saycheeeese

[saycheeeese]

Can't Help It... (Part 3)

Part 1 ✨🌸

Part 2 ✨🌸

(i beg y'all please interact i need motivation 💔)

You were perched on a bench, chin in your hand, posture so much like a shrimp's and eyes fixed on Toji.

You'd arrived about thirty minutes ago, and you were painfully aware of every look thrown towards you. Some were curious; naturally, because Toji didn't look like the type of man to bring in a girl to gym. You also spotted a girl from your school, who immediately looked away, red in the face.

And of course, there were others you snuck leering glances at you.

Like the man two treadmills away from you.

But your eyes, for now, are for Toji - and Toji only. You didn't know how to feel about him now; sure, by the overly frequent visits to the infirmary, you'd become more than acquaintances - yet spending time together, seeing him in that compression shirt, sweat beading on his forehead and muscles cording in his arms...

You were unsure. The butterflies in your stomach scared you.

But fuck if they didn't scare Toji more. The way he reacted whenever he was near you. If he didn't know better, he might've thought he was ill.

Like right now, he faltered thrice - almost - just because he felt the intensity of your gaze on him.

He'd begun by first of all doing a warmup (that put your workout to shame): dead lifting roughly 315 lbs and then running on the treadmill for twenty minutes.

That damn fucker knew how good he looked - and, throwing a smirk over his shoulder at you, he sauntered over to the weights and picked up 300 lbs.

You couldn't count how many people halted to gawk at his ass as he squatted the weight - including you. He had better game than most.

However, all he was thinking was that at least you weren't in front of him. He'd heard your sharp intake of breath, felt your gaze burning into the back of his neck - and like some kind of horny teenager, he'd felt his blood rush somewhere else.

Sometime later, he'd advanced to bench pressing - you'd squinted at the ancient ass weights, making out the digits - around 225 lbs.

"This is your warmup?" You choke out, eyes wide and shamelessly tracing the bulge of his muscle through his skin-tight black shirt, the way even his gelled hair was tinged with sweat. You'd been avidly watching him to find even one flaw, one second where he faltered - but to no avail.

The thud of Toji's palms against the mat echoed through the quiet room, his body moving with the steady rhythm of pushups. Sweat slid down his temple, jaw clenched, muscles flexing with each controlled drop.

He did one last push up, then turned his head to you, grinning madly, eyes dark and face shining. He sat back, arms behind him, leaning on them and legs spread out in front. He pinned you with that strange look that had you weirdly self-aware of every strand of hair, every movement, every breath.

"Yeah," he said it like it was the most common warmup you'd ever seen. "You seem to be enjoying yourself a lot, doll."

You grit your teeth, feeling heat creep up your neck. "I - so, what are you gonna do next?"

"Usually, I complete my set of pushups. But today, I have the perfect opportunity to test out my core, arm, back and leg strength," he looked pointedly at you.

"I don't-"

"Well, you could be of use by helping me out instead of just sitting there and looking mighty edible and fucking adorable. Come here."

"What are you-"

"Last warning."

"Toji, I can't do a pu-"

He rolled his eyes, uncoiled to his feet, ambled over in five steps and slipped one arm under you and picked you up.

You squeal, earning some intrigued glances.

He chuckles, his breath ruffling your hair, your face nuzzled in his chest, his arms carrying you like you weighed nothing.

He set you down beside his mat, and you tuck your legs under yourself, crossing them.

He settled himself into position, like he's about to do a pushup. "Sit on my back."

"What?"

"I didn't bring you here just so you can make it difficult for me to focus, doll. Sit on my back. It's intended to make it harder," that damned half-smirk tugs at his mouth, eyes glinting like he's having too much fun.

If you'll just sit there, the only thing that's gonna be harder is me. So shut the fuck up and help me.

You mutter something under your breath and hesitantly approach him. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I am, doll," he grinned, a tinge of impatience lacing his voice. "C'mon, sit. Let's see if you’re even heavy enough to count as training."

"It won't hurt you?" Something in the curve of his grin made it impossible to refuse.

"If you wanted to insult my strength, you could've just said so. I can pull up 100 pounds added, and I can-"

"Alright, alright," you roll your eyes this time, and with one last, tentative step, you lower yourself onto his back.

With a muttered curse, you perch on his back. His skin is hot beneath you, the hard planes of muscle shifting under your weight. Your hands hover awkwardly in the air, unsure where to rest them.

"Are you okay? I'm not too heavy?" you inquire, legs dangling off one side of him.

You could've sworn you felt his smirk. "Sit real cozy. Tuck in your legs, if you want. It feels good."

"I'm okay-"

He sighs. "Better hold on." His voice is a low rumble, and before you can argue, his body dips again. Reflexively, you grab his shoulders, palms pressed against damp skin.

Honestly, he'd thought it was going to be a bit harder. But, much to his surprise, it didn't feel like much additional effort. It felt grounding, yet as if he wasn't carrying extra weight.

When he began, Toji made a show of "struggling" dramatically, at first to tease you. When he feels you squirm, apprehensive, he smirks, and immediately slips into the pushups with zero problem, veins flexing, back muscles shifting under your thighs.

You focus too much on the way his muscles strain beneath your touch, the way his breath hisses through his teeth with each rep. His back rises and falls, steady and strong, carrying you like it was nothing.

"So, how's the view from up there?" He smugly teases.

You roll your eyes, but your voice came out weaker than intended. "…Smug. That's the view."

He chuckles - a deep, genuine laugh that startled you more than anything. It wasn’t sharp or mocking, just… warm. And damn it, the sound made your chest ache in a way you couldn't explain.

"Smug, huh? Don't fall in love, sweetheart. Can't have you distracted."

Your nails dig into his shoulder without thinking. "As if."

"Want to make it a challenge?"

"How are you talking and working out simultaneously?"

"I'm gonna be honest, doll, I don't even know."

Silence.

"Promise you won't drop me?"

"Wow. Change of priorities?"

"You said you were-"

"Duality of man," he chuckled, his shoulders shaking, and you shift slightly - which that makes you lose your balance.

You instinctively grab his shoulders for support, lurching forward - and Toji falters, his hand immediately gripping your thigh without thinking about it.

That's when you realize how fucking close you are. Chest to back, breathing down his neck. One move, and you could press your lips to his neck.

Toji freezes for half a second, then smirks, trying to cover it - but you can feel his pulse jump. You don't know if the heat is your body warming or him, but his blood rushes.

He looks back, smirking, trying to hide his flustered state, "Careful. You'll make me drop," he chuckles - but his voice is deeper.

"You almost dropped me!" You breathe, and Toji's toes curl, eyes squeezing shut at the sound of your sweet, sweet voice so near his ear, just like fucking punishment. He could imagine this in a different setting.

"I didn't drop you, you shifted," he grunts, steadying himself.

He pointedly glances at your cheek almost near his neck, your hands on his shoulder, and staring at the ground, all too aware of the strain in his pants, he taunted, "What? Getting shy already? I thought this was supposed to help me, not distract me."

You scoot back, seating your ass firmly on his back, unsure if you should continue.

This time, you notice he's careful. He refrains from moving too much, but his muscles flex harder, his breath panting with the effort to move up and down real slow with a weight on his back.

Between a rep, he suddenly pauses for a breath - moving slow and hard had him exerting way more force. His gelled hair falls into his face, rogue, muscles straining, and you feel a strange pang in your chest.

Seeing him not as the cocky kid who barged into the clinic.

Not as the arrogant boy who'd offered you to visit the gym with him.

But as a human, vulnerable, tired. Perfectly imperfect.

Imperfectly perfect, you reason with yourself.

"Someone's tired," you tease. "I thought you had stamina. I'm disappointed."

And once again, for the second time today, Toji laughs - not his usual sharp or sarcastic tone, but a rare, genuine laugh. He pants, then glances over his shoulder at you, his face way too hot for his own good.

"If you want to check my stamina, I can show you too," he cocked his head.

You feel your cheeks warming, too aware of your body atop his. And maybe that's why you felt too bold. "Let's schedule that for another day."

Something akin hunger flashed across his features, and he gulped before resuming, quiet, a bit more slower.

The passing minutes felt punishing for you, constantly worrying about him - while he was internally giddy, maintaining his form and routine with speed and power. He exceeded his usual limit, enjoying the feel of your body positioned on top of his.

And when he finally pauses, and you finally get to hop off, your thighs trembling and his arms shaking, he grins at you. "Did little miss perfect here enjoy working out?"

"As far as I can recall, you were the one who did the pushups. And almost dropped me."

"You got too close to my neck," he scowled.

"So?"

"So?" he repeats incredulously. "So, it made it even more fucking difficult to pay attention to what I'm doing and not to the way I was about to leave the gym with lip gloss on my neck."

You stammer, your frown inverse to his smirk. "Wha - Are we done?" You were irritated - by him, yes, but mostly by the conflicting and unwelcome emotions in your gut. He's going to keep on boasting about how easy it was.

For him, it might've been fucking easy. For you?

That half-second where his body stilled under your touch? Yeah - that was going to replay in your head tonight, whether you liked it or not.

"What? That was just the beginning. I overdid my warmup. Next is bench press," he mused, hoisting to his feet in one fluid motion, rubbing his hands together and sauntering over to the array of machines you couldn't name. He stands under the light, sweat glistening, muscles flexing (you almost retort that he's posing for a Greek statue).

"Want to join?"

"No, thanks," you cough, shaking your head.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged before turning around. He rolled his shoulders, his muscles flexing and cording, that incredibly snatched waist the exact opposite of his chest. You were sure if you'd been sitting in front of him while he flexed, you'd become self-conscious about your chest. That man had two whole absolute units.

And so, you stare at him throughout his next set (it was impossible for you to get bored, that was for sure) - bench pressing more than some fucking four-hundred pounds, his expression determined, core flexing and a vein pulsing in his neck. He caught you staring and shot you a lascivious smirk, doing even better when he knew you were watching: deadlifting 600 lbs and squatting more than five lbs. You'd thought his warmup would have you whimpering. News flash: it still would, but wait till you tried his workout.

Then he moved onto his set of pullups: thirty seven pull-ups, with the most impeccable form known to existence (you had the eeriest feeling of your mouth watering) - then, weighted pull-ups: a hundred pounds extra, yet he never strained, didn't slow down or give up.

Toji, on the other hand, had never regretted something as much as this. It was a bad idea - he could practically feel his palms turning clammy too fast, his heart beating around like a wild animal. And worst of all, whenever you spoke, he got hard.

How many times today? He'd stopped counting after the push-ups.

Because right now, he just wished you wouldn't see him from the front.

Then he switched to one arm pullups, your eyes almost bulging out of your sockets. The people around him were used to it, but still, some gaped at him too as he did around twelve reps on each arm, his biceps looking weirdly tantalizing.

"Damn," you accidentally say out loud.

And he wavered. His hand twitched, and a sharp hiss elicited out of him.

"You okay?" You immediately call out, running over to him. He makes a pained noise, shaking his head violently - he wanted you to stop, to not come any further.

But turns out medical college didn't teach you sign language or some shit, because you ran straight to him.

And heavens above, one look at you and Toji found his strength waning. Those worried eyes, those hands stretching out. But that wasn't why he wanted you to stop.

Don't let her see don't let her see don't let her see-

Your mouth goes dry the same moment Toji's heart screeched to an embarrassing halt. You both look down, at the too-prominent bulge in his sweatpants.

Fuck. She had no right sounding that sweet. Now it's all her fault.

"Umm... I'll ... go back," you nod to yourself, sounding unsure.

"Wait," he pleaded, sounds of metal and cloth echoing behind you as he tried to get down in a frenzy. You freeze in your steps, and a moment later, a warm hand comes to rest on your shoulder.

He leans down to speak in your ear, his breath tickling your shell, "I'm sorry, princess - but I can't help it, can I? You should do something about that face or I'll need to buy a dog leash for myself."

"Toji!" You gasp, whirling around, bumping into his cushiony chest. "What the hell are yo-"

"Come on, doll, don't give me that bullshit," he rolled his eyes - and he actually sounded frustrated.

You swallow, your throat dry. "I don't - I actually have no idea what you're on about."

"Fuck, princess - is it really that hard to figure out I like you?" He groaned, shaking your shoulders gently yet a bit annoyedly.

You nervously chuckle, trying to ignore the quizzical looks you both were attracting. "No you don't - Is this some kind of prank-"

He actually growled - fingers curling in your shirt, brows lowering. "You think I'm pranking you? That I haul my ass to the infirmary, take every taunt quietly, for some other reason than just to see you? You're insufferable. But you're also ..." He gulped.

Toji Fushiguro felt nervous for the second time this day.

"Wonderful," he murmured, and just because he didn't know how to confess or actually prove he liked you - you, your soul, your presence, more than your looks, your body or your voice - because he didn't know what words would suit you ...

He cupped your cheek tightly and leaned down, pressing his lips to yours.

And it wasn't sweet and soft, gentle and reserved - it was angry and hungry, craving and heated. Maybe he was angry that it took you so long; but when you melted into his touch, one hand tentatively resting on his chest, you could feel his scowl melting away. He tangled his hand in your hair, angling your face so he could devour you like some kind of post-workout meal.

One large hand grips your hip, pulling you flush to him, his breaths coming in pants in tandem with yours, and you could feel people's awkward gazes boring into your back.

Did you care?

Absolutely not.

Because Little Miss Perfect (soon-to-be-doctor) rarely got chances like these.

You finally didn't regret choosing Medical Science, because if you weren't in the infirmary, he would've never met you like this.

--- > Just a last note, I may stop writing because my posts aren't getting even one like, so I need motivation or it's goodbye to Tumblr 💋😭

[saycheeeese]

Flowers In Your Hair

The corn stalks dance about your feet, brushing your knees softly, the fresh winds weaving through them like water through rocks, winding cold fingers through your hair. The western skirt hitched to your waist by a ribbon-belt whispers on the soil behind, flowing behind you as you run through the fields freely.

Rose gold and peach, amethyst purple and ice blue hues paint the cloud-covered sky, a masterpiece of nature, vast and endless above your head. One hand clutching your straw-hat, the other wrapped around a woven-basket, your nimble legs carry you past the farms and fields in a hurry. You almost trip over a protruding rock, alerting the cows in the pastures.

Today is the day, you remind yourself. You'd heard over the grapevine that an urban inhabitant was coming over to live in the countryside. There had been lots of gossip, and you knew the nature of it because they were staying in the small cottage beside yours.

It had been vacant for over two decades, and you remember sneaking into the abandoned house to steal the mangoes hanging in the trees in their backyard. Your father used to water them, taking it as his responsibility, saying the old owners would want someone to care for their plants. But ever since he passed away, the charm and life in the cottage drained off.

Yesterday, you'd spent hours and hours cleaning the house from top to bottom, scrubbing the grime off the cream-white walls of the cottage, bruising your arm in the process of dusting off cobwebs from the gabled roof, weeding out the wilted plants and watering some new roses and daises in the flowerbed on the windowsills and doorsteps, removing old pictures hanging off nails in the house and scouring the bathtub, the old china-dishes, the windows; replacing the bedsheets and leaving some trinkets for good-luck.

Your hair falls out of your braid in thin strands as the wind whips your face, a huge truck appearing in your line of sight. You slow down, your thighs burning, squinting at the revving vehicle yards ahead. You hold your breath, eyes wide in anticipation, as you open a new chapter in your life.

It wasn't every day that someone from the city moved in, to spend their lives in Rosencairn, the very own village you grew in - when you sat by roaring ovens, kneading fresh hot-cross-buns in small cottages with flour-dusted windowsills; frolicking about in the verdant farms of the village elders with your schoolfellows; sneaking into your shack with muddy aprons and dirty hands, trying not to get caught by your fussing mother.

And now, standing in the heart of Rosencairn, watching someone else step foot into the village for the first time in your sixteen years here, you clasp your hands eagerly, fixing the straw-hat to rest on the top of your head, your braids draped over each shoulder, tied with matching strips of silk-ribbon, the strawberry-basket in your hand, your pine-brown skirt dancing about your feet.

The cheeping birds and fleeting clouds seem to stop by, also wanting to peer in on the moment the figure stepped out of the truck.

Spiky, black hair is the first thing you see. Well, how couldn't you, when they were styled so perfectly, vaguely reminding you of the urchin you once saw in a local aquarium - then came the lithe body. Clad in a loose white T-shirt with a black leather jacket over it and matching black jeans, a set of headphones slung around his neck, the male stalks out of the truck in stiff, calculated motions.

Quickly rehearsing your words, you bound over to him in four steps, an excited glint in your eye, your windburned cheeks and mildly chaotic hair certainly doing for a good first-impression.

At the sound of your feet, the boy turns, his hair absorbing the light. He looks no more than seventeen, you suppose to yourself, skidding to a halt in front of him. He appraises you with cautious green eyes, holding a cardboard box under one arm.

"Hello!" You beam, extending your hand. He doesn't take it - just stares at you quietly, as if assessing you. You let your hand drop limply to your side. "Welcome to Rosencairn. You're from the city, right?"

He looks at you for a moment before nodding, his hand tightening around his box. "Let me carry this for you," you offer, which he politely declines, stepping away.

You purse your lips in exasperation, taking the straw hat off your head. "Well, as my family's custom ... I got you the ripest fruit from our first batch of spring." You hold the basket up in the air, dangling the juicy strawberries between you two before pushing it into his arm. That way, he can't reject the act of welcome.

"I'll leave you be now," you nod to him, fingering with the sharp edges of straws jutting out from your hat, "but just so you know; if you ever need anything - a tour, some eggs, any help, a friend - you can let me know. Goodbye!" You bow in a curtsy before whirling around and dashing off, wanting to outrun the embarrassment and the look of confusion and judgement on the boy's face. But all the way back to your cozy little lodge, you can feel someone's eyes following you.

You reach your home, the cozy abode you designed yourself after the previous owners sold it to you - the small yet sufficiently spaced cottage with lemon-yellow walls and a gabled, faded-red roof, ivy creeping up the walls in an artistic pattern, trimmed and cleaned to look deliberate; a white door with a brass knocker in the center of the wall, and a small porch attached to the front with a swing and a rocking chair.

You furtively glance to your right, concealed in the shadows of your porch, practically stalking your new neighbor. But what could you do - you couldn't help it. Not when he was such an intriguing person. You often remember memories of your childhood, your father telling you your mother was an 'introvert' - she reminded you of this boy, and vice versa; the quietness, the reluctance to assistance, the discomfort in being pounced upon by a stranger. You wince. That went well.

The boy suddenly strolls up the grassy path, dried wheat stalks crunching under his feet crisply. One box under each arm and three somehow hoisted in between them, a suitcase tied to his jacket's back, trailing behind him, he climbed the steps with ease.

You narrow your eyes. Damn, what do they feed them in the city? I thought he'd have carried all that load arduously.

His steady steps falter in front of the door. He stands there, scrutinizing the front of the cottage. His eyes narrow on the unusually clean walls, the fresh, lively flowers and the Welcome doormat beneath his feet. Chewing on your bottom lip, you study his countenance closely, at the way his brow furrows imperceptibly when he's focusing, at the rigidity in his back and the swift movement of kicking the door open, flinching at the sound of the door thudding shut.

Shaking your head, you twist your doorknob open, stepping into the shadows of your cottage, letting the darkness wash over you.

You snap out of it, lighting the oil-lamps and opening your windows, letting the winds pass by, the omnipresent scent of lavender and oranges mingling in the air. You had a busy schedule for today, after all.

Living in the country had its downsides, but it didn't mean your village was inferior to the metropolitan areas. You had your own standard of living, adequate healthcare, accessible education and peace. You'd passed out of college last year, and ever since then, you'd wanted to pursue a career. But, still, the country didn't provide a large range of jobs - so you had to learn more and earn more to go to the city and study.

For the past year, you'd been teaching the little children in your neighborhood. Yes, you knew you were still young, and you finished your classes early. Education only lasted for six to seven years here; no kindergarten or university. In fact, college was just one year of preparing you for the world. But you found yourself being attracted to teaching, a part of you tender for children. You trampled all dreams of becoming a lawyer or astronomer, chemist or historian ever since you realized your studies were insufficient, earning bliss and money while working as a teacher.

Your cottage wasn't huge, as aforementioned. The entrance opened into a wide, sunny room - segregated into two. On the left side was the kitchen. A huge window carved into the wall just above the stove reflected the light so tiny rainbows sparkled on the wooden floor. A stove, an oven and a sink sat against the wall, a retro-fridge (just taller than an icebox) leaning against it, sunlight searing its silhouette. In front of the kitchenette was your dining area - an ornate table carved of stripped wood, a cream-white table cloth laid upon it and two plush chairs on either side. Living in a remote village meant it was harder to be strangers than to be friends. You could be sleeping at 4 am and suddenly some old woman stopped by to hand you some homemade meat pies, and of course you'd invite her in as if she was your very own grandmother. Hence, the two chairs.

A woven rug in the center was the boundary. The right side had a writing table, a bed and a cupboard with vacant space, a similar window in the wall - this time, with a soft, plump pouf. The window actually served as a vantage point to see outside. You especially cleaned it yesterday because it was just adjacent the new neighbor's window. You could talk to them like this. Then there was the attic, where you went to retrieve useful stuff dumped away.

Setting a pot of tea to boil, you curl up on the pouf by the window, humming to yourself, ears perked for any kind of movement. Normally, an occupant creates a ruckus - moving desks and shifting beds, creaking floors and chinking dishes.

But this tenant ...

He was either asleep or moving on cat-feet, making no sound. You press your ear to the wall, listening for some noise ... but to no avail.

You curse softly before getting up, pouring out your tea into a mug and retiring to your desk. Sunday noon arrived fast and went by slow, according to your experiences. You set the mug aside and open your notebook, leafing through the brittle, fragile pages filled with scribbles and words, ears perking at the sound of bells and music.

Ah. Early Solvita preparations.

Solvita was your favorite day of the year, aside your birthday - a Rosencairn Festival celebrated when Spring reaches its height; when Zoelea (the rarest flower that bloomed only once) spreads across vast expanses of verdant lands in vibrant shades of mystic purple and translucent red, glowing faintly in the night like tiny candles in flowers of glass; when the Sun reached the apex, shining brightly, pulling out crops from the turned soil; when the fishes suddenly increased in the rivers, and a strange, pleasuring scent of cinnamon took the air.

Everyday you'd come around to hear the faint jingling of bells and smell the saccharide fragrance of jasmines and sweet peas - it was a bit early, though, knowing that Solvita was six weeks away.

You loved to write - stories, poems, ideas, passages for your students, plays for the Solvita. But most of all, you absolutely loved to draw. Paint, sketch, doodle ... you had stashes of scrapbooks hidden in your desk compartment, every page crowded with drawings. You pick up a pencil and roll it between your fingers - that's when you catch movement in the corner of your eye.

You sharply look up in front of you, through the window. The neighbor is standing there, one hand pulling the curtain aside - that hand currently halted in mid-air. Your eyes roam over him, and you inwardly facepalm yourself: he was shirtless.

Toned torso shining with water, his spiny hair damp yet still standing up, and grey sweats hanging low on his hip. He stares at you blankly, then blinks.

"Hey!" You wave through the window, grinning brightly, ignoring the scandalous display. It's totally okay. Every neighbor sees each other shirtless. Nothing wrong in that.

He drops the curtain in response.

You glower at the curtain-covered window. Why did I have to get the most anti-social neighbor? Tapping your pencil on the desk to an off-beat rhythm, you absent-mindedly stare at the steam rising from your mug of tea.

[saycheeeese]

Can't Help It... (Part 2)

Part 1 ✨

"At this point I should just wear nothing. She'll like it better."

"Dad, just shut up!"

Toji scowled at Megumi, curled up in a plush armchair, glaring at his phone, his spiky hair at attention.

"You're being of no help," Toji grumbled. "At least-"

"You could wear pink onesies with fluffy elephant ears and girls will still swoon their way into your bed," Megumi gagged, not bearing to glance at Toji.

"Yeah, well she's different! She doesn't ... swoon when I take off my shirt, you idiot. You have no idea about girls."

"Says the man who doesn't know what to wear to a date in about two hours."

"It's not a date," Toji huffed, flexing his hands. "It's just ... a gym meeting."

"Yeah, right," Megumi rolled his eyes. "If it's just a gym meeting then you should wear a compression shirt and some sweatpants. I've seen it on you so many times it's literally like your second skin."

Toji halted, swiveling on his ankles to look at Megumi. "Compression shirt and sweatpants...?"

Megumi raised his hands. "Don't whine to me when she ditches you."

"For the last time, Megumi, it's not a date." Toji groaned.

He didn't know why he was feeling so - nervous? It definitely wasn't a sensation Toji Fushiguro was used to. But, the heavens knew, he'd been trying his absolute best to think of a way to impress her - you.

Turtlenecks and jeans weren't his thing - they suited Suguru more. Anything he wore automatically became immodest with the fabric gluing to literally every fucking curve of his body.

Summer shirts and shorts - what was he, a Ken doll? Roaming about in his roofless car with a straw hat and colorful glasses, yellow jacket with pink and green flowers and a white pair of shorts with no shirt underneath, a chain in his neck and some Barbie on his arm? No thanks.

Megumi had immediately suggested "a black and white suit", even as he claimed to be repulsed by his dad's antics. Honestly, the kid had taste - but who would barge into the gym with a sexy little girl at his side in a fucking suit and tie? He couldn't even picture himself bench-pressing with a tie lolling about his neck and -

Oh, the belt. Probably that's why he discarded many clothing options because the pants.

Yeah, he imagined Megumi understood and steered clear of any garment choices that could lead to them discussing it.

He opened his mouth, glancing up at the armchair -

Which was vacant. Damn the kid. He always vamoosed after dropping either the most jaw-shattering information or revolutionary ideas.

Nevertheless, he had a "date" to go to, he reassured himself, sauntering over to the messy cupboard and pulling out his usual gym fit.

He had to practically grab his hand to stop himself from trying to fix his hair again. You look fine, you fucker.

He still couldn't believe...

That one dislocated shoulder. He'd never loved being hurt as much as now, to find any solid reason to skid off to the infirmary.

Speaking of which...

Where were you?

He checked his phone again. 5:19. He'd told you to arrive by 5:20. Now it's not like the heavens would part and you would descend gradually with booming, harp songs and some kind of angelic light around you as soon as the clock struck 20. But he really wished it would happen. He was fairly certain his insides would turn to fucking jelly if you were too late.

He frowned, his brows bunching together, hands in the pockets of his grey sweatpants. He was blissfully aware of every open-mouthed stare and bitten lip directed at him, at the way people stopped in their tracks. They should, honestly, he thought to himself, smirking. At which a girl squealed, thinking he smirked at her.

But right now - this felt painfully like cheating.

Come on, man. It's not like you're a couple. You're not devoted to her.

Yet something in him, for the first time, urged him to-

He scowled at the horde of girls advancing, flipping them off and ambling over to a bakery window, standing under the gable roof with a scowl on his face like "I have a girl, stay the fuck away from me."

"Hey!"

His heart - the cold, aloof organ - leaped at the sound of your voice, and it was an effort to not grin at you like a lost child finding their mother. Pathetic.

And yet, he still pulled his hands out of his pockets, hastily set his gel-coated hair back again, his muscles inadvertently flexing - and smirked at you, one side of his scarred-lips lifting lasciviously.

His eyes hungrily devoured you as he made his way over, drinking in the look of your outfit, the style of your hair, the faint color in your cheeks. The elegant dress, not too-showy, the heels; your hair meticulously set in a way that was entirely different from the formal way your hair was designed when you worked in the infirmary.

"Someone's late," Toji smirked, cocking his head, ignoring the way his stomach tightened and tingled with fucking butterflies.

"Someone doesn't know the time," you retort, smiling slightly as you approach him. You don't miss the height difference between you two - it surprises you more than his double-door fridge build because you've seen him shirtless more than a married couple would. "It's exactly 5:20."

Toji wanted to scowl at you, but damn him, he couldn't. Instead, his smirk grew wider as took your hand gingerly. He didn't like the idea of offering his hand and waiting for you to take it.

You, for your part, didn't pull away. You hesitated, of course, but then gave in, moving to his side and intertwining your hands, your small one cushioned by his.

"So," he cleared his throat, his heart wildly pounding against his ribcage. If it weren't for his huge chest, you might've seen spotted his heart leaving an imprint against the skin. "The gym?"

"The gym," you nod, your hands suddenly clammy. You weren't supposed to be spotted with a patient, especially someone that's regularly been visiting you. If your head found out...

Toji glanced down at you, his eyes roaming over your figure before locking onto your face. He almost said something regarding your nervousness, but then decided against it. Fuck, he was anxious too.

He halted near the pavement, tugging you to his side, his large, warm hand grabbing your waist tightly, the other in his pocket. "So you volunteer to assist me in my workout?"

"Wh-What?" You stammer, eyes narrowing. You pull away from him, hands on your hips as you pin him with a stare. "I never said that!"

"You said you would go to the gym with me," he reasoned.

"To check out your workout - to... to figure out what muscles you - uh, strain," you frown.

"But I'd like a little more effort," he smirked. "Come on, doll. It's really not that terrible."

You swallow. "But what would I do-"

"You'll find out," he grinned victoriously, grabbing your wrist and lacing your fingers together. "Don't worry - I don't bite."

You roll your eyes. He might not bite, but you have a feeling it's the nicest he could be.

He leads you through pathways and alleys, grinning at his reflection in glossy mirrors, blatantly pointing out dresses in which he thought you'd look good in (a more appropriate term of what he said) - you'd immediately denied when you spotted the mischievous glint in his eye as his gaze snagged on a wine lace dress.

An illustrious mall almost everyone in a seventy meter vicinity knew of, with cursive letters emblazoned in gold catching the light, the windows large and see-through, six mannequins on display - the middle one the most scandalous. And the most fabulous.

The dark red fabric reached to the neck, like a turtle neck, except the material was lacy - like some kind of diaphanous net - extending down to the arms and flowing at the hands, the silver arm of the mannequin visible through the material. The lace blended into the top of the bodice - namely, at such a low neckline that half of the mannequin's breasts were showing, the bodice cleaved in two elegantly so the cleavage was visible, but not flashing. The corset was like velvet, millions of tiny encrusted jewels on the top and bottom faintly shimmering, like dew drops on a rose flower.

The bodice then stopped at the waist, cinched, and then flowed out in refined waves of silk and tulle to the ankles, a slit in the thigh, pooling around the feet, silk and crystals giving the notion of sea foam and pearls.

It was also conveniently backless.

"No," you snapped as his smirk grew wider. He turned to you, brows furrowed innocently.

"But you'd look absolutely sexy in that-" He reasoned, grinning.

"Is sexy all that matters to you?" You blurt out exasperatedly.

"Oh, you want me to say it? Fine. You'd look cute as fuck, doll. Like a literal succubus, or maybe those biblical angels, nah?"

"Alright, shut up-"

"Why won't you just give it a try?" He sighs, running a hand through his gelled hair.

"Because I ... I don't wear those kind of dresses."

"Why? Scared the little doctor's gonna give this old man a heart attack?"

"Just s- Wait. How old are you again?" You squint up at him.

"Oh, look, there's Shiu," he interrupted, deftly veering the conversation away from potentially calculating his age.

"Should I know who Shiu is?" You raise a brow as he drags you with him, his hand tight around yours, feet taking long strides. A glossy black car pulled up just a few feet ahead, the window rolling down to reveal some dude waving at Toji.

"Should you?" Toji glanced down at you. He could barely resist the urge to kiss those pretty little lips until they got swollen.

But of course, because the universe was fucking cruel, he had to wait.

Part 3 on its way, need more interactions so I can be motivated to write it 😭 ---- > (Part 3 contains spice)

[saycheeeese]

Take Me Away

Ship:-

Shoko Ieiri x Kento Nanami / Ieiri Shoko x Nanami Kento

A/N:-

(If you don't like the ship, please pass on instead of criticizing it <3 Anyways, it's not just romance - it's subtle signs with banter and an entire night)

Word Count: 8.4k

> Mild swearing + Satosugu Mentions + Suggestiveness (Only Mildly)+ Satoru's POV at the end

THANK YOU FOR READING <3

Time flies fast when you’re having fun.

Probably that’s why it felt like time itself had stopped.

The clock had, unfortunately, emitted the unholiest noise known to man and just suicided on the floor (Satoru acted like it happened everyday) and stopped about three hours ago.

About, Shoko reminded herself, eyeing the last bottle of spirit on the squat table. She’d been restraining herself for a while now. She did deserve the last bottle, right?

Of course I do, she reassured herself internally before reaching out, her fingers wrapping around the cold glass bottle. I need something to drink to digest the four bottles I had earlier.

“Just so you know,” Satoru drawled from his perch – precisely, Geto’s lap, where they both lounged at the bed’s feet, long legs tangled in front of them on the plush carpet. “I am not volunteering to drag your ass across the streets if you’re too drunk.”

“In case you forgot, Satoru,” Shoko popped the cap open, swirling the bottle in her hand, “not everyone has the alcoholic tolerance of a grasshopper.”

“I’m supposing the grasshopper is Satoru?” Suguru butts in, fingers tangled in the fine strands of Satoru’s white hair, the other furtively advancing up his side.

“Fuck yeah, I am – this grasshopper’s gonna jump you, Suguru,” Satoru stretched, deliberately hitting Suguru’s nose in the process.

Shoko felt the need to pull a face at them, or call them out, but resisted, tipping her head back and downing the bottle. The alcohol scorched its way down her throat, leaving a trail of heat that settled low in her chest, heavy and warm. She barely flinched.

Sprawled on a bean bag in the corner of Satoru’s room, Shoko flatly watched them both – Suguru’s back against a bedpost, Satoru seated on his lap, play fighting and …

Whatever. She didn’t care that much, honestly. She was dragged here under duress, Satoru dragging her off her bed by her leg when she denied.

Satoru never used to ask – he just declared.

Like when he barged into Shoko’s dorm in pink elephant shorts, shirtless, white hair rogue and eyes piercing with intensity. “Sho-koooo, we’re hosting a sleepover at my estate.”

“Your estate?” She’d raised her brow at his retreating back.

“My humble abode.”

So now, lazing on the pale green bean bag, she was certain that anytime God would look down at them and say, “you still up?” Well, the stars glitched in the inky pools of darkness, namely – the sky, like a bad internet signal, her legs aching yet ears aching even more.

She was certain that anytime now God would look down at them and say, “you still up?”

Well, the stars glitched in the inky pools of darkness – namely, the sky – like a bad internet signal, with each passing second, her legs aching; yet ears aching even more, courtesy of listening to the two’s bickering.

“You could’ve at least tried to look presentable,” Satoru grimaced, procuring a bottle of apple juice out of his ass – or maybe thin air. He appraised Shoko disdainfully, his nose scrunched.

“Yeah, well, not everybody spends ¥50,000 on one shirt that they’ll never wear again,” Shoko rubbed her face, pointedly glancing at Satoru’s oversized designer shirt loosely hung on one shoulder, unceremoniously tucked into satin pajamas that slung low on his waist, the material rippling with each movement like water.

“Well, pretty boys deserve to be treated pretty,” Satoru shrugged, grinning as he adjusted the sleeping mask – on his head, like a headband, instead of his eyes.

“Sucks to be you,” Shoko whistled, toying with the hem of her outsize, plain white, drop-shoulder top, a sliver of her black shorts peeking out from underneath the fabric. “Having to treat yourself because no one else will.”

“That’s why I don’t keep expectations,” Satoru sighed, sipping noisily from the bottle, Suguru cringing visibly.

“What about me?” He whined, tugging on Satoru’s hair fiercely, some juice splashing on his black, long-sleeved Henley, a translucent splotch darkening near the hem of his shirt, a few rivulets streaking down to his grey sweatpants.

“What about you?” Shoko rubbed her eyes, pointedly looking at Geto, who rose his brows at her. And that’s when she remembered – her bag.

She reached out, her arm disappearing into her bag, extracting a slim, squat decanter of liquor. It was pint-sized, honestly – not too little yet not too much.

“Suguru, do you want some?” She offered, extending her arm, the cork popping off crisply.

“No, thanks,” he shook his head, one hand idly tracing patterns on Satoru’s shoulder.

“Gross lovebirds,” Shoko murmured, shaking the bottle vigorously, eyeing the settling sediments in the decanter like stardust in pellucid water.

“I mean, alcohol is not my taste exactly,” Suguru explained, a hint of mischief lacing the subtle grin he gave, “but I wouldn’t refuse if only Satoru had some.”

“Why meeeee?” Satoru whined, scowling at the bottle like it had personally offended him.

“Because you get drunk even after a sniff of the stuff,” Shoko rose a brow, finding herself particularly curious to see the effects of liquor on the “strongest one”.

“It’s not that I get drunk,” Satoru stuck out his tongue at her, “It’s only that I … dislike the taste.”

“M-hm,” Suguru stifled a grin. “You dislike the taste so much you get dizzy and start babbling.”

“You know what? Hey, Shoko, give me that,” Satoru shifted, stashing the bottle of apple juice into Suguru’s arms – precisely, his chest – and reaching out to Shoko, his long fingers wiggling in the air.

“Just so you know,” Shoko leaned forward, handing the bottle of liquor over half-heartedly, Satoru’s fingers brushing hers as they wrap tightly around the icy bottle, “I will not volunteer to haul your drunk ass over to your bed. Or the toilet.”

“That’s fine,” Satoru shrugged, studying the liquid carefully, “I can do it myself.”

Shoko and Suguru’s laughter erupted in tandem, smothering the profanities fluently flowing from Satoru’s mouth, his eyes narrowed.

“So you’re going to drink the entire bottle?” Suguru glanced at him, concern and disbelief lacing his voice.

Satoru paused, glaring at the bottle, chewing on his lip. Then, his eyes shot to Shoko’s, at the smug grin on her face, and he scowled. “It’s not sour?”

“It’s … not sour,” Shoko shook her head hastily, that smug smirk still pulling at the corner of her lips.

Satoru narrowed his eyes further at her. “And I should believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Shoko blinked innocently, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her palms, leaning forward on her bean bag.

“Oh, I don’t know … maybe because the last time you filled my shorts with fire ants?”

“It’s not like they bit you,” Shoko reasoned.

“I was lucky I had my infinity on!” Satoru threw his hands up, almost dropping the bottle.

“Unfortunately,” Suguru sighed, earning an elbow nudge from Satoru.

“I could’ve died!”

“Did you?”

“How did we end up talking about fire ants and death?” Suguru interrupted, holding up a finger between the two.

“Maybe because Satoru’s scared to drink the bottle and has been stalling.”

“I was just calling out the absurdity and cliché-ness of ants in shorts.”

“Yet you still fell for it,” Shoko baldly pointed.

“It’s not like the ants would have communicated to me and went like, “Hey, man, we’re in your pants”. Do you check your shorts whenever you wear them?”

“I am not going to answer that,” Shoko grimaced.

“Yeah, I see the thought process,” Suguru winced.

“So, this precedes the fact that the ‘strongest one’ is reluctant – no, terrified – to drink liquor.” Shoko declared, knowing full well she was adding fire to the oil.

“Who said?” Satoru rose his brows so high they almost disappeared under his hair.

“We all surmised that because you’ve been avoiding the shit for about ten minutes.”

“You’d be laughing on my grave if I died of alcohol,” Satoru glared at Shoko.

“Who dies of being drunk?”

“Who wouldn’t? The stuff is egregious. Sour, rotten and whatever.”

“I’m incorporating ‘whatever’ into my daily vocabulary to address anything I find horrible,” Suguru announced.

“Pity he wasn’t named ‘whatever’,” Shoko eyed Satoru disdainfully.

“If – when – I reach the pearly gates of heaven after a drop of this poison, God asks who killed me, I’ll say ‘whatever’.”

“But you didn’t do suicide?” Suguru smirked.

“Even you?” Satoru whirled around to stare at him with betrayal etched across his face.

“I didn’t say anything,” he held up his hands.

“Bold of you to assume you’ll be witnessing the pearly gates,” Shoko scratched her nose gingerly. “But – enough of dancing about the bush. If you’re a coward, just say so.”

“I wouldn’t have ever invited you if I knew what you’d do to me,” Satoru pouted, shaking his head slowly.

“It’s not a sleepover if you don’t step out of your comfort zone,” Suguru shrugged, his hands resting on the dip of Satoru’s waist.

“You stop preaching,” Shoko flipped him off.

“I have come to the conclusion,” Satoru suddenly announced. “That I’m going to have one shot only. Because even that is a lot.”

“Just one?” Shoko blurted, obviously disappointed.

“The fuck you want me to do? Drink the whole vat?”

“How about five?”

“Two.”

“Five,” Shoko declared with finality.

“Two,” Satoru leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

“Four.”

“Three,” Satoru argued.

“Fine,” Shoko shrugged, “three it is.”

“You have a shot glass?”

“No, but three would be about just little than half of the bottle,” Shoko squinted at the bottle, intoning from experience.

“You sure?” Satoru hesitantly prompted, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.

“It’s not like there’s gonna be twelve shots in half of that shit.”

“It’s still big.”

Suguru’s face split into a beam. “You think that’s big?”

Satoru grimaced, scooting away from him (yep, still on his lap.)

“That’s still three – or could be four, if you go through with the half, idiot,” Shoko drawled.

“I won’t feel that horrible in three shots,” Satoru grinned. Which faltered the moment he noticed Shoko’s devilish grin and Suguru’s apprehensive look. “…Right?”

Suguru tousled Satoru’s hair, fingers fisting in the strands as he pulled him closer to his face, lowering his head to murmur in his ear, “You forget yourself easily, Satoru.”

Satoru swiftly pulled away, stammering, his ears red. “I’ll survive.”

“Says who,” Suguru chuckled.

“The lightweightest drinker,” Shoko flipped Satoru off casually, crossing her legs.

“That’s not even a word!” Satoru called out, the drink splashing dangerously close around the neck of the bottle.

“Well, it is now.”

Satoru glared at her – though it was devoid of real bite – and then glanced at the bottle. “Here goes, bitches,” he shrugged, and then lifted the bottle to his lips.

Suguru’s hands subtly tightened around Satoru’s waist, staring at the bottle’s mouth and the slowly dwindling drink in it.

“Go faster,” Shoko egged, regarding the bottle distastefully.

Satoru broke away from the bottle with a gasp, his lips slightly swollen. “That’s what she said,” he graced the meeting with the phrase before tipping his head back again, drinking faster this time.

His face twisted and one hand shot up to rest on his chest, pressing circles over the expanse with his knuckles.

“It’s not sour,” Suguru objected, tangling his fingers in Satoru’s hair and pulling his head back with a jerk, narrow streams of dark brown drizzling down his chin as he fought to attach onto the bottle like a suction cap.

Shoko watched with blatant disapproval and maybe intrigue as the column of Satoru’s neck bobbed with each swallow, the movement enunciated with a grimace.

The bottle was stranded near the table’s leg, its meniscus innocently marked in the smack middle of the container. Shoko stared farther in the distance with disinterest, not bothering to spare the other two a glance. Watching them is like watching an eighty-year-old couple have sex.

Shoko started to slowly uncoil to her feet, wincing at the stretch of muscle. She sauntered over to the doorway, gave the making-out couple one last, parting – disgusted – look, and fished her phone out of her short’s pocket. She always liked her clothes with pockets.

Her fingers rapidly flew across the screen, lip worried between her teeth.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know who to call.

She had planned to call them since the beginning of the past hour, as soon as Satoru had hopped about the room, declaring stupid yet aimed confessions and cackled, hopped onto Suguru’s lap, grinned at him lasciviously, whispered something in his ear and went at it like a fucking starved man.

She had mentally made a note to ring them up as soon as possible when Suguru hadn’t refused, instead had ran his hands up the sides of Satoru’s waist, fingers digging in his ass and one hand tight in his hair. Maybe it was because Shoko had egged him to drink, too – but it wasn’t like she’d asked him to drink the entire bottle and eat the other person up. Not my fault.

One sharp exhale, and then the only noises in the quiet ‘estate’ was the insistent, soft beeping sounds of the phone and the wet, sloppy noises and groans and heavy breaths from behind her. Ew.

The hallway was limned in pale, milky moonlight, Satoru’s ostentatious taste evident in the diaphanous material of the flapping curtains, rippling like silk in the scant light, the plush carpets lining the floor and frames, flowers and decorations Shoko might have to sell her right lung and left kidney (and future child) for generously placed across the extensive corridor. The ceiling was a reflective gold, as Shoko craned her neck, finding her half-lidded, insomnia laden eyes staring back at her, a crystal-encrusted chandelier hanging from the-

“Good morning?”

“It’s night time, Kento,” she slapped her phone to her ear. She was the type to call on speaker – but there were some people for whom she needed to hear clearly.

Of course, only because he speaks good. I mean – because what he says is important and … and there are lessons to learn from him. Right…? What the fuck am I thinking.

“Would you rather I say “good night” and hang up?” His rough, deep voice retorted from the other side. Possibly sleeping. Who cares. Not me. Couldn’t be me.

“You wouldn’t,” she cocked her head although she fully knew even Kento’s guardian angels can’t see her right now.

“You put a lot of trust in me, Ieiri-san,” Shoko bit her cheek at the honorific. There wasn’t any need to address her like that.

Satoru and Suguru would kill her if they knew what she was thinking. Shoko, not wanting respect?

“You can hang up right now, Kento,” she challenged him, placing one hand on her hip, her feet braced apart on the floor, her fingers splaying across her phone.

Silence met her from the other side. Then, a long, heavy sigh, like it was wrenched out from the poor man’s soul itself. “Ieiri-san … Are you okay?”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, let me suppose. A colleague calls me at three forty-seven in the night when she was allegedly hanging out at her friends’, and sounds exhausted as if they drank out her soul. Is a man not allowed to worry?”

“Am I still just a colleague to you, Kento?” She whined.

“Are you suggesting we be something more, Ieiri-san?” He replied. The sarcasm was evident, lacing the words like frosting on cake – although both of them heard the undercurrent of secrecy concealed beneath the implication.

“We could be.”

She could’ve sworn she heard him fucking chuckle from the other side, a low, soft, rumbling sound.

“Kento – can you pick me up?” She dropped the bomb, the actual reason.

And though she expected him to deny; he had literally every reason to. He didn't ask why, where, when - he could cancel, because she knew him enough to value a good routine.

Although his next words had her sucking in a breath.

“Just stay inside, Ieiri-san. I’ll just be ten minutes.”

“Wait – how do you know where I am?”

A painful quiet met her, and her ears only picked up the rough sounds of his breathing, before he quietly said, “I … just know. No more questions. Just stay where y-”

“I am your senior, Kento. How dare you revoke my permission to query you?”

“I am your junior, Ieiri-san. I can always deny to save you from the house of the man I hate.”

“You don’t hate him.”

“And I am an angel.”

“Never knew you had it in you to joke, Kento.”

“Good thing you understood I was joking, Ieiri-san.”

“You said ten minutes?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Like … seriously?”

“I could send you a picture if you simply asked, Ieiri-san.”

She bared her teeth, squinting at the phone. How dare he make her feel…

“But isn’t your house a twenty minutes’ drive form Satoru’s?”

“It is more.”

“How … ten minutes? Are you-”

“Do not question it, Ieiri-san.”

Shoko had to bite down on her tongue to prevent herself from retorting back and destroying any chance of escape she had. Her finger hovered on the red button, the call silent.

Before there was a crackle.

“Ieiri-san…”

She waited, listening intently.

“Just don’t focus on them. I can bet my entire salary for three months that Satoru is drunk, and I can bet more than that on the fact that you egged him to drink.”

“One day, you’re going to give me lessons on how to figure everything out while you’re on the other side of the continent.”

“Not anymore.”

“Ah. At least tell me you wore something decent and didn’t pull up in your nighties.”

“Who said I wore nighties?”

“I – Satoru wears those hideous, cotton things.” She found her face burning. Oh, fuck. What was he inferring?

“Well, unlike Satoru, I stand firm in the belief that sleeping in clothes is uncomfortable.”

“Oh …”

He cleared his throat. “Take care, Ieiri-san. I’m coming.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Ieiri-san?”

“Yes.”

There was a beat of a pause – “It goes against my morals to not give my seniors respect. Goodbye.”

And he hung up.

Shoko facepalmed herself hard enough to leave a sting, cursing herself – although she failed to notice that Kento didn’t call her Ieiri-san at the end.

She expected a car to pull into the driveway, the humongous, flamboyant space reserved for Satoru’s and probably his children’s and their children’s cars. Emphasis on cars.

Shoko might have missed him arriving had she not been sitting on the veranda’s lower steps, her bare legs dangling off and brushing the dewy grass, hands braced behind her and the icy winds brushing against her cheek timidly.

Instead of a car, a figure gradually ambled past the stone-path, up to the veranda. The sculpted-by-God silhouette outlined by the moonlight slowly morphed into a more detailed figure, the rough sketch to the shapes and curves, and then the full picture.

Kento pulled off a helmet from his head, running a finger through his hair, the blonde strands set ablaze by the light and tousled – as if he was sleeping. He swiftly pushed the helmet under his arm, long legs carrying him over to her. Shoko could see the gentle frown on his face, his eyes, rendered gilded by the scarce lights pouring out of the inside of the estate, locked on her.

Her eyes inadvertently dropped to his frame, and a sigh of relief (and dismay) pulled out of her as she took in the cream white turtleneck he donned, the fabric hugging each and every curve and muscle of his figure, doing a horrible job at hiding his build yet a magnificent task at seeming modest. A pair of black jeans was set on his waist, held by a belt, and she felt her lips tug upward – “who said I wore nighties?”

 He finally reached her, looked her up and down, and then sighed. “I told you to wait inside, Ieiri-san.”

“Well, I couldn’t just listen to them devour each other up.”

“You worded that decently enough.”

“What, want me to say fu-”

“I didn’t say I wanted clarification,” he intervened, although he sounded nervous, unwilling to know the extent of the acts going in full blast inside.

“Makes sense.” She nodded, unraveling to her feet, brushing off her t-shirt and shorts. She looked back at the estate, hands on her hips. “Makes me mad to know they got someone before me.”

Kento chuckled. “I find it unbelievable that you haven’t gotten anyone, Ieiri-san.”

Shoko’s lips warred between smirking and grimacing – his words were complimenting, that was for sure – but he also called her ‘Ieiri-san’.

“I find it unbelievable, too,” she frowned. “But I don’t want to be bound to someone, either. So I guess it’s okay for me.”

Kento nodded quietly, the gears practically shifting in his head. Shoko studied him openly, at the way his brows furrowed and lips pursed when he was thinking, his eyes focused on the distance–

Those amber eyes darted to her, their gaze clashing. “Let’s go. Unless you want to stay?”

“Why would I have called you?”

“As an emotional support buddy,” he shrugged, the words sounding foreign coming from him.

Shoko’s lips parted, jaw hanging open. “I never thought my mortal ears might ever be blessed to hear Nanami Kento himself utter “buddy” in the entirety of my life – especially not under duress.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, though there was no mistaking the slight grin tugging at his lips. He looked at her pointedly before whirling around, one hand in his pocket and the other beckoning her to follow. Muted streetlights hung in the zenith of the sky, faintly illuminating the path ahead.

“Are we going to walk?” Shoko prompted, catching up to him, craning her neck.

“No.”

“You didn’t come in a car?”

“True.”

“Then ho-”

“I came by bike.”

Shoko almost tripped over her feet as the bike came into view. Sleek, shiny, glossy black and as new as the nascent headache blooming in her head. It had just enough space for two people. Shoko couldn’t bring the name to the front of her mind, like an itch she couldn’t scratch. It looked painfully resemblant to a sports bike – could it be a Yamaha? She remembered jokingly suggesting Kento to buy one, when he asked what was her favorite motorcycle.

 Kento swung the helmet from under his arm to his hand, dexterously gripping its rim. He glanced at Shoko. “Are you coming, Ieiri-san?”

She paced over to him, hands on her hips, and watched as Kento pulled the helmet over his golden head. He turned to her, only his eyes visible through the dark visor. Something – curiosity, fascination or just straight up idiocy – stirred in her, and she couldn’t fight the urge to –

She reached out and grabbed his helmet from both sides, her lithe fingers splaying over the burnished, rigid surface, and she pulled his face closer to hers.

She practically saw his eyes widen in shock, and maybe he intended to push her away or ground her – but nevertheless, his hands darted to grab her waist, his long, callused fingers tightening on her midriff.

If it were anyone else, they would’ve seen Shoko and Kento’s faces just apart, her hands on his helmet and his on her waist – Satoru would be laughing his ass off.

Their breaths would have mingled if it weren’t for the helmet, her breath fogging the visor. She hastily wiped it away, Kento’s entire body tensing.

But Shoko only focused on what she wanted to do – study the color of his hazel eyes from behind the visor. She grinned brightly, and Kento’s eyes enlarged to saucers. A deep, shadowed amber, barely visible through the dark visor – the pale streetlights suspended above them rendering his eyes gilded.

“Your eyes look darker through the helmet – did anyone tell you that?”

Kento cleared his throat, timidly squeezing her waist to indicate her to let go. “No. Nobody ever told me that.”

“Funny,” she mused, letting go of his head and stepping back subtly. “I wonder why.”

“I wonder too, given that most people do not clutch my helmet and stare into my eyes.” He rolled his sleeves up, fixing his collar before looking at her. “Now if you’re ready…”

“Of course I am. I didn’t call you over from your nude beauty sleep for nothing.”

“I said I didn’t sleep nu- oh, my God – just get on. I wouldn’t have wasted my precious hours of sleep if it were anyone else.”

He swung one long leg over the body of the bike, the vehicle straightening as he sat down, the muscles in his arm flexing. He looked back at Shoko, the light reflecting in his visor, his eyes invisible behind the black screen. Shoko ignored the way her heart actually leapt in her throat – why was this happening? Fuck if she knew.

She slung her leg over the bike, her thighs latching onto either side as she settled into the back. Half of her ass was precariously on the edge, and Kento shifted enough so that she had space to sit. She scooted forward, her hands gripping the back and torso pressed flush against his.

The engine revved to life, a few lights blaring on, and Kento turned his head. “Wrap your arms around my waist real tight.”

“What? Are you going to go fast?” she didn’t listen at first, her fingers wrapped around the cold metal. She leaned to the side to see his face clearly – which she couldn’t, obviously – her hair falling into her eyes obnoxiously. His spine imperceptibly straightened, and he studied at the fall of her hair instead of her face.

“I don’t go slow,” he shrugged, his hand falling from the handle, reaching backward. He leaned over her and tugged on her arm, his long, warm fingers wrapping around her elbow as he pulled. Her hands gave, and he twisted around, wrapping her hand around his waist, her other following suit. Shoko grumbled something (that cannot be mentioned here), and encircled her arms tightly, fingers fisted in the fabric of his turtleneck, cheek pressed against his back and heart thudding in her chest. Her legs brushed his, and he instantly moved his legs to the side, albeit a bit hastily.

Kento said something that would’ve been a warning but it was lost to the wind as his biceps flexed once, and an icy breeze stung at her cheeks before she even knew they were moving.

Her arms instinctively tightened around him, legs pressing in and heart beating hard enough that Kento felt it against his back, though he’d never admit. In a moment, she’d finally left the goddamned place where the two lovebirds were no doubt asleep – or still under the effects of alcohol. She would never have dared Satoru if she knew he tended to be like this when tipsy.

Still, she kept her eyes open, whirring through the rapidly changing scenes and the neon lights and puffing smokes, random peals of laughter and the racket of shutters falling open.

Though there were no rays on the horizon, the palest shade of light blue stained the nadir of the sky, golden yellow spilled across the skyline. Shoko inadvertently straightened, her hands loosening on Kento’s waist, and he went rigid in turn, his head frantically turning to glance at her if she was okay.

But Shoko’s arms loosely dangled at his waist, and as a consequence, dropped below, resting on the fly of his jeans, and Kento jerked. The bike swerved sharply before gaining balance, yet Shoko’s lips were parted as she stared at the view.

They were in the commercial area near the coast, pastel yellows and soft pinks dancing on the water’s crystal surface, foams effervescing near the shores where dozens of oysters and seashells lay, glinting in the artificial streetlights. The water was still as dark as the sky, save for the junction where it met with the sky, the gentle pink and yellow and blue staining the sea.

The sand glimmered, a dark, gloomy grey with sparkles of white in some places, and heavy clouds hung above on the sky.

Shoko’s sleep-laced eyes were wide, the entire panorama reflected in those depths, her mouth slightly open, and Kento couldn’t help but sneak a second glance. And a third.

And when he finally realized it was difficult to ride like this, he cleared his throat.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he commented, eyes on the road ahead. He glanced over his shoulder for just a bit, greedily relishing in her side profile outlined by the streetlights.

“It’s so beautiful,” Shoko breathed. And she turned to Kento with those dazed, wide eyes that made his heart pang – he couldn’t help it, he just felt jealous and concerned and glad at the same time. Did that mean she seldom saw nature? Why had she reacted like this to a scenery and not him? Did he also help her relax a bit, see the sun and shit?

“I know,” he choked out, turning ahead. His throat felt dry, and he couldn’t help but get the notion that they were calling two different things “beautiful”.

“Why are we stopping?”

“Because I stopped the bike.”

“Ha. Ha. No, seriously – do you live in the bar’s basement?”

“I wish I did. I wake up every morning to the horrendous sight of my office.”

“If only you woke up to the gorgeous sight of me.”

“You think quite highly of yourself.”

“You’re so difficult to fluster.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Take it as one.”

Their voices rang out in the almost vacant street, a few people sneaking by into stores and bars or homes. Kento got off his bike, extending his arm to Shoko – which she gladly took, her cold fingers lacing with his as she hopped down. She retracted her hand, casually setting her haywire hair before pivoting on the spot to see where they’d stopped.

Some shady roadside bar with no ostentatious settings or neon lights. Just some ivy creeping over the marble pillars, the black door designed with random shapes of a dark, honey-gold mirror, OPEN on the hook.

“Are you sure they don’t serve poison?” She quipped, seeing Kento stroll towards the building, hands in his pockets.

“If I’m alive, then they’re not sketchy. Pretty sure I drank their wine instead of milk when I was a baby.”

“Did you know it’s really hard to imagine you as a baby?”

“Then don’t.”

“No, really – did you have these sharp ass cheekbones and this lethal jawline since you were one?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Did you switch bodies or something?” Shoko frowned in exasperation. “Do you even know if you had hair when you were three?”

“Maybe,” he winced, and silently took the punch Shoko threw at his side.

“So why not any illustrious, trustable bar?” Shoko inquired as they stepped into the shop, the door narrow enough that they had to squeeze into each other, Kento’s arm instinctively wrapping around her as they ambled in.

“Because there are a lot of women there,” Kento explained, his pale skin flushing faintly.

“You’re such a gentleman, Kento,” she rose a brow.

He opened his mouth as if wanting to say something else, but decided against it, shaking his head and leading her to the counter.

“You wait here,” he instructed her, his head lowered to her level, eyes boring into hers, hands on her shoulders and voice low, as if explaining to a child. “I’ll come by in a moment.”

Shoko chewed her cheek, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall, eyes never leaving Kento’s back as he traipsed over to the counter. She saw him bend slightly to address the short bartender, and noticed his tousled hair a bit too late –

“Oh my god,” someone gasped. “Ieiri?”

Shoko whipped around, not before noticing Kento stiffen, his head slightly turning to hers a fraction.

Shoko appraised the girl in front of her, a fellow from medical college she couldn’t put a name to.

“Oh, hey,” she waved, her hands sweating with the fear the girl will ask her name.

“Do you remember me?” There. The damned question.

“Oh, of course,” she nervously beamed. “Medical College, right?”

“Yes!” She nodded, turning back to gesture to someone to leave before facing Shoko again. “Sorry, my brother’s waiting. I wanted to see how you’re doing nowadays.”

“Ah. Yeah, I’m well.”

“Oh, a – who’s that?” Her eyes hooked onto something over Shoko’s shoulder, and she had the faintest feeling she knew what the girl was referring to. Who.

“That? Oh, he’s a … friend,” Shoko hastily amended, looking over her shoulder just in time to see Kento at her side with two bottles. He bowed to the girl, who fucking giggled and waved.

“Oh, so just a friend?” She rose a brow suggestively, elbowing Shoko. “You sure nothing else? No … hidden feelings?”

“Oh, my god, no,” Shoko groaned, pushing the girl slightly away. She couldn’t help but notice the girl’s demeanor having changes since she saw Kento. As for him…

He looked as if he wanted to melt into water and disappear through the cracks in the floorboards. “So you’ve never considered-”

“Nope,” she ground her teeth.

“But he’s hot,” the girl frowned, flushing when she made eye contact with Kento. And that made Shoko’s hands itch with the desire to punch some asshole right in the fucking face-

Why was she feeling so … feeling this way just because a girl is trying to hit on, or is interested in Kento?

She mentally shook herself.

“I don’t know,” Shoko shrugged, feeling her throat constrict, “I prefer staying single. Too many perks than to share your dessert with some dude.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” She pouted. “You have good taste – just up your camaraderie.”

“I told you, we’re not dating,” Shoko implied a bit too loudly before pulling at Kento’s arm. Her fingers hooked into his sleeve and she pulled hard, not looking back. “Come on.”

She could feel Kento’s eyes bore into her back, could sense the smirk growing on his lips, which had her clutching his arm tighter.

With a loud bang and a clatter of some glasses, she kicked the door open, hauling him outside and into the frigid night air.

She whirled on her feet, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at Kento.

“Don’t tell me you’re mad at me,” he said amusedly, eyes on her face.

“I’m not mad at you,” she narrowed her eyes.

“Then why the face?”

“Because I’m thirsty.”

Kento huffed and passed her a bottle of some expensive Cherry Liqueur, shaking his own bottle of some brand of whiskey, foam pressing at the top. “You could’ve said you wanted the bottle,” he observed, strolling off to a bench on the left. A fizzing streetlight hung just above it, the metal bench squat and its paint chipped in random places, a few blades of grass sprouting around its legs between spaces in the concrete tiles of the pavement.

“I could’ve, but I didn’t want to,” she shrugged, catching up to him. “Besides, you would’ve refused.”

“Now why would I do that?” he offendedly shot back.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’ve drunk a lot today?” She shrugged once again, her shoulders almost about to unhinge and roll on the floor obscenely.

“I wouldn’t … I wouldn’t do that,” he chuckled, hesitating. He sat down on the bench, crossing his lean legs in front of him at the ankles, leaning back in the bench and popping off his cork.

Shoko joined him, plopping down on the bench, tucking her legs under her and twisting open her Cherry Liqueur.

They sat in silence, sipping at random intervals, eyeing any passerby suspiciously and then deducing (and bickering about it) what they were doing and where they are going now.

A group of giggling teenagers passed by in nighties and unmatched shoes and puffy hair – they both almost jumped out of the bench in the haste to announce it first.

“Slumber party!”

“Sleepover!”

“That’s different!”

“That’s the same,”

“I said it first.”

“You said it wrong. It’s a sleepover, Shoko. Slumber parties are different.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“Beca – look! That one’s going to office. I sympathize with my brother.”

“Wait – is he your brother?”

The incredulous look Shoko received had her chuckling into her drained bottle. Was it the effect of alcohol, or did she really not just imagine Kento calling her by her name?

Nevertheless, she just bit her lip and stared at the man in a suit, his hair slicked back so hard his scalp must hurt, gel practically shining on his hair. Her eyes darted to his shoes just as he rounded the corner, then twisted over the bench to dispose of the bottle in the bin behind her.

Silence encased them comfortably, Shoko leaning her head on Kento’s shoulder – and for once, he didn’t pull back. Instead, his fingers hesitated – and then tangled in her hair, dexterously yet tenderly massaging her scalp. Her eyelids fluttered sensually, and she groaned, eyes burning as she shut them, breathing in the scent of liquor and fresh air and …

Kento.

“So …” Shoko murmured, playing with a rogue thread of his turtleneck that poked out from the hem. “Do you really loathe Satoru?”

His hand paused; barely, before he resumed. There was a quiet that stretched out, like he was thinking. She could practically hear the thoughts warring in his head-

“No. I don’t.”

Shoko waited, patient, for him to go on.

Sigh. “It’s true, that I don’t respect him. I don’t even view him as a senior. He’s irritating and annoying and too full of himself…”

“But he’s also young,” he continued. “He sometimes gives me … hope, that in this exhausting life, I can … I can feel happier. I may dislike him, but I also want him to feel happy. To live. To experience everything that I never could.”

Shoko’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, eyes burning. Boy, wasn’t this a revelation to tell Satoru. But something about his confidential tone had her discerning that no one else was supposed to know this. That he trusted only her and a few selective others with this information.

She could see his meaning. Satoru was … a lot. A lot of things, sometimes. But he was also hurt and young, caring and bold. Different. Strong. Expected.

So, she just hummed, tugging loosely at the stray thread, eyes closed gently, Kento’s fingers constantly massaging her scalp. Hush cocooned them casually, just two people sitting under a streetlight on some cold ass bench.

“Wait,” she scrunched her nose. “Were you lying when you said you didn’t wear nighties?”

He almost choked on his next breath. “And why did you suddenly bring this up?”

“Don’t change the subject. Do you, or do you not, pose as a nude model in your dreams?”

“That’s one weird way to put it, but yes.”

“You gave in quite easily.”

“What, want me to test you into finding out if I wear something at night?”

“Imagine the questions – I either, (a) wear outrageous fluffy pajamas, or (b) wear outrageously nothing.”

“That … who even made you think everyone sleeps in fluffy pajamas?”

“Satoru has bent my perception of reality.”

He inhaled sharply, his next words quiet and strained. “Satoru? … Do you – feel something for him?”

“No, god, no,” she blurted, shaking her head.

“Oh.”

“I plan to stay single.”

“And nobody can change your mind?” He asked, curious. And maybe, also …

“Nope. Unless it’s some god-sent man who can make me believe in love and men again.”

“I want to read an entire book about your choices and the features of that ‘god-sent man’ to know what your taste is and tease you throughout the rest of your life,” he smirked.

“Sheesh. I thought you were getting romantic but then you whipped out the classic teasing. Like hell I will tell you what kind of men I like.  What if I like women?”

“Then I won’t stop coughing whenever some pretty girl passes by.”

“Speaking of pretty girl – have you ever found a girl pretty?”

He chewed on his lip, his eyes darting to Shoko for barely the fraction of a second. “…No. Or maybe, when I was young. But I don’t remember.”

“Oh.”

“Did you … do you really see me as a cruel person?”

Shoko sat up, choking. “What? Kento Nanami, a cruel person? Babe, you’re the type of person to apologize to a bird because your car was in the way of its shitting area. The type to say thank you when the automatic door opens on itself for you. The kind to give aftercare after bashing the brains out of you. The type to help you cheat and then worry if cheating is bad. How could you? And I never said you were ‘cruel’.”

“You … you imagined I would refuse giving you something you wanted?”

“That was just – look, you’re cute and handsome and kind and gentle, and … and I love you as a friend. I’ve never been able to discuss this much. Don’t get me wrong – I love my two idiots. But we’re for everything except deep talks; not because we’re bad at it and at empathizing, but because I know both of them have pains too great to be discussed. They’re comfortable with their problems hidden or discussed at intervals, but … you’re the first one I can openly vent to.”

And Kento, damn him, almost broke into the biggest smile – almost. Just like when he almost squealed when Shoko had hugged him. When he’d almost dropped dead when Shoko had complimented him. When he had almost grabbed her and pushed her close to him when she held his helmet.

Just like when he almost throttled Satoru. Multiple times.

So he just softly grinned, patting her thighs. “I know. Thank you.”

“Yeah…” She cleared her throat, feeling heat rise up her neck. Thank the dawn’s darkness, even if it was rapidly brightening.

“So … you said I am handsome? And cute?”

“Did I stutter?”

“So you do think I am?”

“Yeah. Sure,” she breathed out, finding it impossible to take back what she said.

“Wow.”

Just wow? That’s it? Well, he’d done enough socializing for today, she could tell.

So she settled back into his side, cuddling her knees to her chest, head on his shoulder, and Kento’s hand in her hair once again, the steady rhythm matching the wild rhythm of her heart.

The crisp noise of heels echoed fifteen minutes later, and a healthy woman with glowing skin and windburned cheeks, light brown hair pulled into a topknot, a few tendrils framing her tired face, an apron tied around her waist and shoppers in her hand emerged from the opposite side, her heel-clad legs carrying her over to a shuttered store.

Shoko perked up, Kento’s hands suddenly freezing. His eyes were heavy and red – as if he was also sleeping with her. He cleared his throat and sat up, retracting his hand, following Shoko’s line of sight.

“A … a shopkeeper,” Kento surmised.

“A bakery owner,” Shoko corrected.

He glanced at her. “How do you know?”

“She basically lives two houses across from me.”

“So you do know her. That’s unfair advantage!”

“It’s your fault you live in this neighborhood and are unaware of who lives here and what they do.”

“How would I know a bakery woman?”

“Oh Nanami, ever the gentleman, I’m not asking you to jump her or slip into her house at 3 a.m. I’m just critiquing your anti-social personality. She baked me a box of redcurrant pastries when it was my previous birthday.”

“That’s why the bakery was open early on 7 November last year,” he mused.

“Yeah, th – wait, you know my birthday?”

“I…” he faltered. “I know.”

“And how?”

“I like – I like to keep record. Of dates. Of birthdays. Of people.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Shoko nodded skeptically before her eyes caught onto some movement at the corner of the road. She whirled around, determined to figure out before Kento could-

A young couple sneaking across in shadows, headed towards a house’s window – the girl limping only slightly, her clothes haphazard, hair unruly and shirt looking like she didn’t even put her arms through the holes. The boy’s arms scratched, shirt rumpled and jeans unbuttoned.

Shoko cleared her throat, turning to Kento – who looked like he’d just witnessed a capital offense and was about to report himself to the police for not preventing public indecency and PDA.

His eyes were wide and mortified, and his face flushed violently when he caught Shoko’s eye.

“I guess … we understand the answer?”

“You want me to say it?”

“God, at this point I’m convinced you have no sense of decency,” Kento sighed.

Shoko cackled, tickling Kento’s neck with her spindly fingers, the other hand assaulting his cheek.

He jerked – “Ow!” And tried to push her away, which she resisted. Then, without warning, he tickled her back – his fingers on her waist, having her double over.

“Okay, okay, sto – stop!” She giggled, clutching her belly as Kento assaulted her neck. He, mercifully, did cease the ministrations.

She stuck out her legs in front of her, stretching them, her black shorts peeking through the fabric of her shirt that rode up to her waist. She then tucked them back in like some mother hen, nuzzling into Kento’s side, her back against the bench and hands in her lap.

The strike of a match had her attention. Kento put a cigarette in his perfectly carved mouth, then lit its end on fire. He glanced at Shoko, gesticulating.

She frantically searched her pockets, to no avail – she’d forgotten to pick up her cigarettes from Satoru’s house. She scowled, looking sadly at Kento. His cigarette twitched as he grinned and pulled out another one.

He shuffled, his cigarette in his mouth, and gingerly tapped at Shoko’s lips. She opened her mouth, and Kento slid the other one into her mouth, her lips snapping shut on it. He then leaned close – too close – and set the other end alive, cherry red and bright yellow issuing from the end.

Shoko didn't address the growing butterflies in her stomach. She wouldn't. Not even when Kento was literally lighting her cigarette with his, not even taking it out of his mouth, its end lighting hers.

She inhaled deeply to douse out the flames in her face and body at large, puffing out the smoke, Kento and her taking breaths in tandem, smoking calmly in the dead of the morning.

By now, a sharp, wan slice of light had pierced the sky, blood red and navy blue, lavender and golden, all swirling around in the vast canvas like some masterpiece, only a few stars winking down at them. The water reflected it all, nature’s mirror, somehow creating the vantage point even more ethereal and breathtaking.

Shoko wasn’t sure if Kento had picked this place specifically. The beauty, the freshness...

The winds here were way colder, breathing down her shirt and plastering to her bare legs, the bench itself like snow.

The sun had only shown as sliver above the vista when their cigarettes broke out of life, at the same time. They both stomped it under their feet (and then on Kento’s request disposed of it in the bin) and then got up, stretching their absolutely sore limbs, cramping slightly.

Even if they hadn’t talked much, hadn’t even touched a lot (they did), Shoko felt like their bond had become … stronger? Over the night.

Kento glanced at her, extending his arm to her. “Let’s go?”

She beamed, accepting his hand and letting him lead her to the bike, watching him pull it on. And when he sat on the bike, the engine revving pretentiously, she couldn’t help but…

But notice that his heart beat faster when she sat, her arms circling his waist and cheek on his back, legs brushing his.

Nah, it was just her.

Her and her delusions with the golden boy with a halo around his head whenever the sun rose.

For now, she needed to understand what excuse to provide Satoru and Suguru.

And so she wondered as they both sped off to a place only one of them knew really well.

Satoru clapped hard down on Suguru’s shoulder, yawning wide enough to scare his friend.

“I swear I just saw a fly,” Suguru said.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know – one moment it was there, then you yawned like you’ve been holding it in since the Big fucking Bang, and then it disappeared. Just like Ieiri.”

“Yeah, speaking of Shoko – where is she?” Satoru’s brows creased as he surveyed the ground once again. She used to be late – daily – yeah, but not this late.

Like four hours late.

And especially, class had been real quiet because the smarty pants Nanami wasn’t there. God, didn’t he love to annoy him.

“Do you … think we scared her off?” Satoru grinned, elbowing Suguru.

“Who’s going to tell her we weren’t actually drunk yesterday?” Suguru suppressed a smirk.

“Not me,” Satoru lifted his hands. “I do not want to be the bringer of bad news to Shoko.”

“What news could be this bad that Satoru is hesitant to inform me?”

They both pivoted on their heels so fast that he was certain it got sprained. There she was – those eyebags, the same smile, her hair just a tad bit ruffled, and –

Wait … Whose shirt was she wearing?

She sure as fuck didn’t have a shirt like that: large, blue and warm, the straps of her white shirt showing only barely, when the larger, blue shirt hung off her shoulder.

Maybe Shoko had something to tell them, because he just spotted Nanami pass by – not without sparing her a glance that stayed on her face and on the shirt, looking away a bit too fast.

[saycheeeese]

writing a fic is so difficult when you want to use "he towered over you" and "you barely reached his collarbone" but realize your tall girlies and the fact they would tower over him 💔

i srsly love y'all but i need to know (you could be any height) if you would feel offended if i used this (i myself hate the y/n is petite trope)

[saycheeeese]

Can't Help It ...

Toji found himself sneaking over to the infirmary once again.

He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't go there.

But, let's be honest, when does he ever keep a promise?

The first time he ever visited the infirmary, he'd been actually wounded. A dislocated shoulder - nothing too serious, but his friends had threatened him to go.

He hated it there - the flirtatious winks, chits with numbers, teasing touches and whispers. By some bizarre chance, he always managed to bump into a horde of giggling girls on his way there.

But there was something different that had him backtracking.

You.

You were ordinary, like every other girl he'd fucked - but just one thing had you differing. And bearable.

You didn't giggle and swoon, pass numbers and bite your lip until it bled. No, even if you did fancy him - he repeated it, consoling himself - you hid it well.

You'd caught his eye the very moment you'd just taken one look at him, casually ordered him to sit, slipped on those plastic gloves and set to work. Touches that didn't linger, looks that didn't wander, professional comments and gestures like you knew what you were doing.

It was the first time he'd actually felt nervous in front of a girl. Damn, if you actually did address him like a crush, he might've felt bolder and made a move. But because you didn't let any notion that you even had anything for him ...

He found himself fidgeting to even choke out a "thank you".

He had to wait ten minutes before leaving, or everyone would know. He'd have to wear looser pants - these ones showed much.

As soon as he'd strolled out of the room, now having controlled himself, he'd made it his mission to know more about you.

A medical student, who'd been assigned as an assistant to the infirmary because of your spectacular results and sharp mind.

Thank God, he thought. At least you were a student here - he could meet you.

So ever since then, he'd been visiting the infirmary almost everyday - migraines, coughs, sore throats, sprains. His friends always laughed out loud; Toji Fushiguro, the man who had fifty kilograms of tits alone, muscles enough to last for days - running off to the doctor's just for a headache.

"You're down bad, man," Gojo had wiped invisible tears from his eyes once, when they'd found Toji sauntering out of the infirmary with a cast on his elbow. If he could be considered a friend.

"It's pathetic at this point," Geto had mused. "I'm tired of sitting my ass down in one of those waiting chairs while you're fake coughing your lungs out like a plague-infected Victorian child inside."

"I'm surprised she hasn't put a ban on you by now," Shiu elbowed him in the ribs. "If only you just got hit by a car. You'd at least have a solid reason to be there."

"Is she the fucking angel of health or what?" Gojo eyed him. "She can't put his bones together."

"He acts like she does," Shiu had shrugged.

"She may not give him fixed bones," Geto smirked. "But she does give him the hardest bo-"

"Alright, alright!" Toji had grunted, cradling his elbow. "You all are insufferable."

"Says the one who follows the assistant around like a fucking puppy," Gojo exclaimed.

Toji had stalked off after giving Gojo a reason to visit the infirmary.

But now ...

As he knocked on the grey door tentatively (he never thought he'd see the day where he couldn't knock like he owned the place - heck, even have to knock), he mentally rehearsed his entire speech to recite when asked whatever the fuck had he broken.

The door swung open under his touch, and the air whooshed out of his chest again.

He couldn't help it. There was nothing special about you - yet he always found himself eye fucking you, like a goddess herself.

You were tying your belt around your coat, the white material cinching at your waist. Toji fisted his fingers - it's not like she has the body of a succubus, you miserable motherfucker.

But he still couldn't tear his eyes away from you as you prepared yourself, the belt, the plain white skirt and crisp buttoned top, pulling on those plastic gloves over your nimble fingers.

He instantly straightened as you whirled around, your eyes immediately finding his. You gently smile at him. "What is it this time?"

He swallowed - and when he couldn't find an excuse, or even remember one, he did the only thing he could. Scowl.

"Entire fuckin' body hurts like it just got whipped," he frowned.

You press your lips together to bite back the smirk. "Okay. Do you ... do much sports? Work out much?" You start the routinely checkup, spouting off all possible reasons as you sit down on the chair in front of the table. He saunters over and perches on the edge of the sleek, metal bed, his knees deliberately brushing yours, his eyes hungrily searching your face for a reaction.

Which you don't give.

He finds it difficult to not give a sarcastic reply. "Yeah ... I work out a lot."

"Hm. Those muscles couldn't appear out of nowhere," you pointedly glance at his biceps and pecs, and his mouth goes dry. So you do notice his physique.

"I could show you my workout," he suddenly blurted. And then added, "If it could help you understand what's messing with me, of course."

You clear your throat, eyes darting around the room. You could've sworn there was boss music booming from somewhere. But ... what's the worst that could happen? It was tempting to go with him, after all - you mean, to diagnose what was making his muscles hurt. Yeah. Of course.

"Maybe," you shrug, and Toji's toes curl in his shoes. Fuckin' hell. She agreed.

"Saturday?" He confirmed.

"Saturday sounds good," you nod. "You - you should remember to ... um, show all the equipment you use. Um, I need to know where the strain comes from."

"Yeah." Toji hastily nodded. "Nice."

And immediately, he started planning the entire attire and tour. Something tight, like a compression shirt. Something to eat. The most outrageously difficult workout set he could think of.

"Well, if you're done-"

"Oh, nah. I still have it sore," Toji intervened, grasping on to the time he could get with you.

"And what, precisely, is 'it'?" You dryly prompt, one hand firmly pressing down on his chest, the heel of your palm pressing him down until he lays flat on the table.

Toji prayed to every and anything he could think of that you didn't feel his racing heartbeat.

"'It', medical assistant, is my entire damn body," he growled, staring up at you, blinking at the blaring light. It makes a halo around your head, and you look like a fucking angel. His angel.

"Well, patient, I'm going to do a little check. And I do have a name. Y/n," you inform him as you lessen the lights, almost finding his scrunched nose and squinting eyes adorable.

"Alright, y/n," he tested your name on his tongue, the words rolling off his tongue like honey. He could get used to that. The sweet sound. Something he could be m-

Nope. Not now, not when his pants were way too loose.

"I'll have to know if you have any knots in your limbs from exercising, then I'll have to check for sore spots and massage them out. If you're comfortable, of course," you explain. "Because you'll have to take off your shirt and lie upside down so I can pop those knots or whatever. Almost everybody is ashamed and refuse to do it, so I can understand. Only if you're okay shall we proceed."

Toji swallowed hard, feeling his throat constrict at the mention of taking his shirt off. It wasn't that he was shy about his body.

Far from it. He had spent years honing it, feeling proud about the way it looked.

No, the issue was her. You.

"Yeah. I'm okay," he sat up.

"Are you sure? We can cancel this appointme-"

"I'm good." He couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation as he reached for the hem of his shirt, slowly peeling it up and over his head. He tossed it onto the chair beside him, utterly aware of every pane of his body, every line and stretch of his muscles, the veins and contours.

He lay down face-flat on the table, his face burying in his arms, thankful for the position, already feeling a discomfort below.

"Alright. I shall proceed," you baldly announce before your fingers brush the nape of his neck.

The tips of your fingers touch the base of his neck, slowly trailing across his shoulder blades and down. Now, of course, you didn't mean it to feel sensual and agonizingly slow - but it did.

"You ... You sure do swim a lot. Got a lot of knots," you wince, having mapped out the panes of his back. You pull back, the warmth of your hand leaving his body. "I'll have to massage a few out, though you'll need to visit a professional chiropractor for this."

A warning tap on his head is the only precedent you give before your hands hover over a point in the middle of his shoulder blades.

And then, you press down with the base of your palms - tenderly, yet hard enough to make it pop and relax. Toji couldn't help but groan at the feeling, his face warming.

You then begin to massage, rocking your hand back and forth, one on top of the other - pressing in circles and up and down, hard, easing out the soreness and some groans out of him.

You hiss, muttering about the knots, and also coaxing him during the hasher ministrations.

Fuck you - he's not a tiny child who's going to cry out of pain, you chastise yourself. But damn if you didn't feel overly nervous right now - not like you were a licensed chiropractor.

Toji's breath catches in his throat, eyes squeezed shut, mind whirring at an insane speed, hands itching to just grab you and pin you to the-

This was going to be a long appointment.

But did he care?

Absolutely not.

Part 2 out soon --- >

[saycheeeese]

Hypothetically Speaking...

[saycheeeese]

GUYS DW IM ALIVE I JUST HAD A LOT ON MY PLATE i'm gonna get back to work soon 👉🏻👈🏻 just wait

[saycheeeese]

Fight So Dirty, But You Love So Sweet ~

Ryomen Sukuna is notorious for being cold-hearted and cruel. But ever since he became a dad, you noticed a shift in his demeanor. Was he … softening?

Word Count: 5.5K

Fluff <3, Secret Softie Sukuna 🤭

You just sent your daughter off to school two hours ago, and finished all the chores right now. Exhausted, you decided to rest yourself, knots aching in your back, so you just stumbled over and dropped on the couch.

Minutes later, you could hear loud footsteps echoing around the house. You strain your ears, trying to hear something else - and catch the faintest sound of Sukuna's voice.

"Y/N! Come to me at once!"

At first, he calls out your name in a commanding tone, the sound muffled from above. You can hear the moment he pauses, the silence - and almost want to reply. But where's the fun in that? Challenging Sukuna was your goal.

Instead, you just throw an arm over your eyes and pretend to sleep, every muscle in your body burning after continuous scouring and dusting, laundering and cooking. Right now, you realize you should've accepted Sukuna's offer to help with the chores.

His voice rings out again, but this time tinged with a hint of fear and urgency. "Are you in the house? Y/N?" You stifle a giggle, imagining the look on his face.

His voice is clearer now, and you can hear him darting down the stairs into the kitchen. "I told you not to work too m- ...Y/N?"

Oh, this is entertaining.

"Baby?" His voice is strained - whereas you're preoccupied in trying to find your fucking jaw. It must've fallen on the floor, because he's never called you that - when you're not in bed.

Hearing him utter a word he deigns "pathetically romantic" must mean you died from the exertion of work and are now in heaven.

"I swear if this is a prank," he mutters, now closer to the lounge. "Are you possibly mad I didn't push when you rejected my offer to help?"

You close your eyes swiftly when you see his shadow on the floor, his footfalls frantic - unlike the sure stead he assumed. A heavy sigh echoes in the room, just the way he acted whenever you forced him to do something he felt uncomfortable to do. "My wife, are you in there?"

You hold your breath, finding it hard to breathe in case he realizes you're awake. A moment passes, two, and you just know he's glaring at you. Then, the air somehow shifts and he walks closer, silently.

This was a habit he just attained, right after your daughter was born. He was the type to walk raucously, demanding attention in the room, heels of his shoes clicking on the ground.

But one day, when your daughter stirred about by the sound of his shoes, you just simply scowled at him - and that was the end of his obnoxious treading. It was hilarious, seeing a large man with tattoos and muscles trying to walk on his toes, and your lips twitch to lift in a grin, vivid imagery flashing across your mind.

The couch dips in the middle, heat seeping off his body and warming yours. The back of his hand presses against your forehead as if checking for a fever, then he lets it drop down, trailing across your cheek and staying on your shoulder. He mutters something incomprehensible, and you catch the words "work" and "exhausted", before he moves.

He pulls you by your legs until your head is on his thigh, which he adjusts so that you rest in his lap. His eyes burn into your skin, and the air is singing with the intensity with which he watches you - and the hesitation.

His calloused, big fingers awkwardly stroke your hair, the tangles catching his skin, but he doesn't seem to mind. The movement is unpracticed, and you can almost feel the profanities on the tip of his tongue as he tries to run his hand through your hair clumsily. He used to ruin your sleep with his fingers - how should he use them to give you an easy sleep with them instead?

He finally gets the hang of it, rubbing your temples, fingers massaging the stiff muscles in your shoulders and the goddamned pain finally assuages with a pop that masks your moan of pleasure and relief, slumber almost taking you down - when you hear it: the phone ringing.

Sukuna's body goes tense beneath you, and you know he's deftly adjusting the insouciant mask he's made second nature and become all cold and gruff now that you're awake and might know about this vulnerable moment. Not that he minded, no - he really wanted to find a way to tell you he loved you without having to say it. It was just that you used to make fun of him, daring to call him a "softie" (yeah, that ended with bite marks all over your neck and a day or two without walking).

One day, you're gonna teach the man it isn't wrong to be soft and caring - and immediately after the thought you scoff. Sukuna Ryomen, caring and soft? You often surprise yourself with your naivety.

You make an act of coming around, squinting at the phone through the blinding lights that attack your vision. The blur clears, and you slowly read the Caller ID.

(Daughter's Name)'s Principal.

You get up so quickly you accidentally kick Sukuna in the stomach, a startled oof sounding behind you.

The problem was, your daughter really took after your husband. Eyes, sass, rudeness, bravery, and the desire to just jump into a brawl. You could never expect anything good whenever you got a call - not that she was terrible; she always scored the top or second in tests. Just, she had a hot-temper and would absolutely beat the shit out of anyone.

"Hello?"

"Are you (Daughter's Name)'s mother?" A deep voice answers from the other side.

"Yes, I am," you drop down on the couch beside Sukuna, who's just staring silently at you, eyes darting between the phone and your expression.

"I am extremely apologetic but it is necessary that you come and pick up your child," the man flatly says.

"Wh - What did she do this time?" You blurt out, anger on the edge of your voice, and Sukuna tenses, eyes imperceptibly widening. He leans in closer, trying to listen to the call, but you scoot away.

"She punched a boy on the nose, and he's bleeding profusely-"

"Oh, that's not that bad," you nervously chuckle, remembering the last time they called. Sukuna grazes his fingers over your thigh sensually, giving up on eavesdropping.

"- and unconscious. One of his friends has a black eye and the other lost his teeth. I do not suppose that is "not bad " - oh, did I fail to mention she yanked clumps of hair off a girl's head?"

"She what?" You growl, bolting up, startling Sukuna for the second time (this time he scowls at you), shrugging on your bolero jacket over your dress, the rolling up your still-damp sleeves and lacing your shoes, all the while listening to the crazy man babbling over the line. "Just give me a few minutes, sir." You hang up.

"What happened?" Sukuna demands, eyes locked on you from his position on the couch.

"Got into fucking trouble," you murmur. "Broke a boy's nose, took out one's teeth, blessed one with a black eye and pulled a girl's hair - literally."

He grins, feral and proud. "That's my girl."

"Sukuna!" You frown. "This isn't good for her academic status."

"Fuck the academic status," he shrugs. "Who cares about that. Real thing is, she knows how to fight."

"She might've killed them!"

"Made her daddy proud," he says blatantly. "And we can't blame her if we don't know the entire story."

"Are you so sure she's not in the wrong?" You challenge him.

He's silent for a moment. "I know my daughter very well. And I know it's not her fault."

You nod once. "I'll be back soon" is the last thing you say before leaving the house.

"Don't you dare touch the car!" He yells from behind, storming out of the room. "You are tired, and you just got over your illness last week." He frowns at you, grabbing your hand. You glance at the connection, then back at him, and he adds, "I do not want to nanny you again," a bit sternly, glaring at the growing smirk on your face.

"Ryo, I swear I'm not gonna crash the car. Again." You pat his hand tamely before dashing out the door.

"Tch, stubborn brat," he tsked right before you got in the car, too stimulated to glance back at him standing on the threshold, looking at you pulling out of the driveway like a child coming to tell their mother they wet their bed at night.

"The bitch broke his nose!" A boy, no bigger than twelve spat in your daughter's direction. She, God bless, slapped him right across the face, an angry red welt glaring on his face as he stumbles back.

You shriek her name, gripping her shoulders tightly and pulling her to you. Honestly, it was satisfying to see her retaliate upon being called a bitch. But you couldn't express that here, and you still didn't know how to react.

Standing outside of the principal's office, you're surrounded by five children ranging from ten to thirteen years, all bruised and fuming.

The principal had ushered you out of his room quite furiously when you sided with your daughter; you couldn't resist when you heard the story. "She needs to learn discipline," he'd said. It was hard for you to keep your cool. The old fucker was probably saved by the fact he was older than you.

She was simply enjoying her lunch when the girl came by, surrounded by the boys. "Your mum must be weird if you're like this," she'd crossed her arms, appraising her disdainfully. "But let's be real, he probably had to summon someone like him. Who'd actually choose a monster like Sukuna?" She crooned, throwing her lunch box away and stomping on it. Your daughter had chosen to be silent.

"You only get good grades because everyone's scared your freak dad will show up and kill their families," the broken nose boy had sneered, yanking on her hair.

"My mom said Sukuna's not even human. That makes you, what - a demon spawn? A walking curse?" The girl had mocked again, earning a few snickers. A thin crowd had started to form.

"You and your family are nothing but pathetic monsters," the girl whispered, leaning close, then yanking her headband off. "Let's see if she grows extra eyes or fangs like her daddy."

"No wonder you don't fit in," a boy had said earlier, shrugging. "You're made out of curses, not love." He'd smirked, lowering his voice. "He probably only wanted a one night stand and is now stuck with you."

"Child support sucks, if the child's like that," the girl had added. "That's what he said. Oh - if you're too dumb to connect the dots, "he", as in, the curse who fathers you."

"Bet your dad didn't even want you. Who would, when you're half monster?"

Your daughter didn't tell you why she remained silent - probably because it would aggravate the situation. Why were these motherfuckers picking on your daughter?

"You're not a person, you're a reminder. Of everything that should've stayed dead," the first boy had looked into her eyes, checking her reaction.

"Don't you eat humans, like your precious daddy? Isn't that's why you eat alone?" The second boy had snatched her sandwich, scanning it and then flinging it away.

"She always eats alone because even the voices in her head can't stand her, duh."

The girl had crouched down, grabbing her chin tightly enough to leave a faint mark. "You're not mysterious. You're forgettable. The kind people only remember when something bad happens."

"Poor thing. All that rage, all that power, yet still didn't die along with your mommy eleven years ago."

Your daughter had hissed at the comment, opening her mouth to retaliate - but a boy had intervened. "Keep growling. Maybe you’ll finally scare someone other than yourself."

"It's sad. You're pretty… too bad your dad's a murderer. I'd be ashamed to even be seen with someone like him," the boy who now scowls at you with a black eye had said earlier, writing Demon-girl and Freak's Daughter on her bag with vibrant red ink.

The boy who has his teeth gone had tugged on her sleeve and whispered in her ear - too close. Not sexual - but disrespectfully close. Invading her space, leering, provoking.

"I bet your dad kills people who touch you, huh? What's he gonna do - possess me next?" And the stupid boy had the audacity to flick her nose and brush his fingers against her neck and say, "Oops. Guess I'm cursed now." Honestly, you're surprised the brat is alive.

And that's when she snapped. "Say it again," she'd breathed, looking into their eyes quietly. "Say his name like that again. Touch me again. I dare you."

The girl had widened her eyes, acting scared before bursting into laughter - "Oh, good heavens, she's going to slice us into little pieces like her repulsive, mutant da-" She didn't even finish before a shriek had echoed around the school, blood spurting on the ground.

You had given up reasoning with the principal, because in his words, "the physical pain is worse and has proof, unlike her story of words."

You'd gotten up, taking your daughter's hand in yours, the small hand cold and clammy, and quietly hissed, "I expected nothing less from you. I swear to god, you will regret this."

Now, even though your daughter appears haughty and bold, chin raised and eyes blazing, her hand slightly trembles in yours, cold with sweat. You squeeze once, reassuring.

"Call my daughter a bitch once again, and we'll meet on your gravestone next - if I decide you're worth it," you bend down, saying to the boy, before glancing at the girl: "Turns out, repulsive mutants raise better children than humans." You flash her a devilish grin before stalking away, your daughter matching your pace.

The car pulled into the driveway noisily, dust clouding behind you. You drag your daughter out of the car, her lips pursed and eyes downcast. She traipses beside you, yet you can sense the buzzing of words in her mind she's keeping in.

Sukuna opens the door before you reach the porch - no, yanks it open - eyes wide and assessing. His shoulders relax when he sees you walking, safe and bloodless, yet the tension seeps in as he feels the atmosphere of the room.

He glances at your daughter, extending his arms in a foreign action that maybe resembles a hug - which she refuses, strolling away to her room, furiously blinking away tears. The words ... they were no doubt painful. One punch for every insult - that's dinner for those bitches.

He blinks at her, confused once, twice, and you chew on your lip.

How can I explain this?

The silence stretches painfully, like a visceral thing, and he looks at you expectantly. "Do I really need to make you recite the story?"

You sigh, rubbing your temples, dropping on the couch. It sags beside you a second later. You want to tell him in such a way he wouldn't go absolutely feral, claiming to kill everyone. He used to be like that if anyone every threatened, swore at or touched you or your daughter. Newsflash: the students are fucking doomed because they violated all three criteria.

"Tell me what happened," he prompts again, this time subtly softer.

You hesitantly tell Sukuna what the school reported, then think, damn it all to hell, and spill word-for-word the entire dilemma, clarifying that she didn't just overreact. She was provoked.

He listens. Stone-faced. He doesn't react when you tell him about the insults to him. You almost faint with relief; he suppresses a smirk when you recall the remarks about him being a demon. But you catch the twitch of his fingers when you intone the girl, the insult about you being weird.

Then you mention the boy who touched her neck; the girl who mocked her lineage; the boy who threw her food and scribbled on her bag; the way they laughed.

And then - he smiles.

Quiet and deadly. Restrained, yet laced with poisonous intent - the malicious smile. The one that promises bloodshed, even if just a little, and you can see him shifting from the man you're accustomed to, to the man you first met.

"Who were they?" His voice drops.

"I don't know their name," you reply. "Why? Thinking something?"

"I'm not asking for their names out of curiosity." He stretches, like a cat feinting just before it strikes on its prey. "I'm deciding whether they deserve to die painfully, or very, very slowly. Because no one touches what's ours. Mine. And as for his presumption - possessing that brat is the nicest thing I could do..." That damned smile again, emotionless and cruel. "But I'm not nice, am I?"

"Sukuna, they're children-"

"Who hurt my child. That doesn't give them a privilege to not only insult me, but my wife and my daughter." He gets up, all glory and muscles and venom, the tube-light limning his toned skin and perfect muscles artfully, then tugs on a shirt. "Let's go."

"Go?" You startle, eyes following his every movement, his muscles flexing, pink hair set ablaze by the afternoon sun, like spun rose gold in fine threads.

"I will not repeat myself," he answers, dangling the keychains on his finger. "We're going to her school." He pauses, then glances back at you, smirking. "Unless, of course, you do not want to come along?"

The school had called you in today. But they hadn’t expected him to arrive too, you smirk to yourself, bracing your mind against whatever Sukuna might say to them. He opens the car door for you, then ambles up the path leading to the school. You actually have to sprint to catch up with him.

The air crackles like static as Ryomen Sukuna walks through the school gates, his wife by his side. His footsteps weren't loud - he was used to walking soundlessly now, liking the way he could sneak up on anyone while treading carefully - but they were measured and heavy with determination. To kill? Maybe. His face wore no expression - and that was worse than fury. It was calm; ominously calm.

"Ryo," you whisper, clutching his arm. "They're children. Please - just be less terrifying."

"I do not take orders from you," he replies gruffly.

"Please-" you tug on his sleeve, pleading with him. "Just this once. For me?" Silence, heated and contemplative. "You wouldn't want to kill the people our daughter will bring hell upon one day? Let her do the work this time."

He sighs resignedly. "Alright. I will be more merciful than I have ever been in my entire existence - but only because you wish it."

He stops in front of the mahogany door, a lustrous plaque engraved PRINCIPAL in bold font nailed into it. He looked over his shoulder at you - not for permission, but just to check on you. Then shoves the door open.

"Ah. So this is where pussies dress as educators."

The voices die almost instantly, every figure in the room pale and silent. And this time, you don't hide your smirk. Yeah, he's my man. You may look cocky, but at this point, who cares.

He walks past startled staff, brushing aside the principal's trembling voice.

"Sir- w-we can assure you-"

He ignores him, not even glancing his way as a crack sounds through the room and the principal is thrown against the wall. Blood trickles down his lips, yet no one moves to assist him.

Sukuna pushes open the infirmary door where the children sit. Your daughter's bag, tainted with drops of blood and foul remarks sits innocently on the floor. Under their feet.

Sukuna stares at the empty place where your daughter must have sat until you arrived earlier, judging by the recently scribbled retorts on her chair and the way the children kept their distance. His eyes lingered on the kid's wounds they hadn't tended to. Not because he was worried for them - but because it made him realize they'd treated his daughter the same. They hadn't attended to her wounds the entire time. Then he turns, and faces the teachers.

"I forgot to address some issues." His voice comes out too soft. "You let them touch my daughter?"

Your ears ring in the pin-drop silence, trying not to glare at the principal's opening and closing mouth, resembling a fish.

"You watched her eat lunch alone, and still left when they surrounded her?" He advanced, posture calm and presence filling the room.

"You scolded her, when your cameras will show who threw the first insult, who tore her lunch, who touched her?" His eyes shift to the principal's glazed ones from where he lolled on the floor, clutching his belly.

"And you had the audacity to say she needs to 'learn discipline'?"

His mouth curls into a smile, unnatural and venom-laced, one you knew too well.

"Children will misbehave," he continues. "But cowards? Cowards in blazers and staff badges? They hide behind apologies when they've failed to protect. And if you fail to protect my daughter against bias, against blames - then I swear on my name, there won't be anyone there to protect you."

He looks at the three injured students sitting with ice packs, shrinking into the wall.

"I want them to remember exactly who she is," he stalked over to them, looking down on their trembling figures. They dare to peek up at him, and he grins - wide and flashing lots of teeth. "Kneel."

Almost instantly, they drop to their knees, cracks sounding across the hushed room, their heads bowed.

Because you're standing on the side, you can glimpse the girl scowling, muttering something under her breath.

That bastard-

"Say it to my face."

The girl freezes. Sukuna huffs impatiently.

"If you are under the false impression that I am unaware of whatever you are saying, whatever faces you are pulling - then let this be a lesson." He grabs her ponytail and pushes her down. A yelp pierces the room, followed by a thud.

"This is how you kneel to a King," he murmurs, pressing her forehead to the ground near his feet. "Remember that. Whether it's a "mutant" king or a "repulsive" one - if you dare insult my wife and my daughter once again with that foul mouth, this exact King will do the honors of ending your unworthy life." He pauses. "If I was to be intensely gracious, I'd even let you have a small funeral and a grave to be marked."

He lets go of her head, eyes roaming over the children, then crouches to their level, voice low and eerily quiet.

"The next time your mouths form my name, chew it carefully. Lest your tongues fall off mid-sentence."

He cocks his head, daring the girl to snap back. And then, rising to his full terrifying height, he adds-

"And you'd do well to remember this too: I am far more merciful when my own blood is not involved."

"With due respect, Lord Sukuna," a wiry teacher interrupts, "your daughter replied physically to verbal retorts. The "instigators", mind you - they're just kids - only said ... a few ... words, and she needn't have hit them so hard. Their parents will come-"

In a blink of an eye, Sukuna had the teacher held against the wall, one hand wrapped around her throat. His teeth were bared, eyes brimming with contempt, a feral grin lifting his lips as he squeezes tighter, her face paling.

"Let me understand," he murmurs, each word laced with poison wrapped in silk. "My daughter was cornered, mocked, pushed, humiliated…" His voice drops lower. "…And you tell me she needs to be disciplined?"

A teacher tries to step in, voice trembling, eyes darting between the principal and the teacher against the wall. "We've counseled the students. And - and your daughter does have a temper-"

"She is my child." The words cracked like a whip, a cruel smirk on his face, void of humor.

His fingers press deep enough to draw out blood - and then he throws the woman to the ground like a ball of clothes, an obscene thud reverberating across the room.

Not even looking at her as she grimaces on the floor in her blood, Sukuna moves away from her and closer to the intruding teacher, like a predator advancing on its prey. "Do you know," his eyes gleam crimson as he continues, "what it takes for her to snap? You mock her silence, and then blame her when she roars?"

His hands clutch his files, like paper could protect him from the King of Curses.

"She is not a monster," Sukuna quietly says, although his voice was the "barely restrained quiet" type. "She's a girl - my girl. And I won't say she's better because she's my child. She's better than your lot of shit because she learned to be better, and chose her life." He smirks, glancing at the infirmary door, where the children no doubt sat, huddled. "Can't even say they fought pretty well."

His voice softens. Almost fond. "Even as her father, I sometimes fail to understand her. She chose to side with you. She defended you. Didn't tell me what the fuck those assholes did. And I know she'll sulk, prompting why I even bothered." He pauses. "Maybe I am the monster, if she was afraid to inform me. But hell knows I will not hesitate to become the monster your ancestors feared, if you ever lay a hand on, or taunt, my child or my wife again." He looks up, the smile returning. It did not reach his eyes.

"Today, I decided to not end your pitiful lives. You should be on your knees for that mercy alone." Wiping his stained hands on his shirt, he adds, "You may continue pretending to be a fuckass school. But you will never again pretend to raise her."

Then he turns, glances at you, and takes your hand tenderly in his, sauntering away with you by his side, the smell of urine reeking out of the principal's office.

"I think I was too soft," he frowns, sounding disappointed.

A Little Bonus: SUKUNA POV 🎀

Home felt a little too quiet without a little hurricane running through its corridors.

It felt strange, not hearing her voice. He liked her voice because it resembled yours, in some way. But he'd sooner die than confess that.

After contemplating what to do, sitting in the lounge, Ryomen Sukuna had finally decided to get up and check on his daughter.

His footsteps were quiet, in case she was sleeping. Tch. That woman has made me softer. I'd never quieten my arrival for a mortal. But there was an exception to every thing in the universe.

Maybe he had two.

He knocked - before swearing colorfully and shoving the door open slightly. His daughter sat on a low stool, hair a little damp from a bath. Her arms crossed, eyes pouty.

"You went to my school." It was a statement, soft and whispered.

Sukuna tried to reach to his full height, to impose his terror on her - but damn him, he couldn't. He felt the ice in his heart crackle whenever he saw his daughter, and maybe he really was dying if he'd gone that gentle.

He groaned, running his hands through his hair before letting them drop loosely at his sides. "Yes, I did. And you are not going to tell me I was wrong."

"You didn't have to come, Dad."

"And let them make you feel like you did wrong?" he scoffed, sitting behind her. "Tch. Not a chance. Now shut up."

His daughter held his eye contact like the brave little warrior she was, always the one who reached up to fight with him. Her mother challenged him, but she went through with it.

She shifted, grabbing the brush and hair-ties from the desk, looking at her hair in the mirror, almost dry.

He didn't know why, but he moved, gingerly taking the things from her. "Sit straight." He ordered, although the bite and command was gone from his cadence. She bit back a grin and scooted closer to him.

He stared at her hair, unsure.

Thin, long strands, still tangled in some places. She was like her mother - wild and beautiful. But she was also like him. Proud, fiery; a little too quick with her fists.

He picked up the comb, and tried. Just today, he'd run his hands through his wife's hair. He had the vaguest idea how to handle hair. From a three minute experience.

With hands that were made to bring pain, that were crafted to kill, that were stained with the phantom blood of many - he now smoothened his daughter's hair, figuring out the tendrils. His touch was bizarrely gentle, inexperienced - of course, what King of Curses would spend years in his court braiding hair?

His fingers caught once in a knot and she winced.

"Sorry," he muttered, awkward. Sorry. Pathetic. Apologizing to a mortal child.

But yet, his heart warmed - in contrast to his mind's warnings, he couldn't help but wonder if he could love his daughter better had he been a human. If his daughter deserved a father like him.

He hadn't braided hair in over a thousand years - and never with hands meant to destroy. The last time they touched something this gently… it had broken anyway.

But not this, he promised. Not her.

He slowly separated the strands, meticulously crossed them over. Fumbled. Cursed creatively and then started again.

"You know," he murmured, "When you were born, I worried. That maybe … someone like me couldn't raise someone like you."

She turned slightly, eyes lifting.

"But today, when I saw the blood on your fists…" he smiled, not proud of the violence, but of her strength. "I saw myself. And I've never felt so safe knowing you're mine."

She grinned, heart light. "I couldn't have asked for a better father," she hesitated. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be able to deal with this world. And ... mommy loves you too. She says you're the best thing that ever happened to her."

Sukuna went silent for a moment, unable to find the words. He never knew how to respond to words of affection. So instead, he just patted her head like a kitten.

"Okay." He blurted - do you say 'thank you' to compliments? "And also," he added, "next time, go for the throat."

"Daddy!" she giggled, her tone condescending.

"But honestly, I'm so proud of you," he smirked, meeting her eyes.

She mirrored the movement. "Really? You're not ... mad?"

"Mad?" He scoffed. "More like, glad and sated. It was so satisfying to see their asses beat up." Wince. "Don't tell mommy I swore."

"Why would I tell mommy?" She rolled her eyes - at him.

"Like last time, princess, when I told you not to say "fuck" in front of mommy."

"And I'll say it again."

"Bold brat." He playfully tugged at one strand of her hair.

"Old man." She retorted, grinning in the mirror.

If it was anyone else, they would be taking their next breath in the afterlife. But, it was this defiant brat ... His defiant brat, exactly, who took his traits.

"Yeah, well, this old man taught you how to fight."

"Like that time when I tripped you over?"

"That was deliberate. An accident, and I only fell to make you laugh."

"Well, even if it's sweet that you have a heart and wanted to make me laugh, I still remember your nose bleeding."

"I still remember that wonderful smacking."

"Wonderful smacking is what I gave those fuckers today."

"First of all," Sukuna interrupted, "don't say that word. In front of mommy." She rose a brow, and he scowled - without the venom. "Second of all, you did more than just smacking."

"Next time, they won't even be able to crawl back."

Sukuna's eyes glinted with pride and amusement. "That might be too much for your age, but whatever suits you. I'm fine with it. Just so you know, if you ever need to hide a body, come straight to me." He paused, and sighed. "I have somewhere to go tonight. Important work."

"Does that include death?"

"You might not want to go to school tomorrow."

"No way! I'll help with the digging."

"No - you do the stabbing. I've had enough of you bossing me around."

"If you won't listen to me I'll say "fuck you" to mommy."

"No you won't," Sukuna narrowed his eyes at her.

"Wanna test that?" She smirked.

Sukuna just mirrored her smirk, amused.

He tied off the braid with a ribbon; messy and uneven, but perfect in his eyes.

She looked in the mirror. "It's crooked," she said.

"So am I-," he shrugged, leaning back.

"Let me finish," she holds up a finger, cutting him off. "It's crooked, but I love it. It's beautiful."

Sukuna grinned - this brazen, bold creature.

And then she hugged him, wrapping her arms around his waist with her little voice saying, "I love you, Daddy," -

The breath whooshed out of him. He was uncomfortable with physical touch, and when she expressed her love, she always left him blushing and confused. He was sated by the fact that she knew he loved her even if he didn't say it, and she never forced him to admit. But now ...

Wrapping an arm tentatively around his daughter's back, muscles tense ...

He didn't think he'd ever felt more whole.

⭐ Thanks for reading through! Please interact more, and do give feedback - do you guys want more like this? 🌸

[saycheeeese]

Professional Shirt Ripper (A.K.A. Nanami)

Your tailor is used to this by now. She scowls at you as soon as she sees you at the threshold for the third time this month.

A shirt clutched in your hand, you sheepishly approach her shop, the bell jingling as you enter the sunbathed room. And even though the sun kisses her skin, she somehow scowls at you that tells you she's predicted why you're here.

"Again?" Her voice is flat, but there's a hint of amusement.

"Again," you nod, handing the shirt over. She sighs, and picks it up to examine it.

This is the nth time you bought or made Nanami a shirt - and the buttons ripped apart. You didn't understand; did the man grow buff-er every day? How was it possible that you got him a shirt that should've fitted, yet it didn't. Did his muscles grow larger than the last time?

You both stare at the shirt, the place where the seams ripped, the stitches stretched and the buttons practically popped off the shirt.

"How does he manage to do it?" The tailor grunts, placing her spectacles on the bridge of her nose.

"Beats me," you shrug. "Maybe I get it a few sizes smaller?"

She shoots you an incredulous look. "Girl, you've had me make the chest so much larger than the torso, it can't be more altered now. I mean, it's impossible to tailor shirts for a man who has a chest larger than the Kardashians and a waist snatched by God himself. And, trust me, I always get my measurements right."

She pauses, a smirk lifting the corners of her lips. "What does he wear at home?"

"None of your business," you roll your eyes at her, feeling your face heating. Nope. Not gonna think about how he roams the house with either a shirt holding on by sheer will and God's wish, its buttons cleaving apart, or absolutely flashing you with those ginormous tiddies he was blessed with - unfair.

"Never mind that," she dismisses you, "take this with you. I had this sewn with the strongest fabric and thread I could get my hands on. It's stronger than Geto's hair gel. That thing doesn't move, babe." The black shirt ripples like water in her hand, and you doubt its flexibility.

You nod, accepting the offer graciously. "You sure it won't tear?"

"Unless he somehow puts on muscle faster than the speed of your growing crush on him, it won't budge," she affirms you, shooing you off.

And you return home to a sulking Nanami, staring blankly in the distance, sitting on the sofa with a blanket draped over his torso.

"I got another shirt," you inform him, snapping him out of his reverie. He glances at you and softly smiles, the sunlight setting his blonde hair ablaze, glasses perched precariously on his nose.

"Thank you," he says, taking the cloth from your hand while brushing your fingers subtly. He gets up, the blanket falling off of his figure like a curtain falling to reveal the divine structure in an auction, back muscles flexing, and disappears into the bathroom.

You just simply wait, tapping on your chin, counting the seconds. Three minutes later, he walks out stiffly.

You swallow your laughter. Creases line the shirt across his chest, the slab of muscle almost piercing through the fabric, twin spheres clearly visible against the fabric hanging on for dear life. The buttons - oh, God, the buttons - are somehow functional. Well, this is better than the last shirt; it lasted longer. 2 minutes.

"You look good, Nanami."

"Did Gojo pay you to lie?" He folds his arms, and you swear you could hear cloth shredding, the noise ringing out like a tear in the fabric of the goddamn universe itself.

"Why would he pay me to lie?" You narrow your eyes at him.

"This must be a prank." He pointedly glances at his bulging muscle, the biceps and the poor shirt.

"I swear, it's not," you choke out between giggles, kindling Nanami's annoyance (you both know he's the last person to be annoyed by you).

"You're laughing at me?" He sighs, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"What can I do? It's hilarious to see a grown man unable to wear a cloth without looking scandalous," you grin.

"I'll teach you to laugh at my predicament," he mumbles - and in a blink, he has you hauled over his shoulder, his shirt twisting and stretching yet miraculously fine, the world upside down, as he walks down a corridor, heading to a room you know very well.

Newsflash:

It's not even a week before you're taking the button-less, allegedly "strongest-thread" shirt to the tailor.

[saycheeeese]

Zombie Apocalypse x JJK

ft. Itadori Yuuji, Fushiguro Megumi, Kugisaki Nobara x Y/N.

Synopsis: It's been months since zombies took over the world, infecting people day-by-day, the streets vacant and houses burnt, skies hazy and an eerie silence all over. It isn't everyday that you come across a perfectly normal human being - let alone three. And teenagers. So when you spot a trio of teens creeping into your designated alley, you go against your rules and choose to spy on them. Little did you know, you make a tiny mistake, leading to you making choices that would change your unfamiliar life...

If you want to read separately >

★ Part 1 ★ Reader meets the three of them - Some initial bonding 👋🏻

★ Part 2 ★ Reader fights alongside them - They realize Reader's strength and slyness 🔪

★ Part 3 ★ Bonding time (platonic) with Yuuji - Jealous Megumi 👉🏻👈🏻

★ Part 4 ★ Bonding time (non-platonic) with Megumi - Kiss scene 🎀

More coming soon! (I have too many unfinished drafts they're haunting me 🥀)

If you want to read it here >

Part 1:

It's been 281 days since you last saw another human being. You couldn't risk staying outdoors for long - that is, unless you want to run into a zombie. Those mutilated creatures now practically roam more than half of the world, and in only the 2 years they've been here, they've gotten way stronger. By raiding countless shops, they've enhanced their artillery and population, and the death rate drastically goes up daily.

Now, you're crouched on top of the run-down building you've been living in for the past few months, peeking over the edge, ears perked for any sort of noise. You ran out of rations a week ago, and you've managed to scrape by, occasionally coming across a god-forsaken convenience store, the lights fused and the entire area reeking of dust and wet carpet, a few canned foods edible in the midst of rotting perishables. So you finally got the courage to venture into the gloom and snag something to give you some kind of nourishment.

You almost deem the area safe when you hear the noise of rock crunching. Your breath catches in your throat and you drop to your knees, daring to look over the edge. Your eyes strain and water against the dark and pollution, trying to find -

There!

You lower yourself a bit, your knees popping, and you hiss. Three dark figures approach the street, moving stealthily. The middle one turns to the left one and whispers something, to which the left one slaps the first one's head. You cock your head. They certainly don't seem like zombies, you swiftly put two and two together. As they sidle into sight, the fluctuating, muted streetlight sluices them in a green glow.

On the left is a boy with spiky hair - really spiky - and his hair color is hard to determine in the colored light. You decide it's either a dark blue or black. He's standing straight and tall, hands in his pockets, mouth in a firm, straight line. The middle one is yet another boy with pink hair. You narrow your eyes. Pink? His eyes have some sort of markings under them, and you tense. But when you see him say something and grin, elbowing the tall boy, you conclude he might not be a zombie. Something warms in your heart to see the cold, tough circumstances haven't taken away his joy, even if it seems a bit subdued. The one on the right is a girl, thankfully. Her brown hair gleams in the ghostly light, and she bites down on her lip to stifle her smile. She also seems a bit serious, but not as much as the spiky-haired boy. In one blink of your eye, she has the pink-haired boy in a headlock. Seems like an ordinary teenage group, you nod to yourself. No danger, but I'll scout the area once they're gone.

You sigh, and lower yourself to the ground, but fate isn't on your side as your elbow hits the the rusted metal can on your left, and it crashes to the ground. You manage to grab it at the last moment, but it still created a whole lot of ruckus. You grit your teeth, heart in your throat. Their voices abruptly cease, and the echo still rings in your ears - why did this place have to be so quiet?

"Who's there?" Someone sternly says from below. You lay down on the roof, hiding every inch of your person from sight. There's a gap between the once ornate edge and the roof, seemingly a drain, and you squint through it. The tall boy signals to the others, and they stiffen, shifting closer to each other and taking up a defensive stance. The tall boy points to the roof, exactly where you were a moment ago, and the others look up there too.

"Who is there?" The tall boy asks again, his voice sharp and commanding.

You contemplate blowing your cover, but you still haven't decided if they're working for the government or some new kind of twisted thing the zombies have created. Or, maybe, you don't want to talk and explain yourself.

"Whoever is there, come out this second," the girl steps up and orders, one hand on her hip and the other clutching a dagger. Where did she get that?

"Or we're going to come up there and drag you out ourselves," the pink-haired boy says, his voice more serious than before. His bubbly expression is gone, and he's warily staring at the aforementioned spot. The three of them palm their weapons and advance toward the building. You groan, deciding it's better you show yourself. At least you know your stealth and fighting. Thank the heavens for the training you had and the zombies you beat.

Before they can react or shout, you hoist yourself to you feet, knees cracking noisily, almost glide over the edge and scale the building, feet lodging onto any kind of purchase before you reach the rusted pipe and jump onto it, shimmying down and landing on the ground with a thud. You wipe your grimy hands on your black tights, previous residues of dirt, blood and whatnot concealed by the color.

A sharp intake of breath has you sharply looking up, the three of them staring at you as if you're a zombie. You bare your teeth, spreading your feet apart and raising your hands. They might think you're in a defensive stance, but you're doing it so they can see you don't have any weapons on you. That they can see, of course.

The tall boy ignores the pink-haired boy as he says something to him and takes one step forward. "Who are you?"

"Nobody of importance," you shrug. You didn't realize months of not using your voice would turn it so raspy and hoarse, and you almost cringe as they shrink back.

"Who are you," he repeats, eyes assessing you deftly.

You repay him the courtesy, scanning them thoroughly with your eyes. "Not a zombie." Something in you wants to mess with them, act like an ass - purely because you've seen too much to act sweet and kind and like the girl you were before it all went to hell.

The pink-haired boy subtly grins. "I like her," to which the girl jabs him in the ribs.

"I don't aim to harm you or anything," you drawl, "but if you have those intentions, then please get the hell away from me."

The tall boy narrows his eyes at you. "You live here?"

"I don't have a permanent abode, but this is where I've been hiding since the past three months," you shrug. You notice the other two's shoulders relaxing. "What about you?"

"Different city," is all he says. He turns to his group. He must have something in his expression, because the others shrug, tilting their head. He sighs and turns back.

"What's your name?" You ask them, dropping the defense and placing your hands on your hips, lifting your chin.

"This is Megumi," the pink haired boy answers, pointing to the tall boy - whose hair is definitely blue. "This is Nobara, and I'm Yuuji. Who are you?"

Merely because his risk level is low, you answer, "(Y/n)."

Nobara eyes your clothes. Her eyes quickly dismiss your tights but stay on the baby blue jacket, which is now stained with grime, dust and coal. She steps to Megumi's side.

"Cute clothes," she grins.

"Th-"

"Where'd you get them?"

You're taken aback by how swiftly she took out her dagger and is now a few steps away from impaling you. Her face is serious and assessing, eyes glinting in the streetlight as her breath fans your face.

"An insignificant shop, down there," you point, "I got it just a few weeks ago."

"Liar. There are zombies infiltrating every nook and cranny - how did you get it? You're working with them, right?" The cold tip of her dagger rests on the hollow of your neck. The others tense - you wouldn't blame them, her accusation is logical.

You reply calmly, although every muscle in your body is locked. "I studied them. from behind a rusted-out car: one had a missing leg, one was too bloated to move fast. One was tall; top-heavy. Weak ankles. Then I moved. I cracked open a can of cheap soda and rolled it. It hissed across the pavement and two of them followed the sound. I grabbed a piece of rebar and slammed it into the cement at a slant as a tripwire. Then I whistled, and the noise brought one straight toward me. But I crouched, rolled, and let it stumble straight into the rebar. It tripped. I stomped the back of its skull before it even hit the ground.

"Then, I kicked a rock at the bloated one’s head, enough to enrage, not kill. It flailed toward me, unbalanced, arms reaching. I timed it. Sidestepped. And it crashed into a shattered window frame. The jagged glass impaled it through the chest. I used her boot to shove it deeper and bashed its skull. I climbed the awning above the door quietly, not even breathing., waiting for one to walk under. Then I dropped. My knees slammed into its back. The weight snapped its spine like dried bark. I ripped a shard of metal from the signpost and dragged it across its throat and drove it into its head." You stop to take a breath, a haunted gleam on your face.

"I remember them snarling. The last three rushed at me and I ran, baiting them toward a power pole draped in broken wire. Luck was on my side, I guess. I ducked under, but they didn't. The tallest one slammed into the live cable. Sparks snapped and two of them were lit up like birthday candles, shrieking, unaware as I decapitated them. I faced the last one, with no weapons. Just cracked knuckles. It chased me, and I went there (you point to an alley), cornered it between two dumpsters, and gruesomely beat the crap out of it. Their heads crack open easily."

Nobara backs away, a corner of her lip lifting in a smirk. "I like her."

"Thanks. I guess some violence is necessary."

"Wait - so you can fight?" Yuuji gapes at you.

" 'Course I can," you beam at him, the foreign action hurting your cheeks. It had been a while since you last smiled.

"You did all that for ... a shirt?" Megumi asks, though you notice he's not as tense as before.

You shrug. "If I'm gonna die in this world, I'm not doing it in a tank top with holes in it."

Nobara and Yuuji grinned, and Megumi raised a brow. Guess that's all the appreciation I'm getting, you wonder. Though it's a lot coming from this serious boy.

"Are you sure we can trust her?" Megumi says under his breath to Yuuji.

"I guess so, yeah," Yuuji cocks his head.

"I think so, too," Nobara offers, striding over to them.

Megumi looks at you for a moment before nodding, the tension seeping away from his shoulders. The two of them whisper something in his ear, and he sighs, glancing at you.

"Are you happy where you live?"

"Do I look like I am?" You raise a brow. "I mean, I'm alive. That's fine. But - happy? In this world?"

"You could be, if you lived with people," Yuuji supplies. "Though you sound like you were the one who created the alphabet."

"You sure you didn't hear the Big Bang?" Nobara suppresses her grin.

"Come on, it's obvious she saw the dinosaurs go extinct," Yuuji nudges her.

"Though, girl, you look like the last time you ate was at the Last Supper," Nobara appraises you.

"Guys," Megumi groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stop it. We don't tease people who witnessed the fall of the Roman Empire." He chastises them, although his lips lift imperceptibly. It takes you a while to understand he made a joke, too.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny, coming from the people whose expiry date expired," you roll your eyes.

"She has humor!" Yuuji whoops, and Nobara hisses.

"Just because we met a human doesn't mean the zombies are gone," she snaps, and Yuuji pouts.

They glance at you and shift on their feet.

"You could ..." Megumi began, biting his cheek. "Join us, you know?"

"Yeah, if you wanted to, of course," Nobara intervened.

"You'd help us a lot, and we could give you our food and clothes - we know how to fight, too," Yuuji shrugged, excited.

You smile. This offer might change your life ...

And maybe, just maybe, you were looking for a change of events in this world you knew no longer.

Part 2:

By some strange miracle, the four have you haven't encountered any zombies since you met - which makes it two days. They warmed up to you fine enough, but still, you can't help but envy the special bond they have in times like these. Good for them, you think. At least they have something to fight for. Or someone.

They led you to a dilapidated restaurant, soundlessly weaving their way through the haphazard tables and seats, and took you into the pantry. Though it was dusty cold, it certainly had ample space - and the racks were lined with canned foods and non-perishables: dried beans, oatmeal, uncooked porridge boxes, white rice, boxed pasta, powdered milk, vats of honey, bottles of spirit, hard cheeses, and a stack of dried fruit. It was difficult for you to suppress the rumble in your stomach while they quickly fixed a tiny meal that would do.

Yuuji and Nobara had fought like animals to snag the big container on the top rack, and without them even noticing, Megumi had silently retrieved it, leaving them to fight. The plastic container had oats soaked in milk, and it was a lot of them.

"Help yourselves," Megumi said, sitting cross-legged on the floor where you and the two joined him. They took heaping spoonsful straight from the dish, and you'd hesitated before digging in.

"Is this ... porridge?" You'd inquired - the food was not so bad. At least it wasn't rotten.

"Yup," Yuuji nodded, swallowing his bite hastily and choking. Megumi punched his back hard, a loud thump sounding in the pantry, and his face turned red. Nobara shifted closer to you, disgust written on her face.

"We soak them overnight in milk," she explained, "Or we keep them soaking as long as we're gone from ... home." She said the last word a bit quietly, and you nodded, taking another bite. What had happened of your home? You shook the thought from your head. In this world, love was a weakness that could be used against you.

Despite the yawning cavity in your stomach, you'd filled up pretty quickly and excused yourself. They'd covered the porridge and put it back, Nobara turning to you.

"What next? Want to sleep, or ...?" She tilted her head.

"Kick some butt?" Yuuji raised a brow, his smile less brighter.

"Neither. We have to go and get some new tools to sharpen our weapons," Megumi announced, arms folded. "We can't kill them with a blunt stick and a can of beans."

You dipped your chin once. It was probably good for you to acquire a new weapon. You unbound your hair and tied it into a braid, the bun falling apart. The laces in your shoes long since gone, you catch up to them.

"Where are we going?" You ask as the four of you exit the safety of the restaurant.

"There's a house some streets away," Yuuji debriefs you, one hand on his crooked, rusted dagger, and focus on his surroundings, "that belonged to a either a mayor or a weaponsmith. You should see the basement - it's full of knives and swords and daggers and arrows."

"We stock up from there about every month," Nobara says from behind you. She and Megumi bring up the rear while you and Yuuji lead the team. Team. A small smile blooms on your lips, and you immediately smother it, scared to let yourself be happy nowadays - because your happiness is always snatched from you.

Yuuji doesn't miss it. "She smiles!" He whisper-shouts, grinning, flipping the dagger in his hand. "You know, you look good when you smile. Alive."

"I ... don't deserve to smile, you know," you confess. "I've killed too many people, and everything I've ever loved has - you know, died. Or zombie-fied."

Yuuji doesn't flinch, like you expected him to. Murderer. He gives you a sideways glance, and his eyes are full of sorrow and understanding. He looks at you for a moment, then softly says, "You know, I also thought that. That ... I don't deserve this all. I don't deserve them. Because I killed a lot of people." He swallows. "But that’s exactly why you - we - deserve to smile. Because the world’s taken everything it could from you, and you're still here - still human. Still you. That smile? It’s not a betrayal. It’s rebellion. You're showing them that they can destroy your world all they like, but they can never destroy you. Let them rot and die at your hands - you're alive; so you deserve to feel alive."

You worry your lip, not letting the tears burning your eyes fall.

“Wow. That’s dramatic," Nobara nudges you with her elbow playfully as she sidles up to your side. "You should write a memoir. ‘How I Killed Everyone and Still Managed to Look Hot While Crying in the Dark’ Bestseller, easy.”

You roll your eyes. "You should write 'How I'm Living In a Zombie Apocalypse and Still Manage to Look Gorgeous and Have Shiny Hair.' Honestly, are you aiming for a shampoo commercial?"

"Pfft, I've dyed it," she dismisses your compliment like a mere fly. "It w-"

The rattle of tin and scuffling shoes makes you instantly tense, back straight and legs apart, dagger poised in hand. Well, what's left of it.

Nobara flanks your right and Yuuji your left, Megumi as silent as a cat behind you, obviously alert.

"Did you - did you hear it?" You breathe, your breath clouding in the musty, cold air. Your ears pick up obscene groaning noises before you spot them.

Five zombies, limping towards you all with unusual speed, blood smeared on their clothes and splattered on their faces. You cringe, and clench your dagger tightly. "Company," you say under your breath.

"I hope you weren't lying when you said you could kill them," Megumi whispers in your ear, "because we'll need all hands we can get."

"I thought you could fight?" You slightly turn, his face too close and eyes wide, assessing.

"We can," his breath tickles the shell of your ear, "but we need to be fast if we don't want more to come - and you might prove a distraction if you scream for help."

You nod sharply, pivoting ahead, a plan in your mind.

"We got seven incoming!" Nobara hissed. You start. Seven? Two more must've been hiding.

"I told you this path was cursed," Yuuji groans, his fists poised.

You take a deep breath and roll up your sleeves. "Weapons can wait," you mutter. You scan the area once more before sprinting. A garbage can, scaffoldings, something that resembles an oil can, some fractured glass shards and heaps of stone; gravel, flint, rock, granite and other unidentified materials. You'll make it work.

Your feet are a blur as you overtake the nearest zombie without it noticing. By the time it realized its target vanished, you kick its back hard and bury your dagger in its skull. The zombie is flung ahead - straight onto Nobara's ready dagger. She recoils. "I didn't even aim."

"You're welcome," you breathe, focusing as two more round on you. The other four zombies aim for your team - very well. They can fight, you think.

You rip a bent metal bar from the scaffolding and duck low. One stumbles into the bar, and you lift. Momentum does the rest. It somersaults over you and cracks against the pavement, its innards oozing out.

You barely pause to breathe. An oil can glints beside a trash bin. You snatch it and hurl it at the last one, your shoulder burning. It bursts and black slick spreads under the zombie. You pivot, wrench open the dumpster, and catch it mid-stumble. You drag it halfway in, then slam the metal lid on its neck. Over. And over. And over.

It stops moving after the third. You flip your dagger in your hands and slice it through its head. The blunt edge does little to harm. You swear colorfully and instead pick up a shard of mirror - just a sliver - and jab it into its eye.

You whirl back, chest heaving, hands covered in rotting blood, the oil creating a path from the can to the middle of the street. Movement at the corner of your eye makes you look up - shit. Zombie backup.

Four more zombies drop down from a ramshackle building, the crooked stairs giving them purchase. In a matter of seconds, they descend and approach your friends. Shit. Eight zombies.

They make quick, neat work of the zombies, but you know that more will come if you don't leave quick. Your eyes dart across the area - and you're moving before you know it.

You retrieve a piece of flint from the corner, pivot on your feet and bolt back, kneel beside the oil spill and whip out your dagger. You mutter some prayers to whoever's listening, and strike the dagger against the flint - once, twice, thrice.

Nothing, nothing, n-

A spark. You rub it again, your breath caught in your throat.

"Is she-" Nobara's voice floats over to you. She grunts and impales a zombie.

"Please tell me she's not doing what I think she's doing," Yuuji grits his teeth as he punches a zombie, its head twisting a full 180 degrees.

"Why would she light a fire?" Megumi adds, beating the hell out of two zombies.

You look up. "GUYS! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THEM!"

You only give them one warning before lighting the oil, sparks igniting from your dagger. You uncoil to your feet and run. Faster than you've ever run, your feet barely touch the ground as the four of you scurry to the end of the alley and beyond. You're running, out of breath, when you feel the heat at your back, the smell of charred flesh and burning ash singeing your nostrils. You deem it safe to stop, and the four of you halt your frantic dashing.

Megumi wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back against him, closer to the group and away from the fire. His chest heaves behind your back, and it takes a while before you all are composed. You slip out of his grip, your face inexplicably warm.

"What the hell-" Yuuji chokes.

"Coast is clear," you mutter.

The three of them glance at each other - and then grin. Fiendishly.

"I knew I liked you for a reason," Nobara claps you on the back.

"You're terrifying," Yuuji grins. "Terrifyingly amazing! Next time, warn us before you go full apocalypse MacGyver."

"I'll admit, I'm impressed," Megumi stuffs his hands in his pockets, a ghost of a smile on his face. "You should be proud of those skills, not horrified by them. Saving our asses back there - thank you."

You shrug, a warm feeling in your gut. And you smile, your face lighting up. Smoke puffs from behind you, the ruby and amber flames doused out - thankfully. You turn to them.

"Let's retrieve our weapons, shall we?"

Part 3:

They had finally included you in their group two weeks after you met. Nobara says she liked your bravery, confidence and fighting style. Yuuji says he likes your personality, intelligence and adaptability. Megumi says nothing specific. Though, him telling you they'd like you to be a part of their group was enough of a compliment.

Now, you sit on the dusty floor of the pantry, acuminating your dagger with oil and a huge rock Yuuji aimed at you. Him and Megumi are trying to fix a meal, bickering over what step should be done first according to the box, and what can be substituted for-

"I told you we shouldn't have used kale!" Megumi's voice rose, frustrated.

"I like kale with sandwiches!" Yuuji winces.

"Well I don't. And no one except you does."

"You can literally take it out of the sandwich, you know?"

"It still leaves a bitter aftertaste."

"You shouldn't have used it raw."

"You shouldn't have given advice."

Yuuji scoffs. "You all are so picky. I just know (y/n) will eat it and like it. And won't complain like immature children."

"Good luck," Megumi glances at you. "You have my prayers."

You look up from your dagger, Yuuji's reflection clear in it. "How bad could it be?"

"You're really asking that?" Megumi raises his brow, picking up the dry bread slices you and Nobara hoarded from a distant farm, abandoned only recently, gore spread about the estate.

"Typically, whenever someone asks that in a movie," Nobara hops down from her bed - the wiry triple-bunk just one crank away from combustion - and walks over to Megumi, snatching the bread from his hands. "It doesn't end well. That's why even my guardian angels won't ever catch me saying What could possibly go wrong."

Yuuji hands you the sandwich, the crusty bread crumbling in your palms, stuffed with something weirdly resembling mayonnaise, the thinnest slice of cheese ever known to mankind, boiled pieces of some random hunted bird and a large wafer of kale.

"When was the last time you saw a movie?" Yuuji prompts, staring at Nobara in awe.

"To be honest, I don't even r-"

An ear-splitting racket echoed outside the pantry, quickly followed by a high-pitched shriek. Your heart stops, sputters, then jumps into your throat. How did they find us?

Megumi's already stalking toward the door with a long knife. You blink in confusion; where did he get that? You assume he pulled out of his ass, and that was the only logical explanation as you uncoiled to your feet, unsheathing your own dagger from the belt around your waist and trailed after him, quiet on your feet. Nobara fiddles with a makeshift shuriken, its edges drawing out blood from her fingertips. Yuuji is pressed against your back, his breath at your neck as he rises on his toes.

"Let me see," he insists, fingers digging in your waist to hoist himself up. It takes you a lot of effort not to move or even breathe.

Megumi notices Yuuji, the way he's so close to you, and his eyes narrow. "Get away from her."

"But I want to see," Yuuji groans, rising on his toes, putting more pressure against you. Totally platonic, you tell yourself, every atom in your body frozen.

"Bring a chair or something. Stop it right now," Megumi hisses, whirling to the door instead. He peeps through the hazy glass you all are trying to see past. Your eyes only make out darkness, its black folds cocooning over every surface like silk, a few beams of moonlight piercing the black. Another gut-wrenching scream makes you jolt, and Yuuji steadies you, his hands trembling.

Megumi doesn't say a word as he wrenches the door open and sprints outside. You stare after him, choices and decisions running in your mind full-circle, and before you knew it, you were dashing after him. Nobara and Yuuji catch up to you swiftly, the scuff of shoes and hushed panting filling the dark restaurant as you make your way through the overturned tables and drooping wires. You wrench open the door and halt, the world crashing to a stop around you.

A girl just shy of six is curled up on the pavement, her unruly hair a curtain between her and the rest of the world. Sobs rack her frail body, and your eyes drop to the pool of red-

Shit.

Two zombies are sprawled around her, one with a knife in its eye and the other sliced open from the groin, their heads smashed open. But it does nothing to hide the shimmer of red on their teeth, the blood fresh on the ground. Megumi swears beside you and rushes to the girl, his hands fisted. Nobara jogs to his side, jaw clenched with anger and emotion, spewing words of contempt. You reach them in a few strides, your mind spinning, and you can do nothing but swallow your gasp as Megumi pushes the girl's hair behind to reveal gruesome puncture marks near her collarbone, her neck tainted in sprays of red. She groans, tears rolling over her cherubic cheeks, and she slowly opens her eyes, wincing, as if the action itself caused her pain. A tight knot is in your throat, and you feel Megumi stiffen as the girl latches her wide, brown eyes on his face, her lips wobbling and failing to form around words.

He pulls back, his face gaunt and eyes dark, and you mirror his movement. "Why isn't she transforming?" You breathe out, terrified to speak louder in case the zombies came back.

Nobara clears her throat, trying to blink away the horror from her eyes. "She's too young. The victim must be older than eight for their body to accept the virus and reanimate as the dead. Because the youngest zombie corpse able to be reincarnated is about nine, too-young humans can't ... can't change." Her voice cracks, but she keeps up her strong façade, lifting her chin and ambling over to Megumi.

"So what will happen? To her?" You gaze at the girl, transfixed by her childlike beauty, and her caramel eyes close tightly, her hand trying to staunch the blood dribbling from her neck.

"She'll die. Simply. It shouldn't be painful, but we might never know," Megumi answers softly, biting his lip in thought. The girl whines, her small voice laced with pain, weeping for her mother, and your friends' faces tighten.

Steps sound behind you, and the three of you freeze, bracing for-

A disgruntled sound emits from the threshold, and you swivel on the spot. Yuuji's eyes are locked on the girl, his face pale. Megumi is there in an instant, grounding Yuuji with his arms pressing down on his shoulders. "Itadori."

He shakes his head, not looking at him.

"Itadori. Look at me." Megumi shakes him gingerly, his voice pleading.

Yuuji lifts his glazed eyes to Megumi, as if reliving a memory. "Is she ... dead?"

"No," Megumi shakes his head. "She was bitten, but she's too young."

"I know. That's what it is. She's too young!" Yuuji closes his eyes. "Such a young girl - with an entire life ahead of her - and they killed her."

"She wouldn't have been happy in this world," Nobara reasons with him, her voice aloof and serious. "She'll be in a better place, where she'll have a happier future."

"You're going to kill her?" You step forward, still in disbelief, not wanting to leave the girl's side for a moment.

"Yes," Megumi murmurs, his knuckles white and voice low. "We have to."

"We must let her go before others arrive by the stench of blood," Nobara echoes.

You nod. It might be better for her.

"It might even be dangerous if she proves to be older than eight and metamorphose right under our noses," you muse.

"That's why we should ... let her go," Megumi advises no one in particular.

"How should we ... you know," Nobara winces. "Is there a weapon that makes dying less painful? We can't just - slice her open."

"We need to think about that; but with haste," you sigh.

"No," Yuuji intervenes. His voice is sharp and soft, loud yet quiet, and you turn to him.

"We have to-" Nobara insists, but Megumi shakes his head at her, drawing a finger across his neck.

"Please," Yuuji says, and his voice is steady, firm. "For me."

His throat bobs, and that is the only emotion he shows, the only answer you need for you to make your decision.

"Alright," you nod, "we'll let her meet her end herself." The girls breathing became shallow, her chest barely moving, fingertips blue under the red stains. You had to admit, you were even more impressed by her aim and fighting style.

Megumi seems like he wants to refuse, but one look at Yuuji's grateful face and shining eyes has him ditching whatever he was about to say. He claps Yuuji on the shoulder and disappears into the restaurant, the pantry door opening a minute later. Nobara and you enter the restaurant together, and you glance over your shoulder at the girl one last time, and at Yuuji, cradling the girl in his arms with a tenderness you never saw.

. ★·.·´¯`·.·★ .

You spoon canned beans into your mouth, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the pantry, all alone, icy winds weaving their timid fingers through your hair, dancing around you in the dark and silence. Nobara had excused herself, saying she needed to steal some "stuff", and Megumi was nowhere to be seen.

You realize with a pang that Yuuji had been outside for five hours, and he hadn't eaten anything. You never knew how bad death, especially children's suffering traumatized and affected him, but now you knew. And you wished you didn't. You exhale, setting the can aside, your appetite sated, and unwinding to your numb feet, hissing. You quickly shimmy into a pair of jeans that probably belonged to Jesus himself, rips and seams marring the almost-brown-yet-originally-blue fabric, the entire thing barely held together by thread and sheer will. You shrug on Megumi's jacket (I mean, it was lying around - he surely wouldn't mind?) and sneak outside.

The pantry door clicks shut, and you pray Yuuji didn't somehow hear it, prowling across the floor on your toes, h-

You suddenly collide with a hard mass, an oof slipping past your lips.

You stagger back, teeth bared as you glare at Megumi, his spiky hair ruffled and eyes wide.

"Are - You're okay?" He almost reaches out to you, hesitates, and pulls his hand back.

"I'm fine," you nod, "are you?"

"I always am," he shrugs, rubbing his neck, clearing his throat. Your eyes drop to his other arm, and on the tray balanced on it. A corner of your lip lifts, and he stiffens.

"Who's that for?"

"Me."

You raise a brow. "And I am to believe that?"

"Yes."

"You already ate."

"I like to have second helpings," he shrugs, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink.

"You never used to before."

"Well ..." he trails off, gripping the tray firmly. A second of silence passes, and you sigh.

"Let me take this to him," you offer, tentatively touching his arm, your fingertips brushing against his exposed skin. He goes rigid, and dips his chin too quickly, handing you the tray gently. You take inventory of the rice bowl topped with some kind of watery noodles, two cookies and - meatballs? How did he make that with such little ingredients? You faintly grin, remembering the secret stock Megumi staved off and never allowed anyone to use.

Megumi almost walks away, but he stops, and looks at you. "Please take care of him for me."

"I will," he tiptoes off after hearing your reply. You immediately pivot on your heel to go outside and check up on Yuuji.

He's sitting beside a crooked tree in the distance, the brittle winds playing with his hair, yet he doesn't seem to care. You trek up to him, out of breath, and plop down beside him on the cold boulder, gazing out at the destroyed, ruined world, the corpses and trash littering the planet. You place the tray in his lap.

"I buried her under this tree," he whispers to no one, gazing off. "I dug it myself, and put her down as if she was only resting. I asked her if she liked flowers, and her ... her favorite was lilies." His voice cracks, and your eyes dart to the withering lilies spread over a distinct mound of earth just below the tree, and you almost cry at the gesture.

"Aren't you hungry?" You glance at him, at the way he blankly stares at the food.

He shakes his head. "I am. I swear, I could ruthlessly devour you, and this rock, and the tree, and this tray and this damn mosquito in my ear." He inhales sharply, swatting ferociously at his ear. "But - I just can't bring myself to do anything." He glances at you. "It's fine, don't worry. It happens. I always recover a day or two after someone dying in my arms."

You sigh, scooting closer to him, and wrap your arms around his middle, hugging him tight. Something snaps in him, and his shoulders sag, his chest shaking with sniffs. "I can't do anything right. I always swear to myself, to my friends, that I'll be better this time, that I will learn to be as strong as Megumi and brave as Nobara but ... I'm too weak. I want to be unaffected by things like these, but I always fail myself. And my friends."

You don’t let go of him, holding him tight, even when he goes still, like he’s afraid to crumble completely.

You press your cheek to his shoulder and say, low, steady. "No. You don't fail us. You feel for us." You pull back just enough to look up at him. "You think Megumi's strength is not crying? Nobara's bravery is not flinching? Newsflash, genius - you held a dying child in your arms and didn't run away. That's not weak. That's human." You pause, and continue softly. "If your heart's breaking, it means it still works. In this world? That's rare. That's something the rest of us are clinging to."

He looks down at you, eyes rimmed with silver. You smirk, nudging his shoulder.

"Also, if you were like them, I’d have to deal with three emotionally constipated apocalypse teens instead of two. Let me have one sensitive idiot, okay?"

He nods, and you two sit there in silence, the moon glowing over you both, spilling the light around his hair like a halo. You probably looked like an angel, too. Your hands somehow twined together - platonically, of course - the air easier and tension gone, and the light back in his eyes. Just a bit.

"God, I'm so hungry," he moans after a bit. "But I'm also really tired." He grins at you expectantly, and you roll your eyes.

"Idiot," you mutter as you lift the spoon and shove it into his mouth playfully, and he almost chokes. He pulls back and punches you lightly in the side. Just like that, he finishes the meal, teasing and talking, and shares a cookie with you.

You rest your head on his shoulder, munching on the cookie, cream on your lips, both of you dangling your legs.

"You never told us about your past," Yuuji muses aloud.

"I thought you'd never ask," you grab your chest in mock despair, and he rolls his eyes.

"Well, now I'm asking," he ruffles your hair. "And, I believe, as official best friends, we should know more about each other."

You agree (with sarcasm), and the time flies by, weightless and rapid, every moment filled with a confession, a secret and a memory unveiled. By the end of the second hour, you've shared your childhood stories, and he's told the time he met the other two. Your head on his shoulder and his head somehow on yours, arms around each other, seeking the other's warmth, you almost doze off, Yuuji's breaths filling the silence-

"Am I interrupting something?"

You both jerk violently and pull away, already on your feet, at the sound of Nobara's voice. She stands just a few steps ahead of you, arms crossed and an amused smirk on her face.

"What? No- no," you chuckle, pacing to her. "It was nothing-"

"We were just having bro time," Yuuji shrugs, standing from the boulder.

"Didn't look like it," Nobara teases, and you bristle.

"I swear, we were hugging," you groan, "because the both of us were bawling our eyes out at the mention of our past lives."

"Did he mention me?" Nobara quipped.

"Yeah, of course," Yuuji grinned, standing beside you, sticking his tongue out at Nobara.

Movement at the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you spot Megumi standing in the path behind Nobara, staring at the space you and Yuuji were just a few minutes ago. His eyes slowly move to your face, lips slightly parted, before he looks away and turns, stalking away. You almost caught a flicker of shattered dreams and jealousy and disbelief on his face - or maybe you just imagined it.

"Megumi - wait," you call after him, chasing his shadow, cursing yourself for not paying attention when he blends with the darkness and vanishes.

Oh, great.

Part 4:

Perched on the roof of a ramshackle apartment just adjacent your current abode, your eyes are fixed on the street below you, alert for any kind of movement. The streets are illuminated in a ghostly green glow, the streetlights somehow still working, looming shadows cast by deserted houses and deactivated poles. You sigh, flipping your blade in your hands, pressing its tip into your finger, the piercing sensation weirdly stimulating in a dead world.

Right now, you couldn't care less for any zombies - your mind was whirling with the fact that Megumi hadn't spoken to you for more than a week. You clench your jaw, trying to expel the memories from your mind -

Your heart jumps into your throat, palms turning clammy as your feet lead you to the inevitable. Blended in the shadows, you just spotted Megumi sidle into the restaurant, his footsteps muffled, hands in his pockets. You'd wanted to confront him for a while, tell him it was just a misunderstanding.You creep out from the darkness and soundlessly push the door open, its hinges unusually quiet. With cat feet, you cross the grimy tiles, hissing sharply upon stubbing your toe, light streaming from the pantry window. You take a deep breath, go over what you want to say, and carefully push the door open.His hair tousled, eyes bagged, his back is to you from where he's perched on a few cardboard boxes, poring over something on the counter. The door ajar, you try to approach him quietly, but you notice his ears perk up - and he turns sharply.His eyes lock on yours, and for a moment, your breath catches in your throat. "Megumi, I ..." Damn it, damn all of it. You forgot your meticulously rehearsed soliloquy, and you fumble for your words. He instantly shoots to his feet, mumbling something like "I've got to go", pushing past you gently. You pivot on your heels, staring at his retreating form. "Wait! I'm sorry!" "I know," he doesn't look back, hesitating at the threshold.You see your chance and run up to him, keeping your distance. "It was just a misunderstanding.""What are you talking about?" His voice is strained, face turned from yours. Your words die in your throat, and he peels you off of him. The tenderness with which he handles you threatens to crack your heart, and you can do nothing but breathe methodically as you were left alone, once again, all alone, no one but the dark to surround you-

"You left your spirits downstairs," Nobara's casual voice greets you a moment before she shuffles beside you, mirroring your position an dangling her legs.

"Why?" You glance at her, studying her side profile as she places her hands behind her and leans on them, gazing up at the sky.

"Your spirits are fucking low."

"Remind me to revoke your right to make a joke."

"Shut up," she scoffs. "At least I can fight well."

"At least I have humor."

"Humor's gonna save you in front of eight zombies?"

You stick your tongue out at her, and she shakes her head. Time passes by, your eyes on the street, her focus on the sky, a comfortable silence coiled around you, occasionally broken by the whisper of clothes on stone whenever one of you shifted.

Something tugs at your heart, and you open your mouth, unsure how to begin. Nobara's eyes dart to you, expectant.

"Is ... Megumi okay?"

She sighs, pulling her legs back and tucking them under herself, sitting cross-legged. "He's fine," she begins. "He always has been. He's the type to never tell anyone if he's in pain - you just have to find out. And ... then, there's the matter that he doesn't like to be fussed over. You could soothe him with actions, but he's not a one for words."

You nod, your lips pressed into a tight line. "He's a tough nut to crack."

"He is. But that's why we love him. Because ... he's original in times like these. And he hasn't lost himself ever since."

You worry your lip between your teeth, eyeing the pack of zombies limping into the street below, obscene noises ringing out in the hush. "Is Yuuji alright?"

"Yeah," she shrugs. "He has to be - it's been two weeks."

"Where is he? I haven't seen him around."

A smirk tugs on the corner of her lips. "Probably out to get something for me." She notices the expression on your face, and she chuckles. "I haven't told you?"

You shake your head, confused, only one possible answer resonating in your head. "Are you two-"

"NO. God forbid, no," she cringes. "He had his own, and I'm fine like this. What I meant was that it's my birthday next week."

Your mouth hangs open. "Your birthday?"

"When did you go deaf?"

"I mean," you grin, "we're still holding on to this piece of joy we have. I ... this is so, wonderful, Nobara - you haven't forgotten yourself too."

"Why would I?" She tries to feign nonchalance, but her eyes glint. "After all, we should have something to live for. Something worth fighting."

"Yeah..." you nod, suddenly quiet. Something worth fighting. Perhaps ... perhaps, when you lost your family and friends, when you lost your old self - you met these people who were the one; the one to save, to keep going on for.

"I can practically hear your thoughts," Nobara raises her brow. "And don't hit me with that motivational, sentimental talk. I know what you're thinking."

"Whatever," you huff. "Might you grace me with the knowledge of the exact date of your birthday?"

"August 7th. And you're welcome," she grunts, hoisting herself up to her feet. Just three days.

"Where're you going?" you twist back, making out her silhouette in the dark.

"I'm hungry," she announces. "Sweet dreams, y/n. See your infuriating face tomorrow."

"You too, Kugisaki," you murmur, turning to stare once again at the street, the zombies nowhere to be seen.

"Y/n," she interrupts, standing on the edge of the roof, one foot on the pipe. She always preferred to use the quicker way, the stairs never the choice for her. You look at her, at her serious demeanor - her features like flowers carved in stone - soft, yet honed. Strong, yet human. Beauty and bravery, like someone born to rise in harsh times. "You're strong. You should know that. You're strong, and you're unusually brave - and ... and we're lucky to have met you."

Your heart warms, eyes burning - you couldn't remember the last time someone said that, acknowledged you - but you refuse to let your emotions flood your senses, so instead, you flash her a grateful smile. "Now who's acting all sentimental?"

She grins - all sharp edges, calculation and mischief, before dropping down on the pipe, and you hear her shimmy down, the faintest of sound echoing when she drops on the ground.

Silence follows the minutes after Nobara leaves, and you keep no track of time as you count the stars, blazing and diminishing, fading and blinking. But when your breath clouds in front of you, your head heavy with sleep, you uncoil to your feet and retreat, sauntering over to the stairs - a small room on the roof had stairs that led straight below, hiding a getaway. Either you were too heady with fatigue, or you weren't noticing, because you missed the scuffle of feet on the stairs. Your head dropped, you stagger across the roof, the staircase in front of you, and you step into the gloomy room-

And smack face first into a hard wall.

Steady arms wrap around your waist to ground you, and you blink furiously, trying to make sense in the disconcerting lighting, your hands reaching out.

It's only when your hands lie flat against the hard planes of someone's body - body, not wall - that you go still. You cautiously glance up. Up, at Megumi's face.

He sees you finally notice him, and he draw back, gingerly setting you on the floor.

"I'm sorry," you instantly blurt.

"It's fine." He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes tired and - hungry? as his gaze devours you greedily, and he tears his gaze away, jaw clenching, as if chastising himself for giving in. To ... to his desire?

"I should've seen." You try to engage in conversation, heart pounding, the shadows wrapping around him like second skin.

"You couldn't have," he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It's too dark."

"Yeah, I'm ..." you sigh. He stands there, unmoving, and you nervously shift your weight. "Look, I'm sorry. For all the things. But, you need to know that ... you all are my friends. And Yuuji and I don't ... you know." The words taste like ash in your mouth, burning your face and throat to say things like these - to have to explain that you have no feelings for your friend.

He goes silent for a moment, almost contemplative. "Alright. I mean, fine. Not that I care if you had anything going on."

"Yeah, of course," you nod rapidly, sensing his dismissal. Why was he so hard to read?

"Well, I'm going," he clears his throat. "You enjoy."

And even if you don't know it, it pains him to death to leave you like this. Excruciating pain, an ache in his heart he can't soothe. But, he reminds himself, it's to keep you safe, to protect you from someone like him. And with that in mind, he turns back, one foot on the stairs.

"Wait," your voice is now pathetically desperate, and seeing him leave you, just like everyone else you ever knew, snapped something in you.

"Stop turning your back on me!"

He freezes. You hear it, too - the crack in your voice. But it's too late. Angry tears burn your eyes, the neglected girl you thought you'd left behind bursts through. "Stop leaving me like everyone else! What can I do to make you stay? Why won't you look at me, goddamn it? Why can't anyone stay?" You want to stop, to take back the words, but they keep coming, and you can't do anything but spew them out. "Why won't you talk to me, listen to me, actually tell me you're not okay? Why do you have to push me away? Stop it - stop letting me get too close, thinking we're good friends, including me in your group, giving me smiles, and then pushing me away!"

You don't sense him coming - Megumi's hands are around you in an instant, that too long distance finally covered. His firm arms and heady scent embrace you, coaxing the shudders out of you. He swiftly whirls around so that his back is at the wall of the small room in case you both tumbled down the stairs. He holds you tight through the worst of it - and maybe, maybe if you were paying attention, you might've heard his heart beat like a hummingbird's wings under your head, you might've felt him heating up at your proximity - you might've heard his heart shatter to know that what he was doing to keep you safe was actually breaking you.

He buries his head in your hair, the rigidity still there; just a bit eased. "I'm sorry," his voice is too soft, too tentative, and you almost break down again.

"Don't be." You shake your head violently, cheeks burning. Letting yourself be so vulnerable wasn't so bad as making him feel guilty. But you were also tired of being left alone. You had had enough.

"No," he breathes, his chest moving beneath your head, arms tight around you. "I should've known better."

"You couldn't have." Pause. "Megumi..." You feel him tense, your heart racing. "Not everything is your fault, yours to fix. You're human, too. I know that it's not easy for you to express. But ... at least, don't push me away. Don't shut us out when we want to help you. When we want the real you."

He doesn't react, one hand idly brushing your shoulder, drawing some patterns onto the fabric of your shirt, your skin burning under his touch, and you lean into him, wanting to prove to him that you all care. "Fine. But, about you." His hand halts, and you stiffen, worrying he took your words to heart. "What can I say to make you feel better?"

He pulls back timidly, breaking off you just to slide his hands up from your waist to your shoulders, not breaking contact, as if scared you'll fall apart. In those six months you've been a group, he's never looked so worried for you. As worried as he looks now, with his hands on your shoulders, tight, making you look at him, his face close to yours. Too close. You see the intensity in his eyes, the care. "What do you want me to tell you?"

And in that split second, you decide that maybe you'll never have this chance again. Maybe you’d all die before morning. Maybe this was your only chance to ever say what you meant. To show it. Maybe, you all would die before you reached the ground, and you might never be able to express your love and admiration for him. Because, even if Nobara has you whipped - the absolute girlboss, the feminine figure you look up to; even if Yuuji is the friend you always wanted, always admire, and never want to leave; you somehow clicked with Megumi, with this silent person whose actions spoke louder.

And just like you, he's trembling. Not with anger - with the sheer effort of holding himself back. You see it in his jaw, his fingers flexing, the way he flinches when you breathe his name.

But you? You're trembling in anticipation, in thinking what would happen if you actually did what you want to. And seeing him, the emotion in his eyes when he looks at you - something in you breaks. No build-up. No time to think.

So, without second-thinking, you close the gap between you two.

Megumi goes death-still as you press your lips to his; testing, tasting, probing. His lips are soft, angled, in a contrast to his features, and you press closer to him, your hands rising to cup his face with one and pull him closer with the other, clasped around his collar.

He's frozen, and you almost groan in frustration. He's probably still trying to restrain himself, you judge by his hands as they move to grab your waist, but clench midway, showing his control. You yank him closer, crushing your lips against his, and he finally takes the hint. That maybe you don't want to be saved in this world, and you like to take the risk.

His hands settle on your hips before moving up to graze your jaw, the other tangled in your hair. You close your eyes, relaxing around him, and he tugs your hair, your head tilted back, giving him deeper access. His tongue seeks entrance into your mouth, which you gladly give, and god was this man hungry.

You bump teeth, breathe each other's gasps, and it's strange and new because it's your first time. It's uncoordinated, desperate - like you're both trying to speak a language you never learned. But God, he kisses you like he means every word he never said.

His hand tightens in your hair - not too much - as he devoured you, head tilted and lips merged together, tasting and eating you up, the other hand grazing your jaw - then darting down to grab your waist and pull you impossibly closer, your leg hooked around him.

His body trembles, hot under your touch - from passion, yet tinged with panic. His hands stay frozen on your waist, like if he holds tighter, you'll disappear. You taste salt.

Tears. Maybe his. Maybe yours. You angle your head slightly like an invitation, hoping to ease his panic, your fingers leaving his person just to guide his hands over you, to make him sure you won't walk away. What if I'm not the only one who's had everyone leave them?

You press him into the wall, your bodies and mouths fused as one, tasting and teasing, destroying and creating, and a sound slips past your lips, deep from your throat, as his lips graze against your jaw, pressed against your fluttering pulse.

And of course, he pulls back, his eyes glazed and lips swollen, cheeks shining with tears, a disheveled look to his appearance you never saw. He sees you studying him, his face flushing - and he rests his forehead against yours to divert your attention from his flustered state. Who knew, you looked even worse - a blushing, quivering mess. His breath stutters against your cheek. Neither of you speaks. You don't have to. The kiss said everything - and still, not enough.

You shift away so that you can see his face as you trace his chest, the fabric of his jacket rumpled. His jacket. The one you wore. He's been wearing it ever since. His chest heaves, panting, a furious blush spread across his cheeks, his eyes not meeting yours.

"Megumi?" You venture tentatively, reaching up to trace his jaw. He closes his eyes, head resting against the wall, knuckles white. A soft groan emits from him, and you grin devilishly.

"Are you alright?" He nods. Damn him. "Look at me." He refuses, shaking his head petulantly, before giving in and peeking at you, his cheeks burning darkly.

"Are you ... shy?" You grin, and he frowns.

"Did you ... I mean, did you really want that?" His voice is barely audible, his face stoic and calm, yet his voice betraying his façade. Vulnerability and hesitance.

"Do you really think I didn't?" You raise a brow, trying to calm your racing heart.

"I don't know," he shrugs.

"Did you like it?" You wince, terrified for the answer. Dumbass, you didn't even think of him. What if he doesn't like you?

His eyes gleam, and he leans down to you, bringing his face close. "I'm horrible at using my words. But if you want, I can prove just how much I liked it."

"Oh, you insufferable man," you mutter, pulling away, and that's what does it. That tiny gesture.

His restraint - or what was left of it - crumbles like ash. He doesn't call your name. He doesn't ask. He just grabs your wrist and kisses you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he breathes wrong. And this time, you spot him smirk before claiming your lips.

Part 5 in the makings 🎀

Also thanks for readinggg ILYSM 🎀 Please interact more to increase activity, I promise I'll upload more 😔

[saycheeeese]

Zombie Apocalypse x JJK (Part 4)

ft. Megumi, Yuuji and Nobara x y/n. (This one is also kinda long BUT I PROMISE IT'S WORTH IT <3)

★ Part 1 ★

★ Part 2 ★

★ Part 3 ★

Perched on the roof of a ramshackle apartment just adjacent your current abode, your eyes are fixed on the street below you, alert for any kind of movement. The streets are illuminated in a ghostly green glow, the streetlights somehow still working, looming shadows cast by deserted houses and deactivated poles. You sigh, flipping your blade in your hands, pressing its tip into your finger, the piercing sensation weirdly stimulating in a dead world.

Right now, you couldn't care less for any zombies - your mind was whirling with the fact that Megumi hadn't spoken to you for more than a week. You clench your jaw, trying to expel the memories from your mind -

Your heart jumps into your throat, palms turning clammy as your feet lead you to the inevitable. Blended in the shadows, you just spotted Megumi sidle into the restaurant, his footsteps muffled, hands in his pockets. You'd wanted to confront him for a while, tell him it was just a misunderstanding. You creep out from the darkness and soundlessly push the door open, its hinges unusually quiet. With cat feet, you cross the grimy tiles, hissing sharply upon stubbing your toe, light streaming from the pantry window. You take a deep breath, go over what you want to say, and carefully push the door open. His hair tousled, eyes bagged, his back is to you from where he's perched on a few cardboard boxes, poring over something on the counter. The door ajar, you try to approach him quietly, but you notice his ears perk up - and he turns sharply. His eyes lock on yours, and for a moment, your breath catches in your throat. "Megumi, I ..." Damn it, damn all of it. You forgot your meticulously rehearsed soliloquy, and you fumble for your words. He instantly shoots to his feet, mumbling something like "I've got to go", pushing past you gently. You pivot on your heels, staring at his retreating form. "Wait! I'm sorry!" "I know," he doesn't look back, hesitating at the threshold. You see your chance and run up to him, keeping your distance. "It was just a misunderstanding." "What are you talking about?" His voice is strained, face turned from yours. Your words die in your throat, and he peels you off of him. The tenderness with which he handles you threatens to crack your heart, and you can do nothing but breathe methodically as you were left alone, once again, all alone, no one but the dark to surround you-

"You left your spirits downstairs," Nobara's casual voice greets you a moment before she shuffles beside you, mirroring your position an dangling her legs.

"Why?" You glance at her, studying her side profile as she places her hands behind her and leans on them, gazing up at the sky.

"Your spirits are fucking low."

"Remind me to revoke your right to make a joke."

"Shut up," she scoffs. "At least I can fight well."

"At least I have humor."

"Humor's gonna save you in front of eight zombies?"

You stick your tongue out at her, and she shakes her head. Time passes by, your eyes on the street, her focus on the sky, a comfortable silence coiled around you, occasionally broken by the whisper of clothes on stone whenever one of you shifted.

Something tugs at your heart, and you open your mouth, unsure how to begin. Nobara's eyes dart to you, expectant.

"Is ... Megumi okay?"

She sighs, pulling her legs back and tucking them under herself, sitting cross-legged. "He's fine," she begins. "He always has been. He's the type to never tell anyone if he's in pain - you just have to find out. And ... then, there's the matter that he doesn't like to be fussed over. You could soothe him with actions, but he's not a one for words."

You nod, your lips pressed into a tight line. "He's a tough nut to crack."

"He is. But that's why we love him. Because ... he's original in times like these. And he hasn't lost himself ever since."

You worry your lip between your teeth, eyeing the pack of zombies limping into the street below, obscene noises ringing out in the hush. "Is Yuuji alright?"

"Yeah," she shrugs. "He has to be - it's been two weeks."

"Where is he? I haven't seen him around."

A smirk tugs on the corner of her lips. "Probably out to get something for me." She notices the expression on your face, and she chuckles. "I haven't told you?"

You shake your head, confused, only one possible answer resonating in your head. "Are you two-"

"NO. God forbid, no," she cringes. "He had his own, and I'm fine like this. What I meant was that it's my birthday next week."

Your mouth hangs open. "Your birthday?"

"When did you go deaf?"

"I mean," you grin, "we're still holding on to this piece of joy we have. I ... this is so, wonderful, Nobara - you haven't forgotten yourself too."

"Why would I?" She tries to feign nonchalance, but her eyes glint. "After all, we should have something to live for. Something worth fighting."

"Yeah..." you nod, suddenly quiet. Something worth fighting. Perhaps ... perhaps, when you lost your family and friends, when you lost your old self - you met these people who were the one; the one to save, to keep going on for.

"I can practically hear your thoughts," Nobara raises her brow. "And don't hit me with that motivational, sentimental talk. I know what you're thinking."

"Whatever," you huff. "Might you grace me with the knowledge of the exact date of your birthday?"

"August 7th. And you're welcome," she grunts, hoisting herself up to her feet. Just three days.

"Where're you going?" you twist back, making out her silhouette in the dark.

"I'm hungry," she announces. "Sweet dreams, y/n. See your infuriating face tomorrow."

"You too, Kugisaki," you murmur, turning to stare once again at the street, the zombies nowhere to be seen.

"Y/n," she interrupts, standing on the edge of the roof, one foot on the pipe. She always preferred to use the quicker way, the stairs never the choice for her. You look at her, at her serious demeanor - her features like flowers carved in stone - soft, yet honed. Strong, yet human. Beauty and bravery, like someone born to rise in harsh times. "You're strong. You should know that. You're strong, and you're unusually brave - and ... and we're lucky to have met you."

Your heart warms, eyes burning - you couldn't remember the last time someone said that, acknowledged you - but you refuse to let your emotions flood your senses, so instead, you flash her a grateful smile. "Now who's acting all sentimental?"

She grins - all sharp edges, calculation and mischief, before dropping down on the pipe, and you hear her shimmy down, the faintest of sound echoing when she drops on the ground.

Silence follows the minutes after Nobara leaves, and you keep no track of time as you count the stars, blazing and diminishing, fading and blinking. But when your breath clouds in front of you, your head heavy with sleep, you uncoil to your feet and retreat, sauntering over to the stairs - a small room on the roof had stairs that led straight below, hiding a getaway. Either you were too heady with fatigue, or you weren't noticing, because you missed the scuffle of feet on the stairs. Your head dropped, you stagger across the roof, the staircase in front of you, and you step into the gloomy room-

And smack face first into a hard wall.

Steady arms wrap around your waist to ground you, and you blink furiously, trying to make sense in the disconcerting lighting, your hands reaching out.

It's only when your hands lie flat against the hard planes of someone's body - body, not wall - that you go still. You cautiously glance up. Up, at Megumi's face.

He sees you finally notice him, and he draw back, gingerly setting you on the floor.

"I'm sorry," you instantly blurt.

"It's fine." He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes tired and - hungry? as his gaze devours you greedily, and he tears his gaze away, jaw clenching, as if chastising himself for giving in. To ... to his desire?

"I should've seen." You try to engage in conversation, heart pounding, the shadows wrapping around him like second skin.

"You couldn't have," he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It's too dark."

"Yeah, I'm ..." you sigh. He stands there, unmoving, and you nervously shift your weight. "Look, I'm sorry. For all the things. But, you need to know that ... you all are my friends. And Yuuji and I don't ... you know." The words taste like ash in your mouth, burning your face and throat to say things like these - to have to explain that you have no feelings for your friend.

He goes silent for a moment, almost contemplative. "Alright. I mean, fine. Not that I care if you had anything going on."

"Yeah, of course," you nod rapidly, sensing his dismissal. Why was he so hard to read?

"Well, I'm going," he clears his throat. "You enjoy."

And even if you don't know it, it pains him to death to leave you like this. Excruciating pain, an ache in his heart he can't soothe. But, he reminds himself, it's to keep you safe, to protect you from someone like him. And with that in mind, he turns back, one foot on the stairs.

"Wait," your voice is now pathetically desperate, and seeing him leave you, just like everyone else you ever knew, snapped something in you.

"Stop turning your back on me!"

He freezes. You hear it, too - the crack in your voice. But it's too late. Angry tears burn your eyes, the neglected girl you thought you'd left behind bursts through. "Stop leaving me like everyone else! What can I do to make you stay? Why won't you look at me, goddamn it? Why can't anyone stay?" You want to stop, to take back the words, but they keep coming, and you can't do anything but spew them out. "Why won't you talk to me, listen to me, actually tell me you're not okay? Why do you have to push me away? Stop it - stop letting me get too close, thinking we're good friends, including me in your group, giving me smiles, and then pushing me away!"

You don't sense him coming - Megumi's hands are around you in an instant, that too long distance finally covered. His firm arms and heady scent embrace you, coaxing the shudders out of you. He swiftly whirls around so that his back is at the wall of the small room in case you both tumbled down the stairs. He holds you tight through the worst of it - and maybe, maybe if you were paying attention, you might've heard his heart beat like a hummingbird's wings under your head, you might've felt him heating up at your proximity - you might've heard his heart shatter to know that what he was doing to keep you safe was actually breaking you.

He buries his head in your hair, the rigidity still there; just a bit eased. "I'm sorry," his voice is too soft, too tentative, and you almost break down again.

"Don't be." You shake your head violently, cheeks burning. Letting yourself be so vulnerable wasn't so bad as making him feel guilty. But you were also tired of being left alone. You had had enough.

"No," he breathes, his chest moving beneath your head, arms tight around you. "I should've known better."

"You couldn't have." Pause. "Megumi..." You feel him tense, your heart racing. "Not everything is your fault, yours to fix. You're human, too. I know that it's not easy for you to express. But ... at least, don't push me away. Don't shut us out when we want to help you. When we want the real you."

He doesn't react, one hand idly brushing your shoulder, drawing some patterns onto the fabric of your shirt, your skin burning under his touch, and you lean into him, wanting to prove to him that you all care. "Fine. But, about you." His hand halts, and you stiffen, worrying he took your words to heart. "What can I say to make you feel better?"

He pulls back timidly, breaking off you just to slide his hands up from your waist to your shoulders, not breaking contact, as if scared you'll fall apart. In those six months you've been a group, he's never looked so worried for you. As worried as he looks now, with his hands on your shoulders, tight, making you look at him, his face close to yours. Too close. You see the intensity in his eyes, the care. "What do you want me to tell you?"

And in that split second, you decide that maybe you'll never have this chance again. Maybe you’d all die before morning. Maybe this was your only chance to ever say what you meant. To show it. Maybe, you all would die before you reached the ground, and you might never be able to express your love and admiration for him. Because, even if Nobara has you whipped - the absolute girlboss, the feminine figure you look up to; even if Yuuji is the friend you always wanted, always admire, and never want to leave; you somehow clicked with Megumi, with this silent person whose actions spoke louder.

And just like you, he's trembling. Not with anger - with the sheer effort of holding himself back. You see it in his jaw, his fingers flexing, the way he flinches when you breathe his name.

But you? You're trembling in anticipation, in thinking what would happen if you actually did what you want to. And seeing him, the emotion in his eyes when he looks at you - something in you breaks. No build-up. No time to think.

So, without second-thinking, you close the gap between you two.

Megumi goes death-still as you press your lips to his; testing, tasting, probing. His lips are soft, angled, in a contrast to his features, and you press closer to him, your hands rising to cup his face with one and pull him closer with the other, clasped around his collar.

He's frozen, and you almost groan in frustration. He's probably still trying to restrain himself, you judge by his hands as they move to grab your waist, but clench midway, showing his control. You yank him closer, crushing your lips against his, and he finally takes the hint. That maybe you don't want to be saved in this world, and you like to take the risk.

His hands settle on your hips before moving up to graze your jaw, the other tangled in your hair. You close your eyes, relaxing around him, and he tugs your hair, your head tilted back, giving him deeper access. His tongue seeks entrance into your mouth, which you gladly give, and god was this man hungry.

You bump teeth, breathe each other's gasps, and it's strange and new because it's your first time. It's uncoordinated, desperate - like you're both trying to speak a language you never learned. But God, he kisses you like he means every word he never said.

His hand tightens in your hair - not too much - as he devoured you, head tilted and lips merged together, tasting and eating you up, the other hand grazing your jaw - then darting down to grab your waist and pull you impossibly closer, your leg hooked around him.

His body trembles, hot under your touch - from passion, yet tinged with panic. His hands stay frozen on your waist, like if he holds tighter, you'll disappear. You taste salt.

Tears. Maybe his. Maybe yours. You angle your head slightly like an invitation, hoping to ease his panic, your fingers leaving his person just to guide his hands over you, to make him sure you won't walk away. What if I'm not the only one who's had everyone leave them?

You press him into the wall, your bodies and mouths fused as one, tasting and teasing, destroying and creating, and a sound slips past your lips, deep from your throat, as his lips graze against your jaw, pressed against your fluttering pulse.

And of course, he pulls back, his eyes glazed and lips swollen, cheeks shining with tears, a disheveled look to his appearance you never saw. He sees you studying him, his face flushing - and he rests his forehead against yours to divert your attention from his flustered state. Who knew, you looked even worse - a blushing, quivering mess. His breath stutters against your cheek. Neither of you speaks. You don't have to. The kiss said everything - and still, not enough.

You shift away so that you can see his face as you trace his chest, the fabric of his jacket rumpled. His jacket. The one you wore. He's been wearing it ever since. His chest heaves, panting, a furious blush spread across his cheeks, his eyes not meeting yours.

"Megumi?" You venture tentatively, reaching up to trace his jaw. He closes his eyes, head resting against the wall, knuckles white. A soft groan emits from him, and you grin devilishly.

"Are you alright?" He nods. Damn him. "Look at me." He refuses, shaking his head petulantly, before giving in and peeking at you, his cheeks burning darkly.

"Are you ... shy?" You grin, and he frowns.

"Did you ... I mean, did you really want that?" His voice is barely audible, his face stoic and calm, yet his voice betraying his façade. Vulnerability and hesitance.

"Do you really think I didn't?" You raise a brow, trying to calm your racing heart.

"I don't know," he shrugs.

"Did you like it?" You wince, terrified for the answer. Dumbass, you didn't even think of him. What if he doesn't like you?

His eyes gleam, and he leans down to you, bringing his face close. "I'm horrible at using my words. But if you want, I can prove just how much I liked it."

"Oh, you insufferable man," you mutter, pulling away, and that's what does it. That tiny gesture.

His restraint - or what was left of it - crumbles like ash. He doesn't call your name. He doesn't ask. He just grabs your wrist and kisses you like he's afraid you'll vanish if he breathes wrong. And this time, you spot him smirk before claiming your lips.

(★ Is a Part 5 needed? Where we see Nobara's birthday and Megumi's attitude towards y/n now? ★)

[saycheeeese]

I just realized I said earlier that I liked to draw, but I never uploaded any 😭 So for today I decided to post a random picture of a random OC I made - it's the third ever drawing I've made digitally on a Docomo Tablet so ancient I'm sure it has an original recording of the Big Bang.

Anyways, here you go 🎀 Y'all please give me some art tips + advice cause I KNOW it doesn't look good 🥀 And I swear the colors are duller than how I made them IDK WHYY HER LIPS WERE SO JUICY 😭😭 (HER ABS WERE VISIBLE ON IBIS PAINT AND SHIRT AND LIPS WERE JUICYYYY 😭🥀) DO NOT REBLOG / REPOST WITHOUT CREDITING ME - DO NOT STEAL OR COPY MY ART.

[saycheeeese]

Zombie Apocalypse x JJK (Part 3)

ft. Megumi, Yuuji and Nobara x y/n. (It's kinda long, but I hope it's worth it!<3)

୨୧ Part 1 ୨୧

★ Part 2★

They had finally included you in their group two weeks after you met. Nobara says she liked your bravery, confidence and fighting style. Yuuji says he likes your personality, intelligence and adaptability. Megumi says nothing specific. Though, him telling you they'd like you to be a part of their group was enough of a compliment.

Now, you sit on the dusty floor of the pantry, acuminating your dagger with oil and a huge rock Yuuji aimed at you. Him and Megumi are trying to fix a meal, bickering over what step should be done first according to the box, and what can be substituted for-

"I told you we shouldn't have used kale!" Megumi's voice rose, frustrated.

"I like kale with sandwiches!" Yuuji winces.

"Well I don't. And no one except you does."

"You can literally take it out of the sandwich, you know?"

"It still leaves a bitter aftertaste."

"You shouldn't have used it raw."

"You shouldn't have given advice."

Yuuji scoffs. "You all are so picky. I just know (y/n) will eat it and like it. And won't complain like immature children."

"Good luck," Megumi glances at you. "You have my prayers."

You look up from your dagger, Yuuji's reflection clear in it. "How bad could it be?"

"You're really asking that?" Megumi raises his brow, picking up the dry bread slices you and Nobara hoarded from a distant farm, abandoned only recently, gore spread about the estate.

"Typically, whenever someone asks that in a movie," Nobara hops down from her bed - the wiry triple-bunk just one crank away from combustion - and walks over to Megumi, snatching the bread from his hands. "It doesn't end well. That's why even my guardian angels won't ever catch me saying What could possibly go wrong."

Yuuji hands you the sandwich, the crusty bread crumbling in your palms, stuffed with something weirdly resembling mayonnaise, the thinnest slice of cheese ever known to mankind, boiled pieces of some random hunted bird and a large wafer of kale.

"When was the last time you saw a movie?" Yuuji prompts, staring at Nobara in awe.

"To be honest, I don't even r-"

An ear-splitting racket echoed outside the pantry, quickly followed by a high-pitched shriek. Your heart stops, sputters, then jumps into your throat. How did they find us?

Megumi's already stalking toward the door with a long knife. You blink in confusion; where did he get that? You assume he pulled out of his ass, and that was the only logical explanation as you uncoiled to your feet, unsheathing your own dagger from the belt around your waist and trailed after him, quiet on your feet. Nobara fiddles with a makeshift shuriken, its edges drawing out blood from her fingertips. Yuuji is pressed against your back, his breath at your neck as he rises on his toes.

"Let me see," he insists, fingers digging in your waist to hoist himself up. It takes you a lot of effort not to move or even breathe.

Megumi notices Yuuji, the way he's so close to you, and his eyes narrow. "Get away from her."

"But I want to see," Yuuji groans, rising on his toes, putting more pressure against you. Totally platonic, you tell yourself, every atom in your body frozen.

"Bring a chair or something. Stop it right now," Megumi hisses, whirling to the door instead. He peeps through the hazy glass you all are trying to see past. Your eyes only make out darkness, its black folds cocooning over every surface like silk, a few beams of moonlight piercing the black. Another gut-wrenching scream makes you jolt, and Yuuji steadies you, his hands trembling.

Megumi doesn't say a word as he wrenches the door open and sprints outside. You stare after him, choices and decisions running in your mind full-circle, and before you knew it, you were dashing after him. Nobara and Yuuji catch up to you swiftly, the scuff of shoes and hushed panting filling the dark restaurant as you make your way through the overturned tables and drooping wires. You wrench open the door and halt, the world crashing to a stop around you.

A girl just shy of six is curled up on the pavement, her unruly hair a curtain between her and the rest of the world. Sobs rack her frail body, and your eyes drop to the pool of red-

Shit.

Two zombies are sprawled around her, one with a knife in its eye and the other sliced open from the groin, their heads smashed open. But it does nothing to hide the shimmer of red on their teeth, the blood fresh on the ground. Megumi swears beside you and rushes to the girl, his hands fisted. Nobara jogs to his side, jaw clenched with anger and emotion, spewing words of contempt. You reach them in a few strides, your mind spinning, and you can do nothing but swallow your gasp as Megumi pushes the girl's hair behind to reveal gruesome puncture marks near her collarbone, her neck tainted in sprays of red. She groans, tears rolling over her cherubic cheeks, and she slowly opens her eyes, wincing, as if the action itself caused her pain. A tight knot is in your throat, and you feel Megumi stiffen as the girl latches her wide, brown eyes on his face, her lips wobbling and failing to form around words.

He pulls back, his face gaunt and eyes dark, and you mirror his movement. "Why isn't she transforming?" You breathe out, terrified to speak louder in case the zombies came back.

Nobara clears her throat, trying to blink away the horror from her eyes. "She's too young. The victim must be older than eight for their body to accept the virus and reanimate as the dead. Because the youngest zombie corpse able to be reincarnated is about nine, too-young humans can't ... can't change." Her voice cracks, but she keeps up her strong façade, lifting her chin and ambling over to Megumi.

"So what will happen? To her?" You gaze at the girl, transfixed by her childlike beauty, and her caramel eyes close tightly, her hand trying to staunch the blood dribbling from her neck.

"She'll die. Simply. It shouldn't be painful, but we might never know," Megumi answers softly, biting his lip in thought. The girl whines, her small voice laced with pain, weeping for her mother, and your friends' faces tighten.

Steps sound behind you, and the three of you freeze, bracing for-

A disgruntled sound emits from the threshold, and you swivel on the spot. Yuuji's eyes are locked on the girl, his face pale. Megumi is there in an instant, grounding Yuuji with his arms pressing down on his shoulders. "Itadori."

He shakes his head, not looking at him.

"Itadori. Look at me." Megumi shakes him gingerly, his voice pleading.

Yuuji lifts his glazed eyes to Megumi, as if reliving a memory. "Is she ... dead?"

"No," Megumi shakes his head. "She was bitten, but she's too young."

"I know. That's what it is. She's too young!" Yuuji closes his eyes. "Such a young girl - with an entire life ahead of her - and they killed her."

"She wouldn't have been happy in this world," Nobara reasons with him, her voice aloof and serious. "She'll be in a better place, where she'll have a happier future."

"You're going to kill her?" You step forward, still in disbelief, not wanting to leave the girl's side for a moment.

"Yes," Megumi murmurs, his knuckles white and voice low. "We have to."

"We must let her go before others arrive by the stench of blood," Nobara echoes.

You nod. It might be better for her.

"It might even be dangerous if she proves to be older than eight and metamorphose right under our noses," you muse.

"That's why we should ... let her go," Megumi advises no one in particular.

"How should we ... you know," Nobara winces. "Is there a weapon that makes dying less painful? We can't just - slice her open."

"We need to think about that; but with haste," you sigh.

"No," Yuuji intervenes. His voice is sharp and soft, loud yet quiet, and you turn to him.

"We have to-" Nobara insists, but Megumi shakes his head at her, drawing a finger across his neck.

"Please," Yuuji says, and his voice is steady, firm. "For me."

His throat bobs, and that is the only emotion he shows, the only answer you need for you to make your decision.

"Alright," you nod, "we'll let her meet her end herself." The girls breathing became shallow, her chest barely moving, fingertips blue under the red stains. You had to admit, you were even more impressed by her aim and fighting style.

Megumi seems like he wants to refuse, but one look at Yuuji's grateful face and shining eyes has him ditching whatever he was about to say. He claps Yuuji on the shoulder and disappears into the restaurant, the pantry door opening a minute later. Nobara and you enter the restaurant together, and you glance over your shoulder at the girl one last time, and at Yuuji, cradling the girl in his arms with a tenderness you never saw.

. ★·.·´¯`·.·★ .

You spoon canned beans into your mouth, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the pantry, all alone, icy winds weaving their timid fingers through your hair, dancing around you in the dark and silence. Nobara had excused herself, saying she needed to steal some "stuff", and Megumi was nowhere to be seen.

You realize with a pang that Yuuji had been outside for five hours, and he hadn't eaten anything. You never knew how bad death, especially children's suffering traumatized and affected him, but now you knew. And you wished you didn't. You exhale, setting the can aside, your appetite sated, and unwinding to your numb feet, hissing. You quickly shimmy into a pair of jeans that probably belonged to Jesus himself, rips and seams marring the almost-brown-yet-originally-blue fabric, the entire thing barely held together by thread and sheer will. You shrug on Megumi's jacket (I mean, it was lying around - he surely wouldn't mind?) and sneak outside.

The pantry door clicks shut, and you pray Yuuji didn't somehow hear it, prowling across the floor on your toes, h-

You suddenly collide with a hard mass, an oof slipping past your lips.

You stagger back, teeth bared as you glare at Megumi, his spiky hair ruffled and eyes wide.

"Are - You're okay?" He almost reaches out to you, hesitates, and pulls his hand back.

"I'm fine," you nod, "are you?"

"I always am," he shrugs, rubbing his neck, clearing his throat. Your eyes drop to his other arm, and on the tray balanced on it. A corner of your lip lifts, and he stiffens.

"Who's that for?"

"Me."

You raise a brow. "And I am to believe that?"

"Yes."

"You already ate."

"I like to have second helpings," he shrugs, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink.

"You never used to before."

"Well ..." he trails off, gripping the tray firmly. A second of silence passes, and you sigh.

"Let me take this to him," you offer, tentatively touching his arm, your fingertips brushing against his exposed skin. He goes rigid, and dips his chin too quickly, handing you the tray gently. You take inventory of the rice bowl topped with some kind of watery noodles, two cookies and - meatballs? How did he make that with such little ingredients? You faintly grin, remembering the secret stock Megumi staved off and never allowed anyone to use.

Megumi almost walks away, but he stops, and looks at you. "Please take care of him for me."

"I will," he tiptoes off after hearing your reply. You immediately pivot on your heel to go outside and check up on Yuuji.

He's sitting beside a crooked tree in the distance, the brittle winds playing with his hair, yet he doesn't seem to care. You trek up to him, out of breath, and plop down beside him on the cold boulder, gazing out at the destroyed, ruined world, the corpses and trash littering the planet. You place the tray in his lap.

"I buried her under this tree," he whispers to no one, gazing off. "I dug it myself, and put her down as if she was only resting. I asked her if she liked flowers, and her ... her favorite was lilies." His voice cracks, and your eyes dart to the withering lilies spread over a distinct mound of earth just below the tree, and you almost cry at the gesture.

"Aren't you hungry?" You glance at him, at the way he blankly stares at the food.

He shakes his head. "I am. I swear, I could ruthlessly devour you, and this rock, and the tree, and this tray and this damn mosquito in my ear." He inhales sharply, swatting ferociously at his ear. "But - I just can't bring myself to do anything." He glances at you. "It's fine, don't worry. It happens. I always recover a day or two after someone dying in my arms."

You sigh, scooting closer to him, and wrap your arms around his middle, hugging him tight. Something snaps in him, and his shoulders sag, his chest shaking with sniffs. "I can't do anything right. I always swear to myself, to my friends, that I'll be better this time, that I will learn to be as strong as Megumi and brave as Nobara but ... I'm too weak. I want to be unaffected by things like these, but I always fail myself. And my friends."

You don’t let go of him, holding him tight, even when he goes still, like he’s afraid to crumble completely.

You press your cheek to his shoulder and say, low, steady. "No. You don't fail us. You feel for us." You pull back just enough to look up at him. "You think Megumi's strength is not crying? Nobara's bravery is not flinching? Newsflash, genius - you held a dying child in your arms and didn't run away. That's not weak. That's human." You pause, and continue softly. "If your heart's breaking, it means it still works. In this world? That's rare. That's something the rest of us are clinging to."

He looks down at you, eyes rimmed with silver. You smirk, nudging his shoulder.

"Also, if you were like them, I’d have to deal with three emotionally constipated apocalypse teens instead of two. Let me have one sensitive idiot, okay?"

He nods, and you two sit there in silence, the moon glowing over you both, spilling the light around his hair like a halo. You probably looked like an angel, too. Your hands somehow twined together - platonically, of course - the air easier and tension gone, and the light back in his eyes. Just a bit.

"God, I'm so hungry," he moans after a bit. "But I'm also really tired." He grins at you expectantly, and you roll your eyes.

"Idiot," you mutter as you lift the spoon and shove it into his mouth playfully, and he almost chokes. He pulls back and punches you lightly in the side. Just like that, he finishes the meal, teasing and talking, and shares a cookie with you.

You rest your head on his shoulder, munching on the cookie, cream on your lips, both of you dangling your legs.

"You never told us about your past," Yuuji muses aloud.

"I thought you'd never ask," you grab your chest in mock despair, and he rolls his eyes.

"Well, now I'm asking," he ruffles your hair. "And, I believe, as official best friends, we should know more about each other."

You agree (with sarcasm), and the time flies by, weightless and rapid, every moment filled with a confession, a secret and a memory unveiled. By the end of the second hour, you've shared your childhood stories, and he's told the time he met the other two. Your head on his shoulder and his head somehow on yours, arms around each other, seeking the other's warmth, you almost doze off, Yuuji's breaths filling the silence-

"Am I interrupting something?"

You both jerk violently and pull away, already on your feet, at the sound of Nobara's voice. She stands just a few steps ahead of you, arms crossed and an amused smirk on her face.

"What? No- no," you chuckle, pacing to her. "It was nothing-"

"We were just having bro time," Yuuji shrugs, standing from the boulder.

"Didn't look like it," Nobara teases, and you bristle.

"I swear, we were hugging," you groan, "because the both of us were bawling our eyes out at the mention of our past lives."

"Did he mention me?" Nobara quipped.

"Yeah, of course," Yuuji grinned, standing beside you, sticking his tongue out at Nobara.

Movement at the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you spot Megumi standing in the path behind Nobara, staring at the space you and Yuuji were just a few minutes ago. His eyes slowly move to your face, lips slightly parted, before he looks away and turns, stalking away. You almost caught a flicker of shattered dreams and jealousy and disbelief on his face - or maybe you just imagined it.

"Megumi - wait," you call after him, chasing his shadow, cursing yourself for not paying attention when he blends with the darkness and vanishes.

Oh, great.

(do you guys want me to drag it out, a slow burn, or do you want some ... bonding time in the next part? 🎀)

[saycheeeese]

Zombie Apocalypse x JJK (Part 2)

ft. Megumi, Yuuji and Nobara x y/n.

୨୧ Part 1 ୨୧

୨୧ Part 3 ୨୧

By some strange miracle, the four have you haven't encountered any zombies since you met - which makes it two days. They warmed up to you fine enough, but still, you can't help but envy the special bond they have in times like these. Good for them, you think. At least they have something to fight for. Or someone.

They led you to a dilapidated restaurant, soundlessly weaving their way through the haphazard tables and seats, and took you into the pantry. Though it was dusty cold, it certainly had ample space - and the racks were lined with canned foods and non-perishables: dried beans, oatmeal, uncooked porridge boxes, white rice, boxed pasta, powdered milk, vats of honey, bottles of spirit, hard cheeses, and a stack of dried fruit. It was difficult for you to suppress the rumble in your stomach while they quickly fixed a tiny meal that would do.

Yuuji and Nobara had fought like animals to snag the big container on the top rack, and without them even noticing, Megumi had silently retrieved it, leaving them to fight. The plastic container had oats soaked in milk, and it was a lot of them.

"Help yourselves," Megumi said, sitting cross-legged on the floor where you and the two joined him. They took heaping spoonsful straight from the dish, and you'd hesitated before digging in.

"Is this ... porridge?" You'd inquired - the food was not so bad. At least it wasn't rotten.

"Yup," Yuuji nodded, swallowing his bite hastily and choking. Megumi punched his back hard, a loud thump sounding in the pantry, and his face turned red. Nobara shifted closer to you, disgust written on her face.

"We soak them overnight in milk," she explained, "Or we keep them soaking as long as we're gone from ... home." She said the last word a bit quietly, and you nodded, taking another bite. What had happened of your home? You shook the thought from your head. In this world, love was a weakness that could be used against you.

Despite the yawning cavity in your stomach, you'd filled up pretty quickly and excused yourself. They'd covered the porridge and put it back, Nobara turning to you.

"What next? Want to sleep, or ...?" She tilted her head.

"Kick some butt?" Yuuji raised a brow, his smile less brighter.

"Neither. We have to go and get some new tools to sharpen our weapons," Megumi announced, arms folded. "We can't kill them with a blunt stick and a can of beans."

You dipped your chin once. It was probably good for you to acquire a new weapon. You unbound your hair and tied it into a braid, the bun falling apart. The laces in your shoes long since gone, you catch up to them.

"Where are we going?" You ask as the four of you exit the safety of the restaurant.

"There's a house some streets away," Yuuji debriefs you, one hand on his crooked, rusted dagger, and focus on his surroundings, "that belonged to a either a mayor or a weaponsmith. You should see the basement - it's full of knives and swords and daggers and arrows."

"We stock up from there about every month," Nobara says from behind you. She and Megumi bring up the rear while you and Yuuji lead the team. Team. A small smile blooms on your lips, and you immediately smother it, scared to let yourself be happy nowadays - because your happiness is always snatched from you.

Yuuji doesn't miss it. "She smiles!" He whisper-shouts, grinning, flipping the dagger in his hand. "You know, you look good when you smile. Alive."

"I ... don't deserve to smile, you know," you confess. "I've killed too many people, and everything I've ever loved has - you know, died. Or zombie-fied."

Yuuji doesn't flinch, like you expected him to. Murderer. He gives you a sideways glance, and his eyes are full of sorrow and understanding. He looks at you for a moment, then softly says, "You know, I also thought that. That ... I don't deserve this all. I don't deserve them. Because I killed a lot of people." He swallows. "But that’s exactly why you - we - deserve to smile. Because the world’s taken everything it could from you, and you're still here - still human. Still you. That smile? It’s not a betrayal. It’s rebellion. You're showing them that they can destroy your world all they like, but they can never destroy you. Let them rot and die at your hands - you're alive; so you deserve to feel alive."

You worry your lip, not letting the tears burning your eyes fall.

“Wow. That’s dramatic," Nobara nudges you with her elbow playfully as she sidles up to your side. "You should write a memoir. ‘How I Killed Everyone and Still Managed to Look Hot While Crying in the Dark’ Bestseller, easy.”

You roll your eyes. "You should write 'How I'm Living In a Zombie Apocalypse and Still Manage to Look Gorgeous and Have Shiny Hair.' Honestly, are you aiming for a shampoo commercial?"

"Pfft, I've dyed it," she dismisses your compliment like a mere fly. "It w-"

The rattle of tin and scuffling shoes makes you instantly tense, back straight and legs apart, dagger poised in hand. Well, what's left of it.

Nobara flanks your right and Yuuji your left, Megumi as silent as a cat behind you, obviously alert.

"Did you - did you hear it?" You breathe, your breath clouding in the musty, cold air. Your ears pick up obscene groaning noises before you spot them.

Five zombies, limping towards you all with unusual speed, blood smeared on their clothes and splattered on their faces. You cringe, and clench your dagger tightly. "Company," you say under your breath.

"I hope you weren't lying when you said you could kill them," Megumi whispers in your ear, "because we'll need all hands we can get."

"I thought you could fight?" You slightly turn, his face too close and eyes wide, assessing.

"We can," his breath tickles the shell of your ear, "but we need to be fast if we don't want more to come - and you might prove a distraction if you scream for help."

You nod sharply, pivoting ahead, a plan in your mind.

"We got seven incoming!" Nobara hissed. You start. Seven? Two more must've been hiding.

"I told you this path was cursed," Yuuji groans, his fists poised.

You take a deep breath and roll up your sleeves. "Weapons can wait," you mutter. You scan the area once more before sprinting. A garbage can, scaffoldings, something that resembles an oil can, some fractured glass shards and heaps of stone; gravel, flint, rock, granite and other unidentified materials. You'll make it work.

Your feet are a blur as you overtake the nearest zombie without it noticing. By the time it realized its target vanished, you kick its back hard and bury your dagger in its skull. The zombie is flung ahead - straight onto Nobara's ready dagger. She recoils. "I didn't even aim."

"You're welcome," you breathe, focusing as two more round on you. The other four zombies aim for your team - very well. They can fight, you think.

You rip a bent metal bar from the scaffolding and duck low. One stumbles into the bar, and you lift. Momentum does the rest. It somersaults over you and cracks against the pavement, its innards oozing out.

You barely pause to breathe. An oil can glints beside a trash bin. You snatch it and hurl it at the last one, your shoulder burning. It bursts and black slick spreads under the zombie. You pivot, wrench open the dumpster, and catch it mid-stumble. You drag it halfway in, then slam the metal lid on its neck. Over. And over. And over.

It stops moving after the third. You flip your dagger in your hands and slice it through its head. The blunt edge does little to harm. You swear colorfully and instead pick up a shard of mirror - just a sliver - and jab it into its eye.

You whirl back, chest heaving, hands covered in rotting blood, the oil creating a path from the can to the middle of the street. Movement at the corner of your eye makes you look up - shit. Zombie backup.

Four more zombies drop down from a ramshackle building, the crooked stairs giving them purchase. In a matter of seconds, they descend and approach your friends. Shit. Eight zombies.

They make quick, neat work of the zombies, but you know that more will come if you don't leave quick. Your eyes dart across the area - and you're moving before you know it.

You retrieve a piece of flint from the corner, pivot on your feet and bolt back, kneel beside the oil spill and whip out your dagger. You mutter some prayers to whoever's listening, and strike the dagger against the flint - once, twice, thrice.

Nothing, nothing, n-

A spark. You rub it again, your breath caught in your throat.

"Is she-" Nobara's voice floats over to you. She grunts and impales a zombie.

"Please tell me she's not doing what I think she's doing," Yuuji grits his teeth as he punches a zombie, its head twisting a full 180 degrees.

"Why would she light a fire?" Megumi adds, beating the hell out of two zombies.

You look up. "GUYS! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THEM!"

You only give them one warning before lighting the oil, sparks igniting from your dagger. You uncoil to your feet and run. Faster than you've ever run, your feet barely touch the ground as the four of you scurry to the end of the alley and beyond. You're running, out of breath, when you feel the heat at your back, the smell of charred flesh and burning ash singeing your nostrils. You deem it safe to stop, and the four of you halt your frantic dashing.

Megumi wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back against him, closer to the group and away from the fire. His chest heaves behind your back, and it takes a while before you all are composed. You slip out of his grip, your face inexplicably warm.

"What the hell-" Yuuji chokes.

"Coast is clear," you mutter.

The three of them glance at each other - and then grin. Fiendishly.

"I knew I liked you for a reason," Nobara claps you on the back.

"You're terrifying," Yuuji grins. "Terrifyingly amazing! Next time, warn us before you go full apocalypse MacGyver."

"I'll admit, I'm impressed," Megumi stuffs his hands in his pockets, a ghost of a smile on his face. "You should be proud of those skills, not horrified by them. Saving our asses back there - thank you."

You shrug, a warm feeling in your gut. And you smile, your face lighting up. Smoke puffs from behind you, the ruby and amber flames doused out - thankfully. You turn to them.

"Let's retrieve our weapons, shall we?"

★ Who do you want reader to end up with? Yuuji or Megumi? Part 3 soon ★

[saycheeeese]

ft. Megumi, Yuuji and Nobara x y/n.

୨୧ Part 2 ୨୧

୨୧ Part 3 ୨୧

It's been 281 days since you last saw another human being. You couldn't risk staying outdoors for long - that is, unless you want to run into a zombie. Those mutilated creatures now practically roam more than half of the world, and in only the 2 years they've been here, they've gotten way stronger. By raiding countless shops, they've enhanced their artillery and population, and the death rate drastically goes up daily.

Now, you're crouched on top of the run-down building you've been living in for the past few months, peeking over the edge, ears perked for any sort of noise. You ran out of rations a week ago, and you've managed to scrape by, occasionally coming across a god-forsaken convenience store, the lights fused and the entire area reeking of dust and wet carpet, a few canned foods edible in the midst of rotting perishables. So you finally got the courage to venture into the gloom and snag something to give you some kind of nourishment.

You almost deem the area safe when you hear the noise of rock crunching. Your breath catches in your throat and you drop to your knees, daring to look over the edge. Your eyes strain and water against the dark and pollution, trying to find -

There!

You lower yourself a bit, your knees popping, and you hiss. Three dark figures approach the street, moving stealthily. The middle one turns to the left one and whispers something, to which the left one slaps the first one's head. You cock your head. They certainly don't seem like zombies, you swiftly put two and two together. As they sidle into sight, the fluctuating, muted streetlight sluices them in a green glow.

On the left is a boy with spiky hair - really spiky - and his hair color is hard to determine in the colored light. You decide it's either a dark blue or black. He's standing straight and tall, hands in his pockets, mouth in a firm, straight line. The middle one is yet another boy with pink hair. You narrow your eyes. Pink? His eyes have some sort of markings under them, and you tense. But when you see him say something and grin, elbowing the tall boy, you conclude he might not be a zombie. Something warms in your heart to see the cold, tough circumstances haven't taken away his joy, even if it seems a bit subdued. The one on the right is a girl, thankfully. Her brown hair gleams in the ghostly light, and she bites down on her lip to stifle her smile. She also seems a bit serious, but not as much as the spiky-haired boy. In one blink of your eye, she has the pink-haired boy in a headlock. Seems like an ordinary teenage group, you nod to yourself. No danger, but I'll scout the area once they're gone.

You sigh, and lower yourself to the ground, but fate isn't on your side as your elbow hits the the rusted metal can on your left, and it crashes to the ground. You manage to grab it at the last moment, but it still created a whole lot of ruckus. You grit your teeth, heart in your throat. Their voices abruptly cease, and the echo still rings in your ears - why did this place have to be so quiet?

"Who's there?" Someone sternly says from below. You lay down on the roof, hiding every inch of your person from sight. There's a gap between the once ornate edge and the roof, seemingly a drain, and you squint through it. The tall boy signals to the others, and they stiffen, shifting closer to each other and taking up a defensive stance. The tall boy points to the roof, exactly where you were a moment ago, and the others look up there too.

"Who is there?" The tall boy asks again, his voice sharp and commanding.

You contemplate blowing your cover, but you still haven't decided if they're working for the government or some new kind of twisted thing the zombies have created. Or, maybe, you don't want to talk and explain yourself.

"Whoever is there, come out this second," the girl steps up and orders, one hand on her hip and the other clutching a dagger. Where did she get that?

"Or we're going to come up there and drag you out ourselves," the pink-haired boy says, his voice more serious than before. His bubbly expression is gone, and he's warily staring at the aforementioned spot. The three of them palm their weapons and advance toward the building. You groan, deciding it's better you show yourself. At least you know your stealth and fighting. Thank the heavens for the training you had and the zombies you beat.

Before they can react or shout, you hoist yourself to you feet, knees cracking noisily, almost glide over the edge and scale the building, feet lodging onto any kind of purchase before you reach the rusted pipe and jump onto it, shimmying down and landing on the ground with a thud. You wipe your grimy hands on your black tights, previous residues of dirt, blood and whatnot concealed by the color.

A sharp intake of breath has you sharply looking up, the three of them staring at you as if you're a zombie. You bare your teeth, spreading your feet apart and raising your hands. They might think you're in a defensive stance, but you're doing it so they can see you don't have any weapons on you. That they can see, of course.

The tall boy ignores the pink-haired boy as he says something to him and takes one step forward. "Who are you?"

"Nobody of importance," you shrug. You didn't realize months of not using your voice would turn it so raspy and hoarse, and you almost cringe as they shrink back.

"Who are you," he repeats, eyes assessing you deftly.

You repay him the courtesy, scanning them thoroughly with your eyes. "Not a zombie." Something in you wants to mess with them, act like an ass - purely because you've seen too much to act sweet and kind and like the girl you were before it all went to hell.

The pink-haired boy subtly grins. "I like her," to which the girl jabs him in the ribs.

"I don't aim to harm you or anything," you drawl, "but if you have those intentions, then please get the hell away from me."

The tall boy narrows his eyes at you. "You live here?"

"I don't have a permanent abode, but this is where I've been hiding since the past three months," you shrug. You notice the other two's shoulders relaxing. "What about you?"

"Different city," is all he says. He turns to his group. He must have something in his expression, because the others shrug, tilting their head. He sighs and turns back.

"What's your name?" You ask them, dropping the defense and placing your hands on your hips, lifting your chin.

"This is Megumi," the pink haired boy answers, pointing to the tall boy - whose hair is definitely blue. "This is Nobara, and I'm Yuuji. Who are you?"

Merely because his risk level is low, you answer, "(Y/n)."

Nobara eyes your clothes. Her eyes quickly dismiss your tights but stay on the baby blue jacket, which is now stained with grime, dust and coal. She steps to Megumi's side.

"Cute clothes," she grins.

"Th-"

"Where'd you get them?"

You're taken aback by how swiftly she took out her dagger and is now a few steps away from impaling you. Her face is serious and assessing, eyes glinting in the streetlight as her breath fans your face.

"An insignificant shop, down there," you point, "I got it just a few weeks ago."

"Liar. There are zombies infiltrating every nook and cranny - how did you get it? You're working with them, right?" The cold tip of her dagger rests on the hollow of your neck. The others tense - you wouldn't blame them, her accusation is logical.

You reply calmly, although every muscle in your body is locked. "I studied them. from behind a rusted-out car: one had a missing leg, one was too bloated to move fast. One was tall; top-heavy. Weak ankles. Then I moved. I cracked open a can of cheap soda and rolled it. It hissed across the pavement and two of them followed the sound. I grabbed a piece of rebar and slammed it into the cement at a slant as a tripwire. Then I whistled, and the noise brought one straight toward me. But I crouched, rolled, and let it stumble straight into the rebar. It tripped. I stomped the back of its skull before it even hit the ground.

"Then, I kicked a rock at the bloated one’s head, enough to enrage, not kill. It flailed toward me, unbalanced, arms reaching. I timed it. Sidestepped. And it crashed into a shattered window frame. The jagged glass impaled it through the chest. I used her boot to shove it deeper and bashed its skull. I climbed the awning above the door quietly, not even breathing., waiting for one to walk under. Then I dropped. My knees slammed into its back. The weight snapped its spine like dried bark. I ripped a shard of metal from the signpost and dragged it across its throat and drove it into its head." You stop to take a breath, a haunted gleam on your face.

"I remember them snarling. The last three rushed at me and I ran, baiting them toward a power pole draped in broken wire. Luck was on my side, I guess. I ducked under, but they didn't. The tallest one slammed into the live cable. Sparks snapped and two of them were lit up like birthday candles, shrieking, unaware as I decapitated them. I faced the last one, with no weapons. Just cracked knuckles. It chased me, and I went there (you point to an alley), cornered it between two dumpsters, and gruesomely beat the crap out of it. Their heads crack open easily."

Nobara backs away, a corner of her lip lifting in a smirk. "I like her."

"Thanks. I guess some violence is necessary."

"Wait - so you can fight?" Yuuji gapes at you.

" 'Course I can," you beam at him, the foreign action hurting your cheeks. It had been a while since you last smiled.

"You did all that for ... a shirt?" Megumi asks, though you notice he's not as tense as before.

You shrug. "If I'm gonna die in this world, I'm not doing it in a tank top with holes in it."

Nobara and Yuuji grinned, and Megumi raised a brow. Guess that's all the appreciation I'm getting, you wonder. Though it's a lot coming from this serious boy.

"Are you sure we can trust her?" Megumi says under his breath to Yuuji.

"I guess so, yeah," Yuuji cocks his head.

"I think so, too," Nobara offers, striding over to them.

Megumi looks at you for a moment before nodding, the tension seeping away from his shoulders. The two of them whisper something in his ear, and he sighs, glancing at you.

"Are you happy where you live?"

"Do I look like I am?" You raise a brow. "I mean, I'm alive. That's fine. But - happy? In this world?"

"You could be, if you lived with people," Yuuji supplies. "Though you sound like you were the one who created the alphabet."

"You sure you didn't hear the Big Bang?" Nobara suppresses her grin.

"Come on, it's obvious she saw the dinosaurs go extinct," Yuuji nudges her.

"Though, girl, you look like the last time you ate was at the Last Supper," Nobara appraises you.

"Guys," Megumi groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stop it. We don't tease people who witnessed the fall of the Roman Empire." He chastises them, although his lips lift imperceptibly. It takes you a while to understand he made a joke, too.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny, coming from the people whose expiry date expired," you roll your eyes.

"She has humor!" Yuuji whoops, and Nobara hisses.

"Just because we met a human doesn't mean the zombies are gone," she snaps, and Yuuji pouts.

They glance at you and shift on their feet.

"You could ..." Megumi began, biting his cheek. "Join us, you know?"

"Yeah, if you wanted to, of course," Nobara intervened.

"You'd help us a lot, and we could give you our food and clothes - we know how to fight, too," Yuuji shrugged, excited.

You smile. This offer might change your life ...

And maybe, just maybe, you were looking for a change of events in this world you knew no longer.

★ please tell me if you want another part or a fight scene where you four encounter zombies ★

[saycheeeese]

Somewhere Safe.

You knew nothing about how you got here. You had absolutely no idea what happened after ... after it all went to hell. Your boyfriend of 5 years, the first man you ever decided to trust and give your heart to - had been cheating on your since God knows when, and you didn't give him a chance to explain himself, play the victim card or manipulate you before you dashed out of the room, the image of him with your best friend threatening to pull you under. All you know was that you abandoned the party, your hair falling out of the meticulously crafted hairstyle and bracketing your paling face in rogue strands. Your mascara had long since dried on your cheeks, makeup ruined and dress dripping wet in the cold, unforgiving rain lashing down upon you the entire way, the black lace dress filthy and drenched - but you didn't care. Not when the entire world was snatched from you, only after you were convinced it was yours. Your best friend ...

And now, as you stare up at him, your roommate, at the way his face remains impassive - maybe you were truly hysterical, or his eyes actually widened and a potent emotion shadowed them in the span of a second - you can't hold back the never-ending deluge of tears that you had pent up for too long. He crossed his arms, the muscles cording, and curled his lips.

"I'm giving you one second to offer one good reason you're dripping on my doormat right now," his crimson eyes bore into yours, pink hair ruffled in a way that suggested he'd been sleeping, the piercings on his lips glinting in the soft light. Of course he wouldn't care; you were only roommates, after all.

You sniff, wiping at your face with a quivering hand. "I ... " you search for words and fail to bring up an explanation. And, true to his word, he slams the door in your face. Your shoulders sag, and a broken sob escapes your lips.

Truth be told, you don't even know why you'd come to Sukuna's chambers. The only thing you remembered was one goal: reach someplace you know you'll be safe, cared for, and is like a second home to you ... and you eventually wound up here.

Merely six seconds pass before the door opens, your back almost turned to him. He groans.

"Come inside, woman. I cannot stand to see you look so miserable and pathetic. Miserably pathetic," he claims, and does something he'd die before doing for someone else - hold the door open and shift to the side, as if a loyal, obedient servant.

You trudge inside, a warm fire roaring in the hearth, your body almost collapsing at the relief from the harsh ice, but ... you feel detached, like you don't care whether you exist from now on. You stay rooted at the threshold for a solid minute before he actually sighs - in defeat - and you get no warning before your feet are swiped from under you. He hoists you up in his arms, bridal style, his jaw set and face cold, taking long strides to the couch and dropping you there.

"Care to enlighten me? Because what the fuck just -"

"My ... my boyfriend cheated on me. With my - my best friend," the words burn in your throat, and it physically pains you to choke them out, and you force yourself to swallow your tears. You swear not to cry in front of him.

The atmosphere changes, and you dare to look up at him. You expect calm, collected facial features - but no, barely suppressed, feral rage contorts his features ever so slightly, his eyes dark and lips set in such a way, the area around him so daunting, that he looks like an angel of death - fitting, for the darkness and piercings and tattoos and sharp edges. He lets through no suggestion or hint that he's a ferocious beast inside, looking just as tranquil as he'd seemed before.

He eyes you warily, his gaze making you feel as if you're naked in front of him and he can see through every shield you've put up, utterly exposed. Your chattering teeth, damp clothes and ruined makeup don't support your case, and his eye twitches. Wordlessly, he pivots on his heel and turns the heater on - with the fireplace. And just like that, he simply stalks into the kitchen.

You curl into yourself, sobs racking your body, a bizarre darkness beckoning you to it, lulling you to sleep, her eyes burning.

"Wake up," someone grunts, shaking your shoulder. You jerk awake, clutching your chest, and relax at the sight of Sukuna, a - what?

A cup of steaming drink along with macarons atop a tray in his hands, he scowls at you - yet, he hopes that you notice that the scowl is a tad less bitter and extremely devoid of annoyance this time - extending the tray. You blink once, twice ... You vaguely recall confessing to him you liked macarons and could devour as much as you were offered, to which he said he would never share his macarons with you. And now, pink and purple and glittering and frosted macarons sit innocently with the scalding mug of hot chocolate - a porcelain mug with bows painted over it. You would've laughed, taunted him ...

But the emptiness in you. Your lip juts out and trembles. "You're ... sharing it with me?"

"Don't push it, brat," he grunts, folding his toned arms over his chest - very sweaty chest. The shirt he's wearing is soaked through, perspiration beaded on his adorably flushed face (from the heat or something else, you didn't want to know), and you realize ... the heat is making him uncomfortable. He's feeling immensely hot because of the various sources of warmth, yet he's not complaining or turning anything off because ... of you. You needed this, and that mattered most to him, though he'd take a dagger to his heart before ever admitting that.

He scowls, trying to keep his voice bored and insouciant. "Want me to bring you more snacks ... (y/n)?" He addresses you by your name; not brat, or woman, or sweetheart (highly awkward in this situation) - you, and your own name.

You smile sadly at him, shaking your head, and he disappears upstairs. You can hear the faint ruckus upstairs, his irate stomping on the stairs, and he appears all of a sudden, a shirt in his hands.

"Wear this. You're going to die in that," he passes you the shirt, not making eye contact, his voice slightly, subtly hoarse. "Do you want something to wear under? I mean -" He stammers, his scowl - efficiently plastered on his face - now wavering.

You nod, gripping the mug tighter, an embarrassed blush of your own staining your cheeks. And before you can scrutinize the rest of his body, he vanishes from sight. You strip off the skimpy lace dress and tug the shirt over your head, the fabric smelling faintly of burned incense and ash, weapons and iron and tangy blood, spices and herbs and charred sandalwood and a familiar cologne. You wonder who the shirt belongs to as you half-heartedly devour the spread.

He descends the stairs with a few cushions, a blanket and a balled-up fabric, and stiffly strolls over to you, handing over the pillows and the fabric. You unroll it to reveal shorts. If you weren't so heartbroken you might've noticed and made fun of him and the way he's fussing over you, but right now, you don't note anything around you as you numbly change in front of him. He groans, and turns over ever so slowly (not before he gets a good glimpse of you) and leaves the room.

When you're changed, he returns with a tissue box and a bowl of water. He kneels in front of you and gently takes your face in his hand. He dips a tissue into the water and then brings it up to your face to wipe the makeup off. His hot breath fans your face, and he cleans your face, lips, cheeks, with a surprisingly tender hand, the one under your chin tilting your face timidly.

"Eyes," he drawls. You blink at him. "Close your eyes."

You nod hastily and squeeze your eyes closed just before he dabs your eyelids gingerly, the cloth absorbing all the makeup.

"Tell me everything that happened, in detail."

And so you do. You rattle off all the details of the night, your voice cracking in places, and he forces you to drink the tea before continuing. And when you're done, he's cleaned your face and wrapped a blanket around you, now staring down at you.

He hesitates for a moment - the fearsome, no-bullshit Sukuna, hesitating to come near you - and the couch dips under his weight, sagging where he sits. His body is stiff and rigid as he wraps and arm around your waist and an arm under you, pulling you close to his chest. He eyes the shirt hanging on your frame, a traitorous heat creeping up his neck, and you soon realize ...

It's his shirt. Of course, you stupid dumbass person, you almost roll your eyes.

The scent ... It’s overwhelming at first ... too potent, too strange, and you feel scared to touch it, to wear it ... but slowly becomes something addictive. Not because it’s comforting, but because it makes you feel alive. Like holding fire in your hands and daring not to get burned.

You only remember him humming a strange tune, his voice strained and inexperienced, as he tried his best to lull you to sleep. And, strangely, you fall asleep in his arms, his fingers tentatively stroking your hair, that song on his lips, body pressed against yours, the clock hands swallowing the time away ...

"Y/n?" He asks, his voice barely more than a growled whisper.

"Hm?"

"Would you care if those ... two ... died?" He asks, carefully wording his sentence. You would die from shock if only you were not dying with exhaustion.

"No. Not at all. I don't care what happens to them, because I've decided to let them go," you murmur, nuzzling your face into his rock-hard stomach.

"Are you sure?" He leans in, his lips almost brushing your neck.

"Perfectly. It's almost as if I broke up with them," you sigh, a knot in your throat.

"Very well," you hear him say. He nods quietly to himself, before pulling back and pressing a stiff kiss to your forehead. And through the haze of sleep, your mind captures a faint memory of him carrying you up to his bedroom - bridal style, again - and lying you down on his bed, ever so gently. You almost smirk, knowing he would've thrown you if you weren't so desolate right now. He stays by your side, massaging your hair as you nod off to sleep, a slumber more comfortable and at peace than any you've had recently.

. ★·.·´¯`·.·★ .

The next day, though, he's back to being a pain in the ass, yet he still keeps an eye on you, keeping close to your side, and a wicked, wild gleam in his eyes the morning after. You'd woken up to him snoring beside you, and as if he'd sensed you awake, he'd bolted up in bed, murmured an excuse and rushed out of the house. When he came back an hour later, he'd offered you breakfast he bought on the way and vanished into the bathroom. You peeked inside to see he'd been washing off something from his hands ...

And in the afternoon, your ex and ex-best friend's corpses were found, stabbed and bloodied. You smirk, knowing who's behind it, and mentally make a note to tease Sukuna for the crack in his walls he allowed you to see.