#idc if it's small talk......... leave me the fuck alone................

[i3utterflyeffect]

Cg all cuddling in a blanket? (I hope this prompt doesn't make you uncomfortable)

i didn't feel like drawing a blanket, hope that's okay! fabric is a bit of a headache sometimes and making them all fit under one blanket is hard to figure out sometimes ngl

[wherenymphsroam]

Real dad! Leon coming over to help you with your car.

Something’s wrong with it, so why wouldn’t you call your dad to help you out? He gets there, pops the hood and finds the problem that he starts to fix.

You check on him every ten or so minutes, noticing how maybe he took his jacket off, how his hair is getting messier. He’s more out of breath and a little sweaty. It makes you forget he was even speaking to you, asking for you to go grab him a bottle of water so he can cool down.

And when you do come out with the water, his shirt is off this time. He grins and laughs at you. Maybe he’s a little mean and teases you about it, talking about how you haven’t seen a man like him before ugh omg

The tension would be sooo thick after that. Especially if he stays over for a while, maybe taking a shower in your bathroom. He comes out in a towel, making sure it hangs low to catch your attention since you just loved staring at him earlier

Please please please hear me out

oh I’m hearing you Mel. I’m hearing ya.

“Like mother like daughter”

cw: daddy/daughter incest, leon is your real dad in this, some mixed in religious themes, leon being a cocky douche even in his old age, kitchen counter fucking, slight breath play but it’s only bc Leon’s arm is around readers neck, barely proof read.

a/n: idc im not making this formatting all pretty, I literally blacked out and coughed up 2.5k at two in the morning. straight filth. here you go, eat you little shits.

And up until that point, it’s just that. It’s only that. Tension. Silent, deadly, heavy in the air of your small place.

That is, until he slices right through it, walking out of your bathroom in nothing but that towel.

When you were smaller, he’d never take showers when you were around, making sure to slip them in during the dark hours of the morning or long after you were asleep. And on the occasion that you were around, even into your teen years he’d all but beeline to his bedroom to get changed, only leaving you with a lingering glance at his broad back. That is, when you’d will yourself to look as he strode down the hall. You shouldn’t be looking at your dad in such immodest state, let alone like that.

And yet here you are, dry mouthed and stock still where you stand at your kitchen island. He had strode in, so confident, almost cocky, claiming he forgot his glass of water. As if he couldn’t have grabbed it after he was decent. Because he’s just so thirsty after all that work today, and the kitchen is on the way to your guest bedroom where he was going to change anyway. What would be the point in doubling back?

He’s about to grab his glass and slip back out of the kitchen, content enough to be swift in his appearance. That is, until he notices the look on your face.

“What?” He chuckles, his smile sly. He knew he didn’t look the same as he did when he was twenty something years old. The scars, the soft layers of fat that had cropped up over thick muscles in his pecs and abs, the healthy line of hair that trails underneath his towel — it’s all a reminder of what his body has been through, how it’s matured through the years. Yet, here you were standing there and gawking at him, as if you’d never seen a shirtless man before.

He’s met with silence. Wetting your lips, swallowing thickly, blinking a few times — it’s takes you a beat too long to be deemed appropriate to realize you were staring. Barely holding back the urge to curse under your breath, you cover your obvious gawking with a dry cough, a shake of your head. Waving a dismissive hand at him and rolling your eyes as if suddenly he’s a nuisance.

“Ew,” you snort, turning back to the dishes you had been in the middle of doing. “Go get changed, old man.”

“Ouch,” he hissed, snickering now. Directly defying your playful orders, he leans on the kitchen island now, leaving only the hand on his hip to keep his towel secure around his hips.

“I wasn’t always an old man. Your mom was attracted to me at one point in time, you know,” he hums, teasing, playful. Far more playful than appropriate.

“Obviously,” you mutter, willing yourself not to turn around. Your gaze bores down, practically drilling through the pan you’re scrubbing. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He laughs then, throaty and low, his stomach shaking from the strength of it.

“That you are.”

Footsteps.

Coming towards you, the old tile squeaking softly in specific weak points as he crosses your small kitchen. You don’t notice how your scrubbing slows, subconsciously distracted by his warmth as it settles behind you, looming.

“I asked you a question, you know,” he murmurs, piercing eyes trained on you.

He’s done this in times past. Sometimes when he’s reprimanded you, sometimes in joking passing. Directing your attention back to a voiced inquiry that you decide to oh so conveniently side step, choosing to ignore in favor of your own comfort. And like always, he wasn’t going to let you slide.

“What’s with that look on your face?” he rephrases, tilting his head.

Don’t stop scrubbing.

You don’t. If anything, the movements of your arm grow faster, harder, practically burning your sponge into the surface of a pan that’s been clean for two minutes now.

“What look?” you hum, feigning ignorance, clearly so busy with your task at hand.

Rolling his eyes, he adjusts his towel around his hip, tugging it tighter. The action had the back of his palm brushing into your hip.

“Nope. You don’t get to play dumb with me,” he tuts, low and far too close to the back of your neck. A few inches more, and his breath would fan against the back of your neck.

“When was the last time you went out, anyways? Hell, the last time you told me about a boyfriend?” he snickers, moreso at the mental image of the last loser you brought home to him.

Sighing, your jaw sets, your heart skipping in your chest.

“Dad, we’re not talking about this right now,” you groan, adjusting your craned neck, shifting your weight over your feet as you turn the faucet on. Suds slide off the nonstick surface of the pan, pooling and circling to disappear a moment later down your drain.

“You’re right. We’re not.”

Pausing, your gut twists in a way you haven’t felt in a while. It’s that feeling you get, that tugging that tells you the guy you’re hanging out with wants more. That the guy you’re alone with has intentions driven by hunger, need. That he wants you.

But you’re not alone with just some guy. Not alone with even a guy your age. He’s not a classmate. Not a friend. Not some sleazy tinder date you brought home.

It’s your dad.

A deep breath in. An effort of swallowing and burying that feeling. Of shoving it deep enough in hopes that it wouldn’t crawl back up again.

An exhale through your nose, forcing your movements as you reach for the next dirty dish.

“Then what are we talking about?” you scoff, glad he can’t see your face, your eyes that waver. Taking a tone you typically do during your nitter nattering with him, a tone he would reprimand you for in your teen years.

“The fact that you were eye-fucking your father a minute ago,” he mutters, his tone indecipherable.

“That’s what we’re talking about.”

Was he angry?

Disappointed, maybe?

Uncomfortable?

You can’t tell. Out of all the times you’re able to read your father, quick to pin down his vocal habits, of course it’s right now that you fail to get a read on him. Because admittedly, you haven’t heard him like this before.

Why did you care? Did you want him to be angry? Uncomfortable?

Why aren’t you uncomfortable?

Finally, your pitiful stress scrubbing comes to a halt. It’s as if he just fed an IV of ice water through your veins, his voice resounding through the kitchen as it falls silent around you.

You’re hesitant, slow when you turn your head. Brows knitted, lips parted — something you got from him — you can’t even bring yourself to meet his damn eyes.

“W… What? Dad, I’m not eye-fucking you-“

“Be honest. When was the last time you got laid?” he scoffs, all amusement drained from his voice. Not quite lecturing, nor demanding. But firm.

Glancing up at him, you search his eyes, silently floundering under his hard gaze. It takes all your willpower not to let your own wander down the still damp skin of his neck, his collarbones.

This isn’t appropriate.

When you were younger, he’d physically cringe at the idea of you ever experiencing sex. Would clench his fist, draw his brows at the idea of some insolent little boy getting his hands on you, in you.

“Don’t forget to mention the .45 I keep in my bedside,” he’d not so jokingly quip whenever you’d head out for a date.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it then. Gotta go polish my bat,” he’d make a point of specifying the one time you had a male friend over to study for a big exam.

It was from a place of protectiveness. Of love. Because you were his little girl. Didn’t want you getting hurt. Even if he knew that one day you’d probably end up entangled in the back of some college idiots Honda accord his parents got him, that you’d one day be introduced to the world of true heart break, he wanted, needed to keep you out of the worlds grips for just a little bit longer. For as long as he could control.

And here he is, asking so crudely when you last got laid.

“I asked you a question.”

A beat passes. Another one. Your neck is uncomfortable, half turned over your shoulder like this. But you dare not turn away.

“Never.”

Oh.

Oh.

There it is. All it took was some light prodding and you’re coughing up.

Because he told you to. Because he loves you. Because you’re a good girl. His good girl.

Not some sleazy tinder dates.

Not some broke college boy with a measly Honda accord.

No, no. He really should’ve known better. You have more refined taste than he often wants to give you credit for. Well, that is, until he’s taking credit for you, so quick to remind you it’s him you inherited such trait from.

His little girl was always needier than that. Better than that. Smarter than to so freely give herself to whatever scumbag picked her up some flowers from the grocery store on his way over to the house before a date, smarter than to let some asshole take advantage of any insecurity.

“You were saving it for me weren’t you?”

His voice comes out as a panted snicker into your neck, spoke into the numerous bites and blooming spots of color along your nape. It takes you a moment, lost in the hazy, sickly heated daze the two of your have made of the kitchen air around you. With pots long forgotten, one side of the sink full of cooled water, the sound of the faucet that had been running earlier is replaced with the wet claps of skin against skin.

Sharp, deep, all consuming when his pelvis collides into your ass, the fat of it rippling under each heavy collision. It threatens to steal your sense of coherency from you with each drive.

“H… Huh?”

Your voice is a mess, not too unlike the rest of you. The thick arm he has wrapped around your neck doesn’t really help, seeing as how it only constricts your already dry throat. Speaking proved to be far more difficult than it maybe should be right now.

“Your virginity, sunshine,” he murmurs into your ear, low and hot, brewed with an aftertaste of amusement. As if he didn’t just address you by the nickname he gave you when you were, what, three? As if he wasn’t speaking over the sounds of his body burying him within yours.

“Y’saved it just for me, huh? Knew only your Daddy could take care of you?” he snickers, looking at you oh so intently, adoringly almost. Far too tenderly, given how the thick muscles of his arm ripple with each jerk of your body in his hold.

You were always so pretty. Got it from your mother. Those sweet eyes, the pout of your lips. Even your tears, how they rolled down your cheeks in fat, hot trails of ecstasy matched how your mother would cry for him. How sweet.

And oh, even sweeter, the hitch of your constricted breaths. Your cries, your whimpers, those broken moans that fall so steadily are heavenly, even if what he was committing right now was far from.

Leon had never been a religious man, at least not into his adult life.

What the hell did he care about how wrong this was? God could twist and turn and kick and scream all he wanted, sat up on his high and mighty throne. He could whine and cry all about this was wrong, how he didn’t bless Leon with such a beautiful daughter for him to fuck her.

But right now? Leon doubts that. Hell. Somewhere, hidden deep into the darkest corners and recesses of his mind, Leon hopes that is the reason he was given a daughter. He snickers at the very idea of you being bestowed to him like the damn sacrificial lamb for the slaughter, his own personal sunshine and warm body.

Because why else would you cry like her?

Why else would you sigh and tremble and shudder just like her?

Why else would your voice crack and pitch along the same patterns hers did when he pushed her to her very limits?

Why else would God let his most beloved walk out of his life and leave him with her most beautiful creation, if not to fall in love with her all over again?

“Yes, yes, yes,” you whimper, like a damn broken record in his arms. With your shorts pooled around your ankles, your shirt shoved up just high enough for him to paw at your pretty tits, you were practically a spitting image.

A growl of satisfaction, of delight reverberates through him and you feel it. It all but shakes you to your core, how his chest rumbles against your back. It’s all consuming, so overwhelmingly delicious how warm, how strong he is. You really couldn’t be to blame for how quickly you deteriorate, stuttering through gasped warnings of impending end.

“Ask me properly,” he mutters into your neck, breaths heavy with exertion and hot with carnal lust as he speaks into the shell of your ear.

“Tell Dad you wanna come.”

“Please, please-“

Coughing, your choke briefly around your own spit, and it takes you a second to recover. But it’s only a moment later that you’re shaking your head to the best of its mobility trapped in the crux of his elbow, eyes hazy as you gaze up at him.

“Dad- Dad lemme come. Wan’ come so bad, please, please Dad-“

Eager. So fucking eager, just like your damn mother. All that spunk, all those sarcastic retorts and matter of fact quips that attempt to keep him at bay, stretched thin and see through around the girth of him. He can’t help but laugh at the irony, even moreso when you only spasm around the sound.

And when he finally utters his permission, he’s not gazing down at you to revel in how your orgasm tears through you. He’s tracking every facial expression; every tear, every wobble of your lip and roll of your eyes, all in search of her.

Because as much as he adored the parts of you that were him. As much as he loved teasing you for your similarities, poking fun at the parts of you that were her, he couldn’t help but come to a compromise then.

That yeah, you were a Daddy’s girl through and through.

But at the end of the day, the saying really should be ‘like mother like daughter’.

[qtboni]

CONSEQUENCES — "He couldn't bring himself to admit it, but the truth was he was terrified. He had fought in countless battles, but nothing had prepared him for this."

With Simon Riley, he and the reader (can be gn/fem idc) have an argument, the first argument. It's not a big deal but Ghost starts to get terrified, he thinks she's going to break up with him. so while he's "If it's the end, please, let me know" she's like "baby i just got mad, i didn't stop wanting you"

pleasee♥️

╰﹒ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 !

┆ ⤿ 💌 ⌗ 1K CELEBRATION ☆ . ࣪ ˖ ࿐

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Reader

CHOSEN DRABBLE: "He couldn't bring himself to admit it, but the truth was he was terrified. He had fought in countless battles, but nothing had prepared him for this."

W/C: 1.5K

"Listen, Simon," You desperately called out his name, trying to break his focus, trying so hard to keep a calm and collected tone, but your voice trembling gave away your worries. "Please just hea-"

"I don't need to hear it from you," He interjected with an uncaring tone, cutting you off mid-sentence. His words cut like a knife, and you felt like your heart had been ripped out of your chest. "It's none of your business."

"What?" You squeaked, your voice barely audible. Your heart was pounding, and you felt a lump form in your throat. Your hands were shaking, and you didn't dare to move or make a sound, as if the very act of breathing might anger him more.

"I don't think you get it," He snarled, his voice laced with anger and frustration. Glaring at you with a furious expression, his fist clenched tightly, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I can't tell you everything you want me to say or open or shits like that."

You took a deep breath before speaking again, trying to stay calm and collected despite the hurt you felt. "I know it can be hard for you to talk about your feelings. I really do understand," you began, your voice gentle and understanding. "But when I feel like you're keeping things from me, it hurts." You looked at him with pleading eyes, hoping he would hear you this time.

"Keeping things from you?!" Simon asked incredulously, his voice increasing in volume and making you flinch. His eyes were wide and intense as he stared you down. The anger and hostility in his voice was palpable, and it left you feeling small and hurt. "Bloody hell, can't you just leave me alone about this? You're the one getting emotional here, not me."

His words felt like a slap in the face, and you recoiled as if he had hit you. You regained your composure quickly, but the pain in your heart was still there. You felt insulted, anger even, and your voice reflected that when you spoke next.

"The fuck, Simon?!" you exclaimed, your voice rising in volume as your emotions boiled over. You felt like he didn't care about your feelings, and it was making you feel unseen and unheard. "I'm trying to find a compromise and you're not listening to me!"

Simon's words had cut deep, and the anger and hurt in your heart only grew as the argument continued. You realized that there was no way of getting through to him, no way of making him understand your emotions and your point of view. But.. you still want to try. So, you took a deep breath.

"Simon, I love you, you know I do," You said gently and he perked up to the sound of your exhausted tone as he sees the anguish written all over your face. He looks at you, trying to read your mind, but all you can do is shake your head as to not let the tears fall. "But I can't keep doing this."

Your words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of years of unresolved conflict and pain. You couldn't keep fighting like this, couldn't keep having these arguments that led nowhere and only caused hurt. Simon's expression crumbles, and he starts to break slowly, unable to contain the emotions that have built up inside him.

It seemed as though all his carefully curated thoughts and words had been reduced to ashes in his tongue, leaving him with nothing but shock and disbelief. As he looked at you, his eyes wide and unblinking, you saw a brief flicker of hurt flash across his expression before settling back into that stoic calm of a mask he always has.

"Alright, I..." His voice trails off as he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again, meeting your gaze with a mix of shame and resignation. He hesitates for a second, the words seeming to get lost in his throat before finally managing to speak. "I'm sorry. Just.. if that's what you want.. I'll move out tomorrow..."

'Huh? Move out?' It was the only thing that crossed your mind as you processed Simon's sudden declaration. Your jaw dropped as he turned and walked away before you even had a chance to understand what he said. Taken aback by his abrupt response, you bolted after him.

As you reached out and placed a hand on Simon's shoulder, you spoke to him from behind as he turned away from you. "No, Simon," your voice choked with emotion, "I didn't mean it like that. I don't want to leave you just because of this. We can... We have so much more time to understand each other. I just..." Your words trailed off for a moment as you took in his tense stance, his head down, shoulders hunched. "I don't want you to leave me out."

It was a moment of tense silence before the sound of quiet sniffling reached your ears, followed by the soft, almost rhythmic shaking of his shoulders. The sound was deafening inside the room, and your chest tightened with a mixture of hurt and pity. You softly called out to him, hoping to break the silence.

Turning him towards you slowly, you felt a lump form in your throat as your eyes locked with his, the pain and anguish etched into his face clear as day. Simon's eyes were red and there were tears slowly streaming down his face, streaking down his cheeks. He was shaking as you gently took his hands in yours, his eyes locked on yours, searching for something, anything, to calm him.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered softly, cradling your cheeks and pulling you close to him. His eyes filled with regret and sadness as he brought you into his arms, and you felt his body tense and shake, the emotion behind his words evident.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper, but you could feel the weight of his guilt and regret. His chest rose and fell with his breaths as he held you close, and you could feel his heart race as he tried to swallow back his emotions.

He looked into your eyes, his gaze soft, filled with both sincerity and a hint of sadness. "I hear you," he whispered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "It's just that-" he paused, his voice trailing off. "It's hard for me," he finally continued, "To be open. But-" his voice was filled with determination, as he took a deep breath before continuing, "But I'm willing to try... to try to be better for you."

"Oh.." you muttered, leaning in to kiss his forehead. Your fingers traced patterns on his skin as you looked into his eyes. The expression on his face was a mix of shock, guilt, and relief.

It was a relief to him to finally be able to say and do something, anything to make things right. And with every gentle stroke of your fingers, he could feel the weight of your love, the compassion in your eyes as you looked at him, and he felt the walls surrounding his heart crumbling, slowly and steadily.

It was a strange, yet welcome feeling, this sense of vulnerability and openness. He closed his eyes as you brought your foreheads together, the silence in the room seeming to stretch on forever.

"Simon.. thank you.." The words fell like snowflakes in the silent room, filling it with warmth and reassurance. It was his reminder of your love in him, the trust you placed in him to make things right again. Even if he was in the wrong. And the sight of tears coming out of your eyes was enough for him to lean in and wrap his arms around you, holding you close.

"It's going to be hard," you whispered, the sincerity in your voice evident. Your eyes met his as you spoke, and you could see the weight of his guilt in them, the strain of his emotions. But you also saw a glimmer of hope, a small spark that told you that there was a chance of making things right. "Just know that I'll be here with you every step of the way, okay?"

This was your way of telling Simon that you were committed to helping him, that you would be his rock, his anchor. 'I don't deserve you.'

Erasing the negative thoughts clouding his mind, Simon leaned in and kissed your lips in response. The kiss was soft and tender, a way of expressing his gratitude for you being there for him in his time of need, for your understanding and support.

"I love you..." His lips lingered on yours for a moment, before he finally pulled away with a look of love and appreciation in his eyes. It was a fresh start for him. "Thank you."

One where he felt as though he had finally found the motivation to make the necessary changes - to open up to you more and this relationship.

A/N: another angst story guys wow 😍☝️‼️ I rlly love torturing yall sm its how i show my love frfr /j

[pjo-hoo-toa-freakazoid]

A lil rant about my experience with this god forsaken fandom

I made this blog around 2020 when I was 13 years old. This was my first shot at a dedicated fandom blog and I was pretty excited for it, to make friends, draw fanart, post fun stuff and what not.

All fun right? Right, so tell me why was it that literal 20 years olds felt the need to harass me, a then 13 year old girl with a relatively small blog, for the dumbest reasons possible?

What did I do that subjected me to 2 and a half years worth constant daily threats and harassment? Hmm???

You wanna know my crime? Apparently I showed interest in an antagonist character, which is so awful that grown adults felt the need to bully me. And following those adults came young impressionable people my age, that joined the bandwagon of hate against me.

As if other fandoms don’t have people literally dedicating themselves to a villain, no one bats an eye to that. Why did this fandom have such an issue? I also apparently dared to criticise the main character for a few of his flaws. Such a horrible thing to do right? I need to be burnt at the stake for it right?

I didn’t follow the “fixed” standards of the fandom so I was to be sent de*th/r*pe threats daily?? For not following the “rules” I was to be ostracised?

No please someone explain…I’m but a dumb bitch, I don’t understand what I did so terribly wrong to deserve this? Did I start a war? Did I rip open someone’s plush? Did I bully someone for not having the same ideology as me?

No it was but the fandom itself that for some reason found it so fun to bully a 13 year old, send her de*th and r*pe threats all because of not being of pjo fandom standards…let’s go and bombard her with hate!!

Do you realise how fucking stupid…this all sounds? Do you realise how low this is? Was bullying a child so fun? So trendy at the time?

Then came the victim blaming- I laugh everytime I remember people saying I must have done something really bad to get such harassment, that it’s all for attention. What kid wants to get hate everyday of their life for 2 whole fucking years? Tell me?

You know wanna know what I did wrong? Fight back, call the hate anons out for their bigotry. I was vocal about it, that’s what I did wrong right? Stand my ground? People said to ignore it and I did. But I still got bullied daily even if I didn’t respond. What was all this for?

I can imagine people asking why I didn’t simply leave the fandom? Why the fuck should I? I enjoy the stories, I enjoy the characters, they were my escape from real life struggles. It was the bullying I didn’t enjoy. Everyday I’d log on to enjoy posts and a few minutes later when the bigots found out I was active I was sent an anonymous threat.

Many of my oldest friends had to reduce the amount they interacted with me in fear of receiving harassment themselves. The extent of this is bigotry is beyond my understanding.

I did not deserve this much suffering AND ALL FOR WHAT? A STUPID LITTLE REASON THAT HAS BARELY ANY WEIGHT TO IT. Do people even realise the extent of what happened is beyond me. And Idc if I sound selfish, I want a fucking apology from all those bigots. I want compensation for the 2 and a half years of abuse I endured alone. I just want this bigotry to end, which surprise surprise! Still continues to happen.

Why do I bring this up now that it’s all over you ask? I’ve actually brought it up once before, but it was swept under the rug, (My deepest appreciation to the very few people who supported me when I first talked about it) I’m just finally being more vocal, because this has stuck with me. For all those 4 years this has stuck with me. It doesn’t mean if it’s over for now that all the trauma doesn’t linger. It still affects me to this day.

In fact I’m still being stalked by one of the people who sent me hate anons. One of the hate anons was revealed to be one of my bestest friends, they had admitted this to me and had the nerve to beg me to still remain friends. They were also the person who groomed me. They have left the fandom scene and I’ve rid of them from my life but they still continue to stalk me.

What do I get from ranting about all this? A bit of solace, a bit of weight off my shoulders. But nearly not enough for me to actually fucking heal. I also want people to realise how bigoted some are and how horrible the mentality of “fixed fandom standards/ideologies” is and that we as a fandom need to fucking change. Heck I know this issues in every fandom. But can we at least start with ours for a change for once?

Along side all of this there’s also a lot of racism and trans/homophobia that still actively prevails. Just look at what Leah went through when her casting was announced. Did she deserve all of that?? “Not my annabeth” do you realise how horrible that is to say to a CHILD? She is Annabeth whether you like it or not. And you are very welcome to leave if you wish to stick to your stupid racist nonsense.

I bet there are many others who have probably suffered the same may it not be for the same reasons, but everyone of them deserve their apologies and compensation as well.

Idc if I’ll get hate for this. I said what I said. I’m just so done.

[nectardaddy]

what's your favorite scary movie? | matsukawa issei

cw/notes: lots of sexual humor, language, they're watching scream idc (quotes in bold are taken directly from the og Scream), scream isn't that scary but let's just pretend it is, I was wheezing while writing this, thank you @mollyrolls (GO READ STOP THE CLOCK MOLLY IS COOKING), and "gothic frat boy mattsun" for the brainrot for this man, probably wildly ooc (borderline crack)

pairing: post timeskip!mattsun x fem!reader , written in second person (you, yours), previously established fwb/situationship

word count: 1.2k

It wasn't often you found yourself hunkered down in a mass of blankets on the couch, usually preferring to do so in the comfort of your own room. Cocooning yourself with your legs pulled up to your chest. It also wasn't common for you to watch a horror film - alone. A shot of adrenaline flowing through your veins at the thriller in front of you. Further setting the mood with lights shut off and a single candle lit on the coffee table. The television reflected off your face, deep reds, blues, and greens etching into features that were on edge. 

So deeply engrossed in the movie your brain shut out everything else, eyes transfixed on the screen as you pulled the blanket a bit closer to yourself. But the sharp twang of your phone ringing made you jerk, letting out a small yelp at the sound as it tore you away from the suspense the movie gave. "Fuck-"

Letting out a small breath, you dropped your shoulders in relief as your eyes slid to your phone. Screen lit up with the name "Issei <3" across it, you picked it up and took another small breath before accepting the call. Leaving the movie to still play in the background, you put the phone up to your ear.

"I'm in your walls." His voice shone through with a laugh before you even managed to say hello.

"Whatever happened to hello? How are you?" Questioning as your eyes flickered back the television screen, multitasking as you spoke to him. Exchanging pleasantries, talking about your day, and listening to him ramble on about work. Not realizing the sound of the movie was up high enough for him to hear, you heard him let out a cackle at the movie.

" Listen here you little bitch, you hang up on me again and I'll gut you like a fish, understand? "

"Damn- I wish you would gut me like a fish."

You rolled your eyes at his comment, a small smile pulling at your lips nonetheless. "Shut up, Issei." But you couldn't help but chuckle regardless, biting back a smirk even though you knew he couldn't see it. "That doesn't even make sense."

“I miss you.” An off kilter comment from him that made you pause, tearing your eyes away from the screen and looking down. A situationship at its finest, you and Matsukawa; talking and spending time with one another so much that others thought you were together - not putting a label on it from a fear of commitment. So his words made your heart jump to your throat, a sinking feeling settling in that was worse than the movie that played in the background.

“I miss you too.”

“ What do you want? - To see what your insides look like. ” 

You heard him stifle a laugh, “same.” Whatever ‘moment’ you had, if you really wanted to call it that, was completely dashed. Rolling your eyes at his crudeness that you had become all too accustomed to. It wasn't unusual for the man to make such remarks, to the point where you believed it was simply in his dna. It was in his nature to be a loveable, sarcastic moron.

“Don’t make me regret saying I miss you, dumbass.” Though you couldn’t help but laugh at the comment as well, but before he could respond he heard an audible crash sound from your television, followed by you taking in a sharp inhale of air. Mumbling a small ‘shit’ under your breath that you hoped he didn't hear - he most certainly did.

“You're scared aren't you?” Asking through a shit eating grin, one you could hear through the phone. You closed your eyes and groaned. “You want me to come over?”

“Watching this was not an in for you to come over.”

“It is now,” he chuckled. “So can I?”

A scream echoed off the walls and rang through the living room. You flinched at the sudden sound and gripped the blanket you had wrapped around yourself in temporary fear. The volume turned up all too loud, you didn’t hear the knock at the door of your apartment. But you most definitely heard the door swing open; whipping your head around and breath catching in your throat at the sound. Letting out a scream before covering your mouth in embarrassment once your eyes locked with familiar brown ones. 

"What's your favorite scary movie?” A grin pulling at his lips, a mischievous one filled with debauchery, before he howled in laughter; closing your door behind him. 

“I should have never let you come over, dickhead.” You felt your heart rate drop, being that it skyrocketed just seconds before, and you let out a sigh. 

“Aw, don’t say that. You love it when I come over.” His sly grin never left his lips as he sat next to you, plopping himself down on the couch and slinging his arm around you. You tried to fight the smile that desperately wanted to show itself, ultimately losing as you looked over to him and rolled your eyes. 

“Unfortunately, I do.” You heard him sigh exasperatedly, moving his other hand to his heart. “You’re the pain in my ass I don’t think I have the heart to get rid of.”

“Damn, you really know how to hurt a man’s feelings.”

“Shut up and watch the movie.”

The next hour was spent with your eyes glued to the screen, flinching and gasping every so often at cheap jump scares from the older slasher film. Matsukawa simply couldn’t help himself in reveling in this, holding you closer to him and giving your arm a squeeze after every jump, after every sharp inhale - to him, it really couldn’t get better than this. Joining you amidst your barrage of blankets sometime within him sitting down; his arm still over you and your head rested on his shoulder. Occasionally, his eyes would flicker down to you. Catching your own eyes, to which you quickly averted back to the screen, only for him to smile.  

“ There's always some stupid bullshit reason to kill your girlfriend. ”

“I would never kill you, by the way.”

His comment made you pause a moment, taken aback by the implications. Never knowing if he was truly serious, always toeing the line of frivolity with every word spoken, you simply brushed it off with a chuckle. “Oh wow, thanks, Issei, I was getting worried for a second.” Matching the energy he gave to you with a smile; to which he turned to you, looking over your features before humming. “Does that make me your girlfriend?” The question slipped from your lips before the thought registered in your mind. Internally kicking yourself for asking something so stupid, and outwardly looking down in mortification.

Another pause. One that lasted a bit too long, your heart sinking into your stomach from dread, thinking you said the wrong thing. Looking down at the fuzzy blanket you had draped around you and grasping it into a fist as unease consumed you. 

“Only if you promise not to become one of those girlfriends that leaves their boyfriend to die in horror movies.” 

You looked up at him once more, confusion written on your face that swiftly turned as you chuckled. A silly smile on his lips that was nothing but caring, a juxtaposition to his normal smirk. “Yeah, I guess I can do that.”

Honorable mentions that I couldn't fit in:

“ Number one: you can never have sex. ”

“Well I guess we're fucked.”

“ Number two: you can never drink or do drugs. ”

“Double fucked.”

banner by @/editsnocturne , divider by @/cold--carnage

[illyabata]

scars are A Thing™ with wriothesley and nobody can convince me otherwise, idc if there is zero mention of his scars or their meaning when he comes out idc it’s my permanent headcanon that scars and their stories are simply entangled with his character idc

so now i give you: wriothesley who is fascinated by your scars

tw: discussion of scars lol, but in no way do i indicate their origin unless it’s stretch marks. however if talk of scars at all is triggering to you, dont read!! it’s sweet fluffy stuff, but that doesn’t matter if it will trigger you. please take care :)

sfw, big brainrot under cut

theyre so much smaller than his, more delicate, just like you. doesnt matter if compared to other people you are big or tall, he’s such a big guy that he makes you feel small no matter your size or height. and no matter what your scars look like to you, to him they are beautiful. to him they are delicate.

he’s enamored by all of your scars no matter their origin—stretch marks, however, seem to intrigue him the most of all. he’s absolutely transfixed by them, and you can never understand why. he’s simply mesmerized by the way the blemished skin stretches as he thumbs and presses it, watching the discoloration flatten itself only to bloat back when he leaves it alone. for some reason he just seems so puzzled by the concept of natural scarring of the body; nothing had happened to harm you for these to appear—they’re simply the product of change, your skin either going through rapid periods of expanding or shrinking. he thinks they’re pretty.

he’d spend so long just running his rough fingers over your skin, absorbed in the feeling of the puckered tissue under his own blemished hands. whether the scars are stretch marks or from something else, he loves them, he loves you.

this might sound weird but i just like to imagine you both spend time gently tracing each others’ scars as comfort, like it sounds weird in words but it makes sense i promise. there is something intimate and fascinating about scars, no matter what they’re from; it’s truly like the language of your body’s history, a record of what has occurred. you can resent them or be proud of them, it really depends on the person and situation—but regardless, scars are always a record, and that is a constant no matter the person.

and if you’re not comfortable with that level of touch or that much attention on your scars, that is absolutely okay. he’s not going to make you uncomfortable, he’ll always ask if it’s okay before he looks at or touches them—or touches you at all, really. he never wants to hurt you. and if you say you’d rather he not touch your scars, he’ll understand and just show you he loves you—all of you—in some other way.

like idk about anyone else or if its just me and im fucking insane but sometimes i get lost looking at my own scars; sometimes the human body at work is just kind of fascinating to watch, and even more so in retrospect. it’s like holy fuck you’re looking at its handiwork, you can plainly see how the skin has been so masterfully rebuilt into this little woven bandaid of cells, carefully crafted to not only rebuild but protect. your body has looked after itself, and it will continue to do so. and thats just kind of a fascinating thing to me idk😭

some extra thoughts about scars, not really to do with wrio; red brackets will indicate the end of it if you want to skip: [[ it usually replaces any feeling of disgust i have because instead of focusing on the bad feeling of remembering where they came from or being sad at the way they look im able to think about how cool it is the way my body recovered and made my skin even stronger; it didnt just wipe it all away and give me a clean slate so i could forget, it pieced the cells together again bit by bit until it had not only replaced the wound but enforced it—so instead of forgetting the bad feelings, they were replaced by wonder. sort of like a sign that says “proof that where once there was pain, now there is strength”. it’s kind of like how they say you don’t just try to quit bad habits, you must replace the bad habit with a good one. you can replace the bad feelings associated with your scars with new feelings, whether they are good feelings or neutral feelings or meh feelings. ]]

before you, he understood scars to be an ugly thing—a source of shame, a show for others to marvel at if he left them uncovered, for them to ogle at and whisper about as if trying to guess the origin of the wounds was a sort of entertainment to them. and then in the fortress of meropide, his scars felt much less like a source of shame and more like an intimidation factor (which wasn’t something he necessarily felt good about, but it was something that he benefitted from as the duke). but when you came along and he began to know you, suddenly they were this beautiful, fascinating phenomenon that lead him to view his own scars in a different light.

he’s a powerful, strong man, yes. he’s intimidating and feared, but he is also loved, and all for good reason—he is solid and safe, an image of reliability to others. and sometimes it could weigh him down when he couldn’t seem to let another help carry the burden.

the way you made him feel, though, tracing his big ugly scars like they were rivers, like they weren’t repulsive—it changed him entirely, and it changed the way he saw himself. in the overworld, he was a criminal brute slathered in the proof of his savageness. in the fortress, he was the rock-solid standard for redemption, and he had to uphold his firm reputation. but with you, he was able to be fragile; with you, the walls he had built to protect himself from both sides of fontaine’s society came tumbling down, because he didn’t have to pretend when he was with you.

if such a small, sweet thing like you could see him in such a kind light with so much love in those eyes of yours, perhaps he was not so bad after all.

everyone else in all of teyvat could believe he was truly a bad guy like he sometimes enjoyed playing at—but it wouldn’t matter, because there you were in his bed every night, held fast in his big arms as you mindlessly traced the long, thin writings engraved in his skin, letting the stories they told lull you to sleep.

[numberonestuckyshipper]

I love the Howling Commandos so much, they’re so underrated if you ask me, especially the awesome dynamic they 100% had. I imagine all of them in very specific ways, some things are based off of fics I’ve read, some of it is just me.

Steve Rogers: Steve is the youngest of them all, he’s also the least experienced one and he hasn’t been part of the group nearly as long as the others considering he came into the picture after Kreischberg. He’s really fun to talk to and he’s as much of a little shit as the others are, being the leader of their group he’s in charge of tacking care of talking to superiors and shit, and he often ignores direct orders to do what he thinks is a better option, he also lets his team get away with things regular soldiers wouldn’t be allowed to do and they love him for it. He often gets yelled at by Bucky after doing stupid shit, the other Howlies often jokingly refer to him as “Dad” when it’s just them.

Bucky Barnes: Bucky has the others’ immense respect from the start, because he’s protective and caring as much as he hates to admit it. He is the only one who has negative amount of problems yelling at Steve after he did some stupid shit, he was the most scarred by Kreischberg but never lets it show. He loves music and always has a song stuck in his head and has fun pissing the others off by butchering the songs when it’s safe to be loud. He trusts Steve more than he probably should and goes with his plans, though he often forces him to modify them and cut down the crap. His protectiveness and strictness when Steve’s being a dumbass gets the others to nickname him “Mom” when they’re in private. He ‘hates’ it.

Dum Dum Dugan: Dum Dum was Bucky’s closest friend after Steve, he has a stupid sense of humor and says way too many dad jokes than is good for his teammates’ mental health. He’s always the first to jump at the opportunity to get his hands on some alcohol (no one complains about that) and he and Jim are the primary clowns of the group. He loves to tease the others, especially “Mom” and “Dad”.

Jim Morita: Jim is the one in charge of their immediate medical problems and small tech involved stuff, like Dugan, he has a shit sense of humor and they often get into battles of who can out dad-joke the other.

Gabe Jones: like Dum Dum, Gabe has known Bucky since before Azzano, and is the one in charge of languages, he speaks French and German more fluently than the others do and in the beginning he was usually in charge of dealing with Jacques’ bullshit.

Monty Falsworth: Monty is the only official member of the Howlies who isn’t broke (he is often teased about it). He could be considered the most sane of the Howlies (though not by far) he is the most experienced of the group to talk about strategy and often helps Steve and helps Bucky knock some reason into the little shit. They like to tease him for living up to every British stereotype and is often asked to ‘translate’ what Peggy says. He has a sister named Jaqueline who is a spy for the SOE.

Jacques Dernier: Jacques was a member of the French resistance, he’s from Marseille and is fully fluent in English but refuses to speak it. He understands everything the others tell him but speaks to them in French and lets them deal with it, after over a year of dealing with him all of the Howlies are more or less fluent in French. They call him a fucking pyromaniac because of his love of explosives and his talent with them. He also has a shit sense of humor that rivals with Dum Dum and Jim and is probably the most batshit crazy member of the team (though the others are pretty close behind him).

Howard Stark is considered an honorary member of the Howlies idc about any contradiction: rule n°1 when it comes to Howard Stark; don’t leave him alone with Jacques Dernier. They will set something on fire or worse. He and Monty are often laughed at for having money and they tease back by talking about rich people problems in front of the others. He is called a lot of names by the Howlies such as things like “Gadget”, “Engineer”, “Civilian”, “Civy” and things among those lines making fun of him not technically being a part of the military. He is involved in a lot of the Howlies’ inside jokes including the “Mom” and “Dad” thing.

[wordy-little-witch]

I am now hip deep in the Edge of Midnight campaign from legends of avantris and lemme tell you some shit -

1) I would lay down my life for Jericho Sticks without any hesitation. Torbek and Jericho are my sons now, no takesies backsies.

2) Lethica and Marius are so perfectly aligned to be end game lovers but I personally adore the idea of them being queerplatonic if only bc it's funny to watch people be confused and I think Lethica would adore that.

3) you can pry the concept of Briggsy having a some kind of magical fantasy cellphone equivalent from my cold dead hands - sending stone or smth idfk - and he's been keeping his buddy/boyfriend Torbek updated on all this like "Becky you would not BELIEVE what happened today-" ((listen I know the flirting bit between them in the yuletide one-shot was a feycurse but leave me alone it's funny as fuck))

4) briggsy @ jericho in ep 24 appropos nothing: Jerry, maybe we have to kiss ((sad, silly twinks with Literal Darksides are his type /j))

5) I have a friend-crush on Nikkie and I will never recover

6) I have an unyielding NEED to have Jericho get a final hit on a boss and yell yeehaw

7) I know stylistically Jericho doesn't have "skin" but I personally hc that his clothes aren't effectively his skin, he has a burlap body - and he has "tattoos" in the form of embroidery. It started when he had to stitch up his own cuts and stuff and he just kept it up.

8) Only Yorgrim has any constant sense of cooking in an actual kitchen-like setting. Farryn, Marius, and Briggsy can do journey or on-the-road cooking, but it's never.... great. Lethica burns everything somehow or gets the bright idea to 'experiment', and it's never good - she's fine if she's got clear end goals. Jericho is understandably skittish around fire due to his body and straw, but he is the closest to being able to cook well and do so semi regularly.

9) Virgil is a weird mix of a hater and lowkey overprotective. He does hate being imprisoned, but also he's kinda bound here so he HAS to keep this disaster of a bard safe. He refuses to admit he might have a soft spot. He is Stressed.

10) Farryn doesn't get the appeal of Girls Nights, but Jericho does!!! They join Lethica for some fun relaxation. Briggsy once asked why Jericho was allowed since he's also a dude, and Lethica just responded "he's allowed to be there - on account of him being a scarecrow and not a literal man after all." It's an inside joke which later has to be explained - Jericho is nonbinary but doesn't rightly care about stuff like that.

11) Yorgrim is the group dad, no I will not explain.

12) sometimes after a battle, Lethica and Marius will help stitch up some of Jericho's tears. Farryn may also add in random flowers she finds around because it makes him happy.

13) Briggsy is small but mighty. The only person he has yet to pick up and carry is Yorgrim - he swears that one day that tombstone will be gone and he'll be able to do it. It's all the rock's fault, he's sure of it.

Spoilers under the cut (caught up to present)

OKAY so I am caught up completely and have decided that Canon is not important leave me alone

• Yorgrim did not die - he got wounded heavily but survived.

• Farryn almost got taken but they got to her in time. She is mute for a time due to injuries and trauma - idk if she ever talks again bc we could use more sign language in the world. Maybe it comes and goes, fuck if I know, idk and idc

ONWARDS TO SILLIES

• Lethica strong armed her way into giving Jericho The Talk after he revealed he had no idea what a penis was. Scarecrows cannot blush, but apparently his fiendish glow can ebb and flow and he glows much MUCH brighter when he's embarrassed - she tries so hard not to laugh.

• Adella and Jericho btw are simply besties. His "crush" on her is a friend crush and Phillip just finds it painfully cute. ((Also -> Jericho has mommy issues and Adella always wanted a son/nephew/little brother. Peaceful alignment))

• Dark Mode Marius is a colossal flirt but still a giant dweeb. He's cool and suave until someone flirts back - then he's a mess.

• Briggsy is very happy with his Kannon & makes "shooting my shot" jokes at every and any opportunity

• Yorgrim, with his reward, manages to finally lay many souls tonrest but he still carries the tombstone on journeys - just not constantly now. He still believes he must pay penance, but it's a little easier to share the burden.

• Farryn, with her own reward, has not chosen to activate it yet. Something tells her to wait, to bide her time and remain. She does, however, get a little more at ease with the others. She and Jericho have come to an understanding, too - that being they they are a package deal, no takesies backsies, and they refer to each other as twin, much to the confusion of many, many, many people. WLW and NBLM solidarity.

• Jericho is pining HARD for Marius, but he's absolutely terrified of damaging the friendship so everyone is watching two oblivious dummies look longingly into each other.

• POLYAMORY POLYAMORY POLYAMORY

• Marius grows rather fond of Virgil, and the sentiment is very much NOT reciprocated bc this angry knight vampire is not good enough for his vessel and he's mad about it.

• Yorgrim: I've only had my friends for a few days, but if anything happened to them, I'd kill everyone in Druskenvald and then myself.

• I fully expect for Jericho to somehow befriend an enemy in disguise, not realize, and accidentally fuck up the evil plan with the powers of puns, music and friendship (/j)

• the first time the party sees Jericho presenting more feminine, he's been lended one of Lethica's dresses after his own clothes got torn up and the rest are being washed. Marius has a nosebleed and faints. Briggsy is staring somewhat respectfully. Lethica is trying valiantly not to laugh. Farryn and Yorgrim regret not dying when they had the chance.

• Marius: i cannot have a relationship because I have sworn to follow the duchess of sin

Lillith: whoa hold up, Do Not use me as an excuse to avoid the cutie pie over there. Besides, he has a demon. I'm queen of hell. I can make a small exception.

Marius: shit

• Briggsy Bi Icon: OH if ONLY Jerry here had a DASHING KNIGHT to SAVE THEM from this PERILOUS INCIDENT

Jericho: captain, I'm just getting off of a horse??

Marius: no no Briggsy has a point, no maiden should be unaccompanied or unassisted. Allow me-

Lethica&Farryn: We Know What You Are

• Yorgrim is watching all this inter party flirting and is definitely wondering if he's gonna have to have an aside with everyone about flirting tactics and communication skills. Briggsy is making it worse by enabling everyone.

• Farryn gets some sweet, succulent healing, that is all.

[vitzi9]

Patience is the key to success (2)

Masterlist if you want to read my others things. Part 1 here.

CW/TW: yandere-manipulative-obsessive-stalker-ethan, fem reader, smut, no p in v, depressed reader(but really), suicidal thoughts

i'm trying to post this quick because I crave attention, whatever its insults, compliments, likes or repost, idc. I want ppl to know i'm existing. i have a big oral test tomorrow and im really bad at speaking before someone (hence why im writing instead) so i just need to know im not totally useless in the society and that im, at the very least, making people enjoy my things. sorry for the rant, i have a big headhache, probably gonna die ✌️😚

the smut is really bad btw but like really but im bad at writing them but i need to to improve (26/06/2023) (5226 words)

"Let's just finish watching the movie now." you say and Ethan doesn't make you repeat as he goes straight to the couch.

You felt much better after that little talk. Ethan did not say much but in his words, there was a lot more. He was planning to be with you a long time. He does not want to ruin things. It made you so happy. Every fiber in you was warm thinking of it. You were at peace.

Ethan was calm after that, albeit moving uncomfortably sometimes. (maybe because of his boner?) He was just as cuddly as when you arrived. His head laid flat on your chest, rising up and down with each one of your breath. Your fingers brush his curl slowly as you hear his breathing slacken. You were giddy thinking about him being at peace with you, too.

His arms were closed tightly around your body, never letting you go. The movie was really advanced by now, the end was coming soon. It probably was something towards 11AM. Usually, you would have gone knock at your friend's house but there was no need now as you already saw her earlier.

When the movie fatefully ended, the credits start to roll but none of you moved an inch. Ethan rubs his cheeks against your chest before sighing happily. His eyes were closed. Was he asleep ? No, certainly not. He loves horror movie. He wouldn't fall asleep when one is ongoing.

He was cute here. You were delighted to think he trusted you enough to let his guards down and sleep with you. You were his safeplace. And he was yours. Your fingers trail down on his back where you draw small patterns dreamily. You write things, that cross your mind. You simply scratch him. His sudden speaking startle you. Your hand stopping evey movements.

"Are you sleeping far from here, today ? Every movements of his jaw hitting slightly on your chest. 'today' because he knew about your frequent change of home.

Relaxing, you continue to caress his back lovingly.

-No, not really. But I don't sleep there anymore.

The hotel too was starting to worry you. Like the building was shrieking on you. You don't know what was scarier, to be alone or to never be. And now that you found such a warm place, you don't want to leave. Ever.

-Why ?

-Scare me, s'all.

-You can sleep here tonight, if you want.

-Why ? Your decision was already made; you'd sleep here. You knew it the second he offered you to stay the night. But you wanted to see his arguments to convince you.

"Let me be with you." his sentence made a shiver run down your back.

Did that stalker fucked you up so hard you had chill even thinking about them? It was just a damn sentence. Everyone can say it. For god's sake, it's Ethan saying it of all people. Even if he awoke this uneasy feeling back, you couldn't blame him. He didn't know about the sign the criminal had shown you. You didn't tell him that much detail, only saying they had indeed brought creepy signs but omitting what was written on it. And Ethan said it so prettily, too. Yes, of course you'd be with him.

He told you you never slept here before and that you'd be safe anyway since he's here and don't plan on leaving you. So you accepted. It was really early in the day but the both of you were getting sleepy because of the calm and comfort of the situation. He offered you to go to his room which you accepted. After guiding you to there, he tells you he has to go grab something and that he'd be back really quick.

And he did, in fact, came back really quick.

By then, you were already sprawled out on his bed. You had time to see the mess he had scattered everywhere. The carboard, the books, the drawings, some letters, too. And you even found out about his second phone. The lockscreen was a generic one, the one you have by default, as if he just got it recently. But the phone wasn't new, it seems in contrary really old as it was broken at some area.

Ethan arrives in the room with a small plastic blue square packaging, you don't have time to see what it was that he throws it under the bed. You don't pay it too much attention. Playing mindlessly with his other phone in hand, you take off and put back the phone case of it to entertain yourself.

"You got two phones ? you ask even though you kind of knew the answer already.

-Oh, yes. One is for games only, the other is the one I'm really using. Did you went on it ?

-No, don't worry, I won't frisk into your secret criminal life."

He smiles before taking the phone out of your hand. He places it in the drawer of his nightstand. Ethan falls on top of you, taking your breath away for a moment. You laugh and hit his back for him to get away from you and he just laugh heartly before letting himself fall beside you.

He lays down, setting his head on his arm, looking up at you with stars in eyes. Sometimes, he's so pretty it hurt physically to look at him. Starting to get embarrassed by his insistent look, you find something to say.

-Why do you have so much pieces of cardboard anyway ?

-I make placards out of them.

With a fond smile, Ethan stares straight at your eyes. As if waiting for you to say something. You would have ask questions about his 'placards ' if not for the sudden interest he was displaying in you, which, instead, made you change subject without really noticing it. A nervous laugh escaping you.

-Why are you looking at me like that ? Is there an undertone ? Am I supposed to understand something ?"

He shakes his head negatively, displaying a small mischievous smile. He could be such a goblin at times ! Wanting to make him swallow his pride, you lean towards him and kiss his lips. Ethan smiles and moves his lips with yours.

Your arm set down on his waist and soon the kiss get heated. Ethan's body is burning, his breath is too. You don't let each other breath, as soon as you separate from each other, you plunge back in. Physically needing the contact.

You rise on your knee, arching your back to kiss him still laying flat on the bed. Soon, he joins you by rising as well. Both of you on your knees, face to face, eating each other's face. Ethan's hand are mahandling you to sit on his thights. Then, with his surprising strenght, he starts sliding you on them. Your heating pussy rubbing directly on the fabric of his pant. Your hand instinctivly goes to rub the growing tent in his trousers. The area was hot, when you slide your fingers on it, it would budge.

Ethan whimpers, thrusting his hips against yours. You straddle him completly, framing his his body with your legs. You rub his tent against your clit for some frictions. It was aching and growing more desperate by seconds.

"I... I wanna have sex with you." Ethan says softly.

You kiss his cheek, going for his neck. You answer with a meek 'me too' before sucking the skin of his neck. Ethan backs his head, already out of breath. He gives you full access to his body, still rutting desperatly his hips into yours.

But you were growing impatient. You lift your body from him, making him whine at the contact loss, before sliding your fingers behind the elastic of his pants. You slip it down to his knees before you start salivating at the sight of his hard cock already drooling for you.

He didn't have any underwear. That's why you could feel him so close to your core.

Your hand touch his thight, caressing gently his body. Making sure to avoid the area he need you the most. Ethan try to touch himself, tired of your teasing, but you slap his hand away. He whines and looks up at you with teary eyes. Silently begging you to do something. It was impossible for you to resist him.

Your hand grabs his cock in one motion, you could feel it pulse and its warmth propagate in your hand. It was already so so wet because of all his precum, your hand was sliding so easily you could have thought he came multiple times already. Gently, you start to move your hand on all its lenght slowly. The boy props himself on his elbows and look at the scene before him. Ethan sighs happily, eyes closing and head backing. He's in heaven, he thinks. But not entirely, as he looks at you still clothed.

"Want to... Want to finger you..." he pleas.

In front of a boy so desperate, and being incredibly horny, you slide your pant down, making sure your underwear went with it. Ethan lose every one of his braincells when he sees your bare pussy glistening with your love juice. He wanted to lick it bad. That's the only one fanstam he ever had that help him getting off so hard he can't move for a whole minute. He wants to drown himself in your juice. But you have others projects.

You guide his pointer finger to your lips. Ethan starts caressing it and smear your juice everywhere. His lift up another finger and start passing both of them on your lips.

"Here, you have to touch here." you say, pointing to your clit.

You move briefly to bring your genitals closer. You could feel each other's warmth emanating from your core. Seeing him try to touch you was so hot. He was listening to everything you said.

Soon getting the hang of it, he starts circling your clit, applying different pressure on it to see which one were you reacting the most to. Slowly, you quicken your pace on his hard cock. As if to reward him for being such a good boy. He was in a trance, eyes closing and opening. And when they opened, they were staring with a utmost care at your moving breast throught your shirt. Your nipples were hard and were poking through the fabric.

His eyes were glued to it. Understanding his want, you lift your shirt above your collarbone with your free hand. Ethan can't seem to take off his eyes of you. They're probably the first pair of breasts he sees in real life after all.

"Fuck... You're so pretty, love." you speed up on his shaft at his praise. "Fuck, fuck...

-You can touch baby.

-I can?"

He stops all movements to your pussy, your frown but let him discover his needs. It was his first time, you needed to let him have a little fun. His free hand touch one of your breast, massaging it then weighten it in the palm of his hand. He smiles like an idiot, an idiot so cute you let him do what he wants with you. His other, wet, hand pinch lightly your sensitive bud.

Your free hand slap his arm to make him understand he did it too hard. He sends you an apologatic smile.

"They're like stress ball."

Amused by the weird comparison, your chuckle. Still impatient to come, you guide your hand higher on his cock to caress his tip and rub it. His face contorts in pleasure, browns frows and mouth ajar. His forehead fall on your shoulder while his fingers go back down near your entrance. His hips were thrusting into nothing but your hand. Obscene wet noises were resulted. You were hot, terrribly hot but so was he.

Ethan's small puff of breath sends chill in your body. His whimpers couldn't be replaced with anyone else. Your hand was all wet and sticky, as was his. Ethan decides to enter once again two of his digits in you. Your head falls back and you sigh happily at finally scratching that itch in you.

"Curl your fingers, E." you whisper.

He hums and do as told. Curling his fingers in you, he starts to thrust them in and out at a slow pace, adopting the same sensuality you used to jerk him off. You accelerate, your hand no longer lingering on the entire shaft. Sometimes, you'd stop completly to hear him whine. Your thumb caressing his cock's veins.

"Baby please..." he pleas.

Ethan starts kissing sloppily your shoulder, your neck. You, on the other hand, take his hand to guide the thrust of his fingers, angling them correctly for them to touch that spongy spot inside. His fingers were long and thin, that was a part of him you absolutly loved. You always had a thing for pretty hands and his were beautiful.

"What do you want, love? you ask tenderly.

-Tell me you love me..."

You nudge his hair with your nose and he looks up. Staring at his eyes, you see them wet with tears. You kiss him instantly. Playing with his tongue with yours, your hand moving faster and faster. You stop the kiss to tell him you love him and he bites his lips, eyes closing.

His breath is jerky, uneven. You press his palm against your clit, rubbing it while you push his fingers inside you again. You feel a knot tighten. You won't last long.

"Tell me you love me.

-I love you E, you're doing so good.

-Again..."

You said it as many times as he needed to feel better. His hips stuttters, his cock quivers. His words are slurred to each other, resulting in incomprehensible blabbering. You don't lose the rythm, keeping the same pace until he'd eventually come.

-Love you so..." he whines.

His body tense, his breath stops. You can only hear the wet sounds your hand is producing. He doesn't utter a sound until spurts of cum smear on your hand and belly. Feeling at ease, he moans a last time from relief and breath again.

You're not far behind. Ethan being pratically knocked out, you grind on his hand. You close your thighs around it, ensuring it stay inside. Your legs are shaking, wave of hot and cold invade you. You plunge his fingers inside but, to your surprise, Ethan regains control and start pounding into you to get you to your end.

He kisses your neck while you finally come on his fingers, sweaty and disvesheled. You swear one last time when he withdraws his fingers. You stay here for a while, just hugging , breathing and basking in each other's presence.

After some minutes, you decide to go shower together. You end up finally getting a good night of sleep, cuddled in his strong arms.

The next day, Ethan and you had a stupid satisfied smile on your face. Both happy to be here. You kissed and confessed your love to each other all morning until eventually he had to leave for work. Sadly, you had things to do, too. Ethan offered you to stay and sleep here for a few nights because he wanted to stay close to you.

You liked this idea. Of course you liked it, you love Ethan. And to convince you further, he told you his roomate wouldn't mind. So naturally you accepted. You were embarassed at the idea of bothering his roomate but you decided you would just sleep here, and the day, you'd let the apartment free. It was his too, after all. Not only Ethan's. There is no way you'd let someone feel excluded in their own house.

Grabbing your phone, you click on your friend's number. You call her, the ringing echoes three times and no one answer. Somehow begrudgingly, you resume yourself at simply sending a text. Just for you to instantly forgetting your sorrow as she answers. The discussion was quite simple, she was telling you she was at her grandma right now. She was bored and wanted to know how you were doing.

'I'm going back to my dear haunted apartment, probably gonna die. Wish me luck.' you texted. She put a little more time answering this one. It's possible it triggered something in her. After everything she endured. 'nobody will hurt you as long as i'm alive' she said. She simply changed subjects after that. Asking you about the cute guy you told her about in the letters. And so you explained everything. Every time you tried to offer to call her, she'd decline. You were still sad she didn't want to talk to you but you were telling yourself you needed to be patient.

On a happier note, you decided to leave the place to go to your own apartment.

To one point, you should have known better than be too happy about your improving situation. Of course, it was well too soon for you to consider everything better. But you were probably stupid because the fall hit you much harder than you could've prepared yourself for. Oh, the pain you felt when reality had finally caught you. You thought you were going to die when you came back home to simply grab some clothes. (Ethan told you to do so.)

Your door was ajar. But it wasn't your doing. No, of course it wasn't you. Your apartement terrified you, why would you come here more ofthen than needed ? You felt your body freeze but you quickly overcame the feeling. That's it. You needed it to end. This fucking stalker had ruined you. You and your life. You sent a text to Ethan, telling him that if you do not call him after twenty minutes, he needed to call the cops. He didn't answer. He was at work. It was well past eleven by now.

Your heart was beating so hard you thought it was going to collapse on the ground, and you with it. Slowly, aware of every sound around you, you push the door. Your livingroom was as messy as you had left it. At one difference, the wall. Every frame you had put up on the walls were thrown away. Most of them on the ground and broken, with shattered glasses everywhere.

Why would the creep empty the walls ? To write on it. Of course they would write on it. You laugh bitterly for yourself. You couldn't see their stupids fucking signs anymore, so they had to improve. To force you to read their creepy obsessive text. You hear the crushing of a broken piece of glass, as if someone had stepped on it. But it wasn't you.

You're on alert. Every one of your senses on crisis. Was your mind playing tricks on you ? It was possible in this hellish house who did nothing but give you nightmares recently. You don't realize how you stopped breathing. Only calming when three long minutes had gone without another sound to be heard.

Nothing is here. You're alone, you think. Everything is good. You'll just grab your stuff and leave. Regaining your breath, you bring your attention back on the wall. Words were written on it in deep crimson red. Is that blood ? No, it can't be. Probably paint to give a creepy look that'll catch your attention. You approach the wall to better understand the message.

'She's not here anymore'

The need to throw up almost won. A dark feeling in your guts was telling you 'she' was your friend. But you didn't know. She responded to you, after all. You talked to her. So she had to be okay. She had to. You put your hand on your belly to soothe that want to vomit. You take big breath before finally leaving the livingroom. You quickly make your way to your room where you meet your bare bed. Where are your sheets ? What the hell ? But you don't want to stay longer so you throw clothes in your bag in a hurry.

The front door slam shut. And you know it's the end.

You already feel the tears drowning your sight. Trying to stay silent, you hide in your closet almost empty with how many times you came here to grab clothes. Your hand clasp against your mouth to avoid doing any noise.

Slow footsteps can be heard in the empty apartment. With your shaky hands, you fail to unlock your phone. Your vision is blurry, you can't touch the correct keys. The worst is that you can't see where the creep is. If they stay silent, they can enter the room you're in without you even noticing. And this idea is horrifying. But on another side, you'd preferred them to kill you by surprise so you don't have to affront them.

Your cries intensify, in your despair, you drop your phone straight on the ground. The footsteps stops abrutly. Three distincts knocks are echoing on the corridor's wall. They are coming toward you. You're fucked. They're coming ! What do you do ? What did you do ? Why is this happening ?

Kneeling like you could in the closed space, you reach your hand to grab your phone. As soon as your finger grazes it, the phone vibrate and your ringtone start playing for the whole building to hear. No, no, no, no, no ! Ethan. Ethan is calling you. You pick up despite everything but as soon as you do so, the call is cut short. Fuck E, why would you do that !

The criminal's footsteps are louder, quicker, heavier. They're running. They're running here ! You hold the closet door shut with your both hands, praying for your life. You only have knives in your kitchen, but it's too late now. If you go out, they'll see you. You realized at that moment that whatever you were doing, you couldn't win. That you never even stood a chance against them.

Everything was illusion.

Nothing was improving, you knew it, in fact. You were lying to yourself, searching comfort in a man that don't even understand the dept of the problem. Of your problem. And your friend ? You don't want to talk about her. You don't want to open your eyes just yet. You just want to live in your nice little lies you made up for yourself. You're nice with them, in fact, you like them. Nobody wanted to help you anyway. They could have saved you, you and her, but nobody listened.

Now, it's too late.

The closet start to shake. Widening your eyes, you realize that the creep had start to punch it with their bare fist. You don't give a fuck about being heard anymore, you're bailing your eyes out. Begging for them to let you go, screaming, yelling, calling for help. Holding the door for dear life as if it was going to save you, because in your head it was. But the door didn't last long.

A hole is quickly created in the door. You thought you'd see someone's face, wether it be a man, a woman, whatever. But you saw a white plastic mask instead.

Ghostface.

Why was a damn Ghostface chasing after you? Was it all a sick joke from the start ? You swear you were seeing his eyes boring into yours through the mask. You swore you already saw them somewhere. Ghostface tilts their face to the side, as if mocking you. They were telling you that you were stuck, that it was the end. You hoped they'd kill you.

You couldn't live like this anymore.

In the hole of the closet, Ghostface pass his gloved hand. The latter lay on your shaky face, on your cheek to be exact. You feel the fabric against your skin and think of biting his fingers off. No, you'll angry him. If he's going to kill you, that it be in the least painful way.

"Ethan, right ? Does he treat you so well you forgot about me?" his changed voice said. A weird and creepy robotic voice, one you knew you'd never forget.

You were moving your head left to right. You didn't know why. Probably to tell you didn't want to die, probably to avoid looking into his eyes. He laughs, sounding like a rumbling.

"Ending things right now would be such a waste."

No ! You thought you were finally free ! Why would he chases you down for so long without acting on it !? His gloved hand retract and the door slowly open in an acute creaking. The man is finally revealed before you. He was wearing the whole outfit, the big black robe and the hood.

"It was fun. I give you a gift to reward you for these beautiful screams."

And the knife.

He had a knife in hand. And it was tinged red. Something in you told you it was her. Suddenly, the red writings on your wall had a different meaning.

"I hope you like it, I worked extra hard for it."

Out of nowhere, Ghostface takes your hand, force it open, and lay in it something before forcing it closed. He laughs deeply. One of his hand pat your head mockingly before moving up.

"See you later." he said, swinging his knife in a playful manner.

You were absolutely paralyzed. You didn't know what happened. You stayed up without moving for whoever say how long. When your legs finally stopped shaking, you decided to look what the killer had gave you. Slowly opening your hand, your knee buckle and you fall to the ground crying silently at the sight of a nip of your friend's hair.

You curled up on yourself before completly laying down on the ground, tightening the hairs in your hand close to your heart. She was not here anymore. You wanted to fucking die.

Ever since, Ethan was forgotten. He had tried to call you so many times you had blocked his number. You spent the rest of the day crying in your hotel's room. You resented him. So hard. He didn't answer, he was the one calling and giving your position to a fucking criminal, to a murderer! And he didn't answer. He didn't help, like everyone else.

One day later, neighbors complained about a smell coming from an apartment. You didn't cry when they found your friend's dead body. You didn't cry when cops came to interrogate you. The caretaker having told them about you. Your eyes contained so much hatred in them when looking at him the cops had to let him leave to get him away from you. You didn't cry telling the cops how many times you went to see them to ask for help, nor how many times did they reject you. You didn't cry when they told you she was dead for at least a week, and that her boyfriend was missing. You had no tears left in you. It had simply ended you.

All your lies, every single one of them, destroyed. But you needed them. Of course you weren't talking to her by text, you never did. And fuck, you don't even want to know who was answering instead of her. It was so obvious how she never wanted to call, how she was never leaving her house. But the eye you saw at the peephole. The fucking eye...

You don't want to think about it.

Ethan tried to talk to you. He went to your hotel and found you. You didn't bother to move this time as you were done with your life. He fell to his knee and started begging and crying for your forgivness. Did you even love him ? Or were you, are you, just lonely ? Unfortunately, you decided to forgot the anger you had against him when you realized he was the only thing you had. Your only support. The only one knowing you were a victim. You spent the days crying in his arms.

"Shhh, shhh, I'm here, love. It's okay." he reassured you, again.

It was a routine, now. You'd sleep the days away and when you'd wake up, you'd find yourself crying inconsolably. Everything was your fault, you kept repeating in your head. She's fucking dead because of you.

You wanted to end it all but Ethan wanted you alive at every cost. He was brushing your hair, feeding, washing and changing you. You were a lifeless doll. Sometimes, his roomate would come and talk to you. Most of the times, you don't even realize he's talking to you, too lost in your thought to proceed his presence.

"It's okay, everything's okay."

Ethan hugs you firmly. Kissing your hairline. His t-shirt was damped. Your eyes were burning. Every time you closed them, the picture of your friend would come and haunt you, a new nightmare coming. You weren't able to think about something else anymore. But it was your fault. You put her in danger, you got her killed. It was you Ghostface wanted, not her. You got her killed.

"I want to leave..." you whispered in a voice so hoarse, so weak, it didn't sound like yours. His hand goes on the back of your head to pull you towards him.

"No, no my love. It's okay. I'll protect you. You won't be alone anymore." his leg goes over yours and crushes them to prevents you from moving.

Alone.

Have you ever been alone in your life ? No, he was here all along. He was watching you all along. You never were truly alone. He had your adress, your friend's adress, your number and even Ethan's name. No, he's always here. Lurking.

"Just... Stay with me, I'll protect you. Please, don't leave me." he begs.

He looked calm, surprisingly calm being given the situation. But you needed it, in a way. If he doesn't freak out, you don't need to. (you coudn't, even if you wanted to) He probably know what to do. It was too late for you but he could do something. Maybe. His behaviour was slightly comforting. It was dangerous, mostly for him. He probably didn't even know what he was doing, he probably didn't know what he was getting himself into, in fact.

But once, just for once, you wanted to be helped. You wanted someone to listen to your pleas. He was going to die, it was a fact. And yeah, maybe you were selfish, you were condamning him after all.

"I feel like I'm using you. Like I manipulated you. you say, mostly for your own conscience than for his safety.

-Use me, love. I don't care. Manipulate me, whatever. I swore I'd help you. And if I have to risk my life doing it, I'll do it. I love you. You don't know the things I'd do for you.

-Now, you're the one manipulating me...

It was true. He was forcing you to think you had a chance in getting out of this situation when you knew there were none.

-Oh baby, you have no idea how manipulative I can be to obtain what I want.

-If you say so." you whisper, drifting to sleep once again, knowing you'd wake up hours later in the same position, in the same problem and knowing you killed your friend.

[mossdontknowwhattheydoin]

I once was talking to a friend and I told her I wrote fanfic and she was like "what really about what?" And I was like; 'uhh not a lot just about Minecraft I guess, streamers too'

And I jokingly added; 'about just gay rp lmao in a mc server'

And she was like; "what fr? I thought we left that in 2020 that's weird 😂"

And for like a good while she just wouldn't leave the topic alone- kept semi bullying me

And I just didn't reply but like omfg it made me so unnecessarily pissed, bc, no- fuck you- like idc if it's weird. Bc I genuinely enjoy the interactions I have with ppl who also enjoy the shit I do- and like, I enjoy reading the comments under my fic bc ppl are enjoying what I write- I literally just joined a server dedicated to a ship so many ppl like and it's great- bc ppl r coming together and brainrotting about characters and talking and it's fucking amazing- you know what? Our 'weird' likes brought the server into being and those ppl tg-

Literally been talking and brainrotting with this random person who just dmed me bc we like the same things-

Fuck you nah idc if what I like is weird bc this small lil kinda community is fucking awesome and beautiful and fuck you

[maiamars]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE (If you want to of course!! Shejs) TALK ABOUT CHRIS HAVING THAT SMALL ONE SOFT SPOT FOR ETHAN AND ETHAN ONLY ��😭 Like everyone else he's cordial with sometime nice for appearances but ethan? He's soooooo sweet to himleon and Claire come visit and it's like a whole different person

so yeah, Chris having a soft spot for Ethan is canon idc.

like him calling Ethan a trophy in those sketches during developpement ?? him calling Ethan to tell him that Zoe is ok ? capcom wanted that from the start. him being probably the one behind Ethan's personnal training ??

in re8, Ethan could have been under Miranda control but he probably went in front of the whole team like im going to take the risk and i dont want to hear a word about it from all of you. His "i'm surprised that you have made this far" sound more like "you are a stubborn man i swear to god". his angry "Because i knew you would want to be involved ! And this job is hard enough without civilans someone i appreciate getting in the way" ?? His smile when Ethan shows his stubborn side like his face screams "i freaking love u but i know i cant stop u so please stay in shadows as long as u can, stay safe, wait for me". Him being worried in a second over the phone ??? Him leaving everything the moment he hears Miranda voice ??? Him going in a full combat mode for him. The long pause on Ethan picture, his tired sigh, and his "goddamnit when does it ends ?", the symbolism of this alone. Him regretting not telling ethan to the whole team. His small "Ethan... is gone"+"he is dead" like he still doesnt want to accept it. Him putting everyone to safety but not himself bc he has to end Miranda with his own hands for Ethan. Him being frozen when he see Ethan coming up to Miranda bc how a dream can happen in this hell ?? but still being there for him when he sees a opening and he just shoot Miranda when she talk about killing Ethan for good this time. Him running to him, screaming his name. Him allowing himself to be soft "come on ethan. wake up. please dont leave again." Him and his "hey. hey. hey." Him knowing in his soul that ethan is on a borrowed time and he wont admit it : "she is waiting for you/you tell her yourself". ETHAN KNOWING THAT CHRIS WONT LEAVE HIM SO HE PUTS AND KEEPS THE MUTAMYCETE BTW THEM ??? CHRIS AND HIS LITTLE "ETHAN...", HIM KNOWING THE REASON BEHIND THAT ACT. The way Chris tries to stay stoic, like he doesnt even want to look over the window not even after the explosion but he breaks down at Mia's "what have you done ?". He punch as he screams "he is gone ! I tried !" (I wasn't enough to keep him safe). The way his "He stayed so we could all escape" just refleted the way he knew Ethan ???????

Chris was so whipped over Ethan like ?????? Like i won't believe that Leon and Claire didn't know about him ? like who the fuck can make chris smile ??

And for the bonus :

"cHRIs DiDnT Like EtHan" = Chris goes into a full soldier mode, he is ready to burn the whole world to avenge Ethan BUT the only one who break down that mold is Ethan/notion of Ethan

[amomentwiser]

The boys will hate my outfit.

They will think it attention-seeking, maybe,

or mock that someone as big as me is wearing something as small as this skirt.

But the older aunties have done that too, brows rising to their hairline when I pass by...

so I don't know.

The girls say they love my style, and my hair.

Some boys look disgusted, some like maybe they want to ask me out?

I don't know. I ignore them both;

Act like I don't see the expression in their eyes or hear it in their voice when I'm talking to them.

I don't like being stared at. Men stare at me when I go out, especially if I wear a crop top.

It's an Indian town I live in, so that's to be expected, I guess.

But now that I think about it, women do too -- the older ones, the conservative aunties.

But their judgy gazes are a different kind of uncomfy than the men's. The aunties' murmurs make me roll my eyes or walk straighter in defiance. The men's makes me wish I had a jacket.

I don't know, though. Maybe I'm just socially anxious.

I try to fake confidence when I go out. I fail.

So instead I choose to glare at everyone, because anger is an easier emotion to summon than self-love or confidence.

I try my best to look menacing even when I'm quite happy inside, because my days of people-pleasing and smiling at people are over and I will not have strangers approach me.

I will be rude and proudly have a resting bitch face so I can be left the fuck alone.

(Seriously, why do strangers talk to me. Like, cute story, grandma in the park, but who the fuck asked.) (Dear reader, please don't hate me for saying this.) (I just really really prefer to be left alone.)

Actually you know what? Hate me all you want. Idc. I will not pretend to like things to win the approval of others.

I will not pretend to like things to win the approval of others.

I will not pretend to like things to win the approval of others.

(When I was 18 my classmate asked if I liked Green Day and I said yes. I don't know why, I had only ever listened to their one popular song. Oh wait, actually, I do know why.)

But it's okay, I'm 22 now and trying to leave my people-pleasing ways behind me.

I heave a sigh at the relief at the solitude of being home.

But I don't know. Maybe good and bad people have always existed in all genders,

Those who cut you down until you're broken

And then laugh at your tears.

But I don't understand why it is so much easier for women to get with the program --

Leave behind the homophobia, sexism, racism etc etc, whether internalised or no --

Than men.

Because while I'm not sure yet what my sexuality is --

I haven't yet felt the urge to kiss or sleep with anyone, of either gender--

I do know I'd have a better experience going home with a stranger girl than a stranger boy.

_________________

idk what i was feeling so instead of trying to make sense of it I just wrote my thoughts as they came. Not trying to offend anyone, so if you are then (i would apologise at this point) (but I'm on a diet from sorrys)

[obsessed-yan]

a little vent ׂׂׂׂૢ་༘࿐

my "friend" (using quotes cuz honestly idk if i rlly consider him a friend anymore cuz of this coupled w past stuff thats happened) is being a total pos whiney asshole

what happened was, last week i noticed my debit card had transactions on it that i knew for a fact i didnt make. i contacted some1 from my bank to dispute the charges to get my money back; guy walked me thru it n i cancelled my card. few days later i seen a small amount refunded but knew it wasnt the full amount. friend n i had plans to go to target friday n maybe get smthn to eat, well bc of the stuff w my card i decided i just wanted to go into the bank n talk w someone irl so since i was off work early i asked if we cld go there first n hopefully get everything settled (he said ofc n i did for the most part, the charges started all the way back in april of 2023 which is wild to me that i didnt notice it until last week- i got part of my money back right away so thats good). after that we went to eat then to target (i wanted to go cuz of the cute honeypot i kept seeing on my tiktok fyp also got one ver of jungkooks album n a bts book anyway) i got very frustrated while we were at target so after i paid for my stuff there i was ready to go home.

then the next day at work one of my co-workers asked me how my date went n i said i didnt go on a date..? when i got home i msgd him n asked why said co-worker asked me that; it doesnt help that also that day 2 separate customers asked me abt my ex or made a comment abt how i shldntve broken up w my ex, its been almost 6 months get over it. why do u ppl care so much its none of ur business n also i got yelled at n cussed out by 2 other seperate customers but the date thing happened first n was the main thing that ruined my mood.

he said he thought it was one n asked her for advice. i said it wasnt it was just basically running errands n that i thought ive made it perfectly clear im not n nvr will be interested in him in that way, ever. boundaries were re-established as well that night.

then the next day (sunday) right once i get clocked into work one of my managers pulls me into our accting office to talk w me abt friend bc he called off for his shift n was crying. she knows he likes me n is basically obsessed w me but that i dont like him back n she knows weve been friends n hav talked together for a while now at this point but she asked for all the details that day. i told her as much as i cld b4 i was needed up front. she basically said that he was upset that i was upset abt what happened the night b4 n that he was jealous of one of my other friends n is worried for my safety bc of said other friend. my manager said shes worried abt me to but bc of him n said i shldnt talk to him for a while.

i confronted him abt that (not abt the jealousy of other friend part cuz i honestly forgot abt that bit until just now) he claimed that all he did was call off cuz his stomach hurt n he didnt know why our manager talked to me. he showed me some ss between him n the co-worker that asked me abt friday n i said i wasnt mad abt her knowing i was mad cuz she called it a date cuz u told her it was one when it wasnt n that i was also mad from our manager talking to me abt him. i told him not to talk to our manager abt what i told him and what did he do, he asks her abt smthn i said. like are u fucking an idiot wtf!?

then he said his plan was to leave me alone "until things die down" THERES NOTHINF THAT NEEDS TO DIE DOWN FUCKING MAN UP N HAV AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION W ME FOR ONCE WHERE U DONT TRY TO LIE OR PUT BLAME ON SOMEONE ELSE FOR SHIT U OBVIOUSLY DID and stop talking to other ppl abt me its weird!!!

im sick n tired of whenever smthn happens w him i get asked abt it like what happened w him, idfk n frankly idc

i am so fucking done w him n his bs. he can try to make me feel bad or get pity from me all he wants but im seriously just so over all this bullshit. im not talking to him anymore fuck u. last time he stopped talking to ME cuz of how much i liked 🍫 n i wld talk w him abt it cuz i didnt hav any1 else to, plus we were friends i thought it was ok. but he said i was "unsafe" for him to talk to. i told my manager abt that.

its just like, when were talking before like the first time, he did basically the same shit when my friends wld point out bad things hed say or do n he wld deflect then default to being a crybaby abt it. like ur in ur l8 20's at best, learn how to take responsibility for ur actions man!! like are u joking w me rn

think ill hav to cut it short for rn, im getting tired n cant think str8 lmao

[angeldiaries777]

tw. tmi whatever idc vent

i didnt shower/brush my teeth for 4 months straight or leave my bed because of how depressed i was they don't fucking get it. they don't get what its like having to talk yourself off of a ledge everynight since u were 14 they don't get what its like forcing recovery on urself because u know no one else can help you or will ever understand the extent of how bad things got. they don't know what its like being aware of all of the things people think and know and having to stay silent because of how fucking tired and over everything u are. they dont know what its like to be that young and sick. the only reason im alive is because i knew i had potential. i had dreams. i have goals. i had to literally wipe my own tears. cope every night. i had to deal with everything alone since i was 4. do you even know the fucking toll that takes on a small child????? when i say alone i mean alone alone. never had a friend in my life. my family was a toxic cesspool. my anxiety is still so bad that i literally cannot go outside without crying and having a meltdown. i am so fucking broken. i say im different from those types of people and that i will recover from all of it and be happy and sane one day then i have a manic episodes. they dont know what its like waking up with dark circles darker than a black void because u spent every night that week sobbing. they dont know what its like playing the same fucking songs as routine to self soothe. they don't realize how saying shit like " don't be afraid to ask for help" and "everyone goes through their own things" is counterproductive and only makes me more depressed. they just invalidate us because of the people who its a tend for. ive done my best to stay grounded and smart but fuck im so tired of saying how tired i am. im tired of screaming for help into the void. im tired of seeing other people have friends when ive never had a single moment of friendship in my life. im so done with everyone competeing with me for anything and everything. why can't someone be kind to me for the sake of being kind for once. why don't i deserve love when lame and bad people still get love and attention. why doesnt god give me what i ask for. im too good for earth. so sick of being a good person and letting go and recovering i also have been bored of being in my bed for years. i just wish so badly i had an escape because sleep its just the same night terrors and im sick of being this girl when my parents have told me they don't care anymore if i kill myself because they're tired of dealing with me. please. just let me be okay okay cant type because my eyes r shutting as i type this. nap time. gn guys

[giyuji]

NO EAVESDROPPING! — 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐚

pairings. dom!shigaraki tomura x sub!fem!reader.

synopsis. overhearing you and dabi presumably talking about his dick size, tomura is more than angry when he hears your referring to it as something small.

cw. 18+ content, established relationship, some fluff as a treat ig, minors do not interact, degradation, throat-fucking, facial, unprotected sex, creampie, choking, cursing (a lot), angry tomu, spitting, one (1) spank, dacryphilia, dubcon (?) reader is confused for a bit but doesn’t want/ask him to stop, this is filthy i’m warning you.

author's note. mimi i know you’re judging me rn but idc, you can pry shigaraki from my cold dead hands >:)

wc. 7.1k.

“It’s just…something small. And I want to try something bigger but I—I don’t know how he’ll react to that.” 

Your quietly spoken words had Tomura freeze in his step. Hiding behind the corner to hear your comments better, he stood with his eyebrows pulled into a frown, and his lips pulled into a small pout. Something small? Something bigger? He didn’t know what you were talking about. Much less what you needed to talk about with Dabi of all people.

Dabi scoffed, and the sound on its own was enough for anger to rise up within him. The mere fact that it was him you were conversing with was more than enough to get him on edge. Why couldn’t that damned defective fireplace take the hint and leave you the fuck alone?

“Knowing Shigaraki, he’ll be sulking all night if you were to go through with that idea,” he noted. From his viewpoint, Tomura could barely make out the way Dabi shifted on his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. He grinned, and he was positive that meant nothing good. “Though, if you do want to go bigger…I could help you out.” 

Since when did Dabi help people? And what would you need him to help with? Was there something you needed in a bigger size? Something from the store? Most importantly—why was that asshole carrying such a cocky grin upon proposing the idea? 

You gasped excitedly, hands clasping together as you looked up at him. “Would you, really?” Tomura didn’t like how elated you sounded; a feeling of jealousy quickly rose up in his stomach, and a snarl found its way to his lips as he watched you take Dabi into an embrace. “Thank you, so, so much. It means a lot.” 

What the fuck? 

Dabi laughed. The bastard laughed. Throaty and huskily as he used one of his fucked-up disgusting hands to pat you on the back. Tomura felt the itch to decay it, to destroy it so no staple could ever put it back together. The need for his destruction grew bigger once he realised Dabi didn’t laugh—ever. 

“It’s alright, doll,” he assured you. “We’ll call it even.” 

Doll. Doll…what the hell was he doing? Calling you doll. No—calling his boss’s girlfriend doll. Calling the girlfriend of Tomura Shigaraki doll. Surely, surely, leather face had a death wish at this point. Would he still dare to call you the nickname if he knew Tomura was listening? 

“Alright,” you mumbled, and pulled back from the embrace. It only lasted two seconds at most, but even those seconds felt way too long to your boyfriend. “But, still, thank you.” 

“Mhm,” Dabi hummed. “How about we keep it as a surprise?” 

You frowned, that cute little crease settling in-between your eyebrows as it always did. Tomura felt the need to even it out with his fingers; the small movement almost a habit by now. He fought the urge, however, and stayed hidden. The conversation you and Dabi shared seemed far from over. 

“A surprise?” You asked, head tilted to the side. The ends of your mouth turned downwards, and you scratched your elbow. “I—I don’t know if that is a good idea. Tomura doesn’t really like surprises, especially one like this, I feel like.” 

“Oh, c’mon,” Dabi responded. He moved to stand eye-to-eye with you, one side of his lips inching upwards into a small smirk. “Surely, he wouldn’t mind you going for something bigger? It’s just this once, after all. We can keep it a secret for now.” 

His head hurt. Searching for the meaning behind Dabi’s words, the context he was missing was tiring—but once he did, that headache made way for something else. Unbridled anger as the words properly settled in. You wanted to try something bigger, and you were choosing Dabi of all people to get it from. Nevermind utterly humiliating him in front of that bastard, now you also chose him to be the person that would help you cheat on him. 

Tomura felt the familiar itch returning; the itch to destroy, to kill, to get rid of all things he didn’t like. An itch that hadn’t made an appearance since you’d gotten together. All things, all people—the source of his rage all pointed towards a single person. And it wasn’t you. No, no, never you. He could never do that to you. For you, he had something else in store. 

“Oh,” he heard you mumble, voice hushed to a whisper. “No…I—that’s not a very good idea, I think.” 

Had he perhaps misread your signs? Were you not satisfied with him?

Each time he took you, you’d twitch underneath him, you’d struggle to take him all the way to the hilt—no matter how much he prepared you for it. Your cute little doe-eyes would look up at him, filling to the brim with tears as you begged him to let you cum, your nails leaving little indents on his shoulder blades as they racked up and down his back. 

And he truly, truly thought he was doing a well enough job in the moments he’d have you crying out his name as he fucked you through your orgasm.

Maybe he was wrong. 

Tomura had heard enough. You were about to continue talking, he could see, but he was in no way in the mood for it. He moved faster than both you or Dabi could comprehend, storming into the room with a deep frown and a clenched jaw. 

“No, it’s not a fucking good idea,” he snarled towards the both of you. Four of his fingers harshly grabbed a hold of your upper arm, pulling you towards him. A startled gasp left you, though you stifled it rather quickly upon noticing the expression he carried. “Come with me.” 

It wasn’t as if you had much choice in the matter. 

“Bro, calm down, we were ju—” 

Dabi’s words fell on deaf ears. Tomura didn’t listen, not to him, and not to you, he instead marched over to your bedroom—only stopping his rough movements and letting go of your arm when he went to lock the door. He threw you against it, ignoring the slight sound of pain that slipped past your lips. With a pout, you rubbed the spot on the back of your head that got hit. 

“What the hell was that for?” 

“Shut up,” he snapped. “Quit acting so fucking stupid.” With one step, he closed the space between the two of you. His slender figure pressed up against yours, tits squishing against his chest as he trapped you between himself and the wooden surface behind you. “You know exactly what the hell that was for.” He mumbled. Due to the close proximity, you felt his breath fanning your face. 

“I—I don’t. Tomura, I—” 

“Shut up!” He repeated. “Just—shut up.” 

One of his hands wrapped around your waist, pushing you tighter against his hips. The other found its way up into your hair, careful at first, delicate as he carded through the locks, then, all at once, he used four of his fingers to harshly tug it downwards. A sharp whine left you at the sting. He looked down at you from this angle, and it send a shiver down your spine.

His breathing was erratic, his chest heaved up and down, and you felt yourself squirm beneath him as he took his sweet time glancing over every inch of your body. Tomura took a peek at your chest, where your tits were sitting so prettily in that tight little shirt, moving up and down as you panted. He looked at your legs, almost fully visible in that skimpy skirt you’d chosen to wear today—almost as if you’d planned to fuck Dabi today. How dare you wear such an outfit for anybody other than him? 

He exhaled; jaw still clenched as he captured your eyes with his again. The red within turned less scarlet by the second, rapidly fading into a deep bordeaux. You gasped when you felt his nose nudging the side of your cheek, swallowing as you watched him lean in towards your ear. His lips grazed your soft skin as he spoke. 

“I’m very angry,” he admitted. “So, be a doll, and do what I say.” 

It felt good to use the nickname like that. Tomura found relief in using it in a derogatory way. The hand he had in your hair carefully slid down, and he used it to put a few of your locks behind your ear as he pulled himself back from you. The smile on his lips unnerved you, and yet excited you at the same time. Never had you seen him this angry, at the very least not at you. 

“O—Okay,” you whispered, captivated by the feral look in his eyes. “Okay. I—I’m sorry, for whatever I—” 

“On your knees.” 

Somewhere, you should’ve known trying to apologise now would be futile. Even if you weren’t entirely sure what you’d done wrong to rile him up so badly. You blinked at him. Stupidly, if you were to ask him. An irritatingly, innocent look on your face. Aren’t you such a pretty little actress, hm? Acting as if you weren’t verbally expressing your desire to walk the path of infidelity. 

Tomura pulled on your hair again; you managed to stifle your whimpers this time around. This little performance of yours was pissing him off—almost as much as it was turning him on. As aggravating as it was, he still felt his pants tighten considerably at those troublesome doe-eyes you were giving him. Fuck you. Fuck you and those stupid eyes. Luckily for him—he was about to. 

“Are you fucking deaf?” He lashed out, nose poking into the skin of your cheek. You shook your head quickly, squeezing your eyes shut. “Then get on your fucking knees.” 

“Okay! Okay!” 

Slowly, almost too slowly, you finally kneeled down to the ground. Your fingers traced alongside his trousers as you went, but one scalding glare from him had you remove them. Of course—he wasn’t in a particularly good mood. Testing him any further was bound to end in tragedy. You released a shaky breath once your knees touched the wooden flooring, withholding a flinch at the cold temperature of it. 

You looked back up at him, waiting, for what—he didn’t know. Tomura scoffed. “You know what to do, don’t you? Been down here plenty of times before,” he huffed. Somehow, him removing his eyes from your figure hurt. 

If anything, your pretend-confusion was fuelling his impatience. For a second he hesitated, entertained the thought of you being genuinely baffled at his behaviour. Then the words you’d given to Dabi fought themselves back into his head, and all previous doubt washed away. Even if they hadn’t—you still reached for his belt buckle despite your so-called confusion. 

You didn’t need to pretend. Tomura was well aware how much you enjoyed sucking him off, almost as much as he did receiving it. You once tried hiding it, but the second he got down to finger you after you’d given him head, to prepare you for him, he was bewildered at the ease in which his fingers slid inside. Since then, you hadn’t tried to hide it. And even if you did, that whorish cunt of yours would betray you any day of the week when it came down to him.

It was one of many things he loved about you. Immediately, he discarded that thought. No—no, he wasn’t going to love you tonight. He was mad, furious even, and he’ll be damn sure to let you know. 

Your nimble fingers hastily made work of the buckle, a soft clinging sound the only sound save for your heavy pants; the rapid tufts of air hit his pelvis as you scrambled to get his dick out from its restraints. Before Tomura could scold you about taking your sweet, sweet time, your hand ducked into his boxers. You earned yourself a hiss at the sudden contact, and, then, a sigh in relief as you started moving up and down, and up and down, setting a steady pace. 

He was about to sputter out a protest when you removed your hand away from him, though he quickly decided against it when he saw you spit into the palm of your hand. Using your saliva and the drops of pre-cum he’d produced as slick to get rid of the friction, he had to withhold a groan as you now started moving again—this time without the slight burn customary of some pesky dryness.

You thumbed his tip, having him stutter. He looked at you again, and he grinned at the way you seemed to lap up the attention. His attention—only his. Four of his fingers pushed against your head. It was clear as day what he wanted you to do, and from the way you bit your bottom lip in anticipation, thighs rubbing together to chase some type of relief—you didn’t mind it at all.

With a newfound vigour, you hastily tucked some escaped strands of your hair back behind your ears. The smile you gave him as he gathered all your locks together into a make-shift ponytail, was almost enough to dwindle his anger. Almost. If you hadn’t tested the waters further, hadn’t continued jerking him off and ignoring his blatant hints, he would’ve lost his fury tight then and there. 

Before he could lash out, however, your plumb lips wrapped around his tip, and all thoughts of scolding were put on the back-burner. You sucked harshly, earning yourself a hiss, and a disapproving glare from above. You grinned, still suckling on the tip only as you swirled around it with your tongue.

Tomura muttered a sound of disagreement. “No, no, no,” he mumbled, one finger tapping on your jaw. “Open.” He instructed. You frowned, eyes narrowing, but complying with his demand regardless. “Further.” He hummed in satisfaction as you listened, and tapped your jaw again. “More.” A devilish grin graced his lips as soon as you did so. “Good.” Then, all at once, he shoved his cock inside your awaiting mouth. 

You spluttered around his length, more than surprised at the sudden intrusion. Before, he would always ease you into it. Never had he taken you so roughly. Certainly not your mouth. Small fists hit his thighs, small in comparison to his frame, and you tried to pull your head back—though, you should’ve known that he wouldn’t let you. He simply let out a low groan, head thrown back as he felt your throat constricting around him when you gagged. 

He didn’t stop. Who cared about your fists continuously hitting his legs? Tomura moved his hips, fucking into your mouth with a newfound ecstasy coursing through him. Fuck—you felt so good. He peeked down through his eyelashes, a sadistic grin forming on his lips as he watched the tears form in your eyes. You gagged again, pushed yourself back, again. Aren’t you a fucking liar. 

Stop squeezing your thighs together. Stop trying to reach a hand down towards your clit. Stop trying to chase your own high. Maybe then he’ll take your word for it, maybe then he’ll believe you’re not thoroughly enjoying getting your throat fucked like a common whore. 

Once again, you spluttered around him. This time he’d purposely sought it out, with the four fingers pressing you down towards his pelvis. “What’s wrong, baby,” he mocked, the coo in his voice the cause of your furiously heated cheeks. “Hm? ‘Thought it wasn’t anything big—fuck—just, shit, just something small. Stop, ngh, stop struggling, then.” 

That cute little frown settled on your forehead again, in-between your brows, and this time he pushed it back down with his index finger. “Shh,” he murmured in response to your muffled whine. “Just take it. Shouldn’t be too difficult, after all.” The last part of his sentence lacked his previous joyful taunting. It didn’t seem you were taking his words to heart; too consumed with his cock in your mouth to focus on anything else. 

Your eyes widened as he slowed his pace, steadily coming to a slow rhythm opposed to the rapid thrust from before. Tomura allowed you to take him inch by inch, pushing more and more of him down your throat until he was fully in again. He let out a guttural moan when he felt your nose nudging his pelvis, your nails scratching into the fabric of his jeans, you constricting around him again. You truly did feel like a blessing when you brought him such bliss.

“Fuck, keep going like that,” he groaned. With his head thrown back, he missed the sight of you looking up at him with tears dripping down the apples of your cheeks. Loud hums left you, used as a signal to tell him that you couldn’t breathe. Of course, he didn’t particularly care right now. “Just a bit more, baby, just a bit—shit, fuck, fuck—” 

Groan after groan left him, weaving a beautiful song together as he chased that high, only so he could throw himself off the edge of it. Tomura pulled you back from his cock, ignoring the way you heaved for air, and switched back to thrusting in your mouth. He went harder, faster, deeper, faster again, until he felt himself nearing the edge. A string of curse words tumbled past his lips, and quickly, before you could properly comprehend it—he pulled out of your mouth. 

You panted as he did so, trying to gather every bit of air you could. The entirety of your forehead was drenched in sweat, baby-hairs sticking to it, and your cheeks were wet with tears, your mouth still connected to his cock by a mixture of saliva and pre-cum. With tired eyes, you looked up at him. 

If you really were to leave him after this….well, then he was for sure going to make the absolute most out of it. 

You’d always been his favourite sight to lay eyes on, but that amplified tenfold as soon as your pretty face was debauched by his release. And so, he painted your face white again. Clutching onto the experience for, perhaps, the last time ever. 

As soon as you caught up to his plans, you’d closed your eyes and opened your mouth. Greedy, hungry to take it all. A thick, heavy rope of his cum landed on your cheek, and another one on your tongue as you hurried to lap it up, another one decorated the bridge of your nose, and fuck—weren’t you gorgeous. 

Tomura’s chest heaved up and down as he looked at you, each gasp of air felt like it wouldn’t be enough to get the rapid beat of his heart to normal. Quickly, he tore his eyes away from you, and towards your bed. Just for a moment. Immediately after, two of his fingers reached out to scoop up his release. He gathered all of the residue from your pretty face, cleaning it up until everything was on his fingers, and then harshly shoved them into your mouth. 

You gurgled around his fingers for a few second, once again surprised at the sudden fill, but it didn’t take long for you to gather your bearings. As soon as you started lapping up the cum around his fingers, sucking the digits clean, he grinned. Such a greedy little whore for him. You always were. Always. All the more reason for him to get angry at your conversation with Dabi. 

Were you just a whore, then? Not his whore, but simply a general one. He wasn’t too sure if he could accept that. 

Tomura leaned down. One of his knees joined yours on the floor. With two of his fingers still in your mouth, he used his other hand to grab your chin. He pulled you towards him, relishing in the way your breath hit his face as you fought to catch your breath. Your eyes locked onto his. 

“On the bed,” he said, nose nudging yours slightly. He cursed under his breath when he felt you suck eagerly on his fingers, the acknowledgement at his words sending his blood straight to his cock again. “All fours, face down, ass up. Think you can do that, hm?” 

You nodded furiously, eyes still damp with tears as you ached for him to finger you, to fuck you, to do something to you. Tomura pulled his fingers out of your mouth with force, enjoying the way you coughed and cleared your throat as a response. As soon as you’d found your composure again, you looked at him. 

You looked at him as if he carried the world on his shoulders. Why ever think of cheating, then? His eyes glazed over again as the words echoed in the back of his mind. Something small, something small, something small. Your whine pulled him out of it, and he blinked as he watched you push yourself closer to him—you were trying to sneak a kiss. 

“No,” he said firmly, almost as if he was bored. Four of his fingers cupped your face, squeezing your cheeks together to halt your movement. You wouldn’t get a kiss from him. Not this time. “No. Get a move on.” 

Your bottom lip wobbled, and he rolled his eyes. If this wasn’t one of the oldest tricks in your book. You knew he’d do anything to prevent you from crying—on usual circumstances, that is. You looked up at him, still on your knees, and a tear fell from your eyes as you blinked. You were waiting for him to change his mind, to give in as he usually would. His hold on your cheeks tightened, and his glare never wavered. 

“Get. Going.” 

There was a small hint of surprise on your face. Of course, your sweet little boyfriend wasn’t in a sweet mood. You really should’ve thought about that before trying to pull out the waterworks to get your way. You cleared your throat, sniffing, and wiping away the tear before you quickly got up and positioned yourself on the mattress. 

The skirt you wore inched up to your back, and you never bothered to adjust it. Instead, you allowed him a full view of your perky ass and thoroughly soiled panties. Were you enjoying this that much? Perhaps you still hadn’t gotten the message. 

No matter—he’ll fuck it into you. 

Your antics annoyed him, but, fuck, if the view you’d given him wasn’t one for sore eyes. The plush skin of your ass was calling out to him, asking, no, begging him to touch it. And he was sure the amount of slick that was dripping down your thighs and wetting your panties, was something he’d never seen before. Supple thighs stained; lacy thong utterly ruined. 

He was trying to be mad at you. Trying to tell you he was. He should’ve known you’d be too much of a slut to see any of this as a punishment.

Before finally laying a hand on your figure, Tomura reached for the gloves he’d thrown off this morning. Leaning down with a groan, an annoyed one, as it was one more step to take before he got to burry himself inside you again, he snatched the gloves from a nearby side-table. As mad as he was at you—he still didn’t want you dead. And in his current state, he wasn’t entirely sure he could trust himself not to accidentally use five fingers. 

Soft footsteps graced your ears, and a quiet yelp left you as you finally felt his fingers touching your skin—three of them, now, as his pinkie and ring finger were covered by the supple leather. 

A low rumble sounded through his chest, and he sighed as he kneaded the flash of your ass between his fingers with one hand, the other being used to rut his dick up into. Tomura cursed under his breath as he glanced down at his ever-hardening cock. He never needed long to get himself going again, not with you. 

A squeak left you when you felt his tip prodding your clothed core, pushing the sullied fabric further into your wetness. Droplets of his pre-cum only adding to the mess between your legs. He wondered what was on your mind right now. And he wondered if you’d caught on to what he was planning, yet. 

Your shaking hand raised from the bed, fingers twitching as you pointed at what was behind him. At the same place he’d just retrieved his gloves from. “Condoms are—are on the side-table,” you managed to get out. 

“Huh?” Tomura mumbled, and turned his head to look at the box he’d purposely left behind. He chuckled, firmly pinching your flesh between his fingers. “Yeah, that’s nice. They look real pretty sitting over there.” Grunting as he tugged your figure backwards, relishing in the feel of your cunt tightly pressed against him. “And they’ll stay pretty. Over there.” 

You couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped; conflicted, turned-on, and impatient. The second of the pair took over as your boyfriend reached for the side of your panties, pushing them aside and letting them snap back against your ass with a loud snap. You flinched at the sound more than at the feel. The hand he had on your hip tightened, fingertips leaving crescent indents into your bare skin as he pushed your skirt further up. This was taking too long. You wanted him—now. The risk of him fucking you raw far less important to you than getting fucked silly. 

It was cold when he pushed your thong aside, the warmth of your pussy much higher than the one of the rooms. You shivered as he brought the tip towards your folds, a strangled groan leaving him as he slid it through your slick. Tomura cursed again, a plethora of colourful words coming out of him as he toyed with your pussy a bit longer—prodding you here and there but never going in fully. 

Once you felt him push the tip in, finally, a sudden rush of panic washed over. Was he really going to take you like this? 

“Wait—are you—are you not gonna gra—Fuck!”

Tomura didn’t give you a second to complain. All at once, and without warning, he bullied his cock through your folds and into that sweet, sweet cunt. The stretch burned, the sudden intrusion hurt, and the only thing that prevented an agonising wail was the slick you’d gathered by sucking him off. 

It still hurt—you both knew. You from the signs your body was giving you, and him from your pitiful whines and pathetic stutters. The thing was, he didn’t seem to care much. And for some reason….neither did you.

When he was fully inside, he leaned down. Never moving, simply positioning himself near your head to answer the question you’d tried to push out. “No,” he whispered, looking at you through his lashes. An unknown look occupied his eyes as he tucked your hair behind your ear. “No, I’m not going to grab one.” 

Again—if you really were to leave him after tonight, Tomura at least wanted to fuck you raw just this once. To fill you up to the brim, to see his cum seeping out of you. Just this once. As a consolation from himself to himself. 

You wanted to make a comment, he knew. Something smart, as you always did. A quip like ‘yes, I’ve gathered that myself, funnily enough,’ but you never got the chance. Instead, a sharp gasp left you, fingers curling into the duvet and cheek getting squished into the mattress as he started moving. He hammered into you, in-out-in-out, pace never faltering and way too quick for your thoughts to stay coherent. 

One of his hands left your waist, and at first Tomura tried putting his shirt between his teeth to allow him a full view of your greedy pussy sucking his cock in so perfectly. Though, he settled on taking it off completely once it kept getting in the way. Not once did he stop his thrusts as he moved, as he discarded the black tee across the room. You kept clenching around him, making that tight feel even more prominent. 

“T—Tomu,��� you babbled, a gasp interrupting your sentence. Your eyes rolled back into your head as you felt his tip prodding a spot that had you keen, toes curling as he continued hitting it. “Please—I, ngh, just—wait—too—too fast.” 

“Shh, you don’t need a second,” he told you, leaving very little room for arguments. A euphoric sigh left him when he thrusted again, the wail you let out music to his ears, the way your ass jiggled with each pump something they should put in the Louvre. “It’s—fuck—it’s just something—small, right?” 

You shook your head no. Fast. Furiously, so. Tears gathered at your waterline, more so from pure bliss rather than pain. The lack of prep burned at the start, it still does, but less so. “No! No! It’s—what are you—” 

“Shut up,” he snapped. One of his palms harshly struck one of your ass cheeks, and his cock twitched at the way you yelped in surprise. Don’t think he missed the way you tightened around him—he didn’t. His hand reached for your throat, abandoning your waist, and he pulled you upwards. With your back against his chest, he brought his mouth next to your ear. “Just shut the fuck up.” 

“O—Okay,” you stuttered, a strangled moan leaving you again as he picked up the pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin got louder, and louder, and louder; the skin of your ass now a bright red from the way he hit it a few seconds ago. You whined against him, your hand finding the one that was resting on his throat. “F—Fuck, Tomura.” 

He squeezed. “Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” He sneered, and you opened your mouth to apologise. A wrong decision on your part, as he grabbed your jaw to keep your lips apart. Then, before you realised, he spit into your mouth, eyebrows furrowed in frustration as he watched you swallow it down without even being told to do so. “Fucking whore.” 

Fuck—he’d never called you that with such disdain, such anger, such harshness before. You almost felt ashamed of the way it had your pussy flutter around him. He grunted at the feeling, dick twitching at the way you sucked him in so perfectly. You were so warm, so snug, and so perfectly moulded for him.

For him. And absolutely nobody else. Nobody else—ever again. If Dabi dared to lay a hand on you in such a way, Tomura would kill him. League of Villains be damned. 

An overabundance of groans, mumbles, and moans left him as he pounded away at your cunt. The squelching of your slick the finest tune to ever hit his ears, especially as it started coating his balls as well as your thighs in your juices. So, so wet—but not wet enough. 

He hammered at the spot he knew would have you whimper, and grinned when you did just that. You clawed at his hips; head thrown back against his shoulder. The only thing he did was pull you tighter against him as he moved the hand on your waist towards your front. 

Careful caresses turned to rough squeezes, and you yelped as he took one of your tits into the palm of his hand; squeezing so hard it lingered on the edge of pain. He tweaked your nipple through your shirt, only moving on towards other parts of your body once he saw you getting accustomed to the touch. You whined at the loss, but a gasp interrupted the sound. Two of his fingers toyed with your clit, and you truly, truly hoped he wasn’t angry enough to leave you high and dry. 

“Please,” you heaved; droplets of sweat decorating your forehead. 

Tomura did contemplate not letting you cum at all. Then, he realised ruining you forever would be an infinitely better way to go—ruining you so badly, no other touch would ever compare to his. You can go. You can leave him, by all means. 

But you will be absolutely miserable. 

He grinned at the plan forming in his head. Yes—that was what he would do.

The stimulation of his dick rutting inside you, prodding against your inner walls so roughly and so perfectly, the way his fingers circled your clit, it was almost too much. His pace was relentless, and it was clear he was worked up, unforgiving, as he worked his frustrations out on you. He was both literally and figuratively fucking you raw. 

And it felt so good, to you, and to him. To finally be as close as possible, to no longer have a barrier—to feel all of the other. You could feel every vein, every curve, every throb of his cock, and it was absolutely euphoric. 

The ecstasy coursing through you was conveyed vocally, your moans picking up in pitch as he continued, slight hiccups joining in as tears of ecstasy started cascading down your cheeks. Tomura hummed, and brought the hand around your throat up towards your face. His thumb picked up one of the tears you allowed to fall, and he put it in his mouth, sucking on the salty liquid. After that, his hand found your throat again. 

You clasped your eyes shut. “’m close—‘m close,” you managed to gasp. 

Your reached for him, to hold onto him, feeling your knees starting to give out. He grunted at your declaration, never stopping, never pausing to push your arm away from the back of his neck. If anything, you felt him apply the slightest bit of pressure to your neck again. 

With his fingers tightly around your throat, on your clit, and with his fat cock bullying its way in-and-out of your pussy, you felt your orgasm was long overdue. When it finally, finally hit, you were trembling in his grasp. Strangled gasps and stuttered moans left you, your high washing over you in sharp waves as you clamped down around him. The mere feel of it had him barrelling over the edge after you. 

Tomura moaned as he came—for the first time ever since the two of you got together. Unfiltered, unrestrained, as he allowed himself to fill you up. His seed seeped into you, warm, thick and never-ending. You whimpered at the feeling, one of your hands finding his hair. You’d worry about finding a Plan B pill later. For now, you were savouring the way your cunt was milking him dry. He stuffed you to the brim, riding out both of your orgasms just a tad longer before pulling out abruptly. 

Some of his cum dripped out as soon as he did so, but he didn’t waste a second and immediately used two fingers to scoop it up and finger it back into you. You squeaked at the feeling, still overly sensitive as you came down from your high. The feeling of fullness only fully settled in once he put your panties back in place, paying no mind to the cum oozing out from the sides—it’d do a well-enough job at keeping it inside for now. 

Tomura was done after that. Something he made very well known, as he let go of your body after which caused you to fall back onto the mattress. A feeling of emptiness washed over you, ironic, considering your current situation. You turned around quickly, features carrying nothing but hurt, lips downturned into a pout, as you watched him tuck himself back in his pants. 

He turned his back towards you. Glancing around the room, probably for the shirt he’d discarded, he never once paid any mind to you. As if you weren’t there. As if he wasn’t fucking you stupid a few seconds ago. 

“Tomu?” You called out meekly, voice small and almost reduced to a whisper. You fiddled with the duvet underneath you, glancing between the blanket and your boyfriend who was still giving you the cold shoulder. “Are you—Aren’t you going to…” 

“Going to what?” He snapped; still, he didn’t look at you. Instead, he started focusing on putting his shirt back on. Once his head popped back up from the top, he finally sought you out. The look in his eyes had you frown. “Going to hold you after? Go ask Dabi to do so.” 

“Why would I want Dabi to do so?” 

He laughed. He laughed, but very little of it was genuine. “Oh? So, he’s not enough for a cuddle, but you’re more than eager to try out his something big.” 

You blinked at him. Did he….no, did he sound hurt? You thought you saw anger in his eyes at first, but slowly, now that the sex was over, it started making way for something else to shine through. Something you hadn’t seen on him before.

“What are you talking about?” 

The aggravated sigh he let out scared you, and you leaned backwards slightly when he threw his hands around in the air as an emphasis of his annoyed state. “Don’t act fucking stupid with me! I heard your conversation. Next time just fuckin’ talk to your boyfriend about that shit instead of complaining about it to others, fuck!” His voice sounded raw at the end of the sentence, choked-up. It tugged on your heartstrings. 

He’d heard your conversation…had he—did he think it was about…? 

“I—Oh.” 

It was the only thing you managed to get out. The wrong words, as it seemed, considering Tomura only got more upset. You hadn’t meant for him to overhear, much less think it’s about….that. This was all a huge misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that did, admittedly, delivered you one of the best fuckings of your life (so far). 

“Yes. Oh. Now, do us both a favour, and get out, okay?” 

“No, no, Tomura, that—that wasn’t about you.” You explained, or tried to. He raised an eyebrow, his face displaying a sense of disbelief all-round. Wincing, you hurried up from the bed, discarding how his cum started dripping down your leg as you walked over to him. “I mean it was, but not in the way you think. It…it was for your birthday.” 

Tomura frowned. He was silent for a bit, blinking a couple of times as if it’d help settle the words in faster. “My birthday?” He mumbled after a while, voice quiet and dialled down to a hushed whisper. 

Carefully, your hand reached out for his. Still with the gloves on, he allowed you to tangle them together. It could be that he was too shocked at your words to push you away, or perhaps you’d assured him enough to let you hold his hand for now. You really hoped for it to be the latter. 

“Yes.” You confirmed, giving him a small, sad smile. “You’re turning twenty-one. That’s a big one, so….I thought of swapping our usual celebration for a bigger one. I just….wasn’t sure if that was something you’d be into.” 

Tomura grunted. If he was to be honest, it wouldn’t be something he would be into. And Dabi was, as annoying as he deemed it, right—he would be sulking all night. Which reminded him….

“Then, why the fuck did Dabi offer to help?” 

You chuckled at the scowl on his face, poking a finger at the end of his mouth to push it back down. He swatted your hand away, though never showed any true malice. If you weren’t mistaken, you even saw a hint of amusement in his eyes. 

“He probably knew you were there,” you said. “He gets a kick out of pissing you off.” 

“Yeah, he does,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Fucking asshole.” 

You laughed, airy and light, a complete opposite to the mood a mere thirty seconds ago. Tomura pursed his lips together, the closest you’d get to a smile from him, and squeezed your hand. There was more he wanted to say, you knew there was, but it seemed he wasn’t quite ready, yet. So, you waited, waited, and waited, until he finally took a sharp inhale of breath. 

Turning to look away from you again, hiding the slight colouring of his cheeks from your sight, he cleared his throat. “So…you—you are happy…with me?” 

You smiled, kissing his cheek. “Very happy.” You assured him, your free hand reached up towards his face, tucking a few strands of his hair out of the way so you could get a proper look at him. “…And, we both know you’re far from something small.” 

He grumbled some stuff under his breath, feigning a certain amount of nonchalance. If you hadn’t known him as long as you had, you would’ve believed him—but this time, you knew his signs, and you noticed the way the tips of his ears turned red. You didn’t point it out. Something told you he wouldn’t appreciate it. That didn’t stop you from appreciating it, however, no matter how much he tried to hide his face. Only when he murmured something under his breath, did he pull you out of the daze you were in. 

“We have to go to the pharmacy,” he reminded you, glancing down at your skirt. A heavy blush flowed to your cheeks, and you cleared your throat. “Don’t really feel like being a father to someone.” 

“Right, right, me, neither….” You chuckled, scratching the back of your head as you tried to pass off your current embarrassment. It didn’t work, and he noticed, at least, it seemed that way from the grin tugging at the edge of his lips. “Let me just get changed really qui—” 

“No.” 

You blinked at him, startled at the insinuation he was making. “But—it…it’ll drip, and people, they—they’ll see.” You stammered, feeling the heat once again rise to your face. 

“Better keep it inside then.” Tomura mumbled, gloved hand wrapping around your wrist to tug you along. He didn’t seem to pay much mind to the way you looked at him; widened eyes, open mouth, and raised eyebrows—though, you did catch the smirk on his lips as he unlocked the door again. “Let’s go.” 

….And, well, who were you to say no? You had a pharmacy to go to. 

[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!