#mental illness and relationships | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sugurouge · 23 days ago

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— my favourite pain : blade x f!reader

contains! — mdni: DARK CONTENT, smut, angst, toxic + unestablished relationship, jealousy, mentally unstable blade, minor hunter/prey, reader is being carried around, possessiveness, manhandling, physical abuse (strangulation & hair pulling), marking, irrational behaviour, praise, petnames (pretty girl), there's a backstory to explain certain reasons to their behaviour — 5k words

summary: a tale about blade's very own paradise he deemed himself undeserving of. his best intentions harboured rotten fruit, fuelling resentment that tore them apart. until weeks later, a mara-struck blade is out to finish what they've started.

You haven’t seen Blade in weeks, yet he remains plaguing your mind like an ever-looming presence—a forbidden fruit you crave more than you would ever dare admit.

At the same time, you’re also the traitor who called the Cloud Knights on him: it was a desperate, vengeful act born of being once more used for salvation, drained of all the kindness residing in your heart to help calm the hurricane in his mind.

For long, he had done the same thing—appearing uninvited, expecting you to welcome him back into his personal Garden of Eden: the tender warmth of your hold. Forcing you to pity a selfish man who robbed you of the chance to find lasting love when he claimed your heart. He made it clear he wanted nothing more than those fleeting encounters, never trespassing the line that would make you lovers rather than acquaintances.

But your heart wanted something different.

He never touched you indecently, never did what you craved for him to do—only held you in his embrace, lips ghosting along your neck and chest until the drumming of your pulse paled in comparison to the need between your thighs.

But nothing ever happened. Once morning came, Blade was gone, leaving only the icy gift of loneliness in his stead, until the Mara welled up again.

The abomination returned to your doorstep time and time again.

You ruminate about Blade as you pour your cup of tea, wondering if the Cloud Knights truly managed to imprison him again. Is he rotting in the Shackled Prison once more because of your pettiness? The only thing you’re certain of: you’d be the first person he’d kill if he ever escaped.

However, the gust of air kissing the back of your neck and creeping beneath your night robes tears you from those spiralling thoughts. It causes chills to creep down your spine as you cautiously glance over your shoulder, scanning the darkened room awaiting behind the comfort of your dimly lit kitchen.

You’ve grown accustomed to searching for said criminal in crowds, used to meeting his red eyes in places he should never set foot back in. But this is the first time the feeling of being watched greets you in your very home. Blade had always been polite enough to knock before. But back then, you hadn’t yet betrayed his trust either.

Trying to focus back on your tea seems like a good call, to finish the preparations and retreat to the safety of your bedroom—away from the eerie open spaces and dark corners until sunrise. If it wasn’t for your shaking form locking you in place. The stiffness in your shoulders deepens as the hairs on the back of your neck stand and a bead of cold sweat trickles down your spine.

You hear him—hear the skilled footsteps of a hunter stalking its prey, hear the scraping of his blade along the floor—and silently, you pray to the Aeons for a quick death.

Perhaps, if you believe it all to be a bad dream, you can escape this situation, can wake up and blink away the nightmare while tucked into the warmth of your bed. So, your eyes press shut in terror, hands balling into fists as your survival instincts scream for action.

The sound of his weapon hitting the floor shatters your fragile hope and frees you from your stupor. It forces you to turn around upon the first touch of bandaged hands on your skin. But your wrist is caught before your palm can make contact with his beautiful, haunting face. Blade greets you once more with those familiar, empty eyes tearing through all your walls in a matter of seconds.

He looks worse than ever. The past weeks must have taken a terrible toll on his already fragile sanity. You’ve never seen him this conflicted, never witnessed so much pain etched into his features.

The Mara has struck again, and again, feeding on him relentlessly.

How much of the man he once was remains? The thought almost makes you forget your circumstances.

It’s no surprise that he managed to escape the Cloud Knights again. Those feeble guards could never keep him under control—no one can. Unlike the sickness coursing through his very being, tainting him, dragging him deeper into despair with every strike.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking of you, couldn’t stop yearning for the comfort you provide. He knows he’s hurt you, knows he’s taken advantage of you and robbed you of all that is good. But how could he act selflessly when you’re the closest thing to the sweet release he so craves? In you, he imagines himself embraced by peace, by calm, by freedom from all this hatred—since the nothingness he longs for won't open the gates for him. What a sweet fantasy.

“No, no, no…” Blade murmurs in response to your attempt at violence while his fingers grasp your chin, effectively allowing him to savour the tumultuous rollercoaster of emotions reflected in your worried expression. “You’re not going to rat me out and hurt me,” he mutters, bumping the tip of his nose against yours and cooling your heated cheeks as a low chuckle escapes him. Your body stiffens at his unnerving affection. “I can forgive you for calling the guards. I know I’ve hurt you; I am hurting you—”

“Then stop.” You’re quick to interrupt, eager to regain some fickle sense of control, unfortunately, your eyes betray you. Blade’s brows crease as he seems to stare straight into your soul, as though he is already lost in you. “But I need you,” he mumbles against the soft flesh of your lips before his head dips lower, his kisses branding your neck. Strong arms wrap around your waist as your palms desperately push against his unmoving chest, trying in vain to remain resolute in your decision to cast him out.

You want more from your mortal life than to be a charging station for a criminal.

But the protest of calling his name turns out to be a futile effort as your voice comes out as nothing but a soft plea, a gentle moan born of his selfish deeds.

You fill Blade with an uncountable amount of pride when you melt into his embrace like you’ve always belonged, claiming a space he holds only for you. His hand reaches beneath your clothes, a fingertip tracing the length of your spine until you arch into him ever so perfectly. He witnesses the shivers coursing through your body as his ragged breaths drag you back to a hell you thought you’d escaped.

Any protests you clung on to are discarded. Any scream stuck in your throat as his heaving chest rises against yours while sultry whispers of sweetness lure you down a path of despair. “I need you more than I want to,” the confession vibrates low against your skin while strong hands take hold of your thighs to effortlessly lift you off your feet, pinning you against the nearest wall to allow for a quick ridding of your silk dress. “I need to have you whole—all of you.”

Blade feels nothing but greed when it comes to you. There is no space left for consideration, no room for manners after the time he had spent alone again—not when you look like his personal angel. A sinner Blade has been for centuries, a criminal, a wanted man ever since he returned to this world instead of passing away when he consumed life itself. Yet never, in all this time, has the Mara affected his feelings in such a primitive way.

His lips ravage your skin as he presses himself into you, seeking solace in your warmth, your racing heart, the drumming pulse he can feel beneath his kisses. Every trace of friction is claimed as though it’s his right, as though you truly are his.

Lust clouds your better judgement upon the passion you’re drowning in. Blade floods over you. The fighting spirit you once held is beaten by desire. By everything you wanted from Blade for so long. Too long, all you had was his embrace, but now, tonight, you’re swept away by his need until you can no longer swim against the tide.

Hold onto him.

Your arms find their way around his neck and shoulders, allowing yourself to pull him closer into you and listen to his sounds of satisfaction. Your fingers thread through dark locks, tugging sharply at the roots—just how he loves it, you realise upon the smirk on his face, upon the raspy moan as his hips jerk forward against you. “Careful what you wish for now,” he warns, the words nothing but another breathed sensation against the shell of your ear.

But all you care about is how close he is, how warm he feels, how intoxicating his scent is.

You hum in bliss as your nose trails along his neck, lips brushing against his sharp jawline. The embrace tightens as though you never want to let go. “I only ever wished for you,” you whisper. The sweet words coat his lips like honey as they meet yours in a deep kiss, threatening to steal the very air from your lungs.

A gasp of surprise fills your chest as Blade lifts you from the wall, carrying you through your home while his reckless lips taint your skin. He paints you as his possession through the sting of his teeth against your skin, suckling and licking as if he could taste your pulse if he dug just a little deeper.

You would never be able to admit that you’ve been entirely devoured by his gluttony. Mind and body all consumed by Blade. Even undoing his jacket proves a struggle as your fingers fumble with the buttons.

Blade could find amusement in your clumsiness if it weren’t for the irritation he feels upon walking into your door. Instead of opening it in one smooth motion, he presses you against the hardwood. You seize the opportunity with that old, stuck door, letting your legs wrap tightly around his waist, banishing any distance that once remained between your bodies.

A shameless moan escapes you at the feeling of his erection pressing against your tainted panties once more, the sensation so delicious and promising. And he rewards you with a throaty groan.

“Devil,” Blade groans at your attack. One more move like this and he’ll take you here if you’re not careful. “I need to feel you. I want to taste you, pretty girl.” At that, you grin—it’s the first pet name he’s ever used, and it’s utterly endearing.

“Then don’t make me wait, Mr Criminal.” You can’t refuse to open the door in his stead, fully aware he’s forgotten his earlier plans of carrying you to your bedroom when he can instead feel you fully in this position.

You steal the balance from his hold, catching him completely off guard as you let him stumble into the room. “Careful, Bladie,” you tease further, with a sudden discovery of bravery; mischief laces your soft voice, only to be muted by his advances as he hoists you up onto your dresser.

“Bladie?” he repeats with slight apprehension.

Yet the cheerful expression on your face makes him forget about the somewhat irritating spider that loves to use the same nickname. Why not let you have your fun? Why not lean into it? Why not join you? Blade thinks as he closes the distance, capturing your lips while carelessly brushing aside jewellery and picture frames once neatly placed on top of the furniture to create further room.

But you don’t have time to reciprocate his kiss, refusing his advances like he means nothing as you reach for the frames tumbling off the edge. “Don’t!” you cry in panic, barely managing to catch one before it falls. He watches in confusion as you clutch the frame to your chest like it’s your most prized possession. The reaction wipes the grin off Blade’s lips, leaving him wondering about the importance until, a second later, he snatches the item from your grasp.

Narrowed eyes drop to stare at the photo within—a picture of you with another man, a face he doesn’t recognise. Proudly standing beside the beauty Blade knows is a handsome man, a decent bit older than you, but age doesn't seem to be a concern to you.

What Blade doesn’t know is that this man is someone gone, someone who once saved you. Someone who picked you up from the streets and helped you grow into the woman you are today.

The envy seeps through his veins, bringing his blood to boil with frightening speed, causing his chest to feel heavy, until he shuts out any outside noise as raging questions of your loyalty and his hatred echo in his mind.

Who is this? What is a picture of some other man doing in your room? You’re his. That’s why he came back. For you. To finally give himself to you. But you…

The Mara always strikes in fragile moments, ready to reclaim him. Your hands, desperate and pleading, are brushed off like whispers in the wind. Your voice, frantic and trembling, is drowned out by the storm within him. You’re unable to penetrate the walls that are erecting around Blade’s body and heart.

There’s that familiar expression on his face again, one etched with dread and hatred. That same tell-tale sign you’ve come to recognise.

Calling his name offers no forgiveness, only anguish, as strong fingers snake around your neck, his fingertips pressing down until you’re gasping, until eyes of madness meet your scared gaze as he draws close. It feels eerily similar to the first time your foreheads touched—yet nothing like it at all. The moment holds no tenderness; this time, you fear for your life.

Blade has lost himself before, but never like this. Never in a way that truly hurt you. And hurt it does as he fists a hand into your hair, forcing you further into submission, exposing your near-naked figure to the brutal moonlight while the monster looms over you.

“Someone else?” A near unfamiliar voice questions. It’s nothing like the tender rasp you’re used to. The picture you had tried so desperately to protect shatters against the floor, erupting a sob from your struggling throat.

“Betrayed me for that…” he mumbles to himself, twisting the narrative in his mind, bending it to feed the hatred coursing through him.

His grip on you tightens.

It hurts. Truly stings how you’re being handled; the pain is as sharp as his accusations, branding you as a traitor. “No, Blade, please, just lis—”

Yet, your protests die as the hand around your throat tightens. A little more strength and he might snap your neck then and there. He can feel it beneath his palm—the frantic race of your pulse, your desperate attempts to swallow, your panicked fight for air.

Why is he hurting you? Didn’t he come here for salvation?

Blade stares down at you, the chaos in his mind giving way to something softer—something broken. His grip loosens, and the rage that burns in his chest starts to crumble, leaving behind guilt so heavy it threatens to crush him. His hands tremble once they release their hold, ghosting over your irritated skin in apology.

“You’re all I want,” Blade confesses, voice nothing but a whisper as he stumbles over his words. “What I came back for... does he give you wh—” His voice falters, unable to finish the sentence when your eyes lock with his. It was like a knife to the gut. In that fleeting moment, he felt every ounce of his confidence and ruthlessness crumble.

The air rushed in so sharply that it felt like new life was flooding your lungs, overwhelming you like the man who caused the pain. You gasp pathetically, your body trembling as you struggle to steady yourself—to comfort yourself.

“I’m not seeing another man.” The words follow quietly but firmly, as the pain you experience keeps your voice low. “I didn’t want to see anyone else.”

Blade’s entire being seems to cave in at that. The guilt floods him, pulling him deeper and deeper until it threatens to swallow him. His shoulders sag, his face contorts with an agony he can no longer hide. How had he let this happen? He had sworn to never hurt you, to never let his demons break what was left of the only good thing in his life. And yet, here he was, broken by the very thing he feared most.

He had failed you. Failed himself.

He can’t bear to look at you, not now, not when the consequences of his actions stare right back at him. His head falls against your shoulder, seeking comfort in your warmth—despite everything. Your embrace was the only thing that anchored him to this world.

His fingers tremble as they brush against your back, a futile attempt to atone for the chaos he’d caused. Your hands, though, cling to him. Even as you flinched, your touch remained unwavering.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. The confession is barely audible, heavy with sorrow that cuts deeper than any wound ever could. His forehead touches yours, the gesture so tender, so unlike the man he was just moments ago. "I'm so sorry."

The air hangs thick between you, but instead of pulling away, he stays close. His fingers skim along the curve of your face as though you might shatter under his touch. His lips, so often twisted into a scowl or smirk, brush against the corner of your mouth with a gentleness that takes you by surprise.

The madness that consumed him moments ago retreats into the depths of his soul, leaving a hollow ache in its place. Blade cups your face with trembling hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streak your cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats.

“Blade…” your voice is soft and fragile, and your hands come up to rest on his wrists. You search his eyes, the wild, unrelenting storm now replaced by a man drowning in remorse.

“It’s… it’s okay,” your voice cracks as you try to speak louder, and Blade's heart twists at the sound. The rasp of your words is like a slap to his face, a reminder of the damage he caused. “You didn’t do it on purpose,” you whisper while you seek comfort in the curve of his neck. Your fingers run shakily through his hair, offering him a softness he doesn’t deserve.

In that silence, a heavyweight settles between you, like a promise unspoken. He can feel your fear, the way your body stiffens ever so slightly against him. You are afraid. Afraid of him, afraid of what he can do. And yet, here you are, offering him kindness despite all.

It tears at him.

His mind fights with itself, battling the guilt, the regret, the shame. All the anger and pain he holds inside, all the monsters he refuses to face, melting away at the sight of you. The truth is clear: he needs you. You are the only thing that can silence the madness inside him, the only one who can put him back together.

“But I need you.” The confession slipped out of him, once again. It was more than a plea; it was the truth that had festered inside him for so long.

You pull away, your hands trembling as they push against his chest. There is fear in your eyes. He can see it. You are terrified of what he is capable of, terrified of what might happen if you let him truly have you. Yet, your body betrays your words, your fingers still fisting his jacket, holding him close as though you can’t bear to let go.

“You will find someone who does the same, better than me,” you say gently, but your voice wavers, a crack in your resolve. “Someone stronger.” He sees the doubt in your eyes, the inner struggle that mirrors his own. You don’t want to let him go, not really. But you are trying to protect yourself, trying to shield your heart from the man who has hurt you more times than you can count.

"Once more, let me hold you... just once," Blade whispers against your ear, his voice barely audible, trembling with the weight of his desire. "Again and again, forevermore. I don’t want anyone else."

His words are like a prayer. A plea. But it is his actions that speak louder as he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering.

"Let me make it right," he murmurs, his voice low, pleading. His hands glide down your body, carefully tracing the outline of your waist, your hips, your thighs. Blunt fingernails drag along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you always wanted him to be most. Your breath hitches, and the sound draws a low hum of satisfaction from him.

“Like nobody else,” Blade whispers, his lips ghosting over your collarbone as his fingers dip between your folds. “So beautiful.”

A gasp escapes you as he spreads your arousal, his movements deliberate, unhurried. He’s careful, near worshipful, every touch made to remind you of the connection you’ve always craved from him. His fingers pump into you, curling with each slow drag to find that spot that has you keening, your toes curling as pleasure courses through you.

Your thighs instinctively press against his sides, but he holds you there, caged between his chest and the wall, his eyes locked onto yours. Foreheads resting together, his gaze is searching, desperate, as though trying to memorise every detail of this moment before it slips away.

“Let me make it all up. Let me look after you. Let me…” He trails off as he claims your lips in a deep, searing kiss. His tongue brushes against yours, slow and intoxicating, before his teeth catch your lower lip, tugging just enough to make you whimper. The sound nearly undoes him, his resolve faltering as he feels you tighten around his fingers.

But instead of devouring you whole, he—ever so carefully—gathers you in his arms and carries you to bed. While his actions remain gentle, as if you might shatter if handled too roughly, his eyes roam shamelessly over your naked figure, addicted to every curve. Your back meets the soft mattress while he remains standing at the edge of the bed, as if contemplating whether to truly infiltrate your sanctuary.

If it weren’t for your hands reaching out after you crawl over to where he stands, to invite him in, they explore his body, gliding upward until you can shrug off his coat, the fabric landing carelessly on the hardwood—revealing scars that criss-cross his entire torso—evidence of battles fought and lost, of the pain he carries every day, of the brutal punishment he endured.

Your fingers brush over them, tentative at first, then firmer as you lean up to kiss each mark. The tenderness in your actions draws a sharp inhale from him. He watches you, his crimson eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that might leave you addicted to his attention.

Your lips trail lower, down his stomach to the waistband of his trousers, kisses shameless upon the effect you have on his body. But before you can go further, his hands are on you again. He hoists you effortlessly back into the bed, drawing a surprised yelp from you upon the sudden shift in position.

He looms above you, his lips finding yours again as his hand trails down your body, worshipping every inch of you. "You’ll have to behave, pretty girl," he murmurs, his voice tinged with warmth as he kisses a path down your body.

His trousers join the discarded cloak on the floor, and he drags his nails up your thighs, teasing, coaxing. His hands find the backs of your knees, parting your legs as he positions himself between them. “I’ll give you everything,” he breathes, “Everything I have to give.” Leaning over you, his long strands of hair fall around his face, framing his sharp features most perfectly. His strength presses you gently but firmly into the mattress, holding you in place as he leans in.

The stretch as he enters is slow, every inch of him pushing into you until he bottoms out. A shuddered breath escapes his lips once he stills, his forehead pressing against yours once more.

“I know, I know,” he shushes with a tender kiss to your forehead as you claw at his back, nails dragging ever so perfectly for him to struggle to remain still inside you. “You’re doing so well,” he encourages upon the whimper you let out, your back arching off the mattress upon the waves of pleasure you try to accommodate.

Blade can’t resist moving his hips, pulling back almost entirely only to stretch you anew, to feel you struggle to stay sane. Hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that speaks of both desperation and devotion. His body cloaks yours, his hair brushing against your skin as he leans over, kissing your lips, your cheeks, your neck. The weight of his guilt lingers in every touch, every kiss, every thrust, as though he’s trying to atone for the pain he’s caused.

The moon casts its silvery light through the window, illuminating the room in a quiet glow. Shadows dance along the walls as Blade moves against you, his body pressing into yours with every deep thrust. The rhythm he sets is steady yet intense, his movements precise while holding you close.

His touch is gentle, like you’re his most prized possession—sacred. Roughened hands, scarred and calloused, trace the curve of your waist, memorising the soft rise and fall of your body beneath him while whispering sweet praise that will remain in your memory longer than his presence.

“So perfect,” Blade murmurs, his voice low, barely more than a breath. The heat of it sends shivers down your spine. “So good to me.”

Your hands tangle in his dark hair, pulling him closer as your bodies move together in a rhythm that feels perfect. His breath is warm on your neck, his lips ghosting over your pulse before trailing fleeting kisses along the line of your jaw.

The drag of his body against yours, the way he stretches you, fills you—each movement sends sparks of pleasure through your body, building until you’re breathless, lost in the haze.

But even in this closeness, even with his skin pressed so tightly against yours, there’s a shadow behind his eyes. A heaviness clings to him. You can feel it even as he murmurs praises against your skin, even as his hands tighten around your hips like he’s afraid to let go.

“Blade,” you moan his name gently, as if you could ground him here, keeping him from slipping away if you just showed him how good he makes you feel.

His lips claim yours again, deepening the kiss upon first contact for his tongue to move against yours, drawing a soft moan from you that only seems to affect him further. His hands take hold of your thighs as he thrusts harder, his resolve faltering over the sound of your voice, the way you breathe his name—it’s too much, and yet it’s not enough.

“Stay with me,” you murmur against his lips, though your words are muffled by his kiss.

His response is a low, guttural sound as his hips thrust harder, faster. He’s unravelling, his need for you dulling every other thought. Equally, the pleasure builds in your core, coiling tight until it snaps, until you fall apart beneath him, with him.

The way you tighten around him draws a shudder from his body, and he follows you moments later, his release consuming him as he buries himself deep inside you. His forehead rests against yours, his breath ragged as his body shakes with the force of it.

For a brief moment, everything stills. His weight on top of you grounds you in the quiet aftermath, his chest heaving in time with yours as your breaths meet in the space between your sore-kissed lips.

But the silence stretches, and the weight in your chest grows heavier. Even as his hands remain on your skin, tracing mindless patterns along your hips, he feels distant, like he’s already slipping away.

You lift a hand, brushing your fingers along his jaw to lure his gaze back to yours. “Blade?”

His gaze meet yours, and for a brief moment, his expression softens. But it feels safer to let his eyes fall shut, as if he were to try and shield himself from your influence, from the words you might say.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than he should.

When the two of you finally untangle, Blade doesn’t leave your side. Instead, he lies beside you, propped up on one elbow as his other hand brushes the hair from your face.

“Sleep,” he commands softly, almost tenderly.

But you hesitate, your fingers curling into his arm as if to tether him to you. “You’ll stay?” The question cuts through him like iron. He forces a small smile. “I’ll stay.”

What a sweet lie.

Yet, the exhaustion overtakes as his warmth surrounds you. You allow your eyes to flutter shut, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel safe. Blade, however, remains awake, his eyes fixed on you, drinking in the sight of you at peace. There’s a softness in your features that makes his heart ache.

He doesn’t leave a note. There’s nothing he could say that would make up for what he’s done, for what he’s about to do. All he can do is disappear, sparing you the burden of his sickness, his sins, his darkness.

dividers by @/cafekitsune + @/anitalenia

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #blade x reader smut #hsr blade smut #blade x reader #hsr smut #hsr x reader smut #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x you #blade x you #honkai star rail x reader smut #blade #about.bladie #─ .✦ winter's words #cw toxic relationship #cw physical abuse #cw mental illness #♡ྀི — winde

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phyrestartr · 27 days ago

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Deal With It (P.1) | Gojo x M!Reader |

W/C: 2.8k C/W: depictions of self-harm, depictions of depression, poor mental health, stress, mental illness, arranged marriage, hostile relationships, smoking, language, violence Tags: SFW, hurt/comfort, drama, canon-typical violence, character growth, eventual romantic feelings, eventual fluff and good vibes, kouhai gojo, senpai reader, plot and lore

Tag List: @pleniluneg4ze @aizen-lover @easnowpw @tomiokasecretlover @snoweclipsese @mef0rg0r @soulsire @kiiyoooo @reiluvr @fricking-ur-mom @cucumbertoptier @enchantingkitty @mira-la-sol @deepestartisanhumanoidshark @animadi888 @cloudserenity @sageofspades @dietothemusic @prettorett @animadi888 @playboygeniusphilanthropist @chikai-k @starrykie

“So, you really don’t care what he thinks?” Shoko asked as you lit her cigarette. “Even I think he was kinda harsh.”

You pocketed your lighter and leaned back against the cold college walls. “He’s got a thing for that black-haired guy.”

“Getou.”

“Sure.” You shrugged and tried to rub the ache out of your neck as you stared up at the bleak, grey skies. The air reeked of petrichor. Thankfully you’d brought an umbrella that day.

“And you’re not bothered he’s in love with Getou?” Your friend continued, her cute bobbed haircut swaying with the tilt of her head. She always looked so charming like that, when she was being a mischievous brat while pretending to be anything but.

“Dunno.” And that was the truth. “He’s not even my type. I’d rather hitch up with someone like you or Nanami. Someone less annoying. Less loud-mouthed.”

“Ooh, that'll hurt his ego.” Shoko smiled. “Well, guess you'll have to learn to deal with it.”

You took a deep breath and rubbed your face as you nodded. “Yeah.”

–

“Forever is a long time,” You mumbled, leaning your forehead against the cool touch of the window. Rain pittered and pattered, exploding off the glass like trillions of kamikaze planes. It almost birthed some sort of hurt in your chest. Best not to dwell on it, you decided.

“Hah? Are you talking to yourself again like a weirdo?” The one and only Gojo Satoru yowled before kicking you in the rear like a petulant child. “Pft! Figures. Knowing my luck, I would have to get married to a creeper.”

“Even if you married Getou, you'd still be marrying a creep,” you grumbled, dusting the dirt off your behind. “You need something? Or did you harass me just for the fun of it?”

You heard Gojo, your fiancé, scoff and shuffle behind you. “I just wanted to remind you to humble yourself! Just because I'm forced to marry you doesn't mean you're accomplished or cool or anything, got it?”

Being in his presence had you craving a cigarette. “Yeah, got it.”

“And Suguru's better than you,” he added, aloof voice bowing down beneath hardened, steeled words. “Don't forget that either.”

You bit down on your cheek to ward away the heat building under your skin, the magma sinking deep into your eyesockets and threatening to pour down your esophagus. The taste of iron washed against your tongue, and you released your flesh from between your molars. Sometimes, you wanted to keep boring down on yourself to see how much you could really take, but a fear of the answer too often made you think twice.

“This is starting to bore me,” you said, tilting your head as you caught a flicker of red in your rain-muddied reflection. You touched your fingers to your tongue and found blood coating the tips.

“Pah. I was gonna say the same!” You watched his reflection turn away. “Good luck trying to impress me.”

I'm not interested. You watched him walk away, slouching and with his hands in his pockets like he was emulating some kind of yankii character. He might have fit the bill, if he hadn't had such a ridiculous, brat side to him.

Just deal with it. You wiped the red on your uniform with a sigh. Tomorrow's a new day.

—

“Sorry about Satoru,” Getou said. He'd found you outside, tucked close against the stone wall with a cigarette in your mouth as you watched the downpour. Apparently, he liked the rain, too.

“You don't need to apologize,” you said after a drag. “It's not your fault.” Probably.

The younger sorcerer smiled a little bit wider. “In a way, it almost is; Satoru wouldn't be coming after you if it weren't for my, ah, sheer existence, I guess you could say.”

You shrugged. “You didn't ask to exist,” you said, secretly cringing as the words left your mouth.

Getou laughed. “Ho, that's a good point, I didn't think about it that way.” Another chuckle left him as he leaned against the wall beside you and stared at the rain. “It's definitely Satoru's fault, then.”

You hummed in agreement and offered him a cigarette. He blinked, but plucked one out of the box and looked it over before fumbling to tuck the end into his mouth as you held the lighter's flame out for him. You blocked the wind as he leaned in and inhaled deeply until the butt hissed to life with molten red. A beat later, Getou sputtered and coughed wildly, waving his hand through the air to dismiss your stare and the smoke's mockery.

You frowned. “You don't smoke?”

Your company wheezed and laughed, leaning back against the wall with a humbled smile. “Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” he said. “You and Ieiri—I feel like I never see either of you without a cigarette.”

“Life’s stressful, I guess.” You looked at the half-spent smoke in your hand, exhaling smoke through your nose as you thought.

You saw Getou lean in out of the corner of your eye. His dark hair brushed against your shoulder, though it could have just been the wind, too. “It doesn't affect you?”

“Shoko reverses the negatives,” you grumbled. You stuck the cigarette into the corner of your mouth again before pocketing your hands. “Lung cancer would be an easier out than getting ripped to shreds by a curse, besides.”

“Ho? You think so?” Getou teased. “You don't think you'd go mad? Laying in bed, suffocating in your own body, just waiting to die?”

You shrugged. “It's a human way to go, at least. Random. Maybe self-imposed, sometimes. But…normal.”

Time slowed for a second as Getou stared at you. You hazarded a look for once in your life, and caught the enigmatic thing's warm, obsidian eyes. They gave you pause, made you wonder, sent your mind reeling as you caught glints of jagged edges disrupting smooth, volcanic glass.

“Are you alright?” You asked without thinking.

Getou blinked, then smiled. “I just think you're interesting, senpai.” He glanced down at the smoldering stick caught between his fingers. “It's a surprise, to be honest. I think Satoru'll be in good hands with you.”

You stared down at the puddle pooling around your boots. Another self stared back, his image ruined and distorted by raindrops crashing into him, yet he was still clearer than the version trapped in your skull. Maybe the mirrored image was your real self, and you were just the distortion. “I don't have much of a choice, I guess. But I’ll try my best.”

“That’s all we can really hope for with partners, right?”

“Right.” A moment passed. “You’re oddly okay with this.”

“I’m not taking it personally,” Getou said. “How can I? Neither of you want to do this, anyway—you hardly even tolerate each other in the first place, and now Satoru’s gone extra crazy about it.”

The ground felt a little more solid under your feet, and you were a little more real, after those words were spoken. Even the reflection in the puddle grew clearer, revealing fresh colours once concealed by grey thoughts. Something would drain the world of its saturation again, but that moment would stay with you until that day came.

“Thanks,” you said with some difficulty. “The thought’s appreciated.”

“It’s the least I can do.” His hand clasped your shoulder and squeezed gently. You forced yourself not to shrink away from it like a slug trying to flee a grain of salt. “Thanks for putting up with him, senpai. Most people aren’t so charitable. Besides,” he said, leaning in close enough for his breath to brush against your ear, “I get whatever Satoru gets, and you get whatever he has, no? What’s yours is mine, what’s mine is yours, and all that?”

Heat scattered across your face and prickled the length of your spine. You were foolish to forget that Getou was a menace, just like Gojo, yet somehow more lethal.

“Sure.” You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at him. It’d be a death sentence. “You’ll get as much as he gets, I guess.”

Getou chuckled and backed off. “We’ll see.”

–

Gojo threw open the door to your room and zoomed inside, socked feet sliding against smooth hardwood. “It’s me!”

He slipped and fell as soon as you turned to look at him. “It’s you.” You snatched your walkman out of the air as it tipped off your desk following the sorcerer's tumble. “Why is it you?”

“Rude!” Gojo spat out in-between his pained whining. “I'm your fiancé! I'm allowed to be here!”

“That's not really how that works.” You watched Gojo melt into a starfish, stomach down, cheek smooshed against the floorboards.

And you turned away, back to your work of flipping through astronomical charts and comparing the dates and info with the briefs sent to you, the one third year who bothered to stay. The admins relied on you too much, yet thankfully left the role of guidance counselor and teacher to someone older and more tolerant like Yaga. Still, the sparks of hope that were Utahime and Shoko promised some future relief for—

“Mou, why aren't you more concerned for your fiancé’s well-being?” Gojo whined.

“I'm more concerned about your sudden desire for me to be concerned,” you offered.

Gojo gasped and sat up in a whirlwind. “I never said I desired your concern! That's so salacious.”

“Is this because Getou spoke with me?” You asked, leaning back into your chair with a sigh.

“No!” He rebuked. “Maybe,” he said. “You better not be trying to win him over ‘cause you’re jealous.”

“I’m not interested in him,” you snapped. “I’m not interested in you.”

“Hmmm, sounds fake. Everyone loves me.”

“Right.”

“You think there’s any chance they’ll call off the engagement?”

“No.”

“Can’t you, like, look into the future and figure it out?”

You frowned and sent him a look. “What?”

Gojo swayed side to side, hands tucked in the middle of his criss-crossed legs like a kindergartener. “Isn’t that your thing?” He huffed. “Doing pre-op stuff, predicting future events, never really going out on missions ‘cause you’re low-key kinda weak in the field?” A ghoulish snicker left him. “I mean, you’re waaay weaker than me, so—”

“I don’t divine for myself,” you said, voice sharp and jagged. “I help avoid disasters. I help foresee assignment outcomes and the best way to move towards or away from them. I don’t—” You swallowed and caught your breath. “I don’t divine the fates of people.”

“Well, maybe you should,” Gojo said, sobering slightly. “I don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna do this, why don’t you just check and see how we can avoid it, huh? This is kind of a natural disaster in its own way.”

“It’s just an arrangement,” you rasped. “You’ll get over it.”

“I shouldn’t have to.” Gojo frowned in return. “I’m gonna be the strongest sorcerer in the world. I don’t have to settle for an arranged marriage.”

Your heart thudded dully in the back of your skull, its rising pace shaking the cage keeping it safe. Your throat tightened, too, while your thoughts warped and rippled into one another like your reflection, unable to stay whole under the devastation of falling rain, until you heard everything but nothing at once.

Your face must have done something strange for Gojo to look at you like you were a kicked puppy. You hated it, the way his expression flickered and the way his posture lost its self-righteous poise despite his childish way of sitting. He looked less-than. You didn’t mean to make him look that way.

“I—” He tried, but you raised a hand. He fell silent.

“I’ll look into it,” you said. “You’ll know if I find anything.”

If Gojo said anything more, you didn't hear it. You shut the rest of the world out and lost yourself in the positions of planets and the elements of each sorcerer available for future missions, comparing and contrasting the direction of energies to decide who would be best suited for which job. Losing your mind in the charts and data calmed your mind and spirit, easing you back down to an equilibrium until the sun rose again and you’d forgotten the turmoil of the hours before.

Morning already. You squinted looking out your window and closed the blinds with a quick snap. Right after the blinds settled, you heard a snore.

Gojo Satoru was asleep in your bed. His gangly arms hugged a pillow to his chest as he laid on his side, facing your way. The odd sight of peace on the younger sorcerer's face drew you in, bringing you close enough to get a good look at the snowy lashes resting against porcelain skin. He always looked odd to you, as though he were some kind of inhuman human, like an alien trying to put on the guise of your fellow terrans. But he was very much human; the glimpses caught of him during a distantly shared childhood proved as much.

I don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna do this, why don’t you just check and see how we can avoid it, huh?

You'd never tell him you already tried to divine that. You could never relay properly how your mind burned with ways to discount your work and force self-doubt into what you knew to be true time after time after time; you were going to marry him. There was no way out.

But there were still some things you could judge.

You sat down at your desk and skimmed through files until you happened upon Getou Suguru. Your heart hit your ribs a little faster, a little harder, as you found his birthdate and recognized his element as metal. It suited him. Gojo, on the other hand, held earth energy. That coupled with the more Western-normalized fire sign Sagittarius, explained him in a way that could be regarded as violating by those who didn't understand.

You rubbed your brows and squeezed your eyes closed until sparking colours and inky black splotches danced against your eyelids. Charting the stars, understanding people, contrasting energies and suggesting changes to ensure favourable outcomes—all were the culmination of onmyoudou, the ancient art that carved the path and existence for jujutsu, but people feared an onymoji’s ability to read people more than the destruction caused by sorcerers. Onmyoji helped empires move, assisted in bringing them good fortune and positive outcomes; they could foretell what a person should and shouldn’t do. Clairvoyance born from calculations, and the wielding of shikigami by those clairvoyants, reeked of power and the abuse of it.

Curiosity wrenched your eyes back open. You blinked away the stars and darkness until your vision and mind cleared enough to let you draw up a timeline of events and planets you’d already looked over a thousand times.

You frowned and double checked, triple checked, quadruple checked the facts after a first look. You glanced at birthdates again and again. You looked for anomalies in the calendar and cross-referenced your sources. All stayed the same, all were as they’d been five and sixty minutes ago—you were too good at your job to be wrong, yet you still always held out hope for errors and your own incompetency.

You leaned back in your chair and picked at a hangnail. You can always redirect energy for the sake of a client, you recalled; your mother had taught you as much. It might not be perfect, but we can try. You pulled at the sliver of skin until you gouged it out of your finger, leaving a bloody wound and a shred of relief in its wake.

You jumped as your door slid open to reveal Yaga. His train of thought stopped dead in its tracks as he spied the bratty Gojo curled up in your bed, snoozing without a care.

“What the hell is he doin’ here?” Your teacher groused.

“He came in to harass me, I guess,” you said. “Then apparently fell asleep when I started ignoring him.”

“Hah. Yeah, that kid can't function unless someone's giving him attention.” Your superior sighed and crossed his arms. “Anyway, you have those predictions?”

“Yeah, I—yeah, just one second.” You rubbed your eyes and begged the rest of your lifeforce to lock it in as you saved documents and compiled them in an email for all the higher-ups to view. Something about the process made your spine rattle; it must have been the fear of not CC-ing someone by accident. “Sent.”

Yaga checked his phone as it dinged. He took a moment to skim through the forecast and nodded, letting you stand impatiently before him.

“Looks like you touched on everything,” he said as he tucked his phone away. “Good job. Now get some rest, you look like shit.”

Yaga took his leave, and you stared at the oversized baby hogging your bed.

Rest. You nudged and pushed Gojo into the wall before collapsing beside him. Right.

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