossed, inserted himself into situations any sane person would’ve found inappropriate, and opened his mouth with zero filter or regard for the person on the opposite end. 

Those moments had faded, tapering off as they both grew older. Gojo had been loaded up with missions—mostly abroad—dealing with curses other countries weren’t equipped to handle, while she’d settled onto the steadier path of becoming a teacher. Days stretched into years. She saw him here and there, always greeted by the same smug grin and words that made her want to punch his mouth. But the days of their youth were gone. That much was clear. 

The relationship, like most, faded to texts exchanged weekly and meetings every few months.  

So, she didn’t think about how he’d stopped showing up—stopped popping into her vicinity daily as if he had an alarm set for it. How she’d managed to keep the same ribbon for months without it disappearing. Or how, when she did see him, they could almost hold a normal conversation before he inevitably found something to needle her about. 

In comparison though, Gojo now was tame—like a cat that had stopped clawing the furniture but still knocked things off the counter just to make a point. 

And the fact that she even had to think of these things and make the comparison—while standing in front of her students, most of whom were actually his students—just to keep her blood from boiling and killing her where she stood, infuriated her. 

Because it could be worse. 

It could be that stupid grin, those out-of-style circular shades, and a voice that was grating even in the best of circumstances, waiting on the other end of the tug in her chest that had tightened in broad daylight. In the middle of class. 

Class time that he should also be spending doing the same thing as her. Teaching. 

What did he want? She didn’t know—frankly didn’t care. Honestly, she’d jump into a raging river before trying to find out, because it was probably something stupid. Like candy. Or to borrow chalk. Or just to see how fast she could go from calm to homicidal before lunch. 

“Iori-sensi, are you okay?” Miwa’s soft fragile voice asked. Utahime looked up from his desk, smoothing her expression back into the practiced, pleasant composure she always wore. 

“Yes, Miwa. Everything is fine,” Utahime said with a smile and a nod. 

“You look like you swallowed a cactus,” Nobara scoffed, right on cue. 

“Like Gojo-sensei is in the vicinity,” Maki corrected with a knowing sigh and a sideways glance. The girl had done little to hide her disdain for Utahime’s teaching methods—mostly because they didn’t involve beating each other up daily for fun. 

Perfect. Just what she needed: a Gojo radar wired into her innards like some sick curse, one that seemed she was only afflicted by. And, apparently, a face that had a very particular “look” whenever he was near. 

Nobara slammed a hand down on her desk. “You’re right! It’s just like at the sister‑school event—he’s totally here!” 

“If Gojo is here then have him bring Geto so I can maim him,” Nanako said calmly, dropping her phone onto the desk and crossing her arms. Her tone was a blunt reminder of her opinion on current events, and that she felt Geto was to blame for her imprisonment away from her sister. 

Children. She let out a sigh to try and calm herself. Still so unaware of the reality of the Jujutsu world. Try to keep them safe and they make it a mission to do the exact opposite. 

“No, he's not, please continue to work,” she ordered.  

The sharp stab behind her ribs said otherwise.  

“You smell different today,” Nobara announced, like it was just an announcement over an intercom. 

“It’s the scent blockers we’re testing,” Utahime replied evenly. 

“No, no,” Nobara said, waving a hand. “There are normally two scents, but one’s missing.” 

Utahime couldn’t help but narrow her eyes. How on earth they could decipher that there were two scents on her daily she had no idea, but she placed it firmly into the awful basket that were these changes.  

“You know, you’re right. That’s why she smells so weird,” Maki agreed, nodding as if this were some kind of scientific observation. 

Utahime wondered if she could get them to write an actual paper on the subject for once, since it seemed so interesting. 

“I wish we didn’t have to smell at all,” Nanako muttered, her attention already back on her phone. 

Silence drifted uncomfortably across the classroom. 

Utahime wasn’t sure what she’d expected, honestly. She knew Gojo was of leaving his stupid scent all over her—regardless of her wishes—but she hadn’t realized it was that bad or they could tell it wasn’t her own. Shoko hadn't said anything, hadn't even blinked. And the girls? Well instinctively she knew they were Omegas yes, but hadn’t linked it to scent. 

She wondered, horrified, if she was doing the same Gojo. Then made a mental note to review Shoko’s findings again later tonight. 

“Um...Sensei...” Miwa’s blessed, angelic voice came next—the only Omega under her care who didn’t fight her like she’d personally brought this upon them. 

Utahime turned to her prized student, wary. “Yes, Miwa?” 

Miwa blushed furiously. “You do kind of...smell different.” 

That was apparently the spark the rest needed. 

“That’s it!” Nobara shouted, slamming both palms flat on her desk as she stood. “She’s wearing scent blockers!” she accused, pointing at Utahime like a prosecutor mid-trial. “So that second scent isn’t her own—it must be Gojo-sensei’s!” 

“Agreed,” Maki said without missing a beat—the jury, swift and merciless. 

Then Nanako, from the back with the guillotine, without even looking up from her phone. “Didn’t that packet you handed out say scenting was some sort of romantic gesture?” 

For a full three seconds, she just stood there, frozen, as if someone had hit pause on her existence. Romantic gesture? Romantic gesture? 

No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. 

“That packet was theoretical,” she managed to say—though her voice came out strangled, like it had to crawl through her dignity on the way out. “From texts we’ve extracted to help you all through the changes.” 

Nobara gasped. “So you’re saying you are scented?” 

Utahime felt her soul leave her body. 

Maki crossed her legs and leaned into her palm, eyes narrowing like a predator scenting weakness. “No—she’s saying it is his scent, then.” 

“No—” Utahime started, but too late. The damage was done. Whispering broke out immediately—Nobara leaning into Maki, Miwa looking like a fangirl about to combust, and Nanako recording a voice note for her sister, probably titled Scandal in Tokyo. 

Utahime drew in a slow, trembling breath through her nose. The sound of the whispers buzzed like flies around her head. 

“Class is over,” she said, voice clipped. 

No one moved. 

“I said—class. Is. Over.” 

Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled. The girls scrambled to pack up, though not fast enough to avoid catching the sight of Utahime’s clenched jaw or the faint tremor in her hand as she pointed toward the door. 

Miwa hesitated by the threshold, glancing back like she might apologize on behalf of the entire species. 

Utahime didn’t look up. 

When the room finally emptied, she exhaled through her teeth and pressed both palms flat against her desk. 

“Gojo,” she muttered under her breath, “I am going to kill you.” 

Then, as if the world thought this was some kind of sick joke, that stupid tug behind her ribs yanked—so violently she lurched forward, palms slapping the desk to keep from eating wood. 

That was it. She was done. 

By the time she hit the hallway, she was vibrating. She didn’t even bother to think about where she was going—her body knew. The stupid tug guided her like a leash, winding her through the corridors, down the steps, across the courtyard, until the barrier shimmered faintly ahead. 

Outside the veil, in the cafeteria across campus, she found him. 

Gojo was lounging at one of the tables, sprawled out like he owned the ground itself, his head tilted back with a lazy smirk. Across from him sat Shoko, cigarette dangling between her lips unlit, eyes flicking up just long enough to clock Utahime’s approach before dropping back to her phone. 

For a split second, the heat that burned through Utahime wasn’t anger—it was that jealousy. Sharp, hot, and humiliating. Same as the night before. She swallowed the feeling before it could take root. 

Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar storm. 

She marched up, each step a threat. “What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed, sliding into the empty seat across from him with a stiffness that could have cracked concrete. 

Gojo grinned, all teeth and unearned confidence. “I’m just talking to Shoko?” he said, voice dripping with mock innocence. Then he leaned forward, hunching awkwardly over the table—too tall for it by far—and rested his head in his palms. “Is that not allowed?” 

“We were just talking about the meeting in an hour,” Shoko said before he could continue, setting her phone down on the table. 

“And that couldn’t be done over the phone?!” Utahime snapped, louder than she meant to. “The students can smell him, Shoko.” 

Gojo waved a hand lazily through the air. “That’s boring! Besides—” He let it drop back to the table with a soft thud, that smirk on his face saying everything about what his eyes must’ve looked like beneath the blindfold. “I came here for other things, too.” 

Other things. 

‘Didn’t that packet you handed out say scenting was some sort of romantic gesture?’ 

“Shoko, I am going to kill him,” Utahime snapped, turning to her and deliberately ignoring Gojo. 

“Better watch out, he might like that senpai,” Shoko said, an amused lit to her tone. 

“Shoko!” Utahime scolded. 

“Yeah, senpai—” Gojo’s voice cut off mid-word as his nose twitched once, then twice. The smirk slipped from his face like a stone dropped in water. 

He turned sharply to Shoko. “What the hell did you do to her?” 

“Perfect,” Shoko said, expression faintly pleased. “Guess that means the scent blockers are working.” 

Gojo’s head snapped back toward Utahime, a misplaced frown tugging at his mouth before it hardened into a scowl. 

“What?” Utahime hissed. 

Then that tug in her chest yanked again, hard, like a child screaming for the cookie jar. She flushed, glancing up at him with a wince and a glare. 

Shoko’s chair scraped across the floor. “I’m gonna go start sorting through those surveys I sent out. See you guys on Skype.” With that, she left, the cafeteria doors swinging shut behind her. 

Gojo waited a beat, letting the sound of Shoko’s footsteps fade until the cafeteria fell into static silence under the fluorescent lights. Then he was up, moving across to her side of the table and pulling her upright with a single, swift tug. 

“Gojo!” she protested, but her words were lost in the motion. 

His hand found the flat strip of gauze held down with medical tape at the nape of her neck and yanked it off. Before she could react, she was pulled taut against his coiled frame—too tall to hold her normally—with a warm cheek pressed against the side of her face. He let out a soft, lazy sigh. 

Her resistance faltered immediately. The warmth of him, the weight of his body, and that ridiculous, intoxicating scent pressed into her senses like a physical force. Her knees went weak, and for a moment, she simply melted against him, eyelids heavy, pulse stuttering in a rhythm that made no sense. 

Gojo shifted slightly, nuzzling her closer, letting her inhale more of him, and she let herself—just for a heartbeat—forget everything else: the students, the classroom, the absurdity of the situation. Then reality struck. 

‘Didn’t that packet you handed out say scenting was some sort of romantic gesture?’ 

She pushed against him with all the stiffness she could muster, straightening her spine and forcing her eyes open, sending him a few steps backwards. 

“Stop that!” she hissed, voice trembling with fury and something else she still refused to name. “That's like making out in public, you buffoon!” 

He paused, momentarily surprised, before that familiar grin crept back onto his face. Then his mouth opened, and the words he chose next sucked her soul right out of her body. 

“Would you like to continue making out in my room?” 

He said it like it was an invitation.  

Her face went rigid, eyes wide. She stepped back instinctively, as if the space between them could somehow shield her from the absurdity of the words. 

Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles whitening. She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. 

“No!” she hissed, voice trembling with fury. 

Gojo frowned, tilting his head in that infuriating way where she new his eyes were glancing over her with calculated amusement. “Really? People pay me good money to—” 

She didn’t wait to hear more. Her fist drove into his gut with a sharp, precise punch that for some reason his infinity didn't block. 

Gojo doubled over, exaggerated, like she’d hit him with a wrecking ball instead. He let out a long, theatrical groan, clutching his stomach as if the world itself had shifted beneath him. 

Then, impossibly, Gojo straightened, one hand still pressed lightly to his gut, the other sweeping dramatically through the air. “Wow,” he said, voice mocking. “I haven’t felt that in years! You really packed a punch, Hime.” 

Her jaw tightened, nostrils flaring. The absurdity only made her want to punch him again. She began to stomp away from him before it could happen. 

“We have a meeting to get to!” she barked over her shoulder.  

“Yesss, senpai!” Gojo called after her, voice carrying across the cafeteria, loud and teasing enough to make her stop mid-step—except she didn’t. 

Utahime ignored him, jaw tight and fists clenched, and stormed back across campus to where her laptop and this meeting inevitably waited.  

Anything to stop herself from picturing what it would be like to make out with the idiot known at Satoru Gojo. 

Chapter Text

“Have you even read the packet Shoko sent out?!” 

“Yeah?” 

Utahime wanted to scream. No—cry. Wait—maybe both. 

Seven days. That’s all they had before the reunification of the student body—a test to observe the inner workings of these new genders. 

A careful test, supposedly, since the last time they’d gathered everyone together it had ended with at least seven reported assaults, from what she’d heard. 

And the last thing she needed, while herding a bunch of rowdy teenagers through another disaster waiting to happen, was to smell like Satoru Gojo’s...bitch. 

Because it was right there. In black and white. Words she had been too embarrassed to read before now. 

‘Scenting is a consensual calming act between an Omega and Alpha. While typically only done between bonded pairs it may also occur during the courting process.’ 

She could kill Shoko. 

Not for writing this garbage, but for conveniently forgetting to mention that Utahime was basically walking around as a flashing neon sign for Satoru Gojo. 

The woman had written the damn packet. She’d probably spent hours typing this smug little line, probably sipping her coffee, fully aware of what it meant—and still hadn’t thought, 

“Hey, maybe I should warn Utahime she’s emitting a personalized ‘I’ve been cuddling with an idiot’ signal.” 

And she was supposed to be the good one! 

Utahime pinched the bridge of her nose, forcing herself to inhale. Bad idea. The scent hit her immediately, warm and sharp and unmistakably him. Her mouth watered and her chest constricted, even through her rage she still wanted to jump into his arms.  

Oh, she was going to strangle Shoko. Slowly. 

Gojo watched her with that placid, ridiculous smile that infuriated her. “You okay?” he asked, innocent as a child who just hid the cookies. 

Her jaw tightened. “No,” she snaped. “I am not okay. Do you have any idea what it’s going to be like shepherding a school of hormonally confused teenagers while broadcasting ‘SATORU’ in bold capital letters?” 

He cocked his head. “I don’t see a problem?” Then he stretched his long limbs as he leaned back in his desk chair. “Unless you want me to—” he paused then grinned, “—claim you like it says in the packet too. Make the survey results interesting.” 

Utahime nearly combusted. “Do not—” She cuts off because the scent floods her again, richer this time, and it’s like being pushed up against the edge of a cliff by a wave that knows her name. Her knees go wobbly for a beat; her hands tighten into fists at her sides. She doesn’t want to need him. She wants to hate Shoko. She wants to be professional. None of it is working. 

“This isn’t a game, Gojo,” she managed to hiss out. 

Although it felt like one. 

The agreement had been simple: nights only. They would hold each other to chase away the fever dreams, the swollen glands, the restless ache that came with whatever these new designations were doing to them. 

But simplicity never lasted long with him. 

What had begun as mutual necessity—shared body heat and borrowed calm to fend off the worst of the changes—had turned into something else entirely. 

Six weeks later, it felt like she’d traded symptoms for something far more dangerous. Like Gojo had carved out a space inside her that refused to be filled, and each hour apart only made the absence heavier, increasing in intensity as the days passed. 

She had agreed—too quickly, if she was honest—because she was tired. Tired of that stupid invisible tether that tugged every time he was near. Tired of sleepless nights, of waking slick with sweat that refused to dry. She wanted to shower and actually feel clean again. She wanted to pretend the swollen glands at the back of her neck didn’t exist, that her body hadn’t been rewritten into something unfamiliar. 

She wanted things to go back to normal. 

She wanted to go back to being capable of forcing Gojo out of her mind when he was gone. 

But now he was everywhere. Day, afternoon, night—it didn’t matter. He showed up whenever it suited him, unraveling her piece by piece until she wanted to curl into a ball and scream. 

And everyone else pretended not to notice. The admins, the betas, the faculty acted like it was fine—like Gojo being Gojo somehow made it less invasive. He never faced consequences. He never got told no. Rules, it seemed, only mattered when he felt like following them. That’s how it had always been. 

“Utahime,” Gojo finally sighed when her glare didn’t falter. He stood from his chair, the wheels rolling lightly across the sunlit floor. Afternoon light spilled through the blinds, painting stripes across the room and glinting off the pale blue of his eyes—his blindfold nowhere in sight. “It just makes it easier,” he admitted, voice soft as he stepped toward her. 

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Easier for who?” 

“For us,” he said, like it was obvious. 

She let out a short, humorless laugh. “You think this is easy? You think walking around smelling like you—like this—helps me?” 

Gojo’s eyes flickered, a rare shadow crossing them. “You’re calmer when I’m near,” he said, tone even but not teasing. “You sleep. You eat. You stop shaking.” 

The air snagged in her throat. For a second, the anger in her chest cracked, and something raw slipped through. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of drug.” 

Silence stretched between them, poignant, heated in a way that it shouldn't be. A way that she hated. 

Then, Gojo’s lips curved faintly, eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Haven’t you always been?” 

Her brow furrowed, the glare she wore smothering out like a flame. “What?” 

He tilted his head, gaze steady, voice almost teasing but edged with certainty. “What?” 

She narrowed her eyes again, bringing back the wrath tenfold. “Gojo this isn't funny!” 

Gojo’s grin fell, the teasing light in his eyes dimming. He held her glare for a moment longer, then let out a soft sigh and looked away. “Alright,” he said quietly. “No more...scenting.” 

Utahime blinked, caught off guard. The sudden absence of that warm, familiar pull left a strange hollow ache in her chest. She hadn’t realized how much she’d relied on it, how much comfort—even if it was maddening—she found in it. 

“Are you...sure?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper, though she didn’t really want the answer. 

“I’m sure,” he said, not even glancing at her as he walked back to his desk and sat down. 

And just like that, he returned to grading papers, as if nothing had happened. As if he had grown bored of her—or of whatever this was—and decided it wasn’t worth it anymore. 

Her chest tightened, the anger from moments ago melting into a strange, unnamed ache. She didn’t understand why letting him step back left her feeling so hollow. 

Her mouth quivered as the soft scratch of his pen filled the room. Instinctively, she pressed a fist to her chest, heart swelling with a weight she couldn’t name. Before it could overwhelm her completely, she bolted from the room. 

Gojo had done exactly as she asked. And yet...for some reason...it hurt? 

The next morning, Utahime felt like she hadn’t slept at all. The night had stretched on endlessly—quiet, cold, and far too aware of the space beside her. By dawn, she’d given up pretending to rest. 

Now, standing at the front of her classroom, Utahime forced her expression into something neutral. The low hum of chatter died the moment she cleared her throat, pairs of expectant eyes turning toward her. 

“As most of you have already heard,” she began, voice steady despite the dull ache behind it, “the administration has decided to move forward with the reunification event next week.” 

Maki muttered something under her breath and looked away, jaw set in irritation. Nobara sighed—dramatically, of course—and mumbled something about finally being able to shop again. Miwa shifted uneasily in her seat. And Nanako...well, if she’d heard at all, Utahime couldn’t tell. The girl hadn’t looked up from her phone once. 

“It will be a controlled environment,” Utahime continued, folding her hands behind her back. “Supervised, safe, and structured. You’ll be working alongside Alphas and Betas again—your classmates.” 

“So we have one more week of this shit prison?” Maki asked bluntly. 

Utahime didn’t rise to the bait. Her expression stayed even, voice calm. “You’ll be allowed outside the veil, starting today,” she said instead. “It will remain in place until the reunification event is complete—for everyone’s safety.” 

A few heads lifted at that, curiosity sparking where boredom had been. Utahime felt the shift ripple through the room—the faint hum of anticipation breaking through the earlier lull. 

“And,” she continued, keeping her tone measured, “we’ll also be resuming missions to ensure your combat capabilities haven’t been affected.” 

A spark went off in the room. 

“Finally,” Maki sighed.  

Nobara practically glowed, twisting around in her seat to grin at Miwa. “You hear that? Actual missions. Not just drills and stupid breathing exercises.” 

Miwa smiled nervously. “Do we...get to use our cursed weapons again?” 

“Of course,” Utahime said, allowing herself a small, restrained smile. “Nothing too dangerous. Grade three and below.” 

That was all it took—sudden chatter filled the room, a tangle of voices and energy that buzzed through the air. 

Utahime should’ve felt proud, maybe even relieved, seeing them light up again after weeks of confinement. But instead, she just felt tired. The warmth in the room pressed at her temples, her body still too aware of the empty space she’d slept next to.  

“When do we get to leave?” Maki asked. 

“Two days,” Utahime replied. “It’s not far—just one of the high schools in the area.” 

She let the news settle, chatter in the room picking up speed. 

“Alright,” Utahime said, clapping her hands once to get their attention. “That’s all for today. Make sure you’re rested. Dismissed.” 

Chairs scraped against the floor as the girls gathered their things, chatter spilling out the door in waves—plans, laughter, excitement. Within a minute, the classroom was empty again. 

Utahime exhaled slowly, the silence rushing back in their wake. 

She let her gaze drift around the room—the scuffed floor, his writing still scratched on the edge of the blackboard, the faint scent of chalk and something sharper beneath it. His space still carried him, even without him here. The blinds were half-open, sunlight slanting across his chair, catching the edge of an abandoned blindfold draped lazily over the backrest that she had never bothered to move. 

For a moment, her fingers twitched with the urge to grab it. To fold it away. To do something. 

Instead, she stood there, perfectly still, as the ache beneath her ribs stirred again. 

The hallways were empty, silent except for the faint scrape of shoes against the polished floors. Dimmed sunlight streamed through high windows, cutting long, pale lines across the walls and desks. She paused at the threshold of a classroom, fingertips brushing the edge of a desk, and felt the hollow ache in her chest twist sharper. 

It had only been four days. four days since she’d woken up alone, four days without a single word from him. No text, no call, not even the faintest acknowledgment that she existed. And now, standing in the stillness of this empty school, the absence pressed down like weight, leaving her lungs tight and her hands trembling. 

A quiet shadow followed her a few paces behind. Utahime was aware of it without looking—Miwa, always alert, always noticing things that weren’t said. A reminder of her job, to stay professional, to not slip. 

She moved from room to room, checking layouts, tracing the paths the students would take, listing exits and entrances in her mind. Everything was meticulous, precise, professional—but her chest felt raw with longing, every empty space echoing the absence she couldn’t name. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be furious at him. But mostly, she just ached. 

This wasn’t like the times before. Not like where she had shoved him, told him off, then stormed out.  

No, this was something he had accepted. 

She caught her reflection in a window and froze, staring before her face twisted into something dark she almost didn’t recognize. 

She moved on, feet echoing against the polished floors, checking classrooms, hallways, stairwells. Door handles, light switches, emergency exits—each detail cataloged with clinical precision. Every step should have felt purposeful, professional, controlled. But it didn’t. 

Instead, the hollow ache in her chest deepened, twisting around her ribs with every empty room she passed. She felt...used. The thought struck her suddenly, unbidden, and made her stomach turn. Not in a concrete, explainable way—he hadn’t done anything wrong. But the tether he had woven, the space he had carved inside her without asking, left her exposed, raw.  

She ran her fingers along a row of desks, forcefully keeping her back straight, her shoulders squared. The ache didn’t abate. Each room she passed, each echoing hallway, seemed to whisper the truth, that she had agreed to something she didn’t fully understand. And yet she had. She had agreed. 

The thought made her stomach twist tighter. She was angry. She was hurt. She was lonely. But above all, she was aching—and she didn’t know how to stop it. 

A quiet voice broke the rhythm behind her. “Sensei...is everything okay?” 

Utahime stiffened for a fraction of a second before realizing Miwa meant the precheck, not her. Her shoulders eased slightly, though the hollowness in her chest didn’t fade. 

“Yes,” she said, voice tight but steady. “Everything is fine. I don't sense anything strong here,” She let her gaze sweep the hallway again, though her mind wasn’t fully there. She moved for the exit anyways, keeping her breathing steady.  

She finally stepped outside, the cool air washing over her in contrast to the stale quiet of the hallways. A dark veil hung over the school already, muted and shadowed, filtering the sunlight into something dim and subdued. 

At the far edge of the property, Nobara, Nanako, and Maki were waiting. Nobara leaned against the fence, head tilted back in boredom. Nanako lingered near the edge of the veil, scrolling idly on her phone, though her posture remained alert. Maki stood upright, impatient, tapping one foot against the ground as if the motion alone could hurry things along. 

Utahime’s chest tightened. She forced herself to take a steadying breath, pressing the invisible tension from her shoulders. 

“Everything looks ready,” she said, voice controlled, eyes briefly scanning each of them. “Please stay safe—and work together.” 

The girls didn’t wait for another word. With a quick burst of energy they moved toward the school, slipping inside. Utahime watched their figures disappear inside, the sound of their footsteps fading against the polished floors. 

She lingered a moment, chest tight, before stepping outside the veil. The empty street stretched around her, quiet and oppressive. Her legs gave way, and she sank onto a nearby bench. The ache in her chest flared sharply, making her wince. 

For the first time, her glands at the back of her neck throbbed, a sharp reminder of a body she hadn’t asked for. She pressed her hands to her knees, closing her eyes, willing it away. 

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to curse him for the space he had carved inside her. But she could only feel the raw, unrelenting pull of wanting. 

Wanting him. 

Alone in the courtyard, with the dark veil still humming around the school and the distant echoes of her students inside, Utahime let herself feel it fully, and the ache threatened to undo her completely. 

This was not just absence. This was longing. 

And she didn’t know how to bear it. 

Chapter Text

By the sixth day, she hadn’t slept at all. She’d spent the night tossing beneath tangled sheets, sweating like the room was too hot and too cold all at once. Every so often, her eyes drifted open to the dark window, searching for that familiar flicker of light across the courtyard. 

It never came. 

Nor did the pull in her chest. It felt like a wire cut loose in a storm—severed and useless, yet still flapping wildly in the wind for attention. The silence of it hollowed her out, left her feeling scraped clean, as if something vital had been taken without her notice or consent. 

She sighed and looked out the window again, eyes fluttering open for the fifteenth time that night. The sky outside had already started to pale, a thin strip of gray pressing against the horizon. She moved to get up slowly, careful with every motion, as though her body might splinter if she wasn’t gentle enough.  

The floorboards were cold beneath her feet when she finally stood. She washed her face in the small showerless bathroom students were allotted, the water biting against her skin, shocking her into a kind of weary alertness. The reflection that stared back from mirror was ghostly—eyes rimmed red, lips dry, a faint tremor in her jaw she couldn’t quite still. 

Her glands throbbed at the back of her neck, raw and nearly bleeding from all the scratching she had started four days in. She stepped back into her room to pull on her kosode. The fabric felt stiff, almost like sandpaper against tender skin, making her hiss. The air hung heavy with the sour scent of sleeplessness by the time she was finished. She knew, with a twist of irritation, that even Shoko’s hadn’t gotten this bad. Pushing the frustration aside, she tied her hair back with a cream-colored ribbon then slipped into her boots, grunting in exhaustion as she zipped up the sides. 

When she slid open the door, the hallway air was cooler, tinged with incense and the faint, lingering echo of distant conversation. The school was already awake; footsteps shuffled, voices murmured, life continued. She paused for a moment, pressing her fingers against the doorframe to steady herself before stepping fully into the corridor. 

She went downstairs, toward the infirmary. 

Shoko’s office looked like a scene out of a movie. Books were stacked in precarious towers across every surface, sticky notes jutting out at odd angles to mark whatever discovery she’d abandoned halfway through. A stack of papers sat on her desk, the top sheet stamped in bold letters—’IMPACT SURVEY’. Her laptop was still open beside it, a half-written email glowing on the screen, cursor blinking in the middle of a sentence about recommendations for tomorrow’s event. 

She steadied herself with a palm against her desk, sighing as the cold surface bit into her heated skin. She had showered halfway through the night, cold water only, but it had done little the still what felt like a furnace in her chest.  

“Wow, you look like shit.” 

The words hit her before she even saw Shoko, echoing across the cluttered room. She blinked, adjusting her stance to turn towards the door, taking in Shoko as she walked in, eyes flicking over Utahime in a clinical assessment. 

“Thanks,” was all Utahime could manage to bite out. 

Shoko didn’t respond. She strode toward her laptop, swept it up, and settled behind her desk. Utahime watched, eyelids heavy, as Shoko’s fingers began moving across the keyboard. The rhythmic tap of the keys drifted through the room, gnawing at her frayed nerves. 

Finally, she snapped. “I need ice packs.” 

“Gojo on a mission or something?” Shoko asked, not even bothering to look up. 

Utahime didn’t even have the energy to scowl. 

Her silence must have been enough. Shoko stood, lips pulled into a thin line, and disappeared through a small door behind her desk. When she returned, she placed two small packs and a tube into Utahime’s outstretched palm without a word then sat back down. 

“For your eyes,” Shoko clarified as Utahime inspected the small tan tube between her fingers.  

Utahime’s gaze swept over Shoko as she settled back into the rythm of typing. The younger woman’s posture was calm, controlled, fingers still hovering over the keyboard, completely absorbed in her work. Her eyes flicked up briefly to check the clock on the wall, then returned to the glowing screen. 

Her gaze drifted downward, following the curve of Shoko’s shoulders, and her chest tightened. Shoko hadn’t touched the back of her neck once—not even a cursory press, no attempt to soothe the raw, pulsing glands that had been screaming at Utahime for days. The realization pricked at her patience, a small, sharp frustration cutting through the exhaustion that weighed her down like wet stone. 

She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus on the ice packs and the tube in her hands, though her eyes kept flicking back, silently measuring the discrepancy between Shoko and herself. 

She was sure Shoko had woken, iced her own glands as usual, and gone on with her day. It would be a few hours before she would have to do it again, from what she’d been told. Shoko still slept at night—she knew because when she had gotten up to shower, Shoko’s door had been cracked. She had poked her head inside and seen her breathing softly beneath the covers, the faint rise and fall of her chest seemed almost foreign, like she had forgotten how to even accomplish it on her own. 

Her fingers trembled around the tube as the sting of tears began to form. And she knew, vividly, how Shoko felt. It wasn’t fun, these changes—not in the slightest. 

But whatever was happening to her now, in comparison, felt so much worse, almost unimaginable. 

“Thanks,” Utahime managed to whisper before the emotions overtook her. Then she shuffled out of the room, shoulders heavy, the ice packs pressing cold against her palms. 

She grimaced as she tucked the packs between the fabric of her kosode and her neck, moving down the hall toward the bathroom. She stepped inside and approached the sink, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows that made her look even worse than before. 

She didn’t hesitate, not wanting to look at herself any longer than necessary, and twisted the cap off Shoko’s concealer. Applied carefully, it made her look almost like a ghost. Sickly rather than tired, but still better than wandering the halls with borderline bruises under her eyes. 

She stared at herself anyway, lips tugged into a frown, eyes still heavy under the camouflage. 

‘Gojo on a mission or something?’ 

She glared at her reflection, regretting every decision she had made in the past few weeks regarding that man. What was he? Attached to her now? Just like that? 

She wanted to go back and scream at Shoko, tell her the truth. 

Gojo was done with her, and now she was suffering the effects of withdrawal. But she still didn’t want to talk about the tether, the hollow ache in her chest. All Shoko knew was that, as an Alpha and Omega, their pheromones helped calm each other down—just like the other reports that had slowly trickled in over time. 

Shoko had already theorized that Alphas and Omegas were like two sides of the same coin. For what reason, she hadn’t deciphered yet. 

Utahime wasn’t sure she wanted her to, either. 

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small case, flicking it open. Inside lay what she had hoped would be the answer to her prayers: small strips of gauze soaked in a solution Shoko had created. 

Scent blockers. 

But they only masked her scent, not the changes that plagued her. And the suppressants she had been testing for the last three days seemed no different. 

Still, she pulled the ice packs from under her clothes and tossed them into the sink. Carefully, she set a strip of gauze over each of her glands and secured them  with medical tape from her other pocket. 

Her students didn’t deserve to smell what was happening to her. Even if the bandages hurt and a thin layer of skin would slough off by the end of the day, it was worth it not to scare them. 

She snapped the case in her palm shut, stuffing it and the small wheel of tape into the same pocket, then gathered back up the ice packs and concealer.  

She found Shoko exactly where she had left her, and approached her desk with an outstretched hand.  

“Thanks,” she mumbled. 

Shoko took the items and set them gently on her desk. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” Utahime sighed, “Just...tired.” 

“Is Gojo not—” 

“Please don’t talk about him,” Utahime cut her off, voice heavy with fatigue. “I don’t want to talk about him right now.” 

Shoko looked back down at her laptop, then opened a drawer to her side without glancing up. “I CCed you on the email for this, since it will be discussed during the meeting,” she said, plucking an orange pill bottle from inside her desk. 

“Okay,” Utahime sighed. “I’ll read it over when I get upstairs.” 

“Here,” Shoko said, thrusting the container toward Utahime. “Seven day supply.” 

Utahime took it hesitantly, studying the brown pills inside. 

“I’m pretty sure I have the formula right,” Shoko added, tapping a small book to her right. “There was a pretty lengthy chapter on them in some medical notes.” 

Utahime stuffed the bottle into the same pocket as the scent blockers, mumbling a thanks before turning toward the door. 

“Utahime,” Shoko called as her hand brushed the frame. 

She tilted her head instead of turning around. 

“They are just for now,” Shoko said, tone serious. “We will have to have one soon. You know the consequences.” 

Utahime only nodded and moved forward again, frowning. 

Suppressants. Used to stave off a heat from coming at an improper time. 

But what good were they, really? They didn’t seem to be suppressing anything at all. 

Utahime watched her students spar from the classroom window. She had shuffled them out of class shortly before noon, telling them all she needed to prepare for a meeting that would be happening soon. 

She had lied. The meeting wasn’t until seven. 

She watched as Maki laid Miwa out on the grass with a swift kick to her chest, winding her in the process. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but Maki stepped back, mouth opening in what must have been a series of sharp, barked orders. Miwa stood back up, taller than before, gripping the training sword in her hand tightly with determination. 

A small smile finally graced Utahime’s lips—the first in days. 

The girls went at it again, Maki expertly blocking Miwa’s attacks until they stopped suddenly. Nobara stepped out from beneath a cluster of trees on the sidelines, waving her hand as her mouth moved, beckoning them to follow. 

Utahime watched as Maki and Miwa made their way toward Nobara. Then, with smiles, they all turned and stepped outside the veil, scooping up Nanako sitting on a bench buried into her phone nearby, along the way. 

Utahime turned from the window with a frown, frustrated that her distraction had abandoned her. Almost instantly, her neck throbbed and her vision swam. She sank back into the chair at her desk anyway, trying to focus on the chain of emails Shoko had forwarded earlier. 

But she couldn’t read the words—not when it was right there, staring at her like some cruel joke. 

[email protected] 

Right there, in the recipient bar. 

She tried anyway, finger tapping the touchpad to highlight the email text as if that might help. 

It didn’t. 

Her eyes drifted after the first sentence, the words failing to penetrate her thoughts, and inevitably, she drifted entirely. 

She slammed the laptop shut with a growl, then buried her head in her hands. The tape on her neck stretched, pulling on skin that couldn't bear it, and she whimpered at the pain. 

Fuck, she needed a drink. 

“UTAHIME!” 

She startled awake, the door to her room rattling from the force of a fist pounding against it. Her heart jumped, and the remnants of sleep and exhaustion fought against the sudden surge of alertness. 

“UTAHIME! WAKE UP!” 

Shoko. Not only was it Shoko, it was Shoko yelling.  

Utahime scrambled, diving for her phone, which had somehow landed face down on the floor. Her hand trembled as she flipped it over and pressed the home button. She gasped. 

6:54 PM. 

“I-I’M COMING!” 

The door handle jiggled a few times. Utahime’s stomach dropped. She never locked the door. 

She stumbled upright and slammed against it with a solid thud, flipping the lock and pulling it open as she righted herself. Shoko rushed in, eyes wide with worry. 

“Utahime!” she gasped, taking her in. 

“I-I must have fallen asleep,” Utahime panted, still catching her breath. 

“The meeting—we have to get you ready. Go shower. Quick.” 

Utahime didn’t waste a second. She grabbed a towel from her dresser and rushed to the shared shower accommodations. The water scalded her skin as she stepped under the stream, her glands burning sharply beneath the heat. 

By the time she was running back into her room, wrapped in a towel, it was already 7:04. Shoko shoved a fresh set of clothes into her hands, along with a new set of scent blockers and tape, then ushered her into the bathroom. 

Utahime slapped the blockers on haphazardly with the tape. Then slipped into her clothes, ignoring the protests from her neck. She rushed back into her room, aggressively drying her hair with the towel. 

Shoko applied more concealer under her eyes as she brushed and tied back her still wet hair with a new bow.  

By the time they both bolted from her room it was already 7:15. 

The room was already thick with palpable tension by the time they arrived, spilling out into the hallway before they even entered. 

Nobody looked up as they slipped in and took their seats, their tardiness made all the more glaring by the folded paper nameplates waiting for them. 

‘Utahime Iori – Lead Omega’ 

‘Shoko Leiri – Head Researcher’ 

Yaga didn’t acknowledge them. Instead, a PowerPoint presentation flared to life on the screen behind his head as he rose to speak. 

Utahime gathered herself, breathing deeply, taking in the room. Men and women—Betas, Alphas, and Omegas—lined the walls. The few chairs around the long table were occupied, each marked with a nameplate. 

She scanned each face carefully, studying the individuals. The tension and panic that had gripped the large gathering in the lecture hall on the first day seemed a distant memory. 

Finally, her chest settled into an even rhythm, and she snapped her mouth shut, finally able to inhale through her nose. 

She froze. 

An array of scents assaulted her senses, each distinct from the last. Some sweet, others sharp and tangy, metallic, or musky. But one rose to the top: earthy, savory, mouth-watering. She swallowed hard.  

Then, hesitantly, she looked across the table.  

‘Satoru Gojo – Lead Alpha’ 

Her stomach twisted, a low, insistent ache crawling up from her gut. Her chest tightened, ribs pressing inward as though they were too small to contain the sudden surge of heat. Her hands clenched into fists on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, while her throat constricted, making each breath feel shallow and sharp. Her legs trembled beneath the table, and a cold sweat prickled along her spine despite the flush spreading across her face. She wanted to look away, to escape the pull, but her eyes were rooted to him. 

She took in his appearance. Every detail—the way he leaned back in his seat, arms crossed; the slight tilt of his head as though he were actually listening to Yaga; the slow, rhythmic sway of his body as he rocked himself side to side in the swivel chair they had stupidly given him—each one made her stomach twist tighter. 

His skin looked just as clear as the last time she’d seen him. His hair, a mess of white, stuck up wildly, held that way by a familiar black blindfold. And his lips were drawn taut into an infuriatingly neutral line. 

She scowled, the sudden surge of energy snapping through her chest, sharpening her eyes into a glare. 

He didn’t look affected at all. 

The glare faltered when Geto leaned down over his shoulder, a hand resting on the back of his chair. He murmured something low, and for a moment, she thought she saw Gojo exhale—almost a sigh. Then he tilted his head toward Geto, gave a faint nod, and went back to that lazy, rhythmic swaying, like a child who couldn’t sit still. 

“Utahime?” 

Yaga’s voice cut clean through her concentration. 

“Yes?” she asked, forcing a calm into her tone that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“The Omegas’ combat abilities?” Yaga repeated, the subtle weight in his voice making it clear he’d already asked once. 

Utahime swallowed, the heat creeping up her neck, and cleared her throat. “Perfect. They successfully exorcised three Grade Four curses and one Grade Two without assistance.” 

“Good,” Yaga said with a pleased nod, then turned to the other side of the table. “Gojo?” 

“Would you expect anything less from my students?” he replied instead of answering. 

Yaga only sighed and moved on to the next subject. 

Utahime felt her eyes sharpen into a glare again that she flung back across the table without meaning to. 

Can he ever just answer a question without acting like some sort of peacock!? 

Almost as if he’d heard her thoughts, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. And she swore—for just a heartbeat—she felt his gaze brush against her. 

Heat flared across her cheeks before she could stop it. She tore her eyes away, jaw tightening as she forced herself to stare at the notepad in front of her. A scoff threatened to slip past her lips, but she swallowed it down, fingers curling around a nearby pen instead. 

The meeting droned on about schematics and contingency plans, the steady rhythm of voices fading into background noise. Shoko took the front, clicking through slides filled with data and charts—things Utahime had already heard about in exhaustive detail during their late nights in the infirmary. 

Her gaze drifted, unfocused, the hum of conversation blending with the soft buzz of florescent lights. Every few minutes she’d nod, pretending to follow along, but her mind kept circling back—inevitably, unwillingly—to the man sitting just across the table. 

Even when she didn’t look at him, she could feel him. 

Her eyes flicked up once, just once, and there he was—leaning back again, impossibly relaxed. To anyone else, he looked normal. Unbothered. Maybe even bored. Like the last few weeks hadn’t meant a damn thing to him. 

Utahime’s grip on the pen tightened. 

Of course he looked fine. Gojo always looked fine. She could practically hear the whispers that used to follow him through the Jujutsu community—how he laughed too loudly, smiled too easily, and flirted without ever meaning a word of it. The kind of man who could shatter someone with a joke and walk away none the wiser. 

Her stomach turned. 

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was why he seemed so unaffected. He’d found another Omega—someone that would be placid and do as he wish, who would hold him without arguing, wear his clothes without a fight about it. 

Her throat tightened, a bitter taste coating her tongue. She forced herself to look back at the screen, though she couldn’t have said what was on it if her life depended on it. 

Because that would be just like him. Satoru Gojo, the man who never spent a night with the same woman twice. The one who laughed his way through rumors like they were compliments, who let stories trail after him like perfume. There were even whispers he had kids abroad—his tastes leaning toward tall, blonde women with glossy lips and legs for miles. 

And if any of it were true, she knew his clan would bury the evidence so deep the world would never find it. 

Her nails dug into the paper in front of her, crinkling the edge as her chest tightened. 

Maybe she had thought she was different. 

The realization struck harder than she expected, lodging in her ribs as if she'd been stabbed. She’d told herself it wasn’t like that—that whatever was happening between them had been circumstance, not choice. That he’d touched her because of proximity, because of the experiment, because it was necessary. 

But somewhere between the long glances and the quiet moments and the way he’d said her name—she had started to believe it. To believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something there that wasn’t calculated or convenient. 

Her throat ached. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, trying to will the feeling away, but it didn’t help. 

Because now, sitting across from him, watching him act so infuriatingly normal, she realized how foolish she’d been. 

She wasn’t different. She was just another variable. Another story that would fade into the long list of things Satoru Gojo didn’t care to remember. 

Finally, Yaga stood from his chair, clearing his throat. “Very well. This session will be considered a success,” he said, his tone brisk but satisfied. “Gojo, you will be bringing the students to Kyoto early tomorrow morning by train. Ensure they are ready and prepared for the exercises upon arrival.” 

Gojo gave a lazy nod, swaying ever so slightly in his seat again, and replied, “Of course. They’ll be there.” 

Her gaze found Gojo once more, sharp and furious, and she let it linger—like if she tried hard enough, he might catch fire.   

Then she was up, chair rolling back against the floor, and she bolted from the room like it was on fire. 

Chapter Text

She stomped out of the building and into the bite of near-winter air. The cold hit her like a slap, but it did little to cool her anger—or the desperate pull urging her to turn back. 

Back to him. 

When had it changed? When had he become the thing she wanted to run to instead of from? 

Gojo had always been a constant in her life. He had survived the transition into adulthood and remained (annoyingly) by her side, but so had everyone else. That's how it was for the lives of sorcerers. You stay close to those you have, not knowing if you will see them again.  

That had been normal. 

This was not.  

She marched onward, head down, the pale silver shimmer of the veil flickering ahead. Safety—for now, at least—until it came down. None of the Alphas could enter. Gojo included.  

The cold sank into her damp hair, sliding down her neck in a slow, stinging trail. Her glands pulsed once sharply. They were already raw again; she could tell. If she kept relying on the scent blockers much longer, she’d end up with more ugly scars. But that was a problem for later—not now. 

Now she just needed to make it to her bed, curl up, and try not to cry. 

She lifted her hand, fingertips brushing against the barrier and— 

—gasped as something yanked her from within. The tether in her chest snapped taut, a searing line of pain that dragged through her whole body like a hooked wire. The force sent her stumbling back, breath knocked from her lungs, her pulse thrumming wild and unsteady. 

Heat flared around her wrist—then a sudden pop filled her ears as time and space bent violently out of place. 

She blinked once and found herself staring at a familiar, unkempt bed. 

“Oh,” a voice tutted in her ear with mock pity, “so close," it hissed.

A voice that shouldn’t have made her heart lurch. That shouldn’t have felt like coming home. 

She saw red. 

She yanked herself from his grasp and spun, slamming both palms against Gojo's chest with enough cursed energy to blow a hole through anyone else. It did nothing, of course, but have him take a few steps back.  

“Fuck you,” she spat. 

“Fuck me?” he repeated, voice dropping into a sharp, dangerous tone that could make anyone else flinch. “Fuck me!?” he barked. The laugh that followed wasn’t his usual cocky drawl—it was jagged, manic, the kind of sound that made her stomach twist. “You’re the one getting me chewed out by Yaga because he thinks I did something to you again!” 

“I’m leaving,” she whispered, her voice trembling around the words. Her body ached, her throat burned, and her neck felt like it was on fire. He had no right to grab her like this, to kidnap her after what he’s done. 

She turned to leave, but of course, he stopped her with another hand around her wrist. She twisted again, but he only raised it between them, pulling her closer. 

“Let go,” she demanded. 

“You are so fucking stubborn,” he growled, voice dark, and for once she wished she could see his eyes.  

She hated how close he was. Hated that his scent curled around her, worming past every wall she had. Her body betrayed her first, leaning toward his warmth. She closed her eyes instead of responding. Then his breath brushed against her cheek as he leaned down , hot despite the chill from outside still clinging to her skin. A shiver ran down her spine, down to her toes, without her asking for it. 

“When’s the last time you slept?” he asked, voice rough as he leaned toward her. 

Her eyes snapped open, furious. “That’s none of your business,” she hissed. 

“Sorry, but it is my fucking business now.” 

She finally tore free from his grip, stumbling a few steps back. He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her again. 

And that’s when it hit her again—the sharp, familiar sting of rejection. Shame wrapped around her like a vice, and the bitter prick of tears welled at the corners of her eyes. 

“You seem fine, so I don’t know why you care,” she hissed, voice tight and jagged. Illogical. An argument only a teenager would make.  

She should leave, now. Before she embarrasses herself further. 

But Gojo laughed again, this time it was a harsh, raw howl, hand pressed against his chest. His cursed energy flared so hard the air vibrated, the light in the room flickering out for a split second. “You think four days without sleeping is fine?” 

Before she could respond, the blindfold was gone, tossed over his head. His eyes were wild, electric blue, pupils pinpoints—an intensity she had only seen a handful of times. 

“I can RCT away most things,” he said, each word riding the edge of a snarl. His hand was shaking as he tore at the zipper of his coat, energy spitting off him like sparks as he shrugged it off and threw it at the wall with too much force. “But I can’t RCT this.” He yanked his shirt up with one hand, baring his chest, and Utahime gasped. 

Bruises. Black and blue, too many to count. 

His hand fell, the black undershirt with it. The muscles in his jaw jumped, his eyes burning so bright it hurt to look at him. “I can’t sleep with you yanking on me from halfway across the country, Utahime!” he roared, desperate. 

Utahime stared, breathless, as his face twisted with fury. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, but only one made it to the top. They needed to go to Shoko—they needed to tell her about this. 

About the fact that it wasn’t just her. The tether went both ways. That it was real. That she wasn’t imagining it. That it wasn't just some new factor to her biology that she had to get used to. That it had wounded the strongest sorcerer of the modern age, and he couldn't heal it. 

“Gojo,” she whispered, her voice trembling under the weight of too many emotions at once, “we need to go to Shoko.” 

Gojo froze. For the first time, he looked lost—like he didn’t know which mask to reach for. Then he stepped forward and cupped her face with one hand, thumb brushing gently over her cheek.  She gasped at the touch, suddenly aware of the tears streaking her face. 

“Not now,” he said, calm but firm. 

“Gojo—” 

She tried to protest, but he cut her off. 

“Just...let me take care of you. Please,” he begged, voice low, his hand falling back to his side. 

She stared at him, at the man she had known for over a decade, into eyes that simmered with tension, pain.  

And underneath it all, she saw it—the same exhaustion she felt. The same raw edge of someone who had been pulled too thin and kept pretending they weren’t. 

A jolt of shame hit her. All this time, she had been wrapped up in her own pain, her own confusion, that she hadn't thought that this might be wounding him too. That he might feel the same thing. That there might have been a reason for the light that night, and every night after. That he wasn't just trying to be annoying. He was trying to survive, just like her. 

Gojo always saw and felt things before anyone else. It was his job. It kept people safe. Why would this be any different? 

The realization hit like a physical blow, right at the center of her chest. 

Her throat closed around a sound that wasn’t quite a sob. 

She hadn’t just been selfish—she had been unknowingly cruel. 

“Please, Utahime,” he whispered, stepping closer. “I can’t take it. I’ve tried to do what you asked, but you’re killing us both.” 

The words cracked something inside her. The room tilted, her lungs burning with a breath she couldn’t seem to let out. Her eyes stung and her hands twitched uselessly at her sides. All she could think was how much easier it had been to hate him—to call him infuriating, unbearable. Not someone living through the same fucked-up world she was. 

Two sides of the same coin. That much was clear—painfully clear. 

She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. She didn’t know what her eyes were saying; she had never been good at controlling herself when it came to him. But she hoped he would understand. 

Finally, she closed her eyes. 

She heard him exhale a sigh of relief. Then came the soft shuffle of his footsteps. His hands framed her face, heat radiating from his palms and seeping into her skin. 

For a long moment, he just stood there—holding her—while she kept her eyes squeezed shut. The air between them hummed, heavy with the kind of silence that makes every heartbeat sound too loud. 

Then his hands moved—one sliding down to her neck, resting there gently, thumb brushing over the rapid flutter of her pulse. The other drifted to her waist, fingers grazing fabric before finding the ties of her pants. He tugged once. The knot gave, and the fabric slipped down to the floor with a soft, weighted sound that made her stomach flutter. 

“Gojo—” 

“Please. I’ve seen you in a bikini plenty of times.” 

She snapped her mouth shut, the protest catching halfway up her throat. He was stupid, insufferable—a problem of a man. His hands left her neck and waist, and suddenly the air against her bare legs felt sharp and cold. 

Sure, they’d been on plenty of trips together. But this wasn’t a swimsuit. These were her panties. White cotton with pale blue stripes and a little bow—something she hadn’t even thought about when dressing that morning. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, holding her kosode closed and opened her eyes, ready to glare up at him—only for her vision to go dark as something soft and heavy fell over her head. A swath of black fabric. His shirt. 

The next few moments flashed. Suddenly her arms were bear, her entire body bore to him in a way that made her shiver. Then the shirt was roughly shoved down to cover her before it could matter, and her arms were being threaded through the fabric of the sleeves. 

This time, when she regained herself, she did glare up at him. 

“I can dress myself,” she said, voice low. 

“I know,” was all he said. Not even a taunt. 

The glare faltered. 

Then she was moving—following the gentle press of his hand at her waist—until she was sitting on the edge of his bed. 

She watched him warily as he knelt, shirtless now. Then his hand wrapped around her calf, and she realized he was undoing the zipper of her boots. 

“Gojo, I—I don’t need your help!” she protested again, voice sharp with panic. 

She didn’t like this. Not just from him, but from anyone. The feeling of being handled, of losing control. And she especially didn’t like the way it made her chest flutter, her pulse thrum, her face burn hot with something that wasn’t just anger or annoyance. 

He was too gentle about it. Too nice for someone with all the power in the world at his fingertips. Too calm for someone who’d made it his life’s work to drive her insane. 

Gojo only sighed, tiredly this time, and moved to her other foot. The zipper rasped open. Her second boot joined the first, tossed carelessly over his shoulder. 

Then he looked up. 

She sucked on the inside of her cheek, teeth pressing down in flesh as his gaze descended—her face, her neck, her frame swallowed by his shirt. It made her think too much, made her body tighten instinctively, her knees pressing together like she still had some shred of modesty left. 

But the reality was brutal. She had just let Satoru Gojo undress her—down to nothing but a thin cotton bra and a pair of striped panties—and shove her into his shirt. 

He moved before she could speak, stepping away this time. Her heart fluttered in panic, and she reached for him without thinking. 

“Wait!” she called, the word catching in her throat. 

He stopped, just out of her reach, and a playful smile finally crossed his face. “Wow, Utahime,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t take you for the clingy type.” 

Her chest tightened at his words, breath coming in shallow, ragged pulls. The room began to spin again and her glands throbbed, raw and stubborn. The thought of him stepping away made her stomach twist painfully. 

“I...I thought you were going to—” she stammered, panic edging it. Her hands twitched, reaching out for him even more, begging for him not to leave. 

“I’m not sleeping in jeans, Utahime.” 

“What?” she asked, breathless, brows knitting together in confusion. 

“You told me I can’t change in here,” he said, flat. “And besides, you can use the time to take off your bra. I know you don’t sleep in it...unless you want help?” 

“No! I don’t want help, you idiot!” she snapped. A jerk reaction to the shit eating grin he was starting to wear. 

Gojo laughed, a light playful tone that made her breathless, and backed away towards the bathroom as he scooped up a pair of sweatpants from his dresser. Utahime watched him go, lingering panic twisting inside her. 

She barely waited for the door to click shut. With a sharp growl of frustration, she fumbled with the clasp of her bra. Finally, it came free, the straps came down her arms, and she tossed it onto the floor after pulling it free from under her shirt, joining her other clothes in a messy heap. 

Her hands trembled slightly as she straightened, breathing uneven, and cool air pressed against her bare skin, making her shiver. 

Seconds stretched. Then more seconds. Her chest fluttered, worry gnawing at her stomach. 

The bathroom door opened. Gojo strolled out, a slow, exaggerated grin on his face and jeans exchanged for grey sweatpants. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for me.” 

She glared, hard. “Gojo this isn't funny,” she bit out, “I’m in pain.” 

Gojo’s smile only widened as he strode toward her and knelt again. “And whose fault is that? Stubborn little Omega?” he goaded. 

“Don’t—” she gasped as one of his hands pried her legs apart and he slotted himself between them. “Don’t call me that,” she breathed, the sharp tang of his scent pressing down on her as he moved closer. 

He pulled her to him with a firm grip on her sides, pushing his waist up the to the apex of her thighs as he buried himself in the side of her neck. 

And then she felt something—something that hovered between a kiss and a bite. She wasn’t sure which. 

Her body jolted instinctively, a shiver racing down her spine. Heat instantly pooled low in her stomach while a tremor ran through her legs, tightening them against him. Her pulse hammered rapidly in her ears, and her raw glands began to thrum under the scent blockers she wore. Her hands twitched, unsure whether to push him away or clutch at him, and her breath start to come in ragged, uneven bursts again as her throat constricted around a sound that wasn’t sure she was allowed to vocalize. 

And then, he stopped. 

“Don't call you what?” he asked, his lips whispering the words into her skin. “Call you an Omega or stubborn?” 

She couldn’t help it. Her hands flew to the back of his head, fingers tangling in the soft, silk strands of his hair. His breath was warm against her throat, his scent too close, too heavy—it flooded her lungs until it made her dizzy. 

“Both,” she gasped. He smiled into her. 

“Are you done being stubborn yet?” he murmured, his hand trailing up the line of her spine until his fingertips found the edge of the tape on her neck. 

“I—I’m not,” she growled, though the sound broke halfway through. The moment his fingers grazed the edge, a hot, electric pulse shot through her—sharp enough to steal her breath. 

Something inside her was snapping. The thin thread of will she’d been clinging to, fraying apart with every heartbeat. She couldn’t keep doing this—fighting him, fighting herself. 

Maybe it was some curse, some cruel bond that tied them too close. Maybe it was because they were compatible now, their bodies answering questions her mind refused to ask. Or maybe she was just unlucky enough to want the one Alpha who drove her absolutely mad. 

Whatever it was, she didn’t care. For the first time in days, her body didn’t ache from the inside out. For the first time in days, she felt whole, and her mind confessed for her. 

“I thought you were—” her voice faltered as he slowly peeled back the tape. “Seeing someone else,” she bit out, the words trembling as raw, tender skin met the air. 

She pulled him closer on instinct, crushing his head against her as a small whimper of pain slipped free. 

It hurt. Like a burn—the exposed gland throbbing as if it had its own heartbeat. She could feel her pulse through them, every throb syncing with the rhythm of his breath against her neck. 

Gojo’s other hand fell from her waist and found hers, gently prying her grip loose so he could breathe. “No,” he murmured into her skin, “I think those days are over for me, Utahime.” 

She didn’t have time to think about what that meant—the weight behind it—before he moved to the other side of her neck. He peeled the second strip of tape back slowly, and she hissed, this one sharper, angrier than the last. 

“You need to stop wearing these,” he said, sitting back slightly to look at them. “They make you smell weird—and it drives me crazy.” 

Utahime could only blush, eyes narrowing in protest as his gaze met hers when he leaned back further. Her fingers trailed around the sides of his neck, brushing against his collar bones and over the top of his pecks as she looked away. His hand shot forward, fingers gripping either side of her jaw, pulling her attention back to him. Gentle but firm. 

“Stop,” he ordered—and something in the way he said it made her want to fall. Her eyes widened, like a deer caught in headlights. “Agree to it, Utahime, or I’ll start tearing down walls next.” 

She swallowed hard, but nodded. His hand fell away, and a quiet sigh of relief escaped him. Then he leaned back in, pressing his mouth to the same spot on her neck, groaning low. 

“God, I fucking missed you,” he breathed, voice cracking as he drew her in, inhaling deep. 

Her hands trembled as they found his hair again, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of his neck. The heat from his glands pulsed against her wrists—needy, but not like hers. Not raw. Not destroyed. His was steady, resigned. Like he had already accepted this—them—long before she had. 

“I’m...going to RCT the bruises,” he said, his voice slurring a little at the edges. “So don’t make new ones.” 

“I thought you couldn’t heal them?” she asked. 

“There was no point in healing them when you just kept making new ones.” He leaned back again, sitting on his heels. She let him, this time allowing her hands to fall completely to her sides. 

His eyes fluttered shut, and she felt a surge of his energy ripple through the room—sharp, then soft, settling in her lungs like static. She watched as his battered torso began to knit itself back together, bruises fading in seconds, skin smoothing back into perfection. 

She frowned, catching his gaze as his eyes cracked open again. “I think we’ve been hit with a curse,” she said quietly. 

Gojo laughed, the sound low and humorless. “Oh yeah?” he asked, teasing. 

“It’s not funny,” Utahime whispered. 

Because there had to be a reason—something logical—for this. For them. 

“Never said it was,” Gojo replied, though the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth told a different story. “I don’t get hit by curses, though.” 

“Okay, well—that’s the only explanation for this, Gojo,” she huffed, irritation bleeding into her words. He was too calm about it, too casual, for her liking. 

It was bad enough that on a good day she only wanted to maim him. She didn’t need a two-way tether binding them together on top of it. 

He simply caged her in again, his hands laid flat against the mattress by her sides, his body pushing itself back between her legs like her words meant nothing. He buried himself in her, calmer than before, taking a deep breath that shuddered when he exhaled.  

“You smell good,” he said, his words starting to slur again, like an addict relapsing. His hands found her again, wrapping around her. 

“Gojo--” 

“I’ll take care of you now,” he said, voice dropping into a whisper.  

Her eyes widened at the tone. Before she could even ask what he meant, the hot swipe of his tongue brushed against a raw gland. A sharp sting bolted through her chest, and she shivered, her body tensing as a pained whimper escaped. 

“Hurts,” she gasped. He did it again, the touch igniting nerves that throbbed and pulsed beneath her skin. 

If he heard her, he gave no sign. Then, without warning, she felt herself being lifted upward, her mind too dazed to care that his hands cupped her rear to do so. Her back met the bed, and his body stayed firmly between her thighs, pressing her into the sheets. 

His mouth moved again, this time faster, rougher, over taut sensitive skin. A sound escaped him, a groan she thinks, as the room began to spin above her. She managed to free her arms from between them, wrapping them around his torso. Her nails dug lightly into his back, each swipe of his tongue sending a jolt of sharp, electric pain racing through her, leaving her breathless and trembling. 

He shifted to the other side, leaving behind only a faint ache where the first throbbing pain had been. But this side—rawer, more tender—burned sharply, the spot where her kosode had rubbed against her skin. His tongue swept over it, and her body jerked violently, back arching off the bed as a shiver of sharp, electric pain shot through her. 

The air crackled, then snapped. 

His arm shot under the space between her back and the mattress, holding her body taut against his. He pressed down on the gland, hard, with a swipe of his tongue before encasing it with his mouth. She squirmed, the shocks of pain giving way to a heat that pooled low between her thighs.  

Then he stopped suddenly and moved back to the side of her neck. She blinked rapidly, the haze lifting only slightly, before he dragged a long, hot line up the side of her neck. 

Her chest rose in a sharp gasp, but she failed to hold it. A moan—lewd and humiliating—escaped before she could catch it. 

He dropped her as if she were on fire. Her back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and suddenly his warmth was gone, his body hovering a safe distance away. 

They stared at each other, eyes wide, both horrified. Like two people waking up the next morning after one too many drinks. 

“I—I’m sorry. I’m tired,” she stammered, somehow willing the excuse into existence. 

Gojo only nodded, his eyes still wide, wild in a way she couldn’t name. 

Then he moved again, shifting to her side. He pulled her along, pressing her face into his chest. His fingers threaded through her hair, tugging on the bow and tossing it onto the floor. 

He held her there, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other resting lightly on her head, until their breathing began to even out, slow and steady. 

“Utahime?” he whispered softly. 

She could only offer a strangled hum in response. 

“You taste good too.” 

Chapter Text

There were times Utahime wished she could forget. Times when Gojo wasn’t as insufferable as he normally was. When he could be sweet. Even caring. 

Like the time he sat with her in an abandoned classroom, patiently walking her through how to fill out a mission report after she’d just graduated and promptly had a panic attack over doing it alone for the first time. He had been so nice she forgot he was only sixteen, and really, he shouldn't have known how. 

Or when he’d drop by with food on his way to meetings with Gakuganji, despite how many times she told him to stop. He always managed to bring something she spoke highly of a few weeks before. Sometimes things she had even forgotten talking about.  

Or how he was the only person who would sit and watch baseball with her for hours. The last time had been just a week before this disaster—he’d shown up at some ridiculous hour to watch game three of the World Series. He hit his head on her doorframe with a stupid cocky grin, and immediately raided her fridge before pouting that she hadn’t stocked up on anything sweet. He fell asleep on her couch a few hours later. 

It was easier to pretend those moments never existed. Easier to believe that all Gojo could ever be was annoying, egotistical, and idiotic. And he was, but he was other things too, and she knew that. It was safer this way. Because those moments didn’t make her stomach twist. They didn’t make her think too hard. They didn’t make her feel light, or lose track of time. 

They didn’t make her smile—or feel comfortable in a way she wasn’t supposed to. Wasn’t allowed to. 

Now was one of those times. 

Utahime woke to warmth. 

For a long, disoriented moment, she couldn’t place it—the steady rise and fall beneath her cheek, the faint thud of a heartbeat that wasn’t hers, the scent of earthy musk that rested on heavily her tongue. 

Her eyes fluttered open. Dim morning light slipped through the curtains, painting the ceiling of the room in a pale hush. And that was when she realized—her head was buried against Gojo’s chest. 

She froze. 

Her mind screamed at her to move, to get up, to put distance between them before he woke. But her body didn’t listen. His arm was slung loosely around her waist, heavy and relaxed, and she could feel the slow rhythm of his breathing against her temple. If anything she curled into him further, seeking his warmth, her body still impossibly relaxed against his. 

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He always had left before she woke in weeks prior. The spot where he lay being warm the only sign he had been there in the first place. 

She held her breath, and pushed away from him slowly, just enough to pull her head out from under his. He groaned lightly, his head falling back into the pillow with a sigh, and she took the opportunity to glance at his face. His lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks, his mouth soft for once, free of that infuriating grin. 

He looked—peaceful. Human. 

She swallowed hard and carefully tried to shift further away, but his arm tightened just slightly, a lazy, unconscious gesture that sent a rush of heat to her face. 

“Gojo,” she whispered, trying her best to sound annoyed.  

It didn't. 

He didn’t stir. Of course he didn’t. 

Her heart thudded in her chest as she pressed a hand to his shoulder, intent on pushing him off this time. But her fingers hesitated, caught in the warmth radiating from his bare skin. 

She shifted nervously against him, a plume of heat wafting up from under the blankets and searing her winter bitten nose.  

He must have forgotten to turn on the heater. 

Her gaze flicked to the old radiator against the wall, its dial still off, then drifted back to him. 

Her eyes traced the faint line of his jaw, the way his hair fell into his face in messy, uneven strands as he buried himself into the pillow—the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against her own. 

The curve of his neck. The faint shadow of two swollen glands at its base, just visible. Evidence of what she had done. To both of them. 

She frowned, catching her mind wandering to places it shouldn’t. 

Weeks of this—and really, Gojo had initiated everything. She would come in, lie down, and he would join her shortly after. He was always the one to tangle them together, to press himself into her space. 

And so, she did the only thing that thought process led to. 

She leaned forward. 

Heat bloomed across her face as her lips met his skin, her hand tightening on his shoulder for balance. It felt strange, almost inhuman. She tried to remember what it had been like when he’d begged her for help that first time, but the memories blurred at the edges, distorted by panic. 

A wave of his scent washed over her as she ghosted up the side of his neck, stopping just below his ear. Her mouth watered at the intensity, and she suddenly understood why he liked this so much. 

Gojo, it seemed, had been leaning into their new instincts instead of fighting them. 

Her eyes fluttered shut. For once, she let herself feel it fully—drawing in a slow breath, releasing it just as slowly. Her body trembled as a soft, heavy haze wrapped around her thoughts. 

Her skin buzzed as the feeling settled deeper against her chest. For the first time, she didn’t think—she just felt. 

The warmth beneath her palms, the slow, steady pull of his breathing that seemed to draw her in with every rise and fall. Her pulse matched his and each beat seemed to echo in her throat, her ears, her fingertips. The edges of the room blurred, leaving only the sound of that rhythm and the faint rustle of the blanket shifting as she exhaled. 

The weight of denial slipped a little. 

Slowly she moved, stretching to the back of his neck, and gently tapped the surface of a swollen gland with the tip of her tongue.  

The reaction was immediate. A bolt traveled down her spine, curling her toes and bending her knees. Her chest tightened, straining against the rise and fall of her breathing as her vision blurred. Without thinking, she held on tighter—drawn by something she couldn't comprehend—and when the tremor began to fade, she found herself chasing it again. Harder this time. 

She shifted upwards, leaning further into his body, and took a full swipe across the heat with the flat surface of her tongue. The reaction this time was deep, primal, a voice inside her that wasn't her own.  

She sealed her mouth over it, pulling softly at the flesh, at the taste, in a kneejerk reaction. Heat gathered where they met, a molten pool spreading beneath her skin, rooting her in the haze.  

He moved, sudden and swift before she could pull back. 

His arm thrusted sharply downwards then back up under the fabric of her shirt. His palm laid flat, tracing her spine until it rested between her shoulders and pushed. She gasped, the sound trailing into a small, broken whimper she couldn't control, muffled against the salty curve of his neck 

She tried to breathe, but it was useless—air came in shallow, stuttering pulls, laced with his scent, mingling with the faint lavender of the sheets. All she could feel was him, like he was carving out a space for himself in her soul, his touch branding every inch, every nerve, until she was nothing but the throb of him inside her. 

And then, like someone was watching them, the muffled sound of her phone ringing tore through the air. 

The haze shattered. She dragged in a greedy breath against his neck, the cool rush of air sharp in her lungs, and shoved weakly at his shoulder, twisting in his hold to reach for her pants on the floor before she could fall back into the fog. 

She snagged the waistband and yanked them up—just as his palm flattened on her bare stomach and slammed her back into his chest, knocking the wind from her lungs. 

“Gojo...” she rasped, her voice low and ragged as she dug through the pocket that contained her phone, the device buzzing faintly against her hand. 

Finally, she found it, flicking open the call right before it would have gone to voice mail. 

She swallowed, fighting to steady her voice, to sound like someone who hadn’t just forgotten herself for a moment. “Hello?” 

“Utahime?”  

Shoko. Oh god. It's Shoko. 

Her blood ran cold. She instantly went for Gojo’s hand, yanking her shirt down and trying to pry him off her, but his fingers were like steel. 

“Are you there?” Shoko asked, voice tinny through the speaker as Utahime wrestled. 

She twisted and aimed a desperate kick backward toward where his shin might be—but he simply caught her leg with his and pinned it between his own. 

“Yeah! I—I’m here!” Utahime chirped, too brightly. 

“I see,” Shoko said after a pause. Her tone carried that dry, clinical sort of assessment that made Utahime’s stomach drop. “Late night?” 

“Yeah, you know—” she tried prying at his fingers again, without success, “— it’s just been so difficult to sleep lately.” 

Shoko merely hummed into the speaker. 

“How was your night?” Utahime managed, her voice sounding almost normal. 

But then—warm breath ghosted over the back of her neck. 

“Good,” Shoko said. “Went out for drinks with Nanami and Suguru. You should’ve come.” 

Utahime opened her mouth to respond, but her voice tore from her throat in a strangled gasp. Gojo’s mouth had found the still-tender gland at the base of her neck. Fire shot through her spine, arching her back, forcing a soundless cry from her lips.  

And Gojo groaned—loudly, mortifyingly. 

“Utahime?” Shoko asked, voice sharp through the speaker. 

“Yeah! Uh! You—you should’ve texted me!” she blurted, flustered. 

Gojo moved—away from her gland, down an exposed shoulder, across her back, nuzzling his nose through her hair. He paused every few seconds, biting lightly, constricting her ability to breathe, to think. 

“I did,” Shoko said, “five times.” 

Gojo’s hand shifted off her stomach, and a sigh of relief nearly escaped her lips—until it landed on her hip. She squirmed, trying with renewed force to get free. 

“I guess,”  she huffed between attempts. But his hand was unyielding. “my phone was on silent.”  

“Hm,” Shoko said, then drew out her name in a tone that reminded Utahime of her mother. “Utahime.” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Ask me how my morning’s going.” 

Utahime swallowed, her body stilling in Gojo’s grasp as nervous sweat broke out across her skin. 

“How...how is your morning going?” 

“Perfect! I’m just sitting here, in your classroom, watching over your students—” 

“What! Why?” 

Gojo stilled now, his mouth having ceased its relentless assault on her sanity and, somehow, remaining blissfully quiet. 

“It’s ten in the morning, Utahime.” 

Her stomach plummeted. 

Chapter Text

She was late. 

Utahime was never late. 

Her throat constricted around a response, the dead air between her and Shoko thick and suffocating. And, like a child with the social skills of a brick wall, Gojo nuzzled into her shoulder once before settling back against the pillow, his arm sliding to loosely circle her waist again as he exhaled something that sounded suspiciously like a complaint. 

A complaint. As if the man wasn’t two hours away from where he was supposed to be right now. 

She swallowed down her rage. 

“I’ll be there soon.” 

“Yeah? Well, tell Gojo that—” 

She slammed the end-call button, her face burning, turning its best impression of a tomato at the height of summer. She moved to shift away, but found herself under a lead lined arm and her leg still trapped between his own. 

“Gojo,” she breathed, trying to stay calm as she wrapped her hand around one of his fingers to pry. “Let me go. Right now.” 

Gojo didn’t listen. Instead, he moved closer, his arm tightening as he settled back against her shoulder. “We’re late anyway,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “So, what’s the point?” 

The point?

The point! 

Utahime exploded. She clawed at his hand, throwing her head back in frustration while he laughed, unbothered. She kicked, trying to twist free, but he caught her leg again before she could escape, pulling her flush against his— 

Her eyes widened. 

Is that? 

No. 

A tense beat passed, her body rigid in his grasp as she registered the unmistakable press of his cock against her ass. 

His hard cock. 

“They’re mating glands, Utahime,” he said, too close and with infuriating casualness. “I can’t help it.” 

She thrashed against him, panic twisting with the molten heat in her gut. 

Why did he have to say it like that? And why was it so— 

It pressed against her again—thick, rigid, pulsing with every heartbeat, dragging a helpless shiver up her spine. 

WHY WAS IT SO FUCKING BIG!? 

She had to get free. She had to escape. This couldn’t be happening. Did he impale people with it? Do people even walk out of a night with him whole? And why on earth did someone as good looking as him get to have that? 

In a flash, his Saturn-sized ego made perfect, humiliating sense. 

“Utahime~” he crooned, voice velvet and smug. “You’re only making it worse. Calm down.” 

She stilled, blinking at the wall ahead of her. 

Calm down. 

CALM DOWN!? 

“Gojo,” she bit out through her teeth, her chest heaving with rage and panic. “If you don't let me go right now ill castrate you.” 

Then—pop—she yanked herself free so hard she overshot her own center of gravity, flinging herself right off the bed with a very dignified thump as she landed face-first on his floor. 

For a long, stunned moment, she stayed exactly where she was—face buried in her clothes, pride in pieces, and dignity bleeding out somewhere under the bed. 

Then came the sound. 

A low chuckle. Then another. Until Gojo’s laughter rolled through the room, unhurried and entirely too pleased with itself. 

“Graceful,” he said between breaths. “You really nailed the landing.” 

Her fingers curled into hardwood. “I hate you,” she seethed, meaning every word. 

“Mm. You say that a lot.” 

She pushed herself up, hair a wild mess, cheeks burning, and glared at him. He just smiled, propped up on an elbow, the morning light turning his grin into something that made her blood boil. 

Utahime shot up from the floor, snatching her kosode and thrusting her arms through it. She needed to get out of here—back to her own dorm, shower, then run upstairs, praying that four pairs of eyes didn’t weld her to the wall on her arrival. She tied it shut messily, then shoved her legs through her pants, and—unfortunately—looked up halfway through. 

And there he was. Staring. Big blue eyes tracking her every frantic movement, as if they’d just... 

“YOU'RE LATE! WHY ARE YOU STILL LAYING DOWN!?” She screamed. 

“We’re late, Utahime,” he said, sighing dreamily as his eyes fluttered closed. “Isn’t it romantic?” 

Her patience snapped. She grabbed his (unused) alarm clock from the nightstand and hurled it at his head. It hit his infinity, bouncing harmlessly onto the bed. Gojo just blinked, then laughed again—a low, utterly infuriating laugh that made her teeth grit. 

She growled, yanking her kosode tighter and shoving her pants fully into place. Everything had to go back on, and every movement felt like a race against both time and her own humiliation. 

Then, like some sort of twisted beacon, her bra stared back at her from the floor. 

She looked away quickly. Maybe she could just ignore it. Kick it under the bed. Pretend it wasn’t there. 

That was—if only—Gojo hadn’t pulled himself to the edge of the mattress and been staring at it too. 

Then, because the world clearly hated her, he tilted his head up, blue eyes locked on hers, lips curling into that infuriatingly calm grin. “So...you gonna put that on...?” 

“Stop talking!” she snapped, snatching the offending item from the floor and stuffing it into her shirt. 

She grabbed her boots from the floor, fumbling to shove her feet inside while hopping awkwardly on one leg. Her fingers slipped around the clasp of the zipper, her other foot nearly failing as she tried to balance, and she hissed in frustration. 

Gojo, still perched on the mattress, tilted his head with that calm, amused grin, watching every frantic movement like it was the most entertaining thing in the world. 

“Need a hand?” he asked, voice smooth. 

“No!” she snapped, yanking the zip closed and moving to force the second boot on. Her cheeks burned hotter than ever, every movement painfully slow and clumsy, yet somehow she managed to get them both secured. 

Heart hammering, she stomped once for good measure, as if asserting that she was still in control—just barely. 

Then, she turned and shoved the door open, bolting down the hallway without another glance at the idiot she left behind. Every step was a frantic sprint, her heart wild in her chest, cheeks burning from the embarrassment of whatever the fuck had just happened. 

Behind her, Gojo’s voice called after her, calm and teasing as ever. “Same time tonight, then!” 

She didn’t dare look back. She just ran, hoping the floor would swallow her up before she had to face anyone else. 

But someone did see her. And, of course, it had to be Yaga. And Yaga, of all people, had to stop her in the middle of the hall. 

“Where is he?” he growled, eyes sharp. Clearly too enraged to care where she had been coming from—but that didn’t make it any easier. 

Utahime tilted her head down, mutely thrusting an arm backward toward Gojo’s door. Yaga said nothing else, merely stomped toward it as she tried not to melt on the spot. 

She burst into her classroom, freshly showered and dressed in clean clothes, only to find Shoko leaning out an open window. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, and her students were nowhere in sight. 

“I was just about to call you again,” Shoko said, flicking her cigarette out the window. 

“I—” 

Words failed her, heat on her cheeks taking their place. 

She...what? Let herself get tangled in Gojo’s limbs like some helpless fly caught in a spider’s web? Let herself succumb to him again after she had been expressly warned not to? 

Shoko would have a fit if she knew what she had done. She’d scolded her mercilessly the last time. And this time...her mind betrayed her, wandering back to the memory of his...this time was far worse. 

“I assume Gojo caught you last night?” Shoko said, turning around and stuffing the butt of her cigarette back into her pack. 

“Y-yes,” Utahime stammered, struggling for words. 

“Good, you look better,” Shoko said, turning back to the window. Utahime approached slowly, keeping her gaze fixed on Shoko until she settled beside her and looked down. 

Her students were outside, sparring, just like any other normal day. 

“I’m sorry,” she managed, voice barely above a whisper. 

Shoko sighed. “It’s fine. At least I didn’t have to deal with Gojo during your spat this time.” 

“What?” Utahime asked, breathless. 

Shoko chuckled lightly. “Anytime you two get into it, he comes to me like I’m the Utahime Whisperer,” she mused. 

“Idiot,” Utahime scoffed. 

“He definitely is, social skills of a rock that one,” Shoko said, twirling her pack of cigarettes between her fingers, “but what can you expect form someone who’s never been told no?” 

Utahime sighed, fixing her gaze on her students outside.  

Normal. They all looked normal. The past few weeks had flown by, everyone segregated in the name of safety. But aside from the obvious changes in physical stature, nobody—at least as far as she knew—was acting differently than before the seal breaking. 

Nobody except...herself. 

“Shoko,” Utahime called quietly. 

Shoko hummed in response, resting her hand on her palm as she leaned over the windowsill. 

“Things...will go back to normal, right? After all this?” she asked, begged. 

Shoko didn’t answer at first. Utahime watched as she blinked slowly, eyes half-lidded, staring out at the students in quiet wonder. 

“It makes sense now, doesn’t it?” Shoko asked instead. 

“What?” Utahime replied, her chest tightening. 

Shoko sighed, pushing herself up and twisting to lean back against the wall. “Me and Geto.” 

Utahime swallowed hard, the unspoken truth slapping her in the face as Shoko’s gaze dropped to the floor. 

Unspoken, because it couldn’t happen. Romance between sorcerers was scarce as it was. The higher-ups felt the need to approve every match, treating relationships like some sort of genetic experiment designed to produce the strongest offspring, not two human beings with feelings. 

And the special-grade sorcerers? Well, they would kill over them. Which made no sense. Geto’s technique wasn’t inherited, and Gojo’s came from his clan—not just himself. Yet the idea had been ingrained into the council, drilled into every successor like an unyielding truth that nobody could escape. Shielded by some ridiculous cause of 'keeping the nation safe' whenever anyone questioned it. 

“It happened again last night,” Shoko said with a humorless chuckle, voice light but devoid of real amusement, “and it felt like it always did...just...more intense.” 

“Shoko...” Utahime frowned, reaching a hand toward her friend, but Shoko moved away stiffly. 

“So, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Shoko asked, back turned as she stared at the date scribbled on the blackboard. “Me and Geto doing this for years? Why Gojo can never leave you alone?” 

“H-He started to leave me alone...when we got older!” Utahime bit out, grasping for some sort of shield. 

Shoko sighed, long and tired, like this argument had been had a thousand times before. She turned back, and for a moment, Utahime swore it looked like she had been crying. 

“I guess you’ll have to decide for yourself, then,” Shoko said, stepping back toward the window. 

“Hey, kiddos! She’s here!” Shoko yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth as she leaned out. 

“Decide what?” Utahime asked as Shoko pulled herself back inside. 

Shoko turned to her with a soft smile. “Once we’re all together...if this is like how its always been.” 

With that, Shoko turned and gathered her belongings from the desk. She fumbled with a folder for a moment before thrusting two pieces of paper toward Utahime. 

“The survey. For both of you. You still haven’t taken it.” 

Utahime took them gingerly, as if they might burn if she wasn’t careful. 

“Alright,” Shoko said, straightening her posture. “I’ll see you at the reunification event in a few hours.” 

Shoko shoved out the door without waiting for a response, and her students flooded inside. 

Chapter Text

Utahime felt like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, the wind at her back, jagged rocks and sharks below. 

Four pairs of eyes stared at her from their desks—four very suspicious pairs of eyes. 

She steeled her expression, drew in a slow, steadying breath, and closed her eyes. 

Okay. Yes. She couldn’t deny that her week-long tantrum had left her looking...ill, in a sense. And teenagers were, well, teenagers—curious to a fault. She remembered those days all too well, sitting with Shoko and Mei Mei in her dorm room, gossiping about who was doing what like they were some sort of undercover investigators for other peoples lives. 

But she could be mature about this. She wasn’t going to continue being an idiot making up fictional scenarios in her head just to stay mad at nothing. It’s not like Gojo asked for this to happen either. And it could be worse—she could be finding no comfort at all. 

She should be grateful it was Gojo—at least a friend, not a stranger. And if she wanted things to go back to normal, she needed to end this before it started a fire she couldn’t control. 

She opened her eyes, took stock of the room once more, and spoke. 

“Today is an important day for us all,” she announced, pausing to make sure she had their attention. She did—they were listening intently—but somehow that only made finding the next words harder. “Gojo-sensei and I have been helping each other through some of the changes we’re experiencing. And I understand if it has caught some of you...off guard,” she said carefully.  

Maki narrowed her eyes. Not at her, she thinks, more like the sort of look she's seen her give Gojo in the past. 

“So, you two are dating?” Norbara asked bluntly. 

Utahime choked. Literally. A startled, graceless sound clawed out of her throat before she could stop it. 

“That’s what it sounds like,” Nanako sighed, like this was the inevitable boring conclusion to a long, painful drama. 

Utahime straightened immediately, forcing composure back into her limbs. “We are not dating,” she said crisply, voice higher than intended. “This is purely professional.” 

Her students exchanged glances. She could feel the weight of every unspoken thought bouncing between them, and all she could do was smile like she hadn’t just poured gasoline on the rumor mill herself. 

Finally, she cracked. 

“As adults, there are some unintended consequences of having a secondary gender thrust onto our bodies so quickly,” Utahime explained, clasping her hands in what she hoped looked like authority and not desperation. “Consequences that you, as young adults, will not have to experience from our understanding.” 

Nobara leaned over and cupped a hand around Miwa’s ear. “It still sounds like they’re dating,” she mock whispered—loudly enough that it echoed off the walls. 

“Gojo-sensei and I are not dating,” Utahime restated, firmer this time. “We’ve known each other since high school, so we trust each other to—” 

“YOUVE KNOWN EACHOTHER SINCE HIGH SCHOOL?!” 

Nobara was on her feet now, palms slammed against her desk like she’d just uncovered a government secret. 

Utahime looked at the girl, doing her best to hide the twitch in her eye. “...Yes,” she said slowly, uncertain what sort of chain reaction she’d just triggered. 

“You guys seriously didn’t know that?” Nanako scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “Her, Ieiri-san, Geto, and Gojo are like some weird quartet.” She grimaced, as if even the thought offended her. 

Oh, how Utahime missed when this child was six and scared of the dark. She would be mortified if Utahime ever told the class how she used to clutch onto Geto’s leg and cry for hours. 

“And you never said anything?!” Nobara shouted. 

Nanako shrugged. “Didn’t think it was important.” 

“I didn’t know either,” Maki said, her tone flat but eyes suddenly sharper, more interested. 

And Miwa—precious, sweet Miwa—looked almost hurt that she hadn’t known. Like she had been hiding some grand secret that she has known her great idol personally and had never said a word. 

Utahime let out a strangled sigh, composure slipping. “Yes! It is not that uncommon in our world to remain friends with your circle from school. Our world is small.” 

“What did he look like?” Nobara asked suddenly, derailing the conversation even further. 

“I—what?” was all Utahime managed to get out, breathless, confused. 

“There’s a bunch of old photos in his desk,” Maki added. “Are you guys in them?” 

“Oh yeah! Let’s go look!” Nobara said, already moving to step around her desk. 

“No! Sit down!” Utahime snapped, harsher than she intended. Nobara sat back down with a huff. She cleared her throat and forced herself to continue. “Your classmates who are Betas will not be able to tell that anything has changed, and nothing has. So, I am asking all of you to refrain from spreading unintended rumors or derailing the reunification, even accidentally.” 

“Well either your gunna go through them or I will later,” Nobara said, rolling her eyes.  

“He’s shown us some before, I don't see how it would be a big deal,” Maki said. 

She watched the girls exchanged glances, then a collective movement started between their gazes, their bodies starting to lift from seats. 

“Please, sit down!” Utahime snapped again, hands raised like she could physically push them back. “I mean it! This is not—” 

“Come on, we just want to see!” Nanako whined, “it's not like it’s anything I haven't seen. Geto has loads of pictures from you guys in school! They might even be the same ones!” 

Utahime groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her composure was fraying faster than she could stitch it back together. “Fine!” she finally relented, her voice tight. “But just a quick look. Just—quick!” 

With a flurry of anticipation, the students crowded around as Utahime carefully opened the bottom drawer of Gojo’s desk. Inside, neatly stacked, was a small collection of old photographs. 

She picked it up and the first one made her stomach flip, knowing that the students’ curiosity was about to explode into a dozen different theories—none of which she could stop. 

Because there they were, right at the top.  

His hair flared out in untamed tufts, a rebellious crown frameing a deceptively young face that could command attention at the snap of a finger. Brilliant cerulean eyes glinted over black, round sunglasses that had slipped low on his nose, and his grin—wide, toothy, impossibly pleased—belonged only on someone who enjoyed being in trouble. 

She, on the other hand, looked moments from drawing a weapon on both him and the lazy arm draped over her shoulder. 

Perfect. The exact photo she didn't need four suspicious teenagers to see right now. 

The students leaned in closer, murmurs spreading like wildfire. 

“Oh wow—look at his hair!” Nobara exclaimed, reaching over to point. 

“Those sunglasses,” Maki added, squinting. “They make him look like...an ass.” 

And she wasnt wrong, is what Utahime wanted to say, but she held her tongue. 

Nobara plucked another from the stack, followed shortly by Maki and Nanako. Some of the pictures she even recognized. 

Utahime flinched, waving her hands. “No! Please, everyone!—do not comment on—anything! Just look, quietly, briefly, and put them back!” 

Nanako snorted as she leaned closer, inspecting the photo with exaggerated curiosity. 

Miwa’s hand hovered over the stack, hesitant but clearly itching to peek at the next one. “Um...is that really you?” she asked, her voice soft, almost awed. 

Utahime felt a twitch in her jaw. “Yes! That is me! And yes, that was a long time ago! But the specifics—are irrelevant!” 

Nobara groaned dramatically. “Irrelevant? Come on, this is amazing. You guys look...so... young!” 

Utahime clenched her fists. “Everyone, remember what I said about rumors and—” 

But by now, photos were circling from student to student. Giggles, whispers, and a flurry of questions filled the air. Utahime’s eyes darted between the eager faces and the photos, her composure hanging by a thread. 

What kind of teacher keeps these types of things in his room! And why did that one have to be on top! 

She was going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. 

She slapped a hand over her mouth, forcing herself to breathe before the thought took verbal form. Hyperbole. Not a plan. Not productive. Utahime straightened, and very calmly, pulled the photos back toward her like a captain hauling in a rogue sail. 

“Okay,” she said, voice clipped but steady as she snatched pictures from their hands. “That’s enough looking.” She held the stack up where everyone could see the top photo for one final, controlled second, then began replacing them in the drawer with hands that trembled just enough she had to focus on the task to stop the shaking. “Thank you. Please take your seats.” 

There was a murmur—some protest, some obedient sighs—and the students shuffled, returning to their seats while passing small commentary under their breath. Utahime slid the drawer closed, exhaled, and pivoted back to the class with a smile that was all teeth and diplomacy. 

“Right,” she said, reclaiming her stern teacher tone like it was life or death. “This was...an unfortunate detour. For the record: these are personal, historical photos. They are not for gossip or speculation. Treat them with respect and leave them in their place.” She let the words hang, then added, softer, “And please—no spreading rumors. Gojo-sensi and I are friends and nothing more.” 

The students exchanged one last conspiratorial look before settling. Utahime allowed herself a single internal groan—and then, as if on cue, a knock sounded at the classroom door. Her stomach did an entirely new flip. 

The door opened, and Yaga stepped inside, “Iori,” he nodded, “they are here.” 

“What!? How!?” 

Utahime stormed across the courtyard, the cool air doing nothing to cool her temper. Less than an hour. It had been less than an hour since she’d left him sprawled across that bed, smug and half-asleep, like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

And now he was here. At Tokyo Tech.  Like he hadn’t just shattered the laws of time and space for the sole purpose of driving her insane. Teleporting all the student’s from Kyoto would be out of the question, not even he would do such a thing without prior authorization from the council. Not because he couldn't, but because he rather eat a cactus before standing in front of them more than he needed to (his words not hers). 

Her boots hit the gravel harder with every step. “Physically impossible,” she hissed. “Actually impossible. Even he couldn’t—” 

“Utahime!” 

She stopped dead, because of course—of course—the culprit was waiting by the front gate, waving like she wasn’t two seconds from setting him on fire. 

Gojo grinned, a travel cup of coffee in one hand and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was from a bakery in the other. “You look like you ran here.” 

“I should’ve known,” she snapped, pointing a finger at him. “There’s no way you made it here this fast on your own.” 

He took a slow sip of a concoction that was probably more sugar than drink, and mock sighed. “You wound me. What happened to having faith in your colleagues?” 

“Faith,” she bit out, “I have faith that you have done something shitty with that shitty brain of yours, again!” 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he said, shrugging his shoulders with a sly grin. “I just borrowed Ijichi.” 

“You what?” 

He shrugged, unbothered. “He owed me a favor.” 

Her jaw dropped. “You made him round up an entire group of students—” 

“Technically, escort, temporarily. I’m a responsible teacher, remember?” 

Her hands clenched. “You’re—” 

“—Brilliant? Efficient? Devastatingly handsome?” 

“—Insufferable!” 

Gojo laughed, and she swore the world tilted just slightly as her pulse rose into her temples. 

“Can you stop talking now,” a voice came from behind him, low and tired in that way only a teenager could manage. 

Megumi stepped out from behind Gojo, hands in his pockets, looking like he’d been dragged through hell and back. “He hasn’t shut up since he joined us,” he said flatly. 

“Megumi!” Gojo protested, hand to his heart. “You wound me. I was motivating the youth.” 

“By threatening to sing the whole ride,” Megumi growled out, sighing in frustration. 

“I thought it would’ve been fun!” someone said—far too cheerfully. She turned just in time to see Yuji, Yuta, and Todo climbing the steps behind Gojo and coming into view. Followed shortly by the rest of her non-gendered students who gave small, very tired, waves. 

“It would not have been fun,” Yuta sighed, trying to reassure his underclassman with the weary calm of someone who had already survived too many of Gojo’s ‘fun’ ideas. 

Todo slung an arm around Yuta’s shoulders, grinning ear to ear. “Fun is subjective! The heart knows what it wants, and mine wanted Gojo-sensei’s ballads!” 

“Please don’t touch me,” Yuta said flatly, staring blankly at the empty space in front of him. 

“Well, what a great reunion! Where are my lovely students, Utahime?” Gojo said, his grin so wide she wished she could slap it right off his face. 

She didn’t, of course. Instead, she turned on her heel and stomped back through campus toward the training yard, choosing to focus on the meeting she’d just had with students outside her own gender. 

Things seemed...normal. At least, as normal as they could be. No strange shifts, no visible tells. The students, even the ones with secondary genders, hadn’t given her a second thought. 

Thank god. 

Maybe—just maybe—they could go back to normal. She could finally return to her own bed, her own home, the one she hadn’t seen in almost two months. 

They entered the training yard, and her students along with Panda, Inumaki and Mimiko came into view. Shoko was there, a cloud of smoke surrounding her with Geto and Nanami flanked besides her in casual conversation. Administrators sat back on the sidelines, clipboards in hand, waiting.  

Utahime scanned the yard, noting the familiar faces in their usual formations—or as usual as things could be now. 

And then it began. 

Nobara, not wasting a second, sprinted forward and simultaneously locked both Megumi and Yuji into a headlock under each arm. The pair struggled, groaning and flailing, while Nobara’s triumphant grin only widened. 

Miwa, the only Omega from Kyoto other than herself, lit up at the sight of her classmates and sprinted toward them, her enthusiasm infectious. She collided into the cluster with a squeal of joy, arms outstretched. 

Yuta, with a resigned but steady expression, found his place among Maki, Panda, and Inumaki, slotting in like he had never left. The groups adjusted seamlessly, quietly, with no fanfare other than an occasional yell or squeal that could be attributed to teenagers finally getting to see their friends after months. 

Utahime watched, exhaling slowly. Somehow, it looked...right. Despite the chaos, despite the headlocks, squeals, and flailing arms, the students were back together, like the seal breaking had been nothing. 

She allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible smile. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as she feared. 

“Alright!” Gojo clapped his hands once, the sound carrying across the yard like a gunshot. “Now that everyone’s all caught up, it’s time to begin our first joint training exercise!” 

Utahime felt her stomach sink. She’d heard that gleam in his voice before, in his eyes too if she could see them—the one that usually preceded property damage. 

“Ijichi!” Gojo called, waving his arm. 

The poor man stepped forward, clutching a paper bag like it contained a live grenade. He looked both apologetic and terrified, which did nothing to ease Utahime’s nerves. 

Gojo turned to her, grinning. “Utahime, my esteemed co-instructor, would you do the honors?” 

Her brow furrowed. “The honors of what?” 

“Drawing the slip, of course!” he said, hands clasped behind his back, voice practically singing. 

Utahime blinked at him. “Why are we drawing anything for a training exercise?” 

“To decide the game we’re going to play, obviously!” 

He was too pleased with himself. That was never a good sign. Still, with half the faculty and all the students watching, she bit back the sigh clawing up her throat and reached into the bag. 

Her fingers brushed paper—several identical pieces, smooth and freshly cut—and she pulled one out. Slowly. Cautiously. 

Her eyes narrowed as she read it aloud. “Satoru Gojo’s...American flag football?” 

The words tasted wrong. 

They were in Japan. They did not play football. 

Utahime’s head snapped up. Gojo was already beaming at the crowd like some overzealous camp counselor. 

“That’s right!” he declared. “Our first cross-campus exercise: Gojo-sensei’s very own American flag football! I saw a video online and its brutal.” 

She snatched the paper bag from Ijichi’s hands. Every single slip said the same thing. 

“You—!” 

Before she could finish, Gojo cut her off, voice booming again. “Now, while we adults go discuss the rules, I expect everyone to behave and warm up!” 

He hooked an arm around her shoulders and started dragging her away before she could explode, waving at Shoko, Geto, and Nanami to follow. 

Utahime barely managed to stop herself from stabbing his hand. 

They gathered in Gojo’s office. 

Utahime stood just inside the doorway, eyes fixed on the splintered frame—still cracked from that morning. The jagged line in the wood hadn’t been repaired, a faint reminder of everything that had unraveled since. 

Gojo leaned against his desk, still wearing that insufferable grin that made her fingers twitch. Shoko had claimed the open window, smoke already curling lazily toward the ceiling with Geto by her side. Nanami stood by the bookshelf, pretending to read instead of listen. 

“So,” Shoko said, flicking ash out the window. “American flag football?” 

“It’ll be team-building!” Gojo declared, as if the word insanity didn’t apply to him. 

Utahime finally tore her eyes from the cracked wood and glared at him. “You realize not a single person here has ever played American football, right?” 

“That’s the fun part,” he said, positively glowing. “besides its inspired by flag football, you'll like it!” 

Then, finally, Ijichi came into the room, out of breath, and gave a curt nod to Gojo. 

“Perfect,” Gojo said, “Utahime, close the door.” 

Utahime hesitated, a prickle running sharp along the back of her neck. Still, she reached out and closed the door. 

Gojo straightened, his grin never fading. “Now that we’re all here,” he said, hands clasping together. “I have an announcement.” 

A beat. 

“We’re being watched.” 

Chapter Text

Utahime let her hand fall from the door handle, eyes narrowing on Gojo. 

Being watched wasn’t anything unusual. Their world demanded it—their society demanded it. Or rather, the people who controlled it did. 

She frowned, lips pressing into a taut line. 

But if Gojo was the one saying it, that meant there was something else. Something worse. And if he was worried—then they all should be. 

She crossed the room and sank into the couch, the leather creaking under her weight as tension in the room fizzled. 

Finally, Shoko spoke, tapping her cigarette against an ashtray before closing the window. “Aren’t we always?” she asked, voice tired and flat. 

Utahime had to admit—she was tired too. The constant threat against humanity never really faded, and it was their job to protect it. Teaching the next generation only added another layer to the madness. 

The students are all so young. None of them have realized what they’d really signed up for—and there is nothing she could do to prepare them for it other than give them tools that might help them not die. 

It was a lot to ask of anyone. Life would have been simpler if she’d graduated and gone back home—returned to her family’s small estate, waiting to be married off, far from combat. The scar lining her face was a stark reminder of that lost simplicity. 

She glanced around the room—faces she’d known for over a decade. 

But still, she’d chosen differently. They all had, in one way or another, even if the reasons weren’t always clear. They stayed in this world for something—duty, guilt, purpose. Maybe all three. 

Her gaze settled on Gojo. His grin had slipped, that careless shield he so rarely let fall. She waited, patient and silent. 

“Kyoto and Tokyo have been bugged,” Gojo said finally, crossing his arms over his chest. “By the higher-ups. Yaga told me this morning—there are at least fifty cameras and microphones hidden around both campuses. Started about three days ago.” 

For a long moment, no one spoke. 

Then Gojo moved. He stepped to the couch and dropped, letting his weight fall beside her with a careless thud that made the frame groan in protest. His arm brushed against hers, but she didn't move away. 

“Guess privacy’s a myth now,” he muttered, tilting his head back until it hung over the cushion’s edge, the white mess of his hair spilling down like a halo. 

Across the room, Geto’s voice cut through the lull—low and even. “Did you notice how many observers they sent to watch this event?” 

That pulled Utahime’s eyes up. 

Gojo didn’t answer right away. He smiled—small, sharp, and humorless. 

“One for each of the gendered students, I counted,” Gojo said. He was smiling but his voice, and then his scent, went sour. Utahime struggled to stay seated, the taste heavy on the back of her tongue, a sudden swell to do something about it taking hold in her gut. 

Then came Nanami, ever the reasonable one. “It’s an event meant to prove we can still work together. I fail to see—” 

“They didn’t bug my office,” Gojo cut in, voice sharp. “Or my room. They’re trying to hide something.” He pulled his head up from the couch, a frown turning into a scowl as he crossed his arms. “And the kicker? They’ve got an entire team dedicated to cursed surveillance techniques—yet used none of them.” 

Utahime swallowed hard. A sharp pang of stress surged across the tether and slammed into her chest. 

Because if they had used cursed surveillance, Gojo would’ve seen it. 

No—this was something else. Gojo was right. The higher-ups always watched society carefully, but not like this. 

“I don’t see why we even listen to them,” Nanami ground out next, “especially you, Gojo.” 

Nanami had already left the jujutsu world once. But he wasn’t considered anything exceptional by the council. Coming from a non-sorcerer family had made it easy for them to let him go—his technique likely deemed replaceable in their eyes. 

Unlike Geto’s. 

So it was easy for him not to understand. 

“They control the contracts that pay us,” Geto said calmly, “and the networks that pass information so we can actually move when something happens. And the amount of money and influence they have inside and outside our world is astronomical.” 

“Those can be replaced easily,” Nanami sneered. 

“Not to mention,” Gojo added with a sigh, “they tend to cozy up to whoever they consider the strongest. At least, they used to. Until I came along.” 

Silence fell, heavy with implication. 

“I mean, I could—” 

“No, Gojo.” Geto’s voice cut through the air—firm, final. 

She didn’t like that—didn’t like that Gojo was even letting the thought cross his mind. Because really, a flick of his fingers and he could slaughter them all. 

Geto would be able to do the same. But he also understood the truth Gojo was skirting: tearing down an institution that had held power for centuries, even one as corrupt as this, would ripple in ways none of them could control. Civil order, contracts, supply lines, the very networks that let them do their jobs—pull one thread and half the tapestry unravels. People would die in the fallout. 

Utahime closed her eyes for a beat, feeling the truth settle in her bones. Violence is simple. Consequence are not. She thought of the students—bright, reckless, oblivious—and of the scar that had taught her the price of choices. This wasn’t about winning a duel. It was always about what came after. 

Geto stepped forwards, away from the window. “We don’t need to burn the house down to see what’s under the floorboards,” he said. “We quietly find the cameras, map the observers, and figure out what they are looking for. Then we cut the strings that matter without collapsing the whole system.” 

Gojo twitched, the corner of his mouth lifting into something that might’ve been a smile. “Boring,” he muttered, though there was no heat in it—only the restless impatience of someone waiting for a better play. 

“Shoko,” Geto said, turning toward her, “move all your research offline. Paper only. We can’t stop them from checking the library’s inventory, but we can slow them down by forcing their own footwork. Whatever this is—it’s tied to the sealing, and to our new genders.” 

“And the rest of us?” Nanami asked, bitterness sharpening every syllable. 

A fresh wave of fury bit into Utahime’s chest, one that wasn’t her own. 

“Just know that you’re being watched,” Gojo hissed. “Utahime and I are already fucked in that regard.” 

Utahime held her breath, eyes going wide. They had probably seen it—the tail end of her anger, the way she’d snapped. The interaction between them at the meeting. Then his not‑so‑graceful capture of her afterwards. Followed by her exit from his room in the morning. 

They knew. She was sure of it. And she was sure Gojo was sure of it. 

Heat prickled beneath her skin, crawling up her throat and burning her skin. 

Shoko’s brows pinched, the faintest twitch, but she said nothing. Geto’s gaze flicked between them once. They didn’t need words to understand what surveillance footage would look like out of context. A woman storming out of the meeting room. A man chasing her. A scuffle with a quick shift to behind closed doors. A morning exit with tussled hair and half put together clothes. 

Nanami exhaled through his nose, tired. “So this is political theater now?” 

“It always has been,” Geto replied.

Silence. Dreadful silence.  

“Ijichi, you leave first, go get the stuff I told you about in the gym.” Gojo ordered.  

Ijichi hesitated, brow furrowed, then nodded and slipped quietly toward the door. One by one, the others followed, leaving the room heavy with unspoken weight. 

The moment the door clicked shut behind the last of them, Gojo moved. He reached for Utahime’s wrist, his fingers brushing hers before she yanked herself away, tumbling upright with a heavy breath before the action could turn into something further. 

“Are you insane?” she hissed, furious. “You spend ten minutes warning everyone, and then you grab me?”

Stupid. The man is stupid. They shouldn't even be in here alone right now! 

Gojo tilted his head up, like he was eyeing her quizzically. “Are you scared?” he asked, voice low, something sharper lurking beneath it. 

“What do you mean? Of course I’m scared, you idiot. We have students this directly affects!” 

“No,” he corrected, tilting his head slightly, his tone deadly serious. “Of us.” 

Utahime froze, eyes going wide, the words too blunt to let her keep calm. Her chest tightened, and she turned away, mind urging her toward the door—but her body refused to move. 

Finally, she snapped back toward him. “Yes, Gojo. I am. And I’m not sure how you aren’t,” she bit out. 

“Well, if we were both as stubborn as you are, we might’ve exploded by now,” he said, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “And you didn’t seem so scared this morning when you—” 

Her palm slammed over his mouth before he could finish, cheeks blazing. “Stop talking.” 

She hovered there for a moment, waiting—making sure he’d actually shut up—before stepping back, arms folding tight across her chest. 

“That...was an accident,” she said firmly. 

“An accident?” he drawled, tone rich with disbelief, that teasing lilt that said sure it was. 

“Yes,” she clipped, proud of how steady her voice sounded even as her pulse thundered. 

He had been warm. And smelled nice. And half-naked. And she’d just...succumbed. 

Normal. Totally normal. Yeah. 

“Okay, fine,” Gojo said, raising his arms to stretch out along the back of the couch. “Show me what’s not an accident, then.” 

“What?” 

“Show me what isn’t an accident.” 

“I heard you the first time! You just don’t make sense!” 

Gojo sighed, frustrated. 

“I get that maybe I was a little...zealous this morning,” he said. “But can you really blame a guy when a girl wakes him up sucking on his neck?” 

Utahime nearly choked on her own breath. “I told you I didn’t mean to!” she sputtered, face burning. “I was—I was curious, okay?” 

Gojo didn’t laugh this time. His grin didn’t come back. 

“Listen,” he said, voice low, “I won’t move. At all. I’ll be good. But if you don’t give me something, I’m going out there and break the fingers of anyone I deem part of whatever fucked-up plan the higher-ups are cooking up.” 

Utahime marched forward a few steps and ripped his blindfold up over his hairline. His eyes were bare, just ice-cerulean and utterly still, pupils pin-pricked with a concentrated, animal calm that made the air between them feel suddenly thin and dangerous.  No joke behind the threat. 

She stepped back carefully. “And what would you do if I weren’t here, Gojo?” she asked. 

Gojo rolled his eyes. “Find you—like I do every other time,” he said, as if it were obvious, as if this had been going on for years, not weeks. 

She stilled, swallowing down the words, unable to even ask for clarification. Because—what the fuck? 

He spoke for her instead. 

“You want to know what this is? Fine—have at it,” he said. “I won’t move an inch.” He raised a hand. “Scout’s honor.” 

Her fingers twitched by her sides, the memory of the morning slipping unbidden to the surface. The press of his skin under her mouth, the faint taste of salt and heat. The way his breath had caught, and how the sound had curled low in her stomach, dizzying and warm.  

It hadn’t felt like a mistake at all. It had felt like gravity. Inevitable. Like she was fighting against something that just is and always will be. 

“Quickly though, because really there's only so much time we can stay in here before everyone thinks we are fuck—” 

She rushed forward and slammed her palm over his mouth again, face blazing. 

“No talking either,” she hissed. 

A victorious smile curved under her palm as he nodded, and she hated it. But—and she hated to admit this too—the opportunity was...alluring. 

She could explore this...connection...safely, without his meddling hands. Understand what it really felt like for her, alone.  

She stepped back slowly, straightening herself as her gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall. 

“Set your alarm for ten minutes,” she ordered. 

Gojo, true to his word, didn't speak as he pulled his phone from his pocket and swiped across the screen, tossing it onto the opposite end of the couch when he was finished and returning his arm to the back of the couch. 

She stepped forwards, hesitantly, placing one knee by his thigh on the couch. “I mean it, one word, one move, and we are done here.” She said. 

He smiled, tight lipped, like it was supposed to be some sort of confirmation but instead just made her stomach drop. 

Still, she lowered herself over his lap, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Every nerve in her body hummed, unsure whether she needed to pull back or melt into him. She could feel the subtle warmth radiating from him beneath her touch, along with a magnetic pull she was finding harder to ignore as the days passed. 

Gojo always led. It was his nature, his purpose, to lead others. But now he was offering that to her, for some reason. The realization sent a shiver down her spine—both thrilling and terrifying. 

She let one hand settle at the side of his neck, her thumb tracing the underside of his jaw. The sensation of his warmth, and the subtle beat of his pulse beneath her fingers made her breath catch. His eyes fluttered closed, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him, and her chest tightened. 

This was familiar, but somehow different. She knew the mechanics of his body from the way he guided her hands with precision each night. He liked his hair to be touched, the nape of his neck sensitive to wandering fingers. He liked it when she held him—she assumed it came from the fact that he spent most of his time repelling others. And his favorite place seemed to be the crook of her neck, where he would breathe her in like a starving man catching the scent of something forbidden—slow, as if he could live off it. With every exhale against her skin making her stomach flip. 

But this time, it was supposed to be hers. Her choice. Her moment. 

She drew her hand back, dragging it slowly down to rest on his shoulder again. His eyes cracked open, a narrow pout forming, and the look he gave her made her heart stutter.

She moved, slowly, to the zip of his jacket. The sound was small but sharp in the quiet, the teeth separating one by one until the fabric fell open and he lay there in nothing but a fitted black undershirt. Her throat bobbed. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to, mind blank, unsure how to proceed. 

Finally, a hand found the hem of his shirt, the edge warm from his skin, and she pulled it up an inch—then another. The thin fabric brushed her knuckles, heat radiating from him in steady waves. 

This—this should be fine. Maybe. She’s honestly not sure. Because this isn’t normal. 

It isn’t normal to need someone like this. To use one of your oldest friends to stay sane. 

To touch him like a lover and pretend it doesn’t mean anything at all. 

She still did it anyway. 

Her palm pressed flat against his stomach. Beneath her hand, his abs tightened—solid muscle flexing in reflex before he went still again, the rise and fall of his chest had going shallow. 

Her fingers drifted, tracing the smooth lines of his abdomen, the heat of his skin seeping into her palm. Every small twitch under her touch felt amplified, intimate, in a way that made her pulse stumble. His skin was impossibly soft, warm, human and far too easy to sink into. 

Dangerous.

He was holding his breath now—she could feel it, the faint quiver under her fingertips—waiting to see what she’d do next. 

And she hated that she liked it. 

Her gaze flicked upward before she could stop herself, and the sight made her pulse lurch. His hands were gripping the back of the couch, knuckles pale, fingers digging hard enough into the fabric to leave dents. 

The realization hit her low in the stomach. He could move at any point—could flip her, pin her, do a hundred things that would make her scream yet sate his thirst—but he didn’t.  

That kind of power, that kind of trust, made her chest ache in a way she wasn’t prepared for. 

She leaned in before she could stop herself, drawn by that same pull that always caught her off guard. His scent crashed into her, like it was made just for her. He always smelled like this now—savory, warm, mouth-watering in a way that short-circuited her thoughts, made her do strange things she would have never dreamed of before. He exhaled, slow and ragged, his restraint trembling between them. 

And god, that smell—it had become a kind of gravity. Familiar and addictive. 

Safe. 

She hovered there, lips a breath away from the column of his throat. The scent of him wrapped around her, pulling her under. Her tongue darted out instinctively, contacting skin only briefly. But the low, barely audible hitch in his breath sent a jolt straight between her thighs. 

Ten minutes, she reminded herself of what she had told him, but the words felt distant, muffled by the roar in her ears. 

Her free hand slid up his chest, nails grazing the thin fabric of his undershirt until she found the collar. She tugged it down, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone, the hollow at the base of his throat. Leaning in, she pressed her mouth there—soft, a tentative brush of lips that made his entire body tense beneath her. His skin was fever-hot, tasting faintly of salt and the lingering trace of whatever cologne he wore. 

A shudder rolled through him, restrained but undeniable, and she felt it in the way his thighs flexed under her. She opened her mouth wider, tongue flicking out to trace the dip of his collarbone, savoring the way he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing against her cheek. Her teeth grazed him next, not hard enough to mark, but enough to draw a sharp inhale that vibrated against her lips. 

She watched as his fingers twitched on the couch, knuckles whitening further, but he didn't move. Didn't speak. Just let her take, let her explore the expanse of his chest as she dipped down and pushed his shirt higher, bunching it under his arms. Her palms spread across his pecs, her fingers trailing over soft skin. 

She shifted in his lap, settling more firmly, the friction sending a spark up her spine. He was hard, straining against the front of his pants, the heat of him pressing up into the cradle of her hips. The realization made her grind down once without thinking, experimentally, a slow roll that dragged a muffled groan from deep in his chest when the phone on the far cushion erupted—shrill, mechanical, slicing the haze. 

Reality slammed into her. 

She jerked upright, knees scraping the couch as she scrambled off his lap. The sudden absence of his heat left her skin prickling, exposed. Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide, darting from the damp spot on his collarbone to the bunched shirt under his arms to the unmistakable ridge straining against his pants. 

What the hell did she just do? 

Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder than the alarm. She hadn’t meant—hadn’t planned—fuck, she’d been starting to grind on him like some desperate animal. The taste of his skin still clung to her tongue; the ghost of his groan echoed in her ribs. 

Gojo didn’t move, didn’t reach for the buzzing phone. Just watched her with those half-lidded blues, chest rising too fast, lips parted. 

She stumbled back a step, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Turn that off,” she rasped, voice cracking. Her hands shook as she yanked her shirt straight, as if fabric could erase the last ten minutes. “Turn it off now.” 

He finally moved—one languid reach to silence the alarm. The room plunged into thick, damning quiet. 

She stared at him, horrified, heat flooding her cheeks. It hadn’t been an accident. She’d chosen every second of it—every lick, every grind, every filthy second she’d spent unraveling the strongest sorcerer alive with nothing but her mouth and her hands. 

And worse...

She still wanted more. 

Chapter Text

“Gojo.” 

She closed her eyes tightly, frustration boiling through her veins, his name coming out more like a growl over a fully formed word. He tilted his head towards her, the students too, the wind picking up slightly around them as she attempted to gather herself. Again. 

Her skin still prickled with heat, it didn’t matter how long she’d stood at that sink, dousing her face with cold water. It hadn't made her forget the way she’d moved against him. Like some kind of animal. 

The shame curdled in her gut, but she forced herself to breathe. To stand tall. 

Polite, compliant, sweet Utahime. That’s what she is—and that’s what she’s going to be in front of a herd of students. She had been the one to run to them like some sort of safety net after all.  

This could be dealt with later, much later. Maybe never, preferably. 

“Yes?” Gojo asked, all innocence. 

She bit her tongue once before speaking, forcing her words to come out steady. 

“That is a basketball.” 

“So observant,” he crooned. 

She grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the yard, out of earshot, the ball falling from his hands and bouncing across the frozen ground. 

“You said we were playing American football,” she hissed into his ear. 

Gojo leaned in like they were sharing a secret. “You try finding a regulation football in Japan with three hours’ notice.” 

She stared at him, stunned, mouth slightly open. Then she snapped it shut, a tight, closed-lip smile spreading across her face as her grip on his collar tightened. 

“And what time,” she asked, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “did you decide to try and do that?” 

Gojo shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Like...nine? I think that’s when I called Geto at least.” 

Nine.  

The number echoed around inside her skull. Because she woke up at ten, not nine, not even nine-thirty. 

Her eye twitched. She inhaled slowly through her nose. 

“You made me late,” she said quietly, dangerously, “twice now. And the second time you were awake?” 

Gojo grinned. “Technically, once. And you really needed the sleep.” 

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re going to need a medic if you don’t walk back over there and start explaining the rules of this nonsense,” she hissed, furious. 

Gojo lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the cuddling.” 

“Gojo.” 

A sharp clearing of a throat cut through the air, dousing her temper like water over flame. She yanked her hand back from his collar and turned, startled. 

One of the observers stood just a few feet away—tall and thin, with a pointed nose and an expression too blank to be polite. He held out a slip of paper. 

“Excuse me,” the man said, voice clipped. 

She took the note without a word. 

The space beside her soured almost instantly—Gojo’s cursed energy flaring in a low, pulsing threat. The observer didn’t flinch, but his eyes flicked past her only once before he turned and walked briskly back toward the surveillance room. 

She waited until the man was out of earshot before unfurling the slip of paper in her hand. 

Her eyes scanned the words, each one fanning the embers of her already frayed patience. 

'Please ensure students are evenly divided by gender across teams. The Board is monitoring behavioral trends.'

She stared at the sentence, then read it again. As if it might change on the second pass. 

Behind her, Gojo leaned just close enough to read over her shoulder. “Wow,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nothing like a little light eugenics before lunch.” 

Her fingers crumpled the edge of the note. 

Behavioral trends, her ass. If they actually cared about how the students worked together, they’d keep them in their familiar teams—groups they trusted, had trained with. Not arbitrarily split by gender like this was some kind of controlled experiment. 

They walked back in silence, side by side, both wearing the brittle expressions of people pretending they weren’t moments from snapping. She smoothed the paper in her hand, the creases sharp. Her jaw was set, eyes forward. Controlled. Composed. 

Gojo, for once, didn’t speak. His head tilted slightly skyward, expression unreadable—but the hum of his cursed energy still buzzed faintly around him, barely leashed, and Utahime elbowed him lightly in the side to get himself back under control. 

The students straightened as they approached, all waiting—some curious, some visibly nervous. 

Gojo stopped in front of them and clapped once, then motioned for Yuji to toss him the basketball. “Alright, kiddos!” He announced, catching the ball in his outstretched hands. 

He bounced the basketball once, letting it echo off the courtyard walls. “Welcome to the first—and probably last—Jujutsu Flag Football Extravaganza.” 

Utahime’s eyes closed briefly; the sigh she held back nearly audible. The event should be titled the vibe of flag football at this point. 

“Rules are simple,” Gojo said, gesturing lazily to either end of the school grounds. “Each team has a net. One is positioned by the first-year building. The other’s near the main gate.” 

“Get the ball in your own net? That’s ten points.” He spun the ball in one hand. “Rip a flag belt off someone? One point.” 

He grinned. “Lose your belt, and you’re out. You’ll report to the observation room and sit in shame with your teachers for three whole minutes before you can go back.” 

A few students murmured. One groaned. Utahime kept her lips sealed because even though she had zero clue what football was, she was sure this wasn’t it. 

“It’s very awkward,” Gojo added cheerfully. “Game last for three hours, highest point total wins.” 

“Weve been given directions from the higherups to even out the teams,” Utahime announced, trying to make it sound normal, not something she was pissed about. 

“Right, right,” Gojo said, like he’d totally remembered that. He turned toward the students. “Todo, come over to my—” 

“Excuse me?” Utahime cut in sharply. “Todo is staying on the Kyoto side.” 

Gojo turned his head toward her, scandalized. “But he wants to be on my team. And I want him on my team.” 

Oh, she was sure that had nothing to do with the fact that Todo was the most physically developed out of the entire pack. Or the fact that he could swap places with anyone—or anything—with a single clap of his hands. 

None of those reasons at all. 

“No. You need to give up two,” Utahime said firmly, cutting through his theatrics. “That’s final.” 

Gojo sighed, the picture of exaggerated suffering. “You’re breaking up the boyband,” Gojo muttered, lips twisting into a pout. 

He tapped a finger to his chin, like it was a grave decision of national importance. “Fine. Yuji. And...” He dragged the word out dramatically, then pointed. “Nobara.” 

“What?!” Nobara’s voice pitched instantly. “Why me?!” 

“Balance,” Gojo said simply, shrugging and balancing the ball in one open palm. “Teamwork. Growth. Because Utahime hates me and wants to see me suffer.” 

“You’re just getting rid of me because I told you your blindfold smells like old sweaters!” 

Gojo gave a faux gasp. “That’s slander, and I will be contacting my legal team.” 

Nobara stomped toward the other side with Yuji, muttering under her breath and smacking Megumi in the back of the head on the way by. The boy growled low but said nothing, tossing a glare her way as he rubbed the spot she’d hit. 

A beat of silence. 

Gojo tilted his head slightly. 

Then:  

“Kugisaki.” 

Nobara stopped without turning around. “What?” She spat. 

He held out his hand, palm open. “Give me Megumi’s hair.” 

She slowly turned to glare at him. “Seriously?” 

Gojo didn’t move. “I can see them.” 

Another beat. 

She sighed dramatically, and stomped back across the field. She slammed five strands of fine black hair into his palm with an annoyed plap. 

“Thank you,” Gojo said, slipping the hair away like it was state evidence. 

As she turned to leave again, Utahime muttered just loud enough, “I wonder where she learned that from.” 

As Nobara stormed back to the Kyoto side for the second time, Gojo clapped his hands once, sharp and cheerful. 

“Well!” he said brightly. “Now that we’ve achieved perfect balance, let’s begin.” 

Gojo turned on his heel, wound his arm back, and launched the basketball into the air with inhuman strength. It sailed up and over the courtyard walls, cleared the roof of the second-year building, and vanished entirely from view. 

There was a beat of stunned silence. 

Then chaos. 

The students exploded into motion—sprinting, shoving, scrambling to be the first to reach it. Sneakers slammed against pavement. Flag belts flapped. Someone was already halfway up the wall of the building before Utahime even finished blinking. 

She rubbed her temples. 

“Gojo,” she said without looking at him, “you’ve weaponized P.E.” 

“I know,” he said proudly, hands on his hips. “It’s beautiful.” 

They left the courtyard behind them, the sound of shouting and footsteps still echoing in the distance as the students vanished around the side of the building.  

“You need to control yourself,” she warned as they closed in on the observation room. 

Gojo didn’t answer immediately. 

But she felt it—the sudden shift in the air, the way his cursed energy flared low at first, then swelled like a slow-building tide. 

Heavy. Pressing. Almost predatory. 

Utahime stopped walking. 

“Gojo,” she said, voice lowering. “Don’t start anything. You don’t even know what they are looking for.” 

The energy stalled—then receded, just as suddenly as it came. 

He let out a long, theatrical sigh. “You’re so tense, Utahime. You ever try yoga?” 

She shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but continued forwards, satisfied. 

They reached the observation room in silence. 

Utahime opened the door and stepped inside, immediately hit by warm air and the quiet hum of cursed monitors. The room was already crowded. Multiple observers from the higherups lining the walls, clipboards at the ready, some already taking notes.  

Yaga stood near the front, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the largest screen. Shoko was seated off to the side on a bench, legs crossed, a coffee in one hand and a half-finished report in the other. Gakuganji lingered near the back wall like he wanted everyone to know he wasn’t impressed with any of this. And Geto—calm, unreadable Geto—was leaned casually against the ledge beneath the screens, his fingers threaded together in front of his mouth, as if deep in thought. 

All of them turned when the door opened. 

Utahime squared her shoulders and walked forward, Gojo trailing behind her. 

The seats at the front were empty, reserved for the leads. 

She took the farthest one without hesitation. Gojo dropped into the other like it was a lounge chair, legs stretched out in front of him. 

The weight of the room settled around them. 

The silence didn’t last long. 

The door slammed open, nearly coming off its hinges as Megumi stormed inside, flag belt clutched in one hand, blood streaming down the side of his forehead. 

“She still had some of my hair,” he growled, eyes wild, furious. 

Shoko groaned and stood with the resignation of someone who’d seen this exact thing coming.  

Utahime didn’t even flinch. She reached across the console in front of her and flicked the tiny metal counter once—click. 

A point flipped up next to Kyoto on the screen. 

She smiled, sweet and smug. 

Gojo sat up straight. “What? That’s cheating! He was assassinated!” 

Utahime replied coolly. “Maybe you should’ve picked better.” 

He scoffed. “She hit him so hard he’s leaking!” 

Shoko passed behind them, already pulling on gloves. “Some of you leak more than others,” she said dryly. 

Geto chuckled quietly from his post, not bothering to hide his amusement. 

Gojo pointed at the counter like it had personally offended him. “I’m going to appeal this.” 

“Please do,” Utahime said, already resetting the tally. “I’d love to watch you explain the ‘hair theft via blunt force’ clause.” 

Megumi groaned from the exam chair Shoko was pushing him toward. “I hate this game.” 

The game had been going for nearly an hour. 

The observation room had fallen into a rhythm—students coming and going, some bleeding, some pouting, a few grinning like they were having the time of their lives. 

The counter between Gojo and Utahime ticked up and down with every belt lost, every ball scored, a mechanical heartbeat to the chaos outside. 

Shoko had taken up permanent residence near the back, a growing pile of used gauze and muttered insults collecting beside her. Gakuganji hadn’t moved once, arms still folded like he was waiting for someone to impress him. Geto had claimed the chair closest to the monitors, silently watching with that same unreadable expression. 

Gojo had gotten louder. 

Utahime had gotten quieter. 

She leaned back in her chair now, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded as she watched the screens with narrowed eyes. Her side was behind by three points. Not that she cared. Not really. 

But Gojo wouldn’t stop humming. 

And he kept tapping the counter every time his side scored, like he was rubbing it in with every click. 

“This is starting to feel personal,” he said, smiling without looking at her. 

“It is,” she said. 

- 

The sun had started to dip low on the monitors, casting long shadows across the school grounds. The field was torn up, flag belts discarded like battlefield casualties. Students moved slower now—less cocky, more cautious. 

Utahime tapped fingers against the table with every point. The score was neck-and-neck, but her team had crept ahead, little by little. 

Gojo was less smug now. 

Still smiling. Still lounging. But the rhythm of his foot tapping against the floor had sped up noticeably. 

Geto raised a brow. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who said his side would dominate.” 

Gojo stretched like a cat, spine cracking audibly. “I’m letting them build false hope. It makes the defeat sting more.” 

“Mmhm,” Shoko said without looking up from the report in her lap. “Tell that to Yuji’s thumb.” 

“They got it back in one piece,” Gojo said, waving a hand. 

Utahime didn’t say a word. 

Not when Nobara returned grinning like a maniac. Not when Megumi came back bleeding from his head in the exact same spot as before. Not when Yaga sighed and mentioned that the game looked like a wrap. 

She only flicked the counter. Click. And watched Gojo unravel. 

Gojo finally leaned forward. “Okay, but if my team loses, I feel like I should get points for best performance.” 

Utahime snorted softly. “You’ll get a participation trophy.” 

Maki stormed into the room. Furious. 

Another click, followed by the shrill echo of an alarm signaling three hours had passed. 

Yaga straightened. Shoko looked up. 

Utahime leaned back in her chair, arms folding loosely over her chest, a slow smile curling at the corner of her mouth. 

Gojo went still. 

Maki, still breathing hard from the sprint, pointed wordlessly at the screen—at the final point marker that had just flipped. 

Kyoto: 41 
Tokyo: 39 

Gojo groaned like someone had punched him in the soul.  

Utahime sighed, stretching slightly in her seat, “looks like the best team won.” 

Shoko clapped twice, slow and sarcastic. “I’d say good game, but half of them are concussed.” 

Yaga grunted. “Kyoto team takes it. I’ll make the report. Gojo go round them up before they end up killing each other.” 

Gojo sighed—long and theatrical—then disappeared in a blink, cursed energy flaring as he teleported out of the room, Maki trailing after him and walking out the door.

The silence he left behind was heavier than it should’ve been. Utahime leaned forward slightly and turned, eyes drifting across the rest of the observation room. 

The observers were already packing up—papers into sleek folders, devices into matte black briefcases. Expressionless. 

She searched their faces for something—approval, disapproval, even curiosity—but came up empty. 

They gave nothing away. 

The game had been normal. Completely normal. Just students playing a modified sport. No outbursts. No breakdowns. No one snapping from suppressed instincts or losing control of their cursed energy. It looked exactly like the sister school exchange event from months ago. 

And that was the part that unsettled her most. Because she could tell—something deep down in her gut—that this wasn’t over. That they were looking for something. 

If only they could figure out what. Or why. 

Her gaze flicked back to the screens. Gojo was on the center monitor, floating above a herd of students like some evil god, waving his arms dramatically. 

Utahime sighed and pulled herself from the chair, deciding to join him outside. 

Gojo had already gathered everyone as she approached the courtyard. They were clustered in uneven groups—some leaning on each other, some still arguing, all of them looking far too energized for a group that had just spent hours non-stop fighting. 

Gojo stood in front of them like he was hosting a press conference, hands raised for dramatic effect. 

“As a celebration,” he announced, voice booming, “for the miraculous fact that all of you made it out in one piece—” 

A few students cheered prematurely. 

“—we are going out. On. The. Town!” 

The courtyard erupted. 

Utahime stepped forward. “Gojo—no. Absolutely not. This wasn’t part of the schedule. And you still have to bring half of them back to Kyoto.” 

He turned to her, smile still wide, but his voice lowering just enough that only she could hear it as he leaned towards her. 

“Give them this,” he said. “It’s been two months of nothing but testing, supervision, and gender politics none of them asked for. Just let them feel normal for one night. The trains go until eleven.” 

She hesitated. 

Because he wasn’t wrong. 

They’d been poked and prodded, watched like lab rats, forced to adjust to instincts and identities none of them had the tools to process. They hadn’t complained. They’d played the game. They’d followed the rules. Done things that no child should be forced to do.

That was supposed to be her job, wasn’t it? To protect that part of them. To make sure this cursed world didn’t take more than it already had. 

Gojo leaned in further, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Go get changed.” 

Utahime exhaled through her nose reluctantly. 

Then turned and walked back toward her room without a word. 

Chapter Text

Utahime often wondered if Gojo had any idea that half the things he did, if performed by literally anyone else, would be considered vile. Or if he was perfectly aware of the privilege he wielded simply by being that unfairly attractive. 

Because no sane woman—or man—should be smiling and blushing at someone who was, at this very moment, stuffing a fifth cupcake into his mouth like a snake unhinging its jaw. 

And yet the poor bartender behind the neon-lit counter was giggling like she’d just been handed a love letter. 

Utahime sat in a booth a few feet back, the thrum of arcade machines chiming around her with students belongings piled high across the table. Blue and pink lights washed over the sticky floor, a shrill chorus pop music already working to give her a headache. Gojo leaned casually against the bar, sunglasses perched on his head, one long arm draped messily across the counter as he tried—and failed—to speak around the entire cupcake he’d just inhaled while pointing at a menu. 

The bartender covered her mouth, hiding a shy smile. 

He attempted a wink. With frosting on his cheek. 

Utahime’s eye twitched. 

God. If anyone else did that, they’d be handed a napkin and banned from the premises. 

She wasn’t jealous. Not even a little, somehow. Strange seeing as Shoko of all people boiled her inner teenager over nothing just weeks ago. What she was, was stunned that the bartender was leaning forward on her elbows like he was reciting poetry instead of trying to order a soda around a mouthful of frosting. 

The bartender giggled. Actually giggled. And pointed to the offending spot of frosting on his cheek. 

Utahime blinked. There was no universe where this should be working for him. No universe where a grown adult woman encouraged that behavior.  

But Gojo turned the full force of his smile on her, frosting still clinging to his cheek even after he’d attempted to wipe it away, and—of course—it worked. 

Utahime slumped back into the booth, exhaling through her nose. 

Gojo pointed at the menu again, then, mid-sentence, he lifted that same hand and gestured toward her with a flare that she could only assume was him saying something irrationally stupid. 

The bartender’s smile cracked when she looked up and caught her gaze, her very flat unamused gaze, probably a borderline glare. Not much—just a quick, involuntary dip of disappointment—before she caught herself and slapped the grin back on.  

Either way, the magic died instantly. 

Idiot. 

Gojo, oblivious as ever, nodded enthusiastically at whatever the girl said next. A moment later, he scooped two drinks off the counter and made his way back toward the booth with the swagger of someone who believed every interaction he had was a resounding success. 

He set the drinks down with a flourish. 

“For you,” he declared loudly over the music, sliding one towards her. 

Utahime stared at the fizzy pink drink, then at him. 

“I didn’t order this,” she said. 

“I know,” he grinned. “But it's good. You should try it!” 

She pinched the bridge of her nose. She already knew it wasn’t alcohol—this whole outing had been carefully chosen so the students could let loose without them having to police a bar scene. 

Still, she humored him. She leaned in, taking a ginger sip from the straw. 

“Do you like it? It’s one of my favorites!” he asked, sliding into the booth beside her, shoulder brushing hers as he leaned close so she could hear him over the cacophony of arcade noises and children shouting. 

He was watching her like a golden retriever waiting for praise. So stupid, so infuriatingly stupid. She snuck a glance past him. 

The bartender girl was staring. Envious. 

She fought an eyeroll. If only she knew. 

“It’s sweet,” she said, quietly but he still heard her, leaning far too close to be considered normal. 

“I know! Great, isn’t it? It’s called a shirley temple!” 

Utahime fought back a sigh. 

This was...cherry Sprite. 

Literal cherry Sprite. 

She didn’t have the heart to tell him. Not when he looked that proud of himself, like a dog with a wagging tail. 

Instead, she took another small sip and nodded. 

“Mm,” she said, entirely neutral. “Very fancy.” 

He lit up even more—somehow—and Utahime resigned herself to her fate. Stuck in a loud arcade with Satoru Gojo on a friday night. 

Before Gojo could launch into a lecture about the history of shirley temples—or whatever absurd tangent he was gearing up for—a server appeared beside their booth with a tray balanced expertly in one hand. 

“Order for Gojo,” she chirped. 

Gojo perked up instantly. “Oh! That’s me.” 

The server set down a basket in front of Utahime first: crispy tempura vegetables with a small bowl of dipping sauce. Steam curled gently upward, carrying the soft scent of rice flour and the faint sweetness of squash. 

Her stomach actually growled. 

Gojo beamed. “I ordered that one for you.” 

She blinked. “For...me?” 

“Yeah!” He nudged the basket slightly closer. “You always pick at the veggie stuff whenever we get takeout. I thought you’d like it.” 

She stared at the food, then at him, then back at the food. 

This was...actually thoughtful. Annoyingly thoughtful. Worse: accurately thoughtful to the point where she couldn't chide him over the fact that you shouldn't be frying vegetables. 

“...Thank you,” she said quietly. 

Before he could react, a very large plush slammed into the seat across from them. Utahime looked up from her food to find Nobara standing proudly at the end of the table, hands on her hips like a conquering hero. 

“I need more money!” she declared. 

Gojo didn’t even question it. He simply reached behind him, pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, and handed her a sleek black card. 

Nobara took it with zero hesitation and bounded toward the bar just as a new, bass-heavy song thumped through the speakers overhead. 

Utahime leaned toward him, her mouth near his ear to be heard. “You shouldn’t be handing children your credit card.” 

“It’s fine!” Gojo yelled back over the music, grinning. “I want them to have fun!” 

Utahime rolled her eyes and took another sip of the too-sweet drink he’d brought her without argument. It wasn’t something she’d normally choose, but...it was fine. Especially when he looked so pleased that she was drinking it. 

Her gaze drifted—at the pile of coats stacked in their booth with a growing mountain of plush prizes. 

It almost felt like they were parents right now. Sitting on the sidelines, guarding everyone’s things while the kids ran loose. 

She wouldn’t know. Neither would he. 

Her own childhood had been nothing like this—no arcades, no nights out, no freedom. Just rules. Traditions. Lessons on how to be the proper daughter, the proper wife. She’d had to argue her way into sorcerer school, pretending she only wanted to refine her technique. 

Lies. All of it. 

She had just wanted out. 

Her family wasn’t even a recognized clan—just an old offshoot with a minor technique that appeared every few generations. Valuable enough, apparently, to be married off when convenient. She still remembered the day when of her cousins had been handed to the Zenin family like a bargaining chip. Like she had meant nothing other than to be a breeding sow for them. 

When she turned eighteen, Utahime had called her father and told him she wasn’t coming back. 

Then she’d disappeared into Tokyo Tech until the dust finally settled. Yaga shielded her back then. She owed him more than he would ever know for it. 

A thunk pulled her back—Gojo setting a basket of fries between them before immediately shoving an alarming handful into his mouth. She sighed, but at least it wasn’t more sugar, though she was starting to genuinely worry that he had a black hole where his stomach should be. 

She took a tempura vegetable, dipped it into the sauce, and ate slowly as she watched the students dart between machines—bright, loud, messy, alive. 

Then her gaze drifted to Gojo. 

He was watching too. His posture relaxed, shoulders loose under his thick bomber jacket, eyes tracking from student to student with a mixture of envy, pride, and something painfully soft. He smiled at one of their victories, winced at a near loss, lit up when one shrieked loud enough to echo over the music. 

Utahime found herself smiling without fully meaning to, dunking another veggie into the sauce. 

She remembered, once—mid-argument, of all things—he had blurted out the real reason he’d become a teacher. 

“Kids should be kids!” 

A sour memory, actually. One that made her frown around another bite of tempura. 

Because Gojo had it worse than she did, from the very second he opened those cursed blue eyes. He’d been plucked from his parents as if they were unfit by default. Trained the moment he could properly hold a wooden sword. And, judging by the way he behaved back then, had almost zero interaction with anyone his own age outside of arranged clan matters. 

They hadn’t allowed him to attend Tokyo Tech out of generosity—only out of fear of what he might do if they didn’t. 

He wasn’t raised as a child. 

He was forged. Like a blade. 

And even now—grown, powerful, unstoppable—people still only saw him as that weapon. 

A resource. A tool. A shield for the nation. 

Never someone who still stashed sweets in every coat pocket. Never someone who watched over students like it physically hurt him to imagine them carrying the burdens he had. Never someone who, despite everything, still wanted kids to run and laugh and be loud and messy and alive. 

Utahime’s chest tightened. Just slightly. Just enough for her to grimace. 

She dipped another vegetable, staring at the way his eyes lit when Todo won a round on the punching machine. 

Satoru Gojo, weapon of the Gojo clan, strongest sorcerer alive... 

and the boy who’d never been given the chance to be a boy at all. 

“You okay?” 

His voice pulled her from the thought, low and close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. She instinctively reached up, fingers brushing against it—stopping the full-body shiver before it could take root. 

She turned slightly, leaning toward him just enough to be heard over the music, his body warm against hers. She knew he was sitting too close to be considered casual, his thigh pressed against hers, her shoulder bumping into his side, but she found herself having a hard time caring about it now. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Tired.” 

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. Today had been exhausting from start to finish, and she wasn’t entirely convinced the observers would be gone when she returned. The thought sat heavy in her gut. 

She bit gently down on the tip of her tongue, trying to quell the rising frustration. 

“You should go get your card back from Nobara,” she said, changing the subject. 

Gojo’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of panic crossing his face. 

Then he was gone—vaulting out of the booth with a panicked dash. The seat beside her went cold. 

Utahime sighed, watching him vanish into the chaos of flashing lights and ringing bells. 

Her gaze drifted lazily across the room again...until it landed back on the bar. 

The bartender girl was still there. And now, she was giving Utahime a very half-hearted glare over the top of the counter. Clearly, she had ruined her plans. 

Utahime blinked, then smirked and lifted her hand in a slow wave. She would probably be furious to know that she wasn't even Gojo’s type. He’s just stupid and thinks that flirting is normal conversation. 

The girl looked away. 

Utahime popped a fry into her mouth, savoring it. 

Maybe tonight wasn’t a total loss. 

The walk to the train station was calmer than expected, the leftover buzz from the arcade trailing behind them like static. 

Students clustered in loose packs ahead, some swinging plastic bags full of snacks or prizes, others dragging their feet with the kind of theatrical exhaustion only teenagers could muster. Laughter echoed off the closed storefronts as they spilled down the sidewalk under dim yellow streetlights, the occasional honk or rumble of late-night traffic humming in the background. 

Utahime walked a few paces behind, hands tucked into her coat pockets. The night air was cool, biting just enough to keep her alert. She could still smell sugar in the folds of her sleeve—probably from when Gojo had leaned against her after finishing another cupcake. 

Speak of the devil. 

He caught up easily, having stayed back to settle the bill, falling into step beside her with a bounce in his step that shouldn't have been possible after everything he’d eaten. He didn’t say anything right away, just hummed quietly to himself, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other swinging a stuffed panda by its ear. 

Utahime glanced at it. “That one’s for Panda, isn’t it.” 

“Obviously,” Gojo grinned. “It’s his emotional support animal.” 

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. 

Ahead of them, Nobara was loudly demanding a group selfie at the station. Megumi looked like he was reconsidering his life choices. Maki was pretending she didn’t hear them. Toge said something about rice balls, but Yuta laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all night. 

Normal. So painfully normal it made her chest ache. 

She wished she could go back to that kind of normal. To Kyoto. To lesson plans and morning sparring drills. To shouting at children who forgot their uniforms and grading essays that made her question the education system. To sending her students off on low-risk missions and worrying only about their technique—not their biology. 

It all felt like ages ago. Like another life entirely. 

“Hey,” Gojo said, voice soft as he slowed his pace to match hers more. “You’re doing the thing.” 

She blinked. “What thing?” 

“The brooding thing. Where your eyes glaze over and you start frowning at ghosts.” 

She scowled. “I don’t do that.” 

“You absolutely do,” he replied cheerfully. “I’ve seen it. Many times.” 

“Shut up.” 

Gojo gasped, wounded. “You take that back.” 

She didn’t—but his grin widened like she had anyway. 

They turned a corner, the station now visible up ahead, glowing softly beneath the fluorescent lights. The others had reached the entrance already, gathering near the stairs that led down to the platforms. Maki was counting heads like a field trip chaperone.  

Utahime slowed for a second, letting herself take it in. All of it.  

They reached the edge of the stairs just as the students began funneling down toward the platforms, their voices echoing off tiled walls and metal railings. 

Utahime stepped to follow—only for a hand to wrap gently around her wrist. 

She stilled. 

Gojo. 

He tugged her off the main path, guiding her into a recessed alcove between a shuttered kiosk and an out-of-order vending machine. It was narrow, quiet, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing above their heads. The air between them felt tight. 

He didn’t let go of her wrist until they stopped. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, low. 

His head tilted, white hair catching in the glow. “Just wondering if you’re going to be where you’re supposed to be tonight. Since you like to run.” 

Her brows pulled in. 

And then her expression cracked. 

“Excuse me?” 

Gojo shrugged one shoulder, eyes lazily scanning her face—too calm. Then it struck her with clarity. 

He was asking if she was going to sleep in his bed. Which was an insane thing to say. A ridiculous, boundary-less, Gojo-level thing to ask someone. And, infuriatingly, so far from normal she couldn’t even see normal with binoculars. 

“No,” she snapped, the word slicing out before she could temper it. 

His face shifted—barely—but it was enough. A flicker of hurt. 

It felt like she’d shoved her whole boot down her throat. 

“I—” she tried again, quieter this time, guilt rising like bile. “I just want my own bed, Gojo.” 

A beat of silence passed between them. 

Then he let out a breathy, too-light laugh. 

“Jeez, you could’ve just said so, Utahime.” 

She blinked. “What?” 

“I mean, it’s for the best anyway,” he said, waving it off. “With the cameras around—probably shouldn’t have you walking into my room like that. Especially with the curtain down now.” 

She opened her mouth. Closed it. She still didn’t understand. 

But he was already shifting gears. 

“Okay, it’s settled then. Go get some rest, and I’ll come get you. I’ve gotta stick with the kids for the whole ride back this time so it will be a few hours, and then some.” He sighed like it was the world’s greatest burden. 

Wait—come get her? 

Before she could respond, he leaned in, too close, too sudden for a normal person to react in time. 

One hand lifted, fingers sliding behind her head, and then— 

He kissed the top of her head. Soft. Gentle. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. The breath caught in her throat, and all she could manage was a squeak. A squeak, of all things. 

Her entire body locked, throat closing around words she couldn't even comprehend. 

Then, mercifully, salvation: 

“Sensei! Hurry up! The train’s coming!” Nobara’s voice echoed sharply from the stairwell. Gojo grinned as if nothing had happened, already turning away. 

Utahime remained frozen in place. 

Absolutely and utterly horrified.