Where Did I Go Wrong | Gojo Satoru x Reader | Old Beats AU

Chapter 5

Shoko's face is a whole damn poem.

She's still in her bathrobe, pink slippers to match, hair tied up in a messy bun. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, but when Gojo materialized in the middle of her living room with a thunderclap—and you, kicking and swearing over his shoulder—she was already on the couch reading. Blessed insomnia.

She's on her second cigarette since you arrived, and it hasn't done much to help her process any of this.

"Uh, Gojo..." She takes a drag while he continues rambling. "I don't think this is—"

"Medical ethics clearly state you have a duty to provide aid," he argues. "Besides—"

"That's for emergencies. This isn't—"

"—you know I'd do it if I could. But you're the only one who can."

"Gojo."

"She was your friend too."

"Gojo!" you yell from behind him. "Put me down! Now!"

Shoko's gone through two cigarettes, and you've gone through two hundred kicks and protests, still thrashing on Gojo's shoulder.

You don't want Shoko to heal you. What you want is for the night to just—stop spiraling. You want everything that happened after the Cursed Hog to vanish. You should've just gotten in your car and let one of the temple medics fix your hand. What you absolutely didn't want was to end up in Shoko's living room, slung over Gojo fucking Satoru.

Because then there's his scent.

From this height—nearly two meters off the ground—it's the only thing you can focus on. Gojo smells the same. Just like back then.

"Gojo," Shoko says now, firm but calm. "I get it. But try to understand me, too. You're making it worse."

You're convinced he doesn't wear cologne. That smell—one that would outsell every designer fragrance if bottled—is just him. Every breath you take drives it deeper, sharp as a blade through your brain and belly.

You must still be drunk, you think, eyes half-lidded, because suddenly the space between his neck and shoulder looks soinviting. You imagine nuzzling into the curve of his throat.

You snap your eyes open.

"Gojo," you mumble. "Just execute me. Please."

He merely pats your back, the same one he's got pinned against him.

Please let this torment end.

"I'm not going to execute you." And the moment he says that, you're back to kicking and flailing, your hits never landing. So he adds, "I'll put you down—but don't try anything stupid, okay?"

He carefully grips you with both hands, lowers you until your feet touch the floor, and you finally exhale. You straighten your clothes—rumpled, of course—and your hair, and take a step back, putting distance between you and the man who folds his arms again like this is all perfectly routine.

You turn your back on him.

"Hey, Shoko," you say, trying to sound normal. You wave absently with your injured hand and immediately regret it, biting down a whimper. "You're looking good."

Her expression is pure disbelief. She takes one last drag from her cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray on the coffee table.

You bite your lower lip to hold back the wave of sadness. It's been years since you've seen her. She's still beautiful—now in an adult, elegant way—and the tired kindness in her eyes makes your knees weak.