#i say as i lie down because if i stand up i will nearly faint again 🤙

[katsukikitten]

tw staking

You can feel his eyes on you, the gaze heavy, weighted with thoughts so intense it makes your stomach knot.

Curdle like milk in the heat of summer, twist and turn around and around until you're left dizzy and nauseous.

When you turn to look for those eyes, for that leadened gaze, you find nothing.

You always find nothing.

It only adds to your sickness. To the doubt and paranoia that rip up your throat in a dying scream when faced with shadows that linger in the corner of your eye.

The dead of night brings nothing but dread to you. Footsteps so faint you try to brush them off as a considerate upstairs neighbor tiptoeing in the late hours. Warm breath fanning your cheeks you swear is just the heat kicking on at an odd time even when you kept your apartment cool to save money.

The time lost on your motion activated camera at your front door was just a glitch. Surely that's all it could be and the one time you've seen a hooded man with his mask it was probably just a neighbor who was unlucky enough to have the night shift.

And that the number texting you cryptic things and paragraphs and paragraphs of why you're so beautiful with details of outfits and jewelry choices and how the mystery messenger doesn't like it when you wear another man's hoodie to bed.

It was just a wrong number, yours transposed with the original recipient you were sure of it.

Getting out of the house would be good, at least that's what your friend said, not that you told her about the messages or footsteps. Especially not about how you thought you'd seen a man in your room one night. Just at the foot of your bed, tall and thin. Looming in an almost unnatural manner that left you with goosebumps because deep down you know that gaze.

Had felt it for months now.

If you had confessed to these delusions, your friend would insist to stay the night and what if something happened to her all because you were having an episode?

Even if nothing happened, if you both slept through the night peacefully, you knew that either way you couldn't handle the truth.

You'd rather live in your dream-like state, of not knowing if your mind was breaking or if there truly was a horror stalking around your house.

That ignorant purgatory fared better than the reality that either could be true, so for now you'll go to the little drinking parties your friend invites you to.

Four, you've been to a total of four now and each time you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom part way through to relax.

That and silence your phone, for the first two parties you'd received message after message asking why you were out so late and who the fuck was that sitting next to you. It all started coming to a head so quickly.

Yet still you think being out in public may curb things if only just a bit.

Standing in the hallway that lead to the restrooms when your college crush runs into you for the second time.

“Ah, are you feeling okay?” His voice has a bit of gravel to it, tone soft and nearly monotone in the way he speaks. Starlit hair to his shoulders pulled back into a half bun and eyes sparkling like any gem.

“Ten-Tenko.” You stammer, shoving your phone in your little nezuko purse with embarrassment, for once it doesn't ring or chirp to life with question after question, it's slowed down since he's sat next to you two parties ago.

He waits patiently for a long moment, blinking slowly and standing stone still before it takes you a moment to realize he's waiting on your answer.

That he actually cares.

“I'm- I'm okay.” A lie but the truth starts to eat away at your stomach lining, starts to claw up your throat and weigh down on your tongue. Forcing your lips to move in such a manner all because this lanky man made you feel a little bit better.

Made you feel safe.

“Can you pretend to be my boyfriend and walk me home? I- I think I might have a stalk-stalker and they say that if they see another man they'll back off and I'm just a little scared and it's silly but you've been sitting next to me and making me feel safe and blocking the window and I don't feel so para- paranoid when you're around and you can say no I mean this is a weird request that I'm asking and is that statistic even a true one I'm not sure and well maybe we shouldn't you might get hurt never-” Tenko's warm palm on your shoulder cuts you off, makes you shrink as you realize your rambling.

Makes you want to melt down into your tennis shoes and never be seen again.

Stupid stupid STUPID

You chance a glance up at him, his eyes are closed and he's smiling softly. Reassurance pulling at the corners of his scarred lips making that much more handsome.

“I can walk you home and make sure you're safe. I wish you told me earlier.” He moves his hand slowly, lets his knuckles graze your throat before his fingers push hair behind your ear, “Go back to the party, I'll keep blocking the window.”

Ever obedient you return to your seat quickly, phone chirping and the message burning into your brain before you switch your phone off.

Tread lightly you have no idea what you're asking for

The night goes on without a worry, Tenko's warm body next to yours, blocking the large picture window to the street and soon you forget there was a heavy gaze on you at all. Neatly tucked into his side all on your own and he's even observant enough to know you don't handle your liquor well, he takes the shots offered to you for you and somehow you find that attractive.

That despite his boney stature he can handle something much booze and much better than you could dream of.

“It's getting late isn't it?” One of your classmates yawns while another adds, “Yea, she has to get home to her boyfriend!”

An accusatory finger pointed at you, the attention makes your stomach twist.

“What boyfriend?” Another chimes in, curious and training their attention on you as you feel you've lost your voice. Knuckles white grip on the hem of your skirt as the conversation carries on.

“Who else would be texting her so much?”

“Yes she does sneak away during class, bet it's to meet her boyfriend in the library to ‘study.’”

The room starts to spin just a bit, swallowing the bile that rises up your throat, once, twice, four times as the weighted gaze returns.

Burning into your skin like a brand forever marking you as you whimper and whine under the touch. Breath shuddering from your frame, hands and skirt blurring in your vision as you choke on the lump in your throat.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Tenko's voice grounds you, makes your head snap up to him and the look you give him is so pathetic it makes his chest hurt. Heart squeezing tightly as his ribcage caves in.

You cannot even form words, you just shake your head before his hand slips into yours to stop pinching at your skin.

“Sorry bout that. I don't mean to keep her from you guys.” Tenko’s voice carries over the teasing before gasps erupt, excited congratulations and curious questions bounce around the room only to be ignored as Tenko rises to full height before gently pulling you to your feet.

He puts on your jacket, secures your purse to your body.

“We're going to call it a night.” Bowing his head politely before he gently guides you out to the street by the small of your back. Silently asks you to lead the way as the two of you walk in the cool air in a comfortable silence.

Tenko is sure to be a barrier between traffic and yourself, his hand moving from the small of your back to between your shoulder blades and back down before he finds himself restless, following down your arm so he could link his pinkie with yours as you guide him to your apartment complex.

He's insistent he should walk you all the way to your door and you cannot say no. Whispering your apartment number to him which makes him take the lead.

“I really appreciate this.” Soft and meek, the sound makes Tenko chuckle beside you.

“It's really no problem.” Tenko stops in front of your door, notices the keypad and enters the eight digit passcode to your front door.

The keypad lights up green, the knob gives way to the weight of his hand as he eases the door open turning to face you with that soft smile.

But your pretty lips aren't curled up in your appreciative smile anymore. Instead you're making that face again. That cute one you gave him at the bar where you didn't want him to think you actually had a boyfriend, the dread and horror marring your pretty features as your mind raced a million miles a minute.

When you felt helpless, out of control of the situation.

A little like a doe in headlights or a fox stuck in a trap.

“I- I never told you the passcode.” Your voice is so small, barely audible that Tenko would call it more of a breathy whisper.

He sighs, low and long, slouching as his shoulders hunch forward, frown yanking down the corners of his lips. His once polished rubies now razor sharp. Heavy as they look over your face so intensely you look away unable to move as his pinkie squeezes yours tighter.

Long fingers gently hooking under your chin, tilting your face upwards until your eyes lock and no matter how you try you cannot look away.

Memories overlap with the present, images of that unnatural manner at the foot of your bed, of the way your stomach twists and knots, every nerve in your body burning as it begs you to move. To not freeze you for once in your life.

To run, run, RUN.

But you're locked in place, face coming closer as his nose brushes against yours, sighing again as he relaxes returning to his monotone state even as his eyes flicker with something monumental, deadly.

You feel his warm breath on the shell of your ear and suddenly you're back in your room, shivering under the blankets hoping it was all in your head.

“I would've just killed the boyfriend, by the way.” Before he leans back, putting his hands in his hoodie pocket, face impassive, tone nonchalant while he waits for you to enter the ‘sanctity’ of your home.

[causalityparadoxes]

Guess who maybe got mild hypothermia and proceeded to

-> Get into a hot bath

-> Almost (actually possible did) fall asleep

Luckily it was either very mild or something else like idk shock or general cold exposure or some kind of cold induced syncope. But bawhahahHA those are the 2 things you are not meant to do there. Some bad decisions were made.

[fangswbenefits]

Discovery

Summary: Miguel tries to fix the damage of his obsession for you, only to discover a secret you’ve been keeping that will change everything…

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

Word count: 3k

18+. Miguel POV. Obsessed and jealous Miguel. Inexperienced/In*ocent/V*rgin reader. Mast*rbation. Voye*rism (have to thank this anon).

Part 1 (if you’re just starting out) - Previous Part

Miguel O’Hara took pride in being able to keep his emotions at check.

For the most part, at least.

But when it came to you, he constantly found his reason at war with his feelings.

The way you were eyeing him expectantly, made his stomach flip.

“Is there something wrong?”

Many things.

For once, he didn’t want to lie to you. However, he dreaded what might happen in case he told you the truth.

Shaking his head, he took your pad in his hands, and glanced over at his watch.

100%

He wanted to just open the file and finally know who this Tom individual was, but he could see a faint frown settle on your face.

“Why can’t I have access to the settings?” you asked, coming to stand by his side to glare at the lit up screen.

He really didn’t want to lie.

“I needed to adjust the prototype first, before giving you full access,” he managed to say.

Great, Miguel.

Your eyes moved to glare at him. “You could have informed me of that.”

He could only nod, he tapped and scrolled through the interface, overriding the block he had placed on it a couple of days ago.

You didn’t seem upset in the slightest. If anything, it you seemed… tired? Sleepy?

“It’s done,” Miguel said, handing the pad back to you. “The interference was probably a mic, by the way.”

As you fought back a yawn, your face twisted into confusion. “A mic?”

Miguel was trying to play it casually, hoping that it would be enough to deflect this issue altogether.

But you… you were not easily detracted.

“Why is there a mic in my suit?”

His heart rate had nearly doubled, and he felt his sweat grow cold as your gaze intensified.

Then, he saw you straighten up as if hit by a sudden realisation.

“You… don’t trust me?” your voice was but a whisper and you started backing away from him. “You’re spying on me?”

Somehow, the conclusion you had drawn was almost as appalling as the truth.

“No! That is not why.”

“Then why?”

Miguel pressed his lips together, and you took his silence as an answer.

“Oh… you really don’t trust me, do you?” you went on, tears welling in your eyes. “I mean… Jessica did tell me you were against me joining Spider Society… I just… thought she wasn’t being serious…”

Miguel stepped closer, feeling a surge of indignation. “That was before I realised your potential!”

You blinked your tears away angrily. “You’re not even denying it.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “I had my doubts at first, yes. Your inexperience, for example. But Jess quickly convinced me to take you in,” he continued, knowing that he sounded desperate at this point. “You are a very talented spider, and I realised that nearly right away.”

Then your eyes widened all of a sudden as if you had just realised something daunting.

Miguel felt his stomach flip, already anticipating more something much worse.

“Oh… oh… you — you sent Jessica to my dimension because of Tom…” you said, visibly shaken. “He’s subject A. You… you… woah!”

Miguel felt control slip through his fingers with each accusation you threw at him.

There was no point denying it, and he didn’t want to lie to you. If anything, he only sought to do damage control.

But your usual calm and sweet demeanor had long vanished.

“Who do you think Tom is?” you said between gritted teeth, clenching your fists at your sides. “Some… some secret weapon against Spider Society? Is that it?”

It was evident from your reaction that he clearly wasn’t that.

“Listen, I d-”

But you immediately cut him off, tears streaking down your face. “You want to know who he really is? Do you?”

In truth, he did. However, not at the expense of your emotional stability. Not like this. Everything was going sideways and he felt petrified.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ll tell you!” you spat, hurt swelling in your voice. “Three days after I got bitten by that spider, I was struggling to get the hang of all the changes.” You began pacing nervously around the room, no longer looking at him. “I was heading toward a robbery site and… Tom was there… the criminals had dynamite and were threatening to blow up the building,” your voice cracked momentarily and you took a deep breath before continuing. “In an effort to get him out of there, I shot my web at his chest, but lost control and balance, and sent him flying across the street as the explosives went off…”

Miguel could only stare from a distance, feeling the frustration in your words.

You halted and glared at him, lips quivering and more tears spilling. “Tom broke his arm and suffered a serious concussion. Because of me.”

He opened his mouth to offer words of comfort, but decided not to interrupt.

“I grew up with Tom. He is — was my best friend,” you sniffled, lowering you gaze. “I even had feelings for him at one point, which was ridiculous… he was too good for me, anyway.”

Miguel took a few steps in your direction, wanting to convince you otherwise, but you immediately retreated away from him.

“Thankfully, he managed to fully recover. No one found out it had been me who caused it in the first place… everyone just assumed it happened because of the explosion…” you mumbled, before crossing your arms and hugging yourself, showing him you had done this multiple times before in search for comfort. “And I was a coward… I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth… so I removed myself from his life.”

A tense silence followed.

Nothing could have prepared Miguel for this revelation, and he couldn’t help but to feel a wave of sympathy for you wash down on him.

You then eyed him. “I don’t want your pity. I deserve this. I was never a decent spider-woman and-”

He quickly stopped you. “That is absolutely not true and you are not a coward.”

“Oh, but I am. When Jessica approached me with the offer to join you, I didn’t even think twice,” you confessed. “I’d do anything to spend as much time away from my dimension as possible.”

“You still perform your duties, as far as I know,” he pointed out rationally.

You let out a pained groan. “Because I have to! I’d much rather stay in the lab, piecing things together and be useful in other ways.”

“You could have told me.”

This time, you frowned and Miguel realised such expression didn’t suit you. At all.

“I didn’t want to. I didn’t have to. This is something I’m ashamed of.” You then pointed at his watch. “Your file won’t tell you any of this, and I really wish you hadn’t gotten involved, because this was my story to tell.”

Your words pierced through him like sharp knives, and he realised he had not only gone too far, but had also managed to hurt you in the process.

“If there is anyone here who understands what you are going through, it’s me,” he began carefully. “I know how it feels to want to do the right thing, only for the consequences to be disastrous.”

He watched your face soften ever so slightly, and you didn’t flinch away from him when he came to stand right in front of you.

“I’m really sorry that I overstepped the line,” he said softly. “I really care about you. That is the reason why I had the mic in your suit and why Jessica went looking for Tom.”

A half-truth, he figured. He couldn’t flat out say the actual reason. How would he even explain that he was obsessed with you? How could that justify any of this?

Simply put, it couldn’t.

And you would resent him.

So, he settled for a half-truth. He did care about you. Immensely. More than he could possibly reason with. But he just couldn’t have you know how much he wanted you to be with him to the point of extreme obsession.

Especially not after discovering this secret of yours.

He had to win you over.

“There is no one who can understand how hou feel better than me,” he whispered, cradling your face in his hands, tilting it enough to have your eyes meet his.

“But… you’re the Miguel O’Hara… you’re so… ” your voiced trailed off.

“Spider Society exists because of my mistake. Many people died at my hands, even if it was unintentional,” said with a sigh. “That is a burden I’ll carry forever with me. What you see here came at a price.”

You swallowed.

“But you don’t have to go through this.”

“How so?”

He caressed your cheeks with his thumbs. “You get a chance set things straight. Tom is still alive. I don’t get to have that.”

He would never have Gabriella back. Ever. That was the ultimate price he had to pay.

Your gaze dropped and he saw a couple of tears streaming down your face. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s not, but it’s still an open door. A choice you have.”

He felt your hands grip his wrists for support, as silence took over you.

“I just wish you’d told me,” he whispered, closing his eyes and planting a kiss to your forehead. “I would have been here for you sooner.”

The effect of his words coupled with the gesture were enough to have you break into a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, as Miguel held your face with both hands.

This was painful to witness.

He knew all too well how it felt to feel powerless and thinking that you’ve run out of options.

He knew you now. He understood you. Better than anyone ever could.

“I’m… s-sorry…” you mumbled, trying to keep yourself from crying. “You’re… getting all w-wet…”

Miguel couldn’t help but to smile endearingly at your concern, as your tears began to roll down his hands.

“Do not apologise,” he said firmly. “You can cry. I’m here for you.”

Nodding, you opened your eyes again and tilted your had back to stare at him.

“Please s-stay…” you said in between sobs, your hands gripping him tightly. “Please…”

You were killing him.

Little by little.

Miguel would give you everything.

He nodded and you stepped back and let go of him, running the back of your hands across your cheeks to dry them.

Then you went to sit on your couch, removing the clutter of wires and boxes that were in the way.

Miguel spotted a blanket nearby and came to sit by your side, draping it over your shoulders.

You leaned against the backrest, and he followed suit, feeling your head drop to his shoulder.

“Please remove the mic… and delete that file…” you mumbled.

“I will.”

He swung his arm across your from you, to pull you closer to him.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, and Miguel closed his eyes, relieved that he had managed to somehow control the damage he had caused. Unfortunately, it had come at the expense of you having to open up to him, and he felt guilty for that…

He knew he had to prove himself to you, and was grateful that you hadn’t chosen to shut him out completely.

“Somehow… this was sort of cathartic?” your voice was suddenly heard.

Miguel squeezed your arm tenderly.

“I had… never told this to anyone…”

Guilt hit him at once. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be… I think I needed to let it out,” you mused against him.

He couldn’t help but to feel an intense wave of compassion for you. There was no way around it: Miguel was in too deep when it came to you. Everything about you pulled him in and gripped him.

You would always be his sweet girl.

His devotion was yours.

Just yours.

“Hey, Miguel?”

He felt you shift beside him and he looked down to meet your sleepy eyes. “Yes?”

���Can I kiss you?”

Your words didn’t register at first, and he thought he had misheard you.

“What?”

You slipped your feet under you, before leaning slowly into him, face drawing near. “Can I kiss you?”

Denial hit him. “You’re just sleepy.”

But you didn’t back down. “No… I just…” your eyes darted down. “Can I?”

His heart went into a frenzy and he was left speechless. Your eyes were set on his lips and he somehow found the strength to nod.

It took you a couple of seconds to adjust yourself, and once you did, you closed the the gap, parting your lips slightly.

Miguel was left perplexed.

Weeks of yearning and obsession were finally being vindicated.

“Pretty eyes,” you whispered, breath fanning his lips. “So pretty…”

Your noses brushed together and he fought the urge to pull you into his lap at once.

“You’re the pretty one…” he said truthfully.

A smile curved your lips even through your sleepiness. “I’m going to kiss you now, Miguel O’Hara…”

And you did.

The moment your lips met his, Miguel felt his body react. It didn’t take long for the blood to rush down to his cock, slowly stirring it.

He could taste the inexperience on your lips as you kept breaking the kiss to gasp for air. It was blatantly obvious you needed some help figuring out what do next, so he happily obliged.

With one hand he managed to shift your leg to swing across his, and with the other he propped you onto his lap.

You broke the kiss, adjusting yourself and lacing your arms behind his neck and taking his lips again.

This time, he pressed his thumb to your chin, parting your lips, so he could deepen the kiss with his tongue. You immediately complied, and allowed him in with a soft whimper.

Miguel finally tasted you.

His sweet girl.

You came down to press your crotch against his painfully hard cock, and he immediately had to still your hips and lift you slightly.

You broke the kiss again, confusion in your eyes. “What…”

He didn’t dare confess it to you.

Instead, he pressed on your lower back so you would lean into him again with a kiss.

He wanted to taste you, but he couldn’t have you sit on his cock like that… he would absolutely burst.

His sweet girl sounded so sweet and receptive…

He felt you trying to defy his hold on your hips, surely wanting that friction, but he couldn’t afford that.

As much as he wanted to feel you grinding on him, he would be too embarrassed to cum so soon, and that thought was what ultimately prevented him from reaching the point of no return.

He brought one hand to grip your wrist, allowing the top half of his digital suit to disintegrate, so he could place the palm of your hand on his chest, revelling in your heated skin against his.

Suddenly, you parted from him with a gasp. “Wait… I’m…”

He arched an eyebrow in confusion and watched as you snaked your arm in between you two, sliding your hand down your sweatpants.

Miguel’s eyes widened and he was about to lose it until he realised what was really happening.

You slowly removed your hand and glared at it. “Oh.”

Your fingers were drenched in your wetness.

You were soaked.

For him.

He carefully looped his fingers around your wrist, wanting to taste you, but that sent you into an immediate frenzy, and you fumbled to get up from his lap, nearly falling back if not for his incredible reflexes.

“Easy…” he cooed, caressing his thumb along your pulse point. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything.”

You tumbled to the side and he let go of you, watching you sit back against the cushioned backrest and looking startled like a deer in headlights.

Just how inexperienced were you?

“Thanks…” you mumbled, chest heaving erratically. “I’m… yeah… and sorry…”

Miguel sat up straighter and arched a brow. “You don’t have to apologise.”

You nodded, your eyes falling to his bulge. “I mean… for that…”

Only you would ever apologise for giving him a raging boner.

His sweet girl…

“Don’t worry,” he reassured, feeling his heartbeat slow down. “Are you okay?”

“Yes…”

He offered a warm smile. “Good.”

Miguel didn’t even know where to begin. He couldn’t quite grasp the events of tonight, and it almost felt like a fever dream.

He was so used to getting hard from just the thought of you, that he couldn’t believe he was now hard because of you.

Still, the way you had reacted when you realised how wet you were for him led him to believe that maybe you were far more inexperienced than he had anticipated.

And he would respectfully give you all the time and space.

He would wait for you to ask him for more.

He could wait. His throbbing cock not so much, but he had other ways of dealing with that.

“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked, adjusting himself over his suit.

Your eyes widened. “Oh…”

“Just to ease some of the tension,” he immediately said.

He was desperate to let his cock spring free, and let it calm down until he was back at his apartment.

You then averted your gaze. “Can you… do it here?”

Miguel was utterly and completely taken aback.

“I… I have never…” you went on, quickly pulling your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, and covering your face. “Nevermind…”

Oh.

Now it all made sense.

“Hey… look at me,” Miguel started, reaching out to tug at your wrist. “It’s okay.”

Slowly, you lifted your head to peer at him with evident hesitation. “Is it too… weird?”

“Not at all.”

And he meant it. By this point, he could feel his cock twitching more often, as more and more precum began to drip from the tip.

“Are you sure?” he asked, needing the absolute confirmation.

You promptly nodded, resting your chin on your forearm, eyeing him intensely.

He paused for a moment, expecting to be jolted away from this dream, or to have you backtrack.

“Please…” you whispered.

Swallowing hard, he allowed himself to sink into the backrest, before having the lower half of his suit disintegrating, and his cock finally released from its confinements.

Your eyes widened and your lips parted.

An instant ego boost that caused him to hiss as he wrapped his fingers around it. His body was so ready for you. Almost too ready. It didn’t take long before Migue felt droplets of precum sliding down his hips.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from you and it only added to the pleasure he felt.

Giving himself a few tentative pumps, he watched closely as you glared at the motion, curiosity splattered all over your face.

The first moans escaped his lips and he nearly slid his eyes shut, trying to stop himself from cumming too quickly.

But he didn’t want to miss out on anything you had to offer.

Miguel soon found a steady rhythm and began to fuck his hands like so many times before. But unlike those other times, he had you as an audience and he knew he wouldn’t last long no matter how hard he tried to muster images of the Vulture to dwindle his impending orgasm.

Then, you shifted closer, your legs dropping, but still pressed together.

He groaned, knowing exactly why you were being so fidgety.

Your hand was clutching at the hem of your shirt as a way to anchor yourself from the visual stimulation.

“You can touch yourself…” Miguel rasped, tightening the grip around himself, precum now flowing down his knuckles.

You pressed your legs tighter together and Miguel had to halt his motion or he would burst.

“…. or not,” he added, not wanting to overstep your line of comfort.

Your eyes darted to his face momentarily and, for the second time, Miguel saw your hand disappear inside your pants. You gasped softly and he could only guess that you must have reached your clit.

You let out the sweetest whimper, and Miguel’s cock twitched immediately.

His chest heaved and he swiped his thumb across the tip of his cock, letting out a groan.

He watched in awe as your arm moved rhythmically, and your eyes fluttered shut.

“Look at me…” he breathed.

You were biting yout lip, but did what he asked.

The urge to replace you hand with his — better yet, his cock — was almost painful and he knew he was heading towards the precipice, having to space out his strokes.

Your gaze fell to his hand. “How’s it so hard?”

He would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire and him being in need of release.

You scooted closer and closer, until your face was mere inches away, while still touching yourself.

For him.

Because of him.

“Why do you think?”

You gasped and he saw your hand slid out of your pants, fingers glistening with your wetness.

“Can… I?”

Miguel was too far gone to deny you of a newfound experience, so he nodded, bracing himself for what was about to happen.

He would burst.

You chewed on your lower lip as if unsure of what to do next, but he wanted you to take your time. A few moments later, you reached down with your soaked hand and he lets go of his cock, welcoming your touch.

He threw his head back and had to muster all of his willpower not to cum right away, as the pads of your fingers tentatively traced the underside of his cock, slowly moving to graze the veins that bulged from under the sensitive skin.

Everything inside him was suddenly burning like wildfire and he couldn’t stop his hips from jerking up.

By the time your thumb reached his tip and grazed slowly, Miguel hissed violently.

“Stop… stop - stop… please-” he begged, but was already being overtaken by the suffocating grip of a powerful orgasm.

You had indeed stopped touching him, but the damage had already been done.

His cock twitched rhythmically as hot spurts of cum began to cover his abs. Witch each roll of his hip, Miguel felt his vision blur and his fangs extend. He groaned your name a couple of times, before his words started to fuse together in a incoherent mess.

The stiffness of his peak shattered after a while and he slumped into the couch, struggling to even out his breathing.

Once he was finally able to open his eyes again, you came into his field of vision, holding a towel in your hands.

“Here,” you said as a smile broke across your face, before sitting by his side and offering it to him.

Even through the haze of an orgasm, Miguel was ablet o feel his heart skip a beat from your tenderness.

He proceeded to clean himself, wiping away the impressive amount of cum that had pooled on his lower abdomen.

“That was…”

His eyes were immediately on you. “Do you want me to…” he trailed off, allowing the not so subtle implication to dangle.

You didn’t catch it at first, but his silent was very telling.

“Oh, no — no, I’m fine, thanks,” you said with a chuckle.

“It’s only fair that I return the favor…”

You shook your head more vehemently this time. “It wasn’t a favor to begin with, Miguel. I was curious and… just wanted to watch you do it,” you mumbled as his digital suit began to cover his body again. “I had never… yeah — I’m still…”

Miguel had his suspicions that you were inexperienced, but he had no ultimate proof of that.

But this… “You’ve never had sex before?”

You settled back on the couch, crossing your legs. “No.”

He wasn’t sure of what to say. Was there even anything he should say?

So, he fell silent, waiting for you to take the lead.

“But… this was an interesting experience,” you eventually went on with a smile. “Do you… regret it?”

“No.”

But he could see doubt already settling on your face. “Maybe it was too much.”

“Not for me,” he said truthfully, straightening up in his seat. “Don’t think that, please.”

You nodded, but Miguel felt a pang of dread spread across his body. The last thing he wanted was for you to regret having opened up to him.

He had been longing for this for far too long to let it all be for nothing.

You were his sweet girl and you had his heart.

“Listen,” he started, set on preventing that from happening. “I can only speak for myself, but that was extremely hot. You are so, so attractive,” he went on, earning a doubting glare from you. “You are. I usually last longer than that.”

Your lips curled into an embarrassed smile, but Miguel could feel his words weren’t exactly reaching you.

Then silence took over.

You kept staring at your hands, head down and humming softly.

“Are you okay?” he shifted closer.

You took a deep breath. “I was thinking about your words earlier…”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

He watched you closely. “And what are you thinking?”

“I think you’re right, Miguel,” you drawled out, your voice but a whisper. “I’ve been blaming myself for what happened to Tom for too long.”

A jab of compassion and empathy tugged at his heartstrings. “You’re absolutely right.”

Then, lifting your head, you met his eyes. “I think… I want to meet up with Tom again. Thank you for making me realise that, Miguel,” you finished with a sweet smile.

Part 6

Masterlist

[gothcsz]

what if someday, Javis constant girls do get a bit much for neighbour readers feelings and heart and she actually thinks about moving and looks in the newspaper for new places (even though she knows she never actually could because being away from Javi feels impossible) and Javi randomly sees the circled ads on her kitchen table and he just absolutely panics and freaks out. And in typical Javi way, does it in a way that’s probably rude lmao

we are back on our neighbor!javi flow, y’all! i mixed these two amazing prompts together so thank you to my anons for sending them in 🖤 i hate these two (i don't) hehe

“What’s this?”

You freeze mid-step, a stack of extra blankets and a pillow nearly slipping from your grip as Javier holds up a newspaper, the pages marked with listings of different apartment complexes and houses.

His eyes are narrowed, mouth pressed into a firm line, and your heart stutters as you see the storm of emotions there.

You’d tried to keep it together, to swallow the ache every time you heard him bring someone home, convincing yourself that it shouldn’t bother you.

But then you started seeing and hearing the same woman’s laughter drift through the walls, night after night, and that finally broke something inside you.

He’d found someone—someone who wasn’t just a casual fling, someone he wanted to talk with, someone to hold at night. And while you’d long accepted that you’d never have that kind of intimacy with him, the reality of him finding it with someone else made your heart burn in ways you weren’t prepared for.

So, determined to protect yourself, you began looking for a way out.

“I’ve just been looking around—” you start, trying to keep your tone casual.

“Why?” he cuts you off. You watch as he sets down the paper he’d been holding, but he doesn’t step back, his body tensed as if he’s bracing himself.

“Because this place is crappy.” You straighten your shoulders, gesturing with a faint, forced smile to keep this from spiraling.

It’s not a lie, but it’s also not the full truth.

“They can’t even get someone out to fix the plumbing on time, and you’re about to be crashing on my couch because of it. My lease is up in two months, so… it just makes sense.” The words tumble out easily enough, but you can’t ignore how his gaze searches yours, like he’s looking for deeper meaning—and it’s there, but he doesn’t know what exactly it is.

“So… what, you were just going to leave without telling me?” His voice dips, the tension almost palpable as he stands there, arms crossed, jaw set in that way that makes his frustration obvious.

You cross your own arms, matching his stance. “I haven’t even toured any places yet. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” It’s not like you’re moving back to the States, even though that thought has crossed your mind.

His eyes bore into yours, and the weight of all the unspoken things between you lingers, tightening your chest. Javier is wrestling with his words, unsure of what to say since he’s doing that thing where he lets his anger take the reins before thinking shit through.

"Besides, I can barely afford anything around here." You let out a short laugh, but it's strained, revealing just how much this uncertainty has been weighing on you. "I’ve been… I’ve been looking for other jobs too." You clear your throat, wondering how he’s going to take it. "No luck, though.”

Javier’s face shifts, his eyes darkening with a flash of something almost akin to guilt.

First, you're talking about moving away from him, and now, even your job isn’t enough to keep you around him.

Panic prickles under his calm exterior as he watches you, piecing together the unspoken reasons behind your restlessness.

Is this because of him? Is he selfish for thinking this way?

He can’t help but think back to every little misstep he’s taken with you.

Had he finally pushed you too far? Sure, he knew he got a little too possessive when you were bringing Mateo around… or maybe he was too obvious with his flirting over those shared dinners.

Every moment he spent lingering in your presence—sitting a little too close at the courtyard on embassy grounds during his smoke breaks, or holding your gaze longer than necessary—flashes through his mind.

It’s one thing to flirt and tease, to keep his feelings in check for your sake, but the last thing he ever wanted to do was make you feel cornered, like he was crowding you.

"He’s not making you do any of this, is he?" Javier’s voice has an edge, wary and somehow accusatory.

You blink in surprise, a flicker of irritation igniting inside. Really? Does he actually think your short-lived thing with the guy from the bank has you wanting to carelessly pack up your life?

The assumption pisses you off, but you hold back—after all, he’ll be crashing on your couch for the next few days, and arguing right now could make things awkward.

But then again, maybe he'd find solace with that woman you hear coming around nearly every night.

“You’re joking, right?” You shake your head, feeling the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. “No, Javier, no one’s making me do this but me. If anything, I’m just a little tired of having to plug my ears at night to avoid hearing you screw your girlfriend into oblivion.”

The words spill out, laced with a bitter edge you didn’t mean to reveal, but after how he barged in on your date with Mateo, maybe he deserves a to feel some heat about it, too.

His eyes narrow sharply. “Girlfriend?”

You wave him off, “Just forget I said anything.”

But of course, he’s not going to let it go that easily. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, Javi," you sigh, feeling exposed and frustrated. "I just know the walls are paper thin, and I can hear everything—just like you can. It’s grating sometimes, but I do my best to ignore it and not storm over there to embarrass the both of you by blowing up."

Suddenly, every late-night hookup he’s had since you moved in projects like a kaleidoscope in his memory.

None of it meant anything to him—they were just distractions, shallow ways to escape the brutality of his job and maybe even the tender, unspoken feelings he harbors for you.

Yet, in his careless distraction, he hadn’t considered how it could affect you, make you uncomfortable in your own home. For someone who claims to care deeply about you, he realizes he’s done a lousy job of showing it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, cariño.” He deflates, and your heart skips because you just melt when he calls you that, “I didn’t think… well, fuck, I never think.” He bites back the urge ramble, to tell you how much he despises the idea of you leaving, how much he wishes he could be the reason you stay and that he hates himself for making you listen to him lose himself in different women. “I’ll be better about that.”

You nod, feeling whiplash from this weird ass conversation slash argument you just indulged in.

“Just be courteous. Isn’t that what you told Mateo?”

He steadies himself, masking the ache in his chest with a small, tight smile. “Yeah, guess I did say that.”

And it’s not like you’re actually going to follow through with leaving. You’ll just resign your lease and hope that Javier sticks to his word about keeping his love affairs quiet.

[brunchable]

The Stakeout: Day 3 || Steve Rogers x Agent!FReader.

Day One | Two | Four Words: 4.2K Themes/Warnings: Unspoken feelings towards each other. Growing tension. Sexual Attraction. Eventual Smut. Being stuck with each other. Summary: You came too close from being compromised by the enemy target and the first idea you could think of was to K-I-S-S Steve. A/N: Ayo . . . We getting close lmfao.

Tags: @lafrone @moviegurl2002 @haruvalentine4321 @blankmoniker

You slept really well. Last night's sleep was different from the cold, restless nights you’ve been enduring—it’s a comforting warmth, the kind that makes you want to stay curled up in bed for just a little longer.

Your eyes flutter open, and it takes you a moment to realize that you’re still cuddling against Steve. At some point during the night, you must have shifted closer, because your head is now resting on his chest, your arm draped across his stomach. His arm is around you, holding you close, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Hm, this is nice.

For a few heartbeats, you just lie there, your mind still groggy from sleep, trying to process the situation. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. It’s nice. Comforting. But as the haze of sleep begins to lift, the realization of just how close you are—how tangled up you’ve become—hits you like a bucket of cold water.

Your eyes snap open fully, and you quickly lift your head, your heart skipping a beat as you realize just how intimately you’re pressed against him. Steve’s eyes flutter open at the sudden movement, for a split second, the two of you just stare at each other, wide-eyed and too stunned to move.

Then, in an unspoken agreement, you both scramble to disentangle yourselves, practically leaping out of bed in your haste to put some distance between you.

“Uh, morning,” Steve mumbles, his voice hoarse from sleep, running a hand through his cow-licked hair. He’s clearly flustered, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink that you’ve never seen before.

“Morning,” you reply, your voice a little too high-pitched as you quickly busy yourself with anything that will distract you from the awkwardness of the situation. 

You smooth down your pajamas, tugging at the hem of your tank, anything to avoid looking at him. The silence that follows is deafening. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him moving around the small apartment, his movements a little too purposeful, as if he’s trying just as hard as you are to pretend that nothing unusual happened. He grabs his coffee mug, but his hands are a bit too shaky, and he nearly spills it as he pours himself a cup.

You decide to follow his lead, grabbing your own mug and pouring yourself some coffee. The routine of it, the familiar motions, help to steady your nerves, but you can still feel the aftershocks of that moment in bed, the way your heart refuses to calm down.

“So,” Steve begins awkwardly, clearing his throat as he finally glances in your direction, though he quickly looks away. “We should probably check in with Fury?” 

You latch onto the change in subject with relief, eager to focus on something—anything—other than the fact that you woke up in his arms. 

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “He probably needs to know the report for yesterday.”

Steve nods, still avoiding your gaze as he takes a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, that’s… that’s what I was thinking too.”

There’s a brief, awkward silence where you both just stand there, holding your mugs like they’re shields against the morning’s awkwardness.

“So, um…” You gesture vaguely with your mug, trying to find something to say that isn’t related to the fact that you woke up in his arms. “I’ll… get dressed?”

“Right, yeah,” Steve says quickly, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Good idea. I’ll, uh… I’ll do that too. I mean, not with you. Separately. I’ll get dressed separately. In another room. You know what, I'll just turn around.”

You can’t help but laugh at how flustered he sounds. “Steve—”

But he’s already turning his back to you, his posture stiff with awkwardness. “No, no, I’ll just… I’ll give you some privacy.”

You roll your eyes playfully as you reach for your clothes. “You’re a real gentleman, Rogers. Not even gonna sneak a peek?”

Steve nearly chokes on his coffee, his face turning a deeper shade of pink. “I—uh—no! Of course not!”

“Relax, I’m just messing with you. You can turn back around once I’m dressed.” You grin, enjoying how easy it is to fluster him.

“Right, yeah. I’ll just… stare at the wall,” he mutters, clearly trying to regain his composure.

As you change into your clothes, you can’t help but chuckle to yourself at the absurdity of the situation. Here you are, two highly trained professionals, acting like awkward teenagers. It’s almost endearing.

Finally, you finish getting dressed and clear your throat. “Okay, you can turn around now.”

Steve turns back around, looking relieved that the ordeal is over. “Great. I’ll, uh… get ready too.”

You nod, giving him a little more space as he quickly grabs his clothes and starts to change. This time, you’re the one turning away, focusing intently on your coffee as you try not to think about how nice it would be to wake up like that every day.

“So,” Steve says again as he pulls on his shirt, “about checking in with Fury…”

“Yeah, we’ll do that after we… you know, finish getting ready,” you reply, trying to sound casual.

“Right,” he agrees, but then hesitates. “And, uh… about this morning… I just want to say…”

You brace yourself, expecting another round of awkward apologies, but instead, he surprises you.

“It was nice,” he says softly, his voice sincere. “Waking up like that. I mean, not that I—well, you know what I mean.”

You’re caught off guard by his honesty, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. But then you smile, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the coffee.

“Yeah, it was,” you mumble, your tone softening. “It was… nice.”

× × × ×

After a quick meal, you found yourselves back at your posts, watching the building across the street with the same careful attention you’d maintained the past few days. The day was quiet, the hours dragging by with little to show for it, and you were starting to think that today would be just as uneventful as the days before.

But then, just after lunch, something changed.You spotted movement in one of the windows of the building you were surveilling. It was subtle, just a shadow passing by, but it was enough to put you both on high alert.

“Did you see that?” you whispered, leaning slightly closer to Steve as you strained to get a better look.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice low, tense. “Something's about to happen.”

The two of you watched in silence as the door of the building opened, and a man stepped out. He looked around suspiciously, clearly on edge, and you felt your heart rate pick up. This could be it—the moment you’d been waiting for.

But as the man lingered in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the street, you realized something: he was waiting for something—or someone. You exchanged a quick glance with Steve, your stomach twisting with unease. If he saw you, if he realized you were watching, the entire mission could be compromised.

“We need to stay low,” Steve muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “If he sees us—”

But it was too late. As if sensing your presence, the man’s eyes suddenly snapped to the window where you and Steve were hiding. His gaze zeroed in on you, his expression darkening with suspicion. Your heart stopped, your breath caught in your throat as you locked eyes with him, knowing that you had only seconds to act.

“Kiss me.” You blurted out.

“What?” Steve almost snapped his neck turning his attention towards you.

Panic surged through you, and without thinking, you reached out, grabbing Steve’s shirt and pulling him close. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t resist. You had to do something—anything—to divert the man’s attention before he realized what you were really doing.

Acting purely on instinct, you tugged Steve down toward you, pressing your lips to his in a sudden, desperate kiss.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis as your lips met his. The tension, the panic, everything melted away, leaving only the heat of the kiss, the way Steve’s body pressed against yours, the way his hand instinctively cupped the back of your head, pulling you closer.

The kiss was meant to be a cover, a way to make the man think you were just a couple stealing a private moment. But it quickly escalated to something deeper.

Steve’s initial shock gave way to a response that sent a shiver down your spine. His lips moved against yours with a fervor that took your breath away, his other arm slipping around your waist to pull you flush against him.

For a moment, you forgot where you were, why you were doing this. All you could think about was the way Steve was kissing you, the way he was holding you, like he never wanted to let go.

Reality crashed back in. You forced yourself to pull back, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps as you broke the kiss. Steve’s eyes were dark, intense, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared at you.

But there was no time to dwell on it. You quickly glanced over Steve’s shoulder, your heart pounding as you checked to see if the man was still watching.

He was.

The man’s eyes were locked on the two of you, his expression still suspicious, but now there was something else in his gaze—something calculating. You could see him weighing his options, trying to decide if what he saw was genuine or a ruse.

“We have to sell it,” you whispered urgently, your voice trembling slightly.

Steve’s eyes flicked to the window, understanding immediately. Without hesitation, his hand buried itself in your hair and tilted your head back, taking your lips, his tongue slid silkily within the warmth of yours. 

Your hands find themselves on the back of his neck, and a moan vibrates low in your throat as his tongue invades your mouth, his taste unfamiliar and darkly seductive at the same time. This kiss was slower, more deliberate, really trying to convince the man watching that this was real—that you were just a couple, too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else.

You tried not to get in too deep, but it was nearly impossible when Steve was kissing you like this. He groans, his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you even closer. A soft gasp escaped you and Steve used the opportunity to deepen his kiss. You feel the growing tension in his powerful body. His breathing speeds up, and his kiss turns hard, devouring, making your body throb in response. Your hips began to grind on his still covered cock, instinctively, while pressing himself against you, gripping your hip.

You risked another glance out of the corner of your eye. You tried to turn your head, but Steve claimed your mouth again. You couldn’t prevent the low moan of pleasure that escaped you as he continued to escalate. Your body begins to pulse in anticipation, your nipples tightening under the fabric of your shirt. 

The man was still there, but his suspicion seemed to be wavering. He hesitated, his gaze narrowing as he watched you both, but then he shook his head slightly, as if dismissing the idea that you were anything other than what you appeared to be. He turned and walked away, disappearing back into the building.

× × × × 

STEVE’S POV

Shit.

Her touch is strangely innocent and uncertain. I can taste her, feel her, and the urge to fuck her is so strong I shudder with it. I know I should stop, push her away, but I can’t. Her kiss is the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt. When I think I can’t bear much more, her hot little mouth moves to my jaw and then trails down my neck, kissing and nibbling with the same torturous gentleness. Her hands release my face and slide down my body, her fingers closing around the bottom edge of my shirt.

She begins to lift my shirt, and I groan as her knuckles brush against my naked sides, her touch leaving my skin burning in its wake. 

“Y/N . . .” I suck in my breath as she scoots down and kneels between my spread legs, her face at the level of my navel. “Y/N, you need to stop teasing me.” 

She ignores my directive, keeping my shirt bunched up. 

“Who’s teasing?” she whispers, looking up at me. And before I can respond, she leans in and places a warm, damp kiss on my stomach. 

Fuck. 

My entire body jerks, my balls tightening on a savage surge of lust. The sight of her kneeling there pushes my buttons in all the wrong ways, calling to my darkest desires. My hands knot into fists, and I take short, deep breaths, reminding myself that we're working right now. We need to be on high alert.

Except she’s licking my stomach now. Fucking licking it. Tracing each muscle indentation with her tongue, like she’s trying to imprint it on her memory. 

“Y/N.” My voice is hoarse. “That’s enough. He's gone.” 

She pulls back, looking up at me through those long, thick lashes of hers, “Are you sure?” she murmurs, still not letting go of my shirt. “Because I think I want more.” 

And leaning in again, she scrapes her teeth over my lower abs, then sucks on the spot, her mouth hot and wet on my bare skin. Skin that’s right next to the throbbing cock still confined in my pants. 

I see Y/N smile deepen as her eyes flick to the bulge in my jeans. The little witch knows exactly what she’s doing to me, what kind of effect she’s having on my body.

Fucking hell.

“Y/N . . .” I can barely form the words, my fingers digging into the window sill in an effort not to grab her. She release my shirt and fiddles with my belt buckle instead—

Bee-Beep. Bee-Beep

The beeping of the satellite phone was like a force that drove me back to reality, shattering the charged atmosphere that had wrapped around us. My mind was still clouded with the intense desire Y/N had stirred in me, but I forced myself to focus, to shove it all aside. I nearly tripped over my own feet as I scrambled for the phone, my heart hammering in my chest.

I clicked the button, bringing the phone to my ear, my breath still coming too fast. “Hello… Fury, yes,” I managed, my voice rough with the remnants of lust that hadn’t fully faded. 

As I spoke, I shot a glance at Y/N, who had moved to lean against the window, her arms crossed and her gaze avoiding mine. The tension between us was still thick, lingering in the air, but it was cut by the sharp edge of Fury’s voice on the other end of the line.

Fury didn’t waste any time. “Rogers, we’ve got a situation. A high-priority operative is heading your way. I’m sending you the details now. Be prepared to change your plans at a moment’s notice.”

Fury’s tone was sharp, no room for error. “And Rogers… don’t let your guard down. This guy is dangerous. Expect the unexpected.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, the line going dead a second later. I lowered the phone, my mind racing to process everything at once. The surge of desire, the need for control, the impending threat—everything was clashing inside me. I turned back to Y/N, who was still watching me, with an unreadable expression.

× × × ×

Your POV

Steve hastily ran towards the phone, almost tripping over his feet as he tried to reach for it just in time. He clicks the button and picks up, “Hello. . . Fury, yes.” Steve gives you a stern glance as you stood up and leaned on the window with your arms now crossed

“Yes, sir.” Steve replied to the phone firmly before hanging up the phone. Steve sighed and tossed the phone on the table. 

The silence that followed was painful, punctuated only by the sound of Steve’s pacing as he moved back and forth across the small room. The shift in his demeanor was jarring—gone was the man who had been just moments away from losing control with you, replaced by the disciplined soldier, all focus and intense. It was like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over the both of you, extinguishing the heat of the moment.

Your arms crossed tighter over your chest as you leaned against the window, your mind racing with regret and confusion. What the hell was I thinking? The question echoed in your mind, over and over again, with no clear answer. 

The desire that had driven you to push him that far, to test the boundaries of your partnership, now seemed reckless, foolish even. You could barely stand to look at Steve, not with the way he was pacing, his mind clearly focused on the mission and nothing else.

He stopped suddenly, his hand still on his hip, and let out a long sigh. He turned to you, the sternness was still there, and you braced yourself for whatever he was going to say.

“Y/N,” he started, his voice low but firm, “we need to talk about what just happened.”

You bit your lip, not sure if you were ready for this conversation, but knowing you couldn’t avoid it. 

“I know,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. “I… I’m sorry, Steve. That was out of line. I don’t know what came over me.”

Steve shook his head, stepping closer, his eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t apologize. I’m just as responsible for what happened. But I need to be clear about something—this mission, our focus, it can’t be compromised. Not by anything, even… this.”

“I know. You’re right. I lost sight of that for a moment, but it won’t happen again.” You nodded, your throat tight as you struggled to find the right words. 

He studied you for a long moment, his expression softening just slightly, as if he could see the turmoil you were feeling. “We’re both under a lot of pressure, and things like this… they happen. We can’t afford any distractions alright?”

“I understand,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “I’ll stay focused. I won’t let this interfere with the mission.”

He took a deep breath, as if steadying himself. “Once this is over, we’ll figure out what to do about… us. But for now, we have to push it aside.”

“Okay,” you agreed, though the words felt heavy on your tongue. “We’ll deal with it later.”

He gave you a small, tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right. Now, let’s get back to work.”

The room fell into silence again, but this time it was different. The weight of what had happened, and what had almost happened, lingered in the air between you. 

As Steve turned back to the table, gathering his gear, you couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of your eye. You wanted to reach out, to say something, anything that might ease the tension between you, but the words wouldn’t come.

So instead, you followed his lead, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. The mission was all that mattered now. Everything else would have to wait. But deep down, you knew that once this was all over, there would be no going back to the way things were. The line had been crossed, and nothing would ever be the same.

× × × ×

The night dragged on, the silence between you and Steve almost as heavy as the darkness that filled the room. After Fury’s call, you both took up positions by the window, watching the building next door with unwavering focus. But as the hours ticked by with no sign of movement, the tension began to ease, replaced by a bone-deep weariness.

It was now 3 a.m., and nothing had happened. Not even the slightest flicker of light or shadow from the target’s location. The adrenaline that had kept you alert earlier in the night had long since faded, leaving you fighting to keep your eyes open. You shifted slightly, trying to push away the fatigue that was pulling you under, but it was no use. You tried to stay alert, tried to keep your eyes open and your focus on the mission, but your body had other plans. You found yourself nodding off, your head dipping lower each time, only to snap back up as you jolted awake, determined not to let sleep overtake you.

But the battle was futile. Each time your eyes closed, they stayed shut a little longer. The room around you blurred into shadows, and before you knew it, your head rested against the back of the chair, and you were drifting off completely.

STEVE'S POV

I watched as Y/N finally gave in to sleep, her head resting against the back of the chair, her breathing becoming slow and even. She’d fought so hard to stay awake, to keep watch alongside me, but it was clear she couldn’t hold out any longer. The day had taken its toll on both of us, but I couldn’t help feeling a surge of protectiveness as I watched her sleep.

I knew she couldn’t stay like this—curled up in an uncomfortable chair, vulnerable to the aches and stiffness that would come when she woke. She needed proper rest, especially with what might lie ahead. Quietly, I stood from my own chair, moving toward her with careful, measured steps.

As I reached her, I hesitated for just a moment, taking in the sight of her peaceful face. Then, gently, I slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her with ease. She stirred slightly as I cradled her against my chest, but she didn’t wake. The trust she had in me, even unconsciously, made something tighten in my chest, but I pushed the feeling aside. There would be time to sort through all of that later.

I reached the bed and slowly lowered her onto it, my movements gentle, careful not to wake her. As I laid her down, she instinctively curled into the blanket, her hand clutching the edge as she settled into the softness. But before I could step back, something held me there, something that made it impossible to look away.

For a long moment, I just stood there, staring down at her. She looked so peaceful, so vulnerable, the usual tension and guardedness gone from her features. The way her lashes rested softly against her cheeks, the slight parting of her lips as she breathed, the delicate curve of her neck—it all captivated me in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

And then, without thinking, I reached out, my fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down my spine. My hand lingered, hovering just above her skin, as if part of me was afraid to break the spell of the moment.

God, she was beautiful. Not just in the way she looked, but in everything she was—strong, determined, fiercely loyal. She had this fire inside her that drew me in, made it impossible for me to stay away, even when I knew I should. And now, seeing her like this, so calm and serene, it hit me just how deeply I cared for her.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the emotions I’d been trying to suppress rising to the surface. The urge to lean down, to press a soft kiss to her forehead, to her lips, was almost overwhelming. But I held back, knowing that this wasn’t the time. It wasn’t fair to her, to us, to act on these feelings when so much was at stake.

But standing there, looking down at her, it was impossible not to imagine a different world—one where we weren’t in the middle of a mission, where the dangers weren’t so immediate, where we could be together without fear or hesitation. A world where I could tell her everything that was in my heart, where I could love her the way she deserved to be loved.

The intensity of those thoughts made my breath catch, and I had to force myself to step back, to break the connection. But before I did, I let my fingers trace lightly across her temple, down to her jaw, memorizing the feel of her skin beneath my touch.

“Y/N…” I whispered, so softly that the words barely escaped my lips. But the sound, the feeling, hung in the air between us, charged with all the things I couldn’t say out loud.

She stirred slightly in her sleep, a small sigh escaping her lips, and I froze, watching her settle back into peaceful slumber. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, and I couldn’t help but feel a swell of affection.

Finally, I forced myself to turn away, every step back to the window feeling heavier than the last. I took my seat, resuming my watch, but my mind was far from clear. The image of her sleeping face, the way she looked so content and beautiful, was burned into my mind.

I was in love with her—completely, irrevocably—and there was no going back from that.

[once-upon-an-imagine]

Bad Liar (Chapter Five) - Fred Weasley

A/N: ahhhh xD I have no idea how this turned out! I hope you guys like it though :D

Prompt List

Warnings: Adrian Pucey, I think that’s it xD let me know if I missed anything though

Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter :D gif isn’t mine :)  

Your name: submit What is this?

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Bad Liar

Did all my dreams never mean one thing? Does happiness lie in a diamond ring? Oh, I've been asking Oh, I've been asking for problems, problems, problems

“(Y/N), are you listening to me?”

“Huh?” you were snapped out of your thoughts and looked back to your friend. “Uh- y-yes” you insisted.

“Really? What was I talking about?” Angelina smirked.

“Um… about… the Yule Ball” you tried.

“Lucky guess” she glared at you. “Merlin, could you be more in love with him?” she laughed.

“W-what?” you asked, nervously. How does she know?

“Fred! You can’t stop staring at him” Katie intervened. Right, you’re ‘dating’, so nothing seems out of the ordinary to them. “I think is so sweet” she smiled.

“Yes, you look so much happier with him than you ever did with Cedric” Angelina added.

“Really?” you asked, smiling a little.

“Yes! Fred treats you like you’re the only thing that matters to him” Katie told you.

“That’s not true” you said, feeling your cheeks burn before you felt a small paper ball hit you on the head. You turned to see where it came from and saw Fred smiling at you from the other side of the classroom. Fred looked back at Professor Snape to make sure he wasn’t looking and then he started motioning to you so you would get his message. He pointed at you, then he made a stupid little dance, and then he pointed at himself, mouthing the words: ‘You. Ball. Me.’ You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help to laugh a little and nodded at him. “Yes” you nodded with a big smile that Fred returned before winking at you. “What?” you asked looking back at your friends who had their eyebrows raised at you.

“You were saying?” Katie smirked.

“Shut up!” you insisted, relieved when Professor Snape released the class and you all made your way to the Gryffindor Tower. It wasn’t long before Fred caught up with you and your friends.

“Hi, sweetheart” Fred said, throwing his arm around your shoulders. “I got this for you” he said, placing two chocolate chip cookies.

“Oi! Those were mine!” you heard the faint voice of Ron not so far from you.

“Thank you, Freddie” you smiled, kissing his cheek.

“What were you ladies talking about?” he asked, holding your hand and you closer to him.

“Nothing-” you started.

“Actually” Angelina interrupted you. “We were talking about how cute you two are” she smirked at you too and you rolled your eyes.

“Why, thanks, Angie” Fried smiled, kissing your forehead and smiling dreamily at you. “I believe so” he stated. “Don’t you, darling?”

“O-of course” you chuckled nervously as you finally reached the room where you had to wait for Professor McGonagall.

“Settle down everyone” Professor McGonagall said walking inside the room. You were standing on one side of the room with Angelina and Katie as the boys stood on the other side of the room. “Now, the Yule Ball has been a tradition of the Tri-Wizard Tournament since its inception. On Christmas Eve night we and our guests gather in the Great Hall for well-mannered frivolity. As representatives of the host school, I expect each and every one of you to put your best foot forward, and I mean this literally because the Yule Ball is first and foremost… a dance” she stated as groans emerged from the boys’ side and the girls seemed a lot more excited. “Silence” Professor McGonagall continued. “The house of Godric Gryffindor has commanded the respect of the wizarding world for nearly ten centuries. I will not have you in the course of a single evening besmirching that name by behaving like a babbling, bumbling band of baboons” she warned.

“Try saying that five times faster” George whispered to Fred making the guys laugh.

“Now, to dance is to let the body breathe, inside every girl a secret swan slumbers longing to burst forth and take flight” she said looking at the girls.

“Something’s about to burst out of Hilary but I don’t think it’s a swan” Ron whispered to Seamus, and they laughed.

“Inside every boy, a lordly lion prepared to prance” Professor McGonagall said glaring at Ron. “Mr. Weasley, will you be so kind to join me?”

Ron’s smile fell from his face as Professor McGonagall pulled him up to dance. You saw the faces of Harry, George, and Fred and you were trying really hard to contain your own laugh.

“Now, place your right hand on my waist” she told him.

“W-where?” Ron asked nervously.

“My waist, Mr. Weasley” Professor McGonagall repeated. Ron did as he was told and heard a wolf whistle coming from the crowd that you knew came from Fred. He turned to glare at the exact direction where he knew it came from and saw Harry trying to hide a laugh while the twins smirked at him. “Now, bend your arm. Mr. Filch” she said. Filch put on the record player and the music started. “And… one, two, three… one, two, three…” she repeated dancing around with Ron who was not having the best time of his life. Fred mocked his little brother, dancing with George as he smiled brightly at you, as you tried extremely hard not to laugh. He really loved this girl.

“Promise me you will never let him forget this” Harry leaned down to whisper to the twins.

“Never” they both said at the same time.

“Now, everybody, come together” Professor McGonagall said as she kept on dancing.

“May I have this dance, love?” Fred said, bowing in front of you, and you giggled loudly before taking his hand.

“Of course, Freddie” you said sweetly as you started dancing around the room.

“So…” he said, getting your attention. “I’ve been thinking-”

“Really? Well, that’s a first” you mocked him and he glared at you.

“Do you want to know, or not?”

“Sorry, continue” you smiled.

“Well, since this is the last Hogsmeade, I thought maybe we could… go on a date” he said, hoping you didn’t notice the blush rushing to his cheeks.

“Y-you… you want to go on a date with me?”

“Well, you know, given that… I’m your boyfriend and… we’re going to the Yule Ball and all” he chuckled. “It occurred to me that we never really had a date” he told you as you raised your eyebrow at him. “Fine! Ginny and Hermione asked me about our first date and when they found out we haven’t been in one, Ginny nearly kills me” he admitted.

“Fred, you don’t have to take me out on a date” you giggled.

“I know I don’t have to but, firstly, you deserve it. I mean I would even be a worse boyfriend than Diggory if I don’t take you out on a date” he explained.

“That’s sweet, Freddie” you smiled. “What’s the second motive?”

“Ginny terrifies me and she said she would actually kill me if I don’t” he quickly said.

“Well, I wouldn’t want her to kill my boyfriend and only prospect date for the Yule Ball” you chuckled. “So, I’d love to go on a date with you” you told him, trying as hard as you could to ignore the butterflies in your stomach when he smiled brightly at you.

“Great” he said, trying to contain his own excitement. “It’s a date, then” he smiled.

“It’s a date.”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

You stood outside of Gladrags Wizardwear after you and your friends bought the perfect dresses for the Yule Ball. You were nervously waiting for Fred to arrive so the two of you could go on your first official date. You weren’t sure why you were so nervous. This was Fred. your best friend since you first arrived at Hogwarts. But now, suddenly, everything had changed.

You felt butterflies every time he smiled at you. You felt your cheeks burning when he complimented you or he kissed you. You thought it was probably because your last relationship ended up being a shitshow and Fred was the first person to show you any kind of love. Even a better love than Cedric ever did. So, you decided that today you were going to rationally organize your feelings for Fred. Because you could not be in love with your best friend, right? So the only logical thing to do is to take feelings out of this and just, think about it instead.

“Hey, love” you heard that beautiful voice behind you. Okay, this may be harder than you thought.

“Hi, Freddie” you smiled, turning around and smiling at him.

“What are you doing out here in the cold?” he asked, taking off his scarf and placing it around your neck. And here come the stupid butterflies.

“W-well, I was just waiting for you” you told him. “It is chaos in there” you said, waving at the store. “There are a billion girls trying on different dresses, if you went in, you’re never coming out” you told him.

“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you” he said, holding your hand and pulling you away. “Wait, where is your bag? Did you not get a dress?”

“I did, but Angelina took it with her” you told him.

“Why?”

“Because it’s a surprise and I knew that if I had it with me you would take it out and see it” you smiled.

“That’s not-!” he started. “Okay, yeah, that does sound like me” he laughed.

“So, where are we going?” you questioned, intrigued.

“Well, don’t worry, we are not going to Madam Puddifoot’s because I know you hated your dates there with Diggory” he told you.

“Y-you remember that?”

“Of course, I do” he said as if it was nothing. “So, instead, I thought we could go to Zonko’s, Toms and Scrolls, Honeydukes, and then the Three Broomsticks” he suggested.

“Really?” you asked excitedly.

“Yeah” Fred said, getting nervous all of the sudden. “W-would you rather do something else? I knew I should have asked you, but Hermione said-”

“Fred” you stopped him, kissing his cheek. “That sounds like a great date!” you smiled.

“Yeah?” Fred smiled at you.

“Yeah” you nodded as Fred kissed your forehead.

After visiting all your favorite Hogsmeade spots, you were now sitting in a booth at the Three Broomsticks and Fred brought two butterbeers to the table. Your nerves quickly faded away with Fred. Because this was still Fred. He was still your best friend. And you were now 100% sure that you were in love with him.

“So… all of the sweets are to make you ill?” you asked as Fred explained to you his latest invention with George while the two of you ate your Honeydukes candy. The Skiving Snackbox.

“Yes, not seriously ill, just ill enough to get you out of a class when you feel like it. They're double-ended, color-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the Puking Pastilles, you throw up. Moment you've been rushed out of the lesson for the hospital wing, you swallow the purple half which restores you to full fitness, enabling you to pursue the leisure activity of your own choice during an hour that would otherwise have been devoted to unprofitable boredom. That's what we're putting in the adverts, anyway. So far we have Fainting Fancies, Fever Fudge, Nosebleed Nougat, and Puking Pastilles” he said, happily.

“Freddie, those sound brilliant!” you said, munching on a Sugar Quill. “You and George are really geniuses, you know that, right?”

“I think you’re probably the only person who’s ever called us that, love” he chuckled, eating another Chocolate Frog.

“I’m pretty sure I won’t be the last” you smiled, sitting closer to him. “Um… Freddie?”

“Yeah?”

You felt your heart beating a bit faster when he smiled at you, with a bit of foam on his upper lip and you cleaned it with your napkin. You wanted to tell him.

“I uh-” you wanted to say that you loved him and that you wanted this to be your first actual date. But instead, something else came out. “I have to go to the bathroom” you chickened out. “I’ll be right back” you smiled nervously, getting out of the booth.

Fred sighed, hoping that he hadn’t made anything weird. He had actually been looking forward to today all week. Well, if he was being honest, longer than that. A lot longer. He thought he might just see where you stood with him after a date and maybe he would get the courage to tell you that he wanted this to be your actual first date. Everything had been perfect so far, and he had been dying to kiss you since he picked you up in front of Gladrags Wizardwear.

“Well, isn’t this sweet?”

Fred was snapped out of his thoughts when a very unpleasant, yet familiar voice sat on the booth in front of him.

“What do you want, Pucey?”

“Relax, Weasel, I come in peace” he said, grabbing one of your Sugar Quills and Fred glared at him. “My bad, Weasley” he corrected with a smirk. “Sorry, force of habit. But, I do come in peace-”

“I seriously doubt that” Fred told him.

“Look, mate, I’m just looking out for you” he said, starting to eat your Sugar Quill.

“You’re looking out for me?” Fred asked with an angry chuckle.

“Yes, mate, I don’t think it’s fair, the way (Y/N)’s using you” he said.

“(Y/N)’s not using me” Fred said defensively.

“Isn’t she? Then why are you pretending to date her?”

“I hate to break it to you, but I’m not pretending. We’re in a relationship, no matter how that breaks your… well whatever it is you have instead of a heart” Fred told him.

“Uh-huh. So, that’s why she was Diggory’s treasure in the last task?”

“Look, you don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“I do, mate. She’s just going to use you until Diggory wants her back and then she’s gonna dump you” Adrian shrugged.

“That’s not true” Fred said, rolling his eyes.

“Isn’t it? Then I guess I’m wrong and the two of you are completely and madly in love” he smirked, taking a bite of the sweet.

“I really don’t get why this is any of your business or why you insist that (Y/N) and I are not dating-”

“You’re not” Adrian added.

“But, I can assure you that we are very happy with each other” Fred told him, starting to feel a bit on edge.

“That’s not what I asked you is it?” Adrian smirked. “See, I can clearly see that you’re in love with her. You have that stupid face whenever she comes near you. But, she doesn’t seem to feel the same way about you” he explained. “So, that means that this whole ‘thing’” he said, making air quotes with his fingers. “It’s until she gets bored. Dumps you, and runs back to Diggory.”

“Why the fuck would you even care? You need to leave (Y/N) alone-”

“Or what?” he snickered. “This whole ‘jealous boyfriend’ thing is not a very good color on you, Weasley” Adrian sighed.

“Is this because she hates you? Because you would probably be the last person she would date? Because you’re really not helping your case by being here and telling me all this” Fred told him.

“She doesn’t hate me. Trust me” Adrian told him, glaring at him a little.

“I think that out of the two of us, I know her pretty well” Fred said. “And believe me, she does” he smirked.

“How well do you actually know her, Weasley?” Adrian said, returning the smirk. “Because I will admit, if you are at least getting those benefits out of this, I might be just a little bit jealous” he said, noticing Fred’s cheeks and ears turning red.

“Get the fuck out of my table” Fred said, smashing his fist against the table. “I swear, Pucey, if you speak about (Y/N) like that again, I will kill you with my bare hands” he said between clenched teeth. Adrian simply smiled at Fred and stole another one of your Sugar Quills.

“Fine. I’ll leave” he said as if it was nothing. “But when she gets tired of you and runs back to Diggory, don’t say I didn’t try to warn you, Weasel” he said before getting up.

Fred took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down before you came back. He didn’t want you to see him like this, even if you would probably notice something was wrong like you did whenever he was upset. I can clearly see that you’re in love with her. But, she doesn’t seem to feel the same way about you. He hated to admit it but, Adrian was probably right. Not about the part of you using him, of course, he had agreed to do this with you. But what was going to happen once this whole thing was over? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He wasn't sure if he would be able to just go back to being your friend. But what was he supposed to do? You didn’t love him back. Probably worse than Adrian being right, George was right. All along. He kept saying that this was the worst idea but he still did it. And now, he wasn’t sure how to out. Because he didn’t want to get out. But he knew you would.

“Hey” you said, snapping him out of his thoughts and sitting down next to him again. “Sorry I took so long, there was a line” you lied. You were trying to think of the best way to tell Fred that you were in love with him. But now his mood seemed to have shifted. “Is… everything okay?”

“Yeah” Fred quickly said, clearing his throat. But you could tell he was lying.

“Are you sure? You seem upset-”

“I’m fine, (Y/N)” he insisted. (Y/N). Not ‘love’ as he usually called you. Even more, now that the two of you were dating. You knew he was hiding something. Which was what really worried you. Fred never lied to you. “I’m gonna get something else to drink, okay?” he asked, getting up and walking away before you could respond.

“O-okay” you said, deflated. Maybe today wasn’t the best day to tell him after all.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“I’m in love with Fred!”

“BLOODY HELL!” George jumped, sitting up on his bed. “What the fuck, (Y/N)? What if I had been naked?”

“I would have been scarred for life! Did you hear what I just said!”

“You can’t just barge in on me like that! What if I was taking a huge dump!”

“Well, you weren’t!”

“But what if I was?”

“Then, gross! Did you fucking hear what I said!”

“Yes, yes. You’re in love with Fred” he rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry to dump this on you, it’s just… well, everyone else thinks I’m already in love with him, you know? And now I am and I don’t know what to do! I didn’t see this coming!”

“Really? You didn’t think that pretending to date someone, holding hands, hugging, and kissing as much as you two do would make you develop feelings for him?”

“No…” you insisted but George glared at you. “Okay, fine! You were right! You said one of us would end up falling for the other and those feelings would not be reciprocated and IT HAPPENED!” you said, freaking out. “I’m the one! I’m the one who fell for Fred and now I don’t know what to do!”

“(Y/N), calm down. You’re overreacting!” he laughed.

“OVERREACTING?! No! George, I fucked up! We promised we wouldn’t do this! What am I supposed to do now? I can’t be with Fred anymore, but I also don’t want to break up with him because… well, I do want to be with him! But that’s not fair to him! That would be extremely selfish of me so… what do I do now?”

“Well… you could… tell him how you feel?” George suggested.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Or… or, I don’t tell him and then I save myself from embarrassment when he rejects me!” you said, slapping his arm.

“So what is your plan then, to fake date him until he falls in love with you?”

“Do you think that could work?”

“(Y/N), this is ridiculous! Just talk to him and sort this out so you can both admit that you love each other and stop driving me crazy!” he snapped, widening his eyes when he realized what he had just said. He hoped he was wrong, but the look on your face told him that he had just fucked up.

“What did you just say?” you asked nervously.

“Uh... um... n-nothing! I said nothing at all!” he panicked.

“George!”

“I just said that you should tell Fred that you love him-!”

“No, no, no.... the, um, the... love 'each other' part?”

“E-each other? I don’t recall saying anything about each other-”

“Oh, Merlin!” you gasped. “Fred- Fred’s in love with me?”

“Did I- uh? Did I say that? I don’t think I’ve said that!”

“George!”

“Alright, fine! You two are a couple of idiots that are ridiculously in love with each other and are too idiots to notice!”

“W-well, what else did he say? I mean, does he… want to go out with me? R-really? Not this fake thing we’ve been doing?”

“Well, given that he's desperately in love with you, he probably wouldn't mind getting a cup of coffee or something!”

“George, this is serious!”

“Look, if Fred finds out that I told you this, he’s going to kill me!”

“If you don’t tell me what you know, I’ll kill you!” you smiled sweetly at him.

“Fine” he sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“How long has Fred been in love with me?”

“Probably since the day we met you on the Hogwarts Express, but he admitted it to me a few years ago” he said. “You didn’t really notice? You’re the only one he lets call him ‘Freddie’” he said.

“That’s not true, you call him Freddie!”

“Yes, whenever I make fun of you!”

“W-well, why didn’t he ever say anything to me?”

“Why do you think, (Y/N)? For the exact same reason you were just freaking out about him finding out you love him” he explained. “He didn’t want to make things weird between you two” he told you. “That’s also why he kind of distanced himself from you when you were dating Diggory” he said, rolling his eyes a little.

“Oh, Merlin” you said, sitting on one of the desks. “Then… w-why did he agree to pretend to date me? Now I feel horrible” you told him.

“See, this is why I said it was a bad idea. I just…” he sighed. “I didn’t want him to get hurt because I knew the more time he would spend with you, the more he would fall for you. I must admit though, you falling in love with him was a plot twist” he smirked.

“Shut up!” you glared at him. “Wait, so… this is a good thing!”

“What is?”

“I love Fred and he loves me so… I just have to talk to him so we can be together… but you know, seriously this time” you told him.

“Really?” he glared at you. “That’s the first thing I told you to do and you yelled at me and you slapped my arm!”

“Well, that was before I knew Fred loved me too!”

“Okay, so… now you know” he smirked. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s a good question! I mean, I’m gonna tell him, but how should I tell him?”

“For Merlin’s sake! Just walk over to him and tell him!”

“What if I do it at the Yule Ball? Don’t you think that would be romantic?”

“Sure, whatever ends this conversation” George said, exasperated.

“George!” you glared at him.

“What do you want me to say?” he laughed.

“Okay, that’s fair” you sighed. “I’ll tell him at the Yule Ball. I’ve decided” you smiled.

“Brilliant” he smiled, trying to be supportive.

“Just, do me a favor?”

“What’s that, love?”

“Don’t tell Fred” you told him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

“George! I promise I will tell him!”

“Okay!”

“I’m not joking, George. You have to pinky promise me!”

“Fine!” he said, sticking out his pinky. “I pinky promise!”

“You know that this is bigger than an unbreakable vow, right?”

“How is this big than an unbreakable vow? If you break an unbreakable vow you die!”

“Yeah, but if you break my pinky promise, I will kill you in a much more painful way than any unbreakable vow ever could” you said staring at him dead in the eyes. “Got it, Weasley?” you asked, glaring at him and George tried to not look as nervous as he actually was.

“G-got it!”

To Be Continued

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

[Ch.1] [Ch.2] [Ch.3] [Ch.4]

A/N: ahhh so what do you think? part 6?! xD I think this story has two or three chapters tops left, depending on the inspo I have (if you have any suggestions for more, my inbox is always open :D)

tag list: @venomsvl @chaoticgirl04 @bubsonnobx @wanniiieeee @thebadassbitchqueen @crazylokonugget @elinalfrida @itsccc @getosugaru @bubsonnobx @egghasnoleg @kiwi5335 @staygoldsquatchling02​ @theanonymousloser​ @mxgvmiii​ @marimarvelfan​ @im-literally-just-trash @wordacadabra @ssophiebirkas @baker0703 @tisdawnseason @delfonicstheme-blog 

[frenchfrywrites]

Kinktober Day Eight

Macro/Micro

MINORS DNI

Warnings: gn genitals ambiguous top reader, bottom micro trans man Lilia, micro/macro, unprepped penetration, tummy bulge

Terms used for Lilia: tdick, cock, cunt

Lilia is smaller than you.

Well, that's always true, but right now you find that the size difference between the two of you has grown extraordinarily.

"What happened to you?" You ask, staring bewilderingly at the— well you'd guess he's nearly 6 inches tall now?— Lilia standing on your desk.

"A failed spell," is all the explanation he gives. "Aren't I so cute?" he asks, placing his hands under his chin to frame his face. You laugh, reaching down to poke his nose gently,

"Yeah you are." Lilia smiles, taking your finger into his hands, and holding it in his as if it's at all similar to holding hands like you normally do.

"I feel so cute," he continues with a very specific and familiar lilt to his voice. "So small and cute," he kisses your finger, then nuzzles it. "I like being tiny, I am so delicate and weak, you have to take care of me," and that's a damn lie because you know he could reverse this spell in a second, or at the very least he could most certainly protect himself against any threat. "Don't you think?" he looks up at you with wide eyes, fluttering his lashes.

"Oh, I see," you hum, moving your finger lower touching his chest gently. "you like being tiny," And Lilia, the shameless little thing he is, grins at you devilishly, one of his little fangs biting his lip, as he nods his head.

"You-" you start, but you don't even know what to say about this revelation. You suppose you've got nothing against messing around with him at his new size, so you let your finger wander down his body.

Lilia wraps his little hands around your finger once you reach his groin, keeping you there. Though it's faint, you can feel that he's hot and damp through his clothes. Lilia rocks his hips against your finger, and gasps at the sensation.

He rubs himself against you like that for a moment, staring up at you with wild, bright red eyes. Maybe it's the layers of clothes separating his skin from yours, or that the friction toes the line between being able to get him off and only teasing him; whatever the reason, Lilia steps back to strip himself of his pants and then lays back, legs spread so you can get a good look at him.

"Touch me?" he begs, spreading his cunt with his fingers, "please?" You exhale slowly at the sight of him.

Ever so gently, you rub his tdick with your finger. Lilia gasps, knocking his head back, and grabbing your finger with both hands,

"Fuck," he cries, rutting his hips against you.

"You look cute," you hum, feeling sort of dazed as you watch him get off just by using your finger. Lilia's breath catches at your praise.

"Do you think— ahh yes, there— could you put your finger in, do you think?" he gasps, gushing against your skin as you tease his cock.

"My pinky maybe? You think you could take it?" you ask. Lilia nods, tightening his hold on your finger.

"Please?" at his begging, you move your index finger away from his cunt, and replace it with your pinky, nudging the tip against his entrance. "Oh," Lilia gasps as you push into him. "Big," he breathes, and you laugh at how amazed he sounds. Taking it nice and slow, because it's not like you lubed or prepped him, you ease your finger into his tight, wet hole.

"Okay?" you ask when you've pressed your finger midway inside of him. It bulges his stomach, and Lilia's eyes have rolled back into his head, his mouth dropped open, breathing heavily and drooling.

"Guh-" he huffs, twitching around you, blinking away tears, "mmngh, s'good," he moans.

Hearing that he's good, you slowly begin to thrust your finger in and out of him. Lilia writhes under you, gurgling your name between hiccups and keens of pleasure.

"Cum— hah, nghh— going to cum," he eventually cries, his hands shooting out to hold onto your finger as his climax approaches. To bring him over the edge, you rub his tdick with your thumb. Lilia shrieks, cumming on your finger, his body convulsing. He curls in on himself, gripping your finger with such a force that it hurts, his hole spasming around you.

You slowly fuck him through it, being oh so gentle with his currently pocket-sized body.

"Oh fuck," he breathes as he comes down going limp on the desk, "good lord."

"All good down there?" you ask, smiling at how blissed out he looks right now.

"Darling, I feel wonderful, though," he pats the bulge on his stomach where your finger is still deeply inserted inside of him, "I would love if you would pull out, so to speak."

Gently, you pull your finger out of his stretched hole, bringing it to your lips so you can lick his juices off. Lilia watches you with a dazed smile,

"Come now, I just finished," he whines, "and then you go and do that. You'll get me riled up again in no time," you laugh.

"Settle down grandpa," you take his body into your hand gently, lifting him so you can place a kiss on the top of his head. "How long do you plan on staying like this?" you ask.

"Kehehe who knows!" he giggles mischievously. You roll your eyes, hoping that he'll be back to his regular size soon, so you can hold him and kiss him properly.

[wackybuddiemewbs]

Did anyone say WIP snippets no one asked for? No? Well, here it is anyway...

For context... yeah, it's *that* coma dream from Bones fans will adore and hype, rightfully so, to this day. Because the scenes for my long-ass Bones AU before that are not really done... we're just jumping right into the coma dream following Eddie being taken out by a sniper, following him and Buck investigating Charlie's case.

As for reference: We currently stand at roughly 540k something something words for this fic that's not a fic, not counting notes and ideas. If we count those, too, we're at 581k something something. AKA why, God, whyyyyyy???

The End in the Beginning Part ???

He watches numbly as his body is tossed around like a rag doll, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Blood sprays from his shoulder like the water bombs Buck and Christopher tossed around the yard on a particularly hot day this summer. He can’t hear them giggle, though.

White-hot pain explodes in his shoulder, knocking the air out of him.

Eddie gasps for air to fill his lungs, but it won’t come.

Why can’t he breathe?

He wants to say something, but the words won’t come. Sirens scream in his ears, deafen him. The sunlight above blinds him. The pain ebbs into numbness as he falls to the ground.

Three senses shutting down, two left. Gotta stay awake. Gotta stay…

Eddie can still smell. He can tell that he’s on gravel, out in a street. Gasoline and smoke lie in the air, burned rubber and oil. And blood. He can smell his own blood, metallic. He can also taste it, iodic, cold. And it makes him want to gag.

The world grows hazy, blurry, tilts this way, then the other. For a moment, Eddie believes he is lying on desert sand, but he after blinks once, twice, a third time, he is back on the street, blood pooling underneath him. No sand to absorb it, just the gravel. His life is draining out of him, and he is watching it happen.

But that can’t be, can it?

He promised, after all. To come back home.

Christopher.

He has to come back home to him. He has to…

“Eddie? Eddie!”

Buck? Is he here, too? He can’t be here. It’s too dangerous.

Eddie wants to shout again, back into the blankness from where he can hear Buck’s voice. He wants to tell him to stay away, to stay safe. He can’t get hurt, too. If Eddie can’t get back home, Buck has to. For Christopher. Not just for Christopher, but also for Christopher. To look after him.

And because he needs to be safe. He needs to be safe, please.

“Just hold on! I’m gonna go get you!”

No, stay away! he screams internally, but it’s lost to the void. Stay safe!

“Stay with me, Eddie!”

He wants to, he does. More than anything. Blindly, Eddie reaches to the source of the voice calling him, but the white light mingles with the blackness spreading across his eyes.

Please forgive me, he thinks as all senses shut down. I tried, I did.

The black swallows him whole. He sees nothing, hears nothing, tastes nothing, smells nothing. Whatever it is that he is touching, whatever it might be that is touching him, he can’t feel it anymore. Because it’s over, it’s done.

I’m sorry.

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

Eddie wakes up with a gasp. He sits up, rubs his eyes, feels faint wetness against his fingertips. Black dots mingle with white ones.

Just like…

Panting, he lets one hand fall down to his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt anymore, and there is no wetness, no blood. His white shirt is crisp and clean, just rumpled from sleep. Because apparently, he is in bed, his bed. At home. It’s dark outside, light cracking through the door that’s left slightly ajar.

There is no gravel digging into his skin. No pool of blood forming underneath him. No sirens blaring. No cold spreading inside him. No searing pain. No one screaming his name as he keeps bleeding out.

It’s just him, sitting in his bed, sweat-soaked. With a heart that can still beat as fast as it does. Because he is alive. Not dead, alive. At home, alive.

So it was just a dream…

Eddie is pulled out of his thoughts when the door opens slowly. It takes him a few moments to recognize the outline of the person entering.

Buck.

He slips inside, careful not to make any noises as he works on the cuffs of his shirt. Buck’s eyes find his in the dark, and a shy smile creeps up his lips.

“Oh, hey. Sorry, did I wake you again?” he asks in a hushed voice, like he’s done that a million times. And Eddie feels like it’s been a million times that he couldn’t help but smile at that. So he does, and Buck smiles back at him, ducking his head.

Eddie frowns, then answers, “No.”

“Oh, good,” Buck sighs, relieved. His eyes drift to the alarm clock next to Eddie on the nightstand.

“You’re late,” Eddie finds himself say, like he knows what time Buck should be here, should be home.

“I know, I know, I promised not to work overtime, but I just had to wrap up the preparations for the new exhibition,” Buck continues, almost pleads. “Bobby said it’d be fine to finish early next morning, but you know how it is with me. Even if I had gone on time, I would have assembled the exhibits in my mind. So no sleep… which means I could have just as well finish now, so I might actually rest.”

Eddie can’t put his finger on it, but there is something about Buck that’s different in a way. He is his awkward, weird self, alright. But he also seems… at ease? Like he doesn’t have to prove anything anymore.

It suits him.

Buck chuckles to himself. “For that we’re dealing exclusively with fossils in our department, you’d think us paleontologists wouldn’t be on such a tight schedule. Yet, here we are.”

“But you got it all set?” Eddie asks, like he knows what that’s about. And it feels familiar, too. In the way that makes his lips curl into a soft smile as he listens to Buck ramble on about something that excites him, which are so many things. It feels like they had this very same conversation a hundred times over. So he probably did, right?

After all, it was just a nightmare, right?

“Duh.” Buck unbuttons his shirt. “Chris is gonna love it for sure. So you know what our plans for the weekend are.”

“Well, so long I don’t have to show him around and pretend to know the names of the dinosaurs, I’m happy to tag along,” Eddie answers automatically.

“I guess that can be arranged,” Buck laughs easily. He takes off the shirt and slips on a loose shirt he picks out of the drawer blindly. Then he slips out of his pants and hangs them over the chair. Eddie watches on, wondering why he wonders about that as much as he does. Because this is an evening like any other. They are at ease. They are at home. They are safe.

Everything is as it ought to be, right?

Smiling, Buck makes his way over to Eddie’s side of the bed and sits down on the edge. The mattress dips under his weight, as though to draw Eddie just one inch closer. And Eddie happily lets himself sink just that inch closer to feel Buck’s warm body radiate heat against his slightly clammy skin, making him feel anything but dead.

“Sorry,” Buck says sheepishly, then leans over and kisses Eddie gently on the lips. “Almost forgot.”

The kiss feels chaste yet intimate. Like it has been practices for many years, and Eddie leans into its familiarity, lets the warm feeling cast out the remains of that nightmare that left him to shiver before.

“Hi,” Buck whispers, grinning against his lips.

“Hi,” Eddie chuckles, leaning his forehead against Buck’s for a moment. They stay like that for a short while, though Eddie wouldn’t mind if eternity felt like that either.

Buck pulls back a bit to look at him, knitting his eyebrows. “You okay?”

He frowns. “Yeah, why?”

“You just have that broody face going on, which normally means there’s something you don’t wanna talk about but maybe should be talking about,” Buck explains. “And I know that you don’t do, unless I ask. So… I ask.”

Eddie’s mouth opens and closes a few times, then he says, “I just had a really weird dream, is all.”

“Weird in the creepy yet exciting way or weird in the… unnerving kind of way that makes you wanna hide under the covers?” Buck wants to know. Eddie doesn’t miss how he unconsciously starts to sweep his thumb up and down along Eddie’s forearm.

“It was just… odd. I got shot in the streets. You were there, too, I think you were, and… I think a sniper took me down. But… it didn’t feel like me, you know? Like it was some other version of me getting shot, one that got it handed to him pretty badly,” Eddie ponders.

It felt so real, though…

“Well, getting shot by a sniper doesn’t sound pleasant, that’s for sure,” Buck says sympathetically.

“Not really.”

“Though thankfully, statistically speaking, it’s very unlikely for a man installing security systems in buildings to get shot in the streets by a sniper,” Buck tells him with a small grin.

Eddie smirks. “That’s still Security Management Specialist for you.”

“Sorry, sorry. You did a wonderful job at the Jeffersonian, specially managing all our security,” Buck laughs, then slips his hand over the back of Eddie’s. He lets his finger rest against a metal band there that Eddie didn’t even feel as foreign until now. “You made me a very proud husband once all was installed. Like, yeah, my man did that.”

Buck pecks him on the cheek, tangling his arms around Eddie’s shoulder loosely. “Sorry you had a bad dream, though.”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Eddie assures him, though honestly, he assures himself foremost. Eddie buries his head against Buck’s clavicle, soaking up even more of the warmth Buck radiates, the comfort he offers by just being there. “At least I got up for you to distract me. You always make me forget all that crap in an instant.”

“Do I?” Buck whispers, almost sings it like a lullaby.

“Always.”

They pull apart to chase each other’s lips, not desperately, but with more need than before. To assure each other that they are indeed there. That they can hold each other that close. That they have each other.

And it seems to work like a charm. Eddie can’t hear the sirens anymore. He only hears the rustling of the sheets and Buck’s shallow intakes of air whenever their lips part. He doesn’t taste blood on his tongue. He tastes spearmint from the gum Buck must have chewed on the ride back, he sometimes does that when he’s tired and needs to stay awake. He doesn’t smell gravel and smoke. He smells the last remains of Buck’s cologne. He tastes and smells and feels Buck. And in that small world, everything makes perfect sense. Kissing Buck and holding him close, that’s all it takes for his world to make sense.

Stay with me…

Once they break up the kiss, Eddie nudges his nose against the side of Buck’s, resting his face more against Buck’s, leaning into the comfort he provides by just being there, by staying without Eddie having to ask for it.

“I missed you,” Eddie breathes.

Buck chuckles at that. “I wasn’t gone that long, c’mon.”

“In my dream, I missed you. I couldn’t… I heard you, but I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t… get to you,” Eddie mumbles.

“I’m here now.”

And Eddie can hear it, the unspoken “I’m staying”. He takes another deep breath, takes it all in.

“What do you need?” Buck asks.

“Just you,” Eddie replies simply.

Because it is that simple. He needs Buck, and Buck is here.

What more do I need?

Buck’s fingers run soothing circles around the back of his neck and head. They stay like that for a while. Because there is no need for a rush. They aren’t just stealing moments, glances. They have them, they can create them. They are theirs to claim.

“Feeling better?” Buck whispers after a while.

“Very much,” Eddie confirms. “Just your kind of magic.”

Buck groans, leaning his head back. “Eddie, magic doesn’t exist, you know that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He laughs.

“So… Want some more distraction?” Buck asks, teasing.

Eddie grins against his cheek. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Not enough not to want this,” Buck replies, letting his hand slide down Eddie’s side, making him shudder. “Never enough to not want you.”

Eddie lets himself ease back down on the bed, pulling Buck with him so that he is halfway sprawled across his chest. “If that’s the case… Then yeah, distract me.”

“That can be arranged,” Buck laughs, pecking one of Eddie’s scars briefly.

“I love you, you know?” Eddie mutters, feeling like he can’t say it often enough, like he probably hasn’t said it enough.

Because things can happen… people get shot in bright daylight…

“Well, that’s convenient. Coz I love you, too,” Buck snickers, his entire face lighting up, even in the dark. “And I’m about to show you just how much I love you.”

Eddie laughs as he turns them both over, leaving him on top. For a moment, he just lingers there, traces the faint outlines of Buck in the dark with his eyes. He slips one hand against Buck’s palm, finds the metal band there and runs his fingertips across it, maybe for good luck, he isn’t sure. But he never takes his eyes off of Buck, searches him in the dark and finds him there, waiting, staying. And once he does, he leans in and kisses him in all earnest. Not for the last time tonight, it’d seem.

It was really just a dream, then.

Thank God I woke up, then.

[asnowfern]

Dancing with the world in my hands

Summary: Nesta introduces the Symphonia to her daughter and naturally, they have a dance party.

WC: 1k

Read on AO3

A/N: Just a little fluff to beat away the Monday blues💕

The house is quiet.

Nesta snaps her head up from her page at the realisation, taking note of the page number. She has read nearly an entire chapter in the time Alea has been doodling abstract colours on a drawing pad.

To her chagrin, three year old Alea is not at the little drawing desk her father had painstakingly built for her. Her crayons and colour pencils lie haphazardly on the pad and surrounding floor but the girl in question is nowhere to be seen.

And the house is still too quiet.

“Alea?” Nesta calls out cautiously, pointed ears strain for a hint of sound the kid is bound to make.

Nesta stands, catching the knitted fabric just before the blanket fully slides to the ground. “Alea?” She summons a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

“A little help here?” She mutters to the ceiling - the ace in her sleeve.

Her reading light blinks rhythmically at the Valkyrie almost in faint amusement. Find her yourself.

Nesta clicks her tongue and grumbles, “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

The window opens a crack, just enough to let in a gust of wind. It whips at her face and teases the stray strands just enough so that it tickles her face. The equivalent of the House blowing a raspberry.

With a huff, Nesta marks her page and drops the book on the side table. She makes her way down the corridor leading to the bedrooms, snorting at how the faelights lining the walls twinkle in jest.

A tussle in her room captures her attention. An assortment of her items surround her daughter like a ritualistic circle. The fae in question has her face scrunched up in concentration, her lips pursed and her wings tucked in tightly. She looks down at the spherical object that Alea holds in her chubby hands and her stomach nearly drops.

Quick to rein in her temper before it slips out, Nesta chides, “Alea! What did I say about messing with our stuff?”

Alea looks up at her, completely unrepentant. Instead, her face splits into a white smile. “Mama!” Stubby legs thud excitedly across the wooden floorboards. She holds up the orb, “What’s this?”

Nesta feels the smile curving up her lips as she takes hold of her precious object, saying gently but firmly, “This is a Symphonia and you need to be very careful with it because this is a very important present papa gave me.” She taps the top, watching beautiful hazel eyes sparkle as music fills the room.

“Music!” She exclaims, clapping little hands in joy.

Nesta switches around in search for a more upbeat tune. She and Cassian had recorded many songs over the years as they travelled around Prythian and even the occasional continent. Eventually, she landed on a cheerful tune from the Summer Court.

“What about this?” She asks fondly.

Alea’s head bobs slowly, her hips starting to sway side to side to the beat of the music.

“Dance” Nesta explains, taking her daughter’s hands into her own. Her own hips too begin to sway along.

“Dance!” The little fae repeats cheerfully. She twirls and hops and eventually falls out of rhythm. Not that it matters, not when her wings flap excitedly and joyful laughter echoes throughout the room.

Her wings dip slightly when the song ends and another more serious tune begins. Her brows crease in response, “Another?”

Nesta taps the top a couple more times, cycling through the songs until a familiar baritone voice comes on.

“Papa!” Her daughter scrambles up from where she had been rolling around. She leans over the musical device, her eyes round and bright in wonder.

Cassian’s voice carries the Illyrian lyrics, every flex of intonation soothes the soul. He is joined by a single drum which steadily grows into a full ensemble of percussion and female chorusing. If Nesta closes her eyes, she could almost imagine the roaring fire and the communal energy swirling through the air.

A soft weight leans against her front. Alea’s face is filled with wondrous amazement as she switches her weight from one leg to the other, her head bobbing along.

Nesta feels as if her heart could combust in that very moment. Giving into the urge, she sweeps her daughter into her arms and squeezes her into a tight hug.

“Mama” Alea complains, wriggling her way out of the embrace to demand, “Dance!”

They repeat the song for at least another five more times before another gust of wind blows through the room. It lights up the golden thread winding through her chest with shimmering warmth. Cassian steps through the room to receive a face full of flapping mini wings. He spins his daughter around, inciting delightful giggles.

“What is this?” He asks as he lowers Alea to the ground, who promptly launches back into her own dance.

She quirks a brow, “You tell me”

Cassian clears his throat, looking slightly embarrassed as he registers the familiar tune. “Ah”

Nesta says nothing and chooses to wait instead. Her mate huffs slightly. His eyes shift downwards to the blaring Symphonia and his face softens, “My mum used to sing this to me. We never had drums or a chorus to sing with but…”

He trails off, “When I came across the females singing them in their community tent the other day and,” hazel eyes are bright when he meets her gaze, “I just had to record it.”

Nesta crosses to her mate in a heartbeat, enveloping him in a hug. She breathes in the comforting scent as strong arms circle snugly around her waist.

She leans to capture his lips into a chaste kiss. She says softly, “It’s beautiful”

The strong cut lines pull into a teary smile.

“Yeah, it is.” He breathes, leaning in to slot his lips against hers once again-

“Papa!” An insistent hand tugs on his pants. Their daughter’s face is set in a pout. “Stop!” She decrees.

The two of them laugh as Cassian lowers to a squat. “Okay. Papa stop.” He agrees.

“Dance!” Their daughter, the little princess of their life, grabs one parent on each hand and begins twirling around - just for the song to end.

“Again!” She demands, and they do. With her world in her arms, Nesta dances.

[vinnoa-articles]

Sweet Lies

[Image by Eiichiro Oda] Habit Substitute Drabble Series! This will be 3 out of the 8 drabbles I will be writing, because, why not? Some characters like certain things on a daily. But what if you were there? Here are the links for the others. [Luffy] [Zoro] [Usopp] [Sanji] [Law] [Smoker] [Crocodile]

Rating: Anyone

Word count: 989

Type: Fluff

Characters: Usopp, reader (anyone), mentions of Chopper, Luffy, Robin, Sanji and Zoro (other members of the Straw Hats)

Trigger Warnings: None

“I am the GREASTEST!”

“That’s another lie!”

“No, it’s not!” Usopp stood at the helm, his right hand on his hip, his thumb pointed at his face, cocky, arrogant, a big crooked smile that showed his confidence, proclamation of his words. “I am the GOD Usopp!” There you were, standing opposite of him, your hands stuffed in your overalls, your eyes narrowing at every lie he was spouting today.

“Now you are going to say you are Sogeking right?” Leaning forward, to egg him on further with his lies. “Cause apparently, that another thing you-”

“Ah!” Usopp screamed, almost falling over his own feet. “I am not going to say that is a lie nor the truth. Just know, I am one of the best snipers out there!” If his nose could grow, you knew it would be so long, you could probably have everyone on the Grand Line perch upon his nose. “I trained under some amazing people. Don’t doubt my skills!” Flexing his left arm muscles, trying to impress no one, yet it seemed to only be directed at you. This was a pure headache, but there was a slight idea that popped in your brain.

“Oh, so pigs fly too right?” There was a pause, then he sat down cross-legged pondering. Hoping he would catch the bait, saying it was false.

“Well, maybe they do on some island,” his fingers stroking his jaw, glancing at the sky, seeing the gears in his brain turn through his eyes. “I did see some crazy animals too!” You sigh, plopping across from him on the top part of the deck as you hear Chopper and Luffy playing around on the grass, some faint sounds of Zoro and Sanji arguing, as always. If only life was super easy like theirs, but instead you are stuck with this guy, whom you had to admit had a slight grip on you. His constant bragging, his lies, yet some truths, his random talents he would whip out of nowhere. There was a lie? Maybe it was, but the ones you doubted heavily, he would prove wrong.

“Okay fine Usopp. If that is true, then I guess I am a warlock of the seas,” his eyes widened as you spewed out a lie. “Oh, and I can single handedly defeat Zoro and Sanji combined.” nonchalantly shrugging as if it was gospel.

“Hey hey, that can’t be true-”

“Oh but it is Usopp!” Leaning forward to convince him of your sweet lies, not swaying at all from what you just spoke. “Oh but if you would like to stick around and find out, I am more than willing to show you.” Your face was so close to his, he had to back up. There was a hint of pink on his cheeks, there it was, the one thing he can’t hide nor lie properly about; face-to-face confrontation.

“Fine, fine, but you have to believe me when I say that I am the one that has a lot of followers! People look up to me, in the thousands- no, tens of thousands!” Jumping up and pointing to himself again. Your eyes almost roll into your skull with his lies again.

“So it’s a lie that you like me then?” He paused, he heard those words, looking down on you, there was something about your posture that was intimidating, yet relaxed. Thank god, you listened to Robin, she was someone you heard those words from, ammunition to use against him. Leaning on the back of your palms, looking up at him. “Well?”

“Erm, well…I can’t confirm or deny that,” looking away, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull, confronted by the facts you were stating. “B-besides! My emotions are under lock and key!” That was it, you needed him to shut up, there was no way he was going to continue this little tale he keeps spinning, this game he wants to keep continuing. Standing up slowly, you grabbed his shoulder, turning him to face you.

“Fine…Usopp,” your voice was so dark, it was menacing, Usopp trembled under your touch. Your grip was firm, but definitely not strong enough to bruise him. You leaned forward, your face parallel to his cheek. Feeling your breath, he shuddered, his whole body froze and you could feel his blood almost running cold from his nervousness. “I’ll prove it then,” he shrieked, almost screaming, wanting to move.

“LUFFY!” He screamed, but you planted a quick peck on his cheek. You could see the poor fragile man nearly crumble before your very eyes. Of course, there was a faint “huh?” from the captain, but it was just something he misheard. Continuing to play with his crewmates as Usopp tried to pick himself up from what just happened. “W-w-w-what was that….that for?” Finally jumping away from your grip as you loosened your fingers around his shoulders.

“Hm, well it seems the lie was true. You don’t like me,” shrugging, knowing all too well his true feelings for you. It made your heart flutter too, being a little playful along with his personality. You smiled softly, jumping away towards the stairs to meet the others, stopping right at the top with your heels crossing. “I guess if it’s a lie that you like me, then it’s also a lie that I also don’t like you,” winking at him. His voice was caught in his through, his face so red it was evident what your words meant. “See ya.” Only for you to go down the stairs, him crying out for you, tripping over each step to try and reach out for you to get his words straight. It was cute, his lies. Maybe it was a lie that you hated seeing that man so flustered with something so simple. Maybe you just had to cut his lies off by something so simple like this, maybe he will tell the truth one day.

[pigeonwhumps]

🩹 for Kai :)

(Kai faints at the sight of his own blood. Vic's a nurse at HAL.)

"Kai! Move!" yells Lian.

Kai looks around, too slow to avoid the piercing, punching pain to his abdomen. The blade shoots out and across the room, no longer blade-shaped, but it's too late. Even from here he can see that it's covered in his blood.

_

Someone has him in their arms. They're nice and comfy, but he tries to push himself upright. His side might hurt like a bitch but he can still walk.

"No, Kai. You've been stabbed. Stop trying to walk."

That's Lian. Why shouldn't he be walking? His wound isn't that bad. Is it?

He looks down. Oh. That's a lot of blood.

_

"Aaand you're awake again. No, look straight ahead, keep your eyes on the exit, watch Santhiya on the wall, come on. No, don't look down, don't–"

_

There's someone really close to him this time. They have lots of fluffy hair. And what's he doing lying down in some sort of basket?

"Good, you're awake. I need you to stay awake, stay with me. Aside from the medical risk, you're hard to carry if your weight distribution keeps changing so much. Close your eyes until we get to the ambulance."

Kai really doesn't want to do that. He squints at the person's hands. Why are they so red?

Oh. Right. He's bleeding. It's his blood.

_

He can't see anything. He tries to weakly paw at his face, but he can't move his hand very well and it's gently set back down. Someone's holding his other one. Sirens wail.

"Sorry, Kai. Emergency measure. We need you awake. Morfydd's got your hand, and we'll talk you through the journey. We're in the ambulance now, you can probably hear the sirens, nearly back at HQ. I've managed to patch you up a little internally but I don't have the remaining energy to do much more."

Kai swallows, trying to rid himself of the swell of panic. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, he's in safe hands.

But what if he's not? What if it's a lie? Voices can be faked.

"We're coming into the ambulance park at HQ," says a quieter, higher voice from right beside him. "You're being wheeled out of the ambulance, and it's going to be bumpy, because of the ground, and disconcerting when we run. Try not to panic."

He does try. He tries very, very hard but he can't stop it.

He hears doors swing open.

"You're in medbay. We're going straight through to a theatre, and I'll stay with you. Heading in there now."

Kai flinches as something touches him, and gloved hands, and an unknown voice says, "I'm prepping the patient for surgery. Everything else ready to go."

It feels like a line's in. He doesn't like it. But before he knows it someone's asking him to count down from ten and he, terrified, obeys.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five–"

_

"Oh, hey. You back with us properly?"

Kai can see again, and he nods at the sight of Vic above him. He feels shaky and wobbly, like he wouldn't be able to move.

"What did you do?"

"Cleaned you up, fixed a bit of the internal wounds that Aaron didn't manage to do, blood transfusion, stitched you up. You weren't quite as bad as we worried but you did lose a lot of blood."

"I have some left, right?"

"Course you do," she smiles. "But right now, you gotta rest. Morfydd's impatient to tell you what you said when you were still under the influence of anaesthesia."

Kai blushes. He feels vulnerable, and he's useless (what's the point of a hero who can't look at their own blood?), and now this.

"I'm okay now, I can recover at home and be useful." He tries to stand.

There's a ripping sound.

Vic makes an exasperated noise. "They only just put those in! Lie back down, Kai."

Kai glances down at the most painful part of his body.

Oh.

That's red.

_

Nobody's here now. He's alone. No-one to stop him.

Why are they trying to stop him anyway? He's useless as a hero if he's stuck in the medbay.

_

"You back?" Aaron arches an eyebrow, and Kai nods. "Stop trying to stand. You've torn your stitches again. I swear to god, Kai..."

Phoenix slams through the doors to the treatment room, panting.

"Hi. Phoenix Costello, um, medical advocate. Whatever you do, don't, um, let Kai see his own blood."

Blood? What blood? Kai looks down at himself.

Oh.

That blood.

_

"You're an idiot, Kai," murmurs Phoenix. Kai turns to look at him.

Unfortunately, he happens to be on the same side as the nurse stitching him up. And there's still beads of blood around the newly-stitched wound.

_

"It wasn't even my fault that time."

"No, I know," murmurs Shawn, drawing blood into a little vial as Kai looks away. "There. Done."

Kai turns around to look at him, forgetting his blood samples are in a trolley near the bed, in his line of sight.

_

"So," declares Aaron, "You have an infection."

"I do?"

"Yes. Probably the dirt and grime of that warehouse. So I want to keep you in for longer, to monitor you."

"Oh. How long?"

"A few weeks? Depends how long it takes to heal, to be perfectly honest. Will you stay?"

Kai swallows. He doesn't want to, and honestly, he probably won't.

"I guess. Can I get out of bed now, though?"

"Yep. But since you keep tearing your stitches and fainting, I want someone to accompany you whenever you do, just in case something happens. You can still have your privacy in the bathroom, but you'll have to agree on a time to check in so we can be sure you're okay. I'm sorry."

"'s okay. Can I have Phoenix?" They're the best person for the job, he thinks, being a medical advocate already, and one of his best friends.

Aaron smiles. "Of course. I'm sure they'll be happy to help."

"Thank you."

"Not a problem. Now, your wound's swelled, and there's blood coming from around the stitches. I need to change the bandage, so look away."

Kai nods and does so. But he can't help glancing at it, it's like he's drawn to it and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

_

After that incident, the next couple of weeks pass relatively smoothly. Sure there was a problem or two with the blood test trolley before they learned to cover it up, but everyone visits, and Phoenix is good about not making him feel too bad about having to be accompanied everywhere. He still doesn't like it but it's not as bad as it could be.

Then, one day when he's flicking through some papers in bed, bored out of his mind, he catches his finger on one. It's only a papercut, but there's blood there and somehow it's enough.

_

"Hey. How are you feeling?"

Kai growls in frustration. "It was a papercut. I'm fine."

"I meant after the faint," says Aaron patiently.

"Fine." There's a pause, and then he continues, voice clipped and angry, "I haven't fainted from a wound so small in years. What is wrong with me? Why the hell did I even sign up if I can't even handle the sight of my own blood? I'm completely useless. I'm such a coward."

"You're not," says Phoenix quietly, curled up in a chair, "Don't talk about yourself like that. You've saved me plenty of times. And others. Stop being so hard on yourself."

"They're right. I think the reason you fainted from a papercut was because you're already a turmoil of emotions, and–"

"So I am a coward."

"No. Absolutely not. You think there aren't other heroes in this organisation that need accommodations to work? Even Morfydd has a wheelchair, and sometimes they guess wrong about needing it and we have to go and pick them up. You know that. You wouldn't call them useless. You wouldn't call any of the other heroes who need help useless. Remember the times we've had to pick Phoenix up from a mission because their PTSD was triggered and just couldn't get themself out? Stop insulting yourself. Not to mention the implications of that statement."

And Kai feels incredibly guilty then. "Phoenix, I would never..."

"I know."

"Aaron, can I– can I go home? Please?"

"Your infection's still raging, it would be against medical advice."

"Please? I promise I'll try and look after myself. It's just, you're all trying your best and I like you but I can't stand being in here any longer. I feel so useless and vulnerable and maybe my flat won't help but it might. At least I have my own bed and more of my own things and I can help with research."

"You're supposed to be resting. But, as long as you let me come over to check on me regularly, yes, I will discharge you. Against medical advice."

"I'll make sure he rests."

Kai nods. He picks up his patchwork (very patchwork, there's patches on top of the patchwork) Elmer and holds it close, avoiding both of their eyes. He hates being so vulnerable in front of them but at least he's going home now.

[lovelyleclercs]

Chapter Three- In Denial

Arthur Leclerc x Sofia Sine

-> Arthur finally learns the truth about Sofia's illness.

warnings- this chapter is a bit brutal, I'm not going to lie. Mentions of cancer, fainting, puking, Herve's passing, angry Arthur, crying, if you have read the original version of this story, you already know

word count: 2948

Sofia laid in bed, staring at her ceiling as she tried to build up some courage to get herself out of bed. It had been 7 days since her first treatment, and she was feeling the worst that she had felt all week. No matter what she tried to do to get more energy in her system to do even the simplest things, nothing seemed to be working.

As she glanced over at the clock, she noticed that it was nearly 8pm. She had gotten a text from Arthur earlier that day, asking if she would like to come out with him for dinner that night. Sofia had agreed, thinking that she would be strong enough to do so within a few hours time- she was very, very wrong.

Sofia grabbed her phone to send a text to Arthur, however as she was typing the message, she heard a snippet of his voice coming from downstairs. Sofia turned her focus to the conversation happening between Arthur and Charlotte, hoping that she would be able to understand what the two of them were saying to each other.

“She told me at like noon that she wanted to go out to dinner with me.. It’s the first time she has agreed to do anything in nearly a week..”

“I know Arthur, but she is really sick right now and I just don’t think it is a good idea for her to go out tonight. It’s not safe for her…”“What do you mean it’s not safe?”

“Arthur, it isn’t my place to tell you what’s going on with her. She is going through a lot right now and she is scared, sick and hurting. You need to understand that the best thing for her right now is to stay at home.”

“Well can I spend some time with her upstairs in her room then?”

Charlotte nodded, knowing that Arthur would go up there regardless. “That’s fine. I’m not sure if she is awake or not though.”

Without another word, Arthur made his way up to Sofia’s room, knocking on the door gently. “Sof? It’s me… Charlotte said that going out tonight wasn’t a good idea.. So I figured I could just hang with you here tonight? We could watch a movie?”

Sofia looked over at the door, knowing that a very clueless Arthur was standing on the other side, dying to see her with his own two eyes. “Come in”

When Arthur walked in, he closed the door behind him and made his way over to Sofia’s bed, sitting down on the edge of it as he looked up at her with worried eyes. “Sof? Are you ok? Charlotte was just saying some things that made me worried… What’s going on?”

Sofia couldn’t look him in the eyes at that moment. “Arthur I-”“I’m your best friend, Sof. You can tell me anything… I’m really worried about you… please…”

“How about we watch a movie? Ok? I’m really tired…”Arthur looked at Sofia, noticing how exhausted she was just from their small exchange. While he wanted answers, he also didn’t want to put Sofia through anything else as it was obvious to him she had been having a rough week. With a hesitant nod, Arthur climbed into bed and opened his arms for Sofia, allowing her to cuddle up to him, resting her head on his chest. “I promise… I will tell you eventually.. It’s just a hard thing for me to process and telling you would make it all so… real. You know?”

Arthur nodded and rubbed Sofia’s back gently, his eyes never leaving the TV screen as he listened to her talk. “I know, Sof. It’s just hard because I know you’re struggling and I can’t help you if I don’t know what is going on.. But part of me thinks that’s why you don’t want to tell me what’s going on.”

Sofia stared at the wall across from her as she pressed her head closer to Arthur’s chest, allowing her to listen to his heartbeat closely. “I’m sorry, Art, I know it’s not an easy thing for you to understand…”

“Let’s just watch the movie, ok? You will tell me when you want to, and that is ok. For now, lets just drop it before we get upset with each other”

Sofia nodded and pulled the comforter over the two of them, her attention turning towards the TV where ‘The Age of Adaline’ played. It was one of Sofia’s absolute favorite movies and one that Arthur had grown to love as well.

As Sofia watched Adaline sit in a diner with her daughter, she couldn’t help but notice how heavy her eyes had begun to feel. Even just the smallest conversation with Arthur had taken everything out of her, leaving her weak and exhausted. She felt her body relax against Arthur’s, her exhaustion slowly taking over her as she drifted asleep. Arthur knew better than to try and leave now. If Sofia fell asleep on him, he was spending the night at her house, no questions asked. It was sort of a mutual agreement the pair had made a few years back.

“You’re getting tired, Art. Maybe I should go home…” Sofia said as she played with Arthur’s hair a bit, trying to move her legs out from underneath his head. It had only been two days since Herve’s passing and Sofia hadn’t left Arthur’s side since. The two of them had spent the past 48 hours hidden up in his bedroom with little to no sleep as they both mourned the loss of Herve. They had turned on a random movie for some background noise and Arthur had laid in Sofia’s lap, crying the pain away as he thought of his father again.

“Please… don’t leave me. Stay here…” Arthur begged, his hand squeezing Sofia’s tightly as a few more tears slid down his cheek.

Sofia looked down into his eyes, wiping a few tears off of his cheek as she nodded, agreeing to stay by his side. “Ok, ok. I’m not going anywhere, Art. I’m right here” she whispered

Arthur sat up and laid down, Sofia following suit to allow Arthur to cuddle up to her. As she laid on her back with Arthur cuddled into her side, she gently rubbed his back. “I love you, Art. We will get through this, I promise. One step at a time.”

Arthur nodded, wiping a few of his tears away as he finally calmed himself down. “Can we make a promise to each other?” he whispered, his voice still shaky from crying.

“Of course, what is it?”“If one of us is going through a hard time, we stay the night with each other? I feel like I sleep so much better when you’re around”

Sofia smiled a little, knowing that she also always seemed to sleep a bit better with the comfort of Arthur being near. “Of course, Art. I love that idea..”

Arthur held his pinky finger up to Sofia, indicating that he wanted to seal the promise. Sofia locked her finger with Arthur’s and smiled. “I get to break your pinky if you break it!”

Sudden movement from Sofia snapped Arthur out of his thoughts, all of his attention turning towards her as he watched her make her way to the bathroom. “Sof?” he asked, but received no response in return.

Arthur got out of bed and made his way over to Sofia, just in time to catch her as she had become too weak to stand. “Oh my god, Sof… Are you ok?” he asked as he held onto Sofia as tightly as he could.

Sofia laid her head back against his shoulder, her eyes closed as she gave him a gentle nod. All of the commotion caused Charles and Charlotte to appear out of their room. “What is going on out here?” Charlotte mumbled as she rubbed her eyes, still half asleep.

“Arthur.. I need to talk to you.. In my room please..” Sofia said as she looked over at Charles and Charlotte, indicating that it was time to tell Arthur the truth. Hiding it from him was becoming too much, and she couldn’t keep pretending like she was ok anymore. Charlotte gave her a small, reassuring nod before heading back into her room with Charles.

“Sof, you just practically fainted in my arms, you can’t just act like everything is ok, we need to get you to the hospital or something!”

“Art, please. Can I please just speak to you in my room…” Sofia pleaded, looking into his eyes as she squeezed his hand tightly. After a few moments, Arthur had finally given her a small nod and helped her walk back into her room.

Sofia sat down on her bed and motioned Arthur to come sit down beside her. When Arthur was situated in his spot on the bed, Sofia took a deep breath. No part of this conversation was going to be easy. She knew that. But it needed to happen. She grabbed Arthur’s hand and looked up at him, tears already forming in her eyes. “I’ve been avoiding telling you for weeks because I.. I don't want you to drop everything to take care of me.”

“You’re stalling, Sof. What is going on..”

“I’m sick, Arthur. I have cancer…”

Arthur’s heart sank. He had already lost his father to this horrible illness, and now he had to watch Sofia go through the same thing? “How long have you known..”

Sofia looked down, knowing that answering his question would only upset him more. She could lie to him, tell him that she only found out yesterday, but she knew that the truth would get out eventually and it would cause an even bigger uproar.

“How long, Sofia?!” Arthur asked, practically shouting at that point.

“Since the beginning of January at the doctor's visit I had when you were in Ibiza” Sofia said quietly, her eyes unable to meet his.

“You’ve known for over a month? And you decided not to tell me!?” Arthur shouted, looking at Sofia in complete disbelief. How could she keep this from him for so long??

Sofia looked up at him, tears falling down her cheeks. She was too weak to fight back, too weak to explain to him that she was sorry, and too weak to even get up to hug him and promise him that everything was going to be ok.

“Unbelievable! All this time I thought I did something wrong! Everytime you canceled on me I was convinced that I had said something to you that ruined our friendship, instead you were sitting at home fighting off cancer???”

As Sofia stared at him some more, wanting to say a million things but having no energy to do so, Arthur finally had enough and decided to grab his phone off of the bed before making his way to the door.

“Arthur… please…”

Before Sofia could say anything else, Arthur had walked out the door, making it obvious that he was in no mood to continue the conversation. Arthur made his way downstairs, being stopped by Charles just as he was about to walk out the door. “Mate, where are you going? It’s like.. 3am you shouldn’t be going out there this late”

Arthur looked over at Charles with tears in his eyes. “Did you know about this?”

“Know about what?”

“Sofia’s cancer diagnosis”

Charles looked at Arthur and nodded hesitantly. “I found out by accident. I wasn’t supposed to know”

Arthur just shook his head and let out a sarcastic laugh. “I’m so pissed off I could fucking punch something” he mumbled as he rested his elbows on the counter and put his face in his hands. “This isn’t fucking fair!” Arthur yelled as he began crying into his hands.

Charles sat down beside Arthur and rubbed his back a little. “I know. I don’t know how this is happening to another person we love and care about.. But it is.”

“She is twenty fucking years old, Charles. It’s not fair. She’s too young for this… she doesn’t deserve this.. I can’t lose her too.. Fuck!!” Arthur cried, allowing himself to completely break down in Charles’ arms. Arthur was never typically a vulnerable guy, but right now he needed comfort more than ever.

Just as Charles was about to say something, Sofia appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, her own face filled with tears as she watched Arthur fall apart. She had done this to him, she was the reasoning behind his pain- and she felt absolutely horrible for it. “A-art i-im sorry…” she whispered, looking at him from across the kitchen.

“Why… why didn’t you just tell me…” Arthur asked quietly as he lifted his head up and made eye contact with Sofia.

Sofia sniffled and took a few steps closer to him. “You start your first season of F2 soon.. I didn’t want you to drop everything for me…”

“Sofia, you are my best friend.. If something is wrong with you, I want to know about it!”

Sofia nodded a little “I know, Art. You are my best friend, and by far one of the most important people in my life. That’s why I was scared to tell you. I didn’t want you to treat me differently, I didn’t want you to worry, but most of all I didn’t want you to be reminded of everything you had to go through with papa.”

Arthur looked down at the floor, not knowing what else to say to her.“My intentions were never to hurt you, Art. I was only trying to protect you, but clearly I’ve done the one thing I didn’t want to do, and for that I’m sorry.”

There were a few moments of silence, neither Sofia or Arthur knowing what to say next. After thinking that their conversation was over, Sofia turned around and started making her way towards the kitchen door, only to be stopped by Arthur’s voice suddenly filling the room.

“You helped me so much when papa died, Sof. I want nothing more than to be able to help you through the hardest moment of your life.. To help you heal and get better, to help you through this horrible illness.. To help you feel comfortable and safe.. But I can’t do that if you aren’t honest with me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn't hurt right now.. I understand why you wanted to keep it from me but it doesn’t make it any easier to process…” Arthur said as he got up and made his way over to Sofia. When he reached her, he grabbed both of her hands gently and started rubbing small circles on the backs of her hands. “I want to know everything from here on out, ok. Every appointment, every update, everytime you feel gross, whenever you need comfort, whenever you want company.. All of it, Sof. I want to know about it all. Please…”

“Art, you have to foc-”

“Don’t even say I have to focus on racing right now. You quit your dream job to be by my side 24/7 when papa was sick. You gave up everything just to make sure that I wasn’t alone. I'd give up racing in a heartbeat if it meant that you didn’t have to go through this alone.”

At that point, Sofia had run out of things to say. There was no use in arguing the matter with Arthur- he was set on making sure he was by her side every step of the way. “My next treatment is in two days. Each treatment is about three hours long, after that I come home and rest until the next one.”

“I’ll be there. I promise. For now though, let's head back up to bed. You’re exhausted, and honestly so am I.”

With a quick nod, Sofia slowly started to make her way back to her room. She had used pretty much all of the energy she had to come downstairs in the first place, so she was pretty much worn out. Arthur obviously didn’t fail to notice how much Sofia had been struggling and in one quick swoop, he lifted her up into his arms. “I’ve got you, Sof” he whispered before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

Sofia laid her head on Arthur’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck to secure herself a bit better as Arthur carried her up to her room. Arthur very gently placed her down into her bed and pulled the covers up over her.

“Is that good? Do you need anything else?”

Sofia shook her head and held her arms open for him. “Remember our promise?”

Arthur smiled a little and nodded before climbing into the other side of the bed, allowing Sofia to cuddle up to him as she wanted.

“Thank you” Sofia said quietly as she laid her head on Arthur’s chest.

“For what?”

“You had every right to walk out those doors today. To leave me in the dust and on my own to get through this. You were mad at me and at the universe, yet you chose to stay here and support me.”

Arthur rubbed Sofia’s back gently and sighed. “Sof, I could never leave you to fight this alone. Never. So don’t thank me.”

Sofia nodded and cuddled into him a bit more. “Get some sleep, Art. We need it..”

Arthur pulled the blankets over the two of them and turned out the light that was on next to him. “Goodnight, Sof.”

“Goodnight, Art.”

Chapter Four

taglist: @hammickk @Cl16msc47 @majkaftorek @04ashely16 @itsrogersstufff @polyjuiceslytherin @lizziebitch33 @viktorie16

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The way you portray Ran and Mikey...*chef's kiss* Thank you for such content! <3 For Mikey, Ran, Izana, Kakucho and Benkei, he catches his S/O dancing shamelessly and ridiculously as if no one's watching. Y'know how we've all done that and were caught at the top of our element at some point? That XD! But instead of stopping at embarrassment, they dance even sillier and even invite their boyfie to dance with them as they waggle their eyebrows and shimmy their shoulders <3

I'm going to reach back to the 2000s for this one because YES

Bust a Move with Manjiro Sano, Ran Haitani, Izana Kurokawa, Kakucho Hitto, Keizo Arashi

tw: fluff, mentions of NSFW themes

Manjiro Sano - Bye Bye Bye (*NSYNC)

"But it ain't no lie; baby, bye, bye, bye..." Your hips roll back and forth as you jam out, hairbrush in your hands as you sing. You're mid-verse when the door creaks open and you see Mikey peek in, his eyes wide.

"Uh," you start, but then think: fuck it, I've been caught. You point to him and walk closer to the door, strutting while you sing and shake your finger. Mikey inhales sharply and shuts the door in your face immediately, unsure of what else to do. You laugh on the other side of the door as he slinks off to hide his obvious hard-on and pink cheeks.

Ran Haitani - Oops! I Did It Again (Britney Spears)

Getting hype before a Girls' Night Out is a routine you never thought Ran would bust in on.

But when he comes as you dance around with your (now cool) curling iron, he leans against the doorway, chuckling while you sing.

"So hot," Ran exhales, loosening his tie. You walk up to him and grab it in your hands, pulling him close as you dance and sway side to side. His hands drift around yours and he smiles, mouthing the words to the music and grinding his hips against yours. When the song ends, Ran taps a kiss on your nose and pulls out his wallet, searching around for his cash.

"For the dance. Keep the change," he teases, placing the money in your bra and kissing your lips.

Izana Kurokawa - Say My Name (Destiny's Child)

Izana looks up from his computer, hearing the faint melody of a song he knows well.

Too well.

He stands from his perch with a long sigh, noting the volume and his headache all at once. The door is already open for him and he waltzes inside before crossing his arms.

"I'm not paying you enough attention," he begins, rolling his eyes. You're dancing with your eyes closed, though you know he's standing there waiting for you to finish.

"Not nearly enough," you quip, tossing your makeshift mic at him. Izana catches the bottle of hairspray and sighs, placing the item on your nightstand and pulling the sheets of the bed back.

"Well, then, let me start by telling you that I have been really busy, but I'll take a break for you, your highness."

"Don't get smart with me." You walk around to the bed as the song dies down, crawling into the bed next to him. He kisses your cheek tenderly then wraps his arms around you, pushing you down on the bed. You gasp, prepared for him to begin some sort of foreplay but he instead opts to begin tickling you ravenously.

"Izana!" you yell, hitting him on the arms and laughing at the same time. "You're crazy!"

"Crazy for you, babe," Izana replies, his eyes full of mischief. "Only for you."

Kakucho Hitto - Hollaback Girl (Gwen Stefani)

"This song is my shit!" You throw your hips back onto Kakucho's while he's seated on the couch beneath you, his eyes growing wide as you innocuously grind on him.

"Babe," Kakucho whispers, but you're too busy listening to Gwen Stefani to care. "Babe?"

"Lemme hear you say this is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!"

"B-A-N-A-N-A-S... uh, babe?" Your pigtails slap his face once and he grunts, grabbing you by your waist and flipping your back onto the couch. "Babe." He states firmly and you stop, looking up at him.

"Sorry," you murmur, chuckling a bit. "I just--"

"If you're going to grind against me," Kakucho mutters. "Then let me reciprocate."

"Oh..." you breathe and he begins to slowly grind on you from above, smirking. "Now, this shit is really bananas."

Keizo Arashi - Temperature (Sean Paul)

"The fact that you didn't tell me you were having a party disappoints me," Keizo states, walking into your bathroom confidently. "But a party for one person?" You're still in your robe and drying your hair as you jam out, listening to old hits from your teen years.

"Hey," you cry out as he comes behind you and begins to grind on you. "I'm trying to get ready for bed!"

"Not with all this music and thumping," Keizo laughs, holding your hips captive under his grip. "Gonna make a man go crazy in there waiting for your pretty ass."

"Stop, Kei," you feign, swatting at him. "I'm trying to get this done so we can cuddle."

"Not the way I see it," your boyfriend replies, taking your hairdryer and turning it off. "Why dry your hair when I'm just going to sweat it back out in a moment?"

"Because--" You're cut off by his fingers creeping up your robe, touching your ass with reverence. He kisses your neck, letting his breath send shivers down your spine.

"What was that?"

"I said--" A moan escapes your lips as Keizo grinds his hips into yours again.

"Sorry, couldn't hear you over the music..."

"You're lying," you gripe but Keizo shakes his head.

"Never would I ever..." You turn your head to rebuke him but he kisses you instead, lips lingering on yours afterward. "You ready to go to bed?" he wonders, eyes fluttering back open.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Ready as you are."

Bonus: Who You Catch Dancing - South Terano (Buy U a Drank - T Pain)

You stand, mouth ajar, in the dance room while South grinds on the floor, his body moving like a wave as he tries his best to be sexy.

"Did you really call me out here so you could ask me to get a drink with you... and T-Pain?" South gets off the floor and dusts himself off, frowning.

"Did it work?"

"Uh..." He continues to gyrate, moving his massive hands down his chest and to the top of his sweatpants.

"Don't be shy," South teases, smiling widely at you. "I know you think I'm sexy."

"Listen, Terano," you state, punching the button on the stereo to pause the music. "I think you're fucking insane for going to do all of this just to ask me out for a drink. Can't you just do it like normal people do?"

"I"m no ordinary person," he replies.

"A fucking nutjob, right," you state, leaving the studio with your things. "See you tomorrow."

"You're gonna leave without telling me if you're gonna go out with me?"

"Try again next week," you toss over your shoulder.

[bugeater101]

I wish there were more soft dom Lee Know content on Tumblr, they always make him such a hard & mean dom & I genuinely don't think he's like that.

He feels so misunderstood as a person as it is & I feel he wants a partner that 'sees' him for who he is.

I just feel he would be such an intimate and loving partner.

'Hold onto me tighter honey, I want to feel all of you'

'Lie back & I'll take care of you sweetheart, let me show you how beautiful you are'

'No one can see you like this but me, I won't allow it. You're mine, mine alone'.

I just want to give him a hug 😭😭

LITERALLY Leeknow is such a sweetheart and the way he's personified as a mean person always reminds me of how Suga was always called mean and cold because he was just quiet, when in reality he is so sweet. Same goes for Leeknow: he is such a caring person who donates to multiple charities, is an incredibly talented and dedicated performer, an awesome cat dad, and perfect stay-at-home husband material.

As for his partners, I totally see Leeknow wanting a partner who sees and acknowledges this side of him, knowing him as this truly amazing, loving person (though he may show it in unconventional ways) rather than how people often perceive him. He'd obviously want someone to be his "partner in crime", like someone to do mischievous shit with him, tease others, etc. (I'm actually working on something that discusses this it's like an OT8 ideal type but shhh it's a wip). But more importantly, he wants to feel loved and give love in a relationship, especially intimately.

He'd be simultaneously so generous and so needy. Leeknow values kissing you, he sees it as an integral part of sex and love-making (as much as he cringes at such a term). Holding you close as you lay below him, both completely naked as he slides his cock up and down your pussy, grazing your clit but never filling you up as he is so focused on how good your kisses are. He loves when you fall apart below him when he does this, but he just wants to take it slow. He's not one for a quick fuck, unless he's upset or angry. Normally, he wants to spend all night with you, prepping you, making sure you're completely satisfied because THIS! MAN! IS! A! GIVER! (also, look at the lyrics for Drive). He'd never even pump you with his fingers because he much prefers eating you out for hours and stretching you with his tongue.

Also, Leeknow would say SUCH SWEET THINGS TOO! If you were gasping from how big he was, feeling him inch into you and worried that he won't fit, he'd hold you close and press lasting kisses on the side of your face, telling you, "It's okay, baby. You're taking my cock so good. You fit it in perfectly every time, squeezing me dry and letting me fuck your pretty body. God, you're beautiful."

Even when you've been at it for what feels like forever, Leeknow is still somehow ready to go another round. He could take one look at your fucked-out nearly fainting state and immediately become aroused again because holy fuck no one looks that good after being fucked for hours??? No joke, he literally gets hard just by acknowledging how truly breathtaking you are and by knowing just how lucky he is that you suck his dick and his dick alone. This man would literally whimper at the sight of you, his dick sore from fucking you already, and you'd see him palm his cock through his boxers with a "I need you and I can't wait 30 minutes for you to re-energize before I fuck you again" look. If he was like this but you couldn't handle his cock again, he'd make you play with your pussy while he pumped his dick, gasping at how pretty you looked getting so overstimulated from just a few fingers in you. "I'm so lucky I'm the only one who gets to watch you play with your pussy like this," he'd whisper. "You only let me stand over you and fuck my cock into my hand, only let me paint you with my cum, only let me lick you clean. Fuck, you're so good to me."

Of course, sometimes he'd get worked up and that's when this hard-dom evil leeknow comes out (mean-know?? Lee Meanho?? idk lol). This is the person we often see in fics: someone mad, someone who's needy but not willing to please you and prefers chasing his own high and hoping you catch up. Super into edging, punishments, and all that hard dom stuff. Though he likes to incorporate that genre into his soft routine, he'd much rather reserve that for when he's feeling in the mood for it. Leeknow would smack your ass here and pinch your nipples there even when he's a softie, but he finds it hard to control himself once he sees you writhe in pain from such acts. That's when the pet names like "baby", "angel", and "sweetheart" fly out the window and he starts calling you his "dirty little slut who only gets off on his cock and pain" instead.

So, as you can see, Leeknow struggles with managing such differences and opts to eliminate them entirely when he's more of a soft dom. But as a hard dom or a soft dom, the aftercare is so amazing. Like this man already worships the ground you walk on, so the fact that you're so fatigued and weary from sex with him—though it's a huge ego boost—makes him feel terrible. He'd pepper you with kisses, feed you, snuggle you, and everything else he can imagine just to make you feel better (y'all my man Leeknow is a househusband through and through and wants to make you feel good!!!!).

Point is, Lee Minho is the #1 soft dom in my opinion and would offer the best aftercare in all of skz, minus maybe Changbin. Plus, you better enjoy it because it is the only time he would ever be cuddly and openly so sweet, affectionate, and himself <3

[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!

[shurisneakers]

harmless (ix)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, sex jokes, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, anxiety

Word count: 3.9k

A/N: a lot of requests came in last week, so cool and thank you for sending them in!! i’ll try my best to write them if they weren’t originally what i had planned for this series bc they’re so cute kfjdghdf. also hey shoutout to @i-reblog-fics-i-like​ for suggesting the backstory thing! 

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

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Somehow it bypasses Bucky’s spam folder and is in his primary email. SHIELD tech is too advanced to let fake mails like this reach him and this doesn’t make sense. Unless it was one of the stupid dating websites he signed up for.

Leaving aside the obvious typo in the subject, he clicks on it, hoping it doesn’t unleash a virus onto his computer. 

He’s instead greeted with a poorly Photoshopped picture of you at a bar with a martini in your hand. He doesn’t have to look too hard to see that the martini is, in fact, an emoji. Off to a terrible start already. 

Right beside it is an even worse image, an imitation of an early Internet chat box.

Harbinger of Doom just sent you a message! 

Come to the empty lot near lair. Bring goggles. 😩💦

Decline/Accept

He wants to strangle you. 

______

“Why did you curse my eyes so early in the morning?” He spots you at the top of the lair, speaking loudly so that it hopefully reached you. 

“What?” you yell back down instead. “If you’re saying something, I can’t hear you.”

He rolls his eyes. He pulls his phone from his pocket and presses on your contact. 

He watches the look of confusion morph into one of slight surprise when you reach into your pocket and pull out your call.

“Don’t ever send an image like that to me again,” he says directly.

“If that one image is too much for you, how will we ever make our sex tape?”

His mouth opens and shuts like goddamn fish.

He can hear your laughter even without the phone.

“First of all- stop laughing- first of all, a sex tape is never going to happen. Second of all, I have a debriefing to go to, we need to make this quick.”

He holds up a finger when he sees you begin to say something. By the look of trouble painted all over your face, he knows it’s going to be a dumb innuendo. 

“Thirdly, why are you standing there?”

“I watched The Last Airbender,” you say once your cackling dies down.

“I like that show.” He did. Peter sometimes watched it when he came over and Bucky more often than not joined in.

“I know, you told me.”

Oh. 

“Okay, what now?” 

“Put your goggles on.” You take one step towards the ledge. 

“What are you doing?” The goggles don’t do anything to shield him from the sun, considering that they’re not tinted. Maybe he could invest in those.

You send him a smile, taking a step further. His walk towards the building turns into a jog, then a sprint when you’re basically standing on the edge.

You spread your arms out like Jesus Christ himself before flinging yourself off the building. His stomach drops.

His phone falls to the ground, discarded to the side as he sprints to break your landing. 

It never comes. 

Instead, a gust of wind smacks him in the face, forcing him a few steps backwards. 

“I am now an air bender.” your eyes shone. “Kind of.”

Just like that, the show was ruined.

He wipes the dust on from his glasses that he now understands why you made him wear. Considerate, for a person who nearly just gave him a heart attack. 

“Why.” It’s not even a question, just a statement. 

“You know how the Tower has a giant ‘A’ on the side?” 

He stares at you. 

“I‘m gonna spray paint ‘asshole’ on the side of it.”

Pepper would not like that. 

“That’s not even evil.”

“Yeah, but it’d annoy your super friends,” You do a flip midair, testing out the repulsors that were tied around your palms, “and I’m the voice of the people.”

You’re too high for him to reach. He doesn’t have his tools, or anything useful on him considering that he never had to use them before. He couldn’t even launch himself at you from the side of the building because you’d just move out of the way. He could jump really high but it would just have the same consequence.

He could talk and keep you distracted but that worked once, it wouldn’t again. At least not for long. 

Fuck, he really had only one option. 

He leaves you to do your somersaults and turns, walking over to where he dropped his phone. It’s an upgrade from the brick he was using a while ago, but not a high end Stark model. A smartphone, but barely.

He sighs, punching in the number and holding it up to his ear.

“Who are you calling?” you yell from above him. 

“Go back to your shitty aerobics,” he yells back.

You pause for a second. “Was that a fucking pun, James Bar-”

The dial tone ends when someone picks up. He diverts his attention back to the call.

“Hey man, I-

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“It’s probably something stupid,” Sam doesn’t even sound annoyed, just uninterested.

“I need your wings.”

“I was right. Bye.”

It was a long shot anyway.

“Fuckin’ hold on a second.” He sees you disintegrate a concrete block by having it drop from the air. “You come here and fix this, then. She’s air bending now.”

“...like Avatar?” Sam unsurprisingly got the reference. 

Peter’s interests were usually shared by everyone in the Tower, just because they had to compensate for the teasing he had to endure. It led to a lot of geeky documentaries and occasional musicals. Bucky wouldn’t be caught dead humming songs from Thoroughly Modern Millie under his breath. 

“Yeah.”

“You want me to come and fight your girlfriend,” he says slowly. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bucky urges, “and yes, I need help. Can’t exactly reach her when she’s twenty feet above me.”

“We have a briefing in 30 minutes. Why did you even go there today?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. Just looks up at you smacking one of the repulsors against your thigh when it sputters for a second. It’s tradition. 

“Well?” Bucky ignores his question.

“Fine,” Sam’s voice is distant for a second as he agrees. “Clint’s asking if he can come too.”

“Fuck no.” One of them was more than enough and Sam was way better at negotiation. 

He hears a faint profanity from who he assumed was Clint before the call cuts.

He takes a seat on the ground and waits.

“You’re not going to make any effort to stop me?” You have your arms pressed to your side, palms pointed downwards to keep you afloat.

 “I could just throw things at you again.” He makes a mention towards the small pebbles.

“I will fuck you up if you even try,” you warn. He lifts his arms in surrender. “So that’s it. You’re just going to sit there.”

“To be honest, I couldn’t care less if you painted the building,” he says with the least amount of interest he could muster, not that that was very hard.

“Do you not like your team?” 

“I do.” He isn’t lying. “But they’re little shits.”

“I can draw a couple of dicks on their window, no problem,” you say offhandedly.

He looks up at you through his fingers. “That won’t be required.”

Although it was appreciated. 

“Cool, so then I’m gonna go.” You make a mention of the utility belt on your waist. He looks at the many spray cans that decorate it. 

“What colour are you going with?” he interrupts quickly. Fuckin’ Sam. What was the point of wings if he couldn’t get here in 2 minutes?

“Red, probably.” You look down. “I got purple and white just in case.”

“Building’s dark, red is good.”

“You really don’t care, do you?” You lower yourself down to the ground, a few feet ahead of him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” For fucks’ sake, Sam. “You really don’t like superheroes, do you?”

“I don’t have anything against them.”

“Then why do you do this every week?”

This was wading into personal territory and he did not like it. 

“Well.” Your eyebrows knit together. “Because I want to. It’s fun.”

“No other reason?”

“Do I need to have another reason?” You push your palm downwards, sending you back up into the air. “Can’t I just be evil because I want to?”

“Sure,” he says. He’s heard worse reasons. “Why not?”

“Besides, if you think I don’t like superheroes then you should meet Jake.”

“Who’s Jake?” He hadn’t ever heard you mention him before because he’d remember if you had.

“My roommate.” 

“I didn’t see him when I came over.”

“That’s because we’re not conjoined at the hip.” It takes you a second to stabilise. “Besides, he grabbed the water while I got the bracelet but he refused to come say hi.”

Bucky looked down at his wrist. It was still there. He found himself fidgeting with it more often than not.

“He hates superheroes?”

“He has a valid reason.” Your eyes widen in worry when your head suddenly dips. 

“What is it?” He knows the height at which you’re at isn’t very dangerous but if need be, he’s close by. 

“Come find out.” Your eyes shone mischievously. “But yeah, no reason for me to be evil.”

“Not even a tragic backstory?” 

“None. But if you want it, I can give you one, Barnes.” You test the waters, seeing how long you can lie horizontally. “Can’t promise you’ll like it though.”

“Try me.” He has time to kill. He’s a good listener.

“Well, it all started with my family- a troop of gorillas.” You flip over to lie on your back. “They practically raised me, they did. Until my gorilla mother died and I was all but consumed by grief and-”

“Your mother was a gorilla?” He entertains the notion. 

“Or was it my father?” you ask thoughtfully. “I don’t know, I don’t remember. Anyway, I met a-”

“Just to clarify, none of this is real, right?” he interjects. 

You stare at him. He stares at you.

“Bucky, that’s the plot of Tarzan,” you say slowly, “or at least whatever I remember of it... which I’m beginning to realise isn’t much.”

“Just clarifying.” He leans back again.

“Anyway so then when my mother, the deer-”

“Gorilla.”

“Whatever. Was killed, I escaped to some place-”

“Where?”

“Somewhere. And I stayed with these seven men-”

“Why seven?” He actually remembers watching this movie with his sister when it came out. An early memory, a bit faded. He remembers how long he saved up for the ticket.

“Because character development. And then I realised the reason my life was so weird was because there was a rat controlling me by pulling on my hair-”

“What the fuc-”

“If you ask any more questions, I’m going to stop.”

Bucky blinks at you. “So that’s your backstory.” 

“Raw and uncut, baby.”

“Just to get this straight, your mother, the gorilla deer-”

“Witch.”

“Huh?”

“She was a witch who stole my hair.”

“Wha-”

He’s interrupted by the giant shadow cast by something that flies overhead. 

Fucking finally. 

He doesn’t even have to look up. Sam does a small glide to the ground, landing gracefully beside him.

Bucky finds you speechless but straightened up from your earlier posture.

“Buck,” Sam greets him.

“Sam,” he says in return, getting up from his place. 

A grin spreads across your face. “Mr. Sam Wilson. No way.”

“You’re Y/N, I’m assuming?” Sam offers, posture relaxed. He clearly wasn’t here to fight. 

“The one and only.” You tear your eyes away from Sam to glare at Bucky. “Barnes, if you had told me we were expecting guests, I would have dressed better.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows in suspicion at you. You’d dress up for Sam. 

You dressed up like a suburban tourist dad for him. He was feeling the offence incoming. 

“Can’t count on him to be useful in any situation.” Alright, he did not call Sam just to have the both of you team up against him. 

“Normally I’d agree with you but he did just invite you here, so...” you trail off, looking at Sam expectantly. 

What the shit.

Sam smirks. Bucky switches rapidly back and forth between the both of you.

“I see why Buck keeps coming back every week.” It doesn’t take long for him to catch on, enlisting a feeling of triumph from you. 

“I can’t see why he doesn’t just stay at home everyday if this is the view.” You gesture to him.

This is not what Bucky wanted.

“Okay,” Bucky interrupts, “what is going on here?”

“Pure chemistry, I’d say.” You’re half tempted to bite your lip to seal the deal.

“I agree.” Sam just nods, completely and utterly serious. 

You think that you’ll give him a gift basket just for playing along despite meeting you for the first time at that moment. 

“Get a room.” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Maybe we will.” You tap your finger against your lip in thought. “How do you feel about Indian food, Sam?”

“Very positively.” 

Bucky grits his teeth. “If you’re not planning to spray paint the Tower, can you just hand over the repulsers so we can go home for the day?”

You let out a small tsk in disapproval. “See what I have to deal with?”

“Can’t imagine how you do it every weekend,” Sam says dryly, not wasting a second in replying. 

“Hello?” Bucky waves his arm around. “She’s the villain here.”

“Your face is the villain here.” You tear your eyes away from Sam only to glare at him. “He won’t even wear a cape. Why am I the only one who brings their A-Game every week?”

“Sam just get the damn-”

“You should wear a cape, man.” Bucky’s absolutely sure that even Sam knows it’s a ridiculous idea.

“I’m not wearing a fuckin’ cape,” he grumbles. 

“What are your thoughts on swords, then?” Your finger finds a place under your chin in deep contemplation. “You’d look great with a sword.”

Bucky buries his face in his palms. “Sam, for the love of God.” 

“Okay, alright.” Sam finally gives in with a small chuckle. He runs a few steps to get a small head start before launching himself into the air, whizzing past your levitating figure. He does a neat little flip midair before matching your height.

Showoff.

“How difficult are you gonna make this, Wilson?” you ask, a smirk on your face.

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky exhales, looking at the both of you through his goggles. 

“What’s your play here?” Sam calls out loudly.

“Was gonna spray paint ‘asshole’ on the side of the Tower.”

“After the ‘A’?”

“After the ‘A’,” you confirm. 

“Now that’s too small,” Sam tutted. “You gotta think bigger. Paint the whole Tower.” 

“Sam!” Bucky looks horrified. 

“Hmm.” You look like you’re considering it. “Don’t have enough paint for that though.”

“You’re an evil genius, right?” Sam casts a small glance at Bucky. “At least that’s what he tells me.”

“You talk about me?” You grin at the disgruntled man on the ground. 

“I don’t,” he mutters, shaking his head. A lie.

“Yeah, so build something,” Sam points out. “Get some more paint. I’ll even tell you the best vantage points to spill it.”

“No, he won’t,” Bucky shouts from below. 

“He’s just cranky because he didn’t get his prune juice this morning, ignore him,” Sam dismisses him.

Prune juice? He was a young 100, not ancient. 

“What’s your favourite colour, Falcon?”

“I like red.”

As annoyed as Bucky is right now, he stores that away in his memory for later. He also knows Sam loves seafood and a good pair of shoes. 

“A couple of gallons of red paint it is, then.” You lower yourself to the ground, Sam slowly follows suit until he lands beside Bucky.

“You know we can’t let you go without taking those, right?” Bucky tilts his head towards your invention.

You narrow your eyes at him. He doesn’t budge.

“I’ll tell ya what,” Sam pipes in instead. “I’ll keep them until you finish getting the paint and once you’re done, we’ll make an evening out of vandalising the Tower.” 

Bucky may not enjoy his company all that much but he admires Sam’s diplomacy. Of course, you would never make it this easy while reasoning with him.

“That a promise, Mr. Wilson?” You raise your eyebrow at him questioningly but are already in the process of removing the things from your hand. 

“Wouldn’t ever lie to you, doll.” He holds up his hand in a mock swear.

You walk towards Bucky and him, rotating your wrists to get rid of the soreness. “Bold claim for a man who met me ten minutes ago.”

“Feels like it’s been longer.” He sends you a wink and you can’t stop the laugh the escapes from you finally. 

Bucky holds his hand out for the gadgets. You shrink away from him with a click of your tongue.

“Technically, he takes this round.” You send a nod towards Sam, dropping off the repulsors into his hand. “So he gets it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“You gonna keep ‘em safe?” you ask Sam, this time a little more earnestly. 

“Guard it with my life,” he says seriously, pressing his lips together in a line to avoid smiling. 

“You’re both ridiculous,” Bucky cuts in.

“You’re going to be late.” Sam tucks the devices into his pocket safely. “You know how Steve gets when people walk in on his speeches. Do you even have a ride?”

“Got the motorcycle.” 

“See you there.” Sam nods. 

“Save me a place,” Bucky says to him.

“No.” He doesn’t even hesitate. “Y/N. It was a pleasure.”

“Still holding you to that evening, Sam.” You send him a smile.

“I’m countin’ on it.” He gives you a small three finger salute before taking off, leaving you staring after his retracting figure. 

When the dust settles, Bucky awkwardly clears his throat. “Right. So that was that.”

“Dude,” you let out an exhale. “he’s so hot.”

He murmurs something unintelligible. It vaguely sounds like a series of threats but mostly a list of complaints.

“Don’t you have a meeting to get to?” You turn your attention back to him.

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you going to be late?” You glance at the clock on your phone.

“I’ll just tell them I was on a mission.” Well, sort of. “Besides, what are they gonna do? Kick me out?”

“Fair enough.” You shrug. “Have a safe ride back.”

From what he knows of you and Sam, the both of you were kidding around. But he could never be too sure. He can’t even ask if you were serious about the entire thing because it’s none of his business. 

Were the implications of having his mortal nemesis and other mortal nemesis date important enough to overrule that? 

“Are you planning to skip your meeting, or?” you ask when he remains freezes in his spot, eyes glazed over like he’s thinking about something. “Because if you are, I know this great Thai place-”

“Don’t do that again,” he says instead, shaking his head to jolt him out of his thoughts. 

“What?”

“Flinging yourself off roofs like that.”

“Why?” Because it scared the hell out of him, for one.

“Just don’t.”

“Oh please, like you’ve never done dangerous shit like that before.” You narrow your eyes at him, reading his face. “Are you telling me you care about me?”

“No.” His nose twitches. “Just don’t throw yourself off buildings when I’m around.”

“What about when you’re not?”

“As long as I’m not there to witness it.” He shrugs, spinning on his heel to leave. Technically he preferred if you didn’t do things like that at all. 

“Fine. I’ll just have my clone try out all the dangerous stuff for me.”

 He stops in his tracks. “You have a clone?”

“Well,” You squint, “no. But I’m working on it.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Bye Y/N.”

“You know, it sounds an awful lot like you’re saying we’re friends.” Your whole demeanour changes and he already knows what’s coming.

“I never said that,” he argues vehemently. “All I said was that I can’t have your murder on my hands.”

“Thus implying that we’re friends. In a fucked up, enemies kind of way.” You positively beam at him. “Aw, Barnes, that’s adorable.”

Adorable? Adorable?

“I hate you.”

“I love you, too, bestie,” you gush, dumb grin on your face. “I’ll make us friendship rings next time. What are your thoughts on matching tattoos?”

He wants to cry. 

______

By the time Sam walks into the meeting room, the session’s already begun. He shoots an apologetic look to a monologuing Steve before taking his place at the nearest chair available. 

Something sharp pokes his thigh. His wings are off and in the backpack beside him, but then he remembers your little inventions that were still in his pocket.

He tries not to make much of a noise while he pulls them out, giving them a look over to make sure they’re not broken.

“Watcha got there, Big Bird?” Tony asks lowly from beside him.

“Something that Barnes’ enemy made.” Sam holds it up slightly. 

“The one he’s been rendezvousing around town with every weekend?” 

“That’s her.” He’s about to put it in his backpack when Tony stops him.

“Pass that here for a second.” He recognises it immediately for what it is, interest piqued. 

Sam hands one of them over while he puts the other back in the bag. It’s a metallic circle, not bigger than Tony’s palm, with a thick leather strap to tie it around your palm.

“She made this?” 

“Why don’t you ask him?” Sam mentions towards Bucky who silently slips into the conference room, standing in the corner near the potted plant since there were no more chairs left.

“The balance has gotta be off on this thing,” he mutters to himself, wholly ignoring the brooding man standing in the corner like a Christmas tree.

“She seemed to be manoeuvring it fine,” Sam catches the eye of a lower ranking agent who makes the mistake of glaring at him for talking while the meeting was going on. A few seconds later the agent hastily looks away and doesn’t turn around for the rest of the hour. 

“Could be better.” He uses a much more intricate model for his suits, although this isn’t even half-bad for a homemade version. “Do you know how long she took to make this?”

“Buck says she comes up with a new one every week, so I’m guessing that long.” 

It had a few glitches but it was incredibly refined for a week’s worth of work.

“Interesting.” He gives it a quick overlook before handing it back to Sam who drops it into the bag.

He casts a swift glance at Bucky, noting how he wasn’t even paying attention to the meeting but rather to whatever he had tied around his metal wrist, fidgeting with it with his thumb. 

Tony has an idea. 

And that was generally bad news.

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