Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gojo Satoru has one maid.

If one isn’t brainwashed enough by the incessancy of the media boasting about it, the Gojo clan is renowned for their social stance and prestigious bloodline, the family of exceptional leaders, successful businessmen and most influential figures all in all. It makes little sense to brag how many helpers they can hire regarding their insurmountable riches but the top-notch miss refuses to defile her flawless collection of possessions. Satoru prides herself on her everything, her precise decisions, her refined tastes, and yet, she falls for a feeble girl who is beholden to the Gojo family. And yet, said girl is the only one Satoru can proudly claim hers.

It all begins when Satoru turns down another proposal from a man who is too foolishly ambitious about changing his life by leeching off the future maternal side. It’s easy to detect rapacity behind pleasantries; he smiles like a prince with lesser charm, he talks like Romeo with lesser love, eyes of a hawk, hands of a tyrant.

Like any other time, Satoru handles it efficiently.

She orders maids to see the dense suitor off. Take out the trash. What she doesn’t expect is, instead of the usual ones, a girl of oddity appears.

“Yes, my lady,” the girl bows deep, hurriedly and turns to the man, “Right this way, sir.”

Bluntly speaking, Satoru has never met her. Familiarity aside, each of the girl’s features bespeaks novelty to someone who has been born with a silver spoon in her mouth like Satoru. The servants’ uniform apron can’t hide her distinctive physiognomy, untamed hair, innocent eyes, youthful curves, clumsy movements. In short, a definite country bumpkin.

Bless Satoru’s well-taught mannerism to disguise her disgust.

However, just as the insignificant presence is out of her sight, Satoru signals.

“You, come.”

Heeding to her master’s call, the girl presents herself at a respectful distance from the older. Lowering her black shades, Satoru does an overall scan once again despite the girl’s quizzical expression, then interrogates.

“You are new here?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“When?”

“Yesterday, my lady.”

Satoru lightly lifts her brow. “You are young. Why waste your life with this job?”

If Satoru was any less sensible, she would miss the way petite shoulders slump down at her question.

“My family was in debt to the Gojo clan. I have no parents, my grandpa has just passed away so I’ll work in his steed until the money is returned in full.” Even though amber orbs are washed over by a thin aqueous veneer, the girl maintains eye contact with icy gaze for fear of disrespecting her master. A brave one, Satoru silently gives her that.

“Your grandfather is Itadori Wasuke, correct?”

Satoru can’t care less, really. But the maids’ and bodyguards’ banter is shamelessly loud, she happens to catch something about the death of a chef - despite his disease, he worked until old age robbed him of life. Satoru can see his determination in his granddaughter's eyes.

“Yes, my lady.”

“What’s your name?”

“Itadori Yuuji, my lady.”

The older woman stares at the new maid for some time more and makes her way to the nearest décor. An antiquated vase, not her liking, worth more than what the maid’s offspring could ever pay if she lives till then.

Satoru drops it.

The strident clash makes the youth’s eyes widen with both horror and disbelief, standing stock still and not fully comprehending the current situation.

“Well then, Potato, you can start with your job now.”

Not waiting for the maid to react, Satoru flips silver strands framing her face, kicking off some more gaudy furniture while taking her leave and doesn’t give the poor maid another glance. She will manage, anyway. Satoru is basically accelerating her maturity.

“No, that’s pure cruelty.”

The woman with ebony locks sighs after Satoru has told her best friend about the new maid at her service. “Causing a ruckus to a newbie on her first day at work then fleeing the scene. You are horrible, Satoru.”

Every Friday night, the best friend duo will frequent Gojo’s private bar. The Getous’ successor isn’t a fan of liquor and the Gojos’ heir can’t even drink, it’s nothing more than a force of habit. Perhaps, the thick alcoholic smell, the hazy lighting of red and blue, the soothing jazz lazily playing is what beckons them to be here. The albino indulges in one sip of her Cinderella, not accepting her imperfection.

“If I were truly mean, I would fire that potato immediately, you of all people know that.”

“You wouldn’t.” Suguru rests her chin on her left palm then takes a drag of cigars, voice a mysterious note.

The taller of the two shows her teeth through an insincere crescent, “And why is that?”

“You are too self-important, Satoru. Stingy with your interests, your time, your thoughts. But you let her occupy your mind for more than half a day, that girl must be someone more than a normal helper.”

Satoru rolls her eyes and makes a disapproving sound.

“It’s just her dramatic background, Potato girl inherits her family’s debt while they die, nothing more.”

“And now you are torturing her. Are you developing sadistic hobbies, Satoru? I’m well aware that you are an asshole but not this much.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that she looks dumb. Weird birthmarks, stupid hair colour.”

The ebony-haired woman eyes her friend with disbelief, “You remember a maid’s face when you can’t even recognize your business partners for the umpteenth time of interaction and rambling about how much you hate said girl this whole night. What’s with you? That girl put a spell on you or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s impossible for a lowly servant to affect this Gojo Satoru.”

Unfortunately for Satoru, it’s indeed possible.

She doesn’t understand how but Satoru is neither blind nor stubborn enough to negate the perceivable changes of hers.

At first, Satoru dumps trivial errands on her. Then, Satoru gradually lets the maid handle her daily tasks notwithstanding being fully capable of performing them herself. If Yuuji finishes her job decently, Satoru gives her more challenges, if Yuuji fails to perform her duty neatly, Satoru still brings destruction to her career and obviously, threats just to admire how she pales, purposefully apologizes then trips when she scurries too fast and too mindless of her master’s heel. It’s hilarious just witnessing how helpless the girl is.

Although all she does is pestering, Satoru admittedly gives the pink-haired maid more attention than her own parents. No one can select the ideal attire for her day, or prepare the delicacy she favours depending on her mood, or simply entertain her arbitrary impulse. No one can trespass her privacy except one Itadori Yuuji. The realization of this fact serves as a blow to Satoru’s pride.

Maybe Suguru is partially right, Satoru’s sadistic tendencies are getting the better of her, nothing more.

However, if only her actions stop at making trouble.

“Drop the formality, call me Satoru.” The albino woman demands one day, out of the blue.

Yuuji stares at her master, eyes round with surprise but quickly retrieves her improperness, lowering her head. “As you wish, Satoru… -sama,” her volume decreases to almost a whisper as she finishes her sentence.

Even without facing her, Satoru can spot Yuuji’s ears glowing with red while her hands clutching her apron. Suddenly, Satoru has the urge of forcing the maid to look into sapphire orbs so Satoru can capture the tinies shift on her visage, how pink would adorn her rosy cheeks, lips a nervous line, honeyed eyes wishing to be anywhere else but there. Graceful fingers elevate the other’s chin, accessing a clearer view, then flick her forehead.

“Go, make me dinner.”

“Yes, Satoru-sama.” Yuuji touches where the impact is still a faint sting but makes haste to carry out her duties. Satoru watches the girl scuttles away, the voice that has enunciated her name still ringing in her mind like a wind chime in the summer breeze, melodious tweets from nightingales, mellow coos of idyllic nymphs. Perhaps, next time, Satoru can make the girl fully abandon honorifics. Only when Yuuji’s echoing footsteps are the last to announce her presence does Satoru snap out of her daze.

Satoru is an atheist but Lord, Suguru has seen through her since.

If she is brazen enough to deny the occurrence minutes ago, Satoru’s permission for the pink-haired maid to travel into her room, make her bed to Satoru’s guidance for choosing clothes, dietetic ingredients, fragrance and shampoos, even as far as exclusively entrusting Yuuji with her meals will beg to differ.

Satoru doesn’t despise Yuuji that much, but the notion of a common maid having one of the desirable Gojo Satoru wrapped around her finger is unacceptable. And it has only been over a month since they first met; the girl’s allure is truly absurd.

Despite said thought, Satoru increasingly finds herself acting on her senseless whim - wasting both hers and Yuuji’s time, that is.

Beside deliberately knocking over valuables in her mansion, Satoru orders Yuuji around, grabbing this, fetching that just to see how she struggles and privately, taste her faint scent of cherry blossom lingers where she stood. Sometimes, Yuuji brings light snacks or tea to her master’s room, instead of shooing her away instantly, Satoru suggests the girl should stay for a while.

“How old are you?”

“Where did you live?”

“What did you do before you moved here?

What Satoru enquires, she can simply read the girl’s dossier to acquire the truth, yet, she likes to hear it from Yuuji herself. The girl can have her liberty to be honest with what she chooses to share. And strangely, when Yuuji answers her master’s question with genuinity laced with her voice and nostalgia in her eyes, Satoru is positive that the maid won’t deceive her.

“Do you miss your home?”

Somehow, Satoru’s inquisition veers to matters that the mind thinks less and the heart feels more. It’s uncharacteristic, inexplicable. Satoru can’t help it.

“Well, it’s peaceful back there, but I don’t really want to stay at home, there is nothing but uncalled-for memories. This place is great, I’m happy that Satoru-sama and everyone is nice to me,” the girl smiles, her eyes crinkled with joy.

Satoru doubts hers and Yuuji’s definitions of “nice” are on the same page, nevertheless, she mentally imprints that small curve into her perception until the girl bashfully looks away for being stared at for too long.

On other occasions, Satoru doesn’t need to actively satisfy her curiosity. Yuuji is rather dreamy, Satoru gathers, humming while sweeping the floor, blowing bubbles while washing the dishes, playing royalty with laundry and white sheets when she assumes she is alone. The girl even has the audacity to call Satoru’s British longhair as Satonyan although that furry devil is originally named “Cat” by his true owner. Satoru would destroy her if the image of the pink-haired girl laughs so free-spiritedly as she cards her fingers through the cat’s silver mane isn’t so… fond.

The more Satoru observes a particular pink-haired maid, the more there is for her to reconsider. Yuuji isn’t dull, she’s childlike, naive, like any other girl blooming on her thirteenth Spring. In fact, Yuuji is considerate in her own ways.

There is this one time that Satoru has to greet unwelcome guests to her house, members of the Zenin family to be specific. It’s no secret that they and the Gojo clan aren’t on good terms despite their amiable facade. Broadcasted handshakes, disinfection off-screen, the usuals between greedy cooperators. Authenticity can’t make money but fame and fortune can fabricate unshakable belief.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary, Toji situates himself on the leather chair like he owns the place, leaving his son, Megumi, to inform Satoru about their next agreements and contracts whereas other men plainly sit there, ugly decorations. The sole rightful decision that Scarred Mouth ever made, Satoru deems. While the spiky-haired man has a diplomatic tongue and professional attitude, Satoru can read his weariness. Articulation monotonous, lifeless pupils, life chained by responsibilities. Notwithstanding their antagonism, the albino can relate.

When Satoru’s consciousness is about to give up to narcotic invitation, a pink-haired maid walks in with a tray of a steamy teapot, a box of cookies paired with her brilliant smile for good measure. The effect is immediate, Megumi’s perpetual stoic scowl is replaced by rarity, the others somewhat lighten up, even Toji steals a glance at the newcomer.

More than Satoru expects, when Satoru has her drink refilled, pastel blue candies beside the cup don’t go unnoticed. She pops one in her mouth then suddenly, Satoru is in heaven.

“Were they to your liking, Satoru-sama?”

After the guests have departed, Yuuji asks in a quiet tone, amber orbs worried yet hopeful.

“They are, well,” Satoru contemplates praises that would do Yuuji’s efforts justice, “tasty. You made them, right?”

Soft cheeks embellished by shy hues, hands fidget, “Yes, Satoru-sama. I thought you have low blood-sugar, and you like sweets…”

Satoru’s eyes are blown wide. If she isn’t moved before, she definitely is at this very moment. She engulfs her finger into the luxury of Spring, ruffling silky strands. Satoru can’t believe she used to deem this pretty head carries fleas.

“Those cookies too?”

“There are lots of unused ingredients so…,” honeyed voice trails away, then abruptly bends herself over which somewhat startles the older. “I’m so sorry for using them without your consent, Satoru-sama. This won’t ever happen again. I will make it up to you, I promise.” Her words are frantic, her knees tremble.

Ah, Satoru must have built a strong impression in her mind.

“There’s no need to. They are delish, literally curing those geezers’ constipation.” It might be an exaggeration judging from Yuuji’s look but Satoru isn’t lying. She does see the way Zenin junior sets his eyes on her maid, there’s something undeniable in those green orbs, close to tenderness, akin to affection.

Satoru doesn’t like it.

“Here’s a thing, Potato. Your treats are amazing, and they will be more if you make them exclusively for me, understand?”

Of course she doesn’t, but the maid fervently nods, anyway. After all, Gojo Satoru will not take a no for an answer.

In other instances, Yuuji fulfills the requirements of more than just a maid’s. Cleaning, washing, laundering, readying, and yet, she still has time to cover the mess Satoru makes out of spite without complaining that Satoru can’t tell if the girl is fundamentally lenient or she has lost the grasp of reality. She makes extra desserts although Satoru doesn’t request, she amuses with casual blather although Satoru conceals her problems.

Times like that, Satoru questions whether her proficiency at masking blunders has regressed or not.

“I just, guess it? Satoru-sama has certain types of aura, it’s distinct when you are feeling down.”

Yuuji replies, her hands still persistent with her offer. Sapphire orbs pierce at the display of hard candies and a slice of lemon tart. Apparently, the girl has learned that Satoru prefers chewy and sour goodies after a long, vexatious day. Satoru purses her lips as she takes the tray from the younger. Yuuji’s response doesn’t please her but sweets always will.

The point is, if Yuuji completes her roles to the fullest, that’s fine, she breathing the same air as Gojo Satoru is already a handsome wage. But if Satoru softens at anyone’s meager kindness, a maid’s at that, it’s utterly laughable.

Her best friends Suguru and Shoko already snicker at her during their banter. At this point, the wildest, most nonsensical things are possible.

Satoru teaching about her accumulated experiences, Satoru preaching about fashion and trends to enhance one’s taste, Satoru squandering her cash on lavish clothes and expensive cosmetic, Satoru insisting on accompanying the maid whenever they have the time, the Gojo clan’s heir does it all for one Itadori Yuuji in the span of narrowly one Autumn.

Initially, Satoru truly can’t wrap her mind around why she permits these unwise investments. “It’s called pampering,” Satoru envisions her best friend supplies like an old sage. However, days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months, it’s obvious as daylight that Satoru takes delight in spending time with Yuuji, not only as her master but also her protection, her guide, her friend, someone that Yuuji can enjoy her youth with.

Maybe Satoru is just touch-starved, maybe she has stood on that unreachable pedestal for eons that she craves the smell of humans. It’s not endearment, it’s loneliness.

Once again, Satoru is proved to be wrong.

It’s when she receives a call from Zenin Megumi, the least insufferable member from the Zenin branch, “You remember my cousin Naoya?”

At the slight mention of said name, Satoru can tell her entire week is ruined. Although the Zenins are full of decadent bunches, they are still bearable compared to that scum who has the worst, most disabled, corrupted genes from his lousy family, the ultimate embodiment of oppressive paternalism, uncivilized misogyny and hierarchy injustice.

“A rising star,” Satoru replies despite herself.

If Megumi hears abhorrence, he disregards it for the best. “Due to some circumstances, he will be our representative today. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Can’t wait to see him in person.”

The moment she hangs up, it’s a miracle that she hasn’t just vomited right there. Satoru rushes to find Yuuji but then, her doorbell rings. She cusses internally, controlling her composure before admitting him herself because the last time when one of her maids greeted that rotten imbecile, Satoru was this close to personally castrate him.

However, unlike what Satoru has feared, the albino woman walks in to a pained screech.

“Unhand me you uneducated bitch!” The man hisses, his limbs flailing in vain while he sprawls on the ground, his arm is bent backward by a pink-haired girl who effectively pins him on the floor.

Satoru’s eyes zero at the sight.

Sometimes, downy locks and demure gown just makes Satoru forget about Yuuji’s outlandish strength. The girl has survived Satoru for nearly a year, of course she can do wonders. If not for her reputation, Satoru would guffaw so hard and upload the scene where Zenin Naoya pathetically crawls on filth like a vermin he is on social media right away.

She clears her throat, instead.

“What’s going on?”

Upon her master’s arrival, Yuuji frees the lock, stepping back from the heaving man. The girl wavers in her stance, trying to formulate the appropriate apology but is overlapped by blaring noises.

The blond coughs, impatiently loosening his tie to ventilate then recovers his equilibrium, stomping to the albino woman. “Gojo Satoru,” he roars with utmost rage and venom, “that insolent servant just attacked me. You must fire her at once.”

Satoru’s chin directs at him but sapphire orbs glance at the maid whose mouth zips but mien fails to put on an act.

“Zenin Naoya-san, I advise you to leave.”

Naoya makes a questioning tilt of his head, “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. I believe it has been a long, unfortunate day for all of us. I don’t have the physicality nor mentality for association at the moment. Could you come back another time?”

The man gawks at the albino woman, at her maid, then at the woman again, a vein popping on his temple. His eyes ablaze with wrath, his fists tense with murder. The blond harrumphs, nonetheless. “I hope you can find a better maid rather than those from the slave market.”

Naoya pivots, showing off the violence in his movements as he storms out, into his Mercedes and gone. Satoru secretly swears that she will make him gone for good but not yet, she has greater concerns to attend to.

“Potato.”

The addressee jolts, refusing to vocalize. Hidden face, hunching back, she keeps herself low.

Ah, Satoru reminds herself, although Yuuji can defend herself, she’s just a girl.

Satoru approaches without her usual fierceness, removes her sunglasses, kneels so that their eyes meet while her hands carefully envelop the girl’s, worrying, treasuring. Lithe fingers rather shaky in her hold but not avoiding.

“Yuuji, did he touch you?”

Amber orbs lustrous, about to liquesce. Satoru gives her an assuring squeeze, and finally, the girl nods, slumps into other’s arms. The maid’s frame quivers as she desperately clings to whatever support she can find, hiding her face in the older’s warmth.

“I was so scared and angry, Satoru-sama. He even threatened to harm you.”

Yuuji was in danger and yet, she thinks of Satoru. Precious, so precious, Satoru’s inner self chants whereas she woman appeases her maid with idle circles one her back, her other hand hugs the maid dearly.

“You silly, silly girl. How can that foul nincompoop ever do anything to me?”

Yet, Satoru finds herself smiling.

That day, Satoru gains many firsts. The first time Satoru calls Yuuji instead of mocking nicknames, and visiting the girl’s room, and tending her, and stays beside her until she slumbers. Too domestic but she doesn’t have the heart to hate it. Sensing the even breathing when she combs strawberry locks, Satoru unreasonably wants to throw a tantrum. She lightly pinches the chubby cheek instead. It’s unfair how her maid looks seraphic even when she sleeps.

Satoru sighs, trudges to her room, figuring there is no need to contain her exasperation any longer.

Never before she has been so infuriated, so anxious, so insulted like this.

One night is more than sufficient for her to expose that despicable blond’s dirty deeds, too much frivolity, too many frauds and embezzlement, too avaricious and wild with his desire to rule the Zenin, blatant assassination scheme but too asinine to realize his oversights.

The bastard is bound to fall. Especially when he dares to lay his sordid being on what belongs to Satoru.

She is relieved though, the contacts were minor, didn’t leave any trace, didn’t actually reach the girl’s skin or prison won’t be the last place that abomination is sent to, Satoru is sure of it.

Negativity may accelerate decrepitude, Satoru knows, but weirdly, she changes thanks to it.

Satoru procrastinates her schedules for the girl, Satoru frequently seeks intimacy, Satoru excuses the maid from her duties for shopping sprees, even goes as far as affording a whole villa for Satoru and Yuuji alone, homeschooling Yuuji herself and celebrating birthdays together.

“In other words, you have learned to appreciate her.”

Shoko concludes, puffing out a cloud of smoke whereas Satoru buries her face in her hands, confused with her own behaviours and mind.

“Giving her attention, wanting to learn more about her, coddling her with your unlimited balance, moping when others leer at her. Satoru,” Suguru cackles, “you are in love.”

And shit, Satoru can’t deny it, not anymore.

Chapter Text

Itadori Yuuji serves one master.

Although it seems like a ludicrous claim considering Itadori is nothing but a mere servant who owes the Gojo clan as a whole, she can lower her head, kneel on her knees, her service is theirs but her heart and soul are devoted to a certain albino woman and her alone.

Her story starts with a tragedy, when her last family member passed away of old age and exhaustion, she heard. He wasn’t simply her grandfather, he was her hope, her reason to go to school despite their measly earnings, to endure the prejudice against poverty from their neighbours, to continue living with the faith that there is benevolence in everyone.

It seems that kindness wasn’t enough for one to even hold a proper funeral.

“Itadori, young master is calling you.”

Suddenly, Itadori’s reminiscence is interrupted by an elbow to her ribs.

The older woman of similar outfit nudges at her with a hushed voice, her worries evident with wrinkles between her brows. Realizing she has been slacking off, a broom still in her grasp but her mind departs from reality, the pink-haired girl delivers a quick “thank you” then heeds her master's summons.

“I’m so sorry for the wait. You called, Satoru-sama?”

Oh god, her breathing has yet to calm down, her hair and dress are disheveled from the run, her whole being a disappointment, Itadori hasn’t even cleaned up the last mess from broken ceramics. She braces herself for the upcoming reproach and silently prays to her ancestors.

Contrary to what Itadori has presumed, the woman doesn't make the slightest motion except letting silence be her speech while she scans the younger with scrutiny, her intentions obscure behind black shades. Before Itadori’s unease only seconds longer from betraying her poise, the older turns her back and spares the girl.

“Let the others do the rest. Go take a shower, you are polluting this place with your sweaty stink.” Gojo’s remarks are all razors and knives as always but her tone doesn’t hold bites, which is… odd, in a good sense.

“No, dumbass,” the other girl spits as if she has just stomped into a pile of feces on the street, unpersuaded by her friend’s defense, “That master of yours is totally a demon in human guise.”

“Kugisaki, she even gave me a new bottle of shampoo.” Itadori instinctively takes a whiff, “It smells nice, citrus and fresh. Never heard of the brand but it must be expensive, feels like I’m pouring money on my skin.”

“That thing is definitely expired, don’t let that woman trick you,” Kugisaki is undeterred.

“It’s not though, I’ve checked the date,” Itadori points out.

“Itadori, you credulous sheep. Rich people have their own ways,” the girl sighs, “You take their bait then in one blink of an eye, you are dead meat.”

“I think that’s quite a dramatization, Kugisaki.” Ah, her friend’s hatred towards wealthy figures never decreases, only worsens, “I’m no one, they won’t bother.”

“Still!” Kugisaki growls. A loud collision can be heard from the other line, probably her friend’s venting, Itadori deems. “I hate being cringy but first, don’t devalue yourself or I’ll go there just to stuff some senses into you, Itadori. Second, be careful, don’t trust them.”

The pink-haired maid knows her friend is strong, strong in her lifestyle, her opinions, her encouragement but it’s always amazing to witness her ferocity, rather demanding but that’s how she cherishes those she holds dear.

“Thanks Kugisaki. I will.”

Despite her momentary truce, Itadori already ventures into the woods, amidst the den of iniquity and she is alive.

While the fact that Gojo Satoru treats her like a villainess in her doll house remains true, it's obsolete regarding the recent instances after an eventful year. In the early days, the Gojos’ Miss makes her contempt towards her new maid too conspicuous by blatantly causing havoc in her mansion and ridiculing the girl with derisive labels if her face doesn’t express her distaste enough. Itadori assumes that is no more than Gojo’s idiosyncrasies, hence, shrugs off her plight and pleases at the woman's behest. Plus, her master isn’t as bad as what Itadori imagined, sure, she is playful a tease but never physically abuses her or offends her with real obloquy.

As time flies, Itadori soon cognizes the contradiction in Gojo’s words and actions.

She allows her kitchen to be at Itadori’s disposal although she sneers “Passable,” she assigns Itadori to garden her lawns although she scoffs “Peasant hands,” she drags Itadori to her room although she shuns “Step aside, I might catch your herpes,” she demands Itadori to brush her hair although she scorns “No wonder you look like that.” Her hostility is pronounced but her gestures are nothing of the sort.

A complex individual, Itadori infers. A pain in the ass, Kugisaki would snarl.

Despite everything, Itadori knows Gojo means no harm and that’s what matters.

“What are you looking at, Potato?”

It is one of those occasions when the maids are all in a hurry so their masters appear the most presentable due to solemn meetings and grand gallas held by the Gojos’ key benefactors. The mansion bustling with helpers running up and down, and yet, Itadori stays immobile in a corner. Only when she is dangerously Gojo’s mercy away from being homeless as the woman now standing in front of her does Itadori register that she has been doing nothing but shamelessly gawking at her master.

Oh, how could she ever atone for her crassness.

“Please forgive me, Satoru-sama,” she bows, feeling heat crawling up her nape and face, “I-It’s just that… you are really stunning, Satoru-sama.”

That isn’t the slightest of what she wishes to convey.

From the first day at work, she’s already astonished by the Gojos’ Miss’ pulchritude. Porcelain skin smooth and milky, silver tresses define her elegant neck then cascade down her well-proportioned shoulders, eyes of ocean depth, feathery lashes batting like spumes wash over the aquamarine sea and limitless welkins, her lips an entrancing red, her charisma has more to be explored. To be frank, Gojo Satoru must be one of the most gorgeous people on earth, if not, is the most gorgeous person Itadori has ever seen in her entire vapid life. Now, the absolute of black hugs that beauty just right, accentuating her fair complexion, exhibiting sensual curves but deferential to the woman's modesty. Truly, a marvel to behold, the gods’ most beloved child.

However, Gojo doesn’t want to hear comments of little importance from a maid as her master is boring holes on her, Itadori supposes.

“Of course I’m perfect.” The albino woman confidently says after an excruciating quiescence, “You chose it, remember?

She can recall the origins but not her choice.

It’s the gown she saw from last week when Gojo decided to broaden her horizons about fashion and what unrefined yokels don’t and modern girls do despite Itadori’s refusal. “I won’t have a cretin in my care,” the woman explained. They were passing by and Itadori might have window-shopped it a bit too long, might have unconsciously vocalized the “I wonder how Satoru-sama would look in this” part that her master descried her maid’s doings. And, she settled her purchase, Itadori deduces.

“Yes, Satoru-sama,” she coyly replies.

Gojo inspects the younger for minutes more and resolves, “Not bad of a taste from a potato like you.” She turns her heels, signaling, “Chop chop Potato, you don’t want my guests to laugh at how I let my darling miserably underdressed, do you?”

“Um…” Itadori blinks in confusion.

The woman utters as if it’s a matter of fact.

“You are coming with me as my partner.”

“You idiot!” Kugisaki grunts, aggravated whereas Itadori almost drops her phone at the other’s volume, “That woman is using you as her excuse to turn down proposals from unworthy lowlifes. You are nothing but a pawn in her eyes.”

Itadori chuckles at how wild her friend’s imagination can be. “But she gave me a new dress. It has glitters and all, you know, the mesmerizingly shimmering things. It’s so fancy I thought I was hallucinating.”

“The dress is added to your debt so you can never escape her. She’s slowly binding you to her then you’ll have to serve that Miss until you die, I bet she thinks so.”

“But she personally ordered her tailors to make this for me. That must have taken months to finish. And it scarily fits! Why would she go that far just to imprison me?”

“She is lying, duh.”

The images of a small, almost indiscernible but genuine smile blooming on her master’s lips when Itadori arrays in her gift briefly projects in her mind.

“That might not be the case…”

Kugisaki is unyielding.

“Give her time, she will show her fangs.”

The pink-haired girl sighs, agreeing to disagree.

“Okay then.”

Still, Itadori believes what she saw.

Gojo Satoru’s inclinations are both rational and bizarre, Itadori gathers.

It is understandable to have a certain pattern in her habits, but it’s not if those tendencies somehow are all related to someone like Itadori Yuuji, a normal, if not unimportant, maid.

If Gojo is in her good mood, Itadori will find heaps of packages full of aristocratic goods in her room which certainly cost more than her life but she can’t return them. If it’s the opposite, Itadori will find herself doing her usual chores but under the skepticism of her master like a boring TV program that one kills time with.

Today, the latter applies.

To be exact, her master's sour temper stems from the Zenin Naoya fuss a fortnight ago. It is repulsive at the mere thought of it, atrocious hands seized her waist, travelling to forbidden places while he poisoned her mind with evil. Even though Itadori elbowed him then kicked him in the nuts, the parts where baseness had laid prickling like insects creeping on her skin when the remembrances suddenly invade her mind.

Yet, it’s her master who is distraught the most.

Gojo takes care of her herself, protracting postponements for conference to keep tabs on her (Itadori really is sorry for businesses being hindered because of her), asking both physical and mental conditions of her on a daily basis, dismissing the maid’s duties so she can rest, however persistently Itadori declines. Furthermore, what Gojo wears on her face was nothing familiar to the younger. The incisive taunts are there but her characteristic sedateness is gone, vexed outside, afraid inside, agitated overall.

She still is till this moment.

Itadori stealthily glances across the table where Gojo is seated, sapphire orbs hyperfocused. For the last two weeks, it’s rare for Gojo to allow Itadori to be out of her line of sight.

Itadori turns a blind eye to it, proceeding her work.

Combining ingredients, beating eggs, blending the mixture, kneading the dough, letting it rise, laminating the result, setting the oven. Strangely, cooking is more interesting than how she remembers it is. Perhaps, it’s because Itadori is not doing it for survival but rather for joy, a pleasure to be helpful and valued. Itadori lightly hums a made-up tune, opting for washing the dishes so she will have time to play with Satonyan. He’s a bit too chubby for a cat due to her over spoiling, exercises are obligatory.

“Potato, come here.”

Gojo commands out of the blue.

Itadori complies, presenting herself before her master.

“Yes, Satoru-sama?”

Gojo doesn’t answer but reaches for the maid’s profile, her thumb swiping the younger’s cheek while other fingers supporting her chin, the ever undulating sea trapped in those eyes somehow ceases to thrash, tamed.

“You got something on your face.”

Quintessence meets disgrace, Winter’s blessing caresses subtle sun-kissed freckles, Itadori feels self-consciousness is gnawing at her inner self when they are this close. She secretly dusts off some of the flour clinging to her apron, praying that her diffidence won’t make her embarrassment visible any further.

“S-Satoru-sama…”

It has been a whole minute Gojo has been brushing off whatever dirt there is and at this point, her master is only besmirching her face if there is indeed a blot.

“Hm?” Her thumb doesn’t stop.

“Um, I think I can do it myself…,” Itadori hopes that doesn’t come off as impertinence.

Gojo remains silent until the warmth from the younger intermingle with her digits, the woman moves her touches higher, sliding slender fingers into pink strands, petting the maid’s head, fondling the forehead to nose and cheeks again. Gojo continues to shift her attention, this time, holding the younger’s hands, stroking the callouses in smaller palms. Never before has Itadori been treated with this much esteem.

Her master mien is unreadable but Itadori knows what to do.

The girl tiptoes, detangling her movements to encircle the other in her arms.

“I’m so sorry for being unreasonable and rude, Satoru-sama. But I think you need it.” Itadori says, shutting her eyes so the darkness of the nether world won’t frighten her. “I’m safe because you are here with me.”

Silence is what the girl receives.

Disheartened by the other’s lack of response, Itadori about to recoil when Gojo stops her by returning the gesture with greater force but not enough to hurt.

“Silly Potato” is all Gojo mutters for the rest of that morning.

There are many peculiar things about Itaori that she herself can’t decipher such as her innate brawn, her natural hair colour and in this case, her resilient immune system. She rarely got sick or affected by the weather or seasonal changes but the crux being “rarely”, not “never.”

Her throat is itchy but Itadori muffles her mouth in time, not wanting to affect those around her.

Her head is splitting at each twinge that arises, body annoyingly cumbersome, runny nose, sore throat, every fiber of her is lethargic and consequently not available to fulfill her role as a maid. However, it’s only 1 in the afternoon, too soon to pardon herself for the day nor dawdle uselessly when everyone is busy for the Gojos’ Miss’s upcoming birthday celebration.

Itadori wrings the rag one last time and carries the water bucket, not sure if she is basically exhausted or it’s always this heavy, she has simply glossed over her tasks before. Both, she surmises. The pink-haired girl plods whilst mentally devising the new recipe she would like to make for a certain albino woman but her head feels as if resided by lead, blocking her train of thoughts, making it harder to even locate the helpers quarter, let alone dreaming of her little plans.

“There you are!”

The abrupt exclamation spills waste as Itadori flinches but the woman ignores it for more urgent issues.

“We have been searching everywhere for you. Young master demands your presence this instance.”

Wait, did she do something wrong? She admittedly isn't completely sober but she can't remember where she made an oversight.

“You really forgot it, didn't you?” The older woman assists her through obfuscation, “It's Thursday.”

Thursday, under no circumstance can Itadori forgo her master’s strawberry parfait dessert.

Itadori pales at the reminder.

The woman asks another maid to clean Itadori’s jumble and escorts her to where their master awaits while Itadori can do nothing but follow the older’s guide and bank her safety on Gojo’s infrequent clemency. Itadori massages her temples, involuntarily envisages the worst scenarios.

“My lady, she is here.”

The woman informs then retreats.

There Gojo Satoru stands, talking to a butler, her arms akimbo, expression seemingly blank. A reigned temper, Itadori reckons. Espying the wanted girl, Gojo discharges the man and veers her attention to the fidgeting maid. Itadori quickly explains herself.

“I’m sorry, Satoru-sama. I was–”

“Potato.” Gojo cuts in, effectively hushing the addressee. “You sound awful.” Lissome hand raises to cup the younger’s cheek with palpable caution, the woman discerns, “Your face is burning too.” She slightly squints, “Potato, are you sick?”

The girl turns uncommunicative, her face grows impossibly hotter. Then, she murmurs, mortified of her own voice.

“I’m sorry…”

“Nonsense,” Gojo forcefully objects whereas Itadori blinks. “Show me your room, Potato. You are not working until you recover, that’s an order,” she adds, lest the younger protests.

The rest of that day is like a daze, partially because her brain temporarily cannot function properly but mainly due to surprising changes in her master’s disposition. It’s not that Gojo is endlessly choleric and mean but it’s wide-spread and well-known that she takes pleasure in others’ sufferings. A telling example is when Zenin Naoya getting arrested was all over the news, the albino woman literally threw a private party and joked about it for days. Another compelling instance is she unceremoniously desecrating her family antique collections just so her maid will have to handle the wreckage in the end.

However, she willingly nurses Itadori while letting no one interfere, not expressing contempt or dislike like she would but rather, half-heartedly reprimanding the maid and even making soup herself, giving medicine and sitting next to the girl, offering an assuring company.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, Satoru-sama.”

Although she cannot perceive well at the moment, Itadori is aware of her place. Her living space is stuffy and rather cramped, one must feel uncomfortable, of elites or not.

“You apologize too much, it’s irritating.” Noticing the girl is about to beg her pardon again, Gojo shushes, “You know, Potato, it’s okay to loosen up sometimes. I’ve bullied you and you don’t complain a word, you even help me a lot more than you realize. I’m only doing this in return and for myself.”

Ocean eyes avert to lessen the awkwardness but suddenly, stop at a basket on the top of a small drawer.

“Potato, you are knitting something?”

Itadori flushes at said cue as if she can get possibly redder.

“Yes, Satoru-sama.”

“You make it for someone?”

Itadori evacuates to the protection of her thick blanket.

“Um, yes, Satoru-sama…”

It’s what Gojo will earn but not something Itadori can or prepared to elaborate.

“I see.”

Fortunately, Gojo doesn’t question any further, instead, she pulls the blanket down enough to reveal the younger’s face then tucks strawberry strands limiting wide gold orbs behind a feverish ear, “Well then, be a good girl and sleep.”

Itadori’s head is pounding, heat boiling in her veins, yet, she soon dozes off at her master’s gentle lulls.

Gojo Satoru is a touchy-feely person, Itadori observes.

Although she refuses anyone who isn't at her level to be within her periphery, the longer Itadori at her services, the more the aforementioned inspection serves as a gospel.

It starts with a flick to her forehead, then pinches to her cheeks, a light squeeze at her shoulder, a pat to her head to overtly holding hands when they roam the shopping districts, unabashedly using pet names to shooing off flirts. When they are away from the public eyes, pretense is unnecessary but Gojo still checks on her maid at least once a day and Itadori, habituating to her master’s whims, keeps her opinions to herself. Initially, Gojo seems more sheepish than her, yet, now she does all of the above with a smug smile while Itadori can’t help but become more rubescent.

Perhaps, Gojo wants nothing more than to rile people who she looks down on.

“No, she’s toying with you,” Nobara huffs.

The possibility that she does it to watch how Itadori squirms and pleads for them to go elsewhere more secluded to entertain herself does make Itadori have to rethink. However, “If that’s the case, why would she buy me all these costly clothes, accessories and beauty products? I doubt I have the meticulosity to skin care, though. I’m even calling you with the smartphone she bought yesterday and I can’t fathom why it has this many cameras.”

“You are deceived. Gojo is trading her money for your trust.”

“She cared for me when I was ill.” Itadori thinks she has arrhythmia for a second considering how her heart reacts to that.

“My point still stands.”

The pink-haired girl flops down onto her bed. “Like I said, I don’t see the benefit in doing so. She can ask anyone else to be her fake partner, why me?”

Kugisaki answers automatically, “Obviously, you are subservient, too easy to control. If anything happens to you, her image would be hardly damaged.”

“Wow, that’s harsh.”

“Sad but true.”

Itadori shrugs, knowing head-on confrontations with her friend will lead to no end, “If you say so.”

If Gojo takes delight in direct contact, that’s fine, she isn’t to blame for the almost full-time absence of her parents. The problem is, those contacts make Itadori feel unknown, scary but equally exciting things. Although involving personal feelings at the workplace is unprofessional and the idea of sleeping in cold, dingy alleys doesn’t sound enjoyable, it’s hard to keep a straight face when Gojo is physically interacting with her.

And, she finds herself relishing in her master’s touches, too.

“WHAT?” Itadori has to remove the mobile away for her eardrum’s safety.

“Itadori, since when do you have these… symptoms?” Kugisaki says it like she has a hard time pronouncing those words.

“Um, maybe half a month ago? When I was sick.”

“Itadori,” Kugisaki releases a heavy breath, “I kind of know exactly what ails you but certainly do not want to blurt it out.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It’s fucking terrible. Worse than dying.”

“Wish me luck, then.”

“Kugisaki, Kugisaki! Guess what. She just secured a new villa by the beach for us two to move in.”

“What the fuck!?”

She might have lost her job, Itadori dreads.

Settling in their new house requires many procedures of packaging, unboxing, rearranging furniture in general but Itadori is demanded to stay put. “You don’t need to do anything,” Gojo provides upon the queries written all over the maid’s face. Even when the moving phase is finished, Gojo requires other helpers to do the cleaning and if Itadori asks, she is given the same reply.

“Go, look around this place,” the albino woman encourages, “Make sure that I didn’t waste my money for nothing.”

Hence, here she is, gaping at the majestic scenery from the spacious balcony. The sun is setting down, sinking into the ever blue sea while painting the sky with coral and blazing light, blending tiny twinkles of the looming night.

“Kugisaki, this place is paradise. Everything is so huge and wonderful.” Itadori speaks into her phone, “I think I will cry.”

“Don’t. And, no way, I’m not convinced.”

“How about I send you a picture?”

“Pictures. Preferably videos.”

“Kugisaki,” Itadori giggles, “you can just ask me normally.”

“Shut up.”

Nonetheless, Itadori records her journey for her friend, travelling through the spacious patio, the decorative pavilion, garden with exotic greenery, impressive hall with a conglomeration of marble sculptures to a humble sauna, luxurious bar and bedrooms with floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalism motif. The atmosphere is nice, too, fresh air, mild weather and sunny most days, like an ultimate vacation. Although having lived under the same roof for more than a year, Gojo Satoru’s fame and fortune never fails to sway her.

“Potato.”

Itadori eeks, more out of surprise than actual answering. If Itadori has calculated the probabilities of her losing the job, her apprehension is affirmed now.

“You are filming something?”

“Uh, I…,” Itadori stutters, “I was, um,” she finalizes, “I’m sorry if I offend you, Satoru-sama. I thought I could show my friend the place…”

The woman gives her a flat, ambiguous look, then smirks.

“Come here.”

“Itadori!” Kugisaki is this close to screeching, “you are on Gojo Satoru’s Instagram?”

“Wait, seriously?” The pink-haired girl is taken aback, “I thought she’s just into selfie things.”

“She is and now giving hints to the world that you are her possible love interest.”

Kugisaki indignantly sighs, begrudgingly confirms, “I didn’t want to tell you because you are too dumb and that woman might break your heart but seeing her post today, I can only say this: Itadori, you are in love.”

Chapter Text

Ijichi Kiyotaka furtively surveys through the rear-view mirror then swiftly glues his eyes on the inauspicious traffic ahead, letting a sigh escape from him for probably the fourth time since this afternoon. Being hampered by congestion of rush hours is not something foreign nor too unpleasant that the man can’t handle, but being stuck in said predicament while his boss is in the backseat, not so much.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t like it when her patience is challenged, Ijichi gathers. Or rather, Gojo takes it quite personally whenever anything of hers is tested but it’s more complicated in this particular situation. Because she can’t vent on anyone specifically, it’s usually Ijichi and some unlucky others caught in her perimeter who bear the brunt. If she’s slightly on edge, hearing her twitter is to be expected, enduring kicks at the back is coupled with it, running for errands around the town then returning empty handed for Gojo’s cancellation in the final seconds when her mood is on the next level of terrible but silent treatment is undoubtedly the worst scenario.

Gojo Satoru is already an enigma, her temper is hard to grasp and her mind is harder to read, capricious with her schedule and actions but when the albino woman doesn’t even bother to rampage, that’s direly worrisome. The last time she’s in this state, a company was on the verge of bankruptcy.

Ijichi fixes his glasses, fingers itchy but are reined not to restlessly tap on the steering wheel.

Most times, tedious meetings are the chief reasons for her buttons being pushed, yet, Ijichi has a hunch that there’s more. Something must have gravely nettled her, he surmises.

If his memory serves him right, no conference was held this morning. In fact, his boss and the maid loitered around Ikebukuro to Shinjuku whereas Ijichi was their pack mule and carried their bags. “I can help you,” he remembers the girl’s kind offer until the albino woman snatched her wrist, pulling her away while she threw a disdainful look at him. Now, while the pink-haired girl is sleeping soundly with her head resting on the older’s shoulder, Gojo does nothing but quietly observe, her expression eerily blank, perhaps contemplating.

Did something happen between the two?

Given Gojo’s tetchy disposition, getting into a fight is plausible but Ijichi simply can’t imagine the albino woman actually bickering like any normal person and not using her influence to overpower. Even if they did, the girl wouldn’t be in this car and how can a mere helper peeve the Gojos’ Miss that much? The whole mansion knows that recently, Gojo has taken a certain interest in one pink-haired maid but they are no more than master and servant, right?

Again, the driver peeks behind briefly.

The woman is still staring at the youth, seemingly emotionless and Ijichi may get it wrong, there’s this tiniest hint of strangeness in those breathtaking aquamarine orbs. It’s unreadable, like a raging storm of seascape, waves clash against each other, tearing blue and splashing white.

Maybe, he’s too quick with his assumption.

Although the quietness is rather dreadful, especially when it comes to Gojo Satoru, this time, instead of ill cause, it's surprisingly the opposite. Rather than wrath, ocean eyes’ look is more like yearning, something Ijichi never has the honor to witness. 

The albino woman carefully tugs her coat on the younger’s frame, refraining it from slipping from her shoulder. Ijichi thinks he might mistake a satisfied smile on his boss’s lips.

Suddenly, sapphire eyes pin on him.

The driver abruptly straightens his back, evades the woman’s gaze by looking at the hopeless traffic jam. Ah, he really did jeopardize his job, didn’t he? Hands grabbing the steering wheel while legs fidget, Ijichi waits for the other’s reprehension.

Minutes later, contrary to what the man has prepared himself for, no criticism is voiced.

The albino woman lightly touches a few curls curtaining the youth’s face then nuzzles against her, paying no mind to the driver as if the only thing matters is the girl in her arms.

Ijichi can only gape at the rare act of fondness from Gojo Satoru, questions popping in his head but decides to value the absolution he is bestowed by minding his business.

The woman of ebony locks downs her glass in one large gulp, cutting to the chase.

“Satoru, have you confessed?”

The addressee tenses in her seat, cheeks a faint shade of red if her splutter doesn’t demonstrate discomposure enough.

“O-Of course not. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”

Suguru presses a thumb in between her brows, easing the migraine.

“You found out that you fell for her like, months ago but you did nothing except throwing a tantrum at how clueless your maid is when you are the one who has gay panic and simps over her at 3am and spams our group chat with photos or her. Now, you are whining because she insists on you carrying out your duties as a goddamned CEO,” Suguru casts her friend a tired look, “Satoru, this isn’t obstinacy anymore, it’s cowardice.”

“And idiocy,” Shoko adds helpfully, always the one to jest.

The tallest of them rolls her eyes while she lets out an uncommitted “Ugh,” folding her arms so she can cushion her head. “Gimme a break. I’m Gojo Satoru, people should be after me, not vice versa. How could I ever fathom…,” she makes random gestures with her hands, her intonation sardonic, “doting on someone?” 

 “If you don’t wanna, others will have her hands you know?” Shoko devilishly quirks her lips, “I’m sure of the look Zenin junior had when they last met. Oh, to think that it’s Zenin Yuuji, not the reputable Gojo. ”

The albino woman briskly perks up at that, provoked. “That’s a shitty name. The Zenin can go fuck themselves.” The thought of a certain loathsome blond flashes in her mind evokes a repelled scowl from her, Satoru indulges in another sip of her fruity drink and slouches down, “Haven’t I done enough? I give her everything a fourteen-years-old could never dream of. Why doesn’t Yuuji notice anything?”

“Maybe she mother-zones you.”

Satoru glowers at the woman unconcernedly tapping her mobile.

“It’s understandable since you are double her age. And you are spoiling, not courting,” Suguru pacifies, a hand reaches to borrow her friend’s pack of tobacco.

“You instructed give her attention,” Satoru accuses.

“I said show her specific care, not personally disturb her,” Suguru corrects.

“All the same,” Satoru still pillows her head on her arms.

“Listen, dumbass. Purchasing exorbitant goods only leaves the impression that you are being ostentatious and she is just an unwilling audience of yours,” the woman lights her cigarette, “You should give something that no money can buy, something that makes her feel special.”

“Anyone being in my care is already special.”

“I’m starting to think Itadori Yuuji not heeding you is fortunate.”

“Shoko, I would really appreciate it if you can just focus on your Crossy Road.”

“Satoru, you come here for advice, right? Then do what we have to say. How about starting by calling her a different name? Something more, tender?”

It’s a horrible plan, apparently.

“That’s because you have no control of your tongue, you moron,” Suguru rebukes.

“It’s easier said than done,” Satoru retorts.

“Can’t believe you upgrade her from a potato to a sweet potato,” Shoko deadpans.

“‘Sweetcheeks’ was what I planned but it slipped.” Satoru defends, “Hey, at least I tried,” 

“What kind of half-assed attempt is that? I honestly feel sorry for that girl, Satoru.”

“Zip it. You are gonna help me or what?”

Suguru presses her temple then puffs out a ring of smoke, talks mostly to herself “At this rate, it’s gonna be exhaustingly long.”

Tama has served the Gojo family for 25 years. Although the beginning years were mostly due to financial desperation, she soon found comfort in being at the Gojos’ service. They don’t mistreat their helpers like other envious people would like to rumour, and watching over the young master since days of toddling till today is something that puts her mind at peace. However, the old woman has one disquiet because even though Gojo Satoru grows up to be a beautiful and successful woman, she has yet to have a partner.

Tama has seen countless times when the albino woman makes poor excuses or simply shows no respect by straightforwardly turning down proposals from her endless line of pursuing men. Of course, Tama wishes not for her master to make any rash decision then regret with hindsight but the albino only has a year before stepping into her thirties. Yet, she shows no interest in emotional attachment, let alone loving anyone.

No. Perhaps, there is one.

Tama can’t be fully certain but she knows love when she sees it. It’s the way Gojo refuses to be 2 meters near the pink-haired girl but she is also the one who relishes their touches, always demands one specific maid to be at her quarter while others are around, stares intently at the girl’s until she’s completely out of sight, or more transparently, going on shopping excursion and gifting costly accessories that the girl has to give them to Tama and other maids due to the excessive amount.

That makes the only uncertainty left is if the feelings are mutual or not.

“Tama-san.”

At the sheepish call, the woman sets her thoughts aside and turns. Speak of the devil.

“Yes, Itadori?”

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Not at all. What is it?”

The girl averts her gaze erratically, nervously biting her bottom lips. “Um, what do you think of me? I mean, in terms of appearance.”

Well, this is unexpected. “Young, adorable.” The girl blushes at the older's description, shoulders slump as if to hide. “Oh? I see you have grown out your hair? Is this what you imply?”

The younger instinctively combs the unruly curls, pink smudged from her cheeks to her ears. “Um, I know I’m not really good-looking but I want to change…”

A sudden desire to improve oneself, is this it?

The woman gently pats the younger’s shoulder, “That’s not true. You are very pretty, you just need guidance, that’s all. Say, are you doing this for someone?”

Embarrassment bakes the younger that she is all red. Bingo.

“I-I thought she would like me to be more, um, girlish?” Fingers dig in her apron, she mutters the last part, “Since I look like vegetables.” 

Despite her gawking when she assumes no one is there, her master seriously needs to stop her bad habits or karma will come for her for real, Tama sighs. “None of that. How about coming to my room this evening, dear? I think I have some ideas.”

Weeks then months later, Tama realizes that Itadori is quick on the uptake. Not that she really teaches anything or the girl wears more thick makeup, Itadori only learns how to be confident with her fortes, movements more decisive, giggles more liberal, hair kept and face beatific. As for Satoru, Tama doesn’t know how many times the woman’s soul seems to discharge from her body.

“Thank you so much for your concern, Tama-san. I hope you are doing great.”

Although the two have moved out, Itadori still keeps in touch with her through messages and shares their new life like what they watch on Friday or what they do for celebrations. The mansion is a bit less boisterous now, though.

“Thanks, dear. Glad to hear that you two are having fun. Wish you both luck,” Tama types in her mobile then gets up to fetch some ingredients, can’t help but feel strangely excited for the day.

Satonyan, originally known as Cat, is a clever opportunist, Satoru comes to a conclusion.

While it’s not false that Satoru doesn’t give her much attention or the cuddle any pet deserves, she’s still indisputably his owner. She can recall crystal clear the days when she held the tiny feline in her palms while the cat was sound asleep like an angel. Yet, now Satoru is repaid with this horrendous betrayal.

Despite their short acquaintanceship, Satonyan permits the pink-haired girl to bathe him then brush his snowy mane but he hisses and scratches when Satoru does the same. The moving blubber actively searches for Yuuji by lazily mewing then situates himself on her lap and nuzzles against her torso or hands whereas Satoru can only look begrudgingly. The furry devil even embeds his claws on Yuuji’s uniform when Satoru detaches him from her so that she can work but the girl resolves by letting him sit on her shoulder.

“He’s not that bad,” Yuuji will laugh when the albino woman complains but she knows that impish little thing is exploiting the girl’s gullibility and secretly feels triumphant about it. Satoru will not accept the notion that she can eliminate bunches of numbskulls and pests but is defeated by a sheer cat.

The albino glares at the cat peacefully coils on the younger’s thighs while Yuuji, ever the oblivious one, maintains her attention to the TV screen, absentmindedly pets the purring fur ball.

It’s one of those nights when they decide to unwind by watching whatever they have in mind, enjoying the popcorn and homemade treats and each other’s company a bit more than the actual show. Most time, Satonyan will travel somewhere around the villa but on occasions like this, he chooses to be a hindrance by hogging Yuuji to himself whereas Satoru sits by, resenting.

The only thing that can appease Satoru is Yuuji’s heavenly giggles.

For her, Satoru will forgive that eldritch cat.

The movie tonight is rather insipid that the both of them fall asleep. When Satoru wakes, the credit is already rolling in soft music. She yawns, stretches, finds the remote then peeks aside. There Yuuji lounges, feathery lashes kiss her cheeks, strawberry strands fall before her chest, snoring quietly.

Satoru has the urge to fill her gallery full.

Satonyan eyes the albino judgmentally.

Right, him. Satoru shows off an unhappy look. The cat twitches his whiskers in return.

However, like Satoru has said, he is smarter than he appears to be. Satonyan noses at the girl one last time before jumps off her lap, his tail dangling like saying “She’s yours.” Satoru huffs but nonetheless solicitously carries the smaller in her arms, pleased.

Fine, Yuuji is right, Satonyan isn’t that bad after all.