#Heavy on the angst

[nyxunderwood]

Check out the new chapter of Shooting Stars, Falling Objects, my new post-Hogwarts, Prongsfoot AU set five years after Sirius Black’s untimely, but heroic, death. Only James believes he’s still alive.

Snippet

“You were a teenager, James,” Remus said gently. “You panicked. You couldn’t have known what would happen that night. When are you going to forgive yourself?”

Salt stung the back of James’ throat, his eyes burning. Surely, eventually, he would run out of tears. It had taken him years to tell Remus what happened between Sirius and him that night, years to find the words. He could not quite bring himself to regret confiding in him; at that point it was either speak or die.

Remus had respected his request that they never speak of it again. Until today.

“This isn’t about what happened,” James said, his voice hardly audible.

Remus shook his head, his grief apparent. “Your whole life is about what happened that night. Sirius wouldn’t have wanted you to feel this guilty, to torture yourself year after year, never moving on.”

Each word Remus spoke tightened like a vice around his chest. Memories overwhelmed him: the lake, the comet lighting up the sky, Sirius pulling him close, the kiss that had felt like coming alive. And then running, unaware that it would be the last time he would see his best friend.

Say something.

James swallowed hard, his voice hoarse. “Sirius wouldn’t give up on me. I can’t give up on him.”

Remus pressed his hand to the kitchen table as if to steady himself, his gaze dropping. He tapped the surface, an almost inaudible signal of defeat, before straightening his jacket.

“The memorial is at four at Hogwarts,” he said quietly. “Peter’s written a nice speech. You’re always welcome to join us. To pay your respects.”

Read the whole chapter on AO3.

[mylostloversbookmarks]

Waiting for a Miracle

Characters - Joel Miller x Reader, Ellie Williams

Summary - After being attacked by raiders, you sustain a serious injury - Joel and Ellie do everything they can to save you but will it be enough?

Word Count - 2.5K

Warnings/Tags - 18+ only Minors dni. Typical canon language, Angst, mentions of blood and wounds, swearing, hurt, anxiety, pain, guilt, insecure!Joel, upset!Ellie. Suicide attempt mentioned but not heavily discussed. Im not a medical professional so forgive me if anything is medically inaccurate!

A/N - I hurt myself with this one! Set Post-Outbreak! This is heavily inspired by EP.6 ~ Kin and the beginning of Ep 7 ~ Left Behind, and I thought it would be fun to reverse the rolls on this.

Reblogs, comments and feedback are so welcome and so so appreciated!

If you enjoyed this check out my other works here ~ Masterlist

Divider credit to @saradika

As he walked through the barren wasteland, he could feel the all-too-familiar sense of desolation wash over him. The air is thin and icy, hurting his lungs as he inhales. The only sound that can be heard is the howl of the wind and the crunch of fresh snow under his tired, heavy footsteps.

Moving further down the dirt road, he can see the outline of the dilapidated farm house where he left Ellie watching over you. Its walls crumbled, the roof caved in, the windows shattered, and the once-blue front door hung loosely on its rusted hinges.

Inside, the scene was just as bleak. The remaining furniture was overturned and broken, thanks to raiders tearing their way through any property they came across.

The walls were peeling and covered from floor to ceiling in a thick coat of dirt and grime. A heavy layer of dust had settled over everything in sight.

Moving further into the house, he makes his way to the barricade he had put in place before he left you and Ellie this morning to look for more supplies and any medication he could get his hands on.

 "Ellie?" He huffs out to let her know it is him moving the barricade as he leans his weight on one side of the heavy mahogany book shelf, sliding it along the dingy wooden floor to reveal the doorway.

"Joel? Did you find anything?" Ellie's pleading voice is muffled from behind the closed door.

Opening the door, he finds Ellie in the exact spot he had left her several hours before, sitting on her knees beside the filthy matteress he had laid you on what felt like a lifetime ago.

She was hunched over you with an old rag in her hand, mopping up the sweat that was beading on your forehead. He could see the worry etched onto her face as she did everything she could to keep you comfortable. She looks up at him as he enters, her face grim.

"How is she?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn't that he didn't want to disturb you; he just wasn't sure he could stop his voice from breaking if he spoke any louder.

Ellie shook her head. "She's still unconscious, but I think her fever has gone down a bit and the wound isn't bleeding anymore."

Joel just nods, his eyes fixed on you. Seeing you lying there so helpless and vulnerable, like a ghost of your usual bubbly, sarcastic self, the ever-present crease between your brows was gone; your teeth were no longer fussing at your bottom lip; your smart mouth was no longer calling him out on his bullshit; and your face was pallid and covered in a sheen of sweat.

The sight stirred up a storm of emotions within him that he couldn't quite put a name to. Joel knew that he had always been drawn to you, even before the attack.

Though he would never admit it and always did his best to hide it. He couldn't place what it was about you that brought him out of himself, despite his best efforts to keep you at arm's length.

He had vowed to himself that he would never get attached to anyone again. Not after what happened to Sarah.

It wasn't that he didn't want to care about people, but he has learned that in this world, caring for people only brings pain, and he just didn't know if he could survive another loss.

He almost didn't survive it the first time. The faint scar on his temple is a constant reminder of the events he has drank himself into oblivion over on many occasions in the hopes of scarring them from his memory, but it never works.

Though Ellie had always ribbed him when she caught him watching you from a distance, usually when youd set up camp for the night and you were rolling out your sleeping bag or flipping through one of the books you had picked up on the road.

She would jab him in the ribs with her elblow, uttering "Eh? Eh?" with a wiggle of her fair eyebrows. He normally silences her quickly with a stern warning glance, worried you might overhear her.

Now, though, his feelings were more intense, and he didn't know if it was because he was too tired to keep up the effort to hide them or that the fear of losing you was overpowering every other thought that raced through his head.

His mind was consumed by guilt; he had failed. Again. He had failed Sarah. He had failed Ellie over and over, and now he has failed you. Failed to protect you from the man coming at you from behind because he was too fucking old and deaf to hear him coming.

He couldn't fathom why you both had insisted on staying with him when you had both overheard him speaking to Tommy. It was the first time Joel had opened up in what felt like two decades.

He openly admitted to his brother that he knew he was going to get you both killed. He begged Tommy to take Ellie the rest of the way, and he knew that you wouldn't leave her side.

He remembers standing in the stables thirty minutes after he had intended on leaving, pretending to check over the horses saddle and reins, when Ellie walked in, closely followed by you and Tommy.

He offered you both a choice, insisting you would be better off with Tommy. He didn't even make it through his sentence before Ellie was thrusting her pack into his chest, effectively silencing him.

You had given him a reassuring smile and a small nod as you moved to help Ellie onto the horse. And now here you are in front of him, lying lifeless on a soiled mattress in the dead of winter in the middle of nowhere because of him.

He knelt down beside the mattress and took your hand in his, his thumb rubbing small circles into the clammy back of your hand. Motioning to Ellie to pass him his pack, Joel opens it and takes out the supplies he found on his run.

"I found a drug store; it was mostly picked over, but I found this under one of the cabinates." He explains, lifting out a vile of pennicilin and a syringe that is still safely housed in its unopened sterile packaging. He says a silent prayer of thanks to whatever higher power allowed him to find this.

Ellie just nods, her eyes glued to Joel's hands, watching as he takes hold of your hand, turning it so it is palm-up as he rolls your sleeve up past the crease of your elbow, removing his belt and tightening it around your arm.

Tapping at the viens in the crease of your arm but getting no response, you had lost so much blood from the wound that your viens were refusing to stand to attention.

Joel doesn't want to risk injuring a vein, so he decides to inject you directly into your wound. He removes the belt, throwing it to the side, rolls your sleeve back down, and sets your hand back by your side.

"Ellie, Im going to need your help." He murmurs to her, his voice thick with emotion.

"What do you need me to do?" she implores him.

"I can't find a vein; she's lost too much blood, so I'm going to have to put it into the wound. It's going to be painful, but we don't have another option. I need you to hold her still no matter what, okay?" Joel demanded it as calmly as he could.

"Okay, I can do that," Ellie confided, her voice wobbling with the unshed tears that were threatening to spill over at any moment.

"Hey, she's going to make it; she's going to be okay," Joel promises her, his hand coming up to rest on her cheek, wiping away a tear that was making its way down her cheek.

Ellie just nods in response, her tears flowing freely now. Joel pulls the blanket down and gently rolls your t-shirt up your torso, stopping at your ribcage. Removing the bloodied gauze that was covering the wound just above your left hip.

The wound was deep and had left a jagged, misshaped circle of angry crimson on your otherwise smooth, perfect skin.

He tore open the plastic wrapping and removed the syringe from its packaging, taking a deep breath before inserting the needle into the vein and withdrawing the medication.

"Okay, hold her still," Joel says, his voice unsteady as he positions the needle over your wound, placing his other hand on your cheek and rubbing his thumb back and forth, willing you to hear him before he continues.

"Darlin, I'm sorry. This is going to hurt, okay? But it's going to help, I promise."

Ellie nods towards him, signaling she was ready; she has repositioned herself at your head, her hands resting on your shoulders, and tightens her hold on you as Joel inserts the needle and slowly pushes his thumb down on the plunger.

You flinch and groan in pain, but Ellie holds you steady, tears flowing down her face and leaving little dark spots where they land on the mattress.

Finally, Joel withdraws the needle and sets it back inside the packaging in an attempt to keep it as sterile as possible given the current surroundings.

He grabs another patch of gauze from his pack and presses it against the wound. He pulls your shirt down and lays the blanket back over you, tucking you in as best he can, being careful not to jostle you too much.

"That's it, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice gentle as he strokes your hair. "Now we wait," he sighs, more to himself than anyone else.

Joel and Ellie sit in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, exchanging worried glances, unsure of what the future holds.

Despite the uncertainty, Joel is determined to do everything he can to keep you safe and help you recover. He holds your hand tightly, and his thumb continues to rub small, reassuring circles into the back of your hand as he silently vows to protect you at all costs.

As the moments tick by, Ellie's anxiety grows with each shallow breath you take. She feels helpless and scared, unsure if you will make it through the night.

The weight of potentially losing another person she cares about is too much, and she breaks. Loud, ragged sobs break through her clenched teeth, shaking her small frame.

Joel's eyes snap up at the sudden sound, and he can feel his heart constricting at the sight of her tears. He releases your hand, pulling her into a tight embrace. He strokes her hair, whispering words of comfort in her ear as she cries into his chest.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, baby girl," Joel murmurs softly. "We're here for her. We're not going to leave her. We're going to get through this together."

Ellie clings to Joel tightly, her body wracked with sobs as she tries to process her emotions. She's scared of losing you and of what will happen if you don't make it. Joel's presence and his words provide some solace, giving her a glimmer of hope that things might be okay.

The three of you stay like that for what feels like hours, huddled together in the dimming light, listening to the sounds of your breathing.

It's a comfort to hear the sound even out ever so slightly and to know that you're fighting to stay alive as hard as they are to keep you with them.

Eventually, Ellie pulls away from him, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her coat. She looks over at you, still sleeping on the matteress, and takes a deep breath.

"We're going to make it through this, right?" She asks, her voice wavering slightly.

"We are," Joel replies firmly, his gaze locked on you. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep you both safe."

Ellie nods, a look of determination taking over her face. She moves back to your side, taking your hand in hers and squeezing firmly.

"We're here; we're not going anywhere."

The hours passed by slowly; it was well past dark now and getting colder. Looking over at Ellie, Joel can see she is fighting to keep her eyes open.

"You need to get some rest; I'll stay up with her." He murmurs; his tone is serious, and she doesn't bother to argue with him.

"Okay, but you'll wake me if anything changes." Ellie pushed, not moving a muscle until she had his word.

"I will," he whispered solemnly.

Ellie stood and stretched for the first time in hours, grabbing her pack and unrolling her sleeping bag a few feet away from where Joel sat by your mattress.

She was so exhausted from the stress of the current situation that sleep found her quickly. In a matter of minutes, Joel could hear her soft snores.

Joel shifted into a more comfortable position beside you, stretching himself out on the floor so he was lying on his side, his head level with your own.

He reclaimed your hand in his. It was cold and limp, and he couldn't help but think about how much he had taken you for granted.

He has known that you were strong enough to handle anything that came your way and that you didn't need anyone's help. But now, as he looked at your pale face, he realised that it was ridiculous to think that anyone could have made it out of that situation in any other way.

He leans in close, his forehead resting against your hand, his eyes closed. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I should have heard him. I should have protected you." His voice broke, and he struggled to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by your steady breathing, Ellie's snores, and the occasional creak of the old farmhouse. Joel stayed there, still holding your hand, lost in his thoughts. He thought about all the things he wanted to say to you and all the things he wished he had done differently.

He wished he had been more open with you and told you how much you meant to him. He wished he had hugged you and spent more time just being with you.

It was too late for those regrets now. All he could do was sit there, holding your hand or stroking your hair. Willing you to wake up and hoping that somehow, someway, you would pull through. That you would come back to him, and he could make things right.

As he sat watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. Joel knew that nothing would ever be the same again. That he would never be able to erase these memories and that he would always carry this pain with him.

But he also knew that he couldn't give up, that he had to keep fighting and keep pushing forward. For you. For Ellie. For himself.

And so he sat there, stroking your hair and whispering all the things he should have told you before, waiting for a miracle.

[mashas-rotting]

If you like Severus Snape fic

And you like being hurt-

Go read broken silence by witchimage on AO3

I sobbed. Its not finished yet but the author is still writing. I'm praying for a happy ending and I'm clutching my pearls.

[lilmissnatcat24]

hi my name is lilmissnatcat24 and i love angst

major major major major turn left/electric sheep spoilers

Shepard wasn’t paying too much attention. How could she be? Garrus was sitting two seats down from her. Garrus. She still couldn’t fathom being awake. It felt like the last two years were a dream, a horrible, fetid nightmare where Garrus was dead. 

But she saw him. She saw his corpse in the elevator shaft just a few steps away from his apartment door. She saw his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his mouth slack. She saw MedEvac using some sort of metal clamps to widen the slash in his throat in order to get a breathing tube down his throat. She almost pulled one of the doctors off of him. Couldn’t they see it was hurting him? How could they ignore all of the blood coming from his throat when they nearly decapitated him? She remembered falling to her knees and vomiting. She remembered someone ushering her away and giving her one of those blankets made from aluminum foil. She remembered Chellick, of all people, leaning on his crutch, his left leg missing, as he heralded Shepard into Garrus’s apartment and brewed her a cup of tea. He gave Whiskers von Trapp a little treat. He patted the back of her shoulders when she cried so hard she choked on snot. 

And now, Garrus was here. He didn’t look like it, but he was here. He wouldn’t look at Shepard. He wouldn’t look at anyone. He just stared off into the distance, his spine as stiff as a board, his hands clasped in front of him. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Not the slick, tight black suit he wore, as if he were on the way to a business meeting. Not the red scars dancing along each of his plates. Not the slash in his neck that glowed so bright it was nearly a neon sign advertising that he already died once. 

It wasn’t just here that Garrus was ignoring her. It was since she woke up. She’d been all over the ship, in his quarters, hell she’d even waited outside of the bathroom. It was like he was some Keeper sticking to the vents or something. She’d even go as far as to ask EDI where Garrus was at that very moment, and as soon as she’d get there, all she’d see was an empty room. He was a phantom, it was nearly worse than when he was dead. 

[gremnda]

Hello Ethubs nation :]

no text version

[ky-landfill]

“No, Tim.”

[dhampiravidi]

ok but what if God/the gods are just a bunch of writers who dislike the canon (what happened in the 1st universe) & they decided to make their fics/RPs, heavy on the angst. whenever we get deja vu or repeated dreams…that was the other universe

[pixelpubph]

Relativity Falls reunion if it were up to me (This one's actually happy guys I swear) Design for Mabel taken from the great @onebadnoodle, since their designs are so damn rad I just had to use it

[happy74827]

A Smile From Hell

[Homelander x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Despite the amount of unpredictability The Homelander has, he still catches you off guard with something as small as a smile.

WC: 3576

Category: Angst, Supe!Reader {TW — Homelander for obvi reasons}

In honor of Season 4’s weekly releases, this one is for the Antony Starr girlies (and you @summerrivera777777)

『••✎••』

John fucking terrified you.

He terrified everyone, really.

He had the power to level an entire city block with a glance. He was strong enough to crush a man's skull with one hand and fast enough to catch a bullet. He was an unstoppable force of nature. He was The Homelander, and he was a threat to anyone who stood in his way.

But, the thing was...

You knew everything about him. Everything.

And he absolutely despised that, but there was nothing he could do to change it. You had seen him at his most vulnerable and pathetic. You had seen his humanity, it’s amazing he still has any after the way Vought has abused him, and you had seen his inhumanity.

Jessica, or Sister Sage, had confronted you on several occasions, trying to get you to tell her your secrets. She wanted the upper hand on her arch nemesis, the only one in the world who was a threat to her. It was her mission to end the reign of the superhero she hated most, and she was willing to do anything for it.

You could see right through her, and you didn’t need magnificent amounts of intelligence to do so. You could see the fear in her eyes. You could see the doubt in her face, hear the strain in her voice, feel her uneasiness when she was near him.

John knew it, too. He just simply chose to ignore it. He had grown used to being the scariest man in the room. It’s been that way his whole life, and it seemed it was going to stay that way.

But, despite all that fear, she came to you for answers. Again.

And this time, the question was a simple one. It was so simple, yet completely understandably complicated.

How are you allowed to live?

That was a question that stumped you. It took you a long time to grasp the meaning of it, the specific answer she was looking for.

After a few clarifications, you finally understood what she meant.

She wanted to know why John allowed you to live. She wanted to know why he hadn’t killed you. She wanted to understand why you were the only person alive after calling him by his name.

Not his stage name, his real name.

For being the most intelligent person on the planet, you’d think that she’d be able to understand it. I mean, the answer was right there, in front of her face. She didn't need to be a genius to figure it out; all she needed was a little more insight.

A little bit of understanding.

"Respect," you said, your voice soft. Your words were clear, though, and she heard them perfectly.

The confusion on her face was evident, as was her disbelief.

"What?"

"It's respect. Anyone I respect is someone that deserves my respect."

She snorted.

"Right," she said. "Like he could actually respect anything other than himself."

"He's capable of it if that's what you're thinking," you told her. "And this isn’t about him respecting me; it's about me respecting him."

She narrowed her eyes at you, her suspicion rising.

"Why would you respect him?" she questioned. "You're not blind; you know exactly who he is."

Yes, you did. You knew more than most, and compared to The Seven now, you probably knew the most. His actions? Completely unredeemable. He was, in fact, a monster; there was no arguing that. He was a horrible, twisted, monstrous individual; no one would deny it.

His actions weren’t excusable, but he had an explanation. A reason for why he was the way he was.

He wasn’t born a monster; he was turned into one. That… that was the respect part. You respected him because you respected his story. You respected his pain. You respected his anger.

You respected his past; anything after that was on him.

"I don’t like using stage names to those I respect enough, so I call him John. He allows it because he knows I don’t mean it the way others would if they used his name; it doesn't hold the same power with me."

She rolled her eyes at you.

"Same goes for you, Jessica; I have no desire to call you Sister Sage."

Her flinch was barely visible, but you still caught it. Again, what is intelligence if not knowing the chances of a particular outcome?

"I’ve noticed you don’t call Deep or that fire chick by their real names."

You just smiled, leaving her to solve that answer for herself, and it didn’t take long at all. You knew the exact moment she came up with a conclusion. She was quite predictable, in that regard. Maybe you should’ve been the big-brained hero instead.

And now, you really should’ve been because when you turned down the hall, catching wind of the elevator doors opening, you knew he had listened to it all.

But you didn’t say anything, and you really didn’t say anything after a simple glance at him.

He was completely drenched in blood, a look that would terrify even the toughest of men. But not you, oh no, you were very used to that. He’s done a lot worse.

Besides, you were too distracted by the fact that the blood wasn't his. Too distracted by noticing how this time was different. He was smiling, but it wasn’t his usual cruel smile. This time, it was genuinely happy.

Relief, almost.

It reminded you of the night you two bonded. No, not that type of bond. The bond that told you both that you weren’t alone.

He had a friend, but he wasn’t really your friend. You don’t believe you could ever consider him one. Not really, not with the things he has done.

But, still, you were the closest thing he had to a friend. You were the closest he had to an equal, a person he could relate to. Jessica carried the same intelligence (obviously a lot more), but the similarities between the two of them stopped there.

You had a similar history but different outcomes.

And that reveal between the two of you happened that night. This was way back, even before Starlight joined. Back when The Seven was in its prime.

Stillwell threw a party, something she always loved to do before Teddy became her focus. It was the usual: people in fancy dresses and suits, lots of champagne and liquor.

The difference, however, was the main focal point. Usually, given Vought’s status, all of The Seven members were the main event. Everyone was mandated to wear their hero outfits. It was a great way to advertise and get people to buy more of the products.

The theme this time, however, wasn’t about the group. It wasn’t about any of you. For the first time in a long while, John wasn’t in the spotlight.

Due to this, Stillwell banned everyone from wearing their costumes. No capes, no spandex, no leather, no masks. Just suits and dresses.

It was nice, actually. A little break from the norm. It felt good to go a night without the tight leather on your skin. You were actually surprised at how well it was received.

The rest of the members of the group seemed to be having a wonderful time as well.

Except for one.

He was standing in the corner, glaring at everyone. Madelyn had an entire argument with him about the suit. You weren’t there, but you knew exactly how it went.

His costume was a part of him. It was a symbol. It was a mask. A representation. An embodiment of who he was. Without it, he was a naked target.

Madelyn clearly did not give a single shit. In the end, the argument resulted in the two of them getting into a screaming match, causing him to storm off in a fit of rage.

So, there he was, standing alone, seething at anyone who passed him. Madelyn won; of course, she did, and she didn't even bother trying to apologize. She wasn't sorry.

She was just mad that he refused to listen in the first place.

But, hey, that wasn’t your problem. You were enjoying yourself. The night was going pretty well; the alcohol was flowing nicely, and the music was just right. You were dancing and laughing and having a great time.

But, of course, things weren't always easy for you.

You weren’t expecting it to last long; you weren’t one to have good luck. You knew, deep down, that the night was going to come crashing down on you. You were just waiting for the ball to drop.

The ball dropped the moment you decided to go cheer up the sourpuss.

It was obvious the way his shoulders tensed, and his head tilted ever so slightly. He knew you were approaching. He was aware.

"Don't," he said.

He was clearly angry, and you weren’t smart enough not to push. This is where Jessica’s powers would have benefited you greatly.

You ignored his warning, walking up beside him, mocking his stance.

"You okay?" you asked, your tone soft and light, a hint of playfulness.

His eyes flicked over to you, and the glare he gave was terrifying. His eyes were so intense, and his teeth were clenched. You could see his jaw tensing.

He was a volcano, ready to erupt.

You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

"I'm fine." Humorously enough, it sounded like the opposite.

"Really?"

He turned his head to look at you, his anger increasing by the second.

"Don’t you have anything better to do?"

You shrugged. "Yeah, but I'm choosing to talk to you."

He looked away from you, grumbling, "And why's that?"

"Because you’re ruining the party," you answered. "Miserable face and all."

He rolled his eyes. He actually does this a lot, believe it or not. It's the only expression he has besides anger that isn’t fake.

"And why do you care?"

You shrugged again. "I care about enjoying myself, and I can't do that when you're moping."

He turned his head towards you. He was not amused.

"Go find someone else to entertain yourself with.” He pointed behind him. "I’m sure Deep will be glad to show off his fish facts."

That one caused you to make the same face he had moments ago. The absolute look of disgust on your face was enough to bring a smug grin to his own.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Don't make me throw up, John."

The name.

It was a simple slip-up, nothing more. But, of course, it meant so much more. This was before everything, so it doesn’t seem likely that a slip-up like that wouldn’t result in consequences, but it secretly was a turning point.

He could've killed you.

He could've easily grabbed you and thrown you across the room, and no one would be able to comprehend what had happened until after you were unrecognizable.

He didn't, though.

No, instead, he stared at you, his face blank, and his mind processing. You were nervous, of course. You had no idea what was going on in his head.

After a minute, a look of realization came upon him, and you could see the exact moment the gears started turning.

Then, a simple hum fell from his lips. One said he wasn’t expecting it but was deciding whether to accept it.

Then, after a few seconds, his face relaxed. His jaw was unclenched, his eyes softened, and his eyebrows relaxed.

"Let’s have a chat."

Uh oh. That’s a code red—a sign of danger.

You were so done.

And yet, for some odd reason, you followed him. You don’t know why. It was a stupid move, in your opinion. You should've run while you had the chance. You should’ve listened and just punched fishlips or something.

You didn’t, though.

You followed him, allowed him to fly you somewhere private, and just waited. You waited for your imminent doom. You were going to die; you were sure of it.

But, for some reason, your death never came.

Instead, the two of you landed on the tower’s roof, the cold New York air hitting you hard. He had set you down on your feet and went all the way to the railing.

You stood awkwardly, waiting for him to turn around with those beams in his eyes, but they never came.

He was just looking out into the city, his back turned to you, his hands on the railing.

After a few minutes of silence, he turned his head, looking at you through the corner of his eye.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

Ask what? What was there to ask?

There were plenty of things to ask, actually, and yet you had no idea what the right thing to ask was. Because, again, even here, he was unpredictable and unreadable.

You didn't want to anger him; you knew that for sure. But you were also tired of his mind games. It was a constant battle of wit, and you were sick and tired of being left in the dust.

So, you chose something simple to say. Something easy, yet not so simple to answer.

"Are you going to kill me?"

You wouldn’t be surprised if he turned around with a smile and answered yes.

He didn’t, though. Oh no, he stayed turned, staring into the city, his eyes searching. Searching for what you didn't know.

"No."

Simple and clear.

You didn't respond, and he didn't elaborate. It was silent, and it was cold, and it was a tense moment.

But you didn't leave. You just watched him, watched his movements. The way his shoulders hunched over, his head tilting down, the grips on the railing, the way his hair slowly became unstuck due to the wind.

You always thought his hair looked better when it wasn't slicked back, but this is the first time you've ever seen it that way. It was… it was nice.

Then, his shoulders relaxed, and his head straightened. He didn’t turn around, and he didn’t speak. He just looked over his shoulder at you, his eyes piercing yours.

Even with a few strands of hair on his face, his eyes were so sharp and clear. So blue. So cold.

It felt like they were reaching deep into your soul.

It was terrifying. He was terrifying.

"Do you remember your parents?"

The question took you by surprise. It wasn’t what you were expecting, but then again, this whole encounter was the definition of unexpected.

"Yes. Why?"

His eyes scanned yours as if looking for a lie. Then, he turned back around, leaning on the railing.

"I can't remember mine," he said. "Sometimes I wonder if I even had them."

Oh. Oh. This was huge. This was a big one. You had to search deeply even to find out his actual name. Now, here he was, telling you of his past.

Of all people, he chose to tell you.

You didn’t know how to feel about that.

You were honored, yes. You were excited, definitely. But, most importantly, you were worried. Is this him letting you in? Or is it him preparing you for your demise?

It was an unknown territory, a field of landmines. You knew a lot about his past already, but now he was aware of the fact that you knew. He knows, and yet he is still giving you the information.

Why?

"I mean, it doesn't make sense. Everyone has parents, right? And I couldn't have been born out of nowhere. So, I must have had parents. A mom, a dad, some form of guardians."

His face was scrunched, and his eyebrows were furrowed. You could see the way his brain was working. He was really thinking about it, wondering how the pieces fit together.

He was struggling to make a connection, and he was mad at himself for not having it.

"I'm assuming your childhood wasn't the best," you said. You knew it was a risky move, joking about his past, but so far, he seemed to like the boldness and humor.

And he did, in fact, let out a snort.

"Understatement of the year."

You smiled but quickly stopped. It was a serious conversation, and smiling probably wasn’t the appropriate reaction.

Silence filled the space again, and he was back to thinking. He was trying; he was really trying. But he just couldn't.

It wasn't the fact that his parents were a mystery; he's come to terms with that. It was the fact that he couldn’t remember anything.

All he remembered was the torture, the pain, the experiments… nothing about how he got there. Nothing about the people before the scientists. Nothing about a home. And the fact that they were currently building a fake one for him made him so angry.

It was a mockery—a complete joke.

He felt all of these emotions and yet couldn't express them.

And he was frustrated. He was pissed off and tired and angry and sad and empty and-

"Did you rip off your tie?" Your eyes had caught sight of his bare neck, the black fabric missing.

It was the only way to pull him out of his head, and, to your surprise, it worked. You could see the moment he snapped back to reality, the moment he was pulled away from his mind.

"Yeah," he answered. "It was suffocating me."

You could tell.

His hair became more unkempt due to the wind. The strands of hair on his forehead were getting in the way, and it was getting annoying. Not for you, no, but for him.

For you, it was… humanizing. It made him seem a little less like a god.

He lifted his hand, his fingers gently combing through the locks. It was a struggle, a normal struggle that you've had with your own hair.

Plenty struggle with deviating the locks away from their desired location. You've had your own fair share of moments.

But this was the first time you'd seen him experience it. The first time witnessing him do something so simple and basic.

Such a human thing. It had you wondering what else he was capable of.

He sighed, his hand dropping back to the railing. Again, it is a normal thing to happen. But, it had you smiling, the corners of your mouth curving ever so slightly.

The action did not go unnoticed.

"What?" he asked, not even bothering to turn around.

You shrugged. "I've just never…"

Your mind kept changing images. His hair, his eyes, his shoulders, his jaw, his nose, his ears, his neck, his hand, his lips, his chin, his cheekbones, his eyebrows, his skin…

Everything is listed in your mind, including the little imperfections and details that make him, well, him. This was the first time you saw him anything other than perfect.

The perfect monster he was, the god of all men. The man of the century, the one to take the world by storm. The strongest, the smartest, the best.

The symbol, the image, the mask.

The facade.

This was the first time you saw him as just a person. A human being. Just a regular guy.

"Sometimes I wonder how different life would be if you were…"

Normal.

The word was at the tip of your tongue. You could've said it; you should've said it. It was the truth. It was obvious.

But you couldn't.

He knew where your sentence was going, though. Of course, he did.

"If I was… what?" He still wanted to hear it. He was looking for validation, and he wanted it from you. His eyes were on you, his body turned, but there was this one odd thing.

A smile.

It wasn't his usual one. The one you were used to. The one that made everyone scared and uneasy. No, this was a real smile.

A soft, small one, but still a real smile.

A true smile. As if he knew the words you were going to say, as if he knew your thoughts, and he found them amusing.

You found him amusing.

And just because of that, you didn’t give him the validation.

"It’s fucking freezing out here," You coughed in hopes of successfully changing the subject. "I’m gonna get a jacket."

He was going to argue, but you were already walking off, telling him you’d take the emergency ladder down.

Nothing was spoken about that night. No words were exchanged.

But something had changed. Something had shifted. You weren’t quite sure what it was, but it was something.

So, seeing that genuine smile again in that elevator was a shock.

He had the same face as he did on that roof. It was that smile. That one specific smile.

Capable.

That's what it was.

He was capable.

He was capable of feeling and being human. He was capable of being something other than a monster.

He was capable.

All he said to you when you walked by was a simple goodnight. Something so small, yet so big. This time, those words seemed to have a little more meaning.

So, just to raise his unsettling mood, you winked and said, "Goodnight, John."

Again, a smile.

The smile.

It was hard to continue walking, and it was even harder not to turn around. But you did.

You did it knowing you were going to have a hard time sleeping. Knowing that, no matter what, you weren’t going to forget that smile.

The demon that still had a little bit of humanity in him.

A demon that was capable.

[morally-earl-grey]

[himulrai]

Orion Swap AU (Catalyse That Vertex) Part 6! (Fic | First | Previous | Next)

I AM SO SORRY ABOUT HOW THE PRIMES TURNED OUT I COULDNT FIGURE OUT HOW TO DRAW THEM??

[portrait-of-a-moron]

“Maybe I could’ve protected you in another lifetime.”

I’m sorry for the repost I forgot an entire layer that changed little Lloyd’s face 😭🥲

[angelbroth]

Heartbeats unspoken part 1/?

I know I posted the first two pages but I thought if I added more then people would interact with it more T-T

This au is set before medic had put a baboon's heart into heavy. He holds off on the surgery, thinking that Heavy's heart could last if he stayed on the meds he prescribed to him, but at his latest checkup he discovered that Heavy may be too far gone and beyond saving.

They also are both in love but have not yet confessed to each other. That'll be interesting with them both knowing Heavy will die soon

[canisalbus]

Imagine if Machete and Vasco were dragons, but there was more lore behind it:

Machete being taken from their nest after their mother was killed, and “raised” by the church. He was beaten, humiliated and starved, described to the common folk as “a hideous creature” or a “spawn of the devil”.

One day, Vasco, a gold colored dragon finds Machete, and with his help, he breaks Machete out, and frees him.

They now live in a forested cave, far away from the reach of the cruel hand of man.

[milawritess]

what cannot be said will be wept – gojo satoru

pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader synopsis: following the events from wherever you go, that's where i'll follow, the reader becomes incredibly sick. Satoru drowns in his guilt and reader struggles to grapple with the loss of her cursed technique. tags/warnings: angst, fem!reader, swearing, depression, guilt, dark thoughts, loss of identity, loss of powers, descriptions of gore/horror, tragedy, mentions of blood, breakdowns, reader is sick, Satoru doing everything he can to keep you afloat word count: 3.3k next entry: ii series mlist

The first few nights were unbearable. You made it—you survived, but you weren’t the same. Not even close. You were a fragmented, splintered hallow. You were nothing but a ghost haunting your own body. The weight of your fragility sat heavily in the corners of your home, creeping into the space where laughter once lived.

At night, you’d become so still, so quiet of breath, that Satoru would have to put his finger under your nose to see if you were still with him. There were nights when your heart betrayed you, skipping several beats or stilling altogether, long enough to drive him to the edges of panic. 

Baby, baby, wake up, Satoru would whisper in dread. It was only when you groaned that he sucked in a breath, drawing in the air his lungs were burning for. 

What? You would murmur, confused and disoriented. He’d suddenly pull you close, resting his head between your breasts as he listened to the only rhythm that brought him solace. 

Satoru found himself waking you up often. Soft kisses graced your face—your eyes, cheeks, and brushes against your lips. Other nights, he’d shake you awake in fear and trepidation. Your heart was too weak. The second sleep found you, it began to give. 

He could hear it, see it. 

Sleep was lost on him. He couldn’t risk it—could grapple with the chances of waking to find you—his entire world gone. You had come back to him, yet, for weeks, you straddled the line between being alive and moving to a place he couldn’t reach or follow. 

He couldn’t grasp, couldn’t fathom that even now, he was on the verge of losing you. 

“There are just some things I can’t heal,” Shoko told him one night. She arrived at his estate after he called her in a panic. You were cold as ice, and you struggled to draw breath. “There’s scarring in her frontal lobe… and there’s other damage that looks like it’s been there for a while. Maybe if I had caught this sooner-“

The damage was too great. He knew that’s what Shoko really wanted to say. 

There was so much more he needed to say to you, so much more he needed to make up for. 

Some nights, he grew bitter. You couldn't leave him—you wouldn’t dare. Not after everything you’ve been through together, not after loving him and making him feel love's perfect ache; not after you stripped him bare as you deprived him of pride and all resolve, rendering him down to nothing but a man on his knees, worshiping at the gates of your light. 

You undo him so wholly and completely. 

This wasn’t fair. Even with the powers most gods craved, he couldn’t protect you from this. What good was all this power if he couldn’t keep you? The best parts of you, the dark and wretched—all of it, everything—belonged to him. He loved the darkest shades of you, the brightest, and every color in between. 

When you were consumed in an unholy flame, one only he could ever reach beyond, he was housed by your warmth—reborn into something more glorious than the last. 

When had you fallen so cold? 

You had ascended onto him like nightfall, only to ignite and burn his world to ash. Yet, you sparked something within him in the echo of oblivion—a fire born of devotion was marred to his heart. 

He wasn’t going to let you off that easy. Death wouldn’t be enough for you to escape him. 

”You don’t get to leave me,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “You’re not going anywhere. Not from me.” 

It was a rare moment of wakefulness. Your eyes flutter open, a dopey smile gracing your lips. You say his name. “Satoru,” you murmur. ”what are you talking about?”

He brushes the hair from your neck, kissing your cold skin. “I’m talking about you, sweets,” he moves up, kissing your cheek. “I need you to get better. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

You take in a long, shuddering breath. You couldn’t deny what you said now when you felt it in your bones. “I won’t leave,” you promise him gently, breathing slowly as sleep tugs at the corners of your consciousness. “Where else would I go?”

He takes time off from work shortly after. Well, he more or less just stopped going to work. He kept your condition close like a secret. Outside of the kids, Principal Yaga, and Nanami, no one knew what happened to you, and he would keep it that way. He didn’t need the higher-ups catching wind of this. 

It was just a precaution, his way of protecting you when you couldn’t protect yourself. You had enemies just as much as he did. He thinks he’d break the world in two if they ever touched you. 

However, Gojo couldn’t just wait and do nothing. He had to keep you comfortable, keep you warm. After cranking up the central heat and lighting a fire, he noticed you responded positively. It was far from comfortable for him, but it wasn’t about him, even if, most nights, sweat beaded on his chest and forehead. It was about your recovery and giving your body what it desperately needed. Heat. A heat, he fears, even as he eases you into a tub of the hottest water he could get from the faucet in his master bathroom, wasn’t enough. 

However, this was a start in the right direction. Your eyes fluttered open as your body sank into the steaming water. “This is nice,” you utter. “Really nice…”

“Hm, good,” Satoru says, grabbing the shampoo bottle. “Glad to be of service.”

You hum pleasantly as he starts massaging shampoo into your hair. “How many days has it been, Satoru?”

“Not sure what you mean, sweets.”

“Satoru,” you sigh softly. “How many days since the incident?” 

He pauses for a moment before his fingers continue rubbing the suds into your hair. “Fifteen days.”

“And yet, I don’t have a lick of cursed energy…”

“Hey, easy there,” he wipes the subs that threaten to fall into your eyes with his hands before grabbing your face and pinching your cheeks together. Just as you were about to swat him away, he kissed the pout off your face with one long smooch. “Take it easy, grumpypants. You’re still recovering.”

“Yeah, but for how long,” you mumble. “It’s never taken me this long to recover my cursed energy before. I just– I don’t feel the same.” Satoru takes a deep breath, watching as you stare down at the water, your fingers mindlessly fiddling with the necklace around your neck. “You shouldn’t have to be taking care of me like this or taking time off from work. They need you, the kids need you–”

“You need me,” he gently corrects. “The kids are fine, and Nanami has been covering for me.”

“Yeah, but–”

“You act like this isn’t something you’d do for me if I needed you.”

You look at him, eyes misting over. You reach for him, your arms wrapping around his neck. He didn’t care if he got wet as he held you, his hands rubbing softly at your damp back. “I really love you,” you tell him, burying your head into his neck. “I really do. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, silly girl. I’m here. I’m with you.”

-

Weeks pass, and things only seem to get worse. 

You could hear their whispers, see their pitiful glances, and see how they all tiptoed around you. It made you furious. It wasn’t a loud, fiery rage that once fueled you. It was quiet and insidious—burning cold and cutting deeper than any wound you’ve experienced. You hated their pity, their careful steps, and how they looked at you as if you were a ghost. 

You had once been a force that could not be ignored or buried away—a wild inferno in a world that always tried to snuff out the smallest of embers. Your power was born of defiance, a testimony of your will, even vengeance. 

You weren’t always good. At times, you think Satoru forgets that. 

Yet, against all odds, every attempt to diminish and erase you from the annals of time, you remained unbridled, unbroken. You bore no titles and came from no golden lineage; it was your strength alone that helped you carve your place in the world and carve your name into the sun. You were powerful. Unforgiving. You weren’t something to be protected and admired; you were destruction, born of dark weather and chaos.

And yet, you fell. 

A part of you wonders if this was the price to be paid for your transgressions—a quiet, unrelenting suffering that hollowed you out from the inside. It was almost poetic in it's cruelty, as if the weight of your sins could only be balanced by the weight in your chest.

Your flames, once roaring and defiant, sputtered and dwindled. For a while, you believed it was exhaustion, but you knew, deep in your bones, you weren’t the same. At first, you told yourself that you had endured far worse. You strappled the line of death more times than you could count. Sometimes, it was fury that had you crawling from your grave. Others, it was vengeance fueled by the fire meant to burn the pyre of your enemies and all those who wronged you.  

But, your fire hadn’t just dimmed and weakened. It was gone. The power, once flowing through your veins like lava and liquid gold, was replaced by a cold and suffocating emptiness. Even if the taste of ash lingered and the scent of black smoke permeated your nostrils, you weren’t the same. 

You were only six when your cursed technique appeared. You’re incapable of remembering what led to such depravity, such evil, or maybe you couldn’t bring yourself to remember why the people of your village tried killing you. You didn’t remember much of your childhood, but you remember those laughs that still haunted you in your dreams—the same laughs you heard as you were thrown into a ditch your small hands and feet couldn’t have hoped to crawl out of. 

They doused you in rum and lit a match. When the fire ignited, you were left to burn into nothingness. You remembered the feeling of each nerve ending igniting, the excruciating pain that consumed you. You remembered how your scream became a soundless cry as your vocal cords were scorched. You remembered the smell of your burning hair and flesh, the way flames licked at your eyeballs until you were blind. You remembered the end coming suddenly, but not quick enough. You remembered crying for a mother you couldn’t remember, a father that never protected you. 

Then, you remembered how suddenly the word came back. The flames became nothing but a gentle sting. Your flesh mended, and when you drew breath, a black smoke filtered into your lungs, giving you strength. You could taste the ash, and the blood in your veins began to boil. You were born again amongst the flames that once brought you so much agony. You ruled them—fire incarnate: destructive, yet devastatingly alive. 

You hadn’t just lost your technique. You were stripped away of everything you had ever been. Perhaps what stung the most was how the world kept spilling. You were a woman of no renown, no legacy to speak of. And now, you had no fire to prove you had ever been worth anything at all. 

You wonder—had you ever been as strong as you truly thought? Or were you a flame burning on borrowed time, destined to extinguish into nothing? 

You wanted to be forgotten. You wanted to disappear, to return to your flames. You had once despised them; you thought they cursed you with the wickedness they were born from. But, even so, it had been yours. Even if the world always thought you were more of a monster than a sorcerer, perhaps one more terrifying than the curses conjured from the worst parts of mankind, they were yours. And yet, you were lost without them.

You had survived because you had felt the touch of love, came to learn to accept it, and nurtured it with a darkened heart and two hands. Love yanked you back to the surface, yet a bitter and selfish part of you wondered at what cost? 

You wondered if he thought of you differently, if his love was slowly fading along with you, but you were too afraid to look. He had already told you once that you weren’t nearly as strong as you thought. He was right. You were a failure.

You still loved him. You don’t think you could ever stop loving him, but that love became so twisted—tangling with your hurt, your pride, and your inability to forgive everything but yourself.  His kindness became suffocating; his attempts at assurance only ever reminded you of what you lost. Every look of concern or sympathy—real or imagined—was a dagger to the chest. He would leave eventually. He’d grow tired of your ups and downs and how your sweetness could so quickly transform into bitterness.

Even as your strength slowly returned—enough to move without sleep constantly tugging at your consciousness or being teethed to IV drips—the hallowed absence of your cursed energy remained. It had become stagnant, hitting an invisible barrier you couldn’t push or break, no matter how hard you tried.

-

“Baby?” Satoru whispers out for you one night. You don’t respond, but he knows you can hear him. “Can I come in?” 

You make no effort to move or stand. You were frozen, lost in a grief you don’t think you could ever escape. You were on your bathroom floor, heaving over a toilet with a hand pressed to your chest as if it were the only thing keeping it from caving in. He wonders if you still have the ability to sense his presence—if you could sense that he was there waiting for you. 

“Go away,” you told him. You didn’t want him to see you like this, not with blood poring from your nose and dripping from your lips. You were sick. You were scared, angry, and so fucking confused. You didn’t know what was happening to you or how to make it stop it. 

“You know I can’t do that…” 

He wouldn’t leave you—not when you needed him; not when the love remained, even if it was buried under mounds of hurt and pain. It would be the greatest betrayal, even if you begged for it.

However, he wouldn’t push you. So, he lies on the cold wooden floor, his back pressed against the door. Even with five feet between you two, he felt as if you were going somewhere far, somewhere he couldn’t reach. Again.

He goes silent for a moment, searching for the right words that seem so out of reach. He doesn’t think there is anything he could say to make this better, but he could try.

“I used to think for a while that my life had no happy ending,” he says, voice low and steady. “But, then, I met you. Your power drew me in, yeah. But do you know what else did? Those rare smiles. I wanted to be responsible for them—all of them.” Even as you remained silent, there’s no shying away from the emotions his words sturs. There's no escaping him. 

“It was how you demanded a whole room with just your presence. I admired how you loved and hated in equal measure. I loved your wickedness and cunning wit. You dared to challenge the world, and I–” His voice dips lower. It's only to you that he reveals these fragile, intimate parts of himself. “... You made me believe in something more than myself.”

“I’m not the same,” you swallow hard, throat tightening as tears threaten to spill once again. “I’m not… I’m nothing like the woman you met.” 

“Good,” he says simply, voice firm. “Because I don’t need her. I need you. Even when you’re angry and hurting or think you’ve lost everything, I’ll still need you.” 

You turn your head to the door, his words settling over you like a blanket, heavy and warm. Your gaze falls to the floor, finding the faint shadow of him waiting for you. 

“I’ve hated myself for so long for not being able to stop what happened to you. I feel like I failed you—failed you in every way that mattered.” His head falls back, thumping against the door. He loved you. He knew he did because he could feel it in the way his heart ached for you—in the way your pain became his pain. You’re still the woman he admired; you were still the woman he longed for. You’ve never needed power to rule over him, yet he doesn’t know how to make you believe that. All he has is his heart, which he bears to you with two trembling hands. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” 

And finally, as tears gather in your eyes, you realize he wasn’t here because he pitied you. Satoru wasn’t conditional—he didn’t know how to love in halves. You had always felt it, the lingering truths caught between two hearts. But now, he was here, baring it all—leaving no room for doubt or space for denial.

He loves you.

“Your fire isn’t just in your technique—it's in everything you do, angel. It's in the way you look at the world, how you fight for what you believe in, and even the way you love… it used to scare me,” he chuckles gravely. There wasn’t ever a moment, he thinks, that he wasn’t enraptured with you. He can’t recall a time when he hadn't been caught in your obit and seized in the invisible weight of your gravity. 

Your eyes fluttered close, your breath catching as his words settled over you. For the first time in a long while, you feel something other than the crushing burden of loss. You feel him, steady and unwavering. You don’t know if you should cry or let yourself fall into him entirely. 

“Satoru,” you trembled. “What’s happening to me?”

One thing Satoru could never do was lie to you. Not even about this, as his heart nearly fails him. “You're displacing more cursed energy than you’re retaining. It’s making you sick.” 

A shuddering cry slips past your lips. “... Am I dying?”

You hear him move behind the door. His voice, steady but tense, cuts through your panic. “I’m coming in.” 

“No, don’t–”

But it was too late. A locked door wasn’t enough to stop him. The knob crumbles under the force of his grip, a deafening crunch filling the room. Yet, despite the raw display of his strength, he pushes the door open with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. 

You were terrified, your hand pinching harder against your nose that refused to stop dripping blood. It was everywhere—soaking your shirt, trickling down your arm, dripping to the floor, and piling between the cracks of the tiles. You tried to clean it up, but it just wouldn't stop.

His eyes are a bit wide as he takes you in, but he doesn’t reveal much. His expression is unreadable as he drops to his knees. You crawl backward until your back meets the tub. “No, no, no, stop–” but it was futile. 

Blood stains his shirt, his hands, and smears across his cheek as he drags you into his arms. He doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he doesn’t care. 

“Satoru–”

“I don’t care,” he says sharply. His hands cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he presses you to his body. “I don’t care about that. Just… stay still. Breath,” he murmurs. “In and out. That’s all you have to do right now.”

You cry with such an unalloyed and raw pain that robs you of breath. It starts low, guttural, crawling from the deepest parts of you. It carries jagged edges, and swells into a sound so consuming, it drowns out everything else. Shaking, shuddering, choking—you fall apart, gasping for air between waves of anguish.

Satoru loses track of time suspended in the purgatory of your suffering.

“I’m not leaving,” he promises, trembling against you slightly. “And neither are you. I already told you before that you’re stuck with me.”

-

a/n: since my first fic did so well, i decided to make a mini-series depicting readers recovery :) feel free to send requests if you have any. i can either make a small blurb, a headcannon, or even make an entire chapter out of it. also, sorry if there are any typos its getting late lol

on a different note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter. my goal was to capture the readers suffering and Gojo's guilt, and i truly hope i did it justice. i also added a little bit backstory for the reader! i wanted to add layers and reveal that she's an imperfect character. regardless, i sincerely hope you enjoyed. please let me know your thoughts!! I would love to hear them :)

also, i know the kids weren't in this chapter but don't worry! they'll be around very soon!

lastly, thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support on my first fic. i'm beyond grateful that so many of you enjoyed my writing. it genuinely means the world to me! your encouragement and kind words warmed my little heart.

as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[reimaybe]

🎧: ‘cause you have to — lany

“wait for me, okay?”

those were the last words you heard from sae. honestly, it seemed like he wanted to say more, but he held back. with a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure his parents weren’t watching, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead before walking away. you could’ve sworn his ears were tinged pink.

rin nudged you with a smirk, the kind that screamed mischief. “i saw that,” he muttered under his breath, grinning annoyingly. you rolled your eyes in response, brushing off his teasing.

still, those unsaid words lingered in your mind. you hoped they were what you thought they were. the three words that would have secured his spot in your future, the spot next to your bed, and the spot on your left ring finger. but even without saying them, you felt like you were already his. that kiss said enough.

a few years. that’s not too bad, right?

your relationship with sae during his early months in spain was great. though he wasn’t the type to communicate much, you could tell that he was actually trying. every few days, you’d get a call from him. one time, when you asked why he always opted to call instead of text, he simply responded, “typing is annoying.” in truth however, he just wanted to hear your voice.

but as the months passed, the calls grew less frequent. rin complained (and teased) especially, since you were the only one sae kept in touch with. you bribed rin with the popsicle sae used to buy to shut him up, and he immediately stopped sulking.

the turning point in your relationship came about a year after sae left. the calls turned into texts, reserved only for special occasions.

sae: happy birthday

[name]: i miss you

he left you on read, no response. after that, sae stopped reaching out entirely. your attempts to contact him went unanswered. you were his, but was he still yours?

no. was he ever yours to begin with?

in the three years without sae, you often felt like something was missing. the ache was subtle but constant. those years were especially hard: dealing with your studies, fending off a few persistent suitors, and enduring rin's teenage phase. honestly, you managed just fine. rin was great for scaring off suitors with a single glare, and you threw yourself into studying as a distraction. but the hardest part, the part you could never quite get used to, was the feeling of longing for someone halfway across the world.

once, you even tried to let someone else in, to open your heart just a little. and then you saw one of sae's interviews—calm, stoic, untouchable. that was all it took to slam your heart shut again. you felt sorry for the person you'd rejected, but not as sorry as you felt for yourself. you knew how pathetic it was to yearn for someone who probably didn’t even think of you.

now, at seventeen, you’re packing your life into boxes, shoving them into the back of a car. you hug your parents goodbye as they tearfully remind you to call often (which brought a dagger to your heart as you remember a specific someone), their voices cracking with pride and sadness. you’re not just leaving for university. you’re leaving behind everything—this house, this town, and the memories that haunted you.

and then, in a heartbeat, everything changed.

as you pulled out of the driveway, your thoughts consumed by all that you were leaving behind, the world outside blurred into an indistinct haze. a momentary distraction—a glance at your phone, a message from sae.

sae: i'm here. can we talk?

your heart dropped. why was he here, now of all times? you couldn't help but feel a spark of hope. you believed that he loved you—at least, the younger sae did. a part of you longed to believe that he still loved you like he did back then.

you loved him in that spring, and as much as you hated to admit it, you still loved him in this winter. but what about him? doubts began to creep in. maybe you had outgrown each other. maybe sae had outgrown you. maybe you’d become a distraction to him, dead weight—nothing but a reminder of a past he could no longer hold on to. perhaps this was just his way of giving you closure.

the questions lingered in your mind: “did you only love me because of that kiss? did you only love me because of the promises you made? does some part of you feel like you owe it to the boy you used to be? do you only love me ‘cause you have to?”

the screech of tires, the crunch of metal against metal, and then the darkness swallowed you whole. in those final moments, as the realization of what was happening crashed over you, the last remnants of sae’s voice echoed in your mind, blending with the chaos of the moment. you had been ready to leave it all behind, but now, it seemed, the goodbyes you gave would be your last.

“i’ll leave you two alone,” rin whispers, taking one last glance at your tombstone before walking away.

“sorry,” sae whispers. though there are a million things he wants to say, that's all he’s able to let out. afraid that if he talks any more, his facade will break down, and the carefully constructed walls he built around his heart will shatter under the weight of his grief. he wishes he could have been the one to love you more. he clenches his fists, feeling the sting of unshed tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

it hurts to know he will never hear your voice again, never be able to kiss your forehead again, and the crushing weight of it all leaves him hollow. a shell of the person he used to be, forever haunted by the knowledge that he let you slip away when he should have fought to keep you close.

“i'll take my leave now,” he whispers to rin, hands in his pockets with the coldest expression rin has ever seen.

the younger itoshi wanted to say something. fight in your stead for all the pain his elder brother had caused you, but he understood that causing a scene here wouldn’t be good.

plus, the tears on sae's face spoke enough.