Satoru Gojo

You had never meant to stay in this city. Never meant to catch the attention of anyone, let alone him. You’d been hiding in the cracks. In abandoned subway tunnels, on rooftops at dusk. The hunger was manageable when you kept to yourself. The shame, the violence... it all stayed tucked beneath your ribs where no one could touch it.

Until Satoru, bathed in streetlight and curiosity, found you feeding on a rat behind an izakaya dumpster.

“You know, you don’t have to eat like that.” Is the first thing he said to you that day. He didn't know what you were. He mistook you for some homeless person, disgusted by the way you dug into the rat like it was a gourmet meal.

He took you to a convenience store. You looked like you were on high alert at all times. He offered you food that you didn't take. You didn't speak in fear of exposing your fangs, but he found out eventually.

It all fell into place for him when he took you to his car in frustration - wondering if maybe taking you to a restaurant would be better - and couldn't see your reflection in his tinted windows. You weren't human, and it didn't shock him.

He wasn’t afraid. Instead, he swallowed, sighed and opened the passenger for you anyway. When he got in rubbed two hands over his face and murmured, "Could've just told me that instead of..." He trailed off, when he noticed your guilty expression. He didn't judge and was oddly compassionate for someone who watched you drag blood from a dying rodent.

He offered you a handkerchief. White silk. Custom embroidered with his initials. He introduced himself like he hadn’t just found a monster.

From that night on, he became a fixture. Visiting you often - sometimes to drop off blood bags he’d sweet-talked out of some sketchy black market contact, other times to talk your ear off until sunrise with stories of the strange and supernatural, like you weren’t proof of the same. You hadn’t known what to make of him, only that he wasn’t normal, and couldn’t be. Not with how his presence made your instincts quiet for once.

He said you didn’t scare him, that he could handle a little bite. Eventually, when the hunger grew worse, and the bags weren’t enough, he tilted his head, pushed up the sleeve of his arm, and told you, gently, “Don’t make me regret this, okay?”

You didn’t, not once. Never took too much, never hurt him. It became a thing, almost a ritual. When it was bad, he’d offer his wrist. You’d feed, he’d sigh like you’d just finished a really good meal and he was happy for you. Like he wasn’t the one bleeding.

---

Tonight, the moon is thick and the sky is snow-clouded. He comes to you as he usually does. No warning, a single knock on the windowsill of the old apartment you’ve taken refuge in. It’s not warm, but it’s yours. Quiet and hidden.

Except this time, something feels off the second he slips inside. The lights are off, the air still. And your body, curled on the futon in the corner, is thrashing like you're mid-nightmare - or worse, like something is pulling at you from within. Your breathing is ragged, lips drawn back to bare fangs even in unconsciousness. Your hands curl into claws against the mattress, tearing at the sheets.

“…Hey,” he murmurs, as if you can hear him. He's frozen, panicked. But he doesn’t dare shout. Instead, he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the futon, eyes wide behind his darkened glasses. He’s never seen you like this. So vulnerable, so lost in whatever hell your dreams are holding you in. You writhe under the sheets, a low snarl building deep in your throat. Then a gasp, sharp and guttural.

He tries to shake your shoulder lightly, nothing. You flinch away from his touch like it burns.

Then, with a panicked breath, he climbs onto the bed and straddles you, one knee on each side of your thighs, trying to stabilize you. His hands press down on your shoulders, steady but shaking.

“C’mon,” he breathes out, trying to soothe. “It’s me. You’re okay.”

But your breathing gets worse. Your teeth flash, your head jerks. You’re locked in another world - in memory, maybe, or bloodlust - and none of his words are reaching you.

He catches it. For just a moment, your lips part, mouthing something that might’ve been his name. His heart seizes in his chest.

You're in pain and the first thing you thought of? Him.

Without another thought, he lifts one hand, slides off the glove, and presses his palm gently but firmly against your mouth. Just enough for his skin to touch your fangs. The moment he does, your lips twitch - scent catching, tongue dragging instinctively against his skin - and then you bite.

He winces. Not from pain, but from the intensity. Your eyes don’t open, but your body stills. Your breathing evens out. The snarling stops. And Satoru can feel the second you recognize him in your sleep. The way your lips soften against his skin. The way your hands, once clenched, ease into the sheets like you’re clinging to comfort now instead of rage.

He swallows thickly, his hand trembles. “…You always do this,” he whispers, voice thin with affection and something heavier. “Never tell me until things get this bad." He says, adding under his breath "Thought you trusted me after... all this.”

The bleeding slows. You don’t take more than you need, he knows you wouldn’t. Not even in your sleep.