#i just cannot bring myself to go down enough to put actual weight onto my wrists

[oflgtfol]

sometimes i cant help but wonder if my wrists are still fucked up because i genuinely did train myself to completely move differently in everyday life so as to avoid any problematic movements that would hurt - i havent opened a door the same way since, i dont rest my head in my hand anymore or when i do i have my hand as a fist instead of bending my wrist, i put bags over my shoulder differently, etc - so i always wonder like, did i just get so good at retraining my movements to where i just genuinely do not trigger the pain anymore? or is it that my wrists are no longer as fucked up as they used to be?

and then i wind up wrenching my hand in the wrong direction very violently while doing a mundane activity that went wrong for whatever reason and wind up in excruciating pain that a normal person wouldnt be in and im like. Ah. right. pain my old friend

[kashimos-hajime]

the colour yellow | jjk

summary: “You once said love manifests the most twisted curses. I never thought of it that way before, but I’m starting to think you’re right.”

WARNINGS: ANGST!! hanahaki disease but not an au, HOSPITALS, DEATH, DESCRIPTIONS OF DISEASE, UNHEALTHY WEIGHT LOSS, pining, unrequited love, complicated feelings, its just sad. there are some light-hearted moments, and happier/softer aspects in the ending but it is generally sad in the ‘what could have been’ department pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader, past geto suguru x fem!reader, mentions of satosugu word count: 29.9k lmao

a/n: i just needed to get the hanahaki out of my system. it did not work. i took liberties w the timeline because idc about actual jjk canon in this fic thanks. 

playlist for this fic

crossposted on ao3 x

Your Innate Technique always gave you a green thumb. Meaning, similarly enough to Yaga, you could plant cursed energy into objects.

Where it deviated, Satoru knows, is the type of object. Plants—trees, leaves, flowers. 

Ironic, he thinks numbly as he walks through the hospital. Shoko had told him that at this point it was palliative care until you died—nothing else would work. Cursed energy only fed your sickness, and even her technique could not heal the damage fast enough. Stupid. Idiotic. Cruel.

Cruel. That was the word.

He hadn’t seen it himself but from how his old friend had described it, it could only be cruel. 

His footsteps tap along the linoleum floors, urgent, but not too fast. A part of him dreads what he will see—his mind swirls with the possibilities, and of guilt.

Why didn’t he just come sooner? Why did he think it was okay to wait, to dismiss Itadori when he said you’d been checked in for your coughing fits?

“She’s strong. She’ll be fine,” he had said. Itadori’s small frown. “A little feather in her throat isn’t going to knock her down.”

Why? Why? Why? Why did he say that?

Because it had to be serious to put you in the hospital. For fuck’s sake, you were still that teenage girl who stood outside his dorm window in the middle of a thunderstorm to bring Fushiguro a birthday present before you left for a curse expedition a thousand years ago, and the woman who welcomed him into your home unprompted on December 24th, your cheeks dry, lips pressed in a brave smile.

You had held him tight enough he could not see the blood, scrubbed him in a bathtub, ran your fingers through his hair until the sweat and grime was gone. You took care of him because he knows the belief that no one should be left behind to suffer alone has been engrained in you since the day he’s met you.

He should’ve known. A girl abandoned for being cursed had turned into woman with a saviour complex who’d barely even think about telling him you were dying. 

Dying, of all things, from a disease no one knows how to cure. And you’re a sorcerer.

He could’ve laughed. The irony is enough to make him smile.

Your room’s in a tiny corner of the hospital, down the hall from a nurse’s station, and as he walks through, he can see the grey sunlight streaming through the window, glaring against his glasses. He lifts them to rub the heel of his hand into his eye.

He doesn’t want you to worry when you see him, and mostly, he needs to stall. His heart is in knots in his chest, and he spots a chair beside the door with your name in the plastic slate, so he sits down. His knees feel gummy and he leans forward, the visitor’s pass clipped to the front of his shirt hanging. 

Satoru tugs the glasses off his face, fits his palm over his brow and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s chilling in this dead end, and he swallows tightly. Everything tastes so dry as he looks up and shoves his hand underneath the sanitizer dispenser, rubbing it all over his hands just so he has something to do.

After a few minutes, he gets up and sets a hand on the knob. 

It can’t be as bad as he’s imagining. At most, you’re a bit sick, but you’ll still be spritely, warm in the lips and with arms outstretched and, “Satoru, finally!”

He opens the door. 

You’re sitting hunched over in bed. Silhouette outlined by the white-grey sunlight from outside your hospital room, you’re trembling as you hold onto a receptacle. An IV is hooked to your arm, a hospital gown is barely hiding anything, and it feels immoral to even look so Satoru doesn’t. Instead, he pauses by the doorframe and closes his eyes for a moment as your gaze flashes to him. 

He feels it, to be honest. The heat of your stare until it is wrenched away by a violent cough you instinctually muffle by your palm, blood splattering over your hand, soft, velveteen purple petals falling from your lips and into the receptacle in your lap. 

You’re supposed to have a green thumb.

Vines bend to your will if you command it, you can summon forth thorns to impale your opponents, send thick creeping ivy to barricade a doorway. It doesn’t matter if there is no greenery in your immediate area. At the sweep of your hand, the ground could rumble with the sound of trees twisting their gnarled roots into feet to march at your command.

Just as long as they’re within range and you’ve touched them in the past few hours, they’re yours.

So, why can’t you stop this?

Plants are supposed to listen to you, right? As he stares at your shaking body on the bed, curved over the plastic tub, thick globs of bloodied spit drip from your lips and soaked purple blossom petals entwine with your life essence. His heart plummets to his chest. You retch, spit, choke, and every sound stabs him in the chest as he takes a weak step forward, hand stretched out limply.

Your name flutters, barely leaves his lips before you’re looking at him again, a bit of a mortifying image but nonetheless.

Even so, you smile, despite the blood painting your face, the exhaustion morphing your body. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks, and your hands shake around the receptacle. You look battered, bruised along the arms where the needles keeping you filled with antibiotics, medicine you need, had punctured you.

And still, you’re beaming at him. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Hi, Satoru.”

His hand falls. Eyes wide, he cannot take another step. You wipe at your lips, tossing the tissue into the trash before pushing the plastic receptacle onto the table and swinging your legs off the bed.

“Don’t—“ he croaks but you don’t listen, sliding your feet into slippers and grabbing your IV stand to take a step towards him. Your knees nearly give in but you stick out a hand before he can rush to catch you. Then, you’re pushing yourself up and walking over to him. It’s more of a shuffle, but Gojo finds he can’t care as you land on his chest, hands pressing into his back.

You’re a bit cold in his arms, and he wraps himself around you, trying to rub the heat back into your skin as you shudder, but your heart is still racing as it always does around him, and you…

You’re the type of person who can shift how the air feels and looks to his Six Eyes with your smile or your tears or your frown, and in that moment, the air bleeds yellow with your joy. It’s so bright in his soul that it makes his heart skip as you shift on your feet against him, hands sliding down so your arms can circle his waist and haul him closer. 

“Gojo Satoru turning off his infinity for little ole me,” you murmur, voice raspy, as he closes his eyes, cradling your head. Without another word, he sinks into you. “Talk about the world ending.”

Why didn’t you just call him? Why did you let him stay away for so long? He doesn’t want to ask why it’s happening, or how. He already knows you’ll just lie. But he wants to know if you think so lowly of him that you thought you didn’t matter to him.

After Suguru…

How could you think that? He’s screaming inside his mind as he touches your back, feels the faint protruding ridges along your skin when he pushes down. It makes your spine a bit more pronounced along the knobs, your shoulder blades a bit bumpy, but otherwise, it’s almost normal. One wouldn’t even be able to tell without touching you and actively searching for it. How could you think I don’t care?

This isn’t the work of a cursed spirit, that much he knows. It seems much more seductive, sneaking yet unhurried in its nature. This is agony in effigy. There’s something rotten inside you, but he can’t tell what it is. The energy is everywhere.

You pull back to look up at him with a soft smile, then tap his nose and tell him to join you before turning around and climbing back into bed with energy that betrays your earlier fits. You grab your robe that you’ve left on your bed before getting up again and walking around, shrugging the fabric back onto your shoulders.

He sits down in a visitor’s chair that is still cold.

“It comes and goes,” you explain first with your new, croaky voice, stretching your arms above your head and rubbing your neck. It doesn’t look painful, but you clear your throat a lot to see if it helps. So far, nothing. “So, it’s just like a really bad coughing fit, to be honest.”

“How long has it been going on?” Your hip cracks and you let out a relieved sigh. Satoru arches an eyebrow as you animatedly stretch your face. “What are you doing, silly?”

“It got worse a few weeks ago, enough that Nanami insisted I check myself in around two weeks ago?” you say, after counting on your fingers. Satoru’s heart plummets. “But it’s levelled out since I’ve been moved here and off-campus. And I’m stretching. When I get back out there, I have to remember how to emote.” You flash him a bedazzling grin and a bit of the weight lifts off his shoulders as you swallow down another cough. This time, it’s successful and you only let out a short, raspy breath before shaking it out.

You aren’t even doing that bad. 

The blood, the flowers, that must’ve been just a bad bout, but otherwise, you seem quite normal.

That’s what he tells himself, and he believes it.

With relief, he stretches out his legs, leaning his head back on his hands. Your room’s pretty nice—much nicer than an average hospital room. Plants on the windowsills, some get-well-soon cards and a desk in the corner filled books that you look like you haven’t even begun to read, some paintings hanging off the walls. 

You wave a hand to grab his attention again.

“Don’t look,” you chastise, tying the robe around your waist. “Some of these are works in progress.”

“So Itadori and Shoko were just exaggerating,” he assumes. You look up at him, quirking an eyebrow. “If you’re attempting to paint, I know all that’s happened is that you’ve lost your mind.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, they made it out as if you were dying. If it’s just a lung issue, they could probably just fix it and we can get back to exorcising curses and making fun of Fushiguro’s teen angst,” he says, crossing his legs at the ankles. You step over them to go to the window and examine your plants, and he eyes you in his peripheral, watching you inspect one of the leaves before looking next at some blooming flowers. You don’t answer, and the grey light makes you look melancholy until you shrug.

“The doctors say I need to rest, save my strength and all that,” you finally say vaguely. “And don’t make fun of Fushiguro.”

“I’d never do that.”

You tilt your head and arch an eyebrow skeptically before flicking his forehead with a sharp donk. “I’m not above slapping the shit out of you.” He opens his mouth to argue and you hold up a finger, shutting him up. “And you can’t hit back as revenge. Ill hospital patient rights.”

“You can’t take the moral stand. Vengeance has no gender bias,” he exclaims, sitting up but you merely smirk, leaning over and shoving your face into his space before turning your head to present your cheek. His eyes widen as you poke your own face tauntingly.

“Do it, then.”

Gawking for a moment, Satoru stares but you only wink and he pushes you away lightly. You stumble a bit and he jumps to his feet to catch you but you manage to right yourself up, shooting him a foul glare. He glares back in response.

“Well, obviously, I wasn’t going to actually slap you,” he says, indignant.

“So you pushed me instead? Gojo, in your words, you are the strongest. You never know how to control the strength you push out.”

“Yes, I do!”

“One time, you patted Megumi on the back and you sent him into the pavement.”

“He was nine.”

“It still happened!” you cry, although an impish smile is already curling at your lips and it isn’t long before it spreads to Satoru, warm bright yellow and enough that it absolves any of the remaining pain in his body as you straighten up, holding onto your IV stand for support. The metal rattles a bit as the wheels roll. Your feet brush the ground. You lift your head up wretchedly.

It’s almost like that weakness sobers you.

The expression that overtakes you frightens Satoru to fucking death. 

His face feels like it numbs, staring at the darkness that seeps the light away. You stare at the metal pole your fingers are wrapped so tightly around, and then you look at the bag hanging there, clear and round and soft to your touch as you straighten up.

“Satoru,” you say softly.

“Yeah?” His voice is so quiet he’s not sure he even speaks. He can’t remember the last time you had looked so dispassionate at anything in his life. Even death had left its mark—black frowns, long streaks underneath your eyes.

Your apathy is dark purple, an endless void colour. 

“When I die, make sure Shoko’s the one who cuts me open to find out what’s wrong with me.”

Something prickles at his fingertips. He touches your shoulder and half-thinks his fingers will go right through you.

“You’re not going to die,” he insists firmly. “It’s just a bad cough.” You look up at him and blink. Then you touch your lips and shudder down another cough.

“We all die.”

“It’s not your time, yet.” His fingers dig into your shoulder. You don’t even wince even though you’re clenching his jaw but he can’t find it in himself to loosen his hold. It feels like the Jaws of Death. A crocodile’s bite.

So much for not being able to control his own power.

“It’s just a bad cough.” He ignores everything Shoko had said. Sometimes she’s wrong—sometimes, it’s not even that bad. He’d just seen it, hadn’t he? You were stretching, jumping onto your bed, acting like nothing was wrong.

Palliative care? As if you needed it—

You blink, then, and look at him. Stare at him as if you’d never said those words, and he had never reached out. 

You jerk your shoulder out of his grip. It stings more than it should.

“Right. But I’m just saying. You know how you always say I’ve got a few screws loose. It just makes sense someone will wanna crack me open to see what was going on up there and I want it to be her.” 

You smile, and the yellow cancels out the purple. 

Colour theory. 

But Satoru doesn’t smile back.

“What about the flowers?” he asks after a while. You’ve climbed back onto bed and he’s sat back down. You’re blowing into a spirometer, and every time, without fail, the ball shoots up to the top, clattering against the plastic. He watches, hoping that the next time, it’ll do the same thing again.

You stop and look at him. “What about them?”

“Is it some optical illusion? Why are they in your throat?”

“That’s a harder nut to crack,” you muse. “I don’t really know. It’s like when you’ve got food in your esophagus and you’re trying to cough it up so it doesn’t feel stuck anymore except it keeps building up. That only started a few days ago, though, so maybe, someone drugged me or something.” He doesn’t laugh and you frown. “Not funny?”

He shakes his head. “It’s freaky.”

.

He sits on the bench on campus. 

He’s cancelled classes because he didn’t come up with a standard lesson plan and his students are glad to have a Monday afternoon off, even if they’d never say it to his face. In truth, he’d spent the whole weekend at the hospital until he reeked of antiseptic and pollen. 

You coughed up five petals, and without fail, a nurse would come in hourly intervals to collect them. Shoko came once, to check up on you and to collect the samples. If she was surprised Satoru was sitting in the corner on his phone, she didn’t voice it.

“She’s not even doing that bad,” he says to the air, more accusatory than anything. The woman standing by him doesn’t answer and sits down beside him uninvited. Turning to look at her, his eyes narrow behind his blindfold. “You said she needed palliative care until she died. The doctor said she could leave tonight.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive concepts,” she informs, not looking at him. Shoko looks a bit out of place in the warm colours of the garden. Half a corpse herself. Waif-like. “The doctor’s letting her relax in the comfort of her own home before she dies. That’s all.”

“She’s not going to die.”

She snorts. “Denial isn’t a good colour on you.” The words could’ve been delivered colder. Satoru is grateful that they weren’t. 

Shoko rests her hands on her knees, tilts her head up, and sighs. Her long hair is like warm chocolate in the sunlight, spilling down her arched back from the knot she tied. “If you have any idea on how to fix this, I’m listening with both ears.”

“I don’t even know what it is,” he says. “Coughing and flowers? I’ve never heard of a sickness like that before.”

“Nanami pointed out that it could be a curse someone placed on her. I don’t know why, but it’d be an explanation.” Satoru spreads his legs, plants an elbow on his knee and leans forward to look at the ants travelling along the cobblestone before his shoe. “It manifested on some negative emotion lingering inside her and it’s growing every day, but she won’t budge.” Shoko sighs. Her purple eye bags look worse in the sunlight, but he would never tell her that. “Maybe you’d have a better chance digging into her. With Geto gone, there’s no one else to ask, is there?”

“What about you? What happened to girls and their little secrets?” he jokes, trying to ignore the ache that begins to bloom in his chest. Shoko eyes him wryly.

“I have suspicions, but there are some things girls don’t ask other girls,” she retorts. “It’s never been my business anyway. My job is to treat her, and I’ve given her options. It’s up to her to take them. Grief is a birthing ground for curses, and if she’s letting them feed on her freely, you know what fate is waiting for her.”

With that, she gets up and leaves as quickly as she arrived. Satoru swallows the smell of flowers and feels sick.

.

Monday night, Satoru pulls up his laptop and looks through, searching up words he can string together in a coherent sense to get the answers he wants. As rare as it probably is, some research wouldn’t hurt, would it? Some curses had a trademark affliction—maybe this one does, too.

So he searches up flower coughing to see if there has ever been a record of strange deaths that have made the news. If not, he’ll go to the jujutsu databases, but for now, maybe some publicity could put some answers to this question.

He is surprised when one of the first results is flower coughing disease. 

When he hits enter, the white screen blasts into blue irises with numerous results all repeating the same two words.

HANAHAKI DISEASE

And Satoru reads, and reads, and reads. He reads two weeks to three months, he reads unrequited love, and removal, and disappearance of romantic feelings and capacity for romantic love.

He reads fictional disease and wonders how much of it really is fictional. 

His phone pings with a text, and he grabs at it, tilts it just enough to get a glimpse of the screen. It’s from you, and he hasn’t read a text from you in so long he almost doesn’t recognize who it’s from except he does because… who else could it be?

[Greenbean] 11:02 PM

hey!!! guess whos finally fucking free oh my god

ugh out of the hospital and forgot how actual air smelled like lol bitch im so hungry i could eat a zoo

Letting his phone clatter, he sighs and rubs his face roughy, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before snapping his laptop shut and getting up. His phone buzzes again and he reaches for it blindly, the screen lighting up as he goes to bed.

[Greenbean] 11:03 PM

we should get smth to eat!! i wanna go to that new ramen place in ikebukoro

[Satoru] 11:03 PM

fine but you good???? who picked you up from the hospital? still insulted you didnt let me tbh

also what did the doctor say???

[Greenbean] 11:04 PM

bc ur a menace who doesnt know how to drive 

he said itd get worse before itd get better so still gotta go for checkups but yeah dont worry and nanami came bc he didnt trust me not to try and walk home lol but he did buy me dinner

wasnt enough though!!!

…

[Greenbean] 11:06 PM

ok but fr does he think im insane

clearly id flash some skin and hitch a ride duh

…

[Greenbean] 11:10 PM

youre just gonna leave me on read? yikes

[Satoru] 11:12 PM

i was getting ready to sleep silly

and yeah ill come pick you up on saturday for lunch?

[Greenbean] 11:15 PM

sorry making instant noodles rn but yeah that sounds fine

wait youre sleeping so early lmfao

[Satoru] 11:16 PM

im old :/

  [Greenbean] 11:18 PM

u sure are

(image sent)

look!!! my babies are still alive!!! idk how but miracles do exist im tellin ya

[Satoru] 11:24 PM

inumaki, maki, and fushiguro broke into ur home to water them but dont tell them i told u

[Greenbean] 11:24 PM

wtf

[Satoru] 11:25 PM

yeah idk when but i think u teaching inumaki how to pick locks has opened up too many possibilities but also its really funny thanks

now go to sleep u need to rest

[Greenbean] 11:28 PM

whos gonna make me lol youre not my dad

[Satoru] 11:29 PM

lol 

remember how i can teleport 

lol so cool

[Greenbean] 11:30 PM

dude

wtf

fine 

goodnight hoe </3

[Satoru] 11:31 PM

goodnight knock off poison ivy <3

.

“You’ve looked better,” Shoko says. Satoru raises his head wearily as he pushes off the wall. Shoko’s holding a cup of coffee, her lab coat fresh on her shoulders and eye bags looking more printed on rather than natural swelling. Satoru can’t help but feel the same exhaustion. “Definitely looked worse. What do you want? It’s early.”

“Have you ever heard of Hanahaki disease?” he asks. She shakes her head, and he pulls up the page on his phone and hands it to her. She takes it from him and her eyes scan the screen as he continues, “It’s this fictional disease, something that stems from unrequited love, and I think it could be related to whatever she’s experiencing.”

“I thought you were set on willing her to survive,” she replies dryly, shooting him a quick look and adjusting the coffee in her hand. “But this is definitely one of your stranger theories.”

Satoru ignores that last part. “It’d make sense. With her Cursed Technique, maybe it manifested in a way that links to it.”

She pushes into the office, setting the coffee on her desk and sitting down. Satoru sits down on the exam table closest and leans forward eagerly as she continues to read the page, scrolling down occasionally before scrolling back up and sighing. “This is a stretch. The timeline doesn’t match up to what this is saying.”

“This is a curse. It doesn’t have to follow fiction.” His body feels sore, janky even, everywhere. He barely got a wink of sleep last night and he knows he’s paying for it, now. “Hell knows life rarely does, anyway. But the symptoms matches too well, doesn’t it? The flowers—you’ve done scans, haven’t you?”

She deliberates his words carefully as she looks to the file cabinet and pulls out a binder. Satoru catches a flash of your name on the spine before she moves her coffee and his phone out of the way to flip it open.

“The scans we’ve taken have only just begun to show small growths in her trachea,” she allows, “and we don’t fully understand how cursed energy affects our bodies, so I suppose it could be something like Hanahaki, if the negative energy stemming from December 24th was what brought this on or if these symptoms started when we were still students, but she’s been experiencing shortness of breath a few months before Christmas.” Satoru’s lungs squeeze the last of the air out of them at that, and a cold sweat drops down his spine as she hands his phone back to him. “It only started getting worse Suguru’s death, which meant there had to have been a trigger before that.”

In the back of his head, he hears your voice, light and yellow, saying a few weeks. It got worse a few weeks ago. 

“Worse?”

“The first petal fell some time after Christmas. It’s been a slow, but steady progression since then. Sometimes, it’s two or three. When it’s not a good day, there can be as many as seven to ten.” Shoko switches on the lamp on the corner of her desk and adjusting the direction of the white light before flipping the page. “But if we can find the original trigger and alleviate that pressure it’s putting on her, we could buy her more time.”

“So it’s been nearly six months since the first petal,” he says. Shoko nods. Satoru is grateful for the blindfold—she can’t see how blank everything looks on his face. “It said sometimes, the disease can last for eighteen months.”

“As you said, this isn’t a fairytale.” She half-spins on her chair to face him and leans back into it, crossing one leg over the other and jiggling her knee. “I saw that one of the solutions is excise the growths at the cost of the attachment. That was one of the options I gave her when the growths first appeared. She said she wanted more time before she could decide.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because she’s smart, and likes to push her damned limits. And if this is truly the basis of the curse”—she gestures to Satoru’s phone. Her expression flickers—“those flowers are feeding off cursed energy. Cutting them out would remove those negative emotions, but at a cost of something else. Maybe whatever feelings she has regarding the trigger.”

Satoru looks down at his phone. It feels heavier than a thousand cinderblocks in his clammy hands. His fingers are numb as his screen dims and finally locks itself. Pressing the button, it illuminates again to reveal a picture of a cactus you gave him for his birthday years ago, blooming with delicate purple petals. 

His heart rends. That cactus is long dead now.

“But, Suguru’s dead.” 

“That’s why I asked you to ask her,” Shoko mutters. 

Turning to her binder again, she picks up a pen and clicks it, lowering it to the paper before pausing, and Satoru looks up as she stares at whatever words are printed into the page distantly. A strange affliction is on her face, almost tormented, and Satoru is not-so-kindly reminded that before Suguru and Satoru, Shoko was your best friend first. 

“Tell her how idiotic she’s being,” she enforces quietly. “The longer it lives, the more permanent damage is inflicted. With the unpredictable nature of curses, that won’t take long and by then, it’ll be too late to consider removing it.”

.

Saturday comes too fast, yet not fast enough. By the end of the week, Satoru is all but finished with teaching, and is waiting outside your apartment, leaning against the car as he scrolls through his phone. He’s done a bit more research on this Hanahaki disease, but even the word makes him shiver with the implications. 

“Satoru!” Turning, he catches you loping easily towards him. You’re dressed in billowy, wide-legged dark mint green pants and a pretty white top that makes you look more nymph than human, with a canvas tote bag hanging off your shoulder. You flash him a smile as you fiddle with the fabric tie at the waistband of your pants nervously. “Hi.”

“Hey. Hope you don’t mind I brought Ijichi along for the ride since someone claims I can’t drive.”

“You don’t have your license, sir,” Ijichi says wearily as you bend over to wave through the window. "It would be illegal for you to be on the road in any capacity—oh, hello, ma’am. It’s nice to see you doing so well.”

“Thanks, Ijichi. I think I’m doing better after getting out of there,” you say as Satoru opens the car door for you and he smirks, eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses. You straighten up, looking at him before poking his chest and it’s almost just like the good ole days as you break out into a grin that crinkles your entire face. “What’s with you being a gentleman? It better not be because I was in the hospital.”

“Of course not,” he admonishes. “I wouldn’t dare dream of being polite to you of all people.” Still, he sidesteps and sweeps his arm, gesturing for you to climb in first which you do, exhaling a bit shakily as you settle in and slide over. By the time he’s settled in beside you, you have a fist over your lips and you’re clearing your throat testily.

A worm of unease wriggles into his stomach as he clips in his seatbelt, pulling the lapels of his unbuttoned green shirt free from the strap. Legs spreading, he lets his hands fold in his lap as Ijichi begins to drive them to their destination. You’ve lowered your hand by now, looking out the window, and it’s not bright enough that Satoru can read your expression on the glass.

It’s clear you don’t want to talk about it, but still, that nagging feeling bites at him as he rolls the divider up between the backseat and the front—a mock of privacy.

“The place we’re going to gives me the same vibe as that family-owned restaurant we went to when we were students. The one in Kagurazaka,” you say after a while, turning back to look at him. You’re wearing a bracelet that jangles when you move your hand to adjust the seatbelt across your chest. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Have you been?”

“One time, before I checked in,” you tell him, smiling still. “It was really good. The perfect last meal.” Satoru does well enough to hide his frown at your choice of words as you meet his eyes. “You know, you can ask. I’m not fragile.”

“I don’t have anything to ask,” he lies. “I’m just glad you’re out of the hospital.”

“Me, too. I’ve missed so much and it drove me insane. Yaga-sensei insists that I don’t work until I’m sure I’m feeling better,” you add. “But to be honest, there’s nothing much that can be done to make me feel better.”

“I see. So you’re still coughing up flowers?”

“Petals,” you correct, “and a bit. Don’t worry. It’ll get better soon.” You wave a hand and turn to look out the window and Satoru’s appetite all but vanishes. He doesn’t know why you’re so intent on lying to him about the severity of your condition, but as your knee jiggles relentlessly the whole car ride with unbridled excitement, he wonders if you’re even aware of how sick you could be. 

His Six Eyes scan your body for signs of a curse. Normally, those plagued have their little burdens hanging off their shoulders, prying their head open, biting into an arm or leg, but he finds yours lives inside your chest, just barely hidden by the yellow light brimming from your body as you reach forward to lower the divider and talk to Ijichi.

They reach Ikebukuro before they’re dropped off after Satoru insists on walking the rest of the way.

“Give us some privacy, Ijichi! We both know you’ll just eavesdrop for the juicy details,” he exclaims loudly, leading to the man to blush furiously, stuttering that he’d do no such thing, and earning Satoru a smack on the back of his head, knocking his sunglasses askew.

“Thanks for the ride, Ijichi,” you say warmly as if you hadn’t slapped a concussion into Satoru. The Assistant Director dips his head. “See you later!” With that, he drives off and the two sorcerers are left in the busy street. Satoru looks around curiously, but you tug him along up the main road of the district and immediately turn right into one of the smaller streets. A few cyclists race past, as well as cars, but the traffic seems relatively slow despite it being the weekend. There are people walking along the white lines separating the lanes, chatting merrily as you lead him to the restaurant.

“I forgot how actual sunlight felt,” you sigh, stretching your arms high above your head as if to touch the wind breezing through. Inhaling deeply, you close your eyes. Satoru waits for you to begin to cough, and you hold it in, throat tensing a bit. 

He looks away, and pretends he doesn’t hear your sharp exhale, the soft cough you try to muffle with your hand. Instead, he looks at their surroundings, traces the green roads, watches a man park his bicycle and take the plastic bags out of the basket before rushing into a store. The air smells faintly of smoke, and Satoru waves in front of his face to see if it’ll help dispel the scent, but it’s so engrained with the hint of meat, honey, sweets, and flowers, that he can’t.

“I saw Suguru here once,” you tell him suddenly. He blinks, head snapping to you, and you’re already regarding him with a faint smile, eyes a bit dimmer. The warm yellow energy has faded to a burnt orange as you look ahead. “A year or two after he left. It’s why I moved closer a few years ago. I guess I had this weird hope that I’d see him again, but I never really did.” A faint grin graces your lips again, as if you’re not even aware you’re smiling. Fondness overtakes you. “I think about him a lot these days.”

“Me, too.”

“Of course,” you chuckle a bit, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I’m being insensitive.” 

“No, you’re not. He meant a lot to you, too. I don’t own him, or his memory.”

“I know, but he was still your best friend.” Unbidden, a voice in Satoru’s voice finishes it for you. My one and only. 

“Did you guys talk about anything?”

“Not really anything important,” you say, shrugging, but by the way your eyes shift in the light, glimmer differently, he knows you’re lying. He knows it’s none of his business, but a part of him hungers for new parts of Suguru and it’s powerful enough to take control of his tongue.

“Nothing’s not important. He was a wanted criminal.”

“I think we both know somehow that part never mattered to us.” You look at him, and run a thumb under the strap of your bag. “To any of us. But…” You tilt your head to him and your smile grows tender. “…since you asked, we talked about us. He told me about what he wanted, the kind of world he was determined to create. He paid for my dinner, kissed me goodnight like it was normal, and then he was gone. Never saw him again until last December.”

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. 

He remembers that day ten years ago in Shinjuku. The coldness in which Suguru had looked at him. He can’t imagine that same poison directed at you. He couldn’t even imagine Suguru looking at him like that in the first place until he did.

“Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?”

“I used to have nightmares about it,” you continue distantly. “Because I could’ve left with him, but I didn’t. And I could’ve killed him, but I didn’t do that either.”

“If you want to kill me, kill me. There’s meaning in that, too.”

Satoru’s chest tightens. His heart feels rotten to the core. “I didn’t, either, until I did.” You smile a bit more, at the irony. “Would you? Have gone with him, that is.”

“I didn’t, so what’s the point in debating it?” you ask before shrugging thoughtlessly and answering anyway. “I think tackling curses at the source is important. I just didn’t like the way he was doing it. If I thought I could somehow change his mind, just a bit, on his methods, maybe, but by then, he was too far gone.” 

Your eyes, chips of glinting sunstone, mellow as a cyclist trills at them with a bell to get out of the way. You step out of the way, away from Satoru for a moment, before returning to him, and when the back of his hand brushes yours, he’s startled at how cold your skin is. 

Satoru is quiet as he absorbs all of this. He doesn’t really know what to say, and you don’t prod him for a reaction as they turn the corner again. 

“It’s just over there,” you say, pointing to a small restaurant, people milling by the door. There’s a sign hanging over the door, off-white with black kanji painted on and your arm falls. “There’s a line. Huh.”

“We can wait,” Satoru says when they stop at the edge of the crowd. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay. I’ll go put our names in then come back.” You disappear into the crowd for a moment before resurfacing and joining his side again, something in your hand. “It should be, like, fifteen minutes. I said the bar was okay.”

“That’s fine.” Shoving his sunglasses up into his hair, he cracks his knuckles and migrates to the wall. You follow, and he slouches against the concrete pillar. You adjust the tote bag against your body and lean against the other side just around the corner. Their elbows brush, and you tilt your head to look at him, smiling. Your face has caught the sun perfectly, and Satoru can’t help but smile back.

He wonders how to bring up this Hanahaki disease theory. You look so perfect, so happy in this moment where their eyes meet, that he can’t bring it up. Maybe it’s selfish, but it feels like it’s been so long since the two of them even managed to see each other for more than an hour. With how overworked jujutsu sorcerers are, it’s hard to recall the last time they both had downtime at the same time that wasn’t spent catching up on sleep.

You look away, shoulders shaking, as if that’s enough to hide your coughing, and he thinks, Later. There’ll be time for that later.

“Here’s the menu,” you tell him once you’ve calmed down, extending your hand. He takes the paper, unfolding it as you cross your arms and tilt your head back on the concrete. Reading down the list, he keeps an eye on you out of the corner of his vision, and your fingers play at your lips as you swallow. Reaching into your bag, you twist the cap of a water bottle and chug half of it down.

“Do you have any medicine? For your coughing?” he asks casually. You hit your chest with a firm fist, clearing your throat and looking at him in surprise. The water bottle returns to your bag.

“Oh, uh, no. It doesn’t work. Just gotta keep hydrated and avoid any possible triggers,” you inform. You turn up the street as you speak, crossing your legs at the ankles and sinking against the concrete. 

“And what are those triggers?”

“And you say Ijichi is the one digging for gossip,” you snort with short, choked huff. Satoru rolls his eyes, but keeps looking at the menu. “Don’t worry about it. I’m avoiding them.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“If I wanted your dry wit, I would’ve gone to the original.”

“I don’t copy off Shoko. I take bits of everyone’s personality and twist it to make it my own.”

You shake your head. “Whatever you say.”

Your name is called a few minutes later and the pair push off the concrete pillar, heading through the crowd and into the small restaurant. It’s not too dimly lit, a bunch of natural light from the street streaming in through the open windows, and the air is rich with the smells of the kitchen as they sit down at the bar.

It’s not long before they’ve ordered, and Satoru has gone through his first bowl and is well into pouring his second into what remains of his broth before he remembers to even check up on how you’re doing. You’d been right—he loves this place. The atmosphere isn’t overly loud, but the mumbling of nearby patrons is enough to make him feel like he isn’t quite alone. It’s sheltered away from the world, and although he’s used to girls staring, no one has gone up to him which is giving him time to his own thoughts and food. Everyone here seems to mind their business—everyone likes to stay in their own bubble. 

Here, he isn’t the strongest, or quite so special. It honestly feels kind of nice.

You’re sipping on your broth, tilting the spoon towards your mouth and your lips are pulled into the warmest smile he’s seen since they were kids. The light’s hitting you just perfect again, more cool than warm, but it’s got you on the cheekbone, illuminated your lips. Satoru wonders if you know how to manipulate light, or if that’s just your natural blessing as you tilt your head towards him, eyes squinting from your own joy.

For a moment, another image flashes in his head. Him along the end of their group of four—you and Shoko, Suguru and Satoru. It’s almost poetry how much of a glimpse he can see in your smile. You would always be laughing, and Suguru’s cheeks would always be red, and Shoko would charm the guy over the counter to hand over a bottle of shochu. Satoru would tease his stupid best friend, and pay for their meal because “I’m friends with a bunch of goddamn freeloaders.”

But that moment ends as quickly as it came, and it’s so fucking heartbreaking that Satoru never thought their last meal together would be their last meal together. He would’ve cherished it more—done anything to make them stay in that ramen shop in Kagurazaka.

“Do you like it here?” you ask. 

He blinks. You’re studying him behind that smile of yours. Watching. Always watching. “It reminds me of when we were kids,” he replies. When he realizes that didn’t answer the question, he adds, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

You grin, delighted. “If I knew how stupid you’d look sucking up these noodles, I would’ve brought my camera like when we were students. I still have it, you know.”

“Next time, then.”

“Yeah, next time.”

Satoru pays. He insists despite your protests, and snatches the bill from you anyway, swiping his card as quickly as he can. 

After, they walk slowly around the district, looking at the other restaurants and stores for desserts or souvenirs to bring back, and it makes him so nostalgic, his heart wilts a bit in his chest. 

He is saying something about buying some soymilk for Megumi when you stop suddenly, deviating to the side of the road to cough. It grows so intense so quickly that your eyes widen as if you’re surprised, too, and you place a palm flat against your chest as he comes to your side. You wave him back, and he frowns, running a hand down your back as you finally manage to dislodge the petals in your throat and spit them into your palm.

Satoru sighs, staring at the cursed things. The energy emitted from the petals are raw, potent, and his nose wrinkles at the stench that comes from powerful curses as he softly asks, “Do you know what Hanahaki is?”

“Flower vomiting?” you whisper through your raw vocal cords. You shake your head, slamming your sternum with a tight fist and flinging the drenched petals to the ground with a wet slap. “Itadori… said something about it, once. Never really paid attention, I—”

Satoru squeezes the back of your neck gently. “Whatever this curse is, it could be something like that.“

“You don’t want to open that can of worms, Gojo, of what is causing this.” Straightening up, your eyes widen and your cheeks puff up as you choke down another bout. Wobbly, you spit out, “It’s under control. I swear.”

“Are you sure?” His fingers brush your chin to turn your face towards him so he can look at it more clearly, and the instant their eyes meet, you lurch over, slapping his hand away and succumbing to the wracking. Hands shooting out to grab your elbows, Satoru barely eases you to the ground as your legs give in.

You collapse to your knees, hard. A hand is slapped over your mouth but your whole body shakes with the seizing of your lungs. Eyes widening, your cheeks puff up as Satoru grabs your shoulders, falling to his knees beside you.

“Hey! Hey, breathe!” His fingers dig into your shoulders and your nostrils flare, trying to follow his instructions. Bloodshot eyes and blueing lips, your inhales are shaking and incomplete, gasps for air that do not take in any oxygen before you’re kneeling over, hand falling from your lips. Blood splattered over your palm, you let out a low noise of pain. Satoru’s hand glides down your spine, rubbing in soothing circles as red spit falls to the pavement in thick globs. 

People all around stop to stare, eyes masked with concern, but he can’t care less at that moment despite the burning scrutiny. He shoves a hand into his pocket, speed-dialling one of the top numbers of his list.

“Ijichi, I need you to take us to the hospital, now!” Letting his phone drop with a clatter, he scoops you close but you slam your bloody hand against his chest, pushing him away. You throw yourself away, hands twisted tight in the fabric of your white shirt and Satoru looks down at the red handprint on his tee before blinking. “What are you doing? We need to get—“

“I’m—I’m fine!” Your voice, broken, is drenched with ice as you continue to wheeze, grasping at your chest as if you could reach and tear out the growths with your own hand. “Gojo, I’m fine!”

“No, you’re not!” Grabbing his phone, he hears a loud car horn, and looks up to see Ijichi leaning out of the driver’s seat, waving his arm frantically. Without another thought, he scoops you up and runs out into the street, ignoring the tires screeching, the cars horns blaring at him and the angry shouts as he jumps into the car and slam the door shut. 

Ijichi sets off at a drive, no directions needed. Satoru is sure he’s breaking as many laws as he can as he pushes you back against the seat to buckle you in. Blood dribbles down your lips in bubbles as a thick, gurgling sound begins to grow in your throat and he wipes at your chin with his sleeve, clicking the buckle into place just as you pitch forward. He jerks back just in time as you retch, and, slowly, torturously, you gag out three petals, one after another. Your fingers claw at your own throat, panicking and desperate as you struggle to breathe.

The petals fall in wet pools between your feet, landing on the carpet, and he spares them not even a glance before forcing your head between your knees. You’re still hyperventilating and as Satoru sweeps a hand down your back and up to your neck, his fingers come into contact with something sticky. 

Sweat. It drenches through your shirt so suddenly that Satoru reels at the wet marks spreading through your shirt, making the fabric translucent. Your heart is racing, tripping over itself. When you finally stop coughing, you breathe in harsh pants as he keeps your head between your knees.

Your fingers lace at the back of your head and he grabs them firmly, reassuring that he’s still beside you. 

.

“She’s stable,” Shoko announces to the waiting Satoru and six students. The latter came when their teacher had told them of what happened, and Itadori still clings to Fushiguro’s arm by an iron hand, fingers clawlike into his friend’s bicep. Kugisaki chews on her thumbnail, a bit paler than usual and there are crescent indents along her forearm where she had dug her nails in. Maki’s hand rests on her shoulder. Inumaki’s on the phone with Panda, and he turns the screen around so he can see the Strongest Sorcerer who does not feel quite so strong.

Satoru’s assurances that you would be fine had done nothing but send them into a quiet that scared even him. 

“Is she okay? When can she get out?” the kids demand suddenly.

“We’re waiting for the updates on her scans from the doctors, but she’ll need to stay here under observation.”

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Guess that means she gets a few more days off while the rest of us are working our asses off,” he teases. Maki shoots him a glare and his eyes close in a way he hopes arranges his expression in one of joy as he shrugs helplessly. “Well, that means I have another girl I have to spoil.”

“Aren’t you too busy with the four already blowing up your phone?” Kugisaki mutters sourly. Satoru pretends not to hear. His phone has been silent without your texts, and it’s cold and heavy in his pocket.

“Can we see her?” Fushiguro asks. Shoko nods, but holds up a hand and the kids skid to a stop.

“She’s resting. I’m unsure if you know, but certain topics of conversation or trains of thought can lead to more attacks, so stick to talking about your curriculum. Topics you think are safe.” The woman shifts on her feet, a wisp of brown hair swaying in front of her eye. “It’s unavoidable, but use your judgement.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The students walk off down to the dead-end hallway, and Satoru turns to Shoko who has her arms crossed over her chest. She steps up, scanning him like he’s got contraband, and he raises his eyebrows innocently.

“What?”

“It’s getting worse. I hope you managed to get answers,” she says. At once, Satoru’s facade drops, and a sober sensation overtakes his face.

“No, I didn’t. She’s heard of the disease, at least. We talked about Suguru, but it wasn’t like it was under lock and key.” The brunette shakes her head at his words, gesturing for him to sit down beside her. Doing so, he leans back into the uncomfortable chair as she crosses a leg over the other. “She said she thinks about him a lot.”

“She still loves him,” Shoko says bluntly. “She gets that far-off look when she talks about him. You two should trade secrets some time.” A shake of her head, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I healed what damage I could, but I can tell those growths inside are expanding. The attack only seems to have agitated and prompted them to take root.”

“How…” It’s hard to formulate the question. Luckily, Shoko knows him well enough.

“Without seeing the scans, I won’t know. Based on her last ones, I thought at least four months. Now?” Her lips press into a thin line. “She’ll be lucky if she gets two.” Shoko’s eyes flicker down Satoru’s front, and her lips press into a wry line. “And change you shirt. You look like a murder suspect.”

Glancing down, he looks at your dried bloody hand print, stark against white, and he gets up abruptly. Shoko doesn’t stop him.

He walks down to the dead-end hall. He can hear Itadori through your open door cracking jokes, Kugisaki relaying every detail of her shopping trips, and you’re wheezing your laughter despite Maki scolding you to save your strength. Satoru stops just outside your door, out of sight, and rests his head against the frame, content to just listen.

“Tuna mayo.”

“Is that right?” you ask Inumaki. “Lay it on me.” 

You sound exhausted, beaten to the bone, but still, when Fushiguro says something too quiet for him to make out, you still have the strength to tease him for worrying.

.

The night is warm, and he sets the last plant back into its place on your window sill before cracking the window a bit at your request. He’s busied himself making this place as homely as possible as quickly as possible, and in the process, had walked in on you staring at your own scans on the lightscreen mounted on your wall.

“Thanks, Satoru,” you say over your shoulder. He joins you by your side to stare at the scans. Granted, Satoru didn’t cheat his way through medschool like others have, so he doesn’t understand much, but he can tell what is and what isn’t supposed to be there. The floral-like growths situated right where the main bronchi meet the trachea, for one.

The roots spreading across your chest like cracks in concrete, for another.

“The doctors want to monitor this,” you explain, pointing at the roots, “to see whether or not it’ll grow around my lungs or continue outward, around the ribs and spine. If it’s the former, I’ll slowly suffocate and die. If it’s the latter, I’ll slowly suffocate, become paralyzed, and die.” You smile grimly. “Not quite a win-win.”

“Exactly the opposite.” He inspects the growths and through the blue-white-black imaging, he spots the tiny stems emerging from the main growth, sprouting into your lungs. He guesses, with time, those will grow into flowers of equal size before sprouting more shoots.

He wonders…

As if sensing his hesitance, you scratch your collarbone and look at the scans with a new glint.

“The doctors say if I avoid another attack like today, I’ll probably have two months, three if I’m blessed, but because of how big the growths have gotten already and its volatile nature, it’ll be impossible, so we’re looking at a month. Maybe a month-and-a-half?” You smile at him, throat bobbing. “Guess it’s good to have a number,” you add shakily, a short puff coming at the end of each breath as you struggle to fight the cough. “Being a sorcerer, too much uncertainty, I think.”

“You should tell Nanami that. Maybe this time, it’ll convince him to stay away,” he retorts, turning away from the scans. They’re burning his eyes and he doesn’t want to look at the real thing for much longer. You turn with him, walking back towards bed and climbing in. “Are you sure you don’t want the operation? Shoko could do it so fast you wouldn’t feel a thing.”

“No, not yet. There are some complications that’ll definitely occur and I don’t want that to happen.”

“But it would save your life,” he argues. “What risks are frightening enough that you’d even consider not having it?” Your gaze flickers as you take another wheezing breath. The strength seems sapped from your limbs—you’re a scarecrow hanging off its pole as you swallow tightly. Satoru leans against your window sill and crosses his arms over his chest so you can’t see the frustrated fists he wants to make. “If this is about Suguru…”

Resolutely: “It isn’t.”

“You’re going to die if you keep going down this road. I don’t understand why you’re hesitating.” In the back of his mind, klaxons begin to scream.

“Satoru, some things are just beyond logical reason.” He jerks his gaze away, pushing his glasses up his nose pointedly. You sigh. “I know it’s hard, but this is my choice. I just want you to be here so you know it’s okay.” 

Your hand stretches out. Blue eyes flash to your outstretched fingers and he takes it before he can stop himself. Your fingers curl over his palm, tugging him closer and he lets you, sneakers dragging over the tile until he’s sliding into the chair by your bed. It squeaks against the tile.

“Please don’t be angry with me.” That’s all. That’s all I ask.

A hard, heavy sigh, this time from his end. He tightens his hold on you as you sit there, smiling hopefully. His heart thunders in his chest. “I’m not angry.”

You perk up a bit, and his index finger unfurls to rub your wrist. It feels colder than normal. “Promise?”

He wishes he could lie half as well as you. Either way, he tries his hardest: “Promise.”

By the time it’s quarter past nine, you’re already getting ready to sleep. You have enough pillows to surround your entire body, and he fluffs them up, helps you arrange them until you’re sighing against the white sheets, burrowing in with a sedated smile on your face.

Satoru sits down again on his visitor’s chair and you watch him lazily through the dim orange light stemming from behind your bed.

“You don’t have to stay here and watch me, creep,” you mumble, turning your face away to stare at the ceiling. You cough dryly, but it subsides moments later. Your voice is nothing but a croak as you let out a tired groan, and Satoru smiles to himself, cheek to his fist. 

“I feel robbed of our afternoon together. Making up for it now.”

You look at him again incredulously. “We’re not even doing anything.”

“I don’t know when you were told that every second of us being together had to be us doing something,” he huffs. “I like being in here. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s too much. You’re annoying me.” Even so, your voice turns fond as you roll onto your side, away from him to settle in to sleep and Satoru’s warm gaze lands on your shoulder gently rising and falling as you slowly drift off. 

He already knows you’re gone by the time he’s standing up and gathering his jacket. Walking around the bed, he glances at the bathroom to check the light’s off and catches a glimpse of his shirt. A coil wraps around his gut at the muddy red handprint pressed into the fabric and he turns away to look at you instead.

Your face is in perfect peace, half-buried into a pillow you’re hugging into your chest, and he only soaks in those features. His hand twitches, and his infinity wavers as he raises his hand as if to touch you. Your eyelids flutter and he freezes, fearing he might’ve woken you up, but you only mumble incoherently and turn into your pillow.

Satoru watches on silently just as a breeze sweeps into the room and he looks up where the window he had cracked open. The breeze takes hold of the plants, uplifts them until they sway like a tender dance. 

His chest begins to hurt. The smell of the antiseptic is starting to sting, so he moves his hand to the light switch instead. Flicking it off, he turns to leave.

.

Every time Satoru walks down to the end of the hallway, a different memory will play in his head until he’s playing a movie over and over every single day. Of the first time he met you, although that one is blurry. Your sixteenth birthday when the four of them had piled into your dorm room to drink themselves stupid.

One-and-a-half weeks go by before he realizes that he only replays the moments where you feature. Like his brain is preparing him, reminding him. For what, he doesn’t know. 

He can’t come every day—considering the low number of sorcerers has been taken down by one more, it means besides teaching, he still has to work for the Higher Ups as well as his own personal agenda—but when he does make it, he always makes sure that he soaks in every second. Even the horrible parts. Maybe, especially the horrible parts.

You have scans taken every other day to monitor your progress, so when he arrives at an empty room, he isn’t surprised. It’s when there’s movement in the bathroom that sends his nerves prickling until he catches a slab of golden hair and reading glasses flashing in the sunlight.

“Nanami,” he greets.

“Good afternoon.” His jacket’s off and his sleeves are rolled up. With a quick sweep of the room, Satoru notes that the windows are cracked open and the aforementioned jacket is folded over a chair sat in a square of sunlight.

“Do we need to be so formal?” he complains, bypassing the bathroom and searching for another chair. The one Nanami’s taken by the plants is still warm and Satoru isn’t keen on the idea of sweating so soon. During his search, he stops by the windowsill and his eyebrows rise curiously at the new plants and trash bin pressed up right underneath. “What’s happening here?”

“We were planting new seeds when she had to be taken for her scans. She insisted I finish potting the plants.” Noting the empty terracotta, Satoru bends over and prods at the moist dirt. “I have to go soon, though. I had hoped it wouldn’t take as long as it did and she would be back by now.”

“They started taking MRI scans when the branches continued to grow outward rather than inward,” Satoru informs. “It takes around forty-five minutes, on top of the CT scans they’re taking, too. That’s if she doesn’t start coughing in the middle of it.” 

“I’m guessing she does.” Nanami adjusts the glasses on his nose, wiping at his hands free of the last of whatever dirt might’ve been clinging to his hands.

“Yup.”

“I see.” Satoru looks at the plants again. The blond man across the room throws the towel into the dirty clothes basket.“Has she… spoken to you of what to do with her effects?”

Gaze hardening, he doesn’t move at the question. Of course, he’s thought about it, but those bouts of weakness have never been longer than a few minutes. There’s no use in wasting time on a reality that won’t come until it does.

Hopefully, it never does.

“I’m so sick of everyone talking like she’s signed a death sentence,” Satoru murmurs, turning around to look at the blond man at the door to the washroom. “She still has time. Not a lot. It’s not convenient, but it should be enough.”

“She’s already considered the benefits of taking the surgery, and yet she actively decides to postpone it. You know she’s stalling,” comes the steady reply.

“And what about you?” Satoru asks. His words are biting, icy, but Nanami seems unfazed as he begins to loop the tie around his neck. “Would you do it?” Blue eyes meet a stoic face, and the coldness seeps into Satoru’s body. Nanami sighs.

A part of Satoru wonders why he even bothered asking. He already knows the answer—

“No.” Eyebrows shoot up. His mouth drops open and a strangled noise escapes his throat. Nanami merely continues on, quiet as death. “Perhaps it’s because I’m willing to accept my death, but, to be honest, I don’t know how to let any part of Haibara go. I’ve accepted it, but he’s still in my heart and my head.” Lips parting, Satoru takes a step forward as Nanami slants his body away, continuing to fold the fabric into a tie. He looks statuesque, unmovable, and something tightens in Satoru’s throat at the stone-like mask taking over his face. “I’m unwilling to do anything to taint that memory.”

Wordlessly, the blond walks over to Satoru to take his jacket from the chair, rolling down his sleeves and slapping his watch back onto his wrist. Standing less than two feet apart, the two men finally meet eyes.

“Gojo,” Nanami murmurs. “I can’t say I understand your burden, but I am by your side. I do not always agree with your choices, but I still respect them. As your kouhai and as your colleague.” His lips pull in a facsimile of a wry smile and there’s an understanding Satoru doesn’t understand haunting his handsome face. “However, she is your friend before mine. I think your opinion matters much more than mine. Don’t abuse that power.”

Satoru’s eyes nearly reflect in the lenses of Nanami’s glasses. He wishes his friend would take the damn pair off. 

In truth, the reason he’s so irritated is because he knows. If he insists enough, begs enough, there will always be a chance that he can convince you. That you will give in, not because you are selfless, but maybe because you’re too selfish to let him stay mad at you.

An unstoppable force meets an immovable object, and sometimes, the force wins.

But he’d promised, hadn’t he? To not be angry with the choices you’ve made?

“Jeez, it’s somber in here. Who died?” you tease as Shoko pushes the wheelchair in after you. Both men look away from each other. You’re still walking steadily, but an IV is hooked into your chest now, and it’s so obvious you’ve lost unhealthy weight that looking at you is hard sometimes. Satoru does, anyway. 

Noting Nanami, you straighten up. Surprised, but pleased: “You’re still here.”

“I was just leaving,” he says. You frown, but don’t protest. A jujutsu sorcerer’s work is never finished until one stops breathing. “I finished planting the seeds you asked me to, and watered them.”

“Thank you.” He dips his head to you, then to Shoko, before departing, and you watch him go for a moment before your eyes land on Satoru and you smile. The air around you shifts immediately to a vibrant yellow. 

“You’re early, Satoru.” You head towards the bed as Shoko parks the wheelchair by the door. “It took way longer than I thought.”

“That’s because you threw up pistils today,” Shoko replies dryly. Satoru straightens up and looks at Shoko more carefully. Placid lookimg—usual for his mortician friend in the jujutsu world—but there’s a blanching in her knuckles that isn’t usual. “The CT wasn’t good. You know that.”

“Well, it’s still more time than I could’ve asked for, you know.” Shoko shakes her head, and meets his eyes before leaving the room, presumably to talk to your doctors. “Party pooper.”

“First day knowing Shoko?”

You laugh sarcastically, adjusting the hospital gown on your body before climbing into bed slowly, as if your joints ache. Satoru’s feet shift on the tile when he realizes his body moves to help and he freezes. You’re breathing audibly by the time you settle in and you meet his eyes, wondering if he’s noticed.

Of course he has, he wants to tell you. He notices everything about you.

Then, you sigh, and the yellow energy around you flickers into something darker, something grey, something that reminds him of summer thunderstorms.

“The roots have reached the edge of my rib cage and are encroaching on my stomach now,” you inform bluntly. “I probably won’t be able to keep food down in the next couple of days so they’re going to up the ante on this thing.” You gesture to the catheter by your clavicle. “So that’s not really fun. And, they want to start taking scans every single day because the growth is increasing exponentially. The doctors think something triggered the flowers to begin blooming in earnest. Like spring has come to my body, and I’m having the worst fucking time of my life.”

Despite your admission, your smile only falters in that it no longer reaches your eyes. Satoru shoves his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do.

The word Hanahaki still burns, whispers coyly in his ear. It teases the tip of his tongue as he watches you look to your windowsill where your new plants are and get up, walking over to inspect your friend’s work.

He wonders if he can bring it up again. If he can insist that there’s a way to save you—

But Nanami’s words linger, too, and he bites his tongue until he tastes iron. 

“Oh, look.” He blinks at your voice, turning to look. Your fingers sink into one of the pots and before he can ask, blue energy flares up around your hand and into the soil and a shoot breaks through the dirt, unfurling as it grows higher and higher into the air.

“What is it?” Petals are beginning to form, the shade of a warm, gentle red that fades in shade as it reaches the stem. Satoru comes up next to you as the first flower blooms and his eyebrows rise. “Tulips. Huh.”

“I used to love them,” you tell him, picking it off and extending it to him. Eyebrows furrowing in surprise, he takes it as you sink your fingers deeper into the soil, sending more cursed energy into the seeds. More stems to replace the one you had picked continue to grow and you pull your hand out, wiping at your fingers with a towel.

Satoru tilts the flower towards his nose, taking a whiff.

“Used to?” he repeats, and you nod.

“Trees and flowers have their own language.” Your eyes do not meet his as you watch the plant continue to grow. Your muscles go slack, and your fingers touch the petals, mind not quite aware of how you’re moving. “Red tulips mean eternal love, and fame.”

Blinking, he looks down at his own bloom. 

Suguru. He hears you say his name, even in the silence, and remembers years ago, walking through Tokyo. A neighbourhood he doesn’t remember, his best friend looking at the florist’s shop and immediately perking up to head inside and buy a bouquet after something had caught his eye.

“For a girl,” he had admitted sheepishly. 

“Only one?” Satoru asked, horrified. “You can’t settle down! We’re meant for so many more women than just one!”

A sharp nudge to the ribs. Raucous laughter. “Shut up!”

Quietly, Satoru’s fingers tighten around the stalk as you tilt your head to the sun, inspecting something he won’t understand. He doesn’t have a green thumb, and although you say you aren’t the smartest, he’s seen you grow the college’s gardens in a way that has amplified the beauty already lingering on the grounds. You had dismissed it as a little side project, but seeing you water your plants dutifully, spread feed and root out weeds, makes him wonder if you know how to put half-efforts into anything.

When you garden, you never take the easy route. You labour for the satisfaction, and pour sweat and tears into the soil.

When you love, you love with all of yourself and more. 

It’s what makes whatever he wants impossible.

Because he is the same, and they will never change.

When Satoru goes home, he places the tulip in a vase and the cursed energy prickles at his fingertips.

.

You get worse and worse with every visit. 

Each day brings him another raw wound, salt on blood. You slowly grow more and more ragged, even though you stay in the hospital, confined to your room. 

There are days Satoru walks into your room to you hunched over the toilet, spitting blood and flowers into the bowl and vomiting all you ate the night or day or hour before and he already knows what he has to do. A cold, damp rag to your forehead, a crouching stance beside you as your grip on the toilet seat becomes rigid like steel.

Other days, you’re still asleep because the night before, you’d been hacking up half a lung and half a bouquet. Sometimes, you’re curled around a plastic receptacle already full of your half-attempts to dislodge the pressure building in your chest. 

Or, you’re crying into your hands, breath coming in rapid bursts as you try to force your head between your knees to stop the world from spinning and Satoru holds you when you beg him to, and stands in the corner of the room when you push him away.

Afterwards, you always grab onto his sleeves, his arms, and sink against him, shivering. For hours after, he’ll curl around you on your hospital bed, no matter how much his body cramps, until you insist you’re fine.

“It’s a little like touching death,” you told him once, voice raw and fatigued. “When it’s a pretty bad day, and I think I’m going to die alone, it happens, so all I have to do is not think about it.”

There’s a flawed logic there, but Satoru was too busy pressing his nose into your hair and feeling the warmth of your body to reply any more than, “I’ll be there. I promise.”

Two weeks pass (fourteen sets of scans, a different pair hanging from the lightscreen every day tell him that) and Satoru watches as the branches spread through your body, past the reaches of your ribs, and the flowers have spread to your lungs so quickly he’s sure the time for you to decide is running out. 

You’re near-passed out against him on the bathroom floor one evening, and although it’s not closet-sized, it doens’t make the arrangement any less awkward. He’s up against the bathtub, legs sprawled all around you as he holds you in his arms. On the edge of the tub, there is a bar of bodysoap and a bottle of lotion he recognizes as the same one Shoko used to buy when they still had time. Your sink counter is filled with your toothbrush and cup, handsoap and a microfibre towel hanging off the edge smeared with lipstick, foundation, and black streaks of who knows what.

Shoko must have spent the night while he was out hunting a curse in Sendai. Good. He doesn’t like the nights when you’re alone and he can’t be there.

His fingers brush over your shoulder blade, and he travels over something rigid cloaked by your skin. Your eyes are closed, and you’re nearly asleep as you curl deeper against him. Looking down at you, he presses curious fingers into your shoulder blade only for you to let out a soft groan.

“Did that hurt?”

“No. It just feels like you pressed down on a big sore muscle,” you mumble slowly. He trails his fingers over, feels the bumps of the roots curling around your bones before following it towards your spine. It disappears the closer it reaches the trail of knobs that go down your back, and he moves back to your shoulder again. “Doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Does anything?”

“Mostly my stomach,” you tell him. “I’m so hungry all the time, but I can’t eat.” He glances at the IV stand, the only other witness to the events in this bathroom. It leads down through your gown and past your clavicle. Monitored every day in case the growths dislodge it, it’s one of the only things keeping you alive. “And my throat. It feels like I’ve scratched it out until it’s bleeding.”

He tilts his head. His lips barely brush your sweaty scalp despite how cold you feel in his arms “No surgery?”

You shake your head, what remains of your strength slowly coming back. “They say the flowers and roots have taken up sixty-five percent of my chest cavity. It’s not only inhibiting my lungs, but my heart and stomach, too, so it’d be kind of hard to get rid of it all. Not impossible, but it’s really risky. That, on top of the already-present consequences—”

“So let’s say we start with the lungs,” he cuts off, trying to not sound too desperate but these past few weeks have worn him down to the bone. Although he thinks he’s managed to hide it from his students, Shoko has offered multiple times to prescribe him sleeping pills just so he can shut his mind down.

He said no every time.

Your legs draw up and he squeezes your shoulder carefully, looking down. “Are you ready to get up?”

You nod. “I think so.” He wipes at your lips with the rag he left on the counter and you roll your eyes as he makes sure no blood is left on your face before throwing it back up and carefully adjusting you against him.

“Do you want my help?”

“My answer does not matter to you,” you shoot back teasingly and he lets you pull away from him before reaching up with one hand to push yourself up. Your arm wobbles, your feet kicking back underneath you and slowly finding theirselves on the floor. Satoru withdraws, ducking underneath and back up so he can stand, hands floating around your body as you draw the IV stand towards yourself and grab on. When he’s sure your knees might give in, he grabs your elbow, but you shake your head. “I think I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you breathe, raising your head to look at him. Your lips curl in a soft smile, and you clasp his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t even do anything this time,” he says.

“Not everyone stays for the pathetic girl on the floor of the bathroom floor,” you quip. Turning around, you begin to head back to bed and he trails behind you carefully.

“If the girl’s you, then I think exceptions can be made.”

“Hospital bonus.”

“It adds that you’re in the hospital, too,” he agrees. “My morals are just.”

“Isn’t that a relief?” 

It is. It is a relief that you still have the strength to joke with him. 

You climb back into bed. Satoru returns to the bathroom to make sure the bathroom is flushed and it’s clean before returning and perching on the edge of your bed. Pulling out his phone, he shuffles his shoes off and tucks his legs to his chest, leaning against the foot of your bed and scrolling through his messages.

Not much to miss, to be honest. 

“There’s supposed to be a lunar eclipse on the morning of the 28th,” you say suddenly. Satoru looks up. You’re leaning back on the mountain of pillows, exhaling and inhaling measuredly in a way he now knows is your way of fighting off another bout. Squinting against the orange glow of the sunset, there’s a longing in your gaze. “I want to see it. Outside and everything.”

“You’re not supposed to leave the hospital.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Oh, we’re abiding by rules, now?”

“If it keeps you around, yes, we are.”

“When did my best friend turn into such a party pooper?” Looking at him, an impish glint lives in your eyes. He balks.

“Don’t you dare insinuate that I’m not fun.”

“Then… take me to see the eclipse.”

“No. There’s nothing to even see.”

“I want to see the moon disappear, Gojo,” you declare. “And if you won’t take me, I will definitely sneak out.” 

It paints a pretty pathetic picture, and he can’t help but arch his eyebrows at your determination. The air purifier drones on. The nurse turned it on after dinner, he guesses, and he has the strange urge to kick it as you fix him with a fierce stare. 

“You probably won’t be able to walk by then,” he says.

“That won’t stop me.” He knows it won’t. The corner of his lips pulls into a slight smile as you continue, “I just want to go outside one last time. Is that really too much to ask?” Your words are tinged with a fine dusting of humour, and he shakes his head.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word for you, Satoru.”

“I still mean it.”

“And I learned that from you.”

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fine,” he caves. Your face lights up, and he sets down his phone, legs unfolding to brush the floor as he leans over to flick your forehead. Your eyes squeeze shut at the contact and you slap his arm away sluggishly before he soothes the smarting spot over with a smear of his thumb. “I’ll come by, and we’ll sneak out.”

You beam and he slips his feet back into his shoes and pockets his phone so he can focus his attention on you. 

When visiting hours end, the nurses offer to set up the cot for him like they always do. You pretend not to look at him out of the corner of his eye, awaiting his answer behind your laptop screen, and he spares you a quick glance before saying yes.

“She likes you,” you tell him after one particular nurse with dyed purple hair who always wears a fishtail bids them goodnight. Satoru fluffs up his pillow ceremoniously, having shed his jacket and taken off his jeans to hide underneath the blankets. The fabric is cold against his bare chest, and he pulls his glasses off, sets them on the stand right behind him.

The black frame holding up his mattress rattles a bit as he punches his pillow one last time and lies down. He turns on his side and looks at you. You’re turned on your side, too, and your brow is furrowed as you fight the sleepiness.

“Is that so?” he asks carefully. “What do you think about it?”

“I think if you wanted someone with a hectic schedule, you could pick someone else,” you say vaguely.

He raises an eyebrow. “Does she have a bad attitude or something?”

“I dunno.” There’s a subtle fire igniting in your words. You look a bit more awake, and your eyes are shifting the air into a smouldering red. He squints up. Your face is shadowed, but you’re still silhouetted by the orange light behind your bed as your shoulders rise and fall greatly in staggering, weighty breaths. “She wouldn’t understand. I guess.”

He hums. “So I should find someone who understands me but can’t be there for me? Sounds like the set up to every tragic love story ever.”

You laugh, and it’s the saddest sound in the world.

.

Friday, July 27th arrives in clouds.

Satoru scouted a spot before where they can watch the eclipse. He settles on one of the highest buildings on campus with a balcony where they can sit against the railing and watch the moon disappear. You can’t eat, but he still buys your favourite food from all over Japan, travelling to different prefectures in hopes that they still have your favourite dessert or drink that you mentioned once—he even gets you a new polaroid camera. He doesn’t know exactly how well the eclipse will show up on it, but, memories, right?

Maki makes a dry remark about how much he’s running around lately, probably to make amends to a girl he’s scorned. Satoru deflects and says he’s actually trying to impress one this time.

It’s been a five days since his promise to bring you. You lost your ability to walk steadily two days ago and to speak effortlessly only yesterday. The roots have extended through your body, pushing the muscle of your back and shoulders, and it’s made even moving painful, so he intends to carry you everywhere he can, holding your IV bags if he needs to. 

The doctors say eighty-five percent of your chest is now occupied with foreign growth. Satoru wishes they’d just tell it how it is—you’ll probably be dead by next week.

He arrives at the hospital and walks the path he’s walked so often over the past few weeks that he is sure he could do it with his eyes closed. The nurse’s station, and there’ll be the purple-haired one and the one with a double helix piercing on call at this time. Then, twenty-five steps to the end of the hall where the window often lets a lot of natural light in. Today, it’s grey and not much, but it’s enough to cast his shadow long and blurry.

He stops in front of your door to sanitize his hands when he hears voices within and hesitates.

Your door is closed, which means you don’t want people to interrupt, and he moves away from the rectangular window, back pressing against the tiny slab of wall between the frame and the corner of the hallway. Glasses slipping down his nose, he tries not to listen but he can’t help of himself.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” you say weakly. You sound awful. Satoru wonders if he’s missed one of your panic attacks and curses himself. “If I don’t sound sure, it’s because I’m dying… and sounding like a fragile piece of shit… comes with the territory.” Your words are coarse, and a harsh anger grates his ears as you cough violently, a terrible retching sound ending with a splat following right after. 

“I wasn’t doubting you,” Nanami replies calmly. “But this could be done in so many other ways.”

“Look, Nanami. I’m not… brave enough to say any of it. Now, sit down. Your standing… it’s making me nervous… Thank you.” Satoru’s legs feel numb as he sinks down to the floor, tilting his head just enough to listen clearer through the sliver underneath the door. Resting his elbows on his knees, he runs a hand through shaggy white hair. It feels dry and lifeless. 

He can’t remember the last time he took a shower that was longer than ten minutes and more than ice-cold bordering on just beginning to warm.

“Take care of him for me,” you croak and his fingers tighten against his scalp. Nanami doesn’t answer, and you let out a sound that can only be described as pure agony as another bout grasps you tightly. You’re wheezing by the end of it, gasping painfully for air, and the monitors start beeping rapidly, a dinging that echoes in his head as Nanami’s low voice soothes you, tells you gently to calm down. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Breathe with me,” Nanami orders, and everything falls silent. Satoru stares at his lap. His head is beginning to pulse with the monitors when the beeping finally starts to fade. “Good. No sense to waste your strength.” 

Wobbly, spitting: “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A pause. “It’s not your fault.”

You laugh, as if Nanami’s cracked a funny joke, and it’s gut-wrenching. “Remember how… we can curse each other? Ourselves? True curses.”

Faintly amused, immeasurably strained: “I thought it was still a hypothesis regarding those who don’t have the correct bloodline and the ability to curse through their own will.”

“No…Not a hypothesis. Real, Nanami. Real. No one knows how cursed energy affects us. Not really. Since, in my opinion, it’s entirely based on how we process things… it’s so difficult to say but when you know someone…” You break off to clear your throat. “The curse of adulthood… some of us got that too early… but we can survive that and even if it’s not a curse by… definition, we still feel it, right?” 

Satoru clasps his hands together just so he doesn’t rip the door open at the hinges.

“Right.”

“And… knowledge… can be a curse. Even if we can’t see it.” A ragged breath. Then, another laugh too loud for the grey light outside, too bright, a spark before it fizzles into, again, pained choking. “Nanami, remember last year… the job out in Yama… Yamaguchi?”

“Yes.”

“And we came back… Okkotsu was beginning his first year at the college… what I—what I told you?���

“…Yes.” A beat passes. A chair shifts on the linoleum floor and Nanami clears his throat. “I see.”

“I don’t want him to be so alone. I know I was never the strongest or the smartest or the most talented but I liked to think he let me in because I was there. Not because I understood. Maybe… Maybe because I didn’t. Nanami, please… he always try to stay so far away from the people he thinks he can’t love. Tell him… tell him—“

You break off and Nanami assures you with a steadfastness Satoru has counted on so many times before: “I will.” 

“…thank you.”

Eyes shutting tight, Satoru rests his brow against the heel of his hand. His head is aching, and a hard fist grabs his chest, squeezes his heart until it feels like it’ll burst. So this is how you’re really feeling. When you’re not smiling, this is what you are. Angry at the world, and heartbroken.

So terribly heartbroken.

And you couldn’t trust him with it? Because you thought he couldn’t handle it? 

He can take it. It’ll be okay because he’s the strongest. He has to be. 

I’m the strongest. I should be okay. I’m the strongest.

I’m the Strongest.

The headache gets worse so he gets up from that corner in the dead-end hallway, all the while three words replay in his head like a goddamn gramophone.

Nanami doesn’t come out of the room for a while. When he does, Satoru walks down the hall with takeout and a smile plastered on his face as if he had heard nothing at all.

.

At just past one-thirty AM, Satoru sits up from his cot and rubs at his eyes. After dinner, the both of them had forced themselves to go to sleep in order to have enough energy for their little late night excursion. He glances at you, a slumbering shape on the bed, and gets up, slowly sliding on the lights. They burn a dim orange, glowing on your face, and your eyebrows furrow as he touches your cheek.

“What?” you mumble, vexed, and he smiles.

“Are you ready?” he asks. A backpack is situated at the end of his bedframe and he reaches for it, unzipping it carefully as you crack your eyes open. “We’re going to go see the eclipse, remember?” Pulling out clothes he robbed from your room in the staff facility from when you used to work full time, he grabs your shoulder and shakes you gently. The gnarled roots under your skin feel strange against his fingers as you groan weakly. “Do you want five more minutes, Sleeping Beauty?”

You don’t answer, burying your face into your pillow and he shakes his head to himself. It’s going to be all right, he thinks. I planned for this setback.

Slipping into a dark long-sleeve, he parts the black-out curtains to let light come in. He checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror before running a hand through his hair and washing his hands with a cold stream of water. By the time he leaves the bathroom, you’re sitting up already, heel of your hand rubbing against your brow as you groan. In your other hand in your lap, there’s a splash of blood and a lone petal, and he rushes to your side instantly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even hear—“

“It came out easy,” you assure as he grabs a tissue to pick it off your hand and throw it into the receptacle at the table just beyond the foot of your bed. Wiping at your mouth roughly, he hears your complaints and your hand shoves against his shoulder to tell him to quit it. “Ah, I can do it myself!”

“Shh! Do you want every nurse storming in here while we conduct our super secret getaway?” he whispers, and your eyes fix on his. Dark circles mark your face like bruises, but that light is still the same—glimmering, bright, like twin suns and just as warm. Making sure your hands are clean, he wipes the invisible streaks of blood just to be sure before grabbing your clothes and setting them at the end of the bed.

You glance around the place sluggishly, at the paintings you never got to finish, and the books you haven’t finished reading, before settling on him. “What are we going to do about the… about the machines? And my IV…” 

“Oh, trust me. I may have bribed a nurse or two,” he confesses and you send him a scandalized look. He shrugs. “What? You told me a woman liked me and I couldn’t help but turn on my natural charm.”

“You’re awful,” you say without meaning it and he smiles as he moves your bed into a sitting position. You cough lightly, but sit up straighter as he carefully unhooks the huge bag and pump from your stand and gently slides it into the pocket in the backpack, resisting the urge to squish the pouch a bit. Strapping the pump in, he makes sure it’s secure as you peer around him to catch what he’s doing. “Is this… safe for me, you—you know, medically-speaking?”

“Nope.” He adjusts the tubing to avoid any kinks. “But, Purple gave me this backpack and she will come as soon as we come back to make sure you aren’t dying. And, if anything goes wrong, I promised her I’d come back as soon as possible.”

“Promised her?” you echo “I see. So that’s what Purple… was doing before my afternoon nap. I thought you guys traded suspicious looks.”

“Yeah. I’m pulling big strings. Now, c’mon, silly. Let’s get you dressed.”

You roll your eyes with a whistling breath. “Watch the tube… and c’mere, then, Gojo.”

He grabs the jacket first and does exactly as you order. Wrapping it around you, he helps you thread your arms through before zipping you up carefully as your shoulders begin to shake. Bending over, you reach blindly for the receptacle at the end of the bed and he hands it over to you.

A wad of saliva mixed with blood slips between your lips and you let out a low noise before forcing yourself to cough harshly again and again. Satoru watches. No matter how many times he sees you rip your throat up just to breathe with a bit less pressure in your chest, it doesn’t get any easier.

You manage to get up a whole magenta blossom. It blooms from your mouth like something out of a horror movie and lands in the receptacle before he’s wiping your mouth.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

They continue on.

Coat, next, zipped up, and a scarf, then he’s scooping up your legs to help you twist on the mattress until your feet are dangling off the edge. He weaves your legs through the sweat pants, careful not to let his gaze avert from his task even as the hospital gown trails up your legs. You shiver at the exposed skin and gooseflesh pimples your thighs as you lift up your hips to help with the effort. He pulls the hospital gown free from the waistband and lets it fall over the hem so you’re completely covered before falling back.

In a crouch, he pats your knees and makes the mistake of looking up only to find your eyes already on him, searching, nearly mystified. Satoru’s throat tightens. The faint light streaming from the window catches half of your face, as if half-divine. There’s a curiosity there, lingering, and the way you look at him makes him freeze in his spot.

Is this how Suguru saw you a thousand times before, a thousand lifetimes ago? Is this what he felt? 

Did he see the way your pupils dilate, the flare of your nostrils as you exhaled so quietly that it felt like a feather against his lips despite the distance between them? Did he see galaxies in your irises, home in the softness of your stare? Is that why he kissed you the last time he saw you? To memorialize their love for himself, to remember what it looked like when you loved him?  

Did he feel like he could fight dragons, crush demons, rip their world apart at the seams and rebuild it again with bloodied nails if it meant you would never cry again? Is that part of why he did it? So you would never be lonely again? 

Because if so, Satoru understands. 

Because if so, Satoru would do the same.

Because he always saw you as just pretty, because you had always been just his friend, and then his best friend’s girlfriend, and then his best friend, so there were always lines drawn in salt, scuffed and distorted over the years, but…

But in the light, tired and lost in his gaze, you’re nearly ethereal. The only reason he knows you’re not a goddess is because he’s still touching your knees, and your breath quivers, as if you’re just as disconnected from the world as he is in this moment.

Lips pressing together, he looks away, and the moment’s gone. 

He glances at the clock. 

How long has it been since he moved? It feels like hours.

Twenty-seven seconds.

Twenty-seven seconds of temptation, and then Satoru turned away. 

He slants to grab a pair of thick woolly socks to give himself something to do. You’re still watching him, head tilted down just so, and he carefully takes hold of your ankle.

He focuses on the little things: the iciness of your skin, the way you pick at the fabric of your sweatpants absently as you watch him work, the way you shiver a bit when he touches you.

He rubs heat back into the arch of your foot as you reach into your jacket slowly to carefully remove the nodes monitoring your vitals. You seem stiff to the bone, and your fingers are rigid with anticipated pain as you peel off the stickers. In the back of his mind, he remembers the days that feel like yesterday when you weren’t hooked up to so many machines to assure both you and him that you’re still alive.

Removing the cap for the oximeter from your finger, you shake yourself out a bit, clearing your throat. He slides one sock on, and then the other.

“How’re you feeling?” he finally utters.

It takes you a moment to answer. “Bottom half feels tingly. Usual these days. My body feels like a big giant bruise,” you inform quietly. Your voice is nothing more than a rasp. “Very warm and toasty, though… Thank you.”

“Just gotta get the shoes on and then we’ll teleport there.”

“Okay.” He helps you slip your feet in, something straight out of Cinderella, and then he stands up to take your hands. Your fingers slip into his palms, and he holds you so tightly as you slide off the bed. The instant your feet hit the floor, your grip intensifies and your head snaps down to the floor. You find your footing after a moment, and he lets go to crack open your window. Moving your plants aside, he climbs out to glance around. 

The air is crisp and cold, but not too bad for him. Even so, he’ll probably slip on a hoodie before they leave and he ducks back in to your room to do so, tugging it down his waist before grabbing the backpack.

“Arms through,” he instructs, slipping the backpack onto your shoulders. Guiding you closer, he helps you shuffle as close as possible towards him before turning around and bending over. “Alright, climb on. We’re going.” 

Your arms touch his shoulders, his hands shoot out behind him, and you fall.

Fingers hooking on your thighs, he boosts you up and your arms wrap around him, your own fingers wrapped so tightly around his collar that it nearly chokes him. Haphazardly stepping through the windows, his fingers sink into the fabric of your sweats. Your breath is warm against the shell of his ear, and he can feel your heart pulsing against his back as he turns to look at you. 

He smiles. “How’s it feel?”

“I’m still not sure if you’re going to let me die.” You press your face closer to his head and your arms tighten. “But the wind feels so good. So, so good.”

“That’d be too undignified,” he teases, and then he jumps. Time seems to slow as it always does when he’s about to teleport. He imagines the staff facility on the campus, quiet as a cemetery at this time of night, and his heart lurches forward. For a moment, his senses leave him all at once. He can’t taste or feel or see anything for a fraction of a second, then it comes to him in blinding speed. His hearing, as always, is first, then his eyes, smell and then touch and smell.

His foot lands on stone, as if he’s just finished a small skip, and he grins as he sweeps the courtyard. No one, as planned. The building’s to his immediate right, and he climbs the steps, using your knee to nudge the door open.

“That was fun,” you comment. “Convenient, too. Blink of an eye, and you’re somewhere else.”

“You can’t even begin to imagine how many lines I’ve skipped because of it,” he comments. The lights are all off, and he heads for the kitchen immediately to grab all the food he’s bought. Setting you down on the kitchen counter, he takes out another canvas bag and stuffs all of the food in.

Daifuku with of all kinds of fillings in the fridge, fresh dorayaki, canned coffee and aloe drinks, sweet soymilk and other wagashi they used to feast on when they were younger. Mostly because Satoru would buy enough to feed a kingdom so he always had something on hand for his overactive brain. You watch him with wide eyes as he moves around with such purpose one could think he was preparing to fight an army, but as soon as he finishes, he flashes you a smile.

“I think you’re going to like where we’re going a lot, silly.”

“Didn’t have to buy stuff,” you mutter, fingers playing with the tube leading into your backpack for a moment.

“You haven’t eaten in weeks. I thought maybe we could at least try. Maybe not now, but at the end of the night, before we go back. Just in case.”

“I can’t eat, though.”

“Don’t know until I stuff it down your throat,” he replies cheerily, and you smile at him so brightly it’s almost like you aren’t sick. Then, that smile turns into a cough, a fist in front of your lips, and your expression is frozen into one of exasperation before it flickers into strained. He sets down his bag, already knowing what comes next.

You make a hacking sound, deep in your throat, and he shifts you closer to the sink so you can lean over and throw up. Gagging, it comes in red and clear torrents, the cursed energy spilling out of your body nearly making it incinerating to even touch you as you clutch the edge of the sink basin. 

You fall to your elbows, and Satoru eases you off the counter so he can hold you up instead of the cramping body contortion you sink into. Cupping the juncture of your shoulder and neck, his thumb sweeps soothingly over your root-invested spine, tossing the ends of the scarf over your shoulder and out of the way.

Settling a hand on your hip, he presses you against the countertop so you don’t fall, and hopes your legs can hold you up long enough for him to reach for the hand towel. You spit just as he manages to grab it, snapping back into position and peering over your shoulder to inspect how much you’ve coughed up. You shudder and a tortured moan wrenches out of your throat as you sink, forehead against the cool metal.

You’re scorching to touch, but he tightens his hold on you anyway, setting the towel aside for just a moment. Carefully, he pulls you back up and you let out an drained whine, but he shushes you quietly, turning you around and guiding your head over his shoulder so you don’t stare at the rot any longer.

Satoru knows you would, even if you pretend like you aren’t plagued with morbid, self-destructive curiosity.

Looking into the sink, he counts a few petals and three whole flowers, and you’re quivering against him as he wraps his arm around you. 

“Alright, lean back for me,” he whispers into your ear, and you obey. His arm around you crooks so he supports your head, the other grabbing the towel again. Exhaustion seems to have sluiced through you, and your eyes are nearly unfocused as he dabs at your mouth carefully. His blue eyes focus on the gentle curve of your lips, and your cheeks puff up before you swallow tightly and let out a shaking breath.

“You’re really close,” you mumble in that exhale. He tilts your chin to the light to make sure he hasn’t missed a spot, and your eyelids flutter as the corners of his lips quirk up. His Six Eyes pick up a muted yellow emanating from you, and it’s so warm against his skin that he can’t help but relish in the feeling. “You smell nice.”

“Good. I took a shower before I came today. Well, yesterday,” he amends softly. “Alright, let’s go before you hack up your other lung.”

“Funny.” Nonetheless, he scoops you back up onto his back and he rinses down the sink as you rest your head against his. He feels you breathing steadily, much easier now than before. Red swirls down the drains, and he watches the magenta petals slowly reveal their true colours. There’s a flash of white in the center of each one, and he wonders silently what flower it is and what it means.

Maybe he’ll find out some day.

When the kitchen’s back to the state they entered, he grabs the bag of food and holds onto your legs tightly as your arms around his neck shift and pull him closer. 

This time, when he teleports, it’s not as jarring. Walking around the balcony, he makes sure no one’s in the area before checking that the door to the roof is locked and heading back out into the night air, towards where they can see the moon clearest.

“Hey, open your eyes,” he whispers over his ear, and your head shifts.

“Hm? Oh!” He feels you wriggle, but he doesn’t let you go as he walks closer to the spot he’s set up. Near the railing, a blanket surrounded by pillows is laid out surrounded by a few space heaters. The moon is hanging perfectly in front of them, and the light illuminates the forests in silver as a gentle wind whistles through. Tranquil, the only sound is his footsteps on wood as you manage to pull your legs free with a harsh twist of your torso. Your hand slaps against the railing and he whirls around to hold you up but you grit your teeth. “I can do it.”

Breathing in deeply, you pull yourself past him using mostly your arms. Your feet drag as if they’re not really attached to a living body but you still move steady onward, and he walks ahead to turn on the heaters and set the food down as far away as he can so it doesn’t spoil too quickly.

“Satoru,” you breathe as if for the first time,” it’s so fucking beautiful up here.” Looking up, his heartstrings twinge. Your face is bathed almost entirely in silver, and it drapes down your body like silk, illuminating the cord of your throat he can see above the scarf, the strength of your hands. A smile brighter than even the most blinding sun rays comes across your face and he finds that the moon pales in comparison as your knees begin to give.

Reaching forward, he helps you sink down slowly, and then sit down, legs hanging off the edge and then you’re leaning to rest your elbows on the middle bar of the wooden railing. You can’t stop staring at the moon, and Satoru can’t stop staring at you as he opens the box of daifuku and pops one into his mouth. 

“The eclipse should be starting in a few minutes,” he says, checking his watch. 2:10. Four minutes to go. You finally tear your eyes away from the moon to look at him.

“I forgot…” you muse. “I forgot how bright… the moon was.”  

He settles in beside you and offers a canned coffee, but you shake your head. He cracks it open for himself. 

“We’re about to watch the moon change,” he notes. “But I read that it’ll last six hours.”

“Really?” Excited, you look up at the moon again. The lunar rays outline your already-pronounced eye bags but it also makes you look more beatific. “That’s just proof… our time here on Earth is so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. It really makes you—makes you think how much we really matter. Which doesn’t seem like a lot, compared to things like a… fucking lunar eclipse.”

The moon’s opinion doesn’t matter more than mine, he thinks. “Well, while we’re waiting for your next epiphany to hit you,” he says instead, “you never answered my question.”

You smile, intrigued. “What’s that?”

“What if we removed the flowers bit by bit, rather than all at once?” he asks. Your gaze snaps to him, but he only regards you honestly. “That gives you a fighting chance.” Your eyes widen imperceptibly, and he grabs another mochi ball and takes a bite.

“The roots and flowers are too entangled in my chest to be removed safely. It’s either they remove my lungs completely, or not at all, and finding a… match for one lung is hard enough, much less two perfect lungs…” You trail off and shrug. “Well, that’d take forever… and I wouldn’t get much… longer, anyway. I’m a sorcerer. I always knew… I was going to die, so why not die on my own t-terms?”

He frowns. “Why not try?”

“Give me your phone.”

He does so, and watches you type in a query you must’ve typed before with how quick your lethargic fingers fly over the screen before you’re shoving it back towards him and leaning forward on the railing, chin to your forearms. You don’t even look at him, as if you don’t want to watch him crumble.

He reads: The first year after the transplant is the most critical period wrought with surgical complications, chances of rejection, and infection… Although there are some reports of some people living for 20 years post-transplant, many people do not make it past 10 years and only half make it past 5…

His stomach curdles. “Five years is better than nothing.”

“Five years worrying when my lungs are going to… kick it,” you correct. “Besides, my ribs are mangled by the roots. And my heart. My stomach. My spine. I’m undernourished, exhausted, and everything in here”—you gesture slowly around your abdomen—“is doing overtime. My body’s too weak to handle any kind of surgery that wouldn’t heal me… immediately.” 

Your eyes find his, and it’s as if lightning strikes through him like a spear—piercing cold and electrifying. You’re beginning to blue in the lips like you’re freezing to death, but he’s sweating under the blast of the heaters. 

Pulling off his hoodie, he drapes it around your shoulders. You don’t react anymore than: “Sucks, but that’s how it is.”

A few more minutes pass by in silence. Their knees knock into one another, and Satoru can’t stop looking at you as you breathe in the home you left months ago, head lifted to the inky universe.

“You know I can tell when you’re—when you’re angry with me,” you utter, not looking at him. “No matter how much you smile at me, you’re still too passive aggressive to cover it up.”

The words spill out of his mouth as you lower your gaze to him. “I’m sorry.” No sense in lying. 

“That’s okay.” You smile for a moment, like he hasn’t said something worth ruining a night over, but when you look up at the stars, it fades. Wistful, you cock your head at the moon that hasn’t gone away just yet and lower your chin to your arms again. “It’s not really something that was… fair of me to ask anyway.” 

.

Just as the moon turns yellow, he remembers something. Bending back to root through your backpack, he excuses himself. You frown. “What are you—“

“I got a camera for this occasion,” he announces, withdrawing the camera and a plastic bag, leaning back to snap a quick picture of you. You squint at the flash, mouth opened in an incredulous smile and face half-turned away, before the photo rolls out. “Like the one you used to carry around.”

“Some memories to hold on to, huh.” You reach for the camera and your fingers wrap around it, aiming it right at him. A flash and two peace signs later, another image joins the one of you Satoru slides into the plastic zip bag. “Hold on. I want to take another one.”

“We should do one of both of us.”

“Ugh, fine… I don’t look good at all, though.“

“Too late.” He snatches the camera from you and sticks out his hand, dragging an arm around your shoulders and you lean into him, temple against his cheek as he snaps another photo, and then another of him making a stupid face. Another of you mid-laugh. You’re wheezing for air as he keeps grabbing the polaroids as fast as he can with the arm that’s around your shoulder, leading to a bunch of jostling that has you in stitches at his frantic panic whenever the new photo chugs out of the slit.

When he’s had his fill of making you laugh, Satoru leaves you alone to look at the moon. He can’t stop grinning stupidly with every photo and while you watch the moon slowly descent into the earth’s shadow, he shuffles through the photos he just took of them together, trying to brand them to memory.

The way he looks at you in these photos makes him believe in something. In something that could’ve been there if they had more time, and he could convince you to open your heart up to a new possibility.

.

Another hour passes. The moon hangs a strange transition between black and blood red and a paler peach orange. A glimmering yellow dot sparkles below it, and he wonders if that’s Mars.

The forests seem almost hauntingly quiet, and no one has spoken in the darkness. You regard the moon, so enraptured, and more photos have joined the zip bag, but they’re mostly of you. He’s managed to sneak them in by turning off the flash and upping the brightness settings so it’d still be visible, and he hopes you never realize that he’s got them. 

Satoru has never been interested in astronomy, but the stars in your eyes are changing his mind.

He’s dug his hand into the bag of dorayaki already. He remembers it’s supposed to be for you, too, but his hands are too empty without the camera, his brain going a mile a minute and the air absolutely quiet with nothing. 

Twenty minutes ago, you asked him to help you take off your coat so you can pull on his hoodie, and haven’t moved since zipping yourself back up. The air smells only of canned coffee and the stinging wind carrying the scent of cedar. Feet swinging, he drapes his arms over the railing and looks up at the red moon.

It is pretty. Magnificent, and ominous, almost. The night is so much darker without the moon. Sheesh, colder, too. I wonder if you’re feeling okay. Maybe I should check, but you don’t seem to be shaking. Worst comes to worst, I could up the level on the space heaters…

“I don’t think I ever got to hear his last words,” you muse quietly, voice cracking, rousing him from his monologue. His head swings to you. Your eyes are barely open as you rest your cheek against your forearm, and you don’t look at Satoru despite your head turned towards him. Instead, he can watch the pieces of you fall apart without your scrutiny. ���I used to think… that I didn’t care.”

“Do you want me to tell you?” he asks slowly as you continue to stare blankly over his ear. Your chest stutters in its inhale and the exhale is just as shaky as you smile a bit to yourself. He takes that as answer, and as he speaks, he sees Suguru’s smile—bright against the darkness of the alleyway, and a reminder of a simpler time. Satoru’s heart quickens from the memory “‘At least curse me a little at the very end.’”

You’re quiet for a moment, as if soaking that in. Then, you draw yourself up and sigh. “That sounds like him.”

You say it fighting off a laugh, even though it wracks your body with such intense pain you can barely breathe. You begin to wheeze not even a second in, and still, your face is cracked into an agonizing smile as you blink, tears slipping down your cheeks. Your eyes squeeze shut and your body goes stiff as you cough, hands flying over your lips. Your shoulders shake so uncontrollably it’s like an earthquake in your body, but Satoru cannot find it in him to calm you down as you hunch over yourself.

It comes in its own course, until you’re nothing but a gasping body, crying into bloodied palms cupping purple flowers, and the low sobs that spill and stutter out of your throat makes Satoru wish he never told you.

“‘At least curse me a little at the very end,’” you repeat to yourself, voice raw and iron-like, and your eyes finally rise to meet his. Nothing but hollow purple pierces through him once more. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds like him.” 

An apology bubbles at his lips, but you continue before he can even begin. Your hands fall to to your laps, and you look at the decaying flowers, thumbs stroking the petals. “I could never make him truly happy… could I? Just like he said… nothing would’ve been good enough for him while we lived in this kind of world. No matter how many times I sat by him while he swallowed… swallowed those curses, held his hand, held him, I would have never been… enough to make him laugh from his heart.” Your tears cast dark shadows. “I held him, Satoru, with all my might… and I still felt him slip away between my fingers.”

That’s how Satoru learns you were there that day, December 24th, not a snowflake in sight. Just a few metres away, you stood for only a moment before you walked away from the man you loved so he could die without any regret, at the cost of your own guilt eating you alive.

No one speaks after that. Satoru cleans your hands slowly, carefully, giving attention to each finger, before swiping your lips, and then he wipes your tears away but you’re not crying anymore.

You just look up at the moon emptily and he scoots closer in hopes to keep your returning trembling at bay.

“Ten years is a very… long time to love someone.” You break the silence. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Fifteen, thirty minutes? He looks at you, and your lips press into a thin smile. He lifts his arm so you can scoot up close next to him. Your eyes never leave his face, regarding him with new clarity. “I just… realized.”

“Ten years is a very long time for anything,” he replies quietly, their faces very close. Their noses brush, and a warmth spreads through his cheeks as he presses the tip of your nose against his. You don’t pull away. Instead, you almost lean closer. Your nose is cold against his hot face, and he rubs it slowly with his own, trying to send heat back into your skin.

“A very long time to… wait.” Your eyes flutter shut, and your breath is warm over his lips as you slowly tilt your head so their foreheads meet. His hand squeezes your waist. You smell like the hospital, but there’s still the fragrance of the fresh-cut grass and herbs clinging to your skin as he moves his head just to the side so his nose presses into your frozen cheek. Your arm moves as if dragging through honey until it’s wrapped around his neck, palm flat against his shoulder, just as their brows press against one another. 

Something ignites inside his chest, incinerating the rot that seems to grow inside his own chest—it’s his dread, he realizes a moment later. An ugly knot of dread for what’s to come, the guilt, the cold grief that’s just out of reach. 

It’ll unfurl soon, he knows, but for now, he welcomes the relief you bring him.

In this moment, you are his, and he is yours, and that is all that matters.

His eyes close. His cheeks are burning hotter than the heaters surrounding them, and he feels a smile pulling at his lips as your fingers curl against the back of his neck.

“When will people… stop waiting?” you ask him, hushed like a secret.

Eyes opening, he answers you in the same soft voice, “Probably when they die.”

Your eyes crack open once more and he catches a sliver between your heavy lids. You’re so close he sees every detail of your irises, the pores of your eye bags, the way memories flicker through your pupils like fish in a river.

Your exhausted smile grows more genuine—something inside you seems to rear its bright little head, but it’s sad, and he realizes, then, what you must’ve been thinking. Words fumble at his mouth, but he doesn’t let anything slip as you lift your face away to rest your head against his shoulder.

.

You’re dozing against him. Satoru is staring up at the moon in your stead. It’s nearly fully that famous shade of dark blood red, but not quite. He can’t hear anything except the buzz of the space heaters and your breathing. His arm is still wrapped tight around you, holding you flush against him. He’s wished he’d done it so many times before that now, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

You’re dying. Even as you rest against him, he feels it. The weakness in your body, the way you’ve turned ghost-like. The strength of your Cursed Energy has become more prominent now that you don’t have the energy to channel it properly, and it’s centred so strongly in your chest that he can feel it poking curiously at him, leaving little marks, a souvenir for when you’re gone.

His fingers dig into your side. You let out a noise, head shifting, and he rips his gaze away away from the sky as your hand falls away from where it had rested around his neck into his lap.

“Satoru?” you whisper brokenly, and he nods, smiling. He pulls you closer, but their bodies are so pressed against each other that it only serves to make you huff a bit.

“Hey. You’re still with us, don’t worry,”

“Not worried,” you mumble, lifting your head with difficulty. “Just glad you’re here.” You tilt your face to the moon. “It’s still… red, huh…” You shake, your hand at the hem of his shirt twisting tightly. He reaches to squeeze your arm and hopes it’ll be enough now. “Pretty.” Throat dry, he does not answer. His white hair falls into his eyes as you look up at him, and he decays at the vulnerability in your gaze. “Aren’t you glad… that we saw the eclipse?”

Jaw clenching, he nods and tries his best to smile. Your hand lets go of his shirt and you shuffle up close enough that your other arm sneaks around his waist. Touching his chin with trembling fingers, your eyes glitter in the darkness of his shadow.

“I’m going to miss this. The moon, stars, how… fucking short… ’n’ beautiful life is,” you finally whisper, throat tight. “Makes shit worth living for. Maybe… won’t miss it… the most… but, top three.”

“Top three?” he echoes. “Top three sounds pretty good to me.”

“And, y’know what, Satoru?” you continue in the same low, husky tone, as if you’re about to change his world one more time.

He drops to the lowest, quietest voice he can manage and moves his head closer. Their noses nearly bump into each other again, and you smile as he quirks an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“You’re… going to miss me… more.” 

Your hand on his waist travels up his shoulder and he feels the last of your strength in your muscles as you pull him towards you. Letting you, his arms wrap around your waist as your other arm shoots around his neck, clinging on so hard that he’s sure his spine might break. 

Flattening his palms against your uneven back, he closes his eyes and slides a hand to cradle your head close.

“And promise… me something,” you breathe into his ear. Your lips brush the shell of his ear, and a shiver shoots down his spine.

“Anything.”

“When I kick it,” you whisper, “take my body, and bury me… yourself.”

Throat swelling shut, Satoru’s glad you can’t see the way the blood drains from his face as he nods and holds you tighter. “I will.”

.

“One more photo for the road?” he asks. You lift your head from his chest, and he looks as you reach to sweep his lips with cold, trembling fingers. He smiles, his hand on your thigh squeezing meaningfully even though you can barely feel it now. Your arms are bundled between your chest and his, and he hauls your legs on his thighs more securely up his lap, arm tightening around your torso.

“Satoru,” you murmur, tilting your head to him. His eyes never move from yours as he picks up the camera, and your hand falls from his lips. “I’m glad… that it was you.”

He snaps the shot and the only sound that fills the silence is the camera chugging out the polaroid. Your eyes are dark, murky and unfocused, and he feels your stammering inhale in his very lungs as he presses his forehead against yours.

“I’m happy it was you, too,” he whispers. You search his gaze for only a moment, and then turn your head to the moon once more. 

Lowering the camera to the floor, he sneaks his other arm around you and rests his chin atop of your head, eyes sliding shut.

.

Nanami, Yaga, and Ijichi approach, dress shoes tapping against linoleum floors. Satoru and Shoko say nothing to them as they join in watching through the glass doors.

Satoru doesn’t like the room they’ve moved you to. It’s too full of machines, too open to passersby who could just look in if the curtains aren’t drawn, and even then…

It smells too clinical here. Too full of artificial light. The ICU is a mechanical sort of silence than the quiet peace of the dead-end hallway. There is no warmth, no books, no paintings. Your plants have been removed, and Nanami has taken all of them into his apartment except the red tulips which rest on the dinner table in Satoru’s kitchen.

You stopped being able to breathe on your own only a day after the eclipse. That was two days ago, and the ventilator is doing nothing more than prolonging your agony. Soon, the growths will block your lungs entirely, suffocating you from the inside out. 

The doctors have stopped taking scans.

“It’s only a matter of time, now,” Shoko had said. “Her directive says we let her go as soon as she can’t come back.” Quieter: “Her pulse ox has been dropping. It won’t be long.”

Ijichi’s face is stony. Satoru doesn’t know why he focuses on him out of everyone. Leaning against the nurse’s station, he stares blankly at the Assistant Director’s. Maybe because he thought he’d be a wreck. Out of all of them, Ijichi’s the most emotional, but his lips are set firm from where he stands between Nanami and their principal.

Maybe Satoru’s just looking for permission to fall apart, but that’d be stupid. 

I’m the strongest. I’ll be fine.

“I’m going to go in,” he announces. No one protests. Nanami sits down and crosses one leg over the other, fingers steepled and eyes indecipherable. Shoko sits beside him. There’s the faint scent of smoke clinging to her lab coat. 

Ijichi dips his head, but doesn’t sit and Yaga excuses himself to talk to the nurse about your condition.

Satoru sanitizes his hands, approaches the door, and pulls it open before stepping in and sliding it shut behind him. 

Click. Hiss. 

The sound of the ventilator is the only thing that occupies the room. That and the monitors. It’s very dark, despite it being the middle of the day. Mostly because you can’t open your eyes wide enough to withstand the sun anymore, so Satoru had asked the nurses to bring the same blackout curtains from your room here. The lights are dimmed until it’s only an orange glow right behind your bed. 

Click. Hiss.

Sitting down, he doesn’t take hold of your hand just in case you’re sleeping. The intubation tube rests on a pile of towels on your chest, and it takes a long time before your eyes open and your head tilts just enough to look. Your hand twists on top of the covers until your palm is tilted open.

He slips fingers in, takes hold. The feel of your skin making everything worse. You’re colder than you should be—it’s sweltering in this room, enough that Satoru is already beginning to sweat even through his short-sleeve—and your fingers just barely twitch against the back of his hand, tracing strange shapes.

You blink, tapping his knuckle, and he frowns.

“What’s up?” Withdrawing, he feels your nail scrape against his flesh and he looks down. Curiously, he takes your hand and places it on top of his so your fingers can touch the lines of his palm. “Are you spelling something out?” he asks, amused, glancing up again.

Another blink, slower this time.

He leans forward on his elbow to touch your cheek before resting his cheek against his fist.

“Alright, give it your best shot.” 

Your eyelids flutter, lips trembling in a weak smile. Your index finger begins to trace shapes, kanji, into his palm. Your chest rises and fall slowly, pumped full of air by a machine hooked to your lungs, forcing breath into you as your writing grows sloppy by the passing second but you still persist.

ANGRY?

“Angry?” he repeats, and you blink slowly again, fingers insistent on grabbing his palm. Folding his fingers over yours, he arches his eyebrows. “If I was angry at a terminally ill patient, that’d make me the asshole here.” Your eyes squeeze shut, eyebrows rearranging in what he recognizes as your laugh in silence. More seriously, his hold on you tightens and he lifts his head to brush his fingers over your brow. You tilt your head more to him, gaze murky warm. “How’re you feeling?”

It takes a while, but he feels your hand shuffle back to trace your answer on his hand.

BETTER

“Better. Yeah?”

Another lethargic blink. Yes.

“It’s because of me, right? I knew it. I knew it. We should tell Shoko—I’m the newest medical innovation in town,” he proclaims, and his smile begs to slip off his face but he only forces it back on, shoves it into place. Your eyebrows move again, like you’re struggling to hold back your laugh. Your eyes slip shut and do not open again. 

Your face goes lax a moment later, and your fingers loosen a bit, but he doesn’t let go. He just wants to touch your face and trace the lines into his memory. 

Satoru stretches his thumb along the swell of your bottom lip while carefully avoiding the tube. He runs his knuckles down your cheek. His fingers brush your pulse point along your neck, and he feels the slow, weak beat.

Click. Hiss.

He thinks you’re asleep for a while, until your finger drags over the flesh of his palm and he looks down, hand lifting from your face. 

“Hey, I’m still here,” he whispers, and your face turns towards him slightly, the tube in your mouth shuffling. He reaches forward, cupping your face and holding you still. “Hey. Don’t move. Your lungs are weaker than the rest of you and I’m not about to watch you die.” Something grabs onto the front of his shirt near his stomach and he looks down to see your fingers hooking on the cotton of his tee, twisting it weakly. “Oh, sorry.”

He draws back and slips his palm back into yours. Your index finger taps against the heel of his hand before your nail drags deliberately. One stroke. Then another, and another. Gojo wishes your eyes were open, because then he would be able to determine what the rest of the sentence could spell out before you’re done, but he’s patient. 

HERE

“Here?” You tap on his hand. Yes. “What’s here?”

YOU AND ME

“You and me,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get that. At least… now you can see Suguru again, right?” Your hand goes still and he looks at your face, reaching to touch your cheek again. You’re placid—doll-like, eyes shut, living dead. “I’m a bit jealous of that, but you should rest easy. It’s been a hard few months, hasn’t it?”

Another weak twitch of your finger on his hand.

“No matter what happens, don’t think I’m angry at you, or the choices you’ve made,” he continues. “As long as you let me stay here, I won’t waste a single second of it, okay?” Tap. He squeezes your hand so tightly your eyebrows twitch, even as you slip away from him. “For all your saying that you’re weaker than me, I never thought that. Not really.” Satoru raises your hand to his lips and he closes his eyes. “Being the strongest is pretty lonely. Used to be so fucking cocky about it, huh. Thought no one could touch me or the people I cared about because everyone would be too scared.”

Your fingers curl against his palm and he lowers his head to press your knuckles against his brow.

“I was wrong. I’d give anything to have you both back, but I can’t, and I hate it. You’re supposed to be with me at the top. I don’t want to be alone again.” His eyes are burning from the strain of keeping them open, but he refuses to miss a second of you being alive when the time is trickling like sand in an hourglass. He feels it like a heavy stare on his back, wondering if this next breath will be the last one before your brain finally decides to shut down. Your organs have been shutting down for nearly weeks now. He knows it’s out of pure selfishness that they’re dragging precious moments into agonizing hours. 

He knows you’re exhausted. 

Resting his chin on your fingers, he swallows. “I don’t know how to let you go. I wished I’d come sooner. I was careless. I know that. We could’ve had more time…”

Your fingers squeeze his as tight as you can before letting go. Somehow, he hears your voice in his ear. Something about being grateful for the time they did have.

“You were right, silly.” He chuckles to himself, bitter, anguished, and lowers your hand back to the bed, not letting go yet. “Ten years is a long time to wait. I let you down, but I’ll make sure you go easy. I promise.”

Satoru lays his head down on his forearm and he swears he catches your lips pull into the faintest smile. He stays there for hours, watching your face, stretching up to touch your unmoving face. The only sound is his steady breaths, the beep of your monitors and the click-hiss of your ventilator. 

It’s 1:04 PM when he falls asleep to the sleepy circles you trace into his wrist

It’s 6:22 PM when only one of them wakes up.

.

At 11:00 AM the next morning, during one of the hourly tests, they declare you brain-dead. With the announcement of your directive being honoured by your chosen proxy, Satoru himself, classes are cancelled and they are scheduled to take you off life support at six.

Ijichi brings them lunch and dinner. Satoru doesn’t eat. Only sits by your side, leaned back into the chair and looking at you while he still can until the clock ticks and ticks and ticks towards doomsday. The kids come to say final goodbyes while he watches on. Inumaki, as always, brings Panda through his phone, and Satoru wishes there could’ve been some way to sneak Panda into a high-class hospital just so their last moments together aren’t cheapened by a screen.

Shoko enters five minutes before it’s time, hand finding his shoulder and he looks up just long enough to catch her blank stare resting on your face.

She doesn’t say anything, only moves to the other side of the bed and sits down in the other chair.

The doctor pumps you full of sedation drugs, so you won’t feel any of the pain, unhooks the machines, and extubates you, explaining all the while what he’s doing just to fill the silence. As he pulls the tube from your throat, something in Satoru turns icy when a purple petal is plastered to the side of the plastic, but the doctor does not acknowledge it any more than murmuring that he will give them privacy.

Your rattling breaths echo in his ears as he watches the numbers slowly drop, but even your inhales fade to nothing more than soft, slight wheezes. The tape has left a strange mark around your mouth, and you’re unmoving otherwise. Shoko gently reaches and touches the eye bags that are, for once, worse than hers before shaking her head and pulling back. Everyone else waits outside.

Hours pass by in torturous years. 

Satoru wears the same stony expression the whole while, finally surrendering into his desire to hold your hand. 

His heart hardens. He goes completely still. Shoko talks but he can’t really hear anything except the slow beeps of your monitor once you pass certain thresholds. 

There are nurses waiting outside. They’ve grown used to the company, he thinks. He thinks one or two are crying. Soon enough, they’ll come in to turn off the machines tracking your vitals so the sounds don’t drive them crazy, banging in home that you’re dead, dead, dead.

After a while, Satoru realizes you aren’t quite breathing, although your chest moves. Sometimes, there’s a gasping sound, like someone surprised the breath out of you and you’re inhaling sharply to replace it, and he imagines your fingers twitching against his hand one last time.

It’s very slow. Much slower than he imagined it to be. Maybe you’re still fighting. Maybe you don’t want to go.

Satoru can’t imagine why. Where you’re going, there’s no pain, or exhaustion, or blood. Where you’re going, Suguru waits.

He leans against his hand, elbow on the slight incline of your bed. Letting go of your hand, he touches your face, feels the soft puff of your breath, the curve of your jaw. You’ve lost so much weight from the sickness you barely look like yourself, but you’re still you. The cursed energy is still yours. His Six Eyes sees it. His soul feels it.

It tangles with his own where he touches you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over him. 

He wants to sleep, let time pass, and wake up to you dead.

It seems a much better alternative to watching you slip away, but he’s always been selfish when it came to personal affairs.

.

You die two hours later.

Shoko closes her eyes and leans back into her chair as the nurse comes in to turn off the droning monitor. Her face is dry and she takes long, measured breaths as if trying to temper something swirling inside her. Satoru’s hard heart cracks as he squeezes your hand to see if you’ll wake up. It doesn’t quite sink in, even though he can hear someone crying outside, and when your limp hand doesn’t react at all, he shakes his head and gets up, pulling his sunglasses off the collar of his shirt and sliding them back onto his face.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and rakes his face over your body, your face.

He’s seen a dozen dead bodies before, maybe more. You look just like he did on December 24th. At peace, younger. Like you’re glad the suffering is over, and Satoru turns his face away sharply and leaves the room. He doesn’t know what to say and he’s not sure if his voice is still here. 

Everything feels dry and dull and grey.

“Sensei,” Itadori whispers wetly, reaching out a hand, making him stop. The students are all sitting in a small area, but they stand upon seeing him leave the room, and he gives them a plastic smile that makes all of them flinch. Maki is scowling furiously at the ground as Inumaki takes hold of her bicep but she flings the hand off and stalks away, hiding her red face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells them as Kugisaki runs after Maki. He watches the two go before turning his attention back on the students. “The important thing is that she didn’t suffer. Arrangements will be made, but there won’t be any rush, alright?” The words feel lacking, but he still manages to smile. “It’s been a long day. Go home. Rest, shower, eat. Let’s remember that she doesn’t want us to be here, slumping around looking like idiots. She wants you to all to take care of yourselves.” He arches his eyebrows insistently at his students, but they don’t seem to hear him.

They’re only looking through the glass doors at your coolling corpse, at Shoko who stands, and speaks to the doctor when he comes back in.

Fushiguro is the only one really looking at him, and the teenager has a silent question in his stare. 

Satoru shakes his head, and Megumi nods.

“Classes are cancelled for the rest of the week,” Yaga adds. “Ijichi will drive you all back to the college in thirty minutes. Make sure you tell the girls.” He directs this to Inumaki, who nods.

“Salmon.”

Later, Megumi finds him smoking a cigarette leaning against Shoko’s car. Satoru’s never liked the taste of the stuff so he doesn’t really know why he’s smoking other than the fact he doesn’t know what to do. 

Up is down, left is right, and you’re dead. 

Nothing seems right, but Megumi gives him a good excuse to stop. Flinging the cig to the ground, he stomps out the ember and re-arranges his expression into that shielded smile of his, but it feels a bit weaker. Sharp, janky, wrong.

“Why haven’t you gone home yet? Ijichi should’ve taken you all back by now,” Satoru says wearily as Fushiguro stops before him, hands shoved in his pockets.

“I stayed behind to look for you,” informs Megumi. He looks a bit fractured, but the boy’s never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Satoru makes a mental note to dig into his psyche at a later date, and stretches an arm out to wrangle the boy into a hug against his side.

For all of his complaints and mumbles and scowls, Megumi’s body still relaxes a bit against his, and even though he doesn’t hug him back, when he tells him, “You should go home and get some sleep, too. These past few months haven’t been easy on you, either,” Satoru feels a part of his old self raise its bloody head. 

Glancing down at a head of spiky hair, he knocks his knuckles into his student’s skull. “Have you been keeping an eye on me?”

Megumi crosses his arms, glares over Satoru’s elbow, but even his voice is quieter. “You need to take care of yourself.”

Satoru smiles again. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “But you’re not worried about me, are you, Fushiguro?”

Megumi ducks his head and doesn’t answer any more than, “Someone has to pick up the slack, now.”

.

“Thanks, Ijichi,” Satoru says with a huff, digging the shovel into the ground and stepping on the metal edge. “Not every day you help me carry a dead body and dig a grave, huh.”

“No, sir,” Ijichi replies. He sounds a bit hoarse and tired as he wipes at his brow.

It’s been two days since you’ve died. The college grounds feels a lot less lively. He took a walk in the gardens yesterday, and saw Yaga planting new flowers. He had strode past and ignored the tears on his sensei’s face, and absently wonders now why he hasn’t cried yet as he grabs the shovel and yanks it out of the dirt, tossing it to Ijichi.

It feels kind of stupid, but despite how eviscerated everything inside him feels, he just can’t.

Either way, he’ll deal with it when it becomes a problem.

Satoru wipes at his brow, too, with a heavy sigh, and heads to where a cloth-covered shape is resting on the ground. Your corpse is light in his arms as he bridal carries you to the hole he’s just dug into the grass. It looks suspicious as hell, but it’d probably be even worse if he’d been walking around with a dead body over his shoulder, stitched back together after an autopsy by your best friend. 

Good thing they’re only in the forests outside the college campus. There won’t be any civilians for miles.

“You can go,” he says over his shoulder, setting you down by the hole they’ve dug. He takes in a deep breath to calm himself and Ijichi’s footsteps hesitate before beginning and fading away moments later. Falling to his knees, Satoru begins to carefully unfold the cloth just enough that he can see your face and chest. 

He squints behind his blindfold at the ripples of energy still seeping from the stitches along your chest. Sinking his hands into the lush, cold grass, he twists the blades with rigid fingers at the stench of rot coming from the curse before he draws back.

Hands on his lap, he stares at your face. You look frozen in time, eyes closed, skin clean, and there’s that unnatural stillness about you that only comes with the dead. It’s strange. He probably couldn’t have imagined someone so vivacious could be so motionless if he hadn’t seen it first with Suguru.

He had asked not to hear the results of your autopsy. Not now, maybe not ever. It’d be fresh lemon juice in a weeping wound. All he knows is that the curse clings to your corpse, and Shoko could only remove the growths that were no longer being fed for examination.

“Weird that this is where we’ve found ourselves,” he begins humourlessly. “With how we were living, Suguru always said I’d die first. Doing something stupid, being too cocky.” He slides a hand into his pocket and withdraws something he’d snipped this morning from the last plant you had grown with your Technique. A red tulip with a short stem that’s a bit crushed, and beginning to decay, but… everything can’t be perfect.

“I never thought I’d outlive you.”

Reaching forward, he places the tulip gently on your chest, takes your cold arms that are just beginning to loosen up again from rigor mortis, and folds your hands over the stem.

“Eternal love, and fame,” he repeats to himself. The energy nearly swallows up the tulip, but as it radiates from your chest, flickers in the slight breeze, Satoru sees flashes of red and green, much brighter than everything else around him, and knows that it won’t be consumed. Sitting down, he hugs his legs to his chest and stares at your dead body blankly, chin on his knees.

He had had a plan. He was going to just… put the flower there, exorcise the curse inside you, and bury you so you could finally rest. He wouldn’t hesitate because this is something you entrusted him to do.

But this is the first time in months he hasn’t had a cloud hanging over his head, and his body feels so much ligher without the burden of your disease hanging off his shoulders, that he can’t help but relish in it. Speak to you without worrying about saying the wrong thing, of people overhearing. He’s finally… free. 

It feels fucking awful.

“You were right, by the way.” His voice is dull, resonating deep in his chest. There is no August sun breaking through the trees above, only from behind him, and the golden beams touch your chin, down your throat and chest. It sets the red of the tulip on fire. “I miss you. And I wish I could’ve said so many things, but we ran out of time.” A faint smile. “No matter what you think, Suguru loved you. It’s why he came to see you one last time. I knew him better than I knew myself, and I know he was happiest knowing you were at his side.” Closing his eyes, the ache in his heart swells as he utters out, “So was I.”

Burying his his face in his forearms, a cup inside him seems to tip over and everything feels too hot for him to breathe in. Ripping his blindfold off and tossing it away from him blindly, his eyes snap open wide as he tries to breathe. His ribs constrict his lungs, and he presses his eyes into his arms, hands shaking as he sinks his nails into his biceps. 

Harsh pants puff against his face as he tries to reign in his shuddering, but he can’t. The knot in his heart twists until he thinks he might die, and distantly, he hears soft footsteps so faint he’s not sure if he imagines it. Gritting his teeth, he stifles the bruising feeling welling up in his throat.

Gentle hands brush down his shoulders soothingly, sending a wave of nausea through his body, and he jerks away.

“Damn it, Ijichi, leave me alone!” Wrenching his head up, his eyes widen at the figure crouched in front of him.

Arms falling lax to the grass and his knees widening, his jaw drops as a thumb teases his parted lips. You step between his legs and crouch down, limber and strong. You look healthy again, bright eyes and full cheeks, young like spring, and when you smile, it fills him utterly with light. In your hands is his blindfold, and you ruffle his hair, tilting your head curiously.

“I’m not Ijichi, but… do you really want me to go so soon?” you ask as he rakes his gaze up and down your body. There is still a purple shell encasing your legs, but as you shift your weight on your feet, it falls like fragile eggshells to the ground and sinks into the dirt, disappearing for good. Peering around you, his eyes widen when he sees shards of a purple shell in shatters all over your corpse.

He’d only seen this once before, eight months ago, with a certain student of his and the cursed spirit of the girl he loved and who loved him.

Face burning, his gaze snaps back to you as you poke his cheek and continue to grin. Leaning back on his hands, he tries to stop the intense shattering of his walls by clenching his jaw, but the shudders overtake his body, his chest, his throat until he’s letting out an ugly sound and blinking hard as if that’ll hide it away from you. Something devastatingly warm immediately shoots down his cheeks. Covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow, he turns his face away but your warm hands cradle him carefully, thumbs brushing underneath his eyes.

“Yuuta, you’re right. Rika isn’t cursing you.”

“No,” he whispers, arm falling. His fingers sink into his shoulder as if that would be enough to wake him from this nightmare. “No. I can’t—Did I—Did I kill you?” You squint studiously, not letting go of his face as he lifts the hand from his shoulder and reaches to touch you. It shakes, and he snaps it into a fist to stop it, looking at his fingers that have done so much harm—shed so much blood. “Did I do this to you?”

“You cursed Rika.”

You chuckle fondly, like he’s said something silly, and set a hand on his fist, pushing it down firmly. “You can’t control how other people react to your words, Satoru.” Your voice changes, and your eyebrows draw together in something bittersweet. “And you can’t change something you didn’t know. The chances of you cursing me and me cursing myself are irrelevant. It doesn’t change anything about where we are, now.”

Satoru watches you, lips parted, as you tie the blindfold around his neck. You feel so real, so close, and as you slide your hands down his shoulders, to his chest, he jerks his head down to stare at your shoes in the grass. 

So he did. 

“I see,” he murmurs.

That’s it, then.

“Satoru, please look at me,” you whisper, fingers stretching to his chin. With the gentlest of pressures, you prompt him up and he finds your face, your smile, where all colours begin and end. For a moment, the world seems to inhale all of its life back into its core—the leaves whistle, the sun is warm and golden, and he lifts his hand to touch you again, but you pull back before he can. 

“I can only thank you for being my friend. For staying with me until the very end.” You laugh quietly to yourself and lift your hand from his face. “I would make a joke about a curse, but I know it still hurts, so I’ll save it for when I see you on the other side, okay? When it heals a bit more.”

“It’s never going to hurt less,” he croaks. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know how much you mean to me.”

Your smile softens. Satoru tries to eternalize that expression forever. “I’m honoured, but, I hope it does heal. I don’t want you to learn how to carry so much pain around. I don’t want you to be numb.” You touch his cheek again, as if you’re trying to soak in as much of him as you can, too. 

“Do you have any last words?” he manages to ask raspily, and you chuckle, tilting your head and running your hand through his hair again. His eyes flutter shut at the scratch, the sensation of your nails against his scalp, and then there’s your hand at his jaw, holding him all together. He wants to hold you so badly he thinks his muscles might cramp into stone at the desire.

“What does it matter?” you ask curiously. “You already know how I feel. That will never change. And if you ever want to know what I think, or what I’d do, you can just ask Shoko and think about it yourself. You know me well enough to not need me nagging about it.”

“But, it won’t be enough.”

“It never will be,” you agree. “But isn’t it wonderful that we even got to know each other at all?” You lean forward, and his eyes flutter shut as you hold him to your chest. He can’t hear your heartbeat anymore, but your warmth is almost the same. The echo of your voice rumbles in his head as you speak, and maybe that is enough. “If you want my last words, you already have them.”

You draw him back, and give him one last smile. The air shifts golden yellow to his Six Eyes, for the last time. 

“Until we meet again, my Satoru.” 

You fade without giving him a chance to answer, taking all the colour with you. 

Staring at the empty air where you had been just a moment before with wide, burning blues, he whispers your name brokenly before burying his hands in the dirt, squeezing his eyes shut, and letting boiling tears scald his face red.

.

“If you want my last words, you already have them.”

Spinning the key ring on his finger, Satoru looks dully at the door knob he had just unlocked. There’s no one in the hall, and he debates whether or not he should turn around, but Shoko had insisted. There’d been something left for him in your old apartment, and according to her, it would be spoiled soon if he didn’t go.

“Oh, what the hell,” he mutters, catching the key in his palm and shoving it into his long coat. Tugging it tighter around himself, he twists the knob and pushes it open. He can’t remember the last time he was in here. Maybe five or six months ago, when they both had a day off that didn’t need to be spent at the college.

There aren’t any plants anymore. He supposes Nanami, Ijichi, maybe even Yaga have taken them. He swears he’s seen a few in the gardens lately, but who is he to say? Toeing off his shoes, he makes his way down the hall. 

 Everything is just as you left it, with clean counters and empty tables. The curtains are spread, letting in so much September sunlight. It hits random display pedestals of different sizes, all the surfaces big enough to fit a pot on. Your watering can sits by the sink. There are photos hanging on the walls, propped up on the desk, on your shelves, polaroids taped to the walls. 

Reminders that someone did live here. That there is a whole life unknown to strangers but evidence enough that whoever used to be here, they had people who would miss them.

Walking up to the counter, he drags his fingers along the surface, feeling the dust collect up to a square of pale light. A clean circle is all that’s left as a clue that there used to be something there, and his heart twists.

Who knew he could miss fucking plants of all things?

Sweeping his gaze around, he brushes off the dust on his jacket and hooks a thumb on his blindfold, sweeping the area with an eccentric eye. The TV is off, your bookshelves are in their usual untidy state, but even the reaching vines of the bean plant is gone from the highest shelf.

 “They really scooped this place dry,” he muses dryly to no one. He can still hear the music you’d play for late nights, the smell of dumpling soup. He walks down the hall and still remembers how many steps it takes to reach the bathroom that guests would use. 

He had hunched over that bath on December 25th, and let water soak through his hair as strong fingers worked the sweat from his scalp and skin.

Four more steps to the guest best room on the right, and another three to the end of the hall where a door leads to your room. It’s already open, and he steps in easily, tugging his blindfold all the way down off his face. Hair falling over his eyes, he sweeps it aside and surveys the room. The walls are still that pretty shade of cream, and your bed is made carefully, dark olive blankets resting atop your white sheets. He smiles to himself, despite the twang in his chest.

Walking deeper, he approaches the cabinet by your bathroom, and picks up the photo you have by your jewelry stand.

A smile curls his mouth. He remembers this one. First year, their first September. All four of them had gone together to Sapporo for the autumn festival. 

He sets the photo back down and looks into the bathroom. Your toiletries are all lined up, waiting for their next use, and he swallows as he raises his gaze up to the mirror. His blue eyes look a big too big on his face from the past month alone, and there are red-purple half moons printed onto his face that have only just started to fade. He swears it only looks worse because of how much pale light is streaming in from the windows, and he tugs at his collar uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

Turning around, he looks at the offenders for making him look so awful, and finds a medium-sized pot sitting on the window seat. It’s the only thing sitting on the flat, wooden surface, in partial shade and almost unfurling before his very eyes.

Satoru frowns, walking around your bed to inspect the plant. 

The flowers are a warm magenta colour, and his eyes widen at the flash of white he can see leading to the center of each bloom. Brushing a thumb over the petals, his jaw sets as he tilts his head to get a better look at the plant. So this is what was growing inside of you. Huh.

There’s another slip of white near the dirt, and his eyebrows furrow, fingers seeking the thing. It crinkles when he touches it, and his frown deepens as he manages to grasp it, pulling it free underneath the leaves and stems of the plants. Sitting down beside the pot, he dusts off the dirt clinging to the paper, and reads his name along the front in your print before flipping the envelope around. There’s something sticking out of it, a sloping shape that’s hard but not too big.

Curiosity peaked, he tears the envelope open carefully and peers inside. A binder clip is inside, holding something together, and he flips it upside down, letting everything fall. The letter slides out first, followed by whatever the binder clip is holding together and he squeezes his thighs together so it doesn’t fall to the floor.

Setting the letter aside, he picks the bundle up. 

Polaroids.

They’re polaroids of different sizes that have him smiling despite the heavy sorrow twisting his entire chest.

Various pictures of Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and you together, and he finds most of them are of him and you. Pictures of him hiding behind plants of various sizes, a picture of him drinking soju, because Suguru liked it the most and insisted he try, while leaning against Shoko who was knocking back a shot of tequila. There is a shot of Suguru, wet with mud and smiling like sunshine, while a drenched Satoru was in the background, flipping the camera off in the middle of a storm. 

More and more pictures, enough to spill out of his lap, and he picks up each one, desperate to remember when or where you took them.

And, sometimes, he can’t. Sometimes, they are just moments that he’s lost because he never thought they’d be important, and now moments he’d give anything to remember.

There are pictures of a fern he had named their first year, little annotations on the bottom of some others. Dates, but with no context otherwise. Names scribbled in black ink. 

You’re in a lot of them, your smile timeless, your joy infectious even through film.

Arms slung around Suguru, face smushed against his, artfully blurry perhaps on accident, and annotated with scrawl that read: I call this masterpiece “Dumb Sweethearts” by Gojo Satoru :)

A picture of him and Shoko and Suguru, of them in one of Tokyo’s night markets, you behind the camera, the lights flashing and warm and pink, making them all look like they’ve transported to some other kind of cyberpunk world. 

You and Shoko lounging in the gardens, having a tiny picnic at your insistence, and in Suguru’s handwriting in black: JUST GIRLS BEING PALS

Satoru stares at Suguru’s writing the longest, not even at his words, just the strokes of his pen. This is a new part of him Satoru thought had been destroyed, and he starves for it. It’s like his one and only lives and breathes in the ink, in those snapshots of him caught in eternal youth. When they’d been happy and unaware and not innocent, but cocky enough to think they could rule the world. 

It’s hungry, the way he goes through each photo, searching for another glimpse of you, of him, of them together, until Satoru is all out of moments to feed on, and still, he feels empty, flicking through the last few photos.

You in a pool, arms wrapped around Shoko and beaming like the sun.

A shot of Satoru and Suguru climbing trees shot from below, your eyes and skeptically raised eyebrows in frame, captioned big dumb monkeys

And the last one…

He holds it to the sunlight and his gaze softens.

A selfie of you kissing Suguru on the cheek. It’s mostly dark, but they were definitely in the bathroom, and the flash made Suguru’s outstretched arm look pale as a ghost, but even so, there’s no mistaking the happiness captured there. He was sticking out his tongue, winking, and red as a beet so he was either drunk or you had said something or both. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, nose squished against his cheek, eyes squeezed tight as he took the shot.

Turning it over, Satoru’s heart plummets into his chest. In Suguru’s clean, blocky writing:

THE GIRL IM GOING TO MARRY ONE DAY <3

And crossed out is your reply followed by a little note:

dummy doesnt have the nerve to propose SHHH!!!! ONE DAY C:

One day.

It sounds so much emptier now.

He lowers the photo back to his lap, and glances around him, at all these scattered moments captured forever. Gathering them up again, he relives them all over again, looking at each photo for longer to see if he’s missed anything, but mostly his stare lingers on your face, and on Suguru’s, and his own, too, because he can’t remember what it felt like back then, but he is sure it feels so much better than now.

The polaroids come together a neat stack and he is careful not to scratch any of them when he clips them together. The top photo is of you with your arms wrangled around Suguru and Satoru, your face split in a maniacal laugh, their mouths open in shock, eyes bulging in how you must’ve scared them witless. 

Shoko’s messy writing at the bottom, for it must’ve been her who had taken the photo: BREAKING NEWS: Japan’s Strongest Conquered by a Woman.

A smile cracks his weary face and he runs a thumb over their faces before sliding the photos back into the envelope for safe-keeping. 

Then, he grabs the letter. His name is written again on the first flap, and he reads it three times over before unfolding the paper, not quite ready but also not sure if he ever will be.

Immediately, a faint, herbal-like scent slashed with antiseptic flows from the page and his stomach curdles as your script pours down the page. 

Swallowing, Satoru shifts and leans against the wall, hiking a foot up onto the seat and holding your inked characters to the light. There’s a date inscribed at the top.

Thursday. 

The first Thursday after you had been released from the hospital. Your last Thursday before you were back in for good.

“Shit.”

He folds the letter again and tilts his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

Does he want to read this? Does he really want to fucking read this? 

Taking a deep breath, he clears his throat and lowers his gaze to stare determinedly ahead of him. The purple flowers greet him warmly and he shakes the shiver out of his body before tightening his grip on your letter and unfolding it again, forcing his eyes on the page.

My Satoru,

I sent all the pictures I had of Shoko to her, and she has some of Suguru, too. Now that I’m gone, there’s no use if I keep them. Maybe you two could share some time, laugh it up over these old memories. I know she says she can’t stand you, but to be honest, who else is there that will remember us now? Who else is there to remember Suguru for more than his bloody hands and me as more than that girl too sick to do anything but die? 

Some legacy we said we’d leave, huh.

I don’t think I told you this, but with this disease catching up to me, it’s hard not to form hypotheses on why it’s happening or how. I have quite a few theories, and, unfortunately, none of them are pleasant or unriddled with angst. By now, you’ve probably figured out it’s a curse, and if you’re smart enough to ignore how much I’ll probably deny it, that it’s some love bullshit. If you didn’t know, now you do.

I know it’s weird. Suguru is dead. It shouldn’t be happening, right?

That’s what I thought, too

You once said love manifests the most twisted curses. I never thought of it that way before, but I’m starting to think you’re right. I don’t want to curse you by dying, but I can’t help but wonder if we can control who we curse. If I hadn’t heard you say that, would I still be here? Healthy? Okay? 

I don’t know. I can’t predict alternate timelines, because I got to live one life, and that’s more than most people get. But, because I know you, you want me to entertain you. I’m sighing as I write this.

Look, I know the pain would still be there. I know I still wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for what I did, even if it was what had to be done. I know I would still miss him. I know that I would still long for the day I didn’t feel guilty for loving someone else.

If you didn’t curse me, I cursed myself. It drives me crazy that this is how the die was cast, even now, even after months where I could’ve accepted this, but at least this physical manifestation almost makes me… calm. Like seeing what this life has done to me makes me brave enough to fight it. If anything at all, the curse brought me a greater understanding of how powerful our world is in comparison to people who… are normal. The people we have to protect.

I’m sorry. Reading this back, it sounds like I’m the one cursing you now; telling you all this knowledge that can only bring you more anguish. I promise, this isn’t what it is. I just want you to understand. You couldn’t have saved me, Satoru. I couldn’t have given you the absolution you wanted, and if that’s how it is, then I just hope that one day you can look back on this and it won’t hurt anymore.

It’s always been so complicated between us, after what happened to Suguru, and after what he did, even ten years ago. What we couldn’t stop and what we had to do that day. There was always a line that I thought I couldn’t cross, or a line you didn’t want to cross, and it was shaped a lot like him. I don’t know if it was just in my head, but there was something holding us back, and I was fine dancing around it because I saw how you felt about him and I understood. Your eyes always changed when you looked at him. When you spoke of him. Even after.

Always after.

Don’t think I’m angry. I’m not blind. I know how much you two meant to each other, and I could never be angry that Suguru is so cherished. Missed. It makes everything so much harder, so much more painful.

Look, in the end, I loved him, and you did, too. And if we both still do, that’s okay. He deserved love. 

I guess it just feels like a stab in the back that it wasn’t enough. 

But life isn’t a fairytale. None of it really matters. To be honest, I wouldn’t trade any of it for a second, and I hope you wouldn’t either. 

Maybe life isn’t supposed to be lived happily, but lived contently. And I did. I am satisfied with what I’ve done, even if I wanted to do so much more. 

I’m so grateful to have known you, to have had you by my side. I hope you can say the same. 

Don’t regret my death. Remember how much fun we had when we were stupid kids, and smile. Because I don’t want you to think your best years are behind you. I want you to be happy, even if I can’t be there to see it. I want you to be excited for your future, even if I can’t be in it.

I’ll always be watching over you, so smile for me every once in a while. Even if it seems like you’ll never feel anything again. One day, I promise you will, and it won’t feel so bad.

Yours forever and ever and ever,

(Name)

.

Throat crushed, he reads one line over and over the most. He’s memorized your letter heart, but he still carries it around with him, anyway.

“I know that I would still long for the day I didn’t feel guilty for loving someone else.”

Sometimes, he just wants to imagine your hand whispering over the page, the pen tapping against your chin, your face as you wrote, the sigh that you said you heaved. Because he’ll never hear you laugh again, see your smile. Your voice will never tease his ear, your fingers will never touch his face. There is no more laugh-wrinkles set in a face always perfectly hit by sunlight, and this is all he has left. His memory, and what you’ve left behind.

It makes him laugh how almost lovestruck stupid he’s being, but… he doubts anyone blames him. As long as he’s still doing his job, as long as he’s still the Strongest, what does it matter if he carries a dead woman’s letter in his pocket everywhere?

“Warm weather, even in the evenings. That’s a bit unusual,” Nanami observes, startling Satoru and he looks up at the blond who stops by him in the gardens. The man is wearing his grey suit, as always, and his watch glimmers in the fading gold light. “How are you?”

Satoru’s fingers tighten around the letter in his hands. As usual, the urge to crumple it up, throw it into the garbage to never see it again, has reared its head after his latest re-read, but he’ll stave it off. He always manages to.

“Fine,” he replies, glancing at the startling blood red and burnt orange leaves casually. Colours seem a bit brighter, and Satoru still squints a bit against them, despite the soft light of the sunset. He doesn’t know when his Six Eyes got so sensitive to that kind of stuff, but it almost feels good to be distracted by something so trivial as sensitive eyesight. “It is a bit warm for October.” 

Nanami hums. “How are your plants doing?”

“Mine are doing good,” he says, smiling. “The tulips have gone dormant, so nothing to worry about there. The one with purple flowers, though. It’s a tough one. It took me a while to figure out what it liked, but it didn’t go dormant or anything as long as I gave it enough water and paid attention to it.”

“That’s good.” Nanami adjusts his green lenses and sighs like he’s bracing himself for something difficult. “Gojo,” he begins, but Satoru merely folds your letter up and slides it into his breast pocket, holding up a hand.

“Whatever you’re going to say, Nanami, I don’t need to hear it.”

“Are you sure?” he asks skeptically, gaze following as Satoru stands, patting his jacket. Adjusting the lapel, he turns to his friend and when he grins, it feels like it reaches his eyes behind his sunglasses for the first time in two months.

“I’ve done this before, Nanami. I’ll be fine.” He waves it away. Nanami frowns. “I’m gonna get some dinner, though. Care to join? There’s a real good ramen place in Ikebukuro that you have to try.” The blond man observes him for a moment, before shaking his head, saying he had dinner already. “Suit yourself. Next time, I’m treating you, though.” 

Lips puckered in a whistle, Satoru turns around and begins to walk away. 

A breeze sweeps through the gardens, rustling the leaves in a discordant harmony, and sneaking into his jacket, sending a slight shiver up his spine as Nanami’s voice follows after him.

“The flower she left you is the sakurasou.” Satoru stops, hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t turn around as Nanami continues, “I wasn’t certain if if you knew.”

“Nope, I didn’t. Thanks for the info.” Lifting a hand, he barely looks over his shoulder before saluting with two fingers and smiling cheekily. It’s not as forced as it used to be. In fact, it comes quite easy as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. He knows what he has to find out now. “See ya later, Nanami.”

“Good evening,” he replies, and in a blink of an eye, Satoru is gone.

On the windowsill of his empty apartment, the sakurasou soaks in the last remnants of the day before wilting against two photos.

One of four students, arms entangled, and faces framed in eternal youth.

And another immortalizing what could’ve been longer than a few shaky months if someone had been just a bit braver.

a/n: satoru’s google search result: the meaning of sakurasou - desire and long-lasting love. 

and yes, there was an actual lunar eclipse on july 27th, 2018 (28th in japan time). it was very pretty. i researched a bit about both the lunar eclipse and the medical stuff, but excuse any inaccuracies! tis but a work of fiction <3 also, fun fact: the polaroid camera is supposed to be the instax mini 90 but ive never used it so excuse those inaccuracies as well SKNDALSDKN

ngl i did wanna write an alternative ending, but i can’t see this ending any other way. this is it. this is the canon, and we got a bit of happy feelies at the end as a treat. thank you for reading!

[mrs-gucci]

I’m going to try come up with other ideas lol but these jumped out at me. I would absolutely use these for something! I’m saving them too because I just might!

But if you feel like it, these combined scenarios could be really fun for a sarcastic, grouchy ass Flip or Kylo AU. It could be anything from enemies to antagonists to the guy being in trouble with you currently from doing stupid shit and trying to make up with you! Anything you think!

your enemy has been badly wounded, and somebody needs to bandage them up, so you agree to help them, and suddenly they're shirtless, and you can't help but admire their body, something this cheeky motherfucker takes notice of

there's only one bed, but this time, they're arguing over who should sleep on the floor, which nobody agrees to, so instead they end up sharing, incredibly annoyed over having to share their space (it’s not like friends to lovers, in which they both awkwardly get into bed. this is straight up just. i will set this bed on fire if you don’t stay on your side)

The Longest Knight {Sir Kylo Ren x Reader}

author's notes: hello, hello! shannon, dear, you always seem to know what I'm in need of when you send requests in. I've been dying for an excuse to write some medieval/knight Kylo, and this fits in perfectly with that AU, so thank you! <3

**THERE ARE SOME DARK(ER) THEMES IN THIS STORY, BUT ONLY AT THE VERY BEGINNING (there’s an indicator of when the dark content ends, in bold, you can’t miss it). PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS AND TW’S BEFORE PROCEEDING!**

warnings: some angst. some gore. some fluff. smut. enemies-with-benefits. sex w/o feelings. kylo is a huge douche (but in, like, a lowkey sexy way). 

tw's: (at the very beginning): dead bodies & blood, vivid depictions of wounds/injuries, brief depictions of battle, implied (battle-related) murder. mentions of sex work (later on in the story, not relating to the reader character).

word count: 4.4k

terms to know: loincloth: groin-covering cloth tied around the waist (literally just underwear). bedswerver: “adulterer” (an insult). mamillare: medieval breast band (bra).

When the sounds of marching footfall, deep cries of manly battle, and shod hooves pounding on the drought-hardened ground had ceased from the air, you saddle your horse and ride out to the far field of your property. 

The putrid smell of rotting flesh hits you before any bodies are even in view. Your prized stallion slows his trot, nostrils flaring and ears perked forward as the scene of battle presents itself to both of you.

He begins to snort and whinny in acute panic at the sight of so many corpses, both human and horse. Your stomach begins to churn, and you can barely bring yourself to look upon the scene as your heel encourages him onward, wanting to make sure there aren’t any surviving soldiers. 

Both sides seem to have suffered great loss, although you’re unsure which corpses belong to which side. The conflict betwixt Alderaan and Naboo has been dragging on much too long, and at the end of the day, is any conflict truly worth all of the lives lost?

You certainly didn’t think so, but perhaps you’re just too close to this war, incapable of having an unbiased opinion due to the loss of your beloved husband at the hands of Sir Kylo Ren, the Alderaanean calvary general and the most feared man across all five kingdoms. 

As you make your rounds to check for survivors, much to the dismay of your steed, you quickly lose almost all hope that anyone laid here ended up surviving the brutality apparently brought down upon them during the fight. 

Suddenly, your horse lifts himself up on hinds legs ever so slightly, jogging in place as a barely-audible groan comes from one of the men. His hand moves ever so slightly, and you quickly rush over to him, dismounting with a small first aid bag.

His helmet is that of a high-ranking official, but on which side he belongs, it’s too hard to tell. Not that it truly matters, you’d take just about any man with the courage to fight these battles.

“Sir?” You say, kneeling down beside the large man. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

He grunts lowly, winter-chapped lips opening in an attempt to speak. “S-Stomach.”

Once your mind registers his husky words, you look down at his abdomen and see that his armor seems to have been compromised in a spot right on the side of his stomach. Fresh blood seeps from the deep wound, and you cringe, grabbing one of the towels from your pack to gently wipe away some of the blood, but the tear in flesh is so deep, it’s impossible to do with just one towel. **dark content warnings ENDS**

“My estate is just a short ride from here. I cannot hold your weight myself, but if you can mount my horse, I will take you back and mend your wounds to the best of my ability.”

The mask nods softly, slowly but surely lifting himself up off the ground, wobbling towards your horse, who snorts nervously. He seemingly understands the severity of the situation, though, and stands still as the knight sits himself on his back. 

From there, he lays back, breath catching in his throat as his injuries are tweaked with each of the horses’ strides. You hold onto the reins, leading your stallion back to the house. 

After quite a bit of maneuvering and a lot of quarreling with the injured knight, you finally manage to set him up the cot in your spare bedroom. He sits down on the chair as you do so, mumbling and grumbling about his pain. You found it quite annoying, really, but you can’t really blame him for acting in such a way.

“You’ll need to remove your armor, sir. I cannot treat your wounds with it on.”

“By God’s bones.” He curses under his breath in annoyance, but stands and removes his body armor nonetheless.

Piece by piece is peeled from his body, his physically intimidating figure revealed slowly to your curious eyes. Only his under-layers were left, soon enough, and you found it a bit odd that he hadn’t taken his helmet off first. You would think that would be a great relief to have the proper air exposure on your face, but you’re not really in a place to make assumptions about that sort of thing.

His brilliantly alabaster skin is severely bloodied, bruised, and badly butchered. He would require quite some time to heal and recover, but if you learned anything from being married to an army man, it’s that they’re all stubborn bastards who never take the proper time to allow time for their bodies to properly heal.

He’s soon fully exposed to you, minus his helmet and threadbare loincloth, and you have to look away quickly as your cheeks heat up. The small garment left very little to the imagination, and this knight was...well endowed, to put it kindly.

Putting your own personal feelings aside for the betterment of the patient, you look back up at him with a small smile. “You may remove your helmet now, good sir.”

“I cannot reach up to grab it from my head.” He says in a flat, unamused voice.

“Of course.” You scold yourself for not thinking of that. “Well, if you lay down on the cot, I shall remove it for you.”

Instead of protest, which is what you expected, he complied with your instructions and laid down on the cot. He grunts satisfyingly at the comfort of a mattress, most likely used to sleeping on the ground.

When you reach for the bottoms of his helmet to pull it off, he suddenly snatches your wrist, stopping you instantly.

“If you need touch me, ask before doing so.” His voice is nothing more than a growl.

You almost roll your eyes, starting to truly become annoyed with this knight. You invited him into your home and you’re willing to be his bedside nurse...and he has the audacity to request something like this.

Again you’re forced to put your personal feelings aside for the sake of your patient and for the maintenance of your bedside manner, forcing a smile onto your face. “With all due respect, sir, I’m your nurse for the time being. I will be needing to touch you quite often. Am I really expected to ask each and every time?”

“Yes.” He replies.

Your jaw clenches and you wish nothing more in this moment than to smack this man right across the face.

“Fine. May I please remove your helmet?”

Sparing you the assurance of a vocal reply, the mask simply nods, and you pull it over his head. When the face of your patient is revealed to your eyes, you’re appalled.

It’s Sir Kylo Ren...the man that murdered your husband.

You drop the helmet onto the ground, metal clattering as it rocks back and forth once it’s settled in one spot on the hardwood. This can’t be real.

He snarls. “Why are you looking upon me with that expression? Have you never seen a man before? I have wounds that need tended to, girl, and I’d like to be out of here before sundown.”

Anger begins to boil your blood, tears burning in your eyes as you look down at the man before you.

“You bastard.” Your hand raises, ready to strike him clean against the cheek. He catches your fist in his hand before you can, though.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Kylo warns, squeezing your fist. “I’ll have to have you beheaded for hitting an army man, and your head is much too pretty to be put to such waste.”

You snort, yanking yourself from his grip, teeth gritting as you walk out to fetch all the medical supplies. He’s wearing a cocky expression when you walk back in.

“I recognize you.” He says.

You huff, unamused. “How could you possibly recognize me? We’ve never met.”

His lips curl up into a devious smirk. “You’re right, we haven’t met before, but I recognize you from your husband’s description. I asked him what you looked like, since he was babbling on and on about you.”

You freeze up, bottom lip beginning to quiver as Sir Kylo continues.

“Then I drove my blade straight through his pathetic chest, and later that night, I touched myself as I thought of you.”

He chuckles deviously.

“Bedswerver!” You yell, cocking your fists once more and lunging at him, ready to strike once more. But then, you stop yourself, knowing the consequences you’d surely face should you actually hit him. 

Your fists lower and you simply say nothing, preparing the cloths in the warm water. The tears run down your cheeks on their own volition, but you quickly wipe them away before turning back towards him. 

“He wasn’t worthy of your company, Y/N.” Kylo says as you begin to clean the wounds on his stomach. “And he clearly didn’t satisfy you in the way you needed, considering the manner in which you looked over my body when I took my armor off.”

His hand reaches around and squeezes your ass, making you jump. 

“How long has it been, little lamb? A young woman like you shouldn’t have to live without a man to satisfy her aching need.”

You can’t pretend that you’re not aroused by his words, by his touch. But you’d never let him have you, not in a thousand years. So, you quickly swat his hand away and continue cleaning his wounds. “That’s none of your concern, Sir Kylo. I am perfectly content without a man and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

He laughs. “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. I bet you’re aching right now, just from my words and my simple touch.”

Before he can touch you further, you back away, limbs trembling with anger and frustration. You dunk the bloody rag back into the bowl of water, ring it out a bit, then throw it onto his chest.

“Clean the wounds yourself, since you can obviously move your hands and arms perfectly fine.” You say, wiping your own on a dry cloth. “I’ll be back to bandage you in a bit.”

“Don’t think of me too much, lamb. You’ll release too quickly.” He snickers as you slam the door shut behind you, bursting into tears the moment you step foot into your bedroom.

You sob quietly, the freshly-healed stitches of your heart popping open one at a time, the grief and pain of losing your beloved consuming you once more. 

And now you’re here, mending his killer.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes everything you have, every ounce of willpower, to wake up and face Sir Kylo every single day. You know you’re doing the right thing by helping him, but that doesn’t make dealing with him any easier.

He’s impossibly stubborn, arrogant beyond comprehension, and increasingly grumpy. But, you just have to keep going, keep pushing through, reminding yourself that each day brings you closer and closer to his inevitable departure.

You’ve all but blocked out his inappropriate and antagonizing comments or remarks, just getting his bandages replaced and then leaving the room as quickly as possible.

Today, though, he’s achieved a new level of jackassery, a thing you thought impossible until he did it. And boy, did he do it.

“I’ve made arrangements for a few whores to come and provide me some...company.”

Your fist tightens around the bandage in your hand. He smirks.

“You’re more than welcome to join us. There’s plenty of me to go around, little lamb. You’ll get your turn.”

“No, thanks. I think I’d rather stab myself with a sword.” You reply, beginning to switch out his bandages. “You’re lucky I’m even allowing it to occur in my house.”

He just chuckles. “You’d probably be bad, anyway.”

You suddenly rip the bandage off of his skin, causing him to cry out in pain. He looks at you, and you glare down at him. “Just...can you please just stop talking for once in your life? Must you always berate me when all I’ve done over the past few weeks is take care of you? Is this what kindness, genuine kindness, gets me?”

He suddenly seems to sober up, to let what he’s done to you sink in. It doesn’t last long, but you still see it. Perhaps he does have the capability to feel at least some sense of remorse.

Kylo stays quiet for the rest of the time you tend to his wounds, and when you turn to leave, the two words you’ve been convinced are not in his vocabulary, come from the behind you.

“Thank you.”

This sliver of empathy is short lived, especially after the girls from the local brothel make their way up to his room. 

“Oh! Oh! Sir Kylo!”

You shake your head, attempting to read in the study, which is located on the other side of house from the guest bedroom. Yet, their screams, cries and the various other lewd noises still manage to make their way to your ears.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” “Take it, whore, take it!” “Kyloooooooo!”

The temptation to go up there and kick the girls out is increasing by the second, but you don’t. Maybe this will help mellow him out a bit, make him more manageable.  Plus, you’re pretty sure that you’d have to carve your eyes out after walking in on whatever they’re doing up behind that closed door.

Unfortunately for you, it becomes progressively more difficult to focus on your book as the burn between your thighs intensifies. It’s been almost two years since your husband was murdered, which means that it’s been a little over that since you were last intimate with someone.

Normally, and up until Sir Kylo entered your household, you were more than fine subduing your sexual desires. You haven’t once touched yourself, not that you’d really know how to anyway, and you certainly weren’t about to start now.

You cross your legs, hoping that’ll quell some of the burning, but it only makes it worse. Another half an hour passes and your hand now rests on your thigh, slowly inching down towards your soaked and quivering pussy.

Just a quick touch won’t hurt...he doesn’t have to know...

Luckily, a knock at the door brings your motions to a stop. You sigh in relief, walking over to open the door. When you do, you’re met with a bandaged bare torso, a very muscular bare torso. His skin glistens with sweat and the smell of sex radiates from his essence. 

He’s still breathing heavily as he stands in the doorway, looking down at you.

“We’re finished upstairs.” He says breathily. “I’m due for my afternoon bandage change, whenever you’re ready.”

You watch him saunter away, admiring the way his muscles stretch and tense with each stride. You’re burning up by now, both your skin and your arousal, and you wonder how you’re going to get through this next bandage change. 

When you enter the room, the musk of sex is thick in the air, humidity at a suffocating level. You try to ignore it, try not to let it get to you, but it’s just surrounding you. 

Your skin begins to glisten, brow furrowed as you focus on trying to change these bandages as quickly as possible. Kylo seems to take notice of your hurry, your sudden perspiring.

“Is something wrong?” He asks you, biting back a smirk. “You seem flustered.”

Nodding, you continue on with the bandaging.  “I’m fine, just a bit warm is all.”

Kylo hums, reaching down to grab your wrist as you reach up to re-bandage the wound on his chest. He brings your fingers up to his lips, sucking the tips into his mouth gently, tongue swiping over the pads of your digits.

You try to pull away, to leave before you do something you regret, but his hold on you is firm. And if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t actually want him to stop.

Oh lord, this is bad. It’s so wrong. You shouldn’t want this. He murdered your husband, the man you loved. He’s so smug and cocky and yet...it’s what you’ve been wanting this whole time, the thing you’ve tried to suppress, to not let yourself want.

But now, everything else be damned, you want this. You need this. And damnit, you’re gonna have it.

His lips release your fingertips with a lewd pop! sound, an arrogant smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You haven’t tried to pull away or tell me off in a minute or two. Is everything alright?”

You huff. “Just do it.”

He raises his eyebrows, sitting up a little. “Do what? What do you want me to do, little lamb?”

“You know what I want.”

“Oh yes, I’m fully aware of what you want.” He smirks. “But I want to hear you say it out loud.”

You cross your arms on your chest, trying to ignore the twang of guilt that shoots through you as you prepare to say the words aloud.

“Fine. I want you to f-fuck me.”

“That’s right. I knew you wanted it.” Kylo takes your hand and trails it down his muscular abdomen, stopping just above where his loincloth sits on his hips.

“Take it off.”

You’re chewing your lip numb as you reach down and undo the tie holding the garment on. Your breath hitches as you slide it off, exposing his member, which is hardening steadily.

“Instead of staring, perhaps you’d like to try touching it?” He smirks.

You shoot him a glare. “Stop talking, for once in your life, please spare my ears the sound of your constant squabble.”

Kylo chuckles, putting his hands behind his head.

Your hand wraps around the base of his length, and he grunts softly. It’s your turn to wear a smirk.

“Oh, do you like that, Sir Kylo?”

He huffs. “Every man likes their cock being touched. Don’t go thinking that it means anything.”

You squeeze his shaft, drawing a deep grunt from his lips and small buck of his hips. He looks away, jaw clenched in an attempt to prevent any further noises. 

This fact only makes you more determined, hand pumping his cock with more vigor, alternating between different paces and pressures to really drive him crazy.

You’re thoroughly enjoying this, drinking in the sight of him trying his absolute hardest not to react to the touches that so obviously arouse him. You tease him even more, using your fingers to touch certain parts of his length. 

Well, it’s fun for the few minutes it lasts, but suddenly, you find yourself in his position, laid back on the cot. He’s on top of you, now, pushing the skirts of your dress up, fingers yanking the laces on your bodice.

He quickly pulls it off, followed by your skirts, leaving you in only your mamillare and your loincloth. His eyes roam your newly exposed skin for a moment before his hand slips down between your thighs, fingers pressing up against the fabric.

“I knew it. Were you listening, little lamb? Were you listening to me fuck those whores and wishing it was you?”

Your breath hitches. “Well, it was sort of hard not to listen when the girls were screaming.”

His fingers wrap around the waist tie, pulling them down to fully expose your wet heat. He smirks, rubbing around until he finds that one spot that has your back arching and a gasp escaping your lips.

Before he can even say anything, you reiterate his words in a mocking tone. “Every woman likes being touched there. Don’t go thinking that it means anything.”

He huffs, rubbing you harder.

“Tell me how wet you got when you heard me fucking those whores. Tell me that you wanted a turn on my cock, wondered how good I’d feel inside you.”

“N-No.” You say, a stern expression on your face. “I’ll never say that to you.”

His jaw clenches as he bends down, lips next to your ear. “You'll be screaming it once I’m done with you.”

Your eyes widen when his fingers slowly press up into your entrance. 

“Kylo...” You’ve never been touched in this way before. It’s...different, and not necessarily unpleasant.

He sees your hesitation. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”

And you did.

His digits begin moving in and out of you, curling up occasionally to stimulate a certain tender spot inside you. You’re biting down on your lip, surely hard enough to break the skin, trying your darndest not to give him the privilege of hearing your noises.

As you did to him, seeing you suppress your noises only spurs him on more, movements becoming quicker, swifter. Your orgasm draws closer with each skilled stroke, but just before you reach your peak, he pulls out.

You thought you wanted to hit him before; now, you kind of want to pop some of his abdomen stitches. 

“Why did you do that?”

He laughs devilishly, reaching down to pump his cock, slicking it with the juices of your arousal. “You didn’t think I’d actually let you get off that easily, did you?”

“Well, I was sort of hoping...”

You’re brought to silence when he crawls on top of you, trapping you beneath his massive form. His mushroom head swirls around your entrance, collecting some of your slick before pressing it inside of you.

It’s been quite a while since you’ve had anyone, and you don’t think you’ve ever had someone of his size before, so you gasp softly as he presses forth. Soon, his entire length is seated in you, stretching and filling you to the brim.

His eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he tries to remain still in order to allow you an adjustment period. Once you’ve had some time, he begins moving his hips, rolling them at a steady pace. 

“Knew you’d have a nice little cunt,” He growls, teeth baring. “So wet and tight for me, little lamb.”

You bite your numbing lip in an attempt to prevent any of the desperate moans or cries that want to escape. He’s doing something similar, jaw clenched tightly. 

Only the wet squelch and sharp snapping of skin colliding can be heard between the two of you, minus the occasional grunt or sharp inhale from either of you, which is quickly shut down almost as soon as it slips out.

Soon, you feel your climax begin to appear on the horizon, walls clenching and pulsing around his cock. He takes notice, quickly speeding his rhythm up, exhaling loudly through his flared nostrils.

He’s getting close, too, balls pulling up as his body prepares itself for orgasm. The energy between you two, as well as your physical movements, quickly turn desperate. 

“Don’t release inside me.”

“I’m flattered that you think I’d even want to.” He says, smugly.

You huff, rolling your eyes. “I see that even the throws of passion and ecstasy is still not enough to tamper your unbearable attitude.”

“There is nothing that can stop me from taking the opportunity to get a rise out of you, milady.” He smirks before his brows knit in the center of his forehead. “If you’re gonna cum, I suggest you do it s-soon.”

Your eyes flutter shut, hips attempting to lift up off the mattress, wanting him to hit that certain spot inside you. As soon as you find the right angle, a choked sob leaves your lips as you’re quickly brought and tossed over the edge.

Kylo groans softly, thrusting rapidly before pulling out at the last minute, spilling his seed all over your abdomen.

Both of you are breathless as you ride out your climaxes, basking in the peaceful bliss that washes over your body, basking in the luxury of his utter and complete silence. It was a welcome change, a much-needed reprieve from the past few weeks of dealing with him.

He eventually flops down onto the mattress beside you, grabbing and re-securing his loincloth around his hips. You’re already a bit sore from being stretched for the first time in two years.

“May I just sleep here tonight, Sir Kylo? Unless you’d like to carry me back over to my bedroom.”

The side-eye he gives you is incredibly humorous, but you contain your laughter, not wanting to add oil to the flame.

“I won’t be a bother. I will stay on this side of the cot; you’ll barely even know I’m here.”

“Are you truly incapable of walking yourself back to your bedroom after one session of fucking? Was I really that amazing that I’ve left you unable to move about the house?” He laughs.

"And suddenly, the pain of walking over to my room seems less painful than staying here and listening to your vexing squabble.”

Kylo huffs. “If you stay here for the night, you may not breach the center of the mattress. I will kick you out if you even come close to bumping into me or making any sort of physical contact.”

Mocking his words from earlier, you smirk. “I’m flattered that you think I’d even want to touch you.”

“Very funny.” He says, flatly, rolling over to face away from you. “Just stay on your fucking side of the bed.”

You roll your eyes, sitting up to braid your hair for bed before fluffing the goose-feather pillow beneath your head, settling down for the night. Soon, Sir Kylo’s obnoxious snores bounce off the walls and you put your pillow over your head, hoping to muffle the noise.

God, even his snores are arrogant.

-

The next morning, when your eyes flutter open at the first sign of light through the window, you find the sheets next to you vacant.

You sit up, eyebrows furrowed as you look around the room, ears open to listen for any noise anywhere in the house. You don’t hear anything.

Then, you see a piece of rolled up parchment on his pillow along with a small satchel. When you open the pouch, you’re shocked to see a pile of shiny coins. You unrolled the note, reading the sloppy script.

For the medical supplies and for your trouble. Here’s hoping our paths never cross again.

-Kylo

As you read the very brief and to-the-point note, you can practically hear his snide voice in your head reciting it. The cold, cocky tone of his words shone through the parchment and ink, incredibly so. You huff, tossing the note back onto the pillow before getting up to begin the day. 

Well...at least you’ll never have to see him again.

[retrievablememories]

tokyo 2112 | baekhyun (m)

title: tokyo 2112 pairing: rich guy!baekhyun x reader genre: sci-fi/cyberpunk au, enemies to lovers, angst, non-explicit smut request: “hi, how are you? 💕 could i request some cyberpunk x baekhyun fic? i have in mind Tokyo, neon lights and explosive lovers. please feel free to choose the amount you want to write or you can. and thanks! ✨” word count: 12.8k warnings: body modifications/prosthetics, attempted robbery, physical violence (not between bh x reader, though reader does think about fighting him 💀), blood, non-graphic wounds, mentions of sex/one non-explicit sex scene, mentions of a car accident, frequent alcohol use/unhealthy reliance on alcohol, smoking, mentions of classism/poverty, mentions of experimentation, surgery is performed on the reader but not described, one mention of being weighed on a scale-like device a/n: this is my first real, lengthy attempt at enemies2lovers (or maybe just the genre “reader’s an a-hole who makes a lot of assumptions”) because i’m a clown and like to challenge myself for no reason...and this is why i don’t fool with this particular romance genre 💀 feedback is appreciated, this fic is just a whole lot of me experimentally punching above my weight and i’m a bit undecided on my feelings about it

also, i imagined the reader’s arm with a similar structure to the winter soldier’s, for reference

Tokyo, year 2112

You meet him in a Lower Tokyo club, the neon lights bleeding into each other and creating a deep, vivid landscape. It’s an unnaturally pretty scene—unnatural like everyone and everything else inside this club.

There’s a look of subdued wonder on his face, which makes you roll your eyes. He’s all made up and way too pretty to be in this dingy club with his gaudy piercings and expensive rings. Still, he enters the building in all his affluent glory, standing out against the crowd of gritty and cobbled-together androids and half-humans.

He’s a rich man’s son and an even richer man’s grandson. He’s known for being attractive, intelligent, and ridiculously rich—and that’s about all you know of the man himself. Him and his family have been excellent at keeping their personal lives air-tight, only ever letting the public know what they want everyone to know. But ultimately, they are only human. You know they cannot be as perfect as they try to maintain, and you can only imagine the unsavory things in their family history that go much deeper than anyone could ever think up.

“Do you think he wears all that to make up for the lack of enhancements?” Your friend Valor asks. He’s gesturing specifically to the man’s lip piercing and the chains hanging off of it, attached to the collar of his shirt. It’s a little strange, but it’s a signature look for him, and certainly not one of the weirder things in here.

“I’d like to rip it right out,” you reply in lieu of an actual answer to Valor’s question.

The man appears misplaced—like a researcher conducting a study of alien beings rather than a regular club goer—though he doesn’t seem to mind this. He just observes everything around him.

Valor chuckles and shakes his head at the display, throwing back another shot. “Weird.”

“Hm. Come on.” You steer Valor in the other direction, looking to get away from the man before he can get near your area of the club. Though this is your first time being in such close quarters with Byun Baekhyun despite his popularity across Tokyo, you’d like to cut things short if at all possible.

Another hour passes, and the drinks keep flowing. Your mind has gotten pleasantly hazy by now, almost enough to make you forget about the trespasser in your club scene. Almost.

You, Valor, and three other familiar faces sit at a small table near the back of the club. One of the guys is recounting some run-in he had the other week with the Droid Commission, though you can barely hear over the music that’s only getting louder, so you just nod and pretend to understand. However, he suddenly falters in his tale and his eyes dart up to a spot above your head. Turning back, you see that he is standing just over your shoulder. Without thinking, you recoil.

Baekhyun slides from behind you and comes to stand in front of you all now, a strangely convivial smile on his face. He acts like he’s merely visiting you all at brunch instead of standing in a club in the roughest part of the city.

“Exquisite work here,” he says, though his words drown in all the noise. None of you know what he’s saying, or who he’s saying it to. Noticing the acute confusion, Baekhyun lowers himself to your level, his scent passing across your nose as he does. Some robust and fancy cologne you don’t know the name of. Your eyebrows furrow at his proximity, and your blood rushes; maybe out of anger, or maybe just from being drunk. Then he touches your left shoulder, right where the metal of your arm connects to your living flesh.

Yeah, definitely anger.

“I said, this work is exquisite. Quite fascinating, really. Who made it?” Baekhyun has to get fairly close to your ear for you to hear him above the commotion, and you can feel the heat of his mouth next to your skin. His eyes travel the length of your arm, which is fully exposed in your tank top. His voice is irritatingly smooth, and the chains of his lip ring lightly brush your shoulder when he pulls back after he finishes speaking. Though your arm may be made of metal, it still has artificial sensory “nerves” running through it that connect it to the rest of your nervous system—and right now, they are screaming from that slight touch.

Maybe you really are just too damn drunk.

You look into Baekhyun’s dark eyes, which are imploring, coy, and playful all at once. The others at your table watch this interaction as if suspended in time, probably trying to process the sheer nerve of this dude.

“Fuck off,” you blurt out, and brush him off your shoulder with your flesh hand.

He remains unoffended; he even looks entertained by your blunt rejection.

The man who was previously telling his story speaks up. “You heard her. Fuck off, pretty boy.”

Baekhyun straightens up and nods, then reaches into his jacket. Two of the men leap to their feet, thinking he’s about to pull out a weapon—which would not be the first or last occurrence in this club—but he only brings out a business card, tucked between two of his fingers.

“Ever vigilant, aren’t you?” Baekhyun says, laying the card on the small tabletop. Then he directs his next sentence to you. “If you decide you feel like telling me more...get in touch.”

Then he disappears back into the mass of moving bodies just as quickly as he came. You flex the fingers on your metal hand, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

Both men at your table sit back down, although they’re still a bit disgruntled. Valor picks up the card to inspect it. “You gonna call that weirdo?”

“Please. You know me better than that by now.” You pluck the card from his hand and rip it up without a second thought. However, it takes a little longer to forget about the heated imprint of Baekhyun’s fingers on your shoulder, or his whispering voice fluttering against your eardrum.

Getting the arm was merely an act of survival, the way you saw it.

Money was low and jobs were scarce—ones that weren’t dangerous, straight-up unappealing, or low pay. There had been a scientific research trial for a new cybernetics program, and it paid much better than many other opportunities around—enough to live on for at least a year, give or take, especially with the cheaper cost of living in your area. You’d been terrified about giving up a part of your body, thinking your body might reject the foreign technology and kill you for the offense, but your desperation outweighed the fear.

Thankfully, it worked.

That was nearly two years ago, though, and the trial was long over. Even with you spending as frugally as you possibly could, the money was close to running out.

Odd jobs here and there help you out some, but they are few and far between and don’t pay nearly enough to make a living on.

You’re getting increasingly anxious about the lack of options and dwindling money, though you also spend half of your time getting drunk, hitting up the club, and simply trying not to acknowledge your crumbling life. If worst comes to worst, you can always think about finding another research trial and exchanging another body part. Maybe. These cybernetics programs often crop up more in Osaka, which would require you to leave the city, but maybe you could get another gig and scrape up enough money for travel...

For now, however, you are back at the club’s familiar bar and making small talk with the bartender, who’s an android without a real name or identity. Everyone just knows it as T-4000, though it appears to be fine with its little niche in the world. Sometimes it teases you about your arm and wonders when you will make a complete transformation into a “metalhead” like itself. Though you cringe, the company is better than nothing when the others aren’t around, so you allow the jokes.

Alone at the bar, you’re too preoccupied with staring into your drink to register the body sliding onto the bar stool next to yours until you hear The Voice flowing out again.

“One Blue Lagoon, please.”

Oh, fuck. You put your head in one hand and angle your body away from his in hopes that he doesn’t notice it’s you. But just as your fortune turns out, he happens to be facing your metal arm.

“Oh, it’s you again.” Baekhyun sounds pleased to see you, like this is some great unexpected coincidence, though you know that’s not likely true. You lift your drink to your mouth and pretend you don’t hear him, though that doesn’t deter him. “I never did hear back from you. How sad.���

“I have no desire to talk to you or anyone like you,” you say, still with your head turned.

“Anyone like me?” He chuckles.

“You don’t belong here, in case you didn't notice.”

“By whose definition?”

“Everyone’s,” you retort. T-4000 comes back with Baekhyun’s drink, and it gives you a look of bright amusement and curiosity with its digital-screen face as it rolls away to help another customer.

“I don’t concern myself with ‘everyone’s’ opinions,” Baekhyun replies, drinking from his glass. “Just the ones who matter.”

“Right, like your rich friends,” you scoff. “Why the hell are you even here?” You turn to him then, though looking at him feels like a mistake—like staring into a solar eclipse. He’s still wearing his chains, like always, and his eyes are smoked out with dark shades of eyeliner. The makeup makes him look eternally tired, but in some high-fashion model way.

“Because I don’t like being around my so-called ‘rich friends’ any more than you would.” Baekhyun smirks.

“So sorry.” You roll your eyes. “Maybe you should become a hermit, then.”

“You seem to be doing a good job of that right now. Where’s your friends from last time?” He looks around as if they’ll materialize.

“None of your business.”

Baekhyun leans on the bar counter, placing his arms on top of it, and his cologne hits you again. You try to hold your breath against the scent, though you can almost taste it in the back of your mouth. Shaking your head, you peer directly into his eyes now, which are as exceedingly curious as the last time. They’re still inky dark under this lighting, reminding you of black holes that absorb all light and life.

“Is it bad for me to want to know more about your arm?”

“Like I just said, it’s frankly none of your business.” You cast a forlorn glance at your drink, which has gotten dangerously low.

“Fair enough.” He sips again. “Now. What if I want to know about you?”

The back of your neck flares with heat, though you can’t fathom why. “You must be truly bored if that’s what you came here for. Unfortunately, you aren’t as interesting as you seem to think you are.”

“You injure me.” But you both know he’s not hurt at all by anything you can think of to say to him. “But this isn’t about me—it’s about you.”

“What about me? How you want to steal my arm and use it for scrap metal, maybe? Or to build yourself a body mod, even? You really stand out in here being the only one who’s not partway made of tin or some shit, and it makes people distrust you. You can figure that out, right?”

“You make a lot of assumptions.” Baekhyun swirls his drink around in his glass, the blue liquid swishing around the sides. “Let me make some, then. You seem like a mysterious, closed-off, and perpetually discontented person. And despite what you might think, it’s not my first time seeing you around. I guess I can’t interest you in entertaining my presence just for company’s sake?”

You pause, wondering where Baekhyun could have possibly spotted you. You don’t hang out in any of the places someone of his standing would usually be seen in. But then again, does he even frequent those areas of Upper Tokyo? He’s always spending his time mingling in Lower Tokyo’s notable haunts instead. “...Are you some kind of peeping tom or something equally pathetic?”

T-4000 perks up at that, even from its distance on the other side of the bar, and it scoots a little closer as if it’ll need to call the Droid Commission in another minute. Which, in actuality, is a terrible idea—calling on one of the city’s many vigilantes would have a more effective outcome, if need be, but sending them for Baekhyun of all people might land you all in prison.

“Tokyo is big,” Baekhyun deadpans, like it’s something even a baby would know. “You can see anyone anywhere.” Then his voice melts back into its normal suave tone. “I’ve noticed you in passing, once or twice. Your arm is something special, but it’s hard to forget a person like you.”

Despite yourself, you don’t totally hate the comment. That alone makes you want to leave the club and not look back for at least the next month or so, knowing he’s probably said this to dozens of other people before. You stay in your seat, though, trying to see what easy line this man is going to throw out next.

“I wonder why I’ve never noticed you, then.”

“You seem to be too consumed with your own problems half the time, even though I don’t know what those are. The stress is written all over your face, though.”

Can never miss a chance to be insufferable, it seems.

“Okay Mr. Psychoanalyst.” You knock back the tiny bit of drink left in your glass and push it away from you. You shake your head at the android when it gestures for a refill.

“Not a psychoanalyst, you’re just achingly easy to decipher.” His tone is casual, like this isn’t meant to be an insult, though you take offense anyway.

“You’re not very good at whatever this is,” you say.

“What do you think this is? Flirting? Maybe you wouldn’t be wrong there.” He laughs.

“Yeah, well. Get some more practice and then maybe you can convince some other poor sap to get to know you better and sign over the rights to their cybernetics, but I won’t be falling for it.”

“I guess that means I’ll just have to try harder, then.” And then he finishes his drink, too. “Not the stealing your arm bit, but the getting to know you part.” He pauses for another moment, and then says, “It’s easy to become enamored with this place.” He waves his hand around at the club’s surroundings. “Expect to see me around more often. I think I’ve already taken a liking to you.”

Baekhyun tips his empty glass to you and gets up from his stool. His cologne swirls around you as he leaves, not overpowering, but enough to make its mark on your olfactory memories. You don’t look back to see where he walks off to, too busy trying to ignore the small headache building behind your eyes and your elevated heart rate.

He’s already taken a liking to you. Why would a ridiculous comment like that even get to you?

God. You really need to get laid.

So, you do just that.

Not with Baekhyun, but with someone from the club whose name you don’t even remember before it’s even over. It was painfully uneventful sex, and it did nothing to banish the man from your mind, which makes you feel even more irritated.

Walking back to your tiny apartment afterwards feels like a certified Walk of Shame even though it’s late at night and no one really cares to notice you. You spit on the sidewalk as if that could properly convey your disgust. You think of Osaka again—and what the fuck are you going to do to even get the money to get there?—and of the business card that you’d ripped up without remorse.

You shake your head, sending that thought back to the depths of your mind. Nevermind. That doesn’t matter. What could he possibly have for you, and why would you want it? Tucking your hands tighter in your pockets, you keep your head down and remain inconspicuous until you get back to the not-so-welcome sight of your own place.

You, Valor, and a few others sit around a makeshift bonfire at Tokyo’s Rainbow Bridge—or what remains of it, anyway, with weeds and tall grass sprouting up in the space that was once its parking lot. For the past hour, this impromptu hangout been nothing but smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap alcohol and shooting the breeze. The nights are always much colder than the days, the chill biting into your skin and seeping into your clothes, but you try to ignore it and huddle closer to the fire. Maybe there is something, anything else you could be doing other than this, but you are just a bit too weak—and a little too lonely—to say no to the companionship. Even if it means listening to the uninteresting conversations of men who you barely know outside of the club or without a bottle of whiskey in their hands.

Your hangout session remains sleepy and boring for a while until someone makes a suggestion. One of them keeps going on about some steady, reliable work he’s supposedly found from a trusted friend, though he refuses to elaborate on what kind of work it is when asked. You make a sound of disgust and tune him out. Useless suggestions are as bad as none at all.

“Maybe we oughta rob that Baekhyun dude.”

You look up from the flames, fixing your eyes on the one who said it—a man called Lockjaw—and someone else chuckles in disbelief.

“You serious?” Valor asks.

Lockjaw sits forward in his ratty lawn chair, and with the way the light hits his face, it’s easier to see how his bottom jaw and teeth are completely metal. It makes you wince internally every time you see him, though you always feel kinda bad afterwards. That must’ve hurt exponentially worse than your own procedure. “Why the fuck not? He struts around Lower Tokyo like he has it all...and the bastard does. We sit and grovel for scraps, yet there’s a walking goldmine right in front of us.”

The idea of taking Baekhyun’s riches had never quite appealed to you or fully manifested in your mind. You didn’t want anything belonging to him, mostly because of your own disdain towards the man. However, the suggestion appears in sharp relief now, so obvious that it’s hard to believe no one else proposed it until now. You don’t immediately respond to this concept being thrown around, but something uneasy settles in your chest.

Valor sits back with a mildly disinterested look. “And you think someone like him doesn’t have major security hanging around waiting to incinerate someone with a ray gun if they tried it?”

“Do you ever see anyone hanging around him?”

“Doesn’t mean they’re not there. Somewhere.”

“Then we’ll be strapped up,” Lockjaw says, throwing his hands in the air. “And any of his little ‘security team’ who tries it will be blown into the stratosphere. That’s how we take care of that.” You shake your head only slightly, a movement not noticeable enough to be picked up by the others. You rub your tongue against the inside of your cheek, picturing all the ways this plan could go belly-up. To your irritation, Valor decides to drag you into the fold despite your efforts to stay out of the conversation.

“What do ya think, Y/N? Baekhyun’s been on your tail lately, maybe you could help lure him in.” That stirs up several murmurs and targeted stares in your direction.

“Yeah?” Lockjaw leans forward even more, his ass nearly slipping off the edge of the chair. “Think you can get in good with him?”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Uh...it’s not like I’m buddy-buddy with him—”

“You don’t need to be, just tell him to bring his ass here and we’ll do the rest.”

Your mouth tightens. With all eyes trained on you, some expressions less friendly than others, it feels impossible to refuse. “I guess.”

“It’ll provide the money you’ve been worrying over for the past year.” Valor offers, and you shoot him a side-eye. Not like you needed him to broadcast your business to the world.

“That’s how life around here works,” another man chimes in, putting his cigarette out on the dirt and getting off his makeshift stoop of an upturned bucket. He stretches his arms and legs, and though you can’t see them under his long pants, you can hear the soft whirring and clicking of his metal legs. “Eat or be eaten. I’ve made my choice.”

Lockjaw gives a wolfish smile. Your apprehension rises, though you say nothing. “Eat, we will.”

You try to act nonchalant the next time you see Baekhyun at the club. You only notice him as you’re leaving, having already waited most of the night to see if he’d show up this time. You slow to a stop as you spot him in the alleyway behind the club, speaking to another club-goer—you’ve seen the person around before. You can only imagine what they were talking about before you’d interrupted their little scene, and the person scurries off, perhaps somewhat reluctantly, once it’s clear they’ve lost Baekhyun’s attention. Maybe that was the poor sap he’d finally found who’d be misguided enough to give up their cybernetics.

Baekhyun approaches you with a smile, his chains catching in the light of the flashy neon sign above. The kohl is dark and smoky around his eyes, in perfect sameness with every other time you’ve seen him.

“Hello, one who’s name I still don’t know—”

“You should come see me,” you interrupt. You want this to be as quick as possible, not wanting to dwell on any fake niceties.

Baekhyun lifts an eyebrow. “See you? At...your place, or—”

“At the ruins of Rainbow Bridge. Thursday night, around 9. Unless you’re too busy doing rich people stuff.”

“Rainbow Bridge…” He draws the words slowly across his tongue. Probably thinking of what a ruin the bridge is now—and has been for the past few decades—and wondering why you’re asking him to meet there of all places.

“I have a friend who lives around there—no fucking place to stay, you know, just holes up wherever he can. But he can...let you see the inner workings of my arm. Pick him up, take him back to your place; I’m sure you have a lab.” And because you know what he’s really looking for, you throw in, “He’s studied the technology, knows it inside-out. He could help you build...whatever it is you want.”

Baekhyun’s eyes, which you normally perceive as two lightless voids, sparkle at that last part. You can practically see the light increase in them. “Oh really?”

You roll your own eyes. “Yes, really. I’m not going to let you walk off with my damn arm, but you can...take notes on the mechanisms and shit. It’s up to you. I just got tired of you fuckin’ asking, so don’t think this is going to turn into some weekly meetup or whatever.”

He nods, slowly at first, and then more assuredly. “Alright, then. I’ll come.”

“So...yeah.” A sudden wave of anxiety crashes over you now that the trap has been laid. You feel as if you make one wrong move now, it’ll blow everything. He’ll find out and hate you for it. But why should you care about him hating you? “Then...see ya Thursday. Bye.” You decide to make your exit, walking briskly past him in the alley.

“Leaving so soon?” Baekhyun asks, turning back to watch your figure retreat. You wave one hand behind you in a dismissive gesture.

“I’ve been here all fuckin’ night, Byun. I’m going home now—to get some sleep, if I’m lucky.”

He chuckles, the sound fading behind you as you walk away. “Sweet dreams.”

Your steps falter just slightly when those words leave his lips, and several emotions begin warring in your chest. You ignore them all and continue on your walk back to your place, though you almost wish you could turn back to the club and ask for another drink or three. Something to get your mind off that ridiculously simple phrase that’ll be spinning around in your mind all night.

The night of the plan, you begin having major second thoughts.

It’s not as if you didn’t already feel shitty about it, but your mind keeps racing with how ridiculous of an idea this really is. It’s far too late to talk anyone out of it, as they’ve already stocked up on contraband weapons and laid their gameplan, but you feel less and less “okay” about being a part of it.

Most of all, you feel increasingly guilty about using Baekhyun’s trust in you for this; he never seemed to assume you had any other motives behind your invitation. Even if it’s ridiculously, oddly naive of him to trust you—someone he knows nothing about—you don’t feel great about exploiting that for your own gains.

It takes him less time to show up than you’d hoped. He’s right there at the agreed time, annoyingly punctual, his sleek black luxury car pulling up in the dirt and patchy grass. It looks like it was cut out of a magazine and placed there—almost comically out of place. Just like him.

Baekhyun gets out of the car and walks out onto the grass to meet you, uncaring of the mud and dirt he’s stepping in. He smirks, his hands in his pockets and his chains dangling. “Would now be a good time to get your name, or are we in too deep at this point?”

There’s no one else but him. Definitely too trusting.

You nervously chew your lip as you mull that question over. If everything goes like the others intend it to, there won’t be a point in telling him your name. But if he’s still alive by the end of the night, you could be exposing yourself. Still...a name won’t matter either way if he can give a perfect description of you to the Droid Commission.

Suddenly, you decide not to give it any more thought. “It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N, Y/N...” He says your name like he’s tasting a charming new food. “I like it. It suits you.”

Baekhyun’s smile is too sincere, and it doesn’t make you feel any better. “Come on.” You turn your back to him as you lead him through the tall grass and toward a broken section of the bridge’s main road. It leans against the main structure of the bridge and sticks halfway out of the muddy ditch that was once Tokyo Bay, its jagged edge reaching toward the night sky.

It’s darker under here, with the broken bridge blocking out the moon and stars and lights from buildings nearby. Your stomach rolls.

“So, who is this friend of yours?”

You turn to Baekhyun then, and you don’t know if he can read the anxiety on your face. Maybe he can. He’d proudly bragged about his own abilities for figuring people out.

It happens all at once, somehow slow and fast at the same time.

One of the men—the one with two metal legs—slinks out from behind the broken bridge and sneaks up behind Baekhyun, a stun spear in his hands. Its two large metal prongs are lit up with electricity. Those metal prongs are aimed directly at Baekhyun’s back, ready to make contact, but that never happens.

“Look out!” you scream, and shove Baekhyun out of the way. He stumbles off to the side, falling against the concrete bridge, and you wildly grasp the long spear with both hands, blocking the man from reaching Baekhyun.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Metal Legs shouts. He drives the spear’s metal bar forward, knocking it into your upper chest and collarbone with a force that makes your teeth chatter, and the pain and shock take your breath away for a few moments.

You’re not a fighter. You usually try to stay out of any ridiculous brawls when they do happen, whether at your apartment building or the club, but you do your best to hold the dude off. So even though you stumble back, you keep your hold as tight around the spear as you can and shove it back, putting your weight behind the movement and cracking it against the man’s chin. He howls with pain and anger and his hands momentarily loosen on the weapon. You take that opportunity to snatch it completely from him.

Nearby, Baekhyun is busy fending off Lockjaw with a long knife, both of them fully engaged in a fierce clash of blades. You feel a burst of surprise. He was armed this entire time? Had he realized something was suspicious after all? Most of all, how does he know how to fight?

You don’t have much more time to think about that, though. Metal Legs is recovering from the hit, his hand reaching for his side like he’s about to pull out his own knife or gun. You leap forward and shove the prongs of the stun spear into his ribs. He quickly collapses to the dirt, motionless after a handful of frightening convulsions. You feel cold fear at the idea that you might’ve just killed him, but you can’t dwell on that when you see the others bursting out of the tall grass a few yards away from you and Baekhyun. The backup, in case something went wrong—which it most definitely has.

Lockjaw has Baekhyun up against the concrete of the bridge, his knife near Baekhyun’s neck and Baekhyun trying to block the blade. The sharp metal inches increasingly closer to its target. With your legs shaking, you run up behind Lockjaw and dig the electrified prongs into his side, sending more volts through his body than you can imagine.

Lockjaw’s weapon drops, and Baekhyun stumbles away. The man takes a little longer to be knocked unconscious than Metal Legs, but you are relieved when he’s out a few seconds later.

You look at Baekhyun, who appears dazed and winded; you belatedly realize he might’ve received some of the shock too, with both men’s arms locked together when you initially used the spear. “Get out of here! The rest are coming—go!” A shot from a ray gun zips through the air between you two and burns the concrete of the bridge.

Baekhyun looks at you wordlessly. Then he grabs your wrist as tight as a vise. You glance at him questioningly, and your confusion mounts when he drags you along with him as he takes off towards his car. The red smearing across your hand and wrist tells you he must be bleeding from somewhere, and shock blooms in your chest for a wild moment.

The car door opens without him even touching the handle or speaking a command, and he jostles you into the backseat, trying to avoid the spear’s prongs; you’re still holding it tight, as you expected you’d need it to face the others—however futile that would’ve been. You’re so frazzled once you get in the car that it takes you a moment to realize Baekhyun is in the backseat with you. “What are you doing?!”

“Get on the highway,” Baekhyun speaks, ignoring your frantic question, and the engine roars in your ears as the car peels out of the grassy lot. The vehicle narrowly escapes another round of angry shots fired by the others, and the grass sizzles where the shots land.

A self-driving car. Of course he’d have one of those. You stare at the steering wheel as it turns on its own, maneuvering you both away from the scene of the crime and back onto the paved roads.

“Your arm…” You look at the sleeve of Baekhyun’s jacket. It’s torn now, and you can see the skin of his forearm underneath, which displays a long cut. Lucky for him, it’s not deep enough to need stitches. He has similar, smaller ones on his hands.

Baekhyun examines the wound and makes a sound of disgust. “It’ll be fine,” he says decisively. “The bastard wasn’t as good with a knife as he wishes he was.”

You nod silently, though the movement feels mechanical. As the reality of the situation seeps in, a whirlpool of dread forms in your stomach.

“Fuck, I-I’m fucked.”

Baekhyun gives a humorless laugh. “You’re fucked?”

“I’ll...need to lay low for a while.” Then you glance at him. “Unless you’re driving me to the Commission. Then, well…at least they can’t get to me while I’m in prison.” Your laugh is equally humorless.

“You’re going into hiding?” Baekhyun asks, and the corner of his mouth lifts. You don’t expect this reaction. Not after him almost being jacked and led into the situation by none other than you.

His smirk exasperates you. You almost want to roll your eyes at him not realizing why you’d need to hide. Or maybe he’s just playing coy about it; but you give him a break for now. “I ruined the plan and helped you out, so yeah, my own place is not gonna be safe anymore. ‘Friends’ are fleeting out here. Especially if you fuck with someone else’s money.” Valor crosses your mind, the only one you could really call a friend out of all the others—and only because you knew more secrets of his than they did. Your chest tightens with a strange guilt. You should’ve just said no from the beginning.

The car is quiet for a few long moments. Then Baekhyun shatters the silence with, “Come home with me, then. You can stay there for a little while.”

You bark out a laugh. “You can’t be for real.”

He sits back against the leather seat. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. It’s a waste of time otherwise.”

“After I just—could’ve gotten you killed?”

“I said it before—you’re like an open book. Your emotions are practically written on your face. It’s pretty damn obvious to me you were never truly up for this plan. Unfortunately, you aren’t the badass you think you are, but at least your efforts saved me.”

“But I still—”

“You certainly don’t have to take the offer if you don’t want it.”

You become quiet at that. Even if you don’t think you deserve this level of mercy, you don’t want to shun this offer of safety and be left to contend with the streets alone. Your voice is tense and quiet when you respond. “I’ll take it.”

Baekhyun’s home is a penthouse in the heart of Upper Tokyo, which doesn’t surprise you. The contrast in his neighborhood’s appearance with what you’re used to seeing in Lower Tokyo is stark and painful—spotlessly clean streets with sweepers continually traveling up and down them, bright holographic billboards, people walking around with personal androids accompanying them. You begin to feel resentful again, and you wish you could swallow those feelings after he’s been gracious enough to rescue you, but you can’t help it.

You two must make quite a sight once you pull into the apartment building’s parking garage—you holding a stun spear, wearing a slightly shabby outfit of a T-shirt, jeans, and jacket, and Baekhyun walking out with disheveled, torn clothes and bloody hands. Someone gets out of the parking garage elevator once the doors open, and they give a startled look when they see you two.

“Good to see you, Jongin,” Baekhyun greets the other man. His tone is friendly, but his expression dares the other man to ask any questions—which you both know he won’t.

“Good evening, Baekhyun.” The man gives a slight nod in your direction as he walks past you two, though there’s no hiding the distaste he thinks he’s disguising. His eyes linger on your metal hand, and you feel exposed; you try to convince yourself he’s just looking at the spear, which would also make sense.

You try to shake the feeling off as you and Baekhyun step into the elevator cabin, but confusion rushes over you to replace it. The floor of the elevator is more like a scale, sensing the weight of your bodies and sinking slightly further into the floor once you step onto it.

“What’s that all about?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah. That. This isn’t like your typical elevator, it’s a teleportation channel,” Baekhyun says this nonchalantly as he reaches for the touchscreen panel on the wall.

“Um, what? I don’t want to be teleported anywhere.” You jump right back out of the cabin before the doors can close, and Baekhyun gives you a weary look as he holds them open with one crimson hand.

“It’s safe, you don’t have to worry about anything. All it does is take the atoms in your body and replicate them elsewhere; the floor measures your mass. I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

“You don’t say.” Sarcasm drips from your voice. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not interested in turning into ground meat on the other side of that thing.”

“There are no stairs in this building, just teleportation channels. If you want to climb the side of the building to get to my place, be my guest.” Baekhyun starts pressing on the panel as if he’ll leave you behind, and panic spikes in your chest. You decide to get back on with him, much to your displeasure.

You close your eyes tight just as the inside of the cabin starts glowing with light, and you can only hope your last lived experience won’t be riding a teleporter with Baekhyun in the same night you tried to mug him.

Surprisingly, the transportation doesn't feel like anything. One minute you’re there on the parking garage ground floor, and the next minute you hear the whoosh of the doors opening again. It’s like you never moved an inch, but you obviously have when the doors reveal the lavish interior of Baekhyun’s home.

Grateful to be at your destination, you step out of the teleporter as quickly as possible. “How did we end up right inside your place?”

“Clever, right? It uses fingerprint recognition so no one else can get access but me, but you’d know that if you hadn’t slammed your eyes shut.”

For all your talk of Baekhyun being out of place in Lower Tokyo, you suddenly feel like the fish out of water inside his penthouse. There’s metal and glass and holographic materials everywhere, which is the same stuff you’d find in Lower Tokyo, but here it’s all much more sleek, shiny, and well-maintained. His living room alone looks bigger than your entire apartment.

“Come on, don’t just stand there.” He gestures for you to follow him further down the hall, and you hesitantly do.

“Um...I don’t really want to carry this all night,” you say, referring to the stun spear still in your hands.

Baekhyun turns back to you, blocking the path to the rest of the hallway. “Do you even know how to turn it off?” It’s still charged with energy. You look at it up and down, but it isn’t immediately obvious to you. You don’t want to admit that, though, and keep awkwardly looking for some sort of Off switch until Baekhyun can’t stand the silence anymore. “Look, just give it to me.”

Your mouth twists at that. It seems nonsensical considering he’s just given you a safe haven, but you’re wary he’ll try to turn the weapon on you. Maybe he was waiting to get you alone and dispose of you himself. He appears to understand your thought process, because he scoffs loudly and holds his hand out for the spear.

“If I really wanted you dead, I could’ve done it in the car—or better yet, let your friends take care of you. Just hand it over.”

“Mm, I think not. I don’t think you’d want to get blood on your pretty leather seats.” Still, you give him the spear, if a bit reluctantly. You don’t know what he does with it, but he takes it into another room and tells you to wait in the hall. When he returns, it’s gone.

Baekhyun leads you to a clean and unoccupied guest room. It’s large, with floor-to-ceiling windows that give an expansive view of the city below. It’s also nicely decorated, much like one of Upper Tokyo’s many upscale hotels, but it seems like it hasn’t seen a warm body in months. There’s a certain lack of warmth to it. “Don’t get many visitors?”

“Now is not the best time to make jokes about me filling my perpetual loneliness with frequent trips to your club, if that’s what you’re attempting to lead up to.” He steps through another door, which you find out leads to the bathroom. “Everything you need should already be here—except clothes. I’ll get those in a moment.”

“Right,” you mumble, your eyes carefully tracing over everything in the bathroom. You know your skeptical behavior is probably pissing him off at this point, but distrust has long become an inherent feature of yours. You’ll keep this act up if you know it’ll get under his skin.

The hot water in this shower doesn’t run out after five minutes like the one back home. You can’t shake the old habit, though, and you wash yourself as quickly as you can, body tensed with adrenaline as you expectantly wait for the warm flow to stop after the five minutes are up. When that doesn’t happen, your muscles relax a little. Though it feels good, you don’t know if you’ll get used to this any time soon.

The clothes he lays out for you on the bed are plain and black, but still better quality than what you’re used to seeing and wearing. Soft on your skin. Smell good. You wonder where he’s went off to—maybe to wash up and patch up his wounds, if he has any sense. You also wonder if you should try exploring his place, but you feel like that’ll be risky; he has too much advanced technology around here that would probably find a way to kick you out of the penthouse window at the first sign of nefarious activity.

...Which is how you end up merely sitting on the bed and waiting to see what will happen next. But not before checking the entire room for any signs of surveillance tech or something else foreboding. This is also when you make the joyous discovery that your phone is missing, and you reason it must’ve fallen out of your pocket in the earlier clash; you know you had it when you first met up with Baekhyun. That pisses you off, but there’s nothing you can do about it now. Though you feel disconcertingly cut off from the outside world without it, who would you even contact anymore? One of the others, who’d probably try to track you down and enact a cold, hard revenge for you blowing up the plan? Lockjaw’s face flashes into your mind, along with the other scalding looks you received the night of the planning, and you shudder slightly.

When Baekhyun comes back to your room—and you’re almost surprised that he does—he looks significantly smaller in presence without his all-black clothes, glittering face chains, and heavy makeup.

Indeed, the man standing in front of you with damp hair, baggy pajamas, and bandaged hands doesn’t seem like the same suave person from the club at all.

“So now what?” you say, raising an eyebrow at him.

He shrugs. “Well, if you’re going to be living here, you need a tour.”

Living with Baekhyun isn’t quite what you expected it to be. He’s home more often than you’d think, for one. You would’ve thought he’d always be in business meetings or off somewhere finding more luxury goods to buy or just doing whatever. You can’t really get mad at him for being in his own home, but you try to keep space between the two of you. With your own designated spaces, it’s not hard to do this, which you are at least marginally glad about.

Trying to deal with Baekhyun while completely sober isn’t your idea of a walk in the park. Despite yourself, you wish you could go back to the club even once; Baekhyun certainly won’t let you drink up all his liquor, nor will he tell you where he’s hidden it. For your own good, he claims. Sure.

To your surprise and slight relief, he doesn’t ply you for any more details about your arm, though you’ve definitely caught him running his eyes across it more than once—studying it like words on a page. Whatever’s spinning around in that mind of his, you can only guess. His lingering interest only makes you think he’s scheming for a way to take the arm off you when you’re sleeping or equally vulnerable, though, so you remain guarded around him.

“One day, you’ll have to understand that I’m not the evil villain you think I am,” he tells you. He regards your attempts to avoid him with a certain bored amusement, like how one might think of a particularly entertaining pet cat.

You let the steam of the food you’re cooking billow up across your face, making your eyes water from the slightly-too-warm heat before answering. Leave it to him to bother you during one of the times when you can get some undisturbed, Baekhyun-free peace. “Maybe you should stop dressing up as one whenever you go out, then.”

He chuckles. “It’s like you’ve made it your personal mission to throw verbal stabs at me whenever possible.”

You shrug. “I have to do something to pass the time here.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes. “You could do that just by having a normal conversation with me.”

You cross your arms, looking at him from where he stands at the kitchen island. He’s in his dressed-down form now, sans eyeliner and jewelry.

His kitchen is not like any other you’ve encountered, fully equipped with the capabilities to make every single one of his meals by itself—and order more ingredients whenever necessary. It’s undoubtedly convenient. But you often still like to make food of your own, just so you don’t have to feel so...dependent on him for every little thing. “About what?”

“About who you are. What you like. What you dream about—I don’t know, something.”

“What I dream about.” You make a noise of disbelief. “How can you waste time on dreams when you live the life I do? I just focus on trying to survive. That’s it.”

Baekhyun opens his mouth automatically like he’ll say something, but he pauses as if he’s just absorbed the full weight of your words. Suddenly, there’s a certain sadness pooling in his eyes and pulling at the corners of his mouth, and you hate it—intensely. You don’t want his pity or sympathy. And yet, he’s already given it to you by letting you live in his home.

“Before you say something pathetic, just don’t,” you blurt out, wanting to stop him before he can start. “You want to talk? My favorite color is green, and my favorite food—alcohol. I have an arm made of fucking titanium, the club was my main hangout spot, and I hate entitled people. Talk about that.”

Baekhyun’s sympathy evaporates into an unimpressed expression, lost just as quickly as a whisper on the wind. “Closing the door again, I see. Alright. Have it your way.” He leaves the room then, giving his back to you and shutting you out similar to how you just did to him.

This should be what you wanted. But it only makes you feel oddly unsatisfied.

“Here.” Baekhyun slides something across the table towards you after dinner one day—another dinner where you sit on opposite ends of the table and where you try to ignore his existence. You instantly recognize the small, glistening package as a cellphone, though it’s a model much more advanced than you could’ve afforded.

You look up at him as he stands in front of you, one of his hands shoved into the pocket of his black pants. “...What are you doing?”

“Giving you something to communicate with so you don’t feel like some princess stuck in a glass castle.” You roll your eyes at that. “I’m not sure who you’d talk to since all your friends do hate you, but the thought counts. And everyone needs a phone.”

You sit forward to look at the phone in its packaging, tracing your metal fingers against the surface. The sensation circling around in your stomach is an odd one. “Please don’t tell me that you hosting me in your penthouse was just an easy way to get a sugar baby.”

Baekhyun looks slightly flustered at that accusation, and you’re gleefully, childishly pleased about taking him off guard. His surprise is quickly replaced with a shit-eating grin, though. “It’s nothing like that; I could’ve already had that kind of arrangement 100 times over.” His tone suggests that he has, which sends a chill crawling up your spine. But maybe not 100 times over. “I did it to help you out. But if thinking of it that way gets you off, be my guest.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Byun,” you say, taking the phone out gingerly. It’s a lightweight thing, looking like it might dissolve if you look at it too hard. Its screen is clear raised glass—which you assume will project out the hologram technology this phone is inevitably equipped with—and has silver backing. It’s a piece of work. Though it appears fragile, you know it’s sturdier than that—or it wouldn’t be such a popular model as it is now. “It’s...nice, though.”

Baekhyun waves his hand noncommittally. “I wouldn’t settle for anything less—even if it’s for someone as eternally pissed-off as you.” You bite your lip against the rebuttal that wants to come rolling out, instead preoccupying yourself with figuring out the controls on this thing. Which takes an embarrassingly long moment. Baekhyun watches you for the duration of it, biting his own lip against the urge to laugh at the frustrated furrow between your brows and the crinkling of your nose. Really, the phone looks like a thin sheet of metal with a slice of glass over it; how are you supposed to operate this? Eventually, he says, “There’s a button on the bottom that activates it...you have to press that.”

“Right, clearly.” You try to rid yourself of your embarrassment as you turn the thing on, but even as Baekhyun leaves the room you can hear his chains clinking together as he laughs silently at your confusion.

As if your life could not get any more chaotic, your metal arm begins malfunctioning. 

The metal is not as flexible as it was just a few days before, and it gives you a hard time whenever you try to do simple maneuvers. Your arm is overtaken by a sensation that feels like nerve damage with how the entire limb and shoulder tingle and burn from wires that no longer want to do as they’re told. You’re not entirely sure what’s wrong with it—a good oiling could usually fix any stiffness when necessary, but this nervy feeling is new.

For a while, you try to hide it from Baekhyun, which feels kind of ridiculous even to you. You’re only hurting yourself more, but you are a little too prideful to give him the pleasure of inspecting your arm like he’d always wanted to from the start. You don’t want to be his science experiment.

However, it comes to a point when you must ask for help when your arm stops working entirely.

You wake up to this terrible realization. After another morning of having gotten only a little sleep the night before, something immediately feels wrong. Your arm is dead weight beside you. When you try to sit up, it doesn’t respond to your movements. You can only feel the painful tug on the flesh part of your shoulder where the weight of the metal pulls at it, and you groan in pain and annoyance.

You support your arm with your other hand to prevent the tugging, which quickly gets exhausting and annoying as you try to go through the morning motions. You can’t keep this up while washing, so by the time you get out of the shower, your shoulder is killing you from where the arm dangles.

When you get to the common room, Baekhyun isn’t there. He isn’t anywhere else in his penthouse, either. You don’t even know how long he’s been gone. When you bring yourself to finally call his number, you bitterly remember that you still don’t have it saved in your phone. You want to scream in irritation. You can’t leave to go look for him—yeah, right—or get help from anyone else, either, because of the fingerprint recognition on his apartment entrance. Now that you think about it, you are like a princess in a glass castle here. That reawakens another bout of anger in you. Safe haven or cage?

Baekhyun appears an hour or two later—you’re not totally certain, having refused to expend the strength to move from your current spot to check the time—wearing his usual getup. You don’t know if you should be relieved, but an emotion similar to that sweeps through you despite your lingering apprehension and dislike.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His eyebrows crease when he sees you splayed across his couch, your metal arm propped up on the couch back.

Don’t be combative, you think to yourself. But it’s like an impulse; you can’t stop yourself. “Why do you immediately assume something’s wrong?”

“You’ve never been so casual,” he gestures to your posture, “around me or in my place before, so I’m trying to figure out if your brain has been infected by cyber bugs or something. Because if we need to quarantine, then—”

“Well, you’re not totally wrong for once.” You struggle to sit up, your movements stiff, and your arm slides off the couch back and slumps limply to your side. Baekhyun's eyebrows shoot towards his hairline at that, and he looks at you questioningly, stepping closer to you.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Don’t even fucking know…it’s been feeling weird for a week.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

You look up at him, cynicism coloring your expression. “I’m sure you can take a wild guess.”

He gives the familiar sigh-and-eye-roll combo, like he’s done probably a hundred times since he’s met you. “Yeah, I can.” He waves his hand. “No matter. I’m calling Yosuke.”

“Who’s Yosuke?” You turn to watch Baekhyun retreat—probably to his bedroom or office. He turns back to you momentarily.

“Someone who can fix your arm.”

— 

Yosuke turns out to be a man around the same age as Baekhyun—a big contrast to the older, wizened cyberneticist you’d pictured in your mind. He and Baekhyun act overly familiar with each other, apparently being long-time friends since their younger years.

There is no difference in how he treats you and Baekhyun, which is another thing you didn’t quite expect. He is clearly wealthy like Baekhyun, coming in with a nice suit and expensive jewelry and a suitcase full of more tools than you’ve even seen before, but he doesn’t have the haughty rich man aura. That makes you feel a little more comfortable, and you are glad that Baekhyun let you have some privacy with this and left the lab for the actual procedure. Even if it meant he didn’t get his wish of poring over your arm’s wiring like some kind of cybernetics kinkster.

To your relief, the fix is simple enough. The implanted electrodes in your shoulder that help send signals between your brain’s neurons and the artificial nerves have failed, but those are relatively simple to replace.

“Shitty tech, I guess,” you mumble, casting a displeased look at your arm. You aren’t sure why, but you feel embarrassed about it failing on you. Maybe you just thought it’d be reliable forever. “I got it as part of an experimental research program, so it was probably never going to be the most dependable thing anyway…”

“Hm.” Yosuke smiles. “Maybe not, but it’s still an extraordinary piece of work—especially in this early form. Some of these mechanisms are new even to me. Was that the 2110 Tokyo trial, by chance?”

You nod, though you feel a tiny bit less relaxed with knowing that even Yosuke doesn’t recognize all the intricacies of your limb. Hopefully you’ll still walk out in one piece. “Yeah, the very one.”

“Excellent work,” he reiterates. “It was an early research trial, but still yielded some of the most functional and human-like large-scale cybernetics of the last few years. You could’ve done a lot worse. Maybe you already know that, though.”

“Maybe,” you repeat quietly, but you are mostly speaking to yourself now.

—

After the electrode replacement is done in Baekhyun’s home lab, you can finally feel your arm like normal again. Yosuke does a few sensory feedback and dexterity tests to make sure your arm can function as it should, and he promises to come back the next day for another round just to be sure.

You almost don’t want Yosuke to go when he finally does pack up to leave. It feels nice to be around someone who doesn’t inspire some wretched, nonsensical anger in you.

Baekhyun slips back into the lab after Yosuke leaves, and you glance up from your arm at his arrival. He looks at your bandaged shoulder and watches appreciatively as you flex your metal fingers. “All good now?”

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “Thanks.” Saying that word to him is not easy, but you relent, figuring you should at least give him that much. “You should be thanking the gods you don’t have to go through this kinda shit.”

“Really.” It’s not a question, the way he says it. It’s filled with sarcasm. Baekhyun reaches down and rolls up his left pant leg, his chains hanging as he does, and you recoil, confused. Why the fuck is he showing you his bare leg?

“It’s cybernetic,” he says, barely concealed pride in his voice. “You can’t even tell, the work is so good.” Something like jealousy and anger stirs in your chest. Even if you had wanted to tuck those emotions back in, they’ve escaped from the cage now and are intent on running rampant.

“So. Byun Baekhyun is part-metalhead, after all?” You slide off the surgical chair you were sitting in for Yosuke’s procedure, coming to stand a couple feet in front of Baekhyun. You look down at his leg—which, for all intents and purposes, looks like a completely flesh-and-blood limb. “You joker. Quit fuckin’ around.”

“It’s not a lie.” He knows you won’t believe him, so he taps a spot behind his ankle twice. A long, thin panel that stretches from just above his ankle to his upper thigh opens on his leg, exposing the wiring and metal within. You can’t school your expression in time, and your mouth drops. “Incredible, right? Custom-made. So, yes…I do have an idea what it’s like.”

“Custom-made, huh.” You bite your lip so hard you think it might bleed. “Unbelievable. You’re the kind of person who does these things because you want to, because you can, not because your survival hinges on it. You must truly think you’re special.” The words come hurtling past your lips like venom.

“I didn’t choose this on a whim,” Baekhyun argues, straightening up to face you and letting his pant leg back down. The look on his face says his patience has finally run out, presumably tired of you throwing insult after insult at him since you’ve been in his home. “You don’t know anything about me other than what you’ve seen and heard on screens and from others. I’ve tried to get familiar with you. You reject it at every turn.”

“I don’t want to ‘get familiar’ with someone who gets custom cybernetics that cost hundreds of thousands just because they fuckin’ felt like it, while the rest of us have to do it just to get enough money to live for maybe a year on.” You’re gritting your teeth so hard that your jaw feels like it might crack.

Baekhyun steps closer to you, diminishing the space between you further. His eyes burn with animosity. “I was in a car accident, Y/N. I was just a teenager. No one even knows this but the people closest to me, and I don’t want anyone else to know it. I lost my leg and nearly my life with it. Before you start preaching to me about choices versus survival, realize that you aren’t the only fucking person in the world who’s ever had to do what was needed to survive.”

Your breath catches. You feel like the wind has been knocked out of you. Suddenly, all the fight drains from your system, and you are left feeling deflated and cold. His blazing eyes feel like two bullets trained on you, and your gaze falters.

Baekhyun doesn’t wait to see if you’ll have another response lined up for him; he turns heel and stalks out of the room.

As promised, Yosuke returns the next day for your additional tests. Your conversation with him isn’t as enjoyable as it could be. You are still reeling from Baekhyun’s revelation and unsure how to approach him. Neither of you spoke to each other for the rest of that night, instead choosing to actively avoid each other. You know you can’t keep this game up forever, though.

“Baekhyun’s in a sour mood today,” Yosuke remarks. “Rare for him. Any idea why?”

You shake your head, worrying your lower lip with your teeth. “Mmm...no.”

The slight smile on Yosuke’s face tells you he doesn’t believe you. “Well...I’m sure you two will figure it out sooner or later. He seems to have an affinity for you.”

“What?”

“He was pretty concerned when he contacted me about your arm. He’s mentioned you before then, too. He seems fascinated by you.”

You purse your lips together. You remember his days of annoying flirting in the club, which feel so far away now, and how he’d come to you with a bunch of flowery words and told you he’d taken a liking to you. Perhaps he was really telling the truth about that. You wonder if he possibly mentioned the attempted mugging to Yosuke, and you cough nervously.

“Well, he’s…” you wave your flesh hand, “...a character.”

Yosuke chuckles. “You two seem kind of fitting, I don’t know why. Similar love for recklessness, maybe—from how he describes you, anyway. Like peas in a pod.”

Fitting? Peas in a damn pod? The next words come thoughtlessly rushing out of you in an effort to change his mind and slap away whatever outlandish idea he has of you and the other man. “I don’t want Baekhyun.”

Yosuke raises an eyebrow, though he keeps his gaze on your arm as he watches the movements of your metallic fingers for any irregularities. “I never said you did, Y/N.”

In your haste, it occurs to you that maybe Yosuke really was just referring to your similarities—which you’ll continue to vehemently deny—rather than suggesting any deeper connection. Though that’s what it sounded like to you. Fuck. You don’t know anymore.

Is this what they’d call a Freudian slip, then? How wonderful. You rub your temples with your free hand and shake your head. “Then let’s just forget the last few minutes of this conversation.”

Yosuke smiles. “Whatever you’d like to do.”

—

Yosuke leaves soon after he’s finished testing your arm, but he reassures you that you can see each other again if you feel like having the company—just have Baekhyun arrange things.

Speaking of Baekhyun. You should probably say something to him. You’re not enthusiastic about puttering around his home feeling even more awkward than you did when you first arrived there. So, you walk to his office and knock on the door, turning your ear to it to see if he’ll give a response. You don’t have to wait to hear one, though, because the door panel slides back on its own.

You’ve never been in his office before, though you knew where it was—it was one of the places he decided not to show you on his little house tour—but it’s just as obnoxiously streamlined and full of tech as every other part of his home. Baekhyun sits behind his desk, elbows propped on its surface and fingers crossed together.

“Y/N.” His voice holds none of the playfulness, casualness, or even cool sarcasm you’ve heard from him before.

You step a few feet forward into his office. You feel like you’re standing underneath a spotlight, lit up for the entirety of the world to see. In reality, it’s just you and him here—Byun Baekhyun, one of the richest men in Japan.

He stays silent, presumably waiting for you to speak first. That is what you came here for, so you do, even if it makes you feel like you’re going to peel out of your skin.

“I was a dick. I’m sorry.”

Baekhyun blinks. “An apology? From you? The world must be ending.”

“I’m trying to be serious here, Byun.” You sigh. “I was...wrong to assume what I did about you. I guess...I don’t really know anything about you...but. I felt like I had you all figured out already. So, I’m sorry.”

The tension in Baekhyun’s shoulders releases, if only a little. His expression shifts into something not quite as impenetrable as it was just a few moments ago, but not completely open, either. “Apology accepted, then.”

“Thanks.” You shove your hands into your pockets. “Well, I thought...if I’m not to make any more assumptions about you, I should probably get to know more about you?” 

Baekhyun looks interested now, and he releases his hands from their formerly tense position. He leans forward slightly. “Then I should do the same with you.”

Your hackles raise, despite you trying to keep yourself more open-minded. “I...don’t want to. You know enough already.”

Exasperated, Baekhyun spreads his hands out in front of him. “Here we go again. What are you so afraid of? And why even ask me about myself if you don’t want to share anything about you?”

“You can think of it as gathering intel—not making friends. I’m not asking you about your life story so we can have picnics together and talk about our wildest dreams.”

Baekhyun scoffs in disbelief. “When are you ever going to be honest with yourself? Emotional constipation isn’t a good look for you.”

“Honest with myself about what?”

“You are attracted to me. You are interested in me beyond supposedly gathering intel. And for some reason I can’t conceive, it enrages you.” The words come off his lips with the trace of a smirk, and though they make your skin prickle with heat, his smirk makes you want to jump across the desk and land one good punch on him.

You snort. “You’re a piece of work. Attracted to you? Everyone doesn’t throw themselves at the first person with a whiff of money or notoriety.”

Baekhyun gets up from his desk to step closer to you, much like he did the other day. He’s close enough for you to count the moles on his face, barely noticeable except for when he’s at this proximity. His cologne wraps its scented arms around you and pulls you in. You didn’t notice it as acutely yesterday, too embroiled in the argument and trying to process what he revealed to you, but now it hits you full on. How is this not considered some kind of olfactory warfare?

“Then tell me you don’t want me.” He whispers it to you in that same stupid, silky voice he’d always used in the club. That voice, combined with his scent, transports you straight back to that environment—the pungent taste of alcohol, the blinding neon lights, the ear-splitting music. And the one man who you just can’t figure out.

You open your mouth only slightly, afraid to breathe in more of his fragrance and lose yourself to it like a fool. “Fuck you.”

“That’s not an answer.” Baekhyun’s voice remains in the same low whisper, and he grins like he already knows the truth. “But I can do that, if you’d like.”

It doesn’t take much effort for him to close the rest of the space between you. When he kisses you, you don’t slap him, stomp on his foot, or knee him in the balls like you might’ve thought you would. Instead, you kiss him back—gradually, tentatively, but your lips fall into a rhythm with each other’s.

His lip piercing is unyielding on your skin; the edges of it press into your lip. The kiss is not rough or even frantic. You think this all might’ve been easier if it was—easier to allow yourself to keep hating him so intensely and channel that energy into your actions. However, all your previous thoughts of knocking his head off or pulling his lip ring off fall away; you just allow yourself to exist solely in this moment and absorb the feeling of his lips on yours.

Maybe now you could allow yourself to admit—internally, at least—that yes...you did want this. You wanted it from the first ridiculous time you met him in the club, and when he put his insolent hand on your shoulder. Whispered into your ear like he knew exactly what effect it was going to have.

Baekhyun’s bedroom—the one other place he hadn’t shown you besides his office—is neatly arranged and smells entirely like him. Other than those base things, you don’t care what the rest of the room is like. When you both somehow make it there, Baekhyun backs you up onto the bed, his lips still attached to yours.

The weight of his body is solid on yours. His tongue nudging against your lips and asking for entrance makes your body flush with heat. Before you can get fully invested, you pull away. He looks at you questioningly.

“Take this off,” you mutter, pushing his face chains away from you. He laughs lowly, pulling away from you to take his piercing out and put the chains away.

Pulling your clothes off comes naturally; it doesn’t feel clumsy and stilted like it did the last time you slept with someone. Baekhyun’s hands flit over every inch of newly exposed skin he can access.

The way Baekhyun touches your metal arm is reverent, worshipful, and you hadn’t realized how much you needed this—this kind of unabashed admiration—until it happened. No one has ever touched your metal arm in a way that wasn’t clinical or otherwise similarly detached. His fingers glide across it like it’s still made of skin and blood and bone, and he kisses the length of it, up to your neck and all the way back down to your metallic fingers again.

Water beads at the corners of your eyes. You try to ignore it. You don’t even acknowledge the few tears that do slip out, sliding towards your ears from your supine position.

Baekhyun lifts himself to be level with your face again. You turn away from him, too afraid to see whatever emotion will be lying in his eyes—not wanting to reveal the full magnitude of your vulnerability to him—but you don’t say a word when he presses his lips against the tear tracks on your skin.

Funnily, ironically, every motion comes instinctively. Him rocking against you, his heavy, dark breaths echoing in your ears, his long and low moans—your lips searching for his, your teeth creating blooming bruises on his skin. Though you have pushed him away and dismissed his proffered company at every opportunity, this intimacy feels like a grand coming-together—something that was bound to happen at the end of every road.

—

The sheets are twisted, the sweat is cooling on your skin, and you are both tired but satisfied. Content in a way that neither of you have truly been in a long time. You rest your head on Baekhyun’s chest, closing your eyes and listening to him breathe underneath you, the metal of your arm still warm from the heat of his skin. 

“I could give you an upgrade.”

Your mouth twitches. You think you might have imagined the words, so you stay silent for a while longer until Baekhyun nudges your arm, checking if you’ve already fallen asleep.

“Upgrade?”

“Your arm. I could...have a new arm built. One like my leg.”

You sit up to look at him, the sheets falling from your body. “Don’t say pretty things you think I want to hear just because you’re still in the post-orgasm haze.”

Baekhyun blows air out of his nose, too tired to properly argue or even scoff at you. “Like I said before, I don’t waste time saying things I don’t mean.” His voice quiets. “We both know you can’t get your limb back, but...I could...give you something to help, at least. It’s...easier to deal with the cybernetics when they actually look like they belong on your body.” You know he speaks from experience there, by the way his gaze falters and drops to his lap.

“To feel more like a human again, huh.” Some part of you—multiple parts of you, maybe—had still been grieving over the arm you’d given up almost two years ago. Maybe it was a silly thing to be hurt over compared to the many other problems in your world, but it was difficult to stop feeling like you’d sold away a portion of yourself for nothing. Nothing but fleeting money.

Baekhyun’s offer stirs something in you. You turn your body away from him, feeling the tingle in your nose and eyes again that could only signal one thing. “Stop doing this. Being so...I don’t know, forgiving. Not after all I’ve done and said to you.”

Baekhyun sits up then, resting his hands on your arms. “I want to do this for you. Stop acting like you don’t deserve anything good in the world.”

You turn back to face him after a long moment, though the tears still linger in your eyes. “I don’t want to be the only one who benefits.” You shake your head slowly. “If you really agree to give me a new arm...you have more than enough resources to help change the nightmare Lower Tokyo has become. Help them. Help us. I don’t want to be some one-off experiment or pet project you discard once you’ve gotten your fill—some broken bitch from Lower Tokyo you think you can fix and turn into one of your family’s many success stories.”

Baekhyun is breathless from your admission; this is the most transparent you’ve been with him since you’ve met. Though part of him wants to shrivel back from your words, he clings to your long-awaited honesty, even if it is only shared with him to rebuke him and his family’s selfishly opulent ways. He thinks of why you pushed so hard against him trying to make a personal domain of Lower Tokyo, leaving the comforts of his own place to absorb the shadows of yours, and a better understanding of your rejection begins to dawn in his mind. Tentatively, he brings one of his hands from your arm to your cheek, thinking you might still wince away from him, but you don’t move.

“You’re right.” His voice is tight with the knowledge of it. “I can help, Y/N. You, and everyone else. I mean—I will. If there is one thing you can trust me on…let it be this.”

You stare into his dark brown eyes, trying to hunt for any signs of dishonesty, though you find none. There is only the heat of his hand on your face, and his open, yielding expression. “I will hold you to that, Byun Baekhyun.”

[bonjour-rainycity]

Home Again

Prompt: Domestic bliss/a day in the life (Content Challenge Day 2)

Pairing: Haldir x Female Reader

Rating: T

Word count: 2164

Warnings: Maybe I pushed the ‘T’ rating a little. There’s nakedness but like...tasteful nakedness? Also lots of kissing. And suggestions. And so much fluff. 

A/n Welcome to Day 2 of my content challenge! You can find the challenge’s masterlist here and my personal masterlist here. Happy reading :) 

Light shines into my closed eyes, and, mumbling in annoyance, I roll over, smushing my face into the pillow.

The ellon to my left chuckles warmly, wrapping an arm around my waist. “No, no, meleth nîn. Now that I know you are awake, I shan’t let you escape my attentions.”

I laugh as Haldir leans over me and peppers my face and neck with tiny kisses, encouraging me to roll onto my back. After much giggling and futile attempts to return to sleep, I comply, allowing him to kiss me fully on the lips. I sigh into the kiss, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer to me.

“I’ve missed this,” I breathe, closing my eyes when Haldir places a gentle kiss on my collarbone. “Three months is too long.”

At this, he raises his head, showing me the apology in his eyes “I know. I am sorry for leaving you for such a time, but I cannot ask it of my wardens and not hold myself to the same standard.”

I take one of his hands in mine, fiddling with his fingers. “You are much too honorable for my liking, Marchwarden.”

His playfulness from earlier returns, and he wraps his arms under my back. “I take offense! I shall have to prove to you that I am no such ellon.” With that, he releases his knees, dropping his full weight on top of me.

“Haldir,” I laugh, trying to push him off of me. “You must move, I cannot breathe!”

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, and I feel his smile against my skin. “Now what were you saying? I doubt an honorable ellon would try to squish his wife.”

“I shall have you arrested for attempted murder,” I gasp, elbowing him in the ribs and kicking at his shins.

He grins languidly, but relieves the pressure on me slightly. “And who is going to carry out this arrest? I am, as you say, the Marchwarden of this realm.” He raises a haughty eyebrow. “And I have no intention of incarcerating myself.”

I bump my nose against his, earning myself a soft smile. “Then it seems I shall have to lock you up.”

Haldir’s lips drop to mine, and he kisses me with a passion that has me quite willing to stay in this bed all day. “Such promises she makes,” he teases, and then seems to reign himself in. With a final, much more innocent kiss, he rises to his knees, offering me a hand. “Would you like breakfast?”

I enjoy my first full breath in minutes and take his hand, following him out of the bedroom. “You have been at the borders for three months. Sit, and let me cook for you.”

He does as he’s bid and, while I gather ingredients, he perches on one of the high stools that faces into kitchen. He does not stay on his side of the counter long, though, and soon wraps his arms around my waist, holding me closely against him as I cook.

There’s a knock on the door and Haldir and I exchange questioning looks. With a raised eyebrow, he releases me and walks through the talan to the front door. It’s not long before I hear the jovial greetings of Orophin and Rumil, and, smiling to myself, I retrieve two more plates from the cabinet.

Haldir enters the kitchen, his younger brothers in tow. “Do you mind, my love?”

“Not at all,” I grin, pulling the ellyn in for hugs.

“Of course she minds,” Rumil laughs, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before sitting on a stool. “Her husband only just got back last night, and now she’s got a kitchen full of guests. I’m sure she’d much rather be f—”

I hurry to interrupt the youngest of the three, carefully placing some fruit on his plate. “You know you are both welcome here any time, I—”

“Relax, Y/n,” Orophin laughs, holding up a hand to stop my protests. “Rumil and I do not plan to stay long. We only wanted to see our brother, make sure he’s in one piece.”

“And have breakfast,” Rumil declares, mouth full of bread. Haldir rolls his eyes and darts a quick hand out to shove Rumil’s head towards the counter. Rumil only just keeps his head from connecting with the wood, and ducks around Haldir’s outstretched arm to push at his chest.

“Enough,” I laugh, sitting down with my own plate. The two eye each other with amused suspicion, but otherwise obey.

The four of us inevitably get on the topic of Haldir’s time away, and he regals us with the more entertaining stories from the borders. Before we know it, the morning has passed us by, and Orophin and Rumil must rush away to attend to their duties.

Haldir closes the door behind them, then pulls me into his arms. “Thank you for putting up with them.”

I snort and lay my head against his chest. “You know I love them.”

We stay there for a few minutes, wrapped in each other’s embrace. Haldir eventually pulls back and pushes me in the direction of our bedroom. “Change into something suitable for hiking. I’m taking you to the woods.”

I do as requested, rolling my eyes as I go. “You ask so politely.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he calls after me, and, because I can hear the excitement in his voice, I decide to believe him.

{***}

Two hours later and we are still walking.

“You know, I was only joking this morning, but now I think you might actually be trying to kill me,” I huff, struggling up the millionth hill of our hike.

My husband only laughs, reaching for my hand. “We are minutes away, meleth.”

To his credit, Haldir was right. Not five minutes later, the ‘trail’ ends and we stand on a cliff, overlooking a deep pond. I glance between Haldir and the water in delight — he knows how much I love a swim. “How did you find this?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, though his chest puffs out. “I came across it during a scouting excursion a few weeks ago. I’ve been thinking of taking you here ever since.”

“I’m grateful,” I smile, leaning my back against his chest and pulling his arms to encircle me. He tightens his grip and starts a trail of lingering kisses up and down my neck. “It’s the perfect day, too,” I mumble weakly. The sun is shining, the air is hot, and a dip in the cool, clear water is just what I need.

I notice, perhaps belatedly, that neither of us brought proper swimming attire.

But it seems Haldir has planned for that.

He doesn’t stop his kisses when he speaks against my neck. “Take off your clothes.”

I let my eyes flutter shut. The sound of his voice and the way he sucks on my pulse point leaves me with no desire to protest. I pull at the ties on my tunic, and he follows suit. Soon, we are both undressed completely, standing naked in the shining sun.

Haldir pulls my mouth back to his, and, absently, I remember that, though we are in a secluded area, the woods is not necessarily private. “This area is unknown?”

His lips twitch against mine, and he pulls back so I can see his assured smile. “No one is around. No one will know we are here.”

That’s good enough for me. I wrap my arms around my husband’s neck and move to kiss him again, but he scoops me up in his arms, grinning wickedly.

Oh no. “Haldir-”

With a confidence that’s both infuriating and wildly attractive, he winks…

And steps off the cliff.

The water is much colder than I imagined, and I shriek the moment it touches my skin. Haldir finds this quite amusing, though I note with a smirk of satisfaction that a shiver runs up his own spine.

Not so invincible.

With that in mind, I wriggle out of his arms and splash as much water as I possibly can in his direction.

For a moment, he looks so utterly betrayed that I feel a twinge of guilt.

But then he lunges me, and all sympathy disappears.

He grips my shoulders firmly and shoves me under the water. He lets me up almost immediately, but the damage is done.

He’s submerged me in the freezing water twice already, and I cannot let that go.

I jump at him, but his skills on the battlefield apparently apply also to water fights, and he is much too quick for me. He places one arm behind my back and the other behind my legs and brings me into his arms, cradling me against his chest—despite my struggles.

“There, there,” he laughs over my protests. “Deep breaths now.”

I glower at him and manage to get a hand free, splashing a spout of water into his face. He raises an eyebrow, replacing his carefree laughter with the trademark Marchwarden Stoicism.

“Is that the best you’ve got?”

I lift my own eyebrow, meeting his challenge. “Release me and find out.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but the wind rustles the leaves, and he tenses.

I freeze against him, knowing Haldir well enough to see that, in the slight noise from the moving greenery, he has found cause for concern.

“What is it,” I whisper, but he raises a hand, cautioning for silence. I purse my lips together and strain my ears, trying to hear the forest as he does. Centuries in the trees have made him hyper-sensitive to every rock, leaf, animal — and intruder.

I gulp, tightening my grip on his shoulders.

Without warning, Haldir plunges me into the water once again, and I sputter, finding myself pressed against the cool skin of his back.

“M-Marchwarden,” a voice stutters out.

Oh Valar.

I’m suddenly painfully aware of how naked I am.

“Erlan,” Haldir sighs, giving the young ellon a displeased stare.

I recognize the name. Erlan is the newest member of Lothlórien’s Guard, only just having come of age some twenty years ago. Haldir says he is inexperienced, but shows promise, and frequently does week-long stints as part of the forest patrol.

“I-I am so sorry, Marchwarden. I did not mean—” While the elf stumbles over his words, Haldir tries to discreetly lower his hands to cover the essentials, but the movement draws Erlan’s eyes. Realizing what he’s doing, Erlan jerks his head upwards, staring safely at the sky. “Oh my, I am so—”

“Just leave, Erlan,” Haldir grits out, the pink twinge to his cheeks slightly damaging his commanding tone.

Erlan tries for a respectful bow, but as he bends, his eyes lock with mine and he yelps, straightening quickly. Haldir shifts to block me completely from view, raising an arm in Erlan’s direction. “Go!”

Erlan nearly runs into a tree in his haste to escape, and the hilarity of the situation overrides any embarrassment I might feel. I laugh, wrapping my arms around Haldir’s middle, encouraging him to turn in my arms. He does so, though his eyes scan our surroundings suspiciously.

To distract him from his anger, I press kisses to his chest, and, eventually he relaxes in my arms. Once I know his ire has passed, I rest my chin against his sternum, looking up at him with a wide grin. “I thought you said no one would find us.”

He fixes me with an unimpressed glare, the redness returning to his cheeks. “I will be speaking with him first thing tomorrow morning. His observation skills are—”

“Still in progress,” I interject, dragging my hands up his chest until I reach his shoulders. “Go easy on the poor ellon.” Using my grip, I pull myself up, wrapping my legs around his hips.

This seems to put him in a much more favorable mood, and he hums softly, laying his head against my shoulder. “I suppose you’re right. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Exactly,” I smile, pleased that I still have the ability to distract him like this even after a century of marriage. “Though I do believe that no one will be intruding upon us now, since Erlan is there to warn them.” I brush my lips against his shoulder, hinting at my intentions.

“My, you are smart,” his chuckle rumbles against me, and I dip my head to meet the lips that soon quirk teasingly against mine. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

I pull back, leveling him with a glare that rivals his own.

He attempts to school his expression, though he retains a mocking glint in his eye. “Intelligent and terrifying. I think I’ve hit the jackpot.”

I dip a hand into the water and flick it back towards his face, effectively wiping away his smug expression. “Do shut up.”

Laughing once more, he pulls me back to him, picking up where we left off.

I love having him home.

Even if I definitely plan on half-drowning him before we leave.

A/n So does anyone else adore Haldir, or is it just me? 

Likes, comments, and reblogs mean the world to me! Let me know what you thought and if you would like to be added to a tag list :) If you have any questions about the challenge, feel free to message me/submit an ask!

Challenge participants*: @game-ofthe-company @grunid @themerriweathermage @errruvande

*As far as I know. Please let me know if I’ve missed someone!!! 

[littlefreya]

Good Girl

gif credit amancanfly

Synopsis: Henry is at the gym testing the new Glute Drive while his longing wife drops by to visit and decides to play a little wicked game of teasing. 

Pairing: Henry Cavill x OFC

Word count: 4.2K

Warnings: Explicit, this is basically ALL smut. Slight SubMale / DomFem then a lot of DomMale / SubFem, dry humping, cock teasing, dangerous driving, fingering, dirty talk, daddy kink, slight size kink (I am all the kinks today), unprotected sex and bodily fluids!

A/N: Okay so this fic was born out of the UNHOLY union between this thread and the video of Henry going “good boy” at Kal. Many thanks to my darling @agniavateira​ for helping me proofread this!

Title: Good Girl

There he is, my bear of a man. His sculpted, wide body plastered to some medieval-looking torture device. Strong, large arms hang onto the handles, muscles flexing. Slick with sweet sweat, he thrusts his hips up and down while grunting with effort.

Who the hell came up with this air-fucking machine?

I walk through the deserted mirrored room, my black painted nails scratching the glass as I draw closer toward Henry. Gyms tend to be freezing, and I’m not properly dressed for a workout session with my mini plaid skirt and a dark grey t-shirt. But his arduous gasps fill the chilled space enough to make things a little warmer. 

“What are you doing here, little one?” Henry finally asks, pausing his thrusts for a moment as he spots my cattish moves toward him.

I observe silently as I inch closer. he has his waist strapped to a bench, heavy weights of 80kg are on each side of his body while he lifts upward and presses his behind back down. A sheer layer of sweat covers him entirely, his skin glistening in the fluorescent’s light. His favourite blue top is soaked.

“I came home from the studio and my hubby wasn’t there.” I pout, standing right at the edge of the bench where his feet are pressed for support.

He pouts back at me, genuine care on his face. My darling bear might have the endurance of a large predator, but his heart is all strawberry marshmallow when it comes to his lady. He hates to spend time apart. Whenever our schedules collide it’s all about Face-timing and sending nudes. 

Honestly? I care less than he does about this shit ever getting leaked. I even keep some steamy under-the-cover selfies so I’ll have something to work with when either of us is away.

But what I hate the most, is having him here yet he’s absent. The Pre-production shenanigans have him preparing for his next role, which usually means working himself at the gym to the point of collapsing, just so he could look like some demi-god. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind him having a little body fat. That’s why I bake him pizza every weekend. What his gym coach doesn’t know, can’t hurt him.  

“I’ll be done in 10 minutes, darling.” he answers and continues to slowly push down and up again, releasing a pained grunt and clenching his teeth. “Just…  two… more… sets.”

“I don’t want to wait.” I alert him, circling the machine carefully to not get in his way. I appreciate the hard work and stamina, but I am quite tired of having the downside of the deal. Every day for the last 2 weeks I received an exhausted Cavill with aching, strained muscles. The most action I got was massaging his muscles in the bathtub which might sound romantic if not for him snoring 3 minutes in.   

“Ten minutes,” he mentions again. He’s out of breath as he ascends and then lowers once more, the weights pressuring his body down while the bands create a resistance. 

No way in hell someone came up with this device and didn’t think this is a sex thing. I see my bear thrusting his hips upward like this and only one thing goes through my mind. 

Oh, how I need to be on top of this mountain of a man.

I cannot help myself, nor can I hide the malicious grin forming on my mouth. I lift my leg carefully, hovering it in the air above him. I cage him between my straddled legs whilst giving him my best dominatrix glare. Henry raises his eyes to meet mine, looking dumbfounded. 

“What are you doing, darling? You’ll hurt yourself.”

Oh, sweet summer child. 

I sway my hips in a slow dance, with the thrust of his body and his heavy breaths as the music I’m dancing to. The arousal in his eyes is evident within seconds. His lips part away slowly, his beautiful blue eyes begin to cloud, and his adam’s apple slides upward in his throat as he swallows.

“At home.”

“Here.” I ignore his request lowering myself slowly and carefully to squat over his groin. He’s not hard, yet.

Henry releases a deep loud grunt. Usually, I am weightless for him, but right now I’m adding to already 160kg of weights. Well, he is the type of guy who likes to push his limits and I am the type of girl who likes to test boundaries. 

“Don’t,” Henry protests, another grunt escaping his lips. I stretch myself, my ass pressing back, my groin rubbing against the tender muscle that begins hardening between my legs. I can feel the rush of blood, making him throb and grow vast between my legs.

“Don’t do what?” I press my teeth against the lushness of my lower lip viciously, beginning to grind against the hardness in slow circular motions. “Don’t you have two more sets?”

He clenches his teeth, his hands tightening around the handles so harshly his knuckles whiten. With great effort he lifts up, succumbing to my wickedness. His erected cock is concealed underneath his clothes, yet I press and dance onto it, making blissful moans as the friction has me singing that sweet familiar tune.

When he pulls down I dive with him, feeling the exhale of his body and the dancing twitch of muscles. I greatly anticipate the next push upward, my hands reaching to squeeze my breasts together. My panties are now soaked with moisture as I press and rub, bringing myself closer.

When he lifts again, his thrust is a wee bit faster. He’s either getting used to my weight on his groin, or the adrenaline of the beast that I’ve been teasing allows him to push higher. He angles his hips into mine, serving my need, and gives me the friction I demand. His eyes meet mine and pure darkness devours me within them. 

I am in so much fucking trouble, but it’s so worth it. 

“Oh Henry, you’re making me so wet.” 

I moan his name, rubbing myself on his cock at a demanding speed while he lifts up and down. My clit tingles, swollen against his enormous bulge as that familiar wave begins to spread. He’s so hard, so painfully swollen, and so incapable of getting any release while I ride him into a powerful orgasm.

I clutch his thighs, desperate gasps spiralling out my mouth as the pleasure continues to hit my core. My nails dig deep into the hardened flesh but I can’t be bothered.

“Oh god…” I throw my head backwards, trying to adjust my breath while my legs are shaking around his wide waist. There’s still a throbbing hardness against my burning core, the angry drumming of blood pulsating against my opening. 

I’m tempted to take my phone and capture his looks in my camera. But I’m in too much trouble as it is. Henry is drenched in sweat, upset in ways I’ve never seen in my life. He's done with his workout for today,  no doubt about that.

“Are you done?” he asks me with a frown. 

I lick my lips and lift myself up, knees nearly giving up as my legs are still numb from the intensity of pleasure. I let out a provoking giggle, putting my finger between my teeth, knowing he likes that gesture. This is my favourite battle, control. He enjoys superiority with his physical power, but every now and then I sweep the rug beneath his feet. And though he loves it when I am his good girl, sprawling and letting him take what he wants, when I am bad, the beast is willing to split my ass in half.

Guess I won this round. 

Henry unbuckles the harness from his waist as I step back. He takes the towel from the bench and wipes his face. My eyes fixate on the still hard swelling in his nether area. I could offer to take care of it for him, but I am not feeling this generous right now. Better keep his stamina for home, so I can actually get me a proper shag in a nice, clean bed with a nice, clean husband that doesn’t smell like an entire rugby team.

“Go wait in the reception.” he demands, his tone anything but sweet right now. 

“Don’t take too long.” I demand in return as I turn around, flipping back my hair and letting it slide down my ass. I can hear his frustrated groan behind me, just before I leave the room. It makes me lose myself in a burst of chuckles. 

~*~

Henry meets me downstairs, a serious expression on his face. His gaze doesn’t meet mine, letting me know that unlike myself, he is vastly unamused. He takes my wrist in his big hand and leads me outside while smiling to bid bored receptionist goodbye. 

I am forced to follow his large strides. Being a tall man, every step of his is equal to three small ones of mine. Even though it seems like his “problem” subsided, he’s not exactly interested in waiting.

He’d always be tender in his behaviour towards me, a respectful gentleman who knows how to treat women. Sure, he can rearrange a guy’s skull, but he never raised his voice at me. He’d take a walk outside the house and then return to so we can have a talk like adults. 

But this is not a fight. This is but our favourite little war. Ongoing from the day we met.

I notice that we are not going to the car. Instead, he leads me to a narrow, dark space between two buildings. I can smell the damp sidewalk, the scent of earlier rain filling my nose. This spot is anything but romantic or erotic, with street cats screeching at the back and the sounds of trash cans being hit as they bounce on top of the lids.

Finally, he towers above me. His hand lets go of mine and hold it open in front of me with a demanding look in his eyes.

“Take off your panties.” 

I let out a bemused laugh, dry and short as I am uncertain of his odd demand. But he holds out his hand at the stern request, motioning for me to do as I’m told. 

“Here?!” I ask, looking around to see if there is anyone who might be a voyeur on our little engagement. The last thing I need is our agents scolding us again for photos of us being inappropriate in public places. Gretchen swears we make these mess on purpose. We kinda do, because we can’t keep away from one another.

“You want another one of your fancy pairs turned into rubbish?” he threatens.

I comply, breathing out like a brat and leaning down to take off my underwear for him. I place it in his hand and move back against the wall, anticipating his next move. I guess “Cavill and wife caught doing cardio after the gym!” could be a funny headline, better than the one at the hotel at the Academy Awards.

Henry folds the small material in his hand, holding it in his fist as if it’s something he can actually squeeze, before shoving it into his pocket. He grabs something else in exchange. I hear the chink of his car keys, dangling between his fingers as he offers them to me.

“You drive.”

There are no explanations, nor can I make anything of his behaviour. My man is willed with the control of his emotions. To outburst is to be weak, I am keen on that, my own terrible flaw. It only pisses me off more to see him keeping himself so relaxed while I am always the one who sees fire. 

I follow his order, walking after him silently as he leads me to where he parked the car. Having no underwear beneath my short skirt is anything but convenient right now, especially when I have to enter the vehicle and crouch down. 

I try fixing my skirt to cover myself, feeling the leather of the seat beneath my ass and other regions while Henry begins messing with the music player. I can see the small smirk at the corner of his lip, it’s evident that he’s having himself a good time knowing how uncomfortable I am at this very moment.

I roll my eyes at him and try closing my knees together as much as I can while stepping my foot on the gas.

He puts on Queens of the Stone Age and takes the passenger seat back, remembering he needs more legroom than I usually require. His head turns to face me, his lips sucked into his mouth in a cunning gesture.

“Had yourself a good time?” 

His hand reaches toward my knee, grazing at the bone with featherlike movements. It tickles, I am forced to move my knee from him involuntarily, but he keeps it in place, resting his entire large hand on my kneecap.

“I’m driving…” I warn him, keeping my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road.  

I can tell he is smirking wickedly, his eyes staring at the road ahead of us carefully and then back at me. His fingers make their way up my thigh, snakelike on my bare skin. His palm is large and warm, pressing onto my inner thigh while his thumb draws invisible circles on my skin.

“Henry…” I warn again, feeling cool air blowing against my lips as he forces my legs to part wider for him. “You’ll get us killed!”

“Then focus on the road.” he commands, licking his lips. His fingers meet my wetness in a touch so tender it’s almost a phantasm, yet still there, undoubtedly making me swallow a sigh and squirm slightly in my seat. It’s as if he is testing the water first, a slight brush before plunging in and damn if he doesn’t push into me with his fingers, pressing three of his large digits to massage my heat. 

“Fuck!” 

I am fighting to keep my eyes open, my hands clutching at the steering wheel while my left foot kicks at the floor. 

“Maybe we should stop.” I suggest, nearly pleading. 

“Keep driving, we’re almost home.” he answers, sounding relaxed. The amused grin has vanished from his face, replaced with the severeness of pride and triumph.

He strokes my cunt between his fingers in a tight grip, his fingers running up and down, playing with my wetness, smearing it across his hand before plunging two of his knuckles inside me as we stop at a red light. I am very much aware that other drivers might see us, so does he, but he seems to care very little if anyone spots him pleasing his wife. 

“Aww…” he mocks me, hearing the helpless cry that pushes out of my throat. “You shouldn’t have been such a bad little girl.” he teases some more, his fingers now plunging in and out with excitement. I allow myself to grind at the surface of his palm to achieve more friction at the base of my clit so maybe we can finish this quickly before the light is green.

But he’s the one in charge of my satisfaction now. He holds his hand further, so I will have none of it and keeps the stimulation only at the rim of my cunt, his fingers circling my entrance. 

“Too bad you had to tease me like that.” he murmurs in his low voice, his fingers slowly withdrawing and only his thumb grants my clit with a small tender brush.

 “Now you’ll have to wait, and be a good girl for daddy.”     

I let out another cry, arching toward the wheel and biting on my lips. It's not out of pleasure, but out of torturous frustration as he withdraws completely. I give him a quick, infuriated stare, seeing how he sucks his fingers victoriously, enjoying every single drop of his sweet win.

Feeling slick between my thighs, I press slightly harder on the gas pedal, trying to get us home faster. Henry pumps the volume of the music player higher.

Watch you come from above

I'm so needy for love, I'm desperate,

Greedy in slavery I sneak around from behind I got a one track mind We got a skin on skin thing baby I want to lick you too much I hear you comin ooh aaaah baby 

~*~

The moment we enter the house I lock the door and try to make my move but he has his hand on my throat in less than a second, squeezing not too tight, but tight enough to make a point. His blue eyes scan my face, his soft tongue slithering across the freckle of his lower lip with arousal. 

“Get on your knees, little one. You’re not off the hook yet.” 

I gasp at his fierceness, weak against his charisma and beauty. I stroke his face, still sticky with sweat from earlier, my fingers are gently smoothing against the stubbles on his high cheekbones and at the dimple of his chin. 

“Please, daddy, just fuck me already,” I bargain. 

“I’m wet and ready for you.”

“On your knees.” he repeats himself, his lips twitching to a small grin as he sees my defeat. His hand slightly releases my neck, his fingers pet my chin and jaw and finally entangle in my hair as I fall to my knees slowly, levelling myself at the height of his groin. His hand strokes my head lovingly, pressing my chin against his growing arousal as I look up to him with fake innocence.  

“Are you gonna be good now?” he asks, his fingers twirling around my long hair lovingly. 

“Yes, daddy.” I nod, waiting to have his cock in me, in any part of me. I want to touch myself so badly, my pussy throbs with desperate eagerness to be stuffed by his huge cock. . 

“I want to see you crawl on fours and wait for me in the living room, babygirl.” he growls at me while discarding his blue top on the wooden floor, exposing his thick hairy chest. 

“I want to look at your cunt as you move for me before I’ll destroy it. You’ve been such a nasty girl today.” 

I shiver at his words, a shrill of air kicks out of my lungs at once. My toughness is down to non-existing. I let him have it, I let him have it all. I crawl on my knees and palms like a cat in heat, my ass exposed for him. My cunt drips with primal desire to be conquered by this menacing alpha. I stop for a moment and then look behind me. I see him kicking off his shoes, his sweats slipping down his thick thighs along with his briefs before he continues to follow me, holding his erection in his hand, massaging the base of his cock while looking at me to open wide for him.

I reach the furry white IKEA carpet in our living room and wait for him, still on all fours. His heavy footsteps make the wood creak beneath his weight which alerts me that he’s close. The heat of his body is near. I feel the aura of his body as he falls down to his knees carefully behind me. 

His hands smooth against the curve of my ass, appreciating my shape to the point of worshipping my flesh. He takes the time to study again what he knows better than I do, trailing up to lift my skirt until it’s hiked around my belly. He then pushes my shirt, prompting me to take it off. Not an easy task to perform on all four limbs.

For one lingering moment, his hands roam across my body, massaging my muscles, pinching my nipples between his fingers. I moan beneath his large hands as he coaxes me into being his little plaything, succumbing to his will. Possessive fingers grip my shoulder and in a sudden movement, I’m pressed with my back down while Henry pushes my legs apart with his knees. 

“I just love to look at your face when I fuck you, babygirl.” he explains, his hands pulling my legs violently against his hips to position me as he desires. That way, we can both enjoy the show of his cock slipping in and out of my slit.

I squirm beneath him, my hands reaching for his chest to stroke at the thick dark hair and hardened pecs. “Please, fuck me.” I beg to the point of whining as I look at his sturdy cock, admiring every vein and ridge that decorates his impressive size. Henry takes himself and begins to tease my entrance, making teasing groaning voices while I plea so weakly. 

But that’s only to prepare me for his brutal invasion. He lets out a loud husky shout as he pushes in, penetrating me with such vulgarness, it takes the air out of my lungs. I am split in half, feeling how my body stretches immediately to bind itself to him. 

My narrow slit tries to remain resilient while Henry keeps himself nested between my lush folds, a groan of pure pleasure vibrates through his glorious chest before he takes my jaw in his great hand and makes me look at him to see the sin in his eyes.

“Good girl…”  he calls out in his deep low voice, pulling himself out slowly and then slamming back inside me in with a slippery wet slap. I gasp, my entire body shuddering in his veiny arms. 

“Good girl.” He speaks again, letting the words roll and linger on his tongue.

His rhythm is somewhere between torturous to divine. When he pulls away he does it ever so slowly, watching with perverse fascination his own cock as it slides out my narrow entrance just before he slams back in. Henry promised that he will destroy me; he never breaks a promise. I already feel how my muscles are thrown into a paradox, trying to resist him yet have him deeper and deeper with each one of his amazing thrusts.  

“Look at how you take me,” he calls in a guttural voice, urging me to look at our union. “You have such a tight succulent cunt, baby.” 

It feels almost too sinful to stare, my entire existence shivers at the sight. His big beautiful cock enters me, slick with my juices as he increases the pace. I’m petite but with him inside I’m forced to expand, my body stealing his shape, embracing him with devotion, wanting him to be like this forever.

His wide thighs are placed right beneath my legs, his right hand silks its way down my hip and grips me roughly as he pounds me in increasing speed. With one hand still on my jaw, he presses his fingers to my mouth where I suck and bite at him. He always wants me to look at him, loves it when I’m hopeless beneath him when my mouth cries for him while he stuffs me with his cock, over and over again. 

I squirm to meet his pelvis. He fucks me so raw that no actual words come out of my mouth but the mewls of a small, helpless animal instead. Being hunted for sport rather than eating. I grind my clit against his pubic bone to elicit more delightful friction, getting me closer and closer. But I’m stealing control and he’ll have none of that right now. 

He shoves us down, pinning my hands against each side of my head while his groin is holding me down to the surface in complete captivity. I am hurting for a mere moment as he shoves too forcefully. His apology is a deep passionate kiss which he is forced to break as we both gasp for air with every merciless push of his loins into mine. 

“Fuck babygirl!” He leans his forehead against mine, a feral gaze in his eyes. I lock my legs around his waist, my body losing every grip it ever had on control as the warmth begins to throb at the base of my cunt, spreading from my womb towards every nerve until I feel nothing but love flowing through my body.

I pant in awe, my voice adding to his deep growls and husky gasps which only become louder as his orgasm looms closer with the tightness of my cunt around his swelling cock. It sucks him harder, demanding his release, milking him of his offering until he shudders through me and yells out my name. 

The gush of warmth that spills inside me is my second favorite thing in the world. I moan with sweet delight as his cream coats me inside.

“I love you so much.” he whispers, holding me in his protective embrace as if to apologize for fucking me so hard.

I’d imagine that after such a long time together he’d already figure it out that I’m the one provoking it.

“What’s the name of that device again?.. the one I was…”

“Glute drive.”

“Glute drive, yeah, we’ll do that again soon…” I suggest, nibbling at his ear playfully while he remains on top of me.

~*~

Song lyrics are by Queens of the Stone Age - Skin on Skin

[coffee-imagines]

Wrong Houses Pt 2

part one

Pairing: Draco x weasley!reader

Warnings: none

A/N: I wasn’t sure what I was going to do for this but then I got an idea and got excited so here we go :) I’m glad a lot of you liked the first part. Also can we talk about how iconic Molly’s howler to Ron is in the movie?

Summary: After a letter home an unexpected surprise arrives during lunch

———————————–

You’d started crying the second your face hit your pillow, the feelings from the past five years hitting you all at once. You felt overwhelmed, your body shaking when your cries turned to sobs. There was no way you could go home now, not after what Ron had told you. You felt like a bother to your family, and inconvenience that they had to deal with because of your differences. The sound of footsteps made you hide your face deeper into the pillow and try to calm your shaking, thinking one of your dormmates had come back to get something.

“Y/N.” Draco’s voice filled your ears, his hand softly touching your back. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, knowing you would only cry harder. “I’m here, it’s okay.” He assured you, helping you sit up before he pulled you in for a hug. You clung to him, crying into his neck while he whispered reassurances in your ear and rubbed your back. It had taken a while but you finally stopped shaking, your tears falling silently, hitting Draco’s neck and sliding down wetting the collar of his shirt.

“I don’t… I don’t want to...” You stuttered out, trying to find your words but Draco shushed you, playing with your hair to try and calm you down fully before you tried speaking again. You took a few deep breaths, closing your eyes trying to focus on Draco instead of everything else. “I don’t want to go home.” You whispered in his neck. “I don’t ever want to go back home.” You sniffed, hugging Draco tighter.

“You don’t have to. My parents actually like you. I’m sure if I write a letter home my mom will let you stay with us.” Draco explained and you nodded, pulling your head away from his neck. Draco’s heart clenched when he saw your tear stained face, the complexion of your skin almost matching your red hair, your nose even redder and your bottom lip still quivering. “You’re going to be okay.” Draco reassured you, leaning down to kiss the tears away. You closed your eyes, and a small smile made its way on your face when Draco softly kissed your eyelids.

“I’m going to write a letter to my parents. They should know I’m not going to come home.” You explained softly and Draco nodded in agreement. 

You took a deep breath, reaching over in all of your belongings to get a paper and a quill. It took a while before the quill touched the paper. You were trying to find the right words to say. Writing the letter didn’t make you happy, it hadn’t been like you really wanted to leave your family, but at this point you felt like it was the only way it would make them happy and stop worrying about how you turned out. There wasn’t a day that went by that you didn’t feel guilty about how everything had turned out, and you refused to spend the rest of your life being reminded of something that was out of your control.

Molly and Arthur Weasley,

I know I don’t normally write home, but I have something important to tell the both of you that just can’t wait. I have suspected that I have been a disappointment to this family since my first day here at Hogwarts, and according to Ron’s words my suspicions are correct. It hurts to think that I have ruined the legacy of my own family and not been sorted into what we perceive to be the correct house. Although I’ve also upset everyone with my relationship with the Malfoy’s son, that I won’t apologize for. I refuse to apologize for something that makes me happy, but I will apologize for the mistake that was made by me being sorted into Slytherin instead of Gryffindor like the rest of the family. 

I unfortunately cannot change the past, but I will take it upon myself to change the future and not continue to burden everyone in the family with my presence. I will hopefully be staying with the Malfoy family, but if not then I will find another way. I no longer feel like I am a part of this family, and although I haven’t for a while, being called a disappointment to my face is where I have to draw the line. It doesn’t bring me any pleasure writing this letter. It pains me that I will have to leave my family, because although I care about all of you greatly, I guess that doesn’t go both ways. Any of my things that Ginny can use she can have, but the rest I will give to the twins to sell in order to help them with their plans for the future. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the child you wanted and I’m sorry that things had to turn out the way they did. I will miss all of you greatly, but I understand if you don’t feel the same toward me.

Good wishes always, Y/N Weasley

Your hand shook while you wrote, the words coming out in shaky lines, some tears falling onto the page that made the ink smear. You sniffed and bit your lip to keep yourself from balling all over again, squeezing your eyes shut when Draco placed his hand on your back.

“Don’t touch me.” You whispered softly and shook your head. You were trying too hard to keep it together, but you knew if he tried comforting you you’d only break down again and let it all out. Draco’s hand moved away from you and you let out the breath you were holding. Clearing your throat and wiping your face you stood up, grabbing an envelope you folded the letter silently before slipping it in. You wrote everything you needed down on the front and you turned to Draco. “Come with me?” You asked, your eyes soft showing how much you’d actually been hurting, but your face almost looked as though you hadn’t been crying, the only thing giving you away was your puffy eyes.

Draco nodded and stood up, walking as close to you as you allowed him. All the way to the owlery you would move a bit away anytime Draco brushed against you, walking in silence. You had nothing else to say, wanting to forget about everything with your family, you even went as far as thinking about changing your hair a different color so you wouldn’t resemble any of your family members, but you knew you couldn’t. A small pit formed in your stomach when you watched the owl take off with your letter, but you took a breath and brushed off the feeling, finally grabbing Draco’s hand when you both walked back to the Slytherin common room.

That night Draco had sent an owl home to his mom about your situation, asking if you’d be able to stay and start living with them for the rest of your time at Hogwarts. The following days you’d avoided your siblings like the plague, especially Ron. You were lucky enough to only have one class with your brother, and you both sat on opposite ends of the room. You’d felt his eyes on you during class, but you never looked in his direction, wanting to put as much distance between you and your family that you possibly could. You wanted to get used to them not being in your life anymore, and not living with you anymore. This had been the only time you were happy to be a Slytherin, being in different houses making it easier to not see them. The only time you had to actually see your brother’s were at Quidditch games, and you were glad that those were the only times, knowing you wouldn’t have been able to handle anything more.

Everything had started taking its toll on you, every day you would be mentally exhausted, a heavy weight seeming to hold you down. Draco wasn’t the only one who had noticed this, your entire house could see it, and it only made the rival between the Gryffindor’s and Slytherin’s thicken. Slytherin’s had always stuck by their own through anything and you’d definitely proved how much you belonged in your house over the years, shocking even the people who had thought the hat had messed up your first year.

You were resting against Draco’s side, picking at the food on your plate. You’d lost most of your appetite, usually eating when Draco would be with you, but today had felt different. It had been hard throughout the past few days, and the second you’d gotten up in the morning you felt more exhausted than you ever had before. You smiled softly when Draco started playing with your hair and you finally decided to start eating when you felt your stomach grumble softly. You kept your head on Draco’s chest while you ate, wishing you’d been able to stay in the common room with him instead. Owls started flying overhead but you ignored them, not expecting any mail to come from home since it never did.

“Ronald Weasley!” Your mother’s voice filled the great hall making your head shoot up from your plate. You watched in amazement, your family owl flying over and sitting on you after dropping a letter in your hand. “How dare you speak to your sister that way! I am absolutely disgusted! I want an explanation sent home and an apology to your sister right this instant! If I hear anything from her about you again I’ll have you brought straight home!” Your mother yelled in your brother’s face and your face turned red in embarrassment. The howler turned to the rest of your sibling but you drowned it out, looking down and opening the letter that had been dropped in your hands.

Y/N,

Don’t you even think about leaving. Your father and I care about you dearly, and we do not agree with what your brother has said. We will have a discussion as a family when you all come home for the summer. Let me know if they give you any more trouble.

Love, Mom

You smiled down at the letter in your hand. Although short, it had everything you needed to hear in it. You were pulled out of your thoughts when you heard all the Slytherin’s around you laughing, pulling your attention to the Howler that had barely finished scolding all of your siblings. Ron had been walking across the hall almost in shame, almost every student laughing to themselves at the scene they had just witnessed. You watched anxiously, wondering if he was going to come over and make your mother’s words seem like nothing. The rest of the Slytherin’s watched with you, surely making Ron’s nerves way worse because of all the eyes that had been on him. You’d been surprised to even see the teachers watching the scene before them.

“Y/N listen.” Ron started, rubbing the back of his neck, his face already red. “I’m sorry for being a prat. I was upset and shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He explained, your attention averting to the sea of red hair that had been making their way over. “We all don’t care that you’re in Slytherin. It’s just weird to us, and we need time to get use-” He continued but you cut him off.

“Five years isn’t enough?” You asked softly, biting the inside of your cheek. You felt overwhelmed, feeling too many things at once made your bottom lip threaten to quiver.

“We don’t mind it.” The twins explained and Ginny agreed next to them. You knew they hadn’t cared, but hearing it seemed to make you feel a bit better. You turned your attention to Ron, waiting for his explanation.

“We used to do everything together, then we came here and separated and I didn’t like it.” Ron explained, shocking you. “I know I should have talked to you about it instead of pushing you away all these years but I never knew how. I just wanted my sister back, but instead I pushed you away and hurt you instead and for that I am sorry. Really.” Ron apologized, making you nod slowly.

“Thank you.” You whispered, looking down at your lap trying to think. “I need time.” You explained looking back up to Ron.

“How much?” He asked hopefully, and you bit back a smile.

“I’d say about five years.” You tried saying seriously, but you and your other siblings ended up laughing at the look on Ron’s face. They turned to walk away and you nodded to Ron, knowing the both of you would most likely talk later that day.

“My mom said you can come stay with us whenever you need to if you still want.” Draco explained breaking the silence, holding a letter you hadn’t noticed before. 

“I don’t think I will just yet.” You smiled, watching your sibling walking back to the Gryffindor table turning and kissing Draco’s cheek softly.

———————————–

Tag list: Let me know if you’d like to be added

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[candyopala]

Stuck in his ways, chapter 3

Chapter summary:  Y/N hit her head, will everything be okay? Obito struggles.

Words: 1.4k

AO3

Please reblog or leave a like if you enjoy <3

Shit, shit, shit! She hit her head, why did she pass out of nowhere? 

Obito knew he was not cut for babysitting jobs, but he would not have imagined that he would end up fucking it up so bad. Yeah, he was trying to get rid of the girl so that he could go back to his usual missions, but he had not planned anything like this. 

Ok, she still has a pulse at least, but her breathing is too slow. Classic case of chakra exhaustion. But did she even use that many jutsu? He only saw that one chakra punch, nothing else, not even a single clone or substitution jutsu. How can she be already exhausted? 

He tries his best to infuse his chakra into her, even if his medical jutsu is mediocre at best, he only recalls the basics that Ri-she taught him. 

Y/N looks peaceful, but this situation still sends chills up on Obito’s spine. He was supposed to take care of this girl, but he failed her, he failed someone again. Yet again, someone dies in his arms and this time he is actively guilty for it. Images of the rivers of blood of that night flash through his mind. 

His sharingan records Y/N’s face while she sleeps without his knowledge due to the immense stress this is causing him. He hyperventilates, he gets desperate and he struggles to calm back down. This is different from when a partner gets hurt in his usual missions: this is his fault. Why did he have to test her like that?  

As a shinobi he should be used to death surrounding him, it is the way of this world. A world that he promised to change when he saw his friend die, a world that he vowed to bring peace to when he, Kakashi and Minato killed Madara and Zetsu. And that was a promise he seeks to achieve by becoming the next Hokage… but what kind of Hokage fails to save his friends and subordinates? 

After doing what he can to stabilize Y/N, he picks her up on his lap. He is afraid of carrying her back to the village, since moving her body too much could cause a broken bone to perforate nearby organs and such. 

As a ninja, he knows he has to finish this mission, but as a person, he feels that something tells him to take care of this girl. Of course, she is rude, proud, bratty and inconsequential, he has only spent three hours beside her and both cannot stand each other, but he just feels… no… anyway, he just needs to make sure she does not get herself killed… if she even wakes up after this. 

Looking at the top of the trees, he sees a lonely bird flying aimlessly from branch to branch, no partner in sight. He closes his eye in anger. 

“Fuck… how long have I been out for?”

Glancing down Obito sees that Y/N has regained conscience and is even moving around a little bit. She seems confused by the close proximity between them, looking back and forward to his arm holding her and his face. 

Flustered and suddenly very self-conscious, Obito places her back on the ground, distancing his gaze from hers, embarrassed from having been so visibly worried. 

“For a couple of minutes. You hit your head though, so we have to make sure you don’t fall asleep again”

“Well, I’m a grown up gal, I can take care of myself, besides, you seem too worried for someone who was just dropkicking me minutes after we met” 

“Don’t give yourself too much credit; I’m just doing good on my mission. Are you feeling any pain?”

“Nope, good as new. I’m heading to my apartment, see ya crepp”

With this Y/N tries to get up, only to unbalance herself and fall back on her butt on the ground. Obito makes a show of rolling his only eye as visibly as possible in annoyance. He gets up himself and extends his hand to her to help her get up.

 Did I throw stones at some temple in another life to deserve this?

As if trying to check for people around, Y/N takes her time before accepting the Uchiha’s help. With a grunt, she is up, but she shows no capability of being able to sustain her own weight, so Obito puts her arm over his shoulders for balance.  

“Hold on tight”

 ~”~  

 If having to walk around the village with dirt all over her face, body and hair wasn’t enough, Y/N just had to be paraded around draped onto some dude. He did smell nice, even after that earlier scuffle they had. Yes, the scuffle! How could she forget? She caught the bells all right, but she passed out right after. He is certainly taking her to pack her things and kick her out of the leaf. 

“Are you… Am I getting kicked out?”

“What? No, I have no power to do that”

She almost falls on her back again as she begins to violently gesture at the Uchiha. Of course he was bluffing, why wouldn’t him? 

“You fucker! I knew it!”

“Calm down princess, we’ll talk after you get out of the hospital, stop making a fool out of yourself in the middle of the street, right?”

“Hospital? No fucking way sir! I want to go back to my apartment, and make a plan on how to torture you until the end of time-”

“Sure, sure, like you could actually make my life even worse” He says as he lets out a dry laugh

Y/N actually knows that she should go check that head injury, but it’s not like she would ever admit that to the Uchiha, so she just lets him guide her to the village hospital. Arriving there, Obito leaves her with the nurses that from beyond that point put her through a gigantic set of exams. 

If the tons of prodding in the process of joining the village weren’t enough, she now goes through the night taking CAT-scans and having sensors stuck in her head with some nasty jelly in them. She will never forgive Obito for this whole situation. Yeah, she should not have gone through with techniques she knew would be too extreme, but she just had to show to him what she was made of, after all, no one has the right to talk to her like that. 

As she ponders about her mean mentor, the nurse comes back with some bad news: she might have a concussion, so she must not sleep for 24 hours at least, just to make sure it doesn’t evolve into a coma or something of sorts. 

This is, again, all Obito’s fault.

Yeah, he’ll pay, for sure. But how?

Instantly, a small light turns on over her head. Staying up for that long would for sure be a challenge all by herself; she doesn’t even have her tv installed yet, for fucks sake. She should find herself a companion for the next hours, someone that can entertain her. What’s more entertaining than torturing an asshole? 

It must be at least three in the morning when Y/N reaches the Uchiha district. She has searched over ten house’s windows at this point, but no Mr. Creep in sight, that is, until she reaches her final destination. It’s a small but charming wooden house, clearly very old in age but very well taken care of. As she looks into a small window at the back she sees a man with his back turned and the infamous eyepatch bandana sitting over the bedside table. 

That’s it!

After carefully checking, she sees that the man lives alone. Good, he’s single. Wait, why is that good? To see that I’m not intruding some poor family’s house, sure! That’s all, ok? Anyway, Y/N opens the window slowly and climbs into the room, which is surprisingly tidy and clean. 

Obito sleeps soundly in the bed in the middle of the room, with his belly facing down and sprawled all over the numerous sheets that cover him. Quickly heading to the kitchen, Y/N grabs a saucer and a big spoon, banging both of them against each other as she waltz into the room again.

“Wake the fuck up, Obito Uchiha!” she screams as she bangs the pan and laughs hysterically. 

Her joy is cut short when she stumbles upon the following scenario: Obito jumps up from his bed, standing confused with sleeping wrinkles all over his left side and wearing only boxers.

“Huh…”   

[a-life-lesson-in-submission]

Inside a Submissives Soul

Dear Diary -

I honestly think I am wearing rose tinted glasses. Everytime I see Sir I feel so content, I feel such an inner peace, I feel happiness, everything else doesn't seem to matter anymore.

Straight into his arms, our lips meet, I am instantly taken, I am only his, he is all that matters. I am very self conscious in body and mind. Sir says I don't give myself enough credit, checking over my body, he is approving, I feel attractive, I feel like a woman. He lifts me so I am straddled over his lap, I can feel all of him pressed against me. My lust for him, my attraction to him is pulled in, his gravity is strong. He is cheekily spanking me here and there, the impact turning my grinning into more of a smile, apparently I am a bad girl. Yes, yes I am and cannot wait for my confidence to grow to be able to show him how bad I really am.

We stand up, he has me sit infront of him, he leans in, grips my neck, we are kiss tastingly close, I lose myself in his eyes for a moment, I just want every part of him and I want it now. He lifts the girls out to play, a tweak here and there, it's always just enough to make me tingle whilst barely wincing.

I am relieved from my clothing with all but my thong and ankle socks on... yes... socks... he did this for his own amusement knowing it bothers me... nevertheless, I kept them on, I made sure I obeyed him.

I am to stand again but before I do, he prompts me for my right hand, more specifically, my wrist and wraps a strong velcro strap around with a connecting carabiner clip hook attached, then does the same with the other wrist. As I stand, he guides my wrists up to the hooks within the wall and clips each wrist to them. There isn't much room to maneuver. Facing away from him, his lips, his breath trace my skin, before long his fingers get to work on my sensitives. He pulls my thong down to around my knees, his right hand then starts to play from the back, his left around my front. I am in ecstasy and very noticeably wet. I push back, pull forward, up on my tiptoes, pulling at the restraints, breathing all over the place, moans and groans expressing my pleasure. I get so close a few times. He says 'cum', 'like a good girl, I immediately want to, I need to, I wish I could there and then. He spends so much time working me with his fingers, quickly and deeply to slow and sensual, it gets me everytime. I look down seeing him rubbing me, I am thinking 'that's it, yes please'. He said he could do this for hours, I could take this for hours. Here and there he would spank me, spank my peaches, my sensitives and the girls. Between my head elsewhere and my body on the edge of succumbing to him, I am aware his hand that he is using to finger her changes slightly and now I can feel a thumb perched on my peach rim pushing ever so slightly, I push back encouraging access. I am so very close becoming frustrated at myself wanting that release, my grunts make this quite noticeable.

I am unable to control my jolts and twitches, I don't know how he does it feel second nature with him, completely natural. He chuckles, he seems to really like my responses, he feels my insides pulsate around his fingers.

I am enjoying every second but then I move my right hand and realise its gone to sleep, I let him know through an almost breathless giggled murmur. He asks if he should stop, I respond that he is ok to continue to which he does but only for a little longer. Removing the restraints my right hand is numb, I begin wiggling and shaking it around to bring feeling back, he gives it a little massage as I get pins and needles. I am allowed to lose the thong he informs me but the socks stay put.

I am then asked to kneel on the seat infront of him. He gropes at my peach and tells me to never change it, I tell him I won't let myself drop much more weight and he rolls his eyes as he receives a giggle and kiss pressed against his lips. He then lifts me again, man I love that he can carry me around the way his does even if I am mindful of him dropping me or hurting himself in some way. Again he eases my worries as I am sat up on the raised bed and advises me to lay on my back once again exposing my holes to him. I flinch as the cool lube hits my skin, Sir again chuckles, 'it never gets old'... a stray thought with my inner voice responding that I really hope it never does. I try to express my sarcastic gratitude through cheeky back chat but words escape me as per, an instruction from Sir to hold myself open for him soon has me back on track.

My knees up and wide, he is teasing, probing, he goes through how many fingers, 1, 2, 3 and 4. He notices 2 and 3 has a profound response. I feel something new, something firm yet feathery and very moist, Sir treats me to his tongue, bathing her, finding my sweet spots. He finds my bit after seeking under the flesh folds, flicking, teething, he's everywhere, it's amazing. I can't hold my legs open, I'm writhing, tensing, relaxing, I'm here then I'm gone again, it's closer than ever. My arms fall to each side of me, his come up to reach over them, at first it is a mutual grip that soon turns into a form of restraint. Its building, my legs move, coming in close over his shoulders, my hips rock back and forth, this is it, it's finally here. My body begins to quake, he continues to feed me, my mind goes into overdrive as I feel a wave of deep pleasure fill my senses. Intense sensitivity ripples through me, automatically I attempt to pull away but I can't, his strength is far greater than mine, he holds me in place as he continues to eat me. If this is heaven, I am there. In my come down he is soothing me with his tongue coming to a stop, all I can muster is 'wow', I am beaming and laugh to myself, I can't remember what he said but I know I gave him the double thumbs up to which he says playfully he will go for a triple thumbs up giving her a little lick kiss.

I bring myself to sit up, I need water and before I know it, he's naked. Instant thought 'phwoar', but I actually say 'bumchickawowow', I amuse myself. Sir asks me to move over so he can come up onto the bed, I move to the side but he moves me back as he comes up between my legs. He is over me, hands at each side of my head, my hands quickly meet his body as I feel his member between my thighs, against her, he is ready and so am I. A little tease, I reach down to aim him towards her, Sir says 'ah ah ahaaa', as a let nature take its course and with that, he enters, sitting at the brim before he begins to push as she gives him a warm welcome. I squirm, he feels so big, he feels so tantalisingly awesome. Later I am told he finds my reactions incredibly cute, the way my eyes roll back into me head, almost cross eyed. Only he has this power over me.

My eyes meet his, I am easily lost in them, my hands feel his neck, shoulder, chest and body as his motions from one moment are taunting, another moment they are hard. I want him as deep as he can go, he raises my legs over his shoulders and buried himself within me further. My gawd he is just amazing. His breathing changes, my legs move back to the sides of him, he is thrusting deep asking me if I will cum over him, I nod with a barely there 'yes'. He prewarns me he is close and before I know it I feel his release begin to flow, as he pumps I feel myself release with him. Our bodies merge, foreheads lock together, once or twice nearly headbutting eachother in the process, my fingertips grip him, I want this to last forever for the both of us. It's powerful, it's perfect as he hammers our releases into and out of me. Smiling ear to ear, I can't help but sigh blissfully to myself, our bodies begin to relax and come to a slow stop, naturally our bodies begin to let go of one another, breaking away gently and lots of twitching eeks on my part.

He moves to lay by my side, stating that wasn't his plan, I ask what was his plan, he answers it was to go on longer. I am not disappointed, I make this known and I am more than satisfied with the results and he can be too. Embracing eachother closely, it's quiet, he says I shouldn't fall asleep as he jokes he is not like other men that just roll over and go to sleep, this is something I have said to him before, as much as men do this, I feel I could do too but I am not tired, I am content. Deeply content. I love every moment we have together, from daily message exchanges, the hello when we meet and become instantly close to getting ourselves ready to head back to reality but these moments, when we lay together, these mean everything to me. I am safe, I am happy, I am his.

We talk about anything and everything, his mind is fascinating, the way he is wired, he really is something else and it's wonderful, it's refreshing, his whole being is everything I could ever hope and dream for in a man. We spend some time like this, our fingers tracing one another's skin sharing comfort in eachother, before the alarm sounds. I break away to deal with the demanding noise, hydrate and he prompts me back up to lay with him alittle longer.

We continue to talk, bare pressed against eachother, he educates me on his experiences in places he has visited, clubs etc. It is ever so interesting, I will look forward to being able to see this for myself one day. Although I am not likely to partake, I would very much like to observe but you never know as Sir encourages me to grow on this journey, my confidence may allow me to feel that I am able to interact alittle more physically with others too, who knows. I read, I explore online in attempts to research and understand the many varieties of kink as some is rather niche but each to their own, I do not judge, I just wish to understand how it all works, what triggers an individual to need such experiences in their life, what about it fulfills them. I say I am unsure if I will have a label in the type of submissive I am and likely to become as I feel I have traits from each label but Sir says this is what is unique about this world, you don't have to have a label, we are all who we are, it is not something you can compare with another, everyone is different in their own right. I am comforted knowing I do not have to present myself as being this or that type of submissive. I am just submissive and what I like is what I like, no labels, just me.

He then moves onto feedback after we have played, how important it is and how open we always need to be. It's a massive learning curve for me as I am used to routine vanilla and keeping things to myself. I am more than happy with everything he is doing but I let him know when he goes slow, that really bites me, I also feel he knows more about my likings than I do in the way my body responds. I will be sure to keep check on myself without adding additional pressure, if Sir is to know me inside outside, I need to be able to express myself clearly to him. Everything he does is spot on, I'm just not used to so much physical and emotional interaction, we're both still very new to eachother but do I feel our exploration is mutually driven. Whatever the destination may be, I can only hope at the very least that we have many, many years together on this journey.

Sir notices he has become hard again and suggests he may have to use my mouth, I tell him I don't do hints as my hand moves to reach him and has alittle play. I am instructed to use my mouth, to which I do without hesitation. My satisfaction in giving warms me, he feels so good against my tongue, taking him into me as far as I can based on my angle. I still feel alittle nervous in pleasuring him, I'm not completely certain as yet of what he really likes and dislikes so my confidence has yet to grow in that respect. I tease his tip between my lips against my tongue causing his legs to tremble, I love this, he does it to me all the time so to know I am having him do the same in return is something I feel amused yet greatly satisfied of. He responds with body language that almost says 'tut tut', a light spank or grip against me informs of this so change my tactic slightly but I know I will always be sure to continue to make him twitch too.

The alarm, once again, sounds, urgh, just rude! I break away again to attend to the noise, however, I don't make it off the bed, my motivation to it seems like effort I don't have. Sir brings himself up behind me catching my attention, he eases himself back into me. The music sounding is drowned out with his movements, I am taken again, reality is lost again. He moves at speed, harder, faster to then a slow tease, I can feel it again, I want more. I continue to receive his actions over and over, soon I feel I want to release, I move a hand to feel him inside me and rub at my sensitives. It's definitely there but she won't budge and that's OK. Neither of us have to release to feel we are fulfilled, it is still very, very much enjoyable but I'm sure he knows how eager he makes me feel.

Time is catching up with us, we stop, I push myself up against him, my back to his chest, it's time to get ourselves together. I move off the bed, gathering myself to get sorted, he is far more in tune than I am, I barely function at times as it is, when I am in his presence it seems even more so that I cannot seem to find my senses, I just feel a constant magnetism that prohibits me from wanting to anywhere else in any other form. Whilst moving around to get dressed, I can feel him inside of me, he is warm, the sensation of him dribbling down my thighs cooling slightly as soon as the air touches me, I have a part of him I can take with me, he will stay there a while.

We are dressed and yes, I kept the ankle socks on for the entire duration! He pulls me in, my back against his chest, he feels and gropes at me, I tell him he is mean to wind me up before leaving me. I am sure he does this to reinforce my want, need and desire for him, safe to say it certainly works. I hope it is there for him too. Snap back to reality whilst sharing playful cheek between us, he really does make me laugh. As much as I back chat, sometimes I am completely dumbfounded, I don't always have the ability to present a come back but as always, not that it's a competition, he wins hands down. After all he is the dominant, he is the boss. Most of all he is my Sir...

[youngerdrgrey]

I know you (even if you don't want me to) // a Batwoman fic, chapter 4

about: After finding out Batwoman’s identity, Sophie tries to trap Ryan with her newfound knowledge. If she’s going to be on the outside, she might as well have some fun – and maybe fall in love along the way. #Wildmoore

CHAPTER FOUR SUMMARY: Ryan’s on a mission to stop Sophie’s crush on Batwoman, but she is very unprepared for what a rejected Sophie is about to do. + read on ao3

previously: read chapter one, chapter two + chapter three

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Unknown to SM (21:37) Hostage situation at the Krell Warehouse. Could use an assist. No Crows.

SM to Unknown (21:42) ETA 20m

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Sophie crouches low at the rendezvous point. A few rusted shipping containers form a makeshift wall on the edge of the warehouse property. Ryan’s fully suited up with her favorite batons ready for the action. She turns them in her hands to try and get rid of her nervous energy.

Sophie nods her way. “Surprised you called for help.”

“Yeah, well….” Technically, Ryan hasn’t called for help. She needs to put space between Sophie and Batwoman, and doing this over text would be even more uncomfortable than doing it in person.

“What do we got?”

“Six people inside — mostly teens who thought cruising an old Wonderland haunt would be a fun way to spend their Friday night.” Ryan points to the second level of the building where a row of boarded up windows give them their best entry point. “One got out a distress call, but False Face is all over the lower level and all the reasonable exits.”

Sophie mulls that over. “Do they know they’ve got company?”

“They found one kid who split off solo. The others are hiding, waiting for us to get them out.” Ryan stands back up.

“How’d you hear about this before us?” Sophie asks.

In a word, Parker. The inherited back-up / hacker teen is a senior now, and she’d reached out to Mary for an assist. Mary caught Ryan up to speed, but there’s not really a quick way to clue Sophie in.

“A little doggy told me.”

Sophie side-eyes Ryan. “I didn’t know riddles were your thing.”

Ryan gets her baton ready. “Saving people’s my thing. Now, I’m going to break through the boards. Draw their attention to me. After that, you find the kids and get them out of here.”

“Aye, aye Captain.” Sophie salutes her.

Ryan hesitates. She could bring Sophie up with her. Get them both into the building the same way. “You want to take the shortcut with me?”

A slow smile curls onto Sophie’s lips. “Yeah?”

Ryan pulls Sophie to her with her left hand. “Hold onto me. Tight.”

Sophie doesn’t need to be told twice. She wraps her arms around Ryan from the left side. Ryan secures her arm around Sophie’s waist, then clicks the button on the baton, launching the zip wire and effectively sending them into the air.

Sophie clings to her tighter. She gives a little gasp that Ryan’s sure will live in her mind rent free. Ryan shifts her weight to push boots first into the wood boards. She kicks through, and the splintering will definitely be enough to get the False Face members’ attention.

She lands firm, and Sophie takes a moment to readjust. Ryan knows she shouldn’t, but she glances up at Sophie. There’s a breathless awe in her that Ryan can’t look away from. Sophie genuinely laughs.

“That was awesome!”

Ryan smiles back despite herself. “Go find the kids. Thank me later.”

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Ryan takes out three different False Face goons. The two remaining ones chase her through the building and out the front doors. It’s not the most effective strategy, but she catches sight of Sophie leading the kids out from the corner of her eye. Parker has the audacity to wave at Ryan, like they’re friends. The girl might’ve been Kate’s chosen teenager, but Ryan is not taking in any strays.

She focuses back on her two shadows. “Aren’t you guys sick of getting your asses kicked at this point?” She assumes her fighting stance while they split masked looks and probably choose who is charging at her first. “I knocked out three of your buddies back there. I broke into your boss's hideout. Gotham is mine.”

A car starts in the distance. The guy in the Seal Mask cheats a glance towards the shipping containers. Ryan takes the opportunity to launch a Batarang at his shoulder. It slices through his jacket like butter. The Monkey Mask runs at her.

She blocks three punches and a kick before getting a roundhouse one of her own straight to his side. Monkey Mask crumbles with the kick. Seal Mask storms right at her, but thankfully, Sophie shocks him with a taser from behind. As he writhes his way to the ground, Ryan chops Monkey Mask in the side of the head to knock him out too.

Sophie pockets her taser. She wipes her hands after. “Kids are gone. They say thank you.”

“Did you tell them this was a one time thing?” Ryan asks.

Sophie nods. “I promised I’d haul them in myself next time.”

Of course she did. Because that’s who Sophie is. How many times has she said those same words to Ryan? Her solution will always be to lock people up and maintain the status Crow. Ryan cannot be a part of that.

She bites the bullet and announces, “There won’t be a next time. Not for us.”

Sophie’s smile drops. “I’m sorry, what? If it’s the Crow thing again, it was a joke—”

“No,” it wasn’t a joke, but it’s now or never to put an end to this. “It’s the Kate thing.”

The mention of Kate works exactly the way Ryan thought it would. A wall builds around Sophie in an instant. Her voice drops to a warning.

“Watch yourself, Batwoman.”

She has to watch out for Gotham. Keep them safe by keeping Sophie out of the Batcave and back with her Crows where she belongs.

“You said it yourself: she was the love of your life. Isn't it a little weird that you’re asking me out for drinks?”

Sophie’s nostrils flare. She grinds out, “It’s a drink. Not a marriage proposal.”

“You’ve already done that part, right?”

Okay, Ryan may have gone too far with that one. But the point is to drive Sophie away. If Sophie thinks Batwoman is a bitch, then Ryan’s in the clear. No more crush, no more problems.

But Sophie spins Ryan around with a vice-like grip on her wrist. She glares down at Ryan, and Ryan’s thankful once again for how the cowl and the wig cast her eyes in shadow.

“And what have you done, besides try to push away the one person who’s repeatedly saved your life? I’m not your enemy, and I’m not going to stand here while you try to use my dead ex against me.”

Sophie’s whole body shakes. Her rage is clear and channeled straight at Ryan. She practically growls, “You want to work alone so badly? Be my guest.” Then storms off into the night.

After a beat, the crackle in the Comms gives way to Luke.

He sighs heavily into his microphone. “Not cool, Ryan.”

Ryan clears her throat. Tries to sound a bit less affected. “Hey, mission accomplished.”

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Screw Ryan. Sophie would normally go for more eloquence, but she’s a little sidetracked. She squares up her shot in the minimalist Crows shooting range. The small scale facility has a row of five shooting stations opposite the targets. On a Friday night, the other Crows are either working or relaxing, so the space is all hers. And Mary’s, who presses a pair of earmuffs tighter onto her ears and squeaks as Sophie takes another shot.

Mary practically screams, “Are you sure that this is how you want to spend Girls’ Night?”

Girls’ Night meaning yet another last minute outing to distract Sophie from how shitty Ryan is acting. At least the last time, Sophie could have a bit of fun. This time, her blood’s boiling, and she grinds her teeth so hard that she might upset a filling.

“Any better ideas?”

Mary gives an incredulous look to Sophie. “There are so many clubs in Gotham. You can take shots instead of shooting them. And… didn’t you used to go shooting with Kate?”

Sophie sets her gun down. “It’s great stress relief.”

“Yeah, so’s dancing. And it’s a lot more fun.” Mary pushes her ear muffs down onto her neck. “I don’t need to know what’s got you so…” She waves a hand at Sophie’s generally tense demeanor. “But you can find plenty of ladies who would love to help you forget about it.”

And forget about Ryan slut-shaming her for even looking like she was moving on. “Look, I can live my life however I want. It’s not disrespecting anyone to do that.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Mary turns knowing eyes up at Sophie. “I also feel like there’s someone else that you want to be saying that to, and it’s not me. So, you work on your speech, and I will cement our spot on the guest list, okay?”

Mary squeezes Sophie’s arm and then excuses herself from the room. She stays right outside, where the pop of Sophie’s next shot is on the other side of the glass. Her phone’s ringing before she really thinks about it.

Ryan groans into the phone upon answering. Then she must hear the muffled shots in the background. “Are you getting shot at?”

“Thankfully, no. Sophie’s got me at the Crows shooting range because someone pissed her off tonight.” Mary rolls her head in a circle and wills some of the tension out of her body. “An hour ago, you two were fine, so want to clue me in how you royally screwed things up?”

Ryan scoffs, and her voice pitches higher in indignation. “She’ll be fine. This is Crowphie we’re talking about.”

Mary watches as Sophie fires off three rounds before her arms drop. Sophie lays the gun down and plants her hands on the wood of the stall in front of her. Her shoulders shake with what may actually be a sob.

“She’s not invincible, Ryan. And you can’t hurt her just to push her away. It’s not fair.”

“When has any of this been fair, Mary?” There’s a thud on the other end, like Ryan’s slamming their fridge. Is she home right now? “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Well, do better. I’m taking her out to hopefully dance through some of this intensity. Maybe tomorrow you can try to fix this. Okay?”

A bottle cap pops on Ryan’s side. She’s definitely got a beer from the fridge. This won’t end well for any of them, will it? Ryan takes a swig that’s loud enough for Mary to hear through the phone.

“Which club?”

Mary sighs.

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Leave it to Mary to pick the one club playing decent music tonight. Ryan half expected Mary to have picked Curse, but Sophie’s not really an EDM kind of girl. Before tonight, Ryan would’ve assumed Sophie’s never been to a club at all. She’s the tight lipped, straight backed type. The type to think of a few drinks at a bar as a wild night.

Tonight, though, Sophie’s hotter than ever. In a tight dress that stops above the knee and heels that make her tower over half the patrons, Sophie’s got the attention of at least half the club. Ryan watches from beside Mary at their table. Sophie had taken one look at Ryan, downed her drink, and gone onto the dance floor.

“She’s not even a good dancer,” Ryan mumbles. Sophie’s a bit too stiff to really be good out there. She does have a natural rhythm though. Everyone around her bends to match it. One particular person with a mullet slips up behind Sophie. Their hand finds Sophie’s hip, and Sophie only misses a beat before dancing again.

Mary twirls the ice around in her drink. “She’s fine.”

She’s vengeful. Sophie gets told one time that she’s moving on too fast, and now she’s grinding with a stranger at a club. If anything, she’s proving Ryan’s point.

Mullet takes Sophie’s hand in their free one and spins Sophie around to face them. The move gets a laugh out of Sophie. The laugh gets a kiss from Mullet. Ryan groans.

She leans across the table to Mary. “I thought this was Girls’ Night.”

Mary shrugs. “Mullet's a girl. Maybe. I'm trying not to assume anyone's gender based on expression. Look, you rejected her, so she’s going to rebound.”

Ryan pulls a disgusted face. It’s not about Mullet in particular. Just, if Sophie’s going to rebound off of Batwoman, couldn’t she do it with somebody interesting? Somebody who will do more than kiss along her neck in a sweaty club surrounded by strangers. Now both of Mullet’s hands are on Sophie’s hips, and Sophie’s head is tilted back like she’s actually enjoying this. Like Mullet has found just the right spot and —

Ryan turns to put her back to the dance floor. “I’m not watching this.”

“You don’t have to. You also… didn’t have to come?” Mary’s voice lilts up at the end. Her face is that mix of carefully constructed curiosity that usually means Mary’s leading Ryan into a trap. “I get that you wanted to see how bad she’s taking it, but I could have just texted you. Imani would’ve loved an impromptu date night.”

Things with Imani aren’t as great as they were before. Imani’s still amazing, but she gets quieter and stares at Ryan like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. The last time Ryan bailed for Bat business, Imani looked absolutely betrayed.

Ryan could keep it to herself, but she blurts out, “Imani doesn’t trust me. I have to bail on half of our dates because of work and after meeting Sophie—”

“Why would she be jealous of Sophie?”

Ryan scratches at the back of her neck. “We may have gotten caught up in an argument in front of Imani.”

Mary hums. “And the two of you forgot anyone else even existed.” She says it like this is something that they do.

“I didn’t forget.” Sophie infuriates Ryan. She’s so sure that she’s right about every little thing, and if Ryan doesn’t correct her, then who will?

“But you didn’t care. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t the woman that you’re sleeping with have your full attention? Not your ‘coworker.’”

Ryan gives her a tight smile. “You’re forgiven.”

Mary turns her eyes back to the crowd. Ryan glances back, and of course, Sophie’s still with Mullet. But as Mullet kisses Sophie’s neck again, Sophie stares across the dance floor straight at Ryan.

Mary claps her hands together. “Alright. You two might want to talk about whatever this is. Preferably before I become an unwilling third and Imani ends up heartbroken.”

Ryan’s halfway out of her chair before she remembers to deny it. “There’s nothing to talk about.” Mary’s sarcastic mhm follows Ryan as she cuts her way through the crowd towards Sophie.

The heat of the bodies engulfs her. Somebody familiar tugs at Ryan, but she shirks out of the touch without so much as a look. Her eyes catch Sophie’s again, and she holds the stare as she slips around the last few people between them.

Mullet’s behind Sophie again. They possessively wrap an arm around Sophie’s stomach. “We’re good,” Mullet says.

Ryan ignores them to talk to Sophie. “Mary’s worried about you.”

Sophie’s dismissive. “Then Mary can come talk to me herself.” She turns her nose up at Ryan, and honestly, it’s enough to make Ryan see red.

Ryan’s here because Mary said Sophie was hurting. Ryan could be anywhere else. She could be at home, drinking a beer, in her bed. She could be patrolling the city. She could be with Imani, but she’s here because Mary had the misguided idea that Sophie was actually sad about being rejected. Mary was wrong.

Ryan huffs. “Whatever.” She starts walking back through the crowd.

Sophie calls out, “Hey, don’t walk away from me!”

Ryan glances over her shoulder to see Sophie push Mullet away. Sophie storms after Ryan, cutting through couples and dancers to get to her. Ryan speeds up. She makes a sharp turn in the crowd. No need to head back towards Mary and her leading comments.

The bathrooms are packed, as always, but there’s an exit door a bit further down the hall that’s normally unlocked. Ryan wiggles along the hall to get there and slips out into the night air.

A wave of humidity lingers outside the door. The stoop can barely fit Ryan. She pauses, which is just enough time for Sophie to push her way outside too. Ryan has to step down off the stoop. So she takes the remaining two steps to be firmly on the ground.

“Ryan, stop!” Sophie stomps down the steps. Ryan can’t move quick enough, so she ends up with Sophie standing over her. Sophie’s breathing hard. Her cheeks and neck are flushed from the club. Her lipstick’s in tact, but there’s a well kissed swell to them too.

Ryan can’t explain the fire in her veins. She shouldn’t have the power to get to Sophie like this. And maybe Ryan doesn’t. Maybe only Batwoman means something to Sophie.

“I have never seen you like that.” Ryan throws a hand towards the club. “Who was that in there?”

“You’re the one who said we didn’t know each other,” Sophie snaps.

“Maybe with good reason!”

Sophie quickly shakes her head. She stabs a finger into Ryan’s shoulder. “You do not get to judge me, Ryan. I am not interested in hearing some speech about how I should be acting. I decide what I want to do. I spent twenty-nine years denying myself that. And I am tired of letting other people tell me what team to be on.”

“You picked a clear one in there,” Ryan retorts. She should have worn her heels. Sophie’s a fucking Amazon woman right now, and it makes Ryan flare up. Makes her puff her chest out more than she needs to.

Sophie says, “I didn’t have a choice!” She catches herself. Her eyes cut to the wall before coming back to Ryan. “Did you know that I worked with the last Batwoman?”

Of course Ryan knows that. Everybody knows Sophie and Kate worked together. It’s why Sophie got suspended last year. Even low level non-criminals like Ryan heard about that. The Crows number two getting the deuces.

Sophie knows too. She keeps going, “For months, we worked together, and she never told me who she was. She never even gave me the chance to keep her secret. And you could say that she was protecting me, but really — ” Sophie’s anger fractures. Her lip trembles, and she sniffles before setting her jaw again. ”She was protecting herself.”

Luke always talks about Kate like she was perfect. Kate stood up for the people of Gotham. Kate had a code. Kate loved Sophie and established a legacy that Ryan’s supposed to carry on. Is hurting Sophie a part of that?

Sophie pushes her hair back out of her face. “I’m sick of playing games, Ryan.”

Ryan’s blood runs cold. “Meaning…?” Does Sophie know?

“Meaning I am going where I’m wanted.”

Ryan sighs in relief. A stressed laugh slips from her lips. It’s not about her. It’s still about the rejection.

Ryan lightens her tone. “You didn’t have to come to the club for that. There’s a line out the door at The Hold Up.” Sophie shakes her head, and the tension’s still tight between her eyebrows. Ryan needs this out. She takes Sophie’s hand in hers to swing it playfully between them. “I’m serious! Much hotter than Mullet. You should see the number of women checking you out every time you’re there. They are waiting for you to give them a chance.”

Sophie’s shoulders drop, like the fight’s slipping out of her. “You’re being nice.”

Ryan runs her thumb along Sophie’s knuckles to undercut her words.

“When have I ever been nice to you, Sophie?”

Sophie gazes down at Ryan in such a tender way that Ryan forgets how to breathe for a second. Forgets that they shouldn’t be toe to toe in an alleyway underneath the moonlight.

Sophie’s natural rasp pokes through. “You tell me.”

The quick hits: saving Sophie from Black Mask, cracking jokes with her and Jordan, the free margaritas. Sophie’s the nicer of the two of them. She stayed with Ryan on the island. She didn’t even look under the mask when she could’ve. She got Ryan back to Mary’s clinic with no questions asked.

She always plays along when Ryan wants a fight. She comes running for every text, every call, and she flips the Bat-signal to see Ryan. Not for some ghost of who used to be.

Sometimes Sophie smiles at Ryan like they’re the only two people in the world. Like now. Ryan gets lost in the warmth of it. The hopeful glow in Sophie’s eyes. Maybe Ryan should’ve been in heels. Sophie wouldn’t have to lean so far down to kiss her. Would it be so bad if Sophie did have a crush? If Ryan maybe —

“OW! What the —” The back door snags on the sleeve of Mary’s dress. She stumbles on the stoop, and her eyes jump up in time to spot them. Ryan and Sophie freeze, hands still together, faces angled towards each other but no closer to bridging the distance between them.

Ryan’s whole body feels like it’s on fire. Like she’s been caught in front of the whole of Gotham with her mask off.

Mary stares down at their hands. Ryan finally remembers to drop it. Sophie just licks her lips and steps back to turn to Mary.

The medical student points back into the club. “I… I could go back inside.”

Sophie walks back up the steps. “I’m calling it a night. Thanks, Mary. This was….” She glances over her shoulder at Ryan, who can’t bring herself to move yet. “Yeah.” Sophie slips into the club.

Mary lightly closes the door behind Sophie. She takes a deep breath in. “WHAT WAS THAT!?” She shrieks. Her eyebrows have practically left her face when she turns to Ryan. “You were supposed to be apologizing, not making out in the alley!”

Ryan snaps back to the moment. She readjusts her top, which she doesn’t have to do since it’s not like Sophie touched her. It’s not like they actually did anything. They just… stared? Looked? Saw each other, maybe.

“We weren’t making out.”

“Oh really?” Mary doesn’t believe her.

“We didn’t even kiss,” Ryan snaps.

Mary snorts. “Don’t sound so disappointed.” Ryan crosses her arms defensively. Mary’s eyes quadruple in size. “Oh my God, are you disappointed!?”

Ryan stomps up the steps to the door. Mary figuratively dissects Ryan with her eyes. Maybe Ryan could sprint through the club. If she starts running, the other Black people at least should run. It’s code. A little stampede, and she can ditch her roommate and this awful line of questioning.

Mary keeps up with Ryan as she speeds up though. Mary fast-walks beside her down the narrow hallway.

She says, “You can’t ignore me. You know that, right? We’re going home together. We need to talk about this.”

“Talk about what?”

Mary jogs to get around Ryan and stand in front of her. Ryan nearly crashes into her. Mary grabs both of Ryan’s shoulders so Ryan has no choice but to look at her. It’s almost not fair that Mary and Ryan are nearly the same height. It gives Mary an advantage when it comes to reading Ryan directly. Plus, Ryan can’t escape the soft concern in Mary’s eyes.

She asks it softly but like she already knows the answer. “Do you like Sophie?”

Ryan scoffs and laughs and shakes her head and does everything she can to look like that’s not true. Because it can’t be true. It shouldn’t be true. “No, I do not like Sophie.” So why does that sound like a lie?

.

.

Sophie shouldn’t be up here. She should be back home, like she said, not waiting under the Bat-signal. But she can’t exactly go to Ryan’s loft and ask Ryan what the fuck that was back at the club. At first, it just seemed like judgement. Ryan’s never been subtle about her discontent. She tells Sophie everything she dislikes from the way Sophie’s done her hair to the fact that Sophie’s committed her life to a police state that may never be capable of getting better.

Judgement doesn’t pinch Ryan’s lips though. Judgement is a self-assured raise of the brow. Judgement is that all-knowing smirk and a dimmer switch on Ryan’s normally bright eyes.

At the club, that was something else. That was heat. That was anger. That was jealousy. Ryan might’ve spun it into jokes about The Hold Up, but it started from there. They were so close in that alley. So close as themselves, and that should be the goal of all this, right? Sophie started messing with Ryan to get Ryan to be honest with her. Sophie could take the first step. Drop the charade and tell Ryan that she knows. Ask her to let Sophie in.

Ryan lands on the roof with a whoosh and a soft thud. The wind runs through the wig. What would it feel like through Ryan’s hair? What would Sophie’s fingers feel like?

Ryan shifts her weight from one side to the other. She gives a little “Hi” that sounds nervous even under the voice regulator.

If Sophie speaks, then those nerves will go away. This charade makes it easier. It gives them an excuse and an out. Because if Sophie and Ryan kiss, then Sophie has to change her life. Sophie has to quit her job, and Ryan has to bend her beliefs, and neither of them can ever go back to who they were before. But if it’s Batwoman….

Sophie summons all her strength. “You owe me an apology.”

Ryan glances down at the roof. “Kate was a low blow.”

“And Tyler,” Sophie reminds her. It’s probably a good thing Ryan doesn’t know enough about Julia to bring her up too.

“I’m sorry. I….” She licks her lips and steps closer to Sophie. “I panicked. You’re out here telling people that you have my phone number. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Sophie fakes a thought as she steps towards Ryan. “You could try talking about it, like an actual adult. You are an adult, right?”

Ryan takes another step. They’re only an arms length apart. “Yeah, I’m an adult.”

Sophie’s turn. “Good. And you want me?”

“I….”

Sophie stops. They’re almost toe to toe again. “Yes or no. Do you want me?”

A few agonizing seconds creep in. Ryan doesn’t move, or speak. Dread sinks in. She read this wrong. Ryan really was being nice in the alley, and now Sophie’s pushed too far. She’s gone back on her word, and it’s only going to give Ryan more ammunition against her. She’s going to kill Mary for bringing her out tonight.

“Yes,” Ryan whispers. Sophie jumps forward at the word. “I think…. Yes.”

Sophie drapes her arms around Ryan’s neck. The wig tickles against her bare skin. Ryan’s breath catches in her throat. Tentatively, her hands come up to Sophie’s waist. The gloves bunch her dress. Sophie’s eyes drop from Ryan’s down to Ryan’s lips, then back again. Sophie leans in, so close that their lips almost brush.

“Do you trust me?”

Ryan tenses around her. She says, “I want to. I just… can’t.”

Sophie nods and swallows around the immediate lump in her throat. “Then I can’t do this.”

Sophie detangles herself from Ryan and heads for the doors. She only gets a few steps away before Ryan grabs her hand. Ryan runs her thumb over Sophie’s knuckles the same way she did in the alley.

“We can work on it. It’s not just me, you know,” Ryan says. “I don’t have to work alone.”

Right, there’s Luke and Mary, who lie to Sophie every single time she sees them. There was Julia. Even Alice gets to be in on the action sometimes.

Sophie asks her, “So what’s wrong with me?” Why keep pushing her away? She’s done everything she can think of to prove she’s trustworthy. The last few weeks of jokes and games aren’t the problem. Ryan doesn’t care about kids thinking Sophie’s friends with Batwoman. She doesn’t care about drinks. There's something else at play here. Something Ryan won't admit.

“Soph….” Ryan starts, but no explanation follows. Sophie can’t set herself up like this. Not again.

Sophie pulls her hand back. “Figure that out, and get back to me. Until you do, I’m done.”

.

.

a/n: So many fun things in this chapter! Let me know what's working for you and how you felt about our near kisses (one of which was almost a full one -- can you guess which one?)

END OF CHAPTER UPDATED, MONDAY JUNE 21ST AT 10AM.

it's going to be a busy week for me. give me some fun comments and reblogs to keep my energy up?

[allegra-writes]

Black Magic Girl

Peter Parker x Reader

NSFW

Warnings: Smut

The request:

PLS! I have this request I was thinking about for a while and it’s like te reader is a witch that casts a spell on Peter, it’s kind of like a truth spell that also lowers inhibitions, and he literally ravishes her because of it cause he’s wanted her since he first met her and now he literally cannot control himself.

And:

I have read so many Peter Parker fanfics but the one I want soooo badly is where Peter Parker gets suuper dominant. Do you think you could write it? Pleaseeee 🌸

MY MASTERLIST

"Got me so blind I can't see

That she's a black magic woman

And she's tryin' to make a devil out of me"

- Black magic woman, Fleetwood Mac.

"Peter? Peter…" Your voice reached him like through a haze, or like he was underwater, your increasingly frantic tone cutting through the fog inside his head. "Please, Peter, please just… just open your eyes…"

He didn't want to, he truly didn't want to, his head was killing him and his stomach felt queasy. Almost as if he was hungover, but that wasn't possible.

"Ow… ouch…"

"Oh, thank the gods!" You almost sobbed in relief as his eyes fluttered open.  He was ok. You helped him sit up on the floor, and he smiled, a little loopilly, at you.

"Hey…" He greeted, leaning heavily on you, so close that you could feel his warm breath on your face, "Wha- what happened?"

Peter frowned, taking a look around the interrogation room: the metal table, chairs and even the prisoner were overturned and laying messily around the both of you.

You flinched,

"I was trying to cast a spell…"

Oh, yeah, the spell, he remembered now. The herbs, the chanting, the rose-gold light.

"The truth spell," He recalled, "You were trying to cast a truth spell, for- for the asgardian dude…"

"Yeah…"

"What happened?"

You sighed,

"It kinda… exploded I guess"

"Kid! Are you alright?" Tony and Steve came running from the hallway, no doubt having seen the whole thing through the security cameras.

"Fine, Mr. Stark," He stood, steadying himself with your help, "just a little dizzy"

"What about you, doll, you ok?" Steve hovered over you and you could swear a soft growl vibrated in Peter's chest "This is our fault, I knew we shouldn't have let you try this alone"

You controlled the urge to roll your eyes, it was always like that with the Captain, he was always babying you, underestimating you. You hated it.

"I'm fine"

"But the spell backfired, it-"

"No… I don't think it did" You interrupted him, "I mean, it didn't hit me, it didn't knock me back like…" You trailed off. Like it had done everything else .

"Woah, Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good" Peter stumbled, both you and Tony holding him to stop him from falling face first on the floor.

"Kiddo, what is it? Talk to me"

Peter babbled intelligibly. You cursed.

"What? What is going on, y/n?" Tony questioned, visibly worried, ignoring Steve's automatic language protest.

"I-I think it worked. His pupils are dilated, we need to take him to the med bay, fast!"

"Why? I mean it's just a truth spell…"

"It's not just any truth spell" You snapped, "It's like… like a gallon of alcohol all at once, it loosens your tongue by lowering your inhibitions to the point of nonexistence! You tell the truth because the filter between your brain and your mouth disappears!"

Peter looked positively green now,

"Oh, shit! Take me to the med bay, take me to the med bay NOW! Mr. Stark, please!"

Tony's eyes flickered between you and his protege's terrified face, he knew exactly what Peter was afraid to tell you.

And he actually thought it was about time.

"Sorry, underoos, prisoner is waking up, we have to start this interrogation right away" he apologized, sounding anything but sorry, "but you can walk, it's not that far, you can lock yourself there until the effect wears out."

"Oh, princess, go with him, would ya? Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble on the way" Tony added as an afterthought. You nodded and took Peter's arm as you guided him out of the room, none of you paying any mind to the super soldiers protests.

"Please, you don't have to do this" Peter tried to disentangle from you once you were far enough from the older Avengers ears, "I- I can make it to the bay by myself"

You scoffed,

"Is that true?"

"No, I just wanna get away from you fast" Peter blurted out. You stopped dead in your tracks.

"What? Why?" You tried to keep the hurt out of your voice, you really did.

"Because" His breathy voice in your ear sent an unexpected shiver down your spine as he leaned even closer, putting more of his weight on you, "I don't trust myself near you right now"

You gulped. There was something in his voice, something you couldn't put your finger on. Something primal, almost dark. The shift in him was so sudden it left you stunned, dazed.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"I mean it takes me a lot of self control to keep myself away from you" He explained, between gritted teeth, the struggle clear in his tone, "and I can feel that control slip away… I don't know… how much longer can I keep it together"

You turned to meet his eyes and you found them darkened with lust, with barely contained desire.

"What if… what if I don't want you to stay away from me?"

A helpless noise left his throat, a wordless surrender, as his will finally broke, as he crushed his lips to yours. He nibbled at your lower lip before licking it, before coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. You felt your body come alive, every nerve ending screaming for more, more of the taste of his tongue, more of his body against yours. You snaked your arms around his neck and felt his twist around your waist, one hand splayed on your back, pressing you closer. He started pushing you, walking you back, but instead of hitting the wall like you expected, you both kept moving. It wasn't until the back of your thighs collided with a metal table that you realized he had guided you into another interrogation room.

You grabbed onto the table to stop from falling back on it, and Peter took advantage of that to shove his pelvis against yours, forcing you to sit on it as he stepped between your legs. You gasped for air as he released your lips. He disentangled one arm from around your back. You heard, more than saw, the spider webs that closed and locked the door; you hadn't noticed he was still wearing his web-shooters under his black stealth suit. Another hiss, and the security camera was out.

"Peter… what are you doing?"

He ignored your question, capturing your lips again, pressing himself harder against you, his erection against your center making what was on his mind perfectly clear.

You pushed at his chest until he freed your mouth,

"Peter, wait, we can't" You tried to reason as his lips traced their way down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, undoubtedly leaving marks. "You're under a spell, this isn't you!"

"But it is me" He contended, catching your hands in a vice-like grip, "I wanted you for so long… and you want me to, I know it. I can smell it on you" He whispered the last part against your lips, tongue peeking out to lick at the corner of your mouth.

"Wh-why didn't you…" You tried to focus your swimming head enough to make sense, "You never said anything"

Peter was on you again, kissing you with a ferocity you would have never believed the sweet boy capable of.

"I couldn't" He grunted, when he finally broke the kiss, "you're their little girl. The baby of the group. Their innocent little princess, who can do no wrong…" He shook his head, "And the things I wanted to do you. That I still want to do to you…"

You bristled at his words, you weren't even the youngest one. Peter was, actually. And he was twenty-three. If he was treated like an adult you didn't see why you shouldn't be. You wanted Peter to fuck you, not to put you on a pedestal.

You met his eyes, almost defiant.

"I'm not that innocent"

He licked his lips,

"Aren't you?"

You shook your head no,

"Show me" You demanded, "Show me what you've been dreaming of"

Peter smirked, grabbing your chin almost painfully,

"Ask me nicely"

"Please"

That was all it took, one word and he was unleashed, taking your hands and tying them at your back with another swoosh of his web-shooter, ripping open your plain white blouse, tiny pearly buttons flying everywhere. He buched it around your tied wrists, before taking a step back, admiring his work.

"I fantasized about this," He confessed, "every time we worked together at the lab: You, sitting pretty on the worktable, all tied up for me…" his eyes never left you, you flushed chest, your nipples hard behind your lacy pink bra, as he placed his palms on your knees, slowly sliding them up, "About slipping my hands under this ppretty pink skirt…" his thumbs met above your cotton covered crotch and he pressed, the fabric quickly becoming damp.

A soft moan left your lips as he rubbed up and down your slit. But it was muffled by a sticky substance suddenly covering your lips.

Peter chuckled at the dirty look you threw him. He lowered his head, breath hot on your breasts,

"I dreamed about gagging you up so they wouldn't hear your moans as I…" He brought his tongue out to lick one pebbled nipple above the coarse lace, "Yeah, just like that" He praised the muted noise you made, before bringing his hands to your chest, ripping the flimsy fabric from your body like paper scraps and really diving in, sucking and biting and bruising. He wasn't being delicate with you, he wasn't coddling you and treating you like you were about to break like everybody else. And you loved it.

He bit down on the swell of your breast and you looked down, surprised to see he hadn't drawn blood. He soothed the hurt with his tongue, looking up at you. You were gorgeous, all caught up in his webs, breathing hard and glossy eyed, already looking ravished.

He stood to whisper in your ear, as his fingers tugged your underwear to the side,

"I pictured burying my hard cock between your legs..." two long fingers breached your entrance and you let your head fell on his shoulder, "Over… and over… and over…" he punctuated every word with a sharp thrust of his fingers in and out of you, and suddenly you were glad he had gagged you. Otherwise you were sure everyone in the compound would have heard your wantom moans.

His thumb found your clit and your head fell back again and Peter took the chance to lift your skirt. The vision of his fingers glistening with your juices, gliding in and out of your pussy half covered by your white cotton panties, tableau vivant of your defiled innocence was too much for him. He took his hands off you, opening his fly and lowering his boxers just far enough to free his hard, throbbing member, impaling you in one go. You tried to get away from the sudden intrusion on instinct, he was way too thick, way too long. But he hooked his hands behind your bended knees, pulling you forward, farther down his oversized cock.

"Oh no baby," He scolded, "good sluts take what is given to them" his crass language made you shiver, and he smirked, "Don't you want to be my good little slut?"

You nodded, and his expression softened, as he snaked a hand around your back, bringing you closer, cock sinking into you deeper, inch by painfully delicious inch. Once he was buried to the hilt, he placed a tender kiss on your forehead.

"You did so good, baby girl. I knew you could take it all." His praise warmed your insides, and you relaxed into his embrace.

"Can you still make sparks with your hands tied like this?"

His question struck you as odd, but you concentrated in creating the flickers anyway, a shower of pretty lights all the answer you were able to give him.

"Good baby girl. I know I should have told you this before, but if you ever need me to stop or I do something you don't like, make red sparkles and I promise I'll stop"

You nodded your head, and he kissed you again, slowly starting to move his hips, dragging his cock almost all the way out, only to push his way back in, a little harder, a little faster every time.

"Oh baby girl… feels so good…" He moaned, "knew this would be… the best pussy I ever had"

You leaned back, bracing yourself on your bounded hands behind you, opening your legs wider, offering yourself to him.

"Yeah, like that… you like this, don't you? Like me fucking you… but sluts like it hard… and fast"

You made a noise of agreement, and he picked up his pace, hips driving into you, cock stabbing into you with no mercy. The pornographic wet sounds of skin slapping on skin resonating in the soundproof room, the sight of your pussy, juicy and red, swallowing his dick over and over… Fuck, he could see himself moving inside you, your skin rippling with every thrust, every intrusion of his massive cock. He was close, and you were too, he could tell by the way you were tensing up, the explosion imminent. But he wanted you debased, he wanted you desperate. He wanted you begging for it, begging for him.  

He wanted to ruin you.

He slipped out of you, taking a step back, leaving you empty just as you were about to fall over the edge. He chuckled darkly at your stifled cry of protest, wrapping his hand around himself, pumping it up and down his length.

You looked thoroughly wrecked: cunt fucked open, hair a mess, clothes hanging in rags around your frame. So fucking beautiful and obscene, that only a handful of strokes later, and he was painting your chest on white ribbons, marking you with his come. He grabbed your chin again, lips pressing to your webbed ones and somehow, that felt dirtier than everything he had done to you so far.

You sobbed into the kiss.

"What is it baby girl?" He cooed, fingers delicately pushing your hair away from your sweat covered forehead. "You want to come?"

You nodded frantically. Peter applied something to your lips, dissolving the webbing. He took a step back.

"Show me how much you want it"

You didn't need to be told twice, jumping from the table and falling to your knees in front of him. You made eye contact as you nuzzled his length, and saw his sharp intake of breath. You hid your smile at his little display of weakness, at the small crack of his façade of dominance.

"You know how to do this?"

You scoffed,

"I'm not a virgin!"

"I know you aren't" He cupped your face, and you twisted to capture his thumb into your mouth, "You truly aren't that innocent, are you?"

You shook your head no, releasing his digit with a pop.

"Show me how dirty you are baby girl"

A new challenging look shone in your eyes,

"As dirty as you dare to make me. Use me, Peter. Fuck my face, please"

Fuck.

He was hallucinating, he had to be. Years of watching porn, of daydreaming of you and the filthiest fantasies his brain could come up with hadn't prepared him for this, for the reality of you on your knees for him, asking him to…

Fuck!

He caressed your cheek, his other hand tangling on your hair, angling your head just so. Your lips fell open and he entered your mouth, far slower than he had entered you. He had to take it slow, otherwise he wasn't going to last, not with you still staring up at him, angelic doe eyes bright and big and adoring. He started rocking his hips, withdrawing only to surge back, a little deeper each time. You tried to suppress your gag reflex, but every time your throat constricted around him it only seemed to spur him on. Breathing was becoming hard and your eyes started to glisten with unshed tears.

"You look… so beautiful… choking on my cock" His words were strained, as you tried to massage his shaft with your tongue to the best of your abilities, drool dripping down your chin. "Prettiest little slut… ever"

You hummed, pleased, and the vibrations got him cursing out loud. He would have liked to enjoy that sinful mouth of yours longer, but he could feel the rise building again, and this time he didn't want to waste it. He had to come inside you, show you who you belonged to.

He slipped out and helped you stand, massaging your jaw and cheeks with his fingertips, before pulling you close for another earth shattering kiss. You melted into it, into him. The feeling of his clothed body against your naked skin got you reeling.

"Please" You gasped into his mouth, "Peter… please"

"God, baby girl, you beg so pretty!" He turned you around, bending you over the table. The cold metal felt delicious against your fevered skin. You felt him move behind you, flipping your skirt over your back, rolling your ruined panties down your thighs. Not being able to see him, not knowing what would come next, made it all the more exciting, your body trembling with anticipation.

His rough palms grazed your ass, grabbing handfuls of your globes, spreading them apart.

"Fuck, baby girl, you're pretty everywhere…"

One of his hands left you as he guided his cock between your folds. He felt even bigger like this, his girth stretching you in all the good ways. You were so wet that he had no problem building up a fast rhythm right away, his cock gliding in and out smoothly, your body offering no resistance as he laid it into you hard, taking hold of your bound hands for leverage, easily moving you to meet his implacable thrusts, fucking you mercilessly.

You bit your lips, trying to reign in your moans and sobs.

"Oh no, baby girl… let me hear you… let them hear you"

You were to lost in the pleasure he was inflicting upon you to be able to form a coherent question but he must have sense your confusion, because he explained,

"The cap has a crush on you... did you know that?.. He hates it… makes him feel like a dirty old man" He leaned over your back, to place a filthy lick up the side of your neck, his punishing pace never faltering, "What would he say if he saw you like this… covered in my cum, moaning like a slut, taking my cock… God you take me so well, baby girl" it was him the one moaning the end of his sentence out.

To his surprise, you giggled,

"Oh god… he would have a heart attack!"

"You don't- don't care?"

You started moving with him, fucking yourself back on his cock,

"Rather be your cockslut… than his princess"

Peter growled, and suddenly he was on your back, his weight pinning you down. If you thought he was fucking you hard before, it was nothing compared with the pistoning of his hips now, as one of his hands fisted in your hair, turning your head so he could attack your mouth with his, and the other slid underneath you, finding your clit, rubing it in quick short strokes, almost painfully. The heat became almost unbearable, the coil tightening fast, your toes curling. You couldn't breath, trapped as you were under the onslaught of his cock on your already abused pussy, filling you over and over, owning you.

"Yes! Like that, give it to me baby girl… I can feel you coming… who's the one that's making you come?"

"You!"

"Say my name" He demanded, lifting you from your feet under the power of his thrusts, "who's the only one who fucks you like this?"

"You are, Peter!" You cried as your orgasm exploded. But he didn't stop, couldn't stop, not when he could feel your walls starting to squeeze him again, thight, so thight stars were exploding behind his eyelids.

"Louder, scream for me, baby girl!"

It was too much, his cock impaling you so hard it knocked the air out of your lungs, the cruel pleasure setting every nerve ending on fire, his moans and groans in your ear as he used your body ruthlessly and unforgiving, the new climax crashing on you, stronger and more intense that the first one.

"PETER!" You heard yourself scream, felt his hot seed deep inside you… Right before the world went black.

…

The next morning, you woke up in a bed that wasn't yours, wrapped in arms that cradled you like you were something precious, and fragile, but for the first time, you didn't mind. You vaguely recalled the soft cotton of your ruined top cleaning the mess between your legs, Peter's bare chest as he dressed you in his own t-shirt to preserve your modesty. As he gathered you close, carrying you bridal style to his bedroom. But you did remember the hot bath, your back to his chest, nested between his legs, hands exploring, caressing, soothing marks and bruised spots.

And you remember the love making, the both of you insatiable now that you finally had the other in your arms. The tender promises exchanged in the sacred darkness before sunrise.

Needless to say, you were in a good mood, not even Tony sending knowing looks your way, and Steve, avoiding looking at you and Peter altogether could sour your mood. They didn't matter. Or rather, Steve didn't matter. He was in love with his own version of you, with this image he had created in his head and you weren't sorry to shatter it to pieces. Tony was Tony, and you knew he was happy for his protegee.

It wasn't until you got inside your own lab (if you could call that the half greenhouse, half library), that your mood was shaken.

"Master!" You froze in the doorway as you saw your mentor, leaning back casually against one of the tables, looking at something on his Starkpad, "You- you're back early! I thought the council was still-"

"Those old hags are still arguing with each other" He interrupted your anxious greeting, "I grew bored of them. But now I am thoroughly entertained"

You knew it was your turn to talk, to ask what was it he found so interesting. But your words died in your throat. Your hands started to sweat, and you dried them on the skirt of your pretty pink sundress. Peter had been very insistent: Only skirts and dresses from now on, he wanted you ready for him anywhere, anytime. You felt yourself heat up and tried to get a grip; this wasn't the place, nor the time for such thoughts.

Loki finally raised his gaze from the screen, blue eyes piercing through you.

"Tony asked me to take a look at this footage, find where you went wrong and correct you" he snorted, "As if I need his input in how to best train my apprentice…"

He motioned to you to come closer, playing the video again for you.

"Do you want to know what I found, my little enchantress?"

You didn't reply. You didn't have to, anyway. He didn't need it to continue.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Your work was flawless, as usual"

You dared a smile,

"Thank you, master"

He smiled back, amused, and you breathed in relief as you realized, he wasn't mad at you. He was pleased by you. "It does beg the question, why did your spell explode?"

Your smile turned into a smirk, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Because I wanted it to, of course"

He laughed, boisterous and loud and for a second, he reminded you of his brother. He was delighted, not because you had finally caught your little spider in a web of your own weaving, he couldn't care less about the boy. No, he was pleased that you had, at last, started following his advice, the one he had given you so long ago, one night you had come to him frustrated to tears, after the Avengers had refused yet again to take you into a mission with them, leaving you to paperwork and babysitting.

"I almost preferred it when they were afraid of me! At least back then they respected me…"

Loki had tsked,

"Oh, no, none of that! Always let them underestimate you, my little enchantress. Let them think you're the delicate flower in their garden, but be the serpent under it "

… And what a charming little serpent you were .

The end.

Buy me a coffee

[saphirered]

Hi I was wondering if you would write an Essek x reader (gender neutral) where they are having a relaxing day out and the reader teaches Essek to make flower crowns, and it just allot of fluff and wholesome stuff.

Here you go! Enjoy. I really needed this type of wholesomeness. Thank you for the request. 😘

Seated among the plants and flowers at the base of the tree inside the Xhorhaus, you’re focussing on your surroundings, eyes closed. A meditation-like state keeps you grounded and aware of all around you regardless of lack of visual. Every breath you take makes you feel much lighter, floating in your own consciousness. It’s a comfortable and familiar feeling.

It could have been minutes, or hours. You’re not entirely sure but at least you know if someone needs you or you’ll be going somewhere, your friends will come get you. For now you were blessed with a moment of peace, away from the troubles of the world outside, shielded by the colourful flowers, fresh smell of herbs and the soft glow of the fairy lights.

But your peace and quiet was interrupted. Usually you’re very much aware of footsteps approaching, but when the individual doesn’t walk, taking care to avoid the greens, you’re left a oblivious to the presence. The clearing of a throat makes you nearly jump out of your skin.

“My apologies. I don’t mean to interrupt you…” You see the sheepish expression of the white haired wizard floating at a comfortable distance, turn apologetic.

“Essek!” You breathe trying to calm your pounding heart, hand to your chest.

“I am so sorry. I did not mean to scare you. I should have announced my presence.” The mixture of embarrassment and regret remain present in both his behaviour and voice as you get up and give him a once over.

“It’s quite alright. I didn’t expect any visitors.” You smile assuring him no harm was done as you get to your feet brushing off your trousers. Essek is a hard to read individual but even the most oblivious of people could tell something is off. Strange. You tilt your head pressing your lips together.

“Is everything alright? You seem a bit out of it if I’m honest.” Essek’s eyes fall to the floor in front of him trying to find the correct words to answer your question; unusual for someone usually so quick with words. You take a few steps closer to him and take his hand in yours giving it a squeeze letting him know you’re there as you wait for his reply.

“I… I am unsure how to phrase this correctly nor in an appropriate way.” He speaks caught in his own mind still. His eyes are searching still focussed on the ground and your entwined hands. You place your free hand on his shoulder, the gesture pulling him out of his head and instead focus on you.

“Try me.”

“I-. This day- These last few… weeks, have been absolute chaos. With everything going on I have not had a moment of peace in a long time.” Essek’s shoulders drop and his feet touch the ground with a soft tap muted by the mossy floor. You pity him. So young and so much pressure, people depending on him. No one should have to deal with all of that alone.

“I’ve always found diving into my work head first ignoring the world contained the chaos and turned it into order instead, something I could control but now I cannot even read a single sentence, transcribe a single equation or confront a single person without feeling like my mind is about to explode.” A weight lifts by the mere vocalising of the words, tension dropping from Essek’s physique as it does from his mind.

“I didn’t know who else to turn to. For some reason, you always have an air of calmness, around you. Whenever we are in the same space, you radiate peace. It’s strange to admit but I think even only spending but moments in your presence now has done more than any and everything I have tried to achieve even a semblance of rest.” You’re not used to Essek being so open and upfront with anyone but you’re glad for it. Knowing you can confide in someone and trust them is one thing. Actually doing so, something else entirely.

“Thank you for your time and once more my sincere apologies for scaring you. I will leave you to your business once more.” Essek is about to pull his hand from yours taking a step back but you don’t let go and step with.

“When’s the last time you’ve taken a break, Shadowhand?” You’re sure you already know the answer or have enough of an idea to estimate but you ask nonetheless. Essek thinks for a moment and frowns.

“I can’t recall.”

“There’s your problem then. You’re stressed, overworked and in desperate need of a break. Come on. I have an idea.” You lightly tug at his hand pulling him along to the base of the tree and sit him down. You take one of the garden scissors and begin cutting some flowers, branches and other things and collect them in a wicker basket as Essek watches you move from planter to planter and pots making sure to leave enough behind and take only what the plants themselves allow you to take.

It might seem a little strange to some, as you’re standing there, a nonverbal conversation with plant life. Some might think you’re crazy but you only acknowledge life in all forms and while you surely could wave your hand and restore what you took, there’s beauty in the natural order of things as your Firbolg friend might agree.

Essek watches you go in awe, studying your every action with an admiration. Before, as he admitted, there had been the radiating calmness from you that could affect those around you but watching you interact, for the lack of a better word, with the greenery, gave that a whole new meaning. Serenity. You are serenity itself.

You take the wicker basket, now filled with flowers of every colour, branches of green and brown of varying lengths, set it down at the base of the tree taking a seat next to Essek.

“What’s this for?” Essek picks up a yellow flower spinning it between his fingers.

“This,” You refer to the basket and the flower held between his fingers. “is how I clear my mind when the pressure of the world becomes too much to handle.” You take a couple of the branches, check the lengths and start twisting and weaving them together adding flowers into the coil as you go.

“This is how you keep the chaos at bay?” Essek questions watching your fingers work braiding together the delicate material.

“People often assume peace is the absence of chaos but it’s not. Nor is order. If you build a dam the pressure of the water will continue building as long as the water flows. You can’t stop it. You can’t prevent it. You can however shape it in such ways you gain more from it than it from you. It can be found in the simplest of things.” You weave in some deep red roses, your pride as the Xhorassian environment is not kind enough for them to survive.

“Whenever the world comes crashing down and I wish the ground would swallow me whole I find a place to sit down and let myself be consumed by my surroundings. Sometimes I just sit doing nothing at all. Other times I draw, or sing or write, and when I’m lucky enough to find just the right place, I’ll make as many of these as it takes me to return to my peace.” You come to the end twisting the final branches to complete the final circle shape, inspecting your work and adjusting as necessary until you deem it truly completed.

“Whenever I use the chaos to create, little by little serenity comes along and I try to bring that feeling along, passing it on to those around me, because gods know, they can use it.” The both of you smile and with a last adjustment of a flower you place the flower crown on Essek’s head.

Confusion, happiness, delight, peace. All emotions running through Essek’s brain throughout this conversation enhanced the moment you place the ornament of braided and woven flowers onto his head, as light as a feather. Who knew something so small and… insignificant could mean so much, do so much?

“Why don’t you try it for yourself? See if this works for you? Or perhaps if not, it might give you inspiration to find something that will.” Essek nods taking the red crown off his head and inspecting it closer. While he certainly has an eye for intricate patterns and structures the construction of such a thing as a simple flower crown goes far beyond him and instead just leaves him completely oblivious and confused.

Seeing Essek trying to figure out the collective of braided flowers and branches might have been one of the funniest things you’ve seen from the man. The intricacies of Dunamis and the most difficult of equations or studies prove next to no problem for the wizard, but a flower crown manages to break him? How could that not be funny. You laugh even though you tried to fight it and Essek sends you a playful glare.

“Since you seem to find this so funny perhaps I should teach you the many complexities of advanced Dunamis? As a thank you of course.” You can see the hints of a smile.

“However much I’d love that, for the sake of both of our peace and sanities, I’d hold off on that for now. We’ll start with something much simpler. Like a daisy chain.” You begin pulling out a pile of white flowers and putting them next to the basket.

“This is how you start…” You begin explaining how to loop the stem of the flower around the one that came before it, the closer together, the denser the chain will become.

While Essek struggles at first, your explanation and guiding hands and pointers as he works result in a decent looking daisy chain. You slowly work your way up to more difficult flowers and eventually the branches, spending the next several hours going through the motions, Essek’s troubles long since forgotten. This may have been the first time but won’t be the last time both of you find your serenity and comfort in colourful soft petals.

[adhduck]

Chapter 3 of But I Can Hope How This Will End is now up, besties, and yes I have chosen violence 😌

AO3

CWs: canon-typical blue veins/disease content; accusation of ��death wish’ implying suicidal ideation; canon-typical discussions/descriptions of injury, pain, death; several descriptions of blood; slight emetophobia; mentions of past trauma for Zolf; slightly in-depth descriptions of temporary first aid

With Wounds We Can Heal

Wilde almost never goes on missions; even before the curse blocked access to most of his combat skills, he wasn’t built to be an in-field agent. He’s a diplomat at heart, not a fighter, so there’s no need to risk getting him infected when the others can bring information safely back to him.

So when Wilde announces at breakfast one morning he’s going to a meeting, not just in-person but with someone they haven’t verified yet, Zolf is understandably upset.

“Since when do you have a bleeding death wish?” he demands, pushing his plate to the side.

Wilde remains perfectly, infuriatingly calm. “I will admit the risks are higher than usual, but if Mr. Douglas’ information is true, it will be both crucial and time-sensitive. We don’t have a week.”

“Well, isn’t that bloody convenient,” Zolf mutters.

“Does seem like a trap,” Carter agrees. “I mean, he just happens to have exactly what we need, and exactly the right urgency to not go through safety protocols? That’s classic untrustworthy stuff.”

“Which is why I’ve already put in safety measures myself. We will both come alone and unarmed. I made sure the meeting spot was neutral ground, something we couldn’t hide traps or snipers in. Nothing physical will be changing hands, so there won’t be a need for close contact. And just as with his initial report, any information I bring back will be verified before we commit to a next course of action.”

Barnes leans forward, drawing everyone’s attention in that subtle way of his. “What’s your plan if you get into combat? I know you said you’ll both come alone and without weapons, but that doesn’t mean he’ll actually follow that.”

“He knows I’m a talented magic user, and doesn’t know about the shackles, so that should intimidate him into not attacking. And if he does catch my bluff, and my excellent running shoes don’t do the trick—” Wilde shrugs, and Zolf’s hands curl into fists atop the table. “Well, I know I’m none of you, but I can hold my own just fine, I think.”

“Unless you show up and he shoots you right off the bat,” Zolf argues, trying very hard not to picture it. “Or he has a group with, like, invisibility spells or potions or somethin’, and they attack you all at once. Or—bloody hell, Wilde, or anything! There’s no reason to think this man is anything but a danger until he’s gone through quarantine, and even then, he could still be a- a regular ole dick who wants to kill you! You certainly made enough enemies before all this started.”

“Our job,” Wilde says coolly, though Zolf can see just a touch of tension forming in the corner of his jaw, “is to figure out how this blue vein scourge works and stop it. We are saving the world here. There’s no way to do that without a bit of risk.”

“Risk is one thing, but this is just plain stupid,” Zolf snaps back. “If you need the information, fine, whatever, let’s get it. But at least bring one of us with you.”

“That’s not the deal I made with Bo- Mr. Douglas.”

“And? Who says he won’t just break the deal and betray you first chance he gets?”

That, for some reason, brings down Wilde’s façade, but just for a moment—he’s covered it up almost as quickly as Zolf notices. “As I said before, I’ve already done some research on him and the information he presented as evidence of our meeting’s importance. If he’s still himself, not honoring the terms of our agreement will make him back out immediately. And if he’s infected, bringing someone else will almost certainly ensure a fight, and we cannot risk half of our group getting taken out in one go.”

Zolf is going to actually, truly strangle this man. “But we can risk you getting taken out?”

Wilde’s jaw tenses, releases. “We’ve all risked our lives for the cause. This is no different.”

“Yes, it is, because you’re relying on- on bloody trust when the world’s like this—”

The harsh scrape of Wilde’s chair being pushed back cuts Zolf off. Standing over them, Wilde looks every bit the rich, uncaring aristocrat Zolf thought he was all those months ago– save for that same tension in the corner of his jaw. “I’m trusting myself—my research, my insights, my diplomatic abilities.” He sweeps his eyes across the table, lands a few inches above Zolf’s head. “You can trust in me or not, I don’t care. I’m going either way.”

Zolf feels unmoored, suddenly. Like he missed something important, something he’s supposed to say or know. “Wilde—”

“Thank you for breakfast, Zolf,” Wilde says, and it almost hurts more that he sounds sincere. “I’ll be in my office if any of you need me.”

He turns and walks off, and all Zolf can think, a little nonsensically, is I do.

 Wilde leaves for his meeting the next morning, unarmored and alone, and Zolf is absolutely fine about it. Sure, he’s making more bread when he just made some yesterday; and sure, he rearranged the cell five times in some shitty wooden prosthetics because he couldn’t decide whether to put Wilde’s favorite blanket in there. And sure, when he tried to decide on a Campbell to read, he ended up with the only one he can’t read—a Gaelic translation of When Passions Collide Wilde once brought him. But it’s not- he’s just- it’s fine. He’s used to the people he cares about being in danger, and no matter how much he disagrees with Wilde, he does trust him.

So instead of going with Wilde, Zolf bakes bread.

The fussing gets him through the first day of Wilde’s three-day journey with only minimal stress-pacing. He cleans the inn on the second, doing an inventory of their supplies as he goes, and realizes they’re drastically lower on mundane medical supplies than they should be. To be fair, they rarely use them, as all the field agents can be healed magically, but it’s no excuse for this lack of upkeep, especially when Wilde could sustain any number of illnesses or injuries on his mission.

He brings it up to Barnes and Carter, and they agree it’s worth Barnes – who has both social skills and a sword – taking a trip to the village. Zolf gets a firm clap on the shoulder as a goodbye, which he returns with an awkward pat since their height difference doesn’t allow for much else. And for Carter, Barnes curls a hand around his neck and leans their foreheads together; not long enough to make Carter stay still, but long enough to loosen tension Zolf hadn’t noticed from his shoulders.

(Something in Zolf aches.)

Barnes is gone for maybe an hour before Carter gets too antsy to be around the inn and takes off for a run. Since there are no other visitors at the moment, that leaves Zolf alone in the inn besides the owner, who’s manning the bar, so he takes the opportunity to sit by the fire and flip through his Gaelic Campbell, trying to guess which scene is which. He’s doing pretty well, too, and then he spots Wilde’s favorite blanket hanging on the chair opposite him – he’d taken it out of the cell again this morning – and starts to feel the weight of the quiet. How it settles heavy on his heart and lungs, makes the space around him simultaneously cavernous and too small to move in. The deafening loneliness of it.

Zolf’s been around the block enough times to know when he’s starting to spiral, so he heads to the kitchen to make lunch. While he’s at it, he figures he can start prepping soup for tomorrow, which will be easiest on Wilde’s anxious stomach and convenient for leftovers. (Bread, too, but he’s already made far too much of that.)

He’s halfway through getting out the ingredients for miso when he hears the backdoor of the inn open, the muffled sound of his name being called, and his heart does a distinct, worryingly earnest oh.

It only takes thirty seconds to make it to the backdoor; just long enough for Zolf to concoct five or six ways to greet Wilde sans-touch, all of them horrible. Just say hello, you bloody idiot, he tells himself as he rounds the last corner, sees Wilde—

Oh.

There’s this feeling Zolf’s gotten a handful of times in his life, always right before disaster strikes—or after, sometimes, but just before he’s realized. When he kicked the tunnel’s support beam and heard a crack. A breath before he hit the water, already littered with debris and bodies from the ship that used to be his home. Waking in an unfamiliar lab with no legs and Sasha’s organs floating above her chest like some sort of horrible biology experiment. It’s a sort of…grounding feeling, but not in a settled way. Like the last moment before the earth crumbles beneath you, when you’re still on solid ground but somehow you know, you know, you’re about to fall.

Zolf sees Wilde, and he’s falling.

There’s blood—not deathly amounts of it, bleeding out wise, but he can’t tell where it’s from because Wilde’s currently facedown on the ground, weakly trying to pull himself onto his elbows. His clothes are torn, his bag of holding nowhere to be seen. A blood-soaked knife – the only weapon Zolf could convince him to bring – is clutched in one hand.

“Wilde,” Zolf says, and he’s underground again, he’s underwater again, he’s falling.

He starts forward, and Wilde flinches backwards with an alarming burst of energy. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Zolf freezes, forces himself to take a breath. Of course. Wilde was out, he could be infected, they can’t touch. But that doesn’t mean Zolf is gonna let him bleed out. “What happened? Are you injured?”

Finally, Wilde manages to pull himself to his elbows, but hesitates there; he’s leaning all his weight to one side, so probably a broken leg.

“Meeting wasn’t a big hit,” Wilde chokes out, head hanging low; his voice sounds wrong, and not just from the obvious pain and exhaustion. It’s gargled, and sort of twisted up, like he’s got something lodged in the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ noticed, Wilde,” Zolf says. He’s not going to panic. Wilde’s going to be fine, because Zolf’s going to make sure he’s fine, because Zolf is absolutely not going to panic. “Can you walk?”

Wilde lifts his head to look Zolf in the eye, which reveals where a lot of the blood is coming from: there’s a deep wound across his cheek, cutting from below his eye to his chin and ripping through his mouth on the way. He spits some blood, heaves a breath that seems to hurt the whole way in and out. “I could until about thirty seconds ago, yes,” he manages. His arms are shaking; Zolf’s hand twitches.

“Put pressure on that cut, if you can,” he says, trying to sound calmly firm but mostly just sounding impatient. Wilde winces when presses a hand to the wound, but keeps it there. “Good. Now, we’re low on medical supplies, but we should at least have stuff to clean it and sew it back up.”

Wilde nods. “Once I’m in the cell.”

In a show of good bedside manner, Zolf doesn’t outwardly roll his eyes. “Bloody hell, Wilde, I can’t doctor you through the bars. It needs to be before.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I won’t be stupid about it. We’ve got gloves, I won’t touch you at all—”

“No,” Wilde growls, that fierceness rising up again. He breathes in and out, hard, and the anger settles, or at least contains itself. “We get me into the cell, and you work me through how to treat it myself. If I pass quarantine, we’ll do further medical procedures, and if not- well, it won’t matter, because you’ll have killed me.”

Zolf can’t help it; he flinches. “Fuck, Wilde, don’t—look, that cut is bad, okay? You might lose some facial functioning if it’s not treated properly. And if your leg’s broken, which I’m pretty sure it is, you could end up with a limp, or not being able to walk at all.” He winces. “Not- not that not being able to walk is wrong or somethin’, it’s just- I mean, we don’t exactly have the resources—”

He trails off, too panicked to keep track of his words, and realizes that Wilde is…smiling? It’s more of a grimace, but Zolf is almost sure that’s an attempt at a smile. What the fuck, Wilde. He doesn’t answer for a second, either, so Zolf adds, “Wilde? You with me?”

Wilde blinks, then schools his expression into something more formal, nodding seriously. “Your concerns are noted.”

“And?”

Wilde does a rather pitiful attempt at a shrug. “That’s it; I’ve noted them.” And then the absolute bastard starts trying to crawl.

“Poseidon’s soggy arse, Wilde, you’re not making it to the cell like that,” Zolf hisses, looking around for an alternate solution. Gods, why did Barnes and Carter have to leave at the worst possible time?

Spitting some more blood, Wilde bites back, “Well, I have to make it somehow, don’t I?”

“Yeah, but not like—oh, wait, I might have an idea. Stay- stay here.”

(Wilde gives him a particularly withering look at that, which, fair.)

After half a second of hesitation at the idea of leaving Wilde alone and bleeding, Zolf runs for the living area. Wilde’s blanket is still there, and Zolf starts to reach for it, then imagines it stained to ruin with blood, burned to ash as a precaution. He grabs the big quilt instead.

“Here,” Zolf says when he returns, a little out of breath as he presents the quilt. “I can just wrap you up and carry you downstairs.”

Wilde, who is currently trying to work himself into a half-sitting position, eyes the blanket like it’s a vial of bubbling green liquid. “I’m over twenty inches taller than you, Zolf.”

“And yet you weigh about as much as my glaive,” Zolf replies. Wilde still seems unsure, so he adds, “It’s either this or waiting for Carter to get back, and then we can risk two people getting you down there instead of one.”

A muscle ticks in Wilde’s jaw. “Fine. But you don’t touch any part of the quilt that has touched me.”

Zolf lays the quilt out for Wilde to push himself onto—a slow, painful process that has Zolf cursing the world for giving weight to Wilde’s stubborn paranoia. Once he’s settled, Zolf wraps the quilt around him much the way he imagines one would do for a child, focusing his tension into the curl of his fists so the rest of him can be gentle.

He recalls the first night he helped carry Wilde to bed, tucking him in (shoulders, waist, thighs) so he couldn’t wiggle free in the night. This isn’t what I meant, you idiot, he thinks, and pulls Wilde’s half-limp form into his arms.

It’s difficult going, mostly because of the aforementioned two dozen extra inches Zolf has to manage, which also makes it slow. A few times, when Zolf stumbles or is forced to shift his grip, Wilde winces and starts to curl against Zolf’s chest; he always catches himself, though, muffling the noise against the quilt instead. Still, Zolf can feel the ghost of Wilde’s labored breathing on his collarbone, his matted hair against the curve of Zolf’s shoulder. He wants to look at Wilde; he can’t bear to.

They make it to the cell and, miraculously, down the steps, at which point Zolf remembers his legs are, in fact, magical. “Ah, shit.”

Wilde stirs a little from where he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. (Zolf aches.) “What- oh. Your legs.”

Zolf tightens his grip (shoulders, hips) and does as a small a shrug as he can manage. “Only a problem inside the cell itself. I’ll just go on my knees.”

He manages to grab the keys hanging by the stairs with two fingers, leans Wilde more onto his chest as he unlocks the door and pulls it open. When he drops slowly to his knees, Wilde’s heels and then calves touch the ground; this makes Wilde chuckle, which then makes him curl up in pain. His forehead brushes Zolf’s shirt before he manages to turn away.

“Almost there,” Zolf says, trying his damnedest to not sound shaky. He shuffles into the cell’s interior, suppressing a grimace at the sensation of his legs going dead, and gently lays Wilde down. Their eyes meet for a moment, then he shuffles back out and locks the door.

“All right, now keep up pressure on your face, and since we can’t elevate your leg yet, just try not to move it, all right? I need to grab supplies, so just- just don’t go anywhere, or somethin’.” Wilde manages a full glare, which is almost relieving. “Okay, yeah, I know, I just meant- just don’t- you know. Yeah.”

Wilde sighs, nods his head. “As long as you bring me some wine, too.”

“I’ll bring alcohol,” Zolf promises, “but it’s for the wound, not for drinking.”

This earns him a heavy, dramatic sigh, and Zolf lets himself a smile a bit before he heads back into the inn proper. A bard to the last, that one.

He’s pulling out the last of the supplies he needs – which is everything they have – when Carter gets back. He comes in the front door at least, thank gods; Zolf doesn’t want to have this discussion standing over a pool of Wilde’s blood. He intercepts Carter as he enters the seating area, ready to explain, but it’s not hard to guess: bundle of supplies in one arm, alcohol and pillow in the other, what’s sure to be a harrowing look on his face. (Not hard for Carter, anyway, who’s already too perceptive for his own good.)

“What happened?”

Zolf huffs out a steadying breath. “Meeting went wrong, Wilde came back early, he’s not doing well. Got ‘im to the cell, but.” He lifts his full arms awkwardly.

“Shit. Did they betray him?”

“Didn’t ask.”

He nods, frowning. “Yeah, fair enough. Should I—actually, you know what, you should have that covered right now, so I’ll take watch. Make sure nobody followed him.”

Zolf hadn’t thought of that, and he kicks himself for not being more careful. “Good plan. Thanks, Carter.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says; brushes his hand over Zolf’s shoulder, a half-pat, then he’s off again.

When Zolf makes it back to Wilde, he’s in almost the exact same position he was left in: wrapped in the blanket, barely conscious, keeping up a low hum of pain. “Hey,” he says gently, and Wilde stirs a little. “Time to patch you up, yeah?”

“Sorry,” Wilde replies, unfolding the blanket and easing himself into a sort of lounging position. There are clear streaks of tears down his face; his jaw is completely clenched.

“Ain’t gotta be,” Zolf says firmly, sliding the supplies through. “Let’s get the blood cleaned up, see what we’re working with.”

Wilde raises an eyebrow but says nothing as he takes the damp cloth and gets to work. A lot of the blood has dried already, coming off in flaky clumps as he wipes away the worst of the mess on his cheek. He’s incredibly delicate around the wound itself, but there’s a sharpness to each careful swipe across his jaw and chin that tells Zolf he’d be harsher if he had the energy to be.

His mouth is what Wilde gets to last, resoaking the rag for the third time to squeeze out the blood, and as he swipes the corner delicately over where his lips have been torn open, Zolf—gods, it’s horrible, it’s unforgivable, he shouldn’t even be acknowledging it. But in that moment, with Wilde hurt and half-conscious and maybe just days away from not even being Wilde anymore, Zolf thinks for the very first time: I think I want to kiss him.

“So?” Wilde says; Zolf startles, which at least gets a fond little exhale. “What’re we working with, oh mighty healer?”

“Um.” Zolf absolutely cannot look at Wilde right now, but he also has to. He compromises by squinting a little, blurring out everything that isn’t the problem at hand. “Yeah, uh, it’s—you’re definitely gonna need stitches, though I don’t know if you can handle that at the moment.”

Wilde glances down at his shaking hands; the movement briefly unbalances him. “You’re probably right—as much as it wounds me to say it.”

It’s unclear whether that was intended as a pun, and Zolf’s not in the mood to find it funny either way, so he just nods. “We’ll just have to temporarily close it, then.”

Thinking of a way to do this takes several minutes, during which Wilde cleans the wound with an alcohol-soaked rag and a worrying lack of complaints. Finally, what Zolf figures out is to take a piece of surgical tape that’s slightly too small and stretch it across the cut so it’ll pull the sides together, trimming the middle part so it doesn’t stick to the wounded skin. He has to guide Wilde through some complex extra wrapping to stop it from peeling off without covering up his eyes, mouth, or nose; it ends up looking rather ugly and pins Wilde’s snarled hair to his head, but it seems to help.

They clean up a couple other scrapes and gashes Wilde didn’t mention earlier – there’s one on the side of his ribcage, shallow but terrifying with its intent – and then get to his leg. With Zolf unable to examine the injury properly, he can’t confirm what the exact issue is, but it’s not grisly, so Zolf walks Wilde through a basic wrapping and tells him to elevate it on the overstuffed pillow he brought. “We’ll need to do more when you’re out, of course,” he adds. “But right now your job is just to sleep.”

It says a lot about Wilde’s current state that his only response to that is curling up on the blood-soiled blanket, perching his leg awkwardly on the pillow, and falling asleep within seconds. Even with the accompanying ease of tension, he looks awful: clothes ripped and dirty, left trouser leg sheared off from the thigh down for the cast, a mummy-like arrangement of surgical tape crisscrossing his overly pale and pink-stained face.

But he’s also alive, and Zolf allows himself a shaky exhale at the knowledge. Puts his face in his hands when that breath threatens to quicken, focuses on the divine warmth in his chest until the panic fades. He looks back at Wilde, his hand resting delicately beside his face, a few locks of hair obscuring his cheek, and there it is again, that feeling—that terrifying, horribly-timed feeling that prickles at the tips of his fingers and in the pit of his stomach, that stretches languidly in his chest like a stray cat who’s decided to stick around. That makes him hope for something he doesn’t even have a name for.

Fuck.

[husbandograveyard]

Fireworks - Kid x Reader

One Piece of summer challenge - week 7

part of the challenge hosted by @doctorgerth​ & @laws-yellow-submarine​ I’m attempting all 11 weeks, 11 different prompts and 11 different characters! This was actually my very very first idea for the challenge, but I saved it for somewhere midway to keep myself just that little bit extra motivated to make myself stick through the entirety of the challenge. We all deserve some soft Kid and I am here to serve! Enjoy! 

Prompt: Fireworks - Character: Eustass Kid - Word count: 1.5k 

as usual with Eustass, there’s swearing involved. 

“But there’s gonna be fireworks!” “I don’t care if even the goddamn king of the pirates was there himself, we cannot make this stop y/n. And we will not make it. Period. Now get the fuck out, don’t you have something better to do than nag my head off?” 

You felt your bottom lip quiver as you wordlessly left Kid’s workshop. After over a year of being together with him, you should’ve known better than to barge into his workshop after he was already in a bad mood. Some petty fight at breakfast that did not even involve you had made him slam doors and retreat to his little safe space on board. The only ones that could come in when he was in such a mood, were Killer and you. 

You had gone in with the intention to de-escalate, calm him down a little, and that worked out pretty well, until you had used the wrong tactic. You had proposed docking at a nearby island. The newspaper had announced there would be a big fireworks show for some kind of holiday, and you really wanted to go, disguising your ask as a proposal to blow off some steam and do something ‘fun’ with the crew.

Kid had immediately said no, saying that the crew did not deserve any break for their poor performances last stop, and that it was only a week since you left that last island. There was no reason to stop, you still had plenty of supplies. Changing course and stopping needlessly was just messing with his plans and he would have none of that. You kept on pressing on, and it became increasingly clear that you really just wanted to do something with him, but for some reason that had set him off even more. Yelling ensued, and eventually he had kicked you out of the workplace, leaving you to stand outside the door, fighting back tears. 

It was not like you guys barely fought. With a boyfriend with such explosive temper, fights were inevitable, and you were usually quite good at defusing the situation or letting off steam by engaging in a good old shouting match until Killer came along the tell you both to quit it. 

You were just so disheartened right now, it could’ve been such a great opportunity to hang out with your boyfriend, maybe scare away some unsuspecting civilians. He liked blowing things up occasionally, and you had wrongfully connected that to maybe him liking fireworks. And maybe he did like them, but just didn’t want to hang out with you for now. That last option made you feel even worse. 

You walked back to your cabin, the crew passing you on the way knowing better than to disturb you after a fight with Kid. The big difference now was that you weren’t even angry. You were just sad. You were not one to get overly emotional, Kid hated it when you cried, and not for the reason most boyfriends would hate seeing their girl cry, he just thought it annoying. So you locked yourself up in your room for a couple of hours, cried your heart out and you were back on your way. 

A good cry cleansed your body and soul, and even though the situation was far from fixed, you could at least find some energy to last until the next time you saw Kid. You weren’t really sure how to feel about the whole relationship as of now, but you would try to talk it out. After all, it’s not like you didn’t know you started a relationship with possibly the most difficult man on sea. 

He did not show up for dinner, and when Killer offered to go bring him a plate on your behalf, you thanked him, but proposed you’d do it yourself. You wanted to talk it out. You were not really sure what you wanted to accomplish by talking, but you really just wanted something. Let him know that you did not want to nag him, but also let him know you wanted to do something, anything together. 

You knocked on the door to announce your entrance, and then came in, carefully carrying the plate so no food would be spilled.  “Have you come to nag again?” Kid didn’t even turn to face you, too busy tinkering with whatever mechanics you did not understand to begin with.  “No, I just...”, you put the plate down next to him, in a spot where none of his supplies were, “I wanted to apologize. I shouldn’t have pushed you... but babe, it’s been weeks since we did something fun. I get that you don’t want to please the crew for what they pulled on the last island... but I’m not just a crew member. I am also your girlfriend and i’d love for you to spend some time with me. And looking at some stupid fireworks was my plan. But anything goes really. I shouldn’t have hidden it under some crew bonding. I just want it to be you and me.” 

He stood up from his workbench, towering over you, you stepped back a little, just cause you had been standing so close behind him to start with.  “You should’ve told me so doll”  “I know I know....” You sighed deeply. “We’re still not going to that stupid island. It’s too late anyway.”  You nodded.  “But I guess if you find some other dumb activity to do for us, you can tell me. None of that sappy family-crew-bonding bullshit okay? If you want a date, you tell me.”  You smiled in response, giving him a quick peck on the lips to say goodbye, so he could eat and focus on his project again.  “Maybe we can get some stargazing done? Not tonight, but just... some night. No crew needed, no stops on a strange islands, just you and I and the sky, and nothing else special.”   He grunted in response, which you took as a yes, and you walked out of the workshop, a weight of your shoulders now that was resolved. 

That night you were sleeping alone, not cause Kid was still mad, but it actually happened quite often that once he got busy in his workshop, and worked there all night, or at least most of the night. You were used to it, knowing you would wake up in his arms anyway. You were about to drift away when you heard the familiar footsteps in the hallway leading up to his cabin. 

You shifted a little, making yourself more comfortable, preparing for some lazy cuddles. Usually Kid was pretty quiet - or at least attempted to be quiet when he noticed you were already sleeping -, so you nearly jumped when he slammed open the door and called out your name.  “Kid, what the fuck?”  “Come out, stargazing”  You were confused, sleepy and a little pissed at the sudden wake-up call, not even registering what he said.  “Stargazing?” “Yes, dumbass, that’s what you wanted right? The sky is clear now, bring the blanket. It’s a little cold and I don’t want you nagging for my coat.” 

You crawled out of the bed, blanket wrapped around you and followed Kid through the hallways onto the deck of the Victoria Punk. He sat you down on a certain spot, mumbling something about it being the best view and you looked up. There were actually not that much stars visible and you frowned a little.  “Kid... are you sure this is the best time to-”  “Just shut up for a second y/n”  He didn’t sound angry or agitated and you did as he said as he sat next to you and wrapped an arm around you.  

BANG. 

You jumped, Kid chuckled. Before you could ask him what the fuck that sudden explosion was, you noticed a sea of sparkles lighting up the sky and you stared at them, mouth wide open with amazement. The first explosion was followed by man others, fireworks lighting up the sky in all kinds of different colors, formations, even some shapes. You were completely stunned by the view, seeing your boyfriend grin from the corner of your eye.  “Is this what you had in mind?”  You couldn’t help but smile like an idiot.  “It’s even better. These are beautiful” You leaned up to kiss him, and cuddled even closer, pulling back and focusing on the beautiful fireworks again. They kept on coming, he must’ve spent nearly all day on it. That very idea warmed your heart. He probably was working on them as you went to bring him his dinner. It was his way of saying sorry, without actually saying it out loud.  “Hey captain?”  He looked at you skeptically, as he always did when you used that nickname outside of the bedroom. You liked using it here and there just to keep him on his toes. “I love you” He grinned proudly in response, pulling you in for another, longer and deeper kiss, pouring in the love from his side, fireworks still going of in the background. This was so much more intimate, so much better than any festival you could imagine. 

He could definitely be a handful, but you wouldn’t trade him for anyone. He cared in his own special way, and for you, that was more than enough. 

[nitannichionne]

If He Was YOUR Fan Chapter 26: Come What May

CHAPTER 26: COME WHAT MAY                                         

You are not hearing this, you tell yourself, you are not hearing this! You envision the look on Henry’s face if you decide to tell him this—you have to tell him this. You shake your head, wanting to put your head over your ears as the doctor spoke. “What do you mean?” You ask the doctor. “It’s been eleven weeks, and I’m here, what’s the problem?”

“We cannot give you the injection until we know you are not pregnant.”

“But—”

“I know this is an inconvenience, but we took blood and urine and we see the depo provera is substantially weakened in your system and it hasn’t been twelve weeks. Come back in two weeks and test, and if you’re negative, we will give you the shot.”

You gasp. “Doctor—”

“Your injection seems to be weakening after an estimated eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks?!” your eyes fill with tears, shaking your head. “So—”

“So, you need to be careful after eight weeks instead of ten or eleven,” he nods. “I’m sorry, it’s the best we can do.”

 Stella calling your name breaks into your thoughts from earlier in the day. Your misting vision clears as you look at the ring on your hand. “Hey, you okay?”

You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to talk to anyone, not even Henry.

“You’re scaring me,” Stella whispers, taking your hand. “I won’t tell anybody.” She looks around and whispers even softer. “You and Henry fighting?”

We might be, you think.

“I see the way he looks at you,” Stella encourages. “I’m sure you will work it out, okay?” She smiles. “If not, we’ll beat him down with bags of potatoes!”

You hug her and she slowly brings her arms around you. “Thank you!”

“No problem,” she says slowly. “Whatever it is, it’s gonna be okay, alright?”

You nod, half believing her words. This was major.

You meet Henry at his trailer as you have every Friday for awhile now. You see him and you try to brighten.

He smiles and you smile, not quite trusting your voice yet. He kisses you in greeting and says, “Let me get my stuff. Stay here, Kal.”

“Hey, boy,” you say softly, petting him. “Hard day at the office?” You laugh softly as he licks your face in greeting.

He drives you to his home, and you sit as he starts a fire. “Did the shirts arrive today?”

“Uh, yeah, I got a notification on my phone.”

“You really want to dress for the party?” he asks, laughing softly, bringing you a glass of wine and going back into the kitchen.

“I thought it’d be fun,” you shrug. “Besides, we’re just wearing shirts, really.”

“Yeah, District 12 shirts.”

“I thought it’d be simple, and it won’t really feel like a costume, you dress up enough as it is.” You sit, thinking of the party next weekend. Would he even want to go? How is going to react--

“Okay, what’s going on?” He stands over you with a wooden tray of bread, butter and cheese with grapes.

“What?” you look up from your glass. Sometimes the man moves too quietly, you think.

“You’re remarkably quiet,” he smirks. “Everything okay?”

Your eyes drop to your lap, and your smile fades.  How do you tell him?

“Wait, you had an appointment today, right?”

You can’t look at him at first, but when you do, you regret it. He looks upset and angry and you want to melt into the floor.

He sits next to you, and looks at the glass of wine in your hands. His jaw tightens. “Okay. Start talking.”

“I have to wait two weeks to take the shot.” You stare at the fire.

“Why?”

“Because the drug weakened in my system.”

“Shit.”

“Henry—” you reach for him and he stiffens. “Henry!”

“If you knew that the damn thing didn’t work—”

“Hold it,” You raise a hand. “You think I actually knew that?”

“How could you not?”

“Easy enough,” you say. “I don’t normally do this. I don’t sleep around!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I haven’t been in a lot of relationships, especially like we are.”

“You mean, unprotected-reckless?”

“Reckless.” You repeat. “So I’m a reckless choice?”

“I didn’t say that--” he shakes his head.

“I have my own shit, you know!” you snap. “I don’t need you-have a place of my own back home, and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you!” Tears sprang to your eyes, ruining your declaration of independence.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” he says, coming close.

You back away, and he whispers your name as he extends his hand.

“I- I don’t want it like this!” You shake your head. “I want you to want me…” I hit my chest hard, making him flinch. “for me! I don’t want to be some burden, or a problem or—"

“What do you think that ring means?”

“I don’t know!” you say, wiping your tears furiously. “Stella gasped when she saw it, said she’d tell me later, but we didn’t have girl time this week—”

In two strides he has you in his arms. “I know you are not like that, alright? You don’t need me, but you want me.”

“Yes—”

He raises your hand with the ring on it. “Think, sweetheart, this is a—”

You look at it. “Triquetra.”

“Know what it means?”

“Father, Son, Holy Spirit.”

“Yes, that’s the Catholic definition.”

You take a deep breath. “Earth, sea and sky?”

“Well, that would be the pagans,” he smiles gently. “But this is a promise ring. It means you are exclusively seeing someone who loves, honors and protects you.”

“Not obey?” you joke tearfully.

He laughs. “Oh, that’s an entirely different ring!” He kisses your ring. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together, alright?”

You look up at him hopefully. You’ve never felt so vulnerable, so wonderful, thrilled and scared.

“Come here,” he purrs, closing his arms around you. You put your head on his chest and listen to the strong and steady beat of his heart. You close your eyes. “Now, what did the doctor say?”

“Going forward we should be careful after 8 weeks.”

“Eight?!” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath and sighs, “Alright.”

“What if—”

“Let’s wait and see, alright?” he says, looking down at you.  “Whatever it is, we’ll face head on.”

You cuddle by the firelight and watch random movies, much like last weekend-plenty of kisses and hugs, but no sex. You try to be understanding, realizing that abstinence or protected sex would be the way to go until the follow up, but you miss how he feels, and at a time like this, his touch would be the ultimate comfort. He took it easy on you when you dueled and introduced archery instead, something he promised he would do, but there were mixed messages all around. Was he not touching you because he didn’t want to-because now you represented a possible change in life? Was he not touching you because you are now precious and fragile, and he wants to be sure his seed stays intact? Was he being nice until he knew for sure and planned on making you his latest liaison?

During the weekend you kept looking at the ring. He gave it to you, didn’t he?

After he falls asleep Saturday night, you lay awake. You inhale the scent of his arm, which is draped over you. You run your cheek along it, kiss his hand and close your eyes to sharpen your other senses since your sight doesn’t come into play.

Then he stirs.

You gasp softly as he turns you onto your back, and kisses you tenderly. You release a whispered cry of relief as your arms fold around him, welcoming him. Your heart aches for him. You rub your cheek against his stubbly one, and you are breathing hard. His body presses against you, his hips between your legs, his mouth at your throat, as your fingers stroke his back and neck. You want to say it, you want to, and you feel like a coward. You arch to him, tears coming to your eyes as your mouths finally meet and mate. He kisses them away.

He grinds against you and as you kiss, he unzips your hoodie and pushes it off your shoulders. You help him get his pullover and shirt off, and you return to each other’s kiss desperately. With one hand he unfastens and unzips his jeans to remove them, and before you can do it, he tugs successfully at your leggings, sliding them down your legs. You feel shy as the air feels cool between your legs, your panties already wet. He trails kisses up your legs, his fingers caressing you intimately and making you raise your hips and remove them. You spread yourself under him in offering, feeling emboldened by need, by vulnerability, by love.

He crawls over you slowly and kicks his underwear off. You hear the telltale sound of ripping packaging and feel him shift his weight. He kisses you deeply as he gently moves inside you and begins to move. He still feels so good—his whole body, every sight, feel, and scent, his touch—close as before. He will not leave you, you believe it now.

Though you appreciate his making the adjustment, you wish you could feel him again. You know how much larger the tip can be than the shaft, how he surged and glided inside you so deeply and your body clasped him even as he seemed to widen and fill you. You could feel his main vein sometimes, throbbing as he controlled it, taking you both higher till you exploded together. It held him back, held you apart, and you found his embrace tighter, his kisses and touch more passionate.

“Love, honor, protect.” He whispers against your lips before gently kissing your ringed hand. He intertwines his fingers with yours.

“Love, honor, protect,” you whisper back. You lean up to kiss him holding him with your other hand. And no matter what, you would. Come what may.

Thanks for the support! Let me know if you want to be added to the list. I look forward to your comments! 

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[daydream-believin]

The Never-Ending Roadtrip (kmart’s haunted)

Summary: (part 1) Reader has joined Douxie on the quest for Nari’s safety. He’ll need company. (part 2) - Missouri 1     (part 3)

Warnings: swearing, very light spooky?

Word Count: 2245

A/N: so we’ve established that Doux wasn’t the one who burnt the bookstore, but they don’t know that. look, have you been in a Kmart recently? its apocalyptic. also, you know that post about people repeating their default work greetings by accident? yeah

“Do you want me to split the bill or?” The waitress asked, not sure if the group at the table was a young couple and their child or just three college kids hanging out. It was kind of hard to tell. On one hand, that one kid was so small, wearing a little deer costume, and had been helped to order. The other two radiated the energy of an old married couple and talked mainly to each other. But on the other hand, college kids are just like that sometimes.

“Nah, I got it.”

“What? No. I’m paying for us.” Douxie insisted.

“I have the cash, Doux.” (Name) turned to the waitress. She put some honey in her voice. “Just bring us one bill, please.” The waitress nodded nervously before heading off.

“No. I don’t want you paying for too many things while we’re traveling. You’re unemployed.”

“And who’s fault is that Mr. Mephits-Are-Vulnerable-To-Fire? You fucking burned down the store and put us both out of work here.” Nari was squirming at the negative vibes going on. It helped that she didn’t exactly understand what was going on.

“It was magic fire!” Douxie interjected in outrage. He looked so cute when he got defensive.

“Yeah, okay, sure.” (Name) shook her head, looking up to the ceiling. She let out a huff, “look, I invited myself onto this trip, Douxie. I want to pull my own weight. You’re going to have to let me pay for something eventually.”

“We’ll see about that, Love,” he said as he grabbed the ticket from the waitress’s hands as quick as lightning, tucked his card in and gave it right back before (Name) could further protest.

“Ugh! FINE! Then I’m getting the tip.” She pulled out a tenner and slapped it onto the table. She glared right back into Douxie’s hazel eyes. He glared right back into hers with a matched intensity. Nari looked back and forth between the two and whimpered. (Name) broke the standoff to assure Nari that they weren’t actually angry at each other so she shouldn’t be worried. That seemed to ease the forest child a bit but not by too much. She could still feel the weird aura they were putting off.

“Okay! So here’s your check back and here’s that lox bagel you ordered to go.” The waitress handed (Name) a doggy bag.

(Name) took the bag gingerly. A big fake smile spread across her face as she was momentarily possessed by that good spirit of customer service. “Thank you! I hope your experience was spellbinding! Have a magical day!” (Name) said on autopilot in that high-pitched voice and winked exaggeratedly. It was like she was an NPC and her talk button had been accidentally pushed. The waitress laughed forcibly and scurried away to the kitchen. Douxie cracked up.

“You do know that when I told you to say all that stuff after ringing people up, I was hazing you, right?”

“Oh yes, I am completely aware, Doux. Did you think I’d not pick up on how ridiculous that sounds? But I still say it to spite you.”

He shook his head. “Of course.”

***

Archie scarfed down his bagel sandwich with almost disturbing speed. It was like watching the void consume, well, a bagel sandwich. It just disappeared. Down his furry maw and out of existence. Being a dragon works up an appetite, after all. (Name) was a bit baffled and asked him if she should go get him another bagel. He assured her that the one was just fine and said something about trying to catch some birds later. She leaned back on her elbows against the boat’s railing, trying and failing to not think about the details of that.

Douxie cleared his throat. “So,” He folded his hands together for emphasis, “Since the subject of money came up earlier, I think we should also discuss the topic of our accommodations.”

“Well, you two obviously cannot afford lodging every night.” Archie snarked, flicking his tail.

“Thank you, for that, Arch. No, I was thinking more along the lines of a tent.”

“A tent?” the cat asked incredulously.

“Oh, that could work.” (Name) pointed at Douxie animatedly, “keep us close to nature for Nari. And also could keep our possible property damage bills down. Good idea, Doux.”

“Thank you,” Douxie puffed up, “see Arch? Someone appreciates my ideas-”

“Wait. That’ll be a short-term solution. We’re just barely into September. It’s going to be much, much colder in about a month. By October it’ll be too cold to bear. Even if we all huddle together like penguins.”

Doux looked away to hide his blush at the suggestion. “That is a problem. Okay, um-”

“Maybe we could just cross that bridge when we get there? Who knows what could happen between now and then. We could find so temp work in a little town somewhere.” (Name) shrugged, smirking at Doux. She didn’t want to admit that ‘we could be dead by then’ was also definitely a possibility on the table, so she tried to further distract from that thought. “Maybe we’ll find a creepy abandoned cabin in the woods we can squat in. Maybe some nice trolls will take us in as novelty pets. Maybe my rich Aunty Josie could just suddenly die under some ‘mysterious circumstances’ and leave her lavish fortune to her beloved niece,” she smirked at Doux, “I dunno, just spit ballin’ here.”

“I’m electing to ignore that you just suggested we ice your aunt because you were onto something there.”

“I was?” Her tone was a mixture of sarcasm and disbelief.

“Yes! New Jersey!

“New Jersey?” The wheels turned. “Oh! New Jersey!”

Nari looked confused. “What is special about this ‘New Jersey’?” she asked

Both Douxie and (Name) turned to her, “Trolls.” They said in sync.

***

(Name) stood there with her hands in her pockets. Somehow this Kmart was still standing, out here in The-Middle-Of-Fucking-Nowhere, Missouri. She was standing here, in a Kmart. It might as well have been 1986. There was barely anything on the shelves. Half the shelves themselves were missing. The floor had a layer of grime to it, in spite of the wet floor sign along with the shiny patches that said that it had clearly been mopped recently. The air smelled like something (Name) couldn’t quite place, but it was nostalgic. A strange scent that took her back to her childhood. Or at least she thought it was her childhood. It had to have been. Taking deep breaths, she couldn’t quite get enough of it.

Continuing that vibe, a muzak 80’s tune played over the speakers. Funny enough, despite (Name)’s brain seeming to recognize that it was playing a song from the 80’s, she just couldn’t quite put her finger on it as to which. Every time she thought she’d figured it out, she’d hear a few notes that would somehow change her mind. It was a pop song at least, to narrow it down. It’d been going on for about six minutes now. Must be one of those extended tracks.

She’d ask Douxie what he thought the song was. She turned her attention to him and noticed he was still just staring at that same shelf like he had been for, what, ten minutes now? Even though this fucking Kmart barely had any shelving in it, by some miracle it not only had exactly what they were looking for but an entire aisle of them. How lucky was that.

Douxie was taking very careful consideration into this tent purchase. This was going to be their new home, after all. He just couldn’t decide which one was best. They all had fancy camping terms on the packages that meant nothing to him. He’d been trying to decipher the code. The secret outdoorsman code. Nari shifted uncomfortably in the basket.

“Hisirdoux, you should maybe, hurry this along?” She sounded strained.

But she was right. He should just pick one already. It’s all a gamble anyway. He decided on a dark green one that boasted a water-proof material. Good natural color, not easily spotted, and it wouldn’t soak through with rain. That should work well enough, he figured.

“I’ve hurried along. Sorry Nari.” He casually tossed the box into the cart next to her. She sniffed the box and nodded to him.

Now that they had their goal item, the quest party started for the checkouts. Douxie could have sworn that it had been on the side of the store they were in. They had passed it when they came in. Now it was completely across by the other door. Did he get turned around? Or maybe they did come in from that side of the store. He actually couldn’t remember.

As they walked, a few things caught (Name)’s eye. They passed a display of dark leafy plants in oddly shaped pots, a table stacked high with various books and a clearance sign, a knife case that had been left open, a candle display with a few that had already been lit and were dripping wax, a bargain bin of CDs, and lastly a sad box of no-longer-in-season pool noodles. There was a sale on bloodmeal apparently. Perfect for perking up those roses after the summer heat.

They arrived at the checkout after what felt like an endless journey. (Name) hadn’t noticed any other customers the entire time they had been there, and yet the line for the only check open had seven people in it. She grabbed a couple bags of red licorice from the impulse shelf to add to their cart while waiting.

Nari was really interested in that checker. (Name) took her in. The teen was taller than most and had very, very long blonde hair that cascaded down her back like a shiny golden waterfall. Her cheeks were slightly sunken in. Must be going through a diet phase. Poor girl.

The young woman was obviously not one for small talk. Name couldn’t blame her. Retail sucks. Her perfect red fingernails clicked against the keys of the register in a practiced beat. She turned around and told them their total in a bored monotone. As Douxie fiddled with his wallet and payed, (Name) found herself staring right into the cashier’s eyes. They were such a light icy blue, they were almost white. It was striking. (Name) was almost in a trance. It was broken as the cashier turned around swiftly to rip off the receipt off the machine, and, in an uncharacteristically cheery voice, told them to have a nice night. Night?

They returned the cart back to the stack, grabbing their one singular shopping bag and helping Nari out. Of course Nari could easily just jump out herself, but that wouldn’t be something a human child could do. They didn’t need to draw any unnecessary attention to themselves here. They made their way to the automatic sliding doors that lagged so that they didn’t open until you were standing right in front of them. This allowed Douxie time to catch a glimpse of the reflection in the glass. The reflection of the store was completely devoid of people. Not even the checker was at her station. He sucked in a breath. After walking through those first doors, he stopped. He took a moment to turn back. There she was, right where she should be, checking out another customer with three more in the line.

Douxie hurried along the doorway to catch up to (Name) and Nari. It was darker outside than he expected, and he was taken aback. He found them right outside the store, waiting for him. In one hand, (Name) was holding Nari’s, in the other, the plastic shopping bag. Her head was tipped up to the sky, transfixed by the moon. He came over, grabbing her shoulder as he pulled her along, in an attempt to urge her away from this place. She looked back at him, eyes wide with distress. He tried to convey that he understood with his eyes. All three of them instinctually knew not to say anything more why they were still in this parking lot.

It had barely been half past noon when they had started this little Kmart side quest. It was now at least seven by the looks of it. They had spent six and a half hours in a Kmart? How had they spent six and a half hours in a Kmart. There went their entire travel day. But no time to dwell on this, they needed to get back to Archie and the boat as soon as possible.

As they walked back towards the ship, (Name) and Douxie both took one of Nari’s hands so that she was in the middle, like how those couples walk with their children. The streetlights glared up at them in the slick pavement. Apparently, it had rained while they were in shopping limbo. Poor Arch. (Name) let out a puff of air.

“Well. That sure was something.”

Douxie nervously chuckled, “If we had stayed in there any longer, I think we might have died.” (Name) mirrored that nervous chuckle.

“Oh, no, dying would be much simpler than what would have happened to us.” Nari said sweetly, like what she was saying was somehow better. Nari liked being helpful. (Name) put on her best fake smile.

“Thank you, Nari.” She tried her best to sound as sincere as possible to spare the veggie lady’s feelings.