#my heart is still cold and dead and really just....can not. but clips like these. yeah 1 degree of warmth returns to my heart

[blamemma]

daniel ricciardo, in baku, speaking about the buffalo bills victory over the miami dolphins | 📹

[reallyromealone]

Lost and found 2

Angst omegaverse male reader

🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑

"Sanzu" (name) said disinterested as Mikey, Sanzu and Ran stood outside of the apartment "(name)" he said back as Ran smiled "hello~" he greeted as they were best friends forever "you two can wait outside, I don't want you traumatizing my daughter" (name) said blankly and Sanzu glared but Mikey raised a hand to halt him and the pink haired man glared but complied.

"Take your shoes off" (name) said to him as they closed the door "let me get her, I don't want her surprised or anything" (name) grunted, Mikey watching the Omega walk to the livingroom and quietly talk to the toddler, her little voice mumbling back as it was early in the day, she just finished breakfast after all.

"Ok come" (name) said poking his head around the corner and Mikey tentatively stepped forward, heart racing and feet felt numb as (name) spoke so lovingly to their daughter "sweety, this is Manjiro.. he's your dad" the six year old looked confused as she tilted her head, obsidian eyes looked back at one another "hi..." Mikey said crouching before the little pup who looked at him shyly "hello..." She said back and Mikey felt his heart clench at how precious she was "I brought you something" Mikey said softly, a gift approved by (name) of course.

(Daughters name) looked curious at the gift, the little girl had been really getting into a kids show lately, a power rangers- like show.

She looked starry eyed and (name) cleared his throat and the girl looked at Mikey in realization "thank you!" She gave a little bow and accepted the toy "wanna see my others?" She asked taking his fingers in her tiny hand and Mikey smiled "sure" and let the pup lead him to her toys.

(Name) watched with a heavy heart as the two interacted, the pup shy but still played with her dad none the less.

'hes here for her, not for me' (name) reminded himself when the two locked eyes, this is all for (daughters name) and (name) would make sure she was cared for.

"Roaaar!" She squealed as she played dinosaurs with her dad, the blond smiling softly at how sweet she was "daddy! Look at my Dino!" (Name) smiled at his kid "very cool! What dini is it!"

"T-Rex!"

"Atta girl"

(Name) made sandwiches for the two of them, shaped like dinosaurs of course as that was (daughter name)s current fixation "thank you daddy" she ate her sandwich happily and Mikey noticed (name) hadn't eaten anything "aren't you gonna eat?" Mikey looked over his-- (name) worried and the other looked cold "I'm fine" voice clipped and icy, thankfully Mikey took the hint to drop it.

It was domestic, mikey and (daughters name)...

"So whaddya do?" (Daughters name) asked softly "daddy said you worked veeeeery far away" she looked so precious as she asked, Innocence radiating off if her as Mikey felt his heart break "I work in trade, I had to go for a long time"

(Name) went to the restroom at this time while Mikey continued "I'm sorry I had to be away but I'm here forever"

"Are you gonna be with daddy?"

"I'm working on that" Mikey loved his kid so much, the second he laid eyes on her he knew he would love her forever, his love for the two overflowing.

He didn't miss the hurt look on (name)s face, like he was holding back tears when he believed Mikey and (daughters name) weren't looking, the pain on his face all day.

"This was nice..." Mikey said softly and (name) looked cold at him as their pup had her nap "I want to see her again".

"Then we set ground rules"

"She doesn't go with you alone"

"She eats what I approve and she doesn't miss school unless it's *dire* and even then she is only picked up by me"

"And finally... She is never to be in your business, know about it or even catch a glimpse of it" (name) was dead serious as he stared at Mikey "we play by my rules, I'm not tolerating none of you're shit Sano"

(Name) was the only and will be the only person to get away with talking to him, the Omega finally letting Sanzu and Ran inside now that the pup was sound asleep "long time no see~" ran said merrily and (name) just looked uninterested in him "if you guys plan to follow him, there's rules"

(Name) explained the rules once more, ran pouting and Sanzu looked livid but didn't argue "and for the love of god, no drugs. Ever."

"If any of you pull her into your shit, there's no place on earth that will keep you safe from me" (name) didn't value his life the way he valued his daughters, no matter what she was first on his priority list and he made that clear with everyone.

"She has a schedule, on Saturdays she sleeps over at drakens, they work on bikes together and she's happy, we work around the set schedule" (name) looked done but didn't stop explaining his kids life and plans.

And Mikey listened to every word, taking it in.

The two made plans for the next meeting, until (name) deemed it ok, it would stay at (name)s house.

(Name) just hoped to fucking god that that asshole wouldn't bring his work to (name)s home.

[ragingbookdragon]

Sometimes you wonder if a man like Simon “Ghost” Riley is truly capable of such a thing as love. You’ve seen the man snap someone’s neck without a blink, inhale and unload a clip into an oncoming squad, exhale and keep going, seen him simply stare at the bodies of dead men, women, and children, unable to spare even a word of sympathy. How does a man like that even love?

You know he can though. Or at least have gone to great lengths to try and prove that he isn’t in fact as cold as he seemingly believes he is. His heart’s numb, very numb, but it isn’t dead. He perhaps wishes it was, but nevertheless, there were still things that actually made his heart beat.

He reminds you a lot of the song “Patience” by Take That. You even told him once over reminiscing old 2000s hits in the drive back to base after a night out. You’d even played the song for him and in all his sullen silence, Simon Riley sat in the backseat, wedged up against the door with one of your thighs draped over his, listening to you belt out the lyrics with Soap and Gaz doing back-up vocals. Uncomfortable seemed to be the only term he could use to describe how it felt to be so easily seen by your eyes. You aren’t all that complicated, Simon. You’re just healing from a lifetime of heartache.

Simon “Ghost” Riley is not a heartbroken man. Sure, he’s rough, cold, maybe broken mentally somehow, but he is not “broken hearted”. But he is, isn’t he? That ache that makes him grind his teeth, and he can never really tell if it’s anger or longing that makes him feel so, but there is something about seeing people living easy lives, loving so easily that makes him some semblance of bitter. But he is healing from a lifetime of heartache, isn’t he? His dad, his mom, Tommy, Joseph, all of them. Every one of them is like a lash against his heart that drains the blood and emotion from the organ, wraps it in a cage of frigid bone that he tucks so far down inside him, he’s lost the key.

But maybe you’re the key? Your smile that makes his chest feel a funny lightness, a laugh that brightens the room, a heart that never seems to break from anything, yet manages to overflow enough care and affection that it seems impossible. Simon couldn’t take losing you. You’re a bit careless sometimes. Barely escaping by the skin of your teeth. Too many close calls. He doesn’t really know how he’d manage to survive you. Sometimes, he’s too scared to even think of life without you two doors down the hall at base.

He listens to you in your room a lot. The walls aren’t very thick. You really like 2000s alternative—he hates it, speaks to him too much. How many times can I break till I shatter? Over the line, can’t define what I’m after. I always turn the car around. All that I feel is the realness I’m faking. Taking my time, but it’s time that I’m wasting. No amount of pulling a pillow through his head will get your voice out of his brain. Somehow it feels so much more powerful when it’s not the singer’s voice in his head, but yours.

It ends up with him at your door at 0300, rambling, unable to make a truly coherent thought that explains why this 230 pound, killing machine is about to have an anxiety attack. And that, ends up with him hunkered down in your bed, under your covers, wrapped in your arms. It’s downright dangerous to dally with frat regs, but nothing has ever felt so right, so good, so healing, than listening to your heartbeat in his ear. The vibrations from your vocal cords begin luring him to sleep. Technically another old song, but 2012 wasn’t too long ago. I won’t give up on us. God knows I’m tough enough. We’ve got a lot to learn. God knows we’re worth it.

He falls asleep with his head to your chest, your humming in his ears, and for once in a long time, Simon “Ghost” Riley remembers what it’s like to look up.

[aritsukemo]

So, I started watching Hell's Paradise..

IT'S. SO. FREAKING. GOOD!!! ( Ramble under the cut! Spoilers and possible grammar mistakes ahead!!! )

I'm only on, like, episode seven, but I'm really enjoying myself!!!

Starting off with my boy, my man, my loverboy nonchalant Gabimaru!! His design immediately drew me in the first episode and I find his writing very good so far. A man, who was grown and groomed into being this emotionless killing machine only to dream of going completely against that all because of his love for his wife? SIGN ME UP!! I love how conflicted he is and how much those conflictions are weighing on him. How, because of how he was raised and what has happened to him, he's been treading this line and constantly tipping over the edge of "I'm a heartless, empty killer who's only purpose is to kill" and "I want to live a peaceful, normal life with the one I love/I don't want to kill anymore". The symbolism, how his character's portrayed, those small moments of vulnerability that shows how he differs from your typical cold killer and is actually just this morally broken guy who was raised/influenced by an actual monster; the head chief. ( Who, by the way, is literal nightmare fuel. I don't usually get creeped out easily by stuff in anime's, but the way Mappa went about drawing him is just..terrifying.. )

OH, AND HIS FIGHTING IS MMMM SO ADDICTING TO WATCH!! >.<

Next up is Yamada Asaemon Sagiri, or Sagiri for short. I want to first off get it out of the way by say that she's drop dead gorgeous. Imean, look at her!! No seriously, look-

As someone who absolutely adores strong female characters, it was no surprise that I fell in love with her! She reminds me a lot of Yona as she goes against what the norm was at the time and decided to become a swordsman despite everyone telling her she's better suited as a wife and mother simply because of the fact that she's a woman. ( Which irked me every. single. time. it was brought up btw ) I love how the author is going about her and how she struggles because she feels guilt for even the most evil of people simply because she's an empath--something that is often considered a womanly trait in the eyes of the people, especially men, of that time--but doesn't go too far with it and make her seem weak and useless because of those struggles. I like that, even though she hesitates and sometimes gets help from others ( mostly from Gabi from what I've seen so far ), she gets the job done and doesn't sit there and call for help like some damsel in distress and actually uses her strength!!

My love for her was explained pretty simply in episode six when Genji pointed out how she has the talent to be able to flip flop between being dominant and powerful like a man, but still holds the sense of gentleness and care one would only find in the heart of a woman. I love that quality about her in the same sense I love Mitsuri Kanroji's quality of being able to be cheery, feminine, and delicate despite being involved in such a 'manly' and grizzly job that being a demon slayer is.. AHHH IDK HOW TO EXPLAIN IT ANY FURTHER, I JUST HOPE YOU GET WHAT I MEAN!!

Next up is the vixen, Yuzuriha of Keishu. I haven't seen much of her yet, but I love her design and overall appeal. Although, she puts up this front of being this carefree, seductive airhead, you can tell there's just so much more to her and can't wait to see it. ( Although I feel like when she does show her true colors, it'll be when she finally betrays Gabimaru and Sagiri like she implied she would.. )

( Also this little stunt she pulled in this clip had me in a chokehold for a hot minute. Like MMMMM LOVE IT WHEN HOT WOMEN DO HOT WOMEN THINGS!! )

Toma and Chōbei are next up! When I first saw Chōbei, of course my mind immediately went to, "Oh shit, it's bakugo!" lmao- His fighting style is cool and his backstory is heartbreaking. Past that though, I'm undecided whether I like him or not..

Like, his backstory was tragic and had me feeling bad as a sad backstory would. It was also amazing in the sense that it gave me more understanding on why he became the way he did and how his mentality was shaped because of it. I find it cool that he has a knack of adapting to any situation too! ..And that's also why I'm so conflicted when it comes to him..

That leads me to bring up Toma, who I immediately fell in love with as soon as I saw his character design. ( I have a thing for men/boys with long hair, mkay? Don't judge me.. ) I haven't really wrapped my head around his character yet ( like his brother ) but it's obviously that he sorta idolizes Chōbei, so much to the point that he didn't hold any gripes towards him when he thought he was going to leave him for dead--which is my main dislike about Chōbei right now.

But yeah, if I had the chance, I'd still date them no questions asked- *smack*

I find Gantetsusai and Fuchi funny and cute together and overall find a good so far. I especially like Fuchi. He's a quirky little guy 😚

( And this height difference kills me. Like LOOK AT HOW LITTLE FUCHI ISSS )

And finally, we have Nurugai and Tenza, who is ranking up to be my 2nd favorite pair in this entire show! Putting aside that Nurugai literally evokes my gender envy, I love her and Tenza both individually and together! I love Tenza's kind soul, how he scouted out Nurugai because he wanted to help her after finding out why she was sentenced to death row! I find it such a highlight of his character and it makes me love the contrast between his brighter self when compared to Nurugai, who's more gloomy and has been traumatized into adapting this matured mindset.

Bonus points for being the only two to not immediately get into it with each other when on the island as well! It really was a breath of fresh air! Oh, an extra points for making me smile like an idiot- 🥰

So far I'm in love with this show! Idk yet where it falls on my anime rankings, but it's definitely high enough up there to spur me to write a drabble or five about this show! Can't wait to watch more in my spar time!!

[floydstruly]

fallin’, fallin’, frozen, slowly.

synopsis: ice skater au featuring you and the tweels! a short birthday special I wanted to do for them

cw. none! as always, this is not proofread!! but also, reader wears hair clips in jade’s part (?) if you’re worried about that also jade calls the reader princess oopsies??

note. working on my requests I swear ^__^ also!! thank you to platinum jacket floyd for coming home I have all the birthday floyd cards now <33 (blatant floyd bias)

pairing: floyd leech x gn!reader / jade leech c gn!reader

Floyd Leech as the most snarky, smug captain of a hockey team. He’s prideful, almost too prideful you’d say. He’s loud and rowdy, just like the rest of his team, you hate him, you hate him to all hell.

You, on the other hand, are a figure skater, with the misfortune of sharing an ice rink with Floyd. 

Whenever he watches you practise, he cheers you on, but in a way that makes you embarrassed, in a way that makes your face red, in a way that makes you just wish he was dead already. 

To him, it’s friendly banter, to you, it’s mocking. 

Before he knows it, he falls in love with you, it’s hard not to, with all the time you spend together. But really, you wouldn’t dream of dating him. So every time he confesses or asks you out on a date, you refuse. He takes it as a challenge.

A sharp turn, a twirl–the thin fabric of your sparkly costume does no favours to keep yourself warm. Though, on the contrary, you’ve never felt more alive. Your cheeks puff out, red, your body cutting through the cold wind as you land, the blades of your skates shaving off the ice into little shards when you halt to an abrupt stop. There’s clapping, whistling, and hollering in the distance, then, a familiar–annoying–shrill voice cheering for you.

There is no mistaking it, really, it was hard to do in the first place. Floyd Leech, the insufferable captain of the local hockey team. You scoff at the title though, it’s not like they’re very well known–and yet, they play with so much vigour every time you spare a glance at them.

You hate the hockey team, they’re loud, they’re rowdy and on the off chance that they show up to practise before you, they ruin the ice. Floyd is no exception, actually, he may be the one you hate most, chaotic. He’s the embodiment of chaos–the complete opposite to your composure. 

You heaved a long sigh, still out of breath as you took a bow for the judges–your eyebrows furrowing when you were forced off the ice and met with those two mismatched eyes. His lanky body blocks your way, his arm leans against the exit. 

“What do you want? You’re early today.” you ask, arms crossed and not even bothering to look him in the eyes. Yes, he was early today, usually, he’d come a couple minutes later, your practice wasn’t even close to finished yet, “you’ve come to annoy me, is that it?”

“No!” he insists quickly, for a moment, he almost seems hurt. That would never be the case, you know better–he laughs after his initial response and backtracks with that smug smile on his face. One that you would do anything to wipe off. “Well, yes! I always do that, y’know that already, shrimpy. That’s besides the point.”

“Then get to the point.”

“You’re always so mean!” he whines, how childish–you can only roll your eyes, with nothing left to say, you try to leave and slip out of the small free space by his side. He’s quick to block your way, it’s not hard, he’s so freakishly tall.

“Hey! I have something to say!” 

“I gave you a chance to say it.” you dodge when he tries to hug you, nearly slipping on the ice. God, how embarrassing. 

He plays the hero, he catches you just barely as you are falling. The air is knocked out of your lungs, your eyes find anywhere else to look at but him–he would be the last person that you would expect to help you. Yet, there you are, your cheeks red from the cold and your heart pounding in your eyes from the adrenaline. You look him in the eyes.

“Hah! You’re real pretty like that.” he pulls you up, perhaps with a little too much strength because he falls over too, your head lands on his chest. You can hear the gentle thump of his heart. 

“Let's go on a date!” he says abruptly, “yeah, I just remembered what I wanted to say just now.”

“On a date?” you look up at him, his arm still wrapped around you. It’s warm now, yet, your cheeks are still red, not from the temperature, but from something else, something new, something you refuse to admit. 

“Go to hell!” you shuffle back onto your feet, or, you try to, the ground is still slippery–you’re still in your skates. You fall back onto him.

He only laughs, “I’ll take that as a yes!”

Jade Leech as a figure skater, your upperclassman, someone who you admire. He’s always so graceful, elegant, calculated with the way he moves his body.

He practises with you frequently, only because you catch him when he is headed on the ice and soon, it becomes a friendship, then something that’s borderline partnership when he decides he wants to skate with you as a partner. 

When you watch him practise, you’re always mesmerised, even more so when you are there with him, close to him, he’s almost within your grasp.

He’s cheeky, teases you. But it’s fine, you suppose, you get to see a side of him that very few get to see. Something sincere underneath that mask of his, that always cold wall that separates him and the rest of the world, save for a select few people.

Your heartbeat drowns it out. Everything, the judges watching the two of you intently, the clash of your skates against the ice, his breath against your skin–it’s warm, the only thing that keeps you in reality while you are in his arms dancing an elaborate waltz on ice. The music plays, you make a couple missteps, you can’t help it. He’s gorgeous.

The gentle sway of his body as he guides your amateurish steps into the routine. You really don’t even care that you are being graded on this performance nor the fact that you are embarrassing yourself. At least you think you are. He looks down at you with such a gentle smile, you nearly forget everything you’ve learnt. 

Then the music ceases with one final beat, he stands beside you, his body in a deep bow–you can barely see him breathing. Meanwhile, you are trying to catch your breath frantically. Only now, do you see the distance in skill between the two of you. Not that you mind, it gives you more time to spend with him, look at him, at those fascinating eyes of his. 

“Good work today.” he says, he’s already back into his regular running shoes, as you fumble back onto the ground outside the ice rink–clumsily, still in your godforsaken skates, his soothing voice snaps you out of your thoughts. 

“What?” you look around, there’s no one else he could be referring to, still, you think you’ve done far from ‘good’, maybe mediocre or bad would be the right word to describe it, “me?”

“Yes, you.” he places his hand on your cheek, it’s still cold. You notice, but you don’t flinch, he’s always cold. He always seems distant, in another world, one that you can’t reach, one that keeps you so infatuated with him. Everything about him seems almost otherworldly. He carries himself with such refined movements.

He ruffles your hair, undoing all the knots and hair clips that you put in earlier. The accessories fall out of place and onto the floor. He laughs, his usually gentle–yet, never over the top smile is broken, he seems human again, if not, only just for a fleeting moment.

“Hey!” you chase after him as he runs away from you, kicking away all your hair clips all over the place. Of course, you don’t catch him, you fall face flat onto the floor when the blades of your skates slip. 

“Oh my.” he’s still laughing, hysterically–or, as hysteric as he can get. He helps you up, almost like a prince would a princess and you swear your heart skips a beat. Perhaps he notices too, because he kisses the back of your hand. 

“Are you okay, my princess?” 

“Oh, shut up!” you push him away, despite enjoying the moment, a part of you doesn’t want to admit it. But you know that he knows, he knows every little detail about you.

“Now, now, that isn’t any way to speak to an upperclassman.” he brings himself closer to you, closer, and closer–close enough to give you a kiss on the lips. Of course, he doesn’t, he sweeps you off your feet and holds you in place.

You squeeze your eyes shut, there’s something faint on your cheek, it lingers for quite a while–his lips.

“Now you’ve done it!” before you know it, you are chasing him again, falling–head over heels again.

[naffeclipse]

I did a Luce and dedicated a whole day to reading and going insane over chapter 20, and I’m so happy I did that. The brainrot is so strong. SO STRONG!!!!!!

And this chapter was AMAZING!!!!! Here I am again with some of my favorite bits, all of the chapter is my favorite bit,, it’s so hard to choose a few.. Enjoy my screaming, there’s a lot hjgafbjghfk

The chapter bits are pink this time~

This is not the scene they want to be caught in, standing still in the middle of a room, trapped in a circle of salt, surrounded by heartless corpses and their spilled blood.

Deer caught in the headlights fr jfhagkjlfghdfkl

This is actually a terrifying image. Imagine seeing a tall animatronic in a circle of salt, smiling and staring at you in the middle of a bloody room filled with dead broken bodies. Absolutely terrifying.

The presence of a powerful being akin to their own is tearing at the edges of their mind, taunting them. It could reach you, first.

I’m sorry to break it to ya buddy.. you’re a little too late…

The urge runs along the thin endoskeleton of their vessel, simmering and sharp. It would be swift. Her heart would taste of wicked sweetness.

They made a vow.

This is your friend.

Can I just say, they’re terrifying. They’re so strong and powerful and if they had not made that vow so many people would still be on their menu. The fact that they’re still thinking about it is very scary. But them not acting at all upon those urges and keeping them inside shows how much they care and are willing to change.

I praise their animalistic behaviors a lot but it is one of my favorite parts about them. It’s shined through throughout the whole story but now when the secret is out they’ve turned completely animal. An urge running through, simmering and sharp, makes me think of a predatory animal opening its eyes wide and raising its fur, ready to strike. They’re a monster at their core, but a monster that is willing to change for the better.

“We need to speak to them.” Moon tilts his head. The end of his nightcap spills over his shoulder. Her eyes slide to the patches, her dry, bleeding lips parting in silent surprise. “Where are they?”

The mentioning of the patches nearly made me cry..

A slice of starlight catches on something tucked away in the dirt. Peering down, Moon slowly crouches. He extends the vessel’s fingers until they grasp your black hair clip, stained in a purple fluid.

I love this little trinket so much! It’s tiny but it carries so much meaning, so for them to just find it on the discarded ground like that with purple goo on it is heartbreaking!

"Why do you call them that? Heart . That’s morbid.”

I never really thought about it, but yea it is pretty morbid actually… without context it can sound really, leeeeeally bad coming from a demon, even worse so from a literal heart eater.

After an attempted exorcism, he’ll seek to restore his strength.

He’s hungry. There are children close by.

Live Meep reaction: NOOOO!! NOOOOO PLEASE!!! NOT THAT!!!!

A prickle of black tears emerges in the corner of her eyes. She shudders a deep breath.

Just thinking about how you described the empty animatronic still filled with demonic goo back in the vampire episode.. I don’t wanna know how bad Vanessa’s insides look right now..

“We’re their sweetie.”

Hehe, yes they areee! ❤️

“He used you too often, pushed your body too hard,” they mutter.

“Yeah… yeah.” She coughs once and wipes black ink from the corner of her mouth.

Vanessa needs a spa day, no a spa week, no a spa YEAR! I’d give her a lifetime to recover from these horrors, if you even can fully recover..

“Glitchtrap needs to eat soon,” she whispers.

A cold flash overtakes their body. You, and your caring, strong hands, cannot be used for harm.

Live Meep reaction: NO NO NOOOOO DAMNIT PLEASE NO!!! LET Y/N’S HANDS STAY CLEAN FROM CHILDREN'S BLOOD, I BEG YOU!!!!!!

Also them thinking of Y/N’s hands as ‘strong’ melts me,,

They don’t need more reasons to split this demonic cryptid in half but they kindly include this.

SJDHDFSLKJGHDFGJKLADHFKLGJADHFGK

Anguish ripple. They mourn without words. A silent howl rips through their being but there is no release from the cresting hurt.

More animalistic behavior! They’re crying!!! I NEED TO GIVE THEM A HUG!!!!!

“I took off the seal trapping Glitchtrap in this ruined rabbit endoskeleton. He escaped, and I fought him—a fire started. I tried to bury both of us in the rubble, but he took me.”

LORE!!! THE LOREEEE!!!! This is so damn cool! How you’re tying in the happenings at the pizzaplex and the rest of the fnaf lore later in this chapter is so perfect!! It all makes sense!!

While we’re on the lore, the bits with the other demons and them having a go at getting Glitchtrap is just MUAH CHEFS KISS!!!

In seconds, Sun is beside her, swinging the backpack in one hand and all of its lethal contents.

Just Sun holding the backpack in which there are weapons and tools specialized to kill beings just like him is such a powerful visual to me!

The encounter with Y/N is so insane!! The silence is just as loud as Sun’s demands for Glitchtrap to let go of the kid. And that poor kid! :’0

They tremble in your rejection, but this isn’t you. Your melodious cords do not echo in this tone— you haven’t said a word yet.

I LOVE THIS. SO MUCH.

“You haven’t torn my vessel apart yet,” your voice muses coldly. “I do concede that they hold certain charms . You almost tasted them.”

Oh god he saw all that!? NOOOO!!! Also aaaa,,, “you almost tasted them” is such a haunting way to put it… Can’t a demon have nice memories of cuddling their human without getting reminded of how close their teeth were to their heart!

“I spent time with a human once.” Your hand lifts. Dark goo emerges from the pores of your flesh, forming a wicked dark claw over your index finger that shimmers violet in the direct sunlight. Pain pulses in your skin. “He was earnest.”

LORE LOOOORE!!! But also a FUCKING DEMON CLAW!!?!?!??

they grip you tighter but no less gently.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! GENTLE!!!!!

A decision solidifies in the face of your dear friend. You look at them and hope.

“We will take care of the scary thing,” they whisper in dark cords of promise.

Your gripped heart swells.

There it is again!! The line that will never get old!! And oh man I knew what was about to happen after this, idk how but I saw it coming from a mile away!

Eclipse seizes you wholly. Their teeth press to your mouth in a monstrous kiss. A jolt of shock electrifies Glitchtrap. You merely stare, absorbing the far-away sensation of their presence. They move closer. An inky tongue slips between your parted lips and into your mouth. Pressing entirely into your face, melting against your skin, your eyelids, and the bridge of your nose, another power arrives within you.

THERE IT IS!!!! AGAIN IDK HOW I KNEW IT WAS COMING!!! But hey actually, how else do you get a demon out without an exorcism than simply forcing it out by taking its spot! It makes sense why I saw it coming! Oh man how all of this is written too aaaAAAAAA!!! *dies <3*

Glitchtrap must be sooo confused KJDFHGKDFJ I know he’s supposed to be there, in charge and able to stop it all. but in this moment it’s only Eclipse and Y/N. From the moment they took Y/N’s face in their hands there was a shift. Idk if it was intentional, but I felt it.

WRETCHED PAAHLOTT FOLLOWER! HOW DARE YOU—

JKFHGKDLJFHGSAFJKGHDJKHDFG SHUT YOUR UGLY MOUTH!! XD

Glitchtrap clings to your every piece. His claws sink deep into your flesh and latch harder, resisting the tug-war. Eclipse rips and tears, prying off his grip with teeth and claws.

The are two wolves inside you skjfhsakjfhdfk

Ok so the double possession is soooo beautifully written. It’s hard to find words to describe it, I’m stunned. The very beginning of it alone is GORGEOUS!!

We’re here.

The brief and overwhelming burst of ecstasy becomes burning, tearing, stretching pain. Glitchtrap shrieks. A howl of indignation roars. Fury implodes, impacting the very walls of your cage.

Hold on.

And then the fight within! Y/N joining Eclipse in the tug-war, the bursting blood vessels, Glitchtrap clinging to stay in control, sinking his claws into flesh. Just aaaAAAA!!!!!

And then the embrace once they’re all out aaaaaa!!!!!!

The whole fight!! OH MY GOD IT’S SO GOOD!!!!! I NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND HOW NOT NORMAL I AM ABOUT YOUR FIGHT SCENES!!!!

You are a simple mouse between giants, watching force and power emit in ancient beings who have slaughtered more than you can imagine.

HOLY FUCK!!! ❤️❤️❤️

There are so many injured knees suddenly! Give the knees a break!! (Oh god,, no pun intended,, I swear,,)

Scarlet and deep blue horns and frills cut through the air, arms splayed. A resounding roar fills the entire forest, startling birds and creatures through the distant foliage. You hunch in on yourself in the bellowing war cry.

The roars get me every time. THEY’RE SUCH A MONSTER I LOVE THEM!

Eclipse’s head rears and bites deep into the meaty flesh of Glitchtrap’s shoulder. A howl nearly ruptures your eardrums before he cuts down across Eclipse’s face, raking over one crimson eye that becomes dark and goo-dripping. Falling back, Glichtrap leaps quickly, his movement swift and precise. Eclipse is less graceful, balancing on a horribly bent knee.

They’re so broken already and then he takes one of their beautiful eyes!!! And again with the knee! Why the knees!!! AAAAA!! :’0

They lift their heavy head, staggering upright. One crimson eye searches wildly and finds you. The dread laid over their mouth injects cold water into your veins. The wound in their stomach splits, reaching to their side where the crushing force was dealt. Your eyes widen at their slowed reflex.

Live Meep reaction: I’m just screaming and crying. Just screaming and crying on the floor.

Panic bursts in your heart. Lifting his hand from your neck, claws flex before sinking into your chest, tearing through your flesh as if it were little more than wet clay. Pain ribbons through your body. You scream. The merciless claws dig deeper, nearly cutting to the bone of your sternum. The attack is careful, and deliberate, just enough to leave you alive.

GET YOUR DIRTY CLAWS OUT OF OUR PRECIOUS Y/N YOU HORRENDOUS ABOMINATION!!!

Eclipse looms above the violet-fur monster. Four arms strike hard and fast into the flesh of his arms, cutting deep. Fury unlike you have ever seen flashes in one crimson eye. The earth-shaking bellow that erupts from your dear friend explodes with righteous anger and retribution.

Monster. They’re a monster. They’re our monster.

I wanna draw something from this fight, so, SOOOO BADLY!!!!!!

“Release me! Release me before I tear you apart!” Glitchtrap shrieks, strictly contained in the stuffed animal. A brief thought crosses your mind that this might have been funny at any other point in time.

GHDFLKJGHDFJKGHDFLKJGHDLFKJHADJFKGL That brief thought wasn’t so brief for me, I have the squeakiest little voice in my head for him XD

That’s such a good and honestly comical death for him, I LOVE IT! It’s something that can be laughed over for once! Also the fact that he couldn’t be defeated by just a human or just a demon, but with the help of both, is so just, perfect!

Eclipse rumbles once.

“He’s defeated.” Palms lovingly squeeze your shoulders.

Just the hands, the hands on the shoulders. I’m weak! Also the rumble, rumbles are important to me,,

"Okay,” you whisper, and the dam breaks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have believed you but I broke my promise. I thought I knew cryptids and I thought I knew you, then you changed my entire world. I want to know you better. I want to learn more about cryptids. Eclipse, I care so much about you. I’m trying to be brave. I’m trying to be brave enough to tell you that I’m scared to lose you.”

There it is, there it is. I’m trying to not just write *sobs* even though that’s what I did while reading this part and what is after it. Them finally holding each other, seeing each other and making their vows. Both so broken and exhausted. Just aaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

“Afternoon, Sunny,” you smile despite your weakness.

“Good afternoon, sunshine,” he returns, voice buoyed but tense with concern.

Like nothing ever happened dfasjhagjk aw Sunny beloved :’)

You need to tell her about all of your cryptid sightings, and the one that you missed before they revealed themselves.

A real roll credits moment right there I must say jhgfdkfhgjakdf Idk why seeing ‘cryptid sightings’ gave me such a strong reaction but I’m not complaining X3

Maybe your love for cryptids never entirely left your ribcage. You always had an inkling for something more out there, something unexplainable, and you might just have found it.

You will take care of the scary thing, and the scary thing will take care of you.

I’m CRYING!!!!

NAFF!! I’M TACKLING YOU AND RATTLING YOU SO LOVINGLY!!

I’m so happy I planned a whole day to just do nothing but read and go insane over this chapter, cause I NEEDED IT!!

I’m diving straight into the epilogue tomorrow, I’m saving my emotional outburst until after I’m finished reading it all! For now I am hugging you so tight and thanking you for yet another absolutely amazing chapter!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Meep, I am rattling you so hard in return, ahhh! You have been such a great supporter of the fic and all of your lovely cryptid boy designs and art have fueled my writing so much, I hope you know that ♥ I also adore your comments and reactions, especially when the boys get to really be monsters!!!

Thank you so much for reading, babe *mwah*

[peakdeer]

Ello! :D your post intrigued me and I’ve had this hc rattling around in my brain since Witchcraft smp started and I’ve wanted to share but I’ve never had the opportunity.

Ok here it goes. When Scott did the magic thing to try to bring the person he want to back back from the dead it summoned Lady Death (which is Mumza cause she is literally death and I hold her in a vice grip). This ruffles her feathers quite a lot and she starts going oof at him, saying how foolish he is for trying to bring someone back from the dead and such. He then explains to her is his reason to why he did it and beg her to bring his love back. Though it is still a foolish endeavor, her heart is softened by his pleas due to her understanding his pain but can’t just bring people back to life; however she does give him the ability to perform the magic needed to back his love back from the dead. In exchange however, Scott has to give a piece of his soul to her and when he dies his soul is forfeit. He accepts and after a very painful handshake she give him the power of necromancy. This left him with stark white hair also she straight up took a piece of his soul and dipped. He later dyed it black cause it gave him a bad feeling but when he does really powerful magic it will turn a lock of his hair white. I have a n e e d to give every single one of my Scott designs a lock of white. Idk why I just think it looks cool :3

Sorry for the block of text, I am quite excited

Scott wasn’t sure how he’d messed up the spell. It was supposed to bring him back—not whoever this woman with the black hair and the fancy hat and the long dress was. He kind of wished he could send her back now—she’d started ranting at him the instant she appeared, and she hadn’t stopped since.

It wasn’t like it was anything new. It was the same thing he’d heard from the townsfolk in his old village, and the same thing he’d heard from everyone else who knew what he was trying to do. “You can’t bring some one back from the dead, Scott! That’s wrong! You’re upsetting the balance, Scott! You’re so selfish, Scott, dragging them back! That’s weird. You’re creepy. Everyone else who did that suffered worse. What, do you think you’re better than them, Scott?”

And you know what? Scott didn’t care. He didn’t care anymore! None of it mattered!

He just wanted him back.

At least he’d done something right to summon this… woman? She had wings, actually, now that he noticed. Perhaps she was an avian?

Oh well. He flipped through his book, trying to find out how to send her away. Her stature left him feeling dwarfed, and he hated feeling small. He also hated being scolded like he was a child.

If only his stupid book would tell him how to get rid of her!

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” The woman’s voice was clipped, clearly annoyed. Scott glanced up at her once before turning back to his book. He needed to send her away now—

“I said—“ a cold presence strayed his throat, stealing his breath. His eyes darted to the woman—she was clearly more than an avian, more powerful than him even. He—he wasn’t sure if he could send her away. “Are you listening?”

“I am now.” Scott snapped, though it sounded more whiny than he’d meant it to, as if he were a little child being scolded by his mother again.

“What are you doing? You’ve got a circle and everything, do you know how dangerous those are? You could bring back something a whole lot worse than me—” She ranted, waving her arms as if to illustrate her point.

“I’m trying to bring someone back, obviously.” Scott answered her, annoyed. Clearly she already knew what he was doing, so why waste her words? He didn’t regret it. Not at all. Not when it could bring him back.

“You shouldn’t. Life and death is something to be taken very seriously, not with this callous sort of carelessness you’re giving it. Those who die do so in their time, and those who live do so in their time.” She sighed, her eyes piercing into his soul. “People can be brought back,” She admitted guardedly. “At great cost—with the disruption of the balance. It’s not smart, though—you’re still young, you still have life left. When you die, you’ll be reunited. But isn’t it worth it to live, even without him? To have your time above the surface?” She beseeched him.

“I know that. I know—I do!  I’ve heard it all before. But I can’t—I have to bring him back! I have to. I can’t… I can’t live without him.” Scott’s calm voice was quickly falling apart, his vulnerabilities laid more plain than he’d ever cared to have them be before—more than he’d ever even let him see.

“If you know, then why are you asking?” Her face looked hard as stone before she sighed, and the sharp lines of her face softening. “No, I know why. I can’t, though. Well, I could—but I won’t. There is more at work than you understand, little mortal.” Her tone was soft, but the hard truth in it hurt. He couldn’t give him up. Not yet! He’d barely even tried yet!

“Please. You’re clearly affiliated with death—couldn’t you help me?” He pleaded, all his dignity left to rot in the wake of this one chance, this one person who could bring him back when Scott couldn’t.

“I’d love to help you—I would—it’s not like I’ve never done it before—but that’s not how life is supposed to work. It throws off the balance, and doing it once was quite enough. I can’t risk any more.”

His eyes are wide and pleading, the absence of anything but desperation—a human brought to their last reserves, and, if she was reading his trembling correctly, to his knees also. Pity bloomed in her heart for the small, sniveling creature before her. She’d always been too soft on the mortals.

“…I suppose I could do something. But—no—don’t look at me like that. I can’t do it. That would destroy the balance. But… you could. For a price.”

She tilted her head, eyes scanning the human. This wasn’t smart—giving power over death to a mortal? It was unheard of, and decidedly stupid.

But it could work.

And wasn’t she willing? He’d keep trying even if she said no, anyway, and it’s not like she could (or would) take him before his time.

“I don’t give power freely, and I give favours even less so. Had you not managed to summon me, I never would have done this. Nevertheless—I can give you the power to bring things back from the dead, and to kill them again. It will take practice. Control. Effort. It will take more from you than it gives, and every spell will come at a price. But, one day—one day it can bring him back. If it does depends on you, and how far you’re willing to go. Would you risk that—for him? Would you accept that?” She extended the offer cautiously, eyes searching his expression for any sort of greed. She found none.

The human straightened. He still looked shaky—still looked afraid—still looked hopeless. But he was trying, bless his little heart, to look brave. His expression was determined, resolute; his mind already made up. “Yes,” He agreed, his voice clearly shivering but strong enough to be sure.

“Good, because there’s more. I don’t only have to worry about the balance—the other gods would have a fit if they found out, and I can’t have that, not after… Well, you don’t need to know. I have to make this look like I need you—and for that, I need your soul.”

“You need… my soul.” The mortal spoke slowly, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the words.

“Yes. Just a piece—though it’ll all be mine when you die—relax, I’m not a bad goddess. You’ll be fine. You don’t have to take the deal, though—only if you want the power. Only if you want him back that much.” He seemed to take her words as a challenge, as if she were accusing him of not caring enough. Whatever reservation he had left vanished, and his face set into hard lines.

“Yes. Yes, whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.” His voice was made of the same steel, his decision set. He would not be changing his mind anytime soon. And if he did—when he did—it would be too late.

“Then take my hand.” She stretched it out almost nonchalantly, her fingers hanging daintily in the air, dangling as if moved by an invisible wind. After all—some of the most dangerous things could be the most beautiful, the most inviting.

The mortal reached his hand out, and took it—a mistake, but one she could forgive. Wouldn’t she have done the same thing?

She saw the moment it hit him, the dark power racing up his hand, into his bloodstream, towards his head. Always towards the head, and then the heart. It was a gift, not a curse, though you might call it one. Curses went for the heart first.

She watched him fall, the power all too much for his small, sensitive little body, and unable to cope with that little something extra—his debt.

That little piece of soul.

She was sure, as she watched him shiver and convulse, that she’d take good care of it. He wouldn’t have to worry about that.

Scott heaved himself up off the floor, clutching his hand to his chest. Not that it mattered—the pain was in his whole body, equally miserable everywhere. He staggered around the room before his fingers hit the wall, which he gratefully leaned on for balance.

He glanced around, perplexed to see that the Death Goddess was no longer here. Though, he couldn’t be too surprised—deities go as they please, and she’d already gotten what she wanted.

But he had also gotten what he wanted. Or, almost. He had to learn how to, but… he could bring him back. He could! He just had to…

He stormed out of the room in a fury, ignoring the raging pain that caused. He had to get started, had to start studying—he wanted him back as soon as possible. He’d figure out how to do it, and nothing, nothing would stop him.

He nearly walked right past the mirror before he noticed it. Just a flash in his peripheral vision—something white?

He turned, looking at the mirror with a perplexed expression. His reflection looked back at him with the same expression, the same pale-set face and long robes, the same green eyes and… black…

Why was part of his hair white?

He hurried to the mirror, his hand already reaching up and tugging at it. Why was his hair white? His hair was black, and he was still young. None of it should be white!

Had he spilled something on it? Maybe cast a wrong spell? Perhaps—

A wrong spell.

Scott gasped a little, his hand falling to his mouth.

She’d done this. She’d left him a little mark, just enough to remind him of this deal and what he’d agreed to.

Just enough to haunt him.

He stood there staring for a long time until he moved.

He didn’t have time for this. He finally had the power to bring him back and he wasn’t going to waste it on something this silly.

He shot his reflection a dark look as he walked away. He’d just have to dye his hair back later.

The color didn’t match at all.

And if he was honest… it unnerved him. He hated owing people things; it made him feel vulnerable.

And he owed Death herself his soul.

Perhaps he hadn’t thought this through.

No matter—it would all be worth it when Scott got him back.

[mask131]

All this talk about Satan got me going. There are two Silly Symphonies that stick out in my mind.

1929 Disney animated an entire short called Hells Bells and another was created during 1934 which was called The Goddess of Spring. It's like a cross between Greek and Judeo Christian beliefs if you take a look at it.

Persephone's husband is basically Old Scratch.

Oh I knew of Hells Bells! Sweet memories :)

Now the Goddess of Spring I vaguely knew of, because I saw the thumbnails here and there (and some pictures were used in Lanal del Rey's fan made video clips). I just decided to watch it due to your ask, and this is fascinating because this actually proves further a point I was making.

Aka how Disney pushed the envelope when it came to confusing Hades with the devil, and have doing that since 1934!

And we went from the myth of Persephone being reinterpreted as the devil stealng away the spirit of spring:

... to the Hercules movie where Hades is a stand-in for Satan. I mean just look at how the concept art originally wanted to depict him!

In fact, this reminds me of something I wanted to talk about before, with Disney's depiction of Hades - and I don't recall if I said it before or not?

You can see how Disney tweaked the role of Hades into becoming "the Ancient Greek Devil" by having being associated with fire. It is MASSIVELY revealing because fire isn't inherently associated with death or the world of the dead in Greek mythology. It is true that there are bits of fire in the Underworld (the Phlegeton, the punishment of Ixion), but this is really rare - because the Greek Underworld was actually perceived as a place of darkness where no light could shine, as a realm populated by shadows and thus without the warm of bodies, as a place of silence where you need to give blood to the dead to allow them to speak again... Fire in Greek mythology was rather tie to life, activity and more positive things - Hestia and the hearth, Hephaistos and the forge...

So Hades becoming a being of fire was again, adding a very clear Christian subtext to the movie. Heck, depicting Hades as "fiery-like" and constantly getting angry was also a strong misinterpretation of the original character - which paved the way for many more incarnations of Hades in meda who is just the devil by another name - because the main thing with Hades was that he had no emotion. He was this harsh, cold god with a heart of steel - who did not know pity, kindness or joy, but the same way he ignored things like rage and anger (which were more Poseidon or Zeus' territory). It took something exceptional to make him feel pity (Orpheus' song), and likewise it took something exceptional to make him feel angry (the removal of Persephone). It all tied to ths characterization of the Underworld as a place of darkness and silence, a sort of still and quiet emptiness devoid of all the feelings and emotions of the world of the living.

Anyway this is just my morning rambling X)

[silver-wield]

I wanna laugh at the cleriths on twitter who ask for tifa to tell the truth so cloud wouldn't get to a mental breakdown THEN they will accept her??? How is it so difficult for them to get that its an important part for him to get to that vegetable stage for the narrative???? If nojima really wanted to, he wouldn't even put him in that state if he so pitied cloud.

My brain cells, I just wanna hug Tifa, these people don't get empathy and EQ....also IQ considering she can't say it all because she didn't even know he was there!!!!! What good would that do??? Plus if they think it's dead future aerith in the resolution? Shouldn't they be more angry at her since she said little to no information to actually help him and said just vague shit??? She could have helped him more than tifa at that point because she knows more right but didn't??? Oh good lord and they think they know the devs better??? Yet they stilll consider tifa a bully even after ToTP???? Sorry for the rant, pretty new to the fandom (after 1 year catching up at most) but were they always this stupid and crazy???? Rejoicing on KH, a single forced date, relying mostly only on devs interviews instead of game content, optional dress, etc???? There's so much out of content it's like asking for bread crumbs when he couldn't even visit her church even as a friend when it's so close to the HW area, both vers low and high he chose tifa and cleriths here thinking its true love??? jesus christ. In low, he stayed despite probably feeling he doesn't deserve the happiness because he failed to prioritize her (like in AC, so he was cold and self-absorbed), in high, he slept with her period. I just want to see they're mental breakdown once she dies and tifa and cloud get a kissing scene on rendered cgi, one they couldn't edit (hopefully).

Btw saw an idiot who say " that people are more concerned with who cloud kisses instead of the new graphics etc" law and behold its a fucking clerith. Why are they acting all high and mighty??? When they're the first one to be so abnormaly obsessed with the "kiss part" of their statement if they get a content even so desperately little??? Did they forget they're shitty take on hollow???? Lol now they're saying we shouldn't be so sure with the trailer but they're so sure about hollow??? Wtf? Do they think that's making them look smart??? Why do they mostly all act this way????

Also, before they think they get the devs, they better ask if they actually get the characters and especially the one they think they're a fan of. I'm neutral on aerith but it's sad that there are a lot of people who don't really get the real workings of her heart. It's even more sad that due to their shipping glasses they fail to get one of the most important theme/moment in the game, her death!!!! Smfh they really think she's gonna live?? Sephiroth, devs nor cloti aren't their biggest enemy on that but new players who don't care to play OG or part 1!!! FF7 has a brand and they're gonna keep it.

Thank you for listening to my rant, hope you have a good day. Im really sorry about this burst of rant but I just hate it since it ruins what the game wants to really say. It actually has a good message if only they're capable of actually seeing that. I personally don't ship cloti , im neutral but I consider them because you don't question how Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are in love right?? It's right there in the fcking story on it's own unless your eyes were closed the whole time.

So I shared this same clip on twitter the other day. You can literally hear Tifa say "as far as I know" meaning she isn't sure.

Nojima is slapping lying Tifa haters with every bit of this game and companion works and they're still desperately trying to claim they're in the right.

It's funny af watching them meltdown rn over Sephiroth saying Tifa's name in the trailer. They've claimed he don't know her. They're dumb. They've claimed the devs are doing a fake out by having Sephiroth talk about Tifa but "they really mean Aerith". They're deluded af and they know time's up and the hoad is waiting to humiliate them 🤣

[mapleleavesart]

Oh You’re Warm Blooded? Great, Welcome to Being My Personal Heat Pack

Mikey x Yokai OC (Mei)

Word Count: 2258

Content warnings: fluff, a freezing cold-blooded turtle, kissing, fluff, cuddling, Mikey's hands get placed over/around Mei's stomach/waist cause he feels like a corpse, concerns about mental health/ implied depression, do any of these really need to be warned about? Probably not but imma state it anyways

Was going outside in the dead of winter a bad idea? Yeah, probably. The four turtle brothers only ever went out for snow days in the first few weeks of cold, snowy weather, just enough to get a taste before holing up inside and brumating for the worst of NYC’s winter. Even when they did leave, all of them had several jackets on. And they were only out for a few hours at a time, lest they start slowing down and go into brumation early. Did they have to huddle together under the heat lamp for hours afterwards to recover? Yep. Did Mikey tell anyone he was leaving?

… Well, he told Pops and Draxum he was going out (they were sharing a pot of tea; nobody else was to be seen). They told him to put on an extra jacket, stay safe, don’t be too long or go too far, etc. Parental fretting. You know how it is.

 Did Mikey leave the lair anyways, simply because he wanted to see his most favorite person ever?

Also yeah.

The Hidden City didn’t get snow. Natural snow, that is. Sometimes the witches from Witch Town cast weather spells to mimic the surface’s weather, or for certain festivities. Not today, thankfully. That didn’t make the underground cavern any less cold though. 

Mikey shivered. His right hand was tucked into his coat pocket while the other held steaming-hot cocoa, he had a beanie on his head, and nearly every piece of winter clothing he had in his closet on. His breath lingered in the air like he was a fog machine

But Mei was enjoying herself, so he wouldn’t say anything.

“Ooh~ sparkly.” Speak of.

Mikey stopped to look at the store window the Qilin was looking through. Many pieces of jewelry were on display, all beautiful in their own ways. Kinda like people. “Something catch your eye?” He asked.

“Well, obviously, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped and gone ‘ooh, sparkly!’” Mei retorted with an eyeroll and small snort . Her lavender scales glinted in the cold light. It was mesmerizing. He forced his gaze away and back to the display. 

“Anything worth taking a closer look at?” He asked. Sure, girls typically loved jewelry and sometimes impulse-bought pretty things, but Mei was pretty good at thinking things through.

Mei gave a small hum. “No. They’re pretty to look at, but I don’t need any more,” she decided. She turned from the shop window and continued walking. Mikey followed. Mei took a sip of her drink- hot cider of some kind. Her muted orange turtleneck sweater hung off her frame, loose and thick and soft-looking and probably very huggable. Thick, beige pants that most certainly were fleece-lined were plaid-striped with various shades of coffee with various amounts of creamer. The pastel colors made her teal eyes really pop.  “So, conversations,” Mei started, knocking him out of his thoughts of ‘i’m cold but she’s beautiful i don't want to leave but i’m freezing down here, holy shell-’

“Mhmm?”

“How are you doing? Mentally, I mean,” she added as an afterthought.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Mikey answered, giving her a small smile.

“You sure?” She tilted her head at him, voice and eyes softening. “You’ve been awfully quiet today. You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I’m not majoring in psychology without good reason,”

Oh. Had she really noticed his quietness? Was it that obvious?

“Oh, I’m not- no, I mean-” Mikey took a deep breath to calm his flustered heart. He focused on the soft clip-clop of Mei’s hooves. “Yes. I know you’re here for me if I need to talk. No, it’s not that. I’m good, really, it’s just…” Mikey shrugged, “...cold.”

“Cold,” Mei repeated. She looked around the street. Most Yokai were still inside, but a few were out and about, hurrying from one destination to another. “Not… sad, bored, upset, or exhausted?”

Mikey hummed his agreement, taking another sip of his sweet hot chocolate. “And it has nothing to do with you, I swear,” he added oh-so-helpfully.

Her head tilted the other way. He spared a glance at her. How was she not cold? The tips of her ears looked paler than normal. Her eyes flicked up and down his body. Her scaled eyebrows furrowed. “But you’re dressed up in, like, ten more layers than I am. How are that cold? How’s that work?”

The question wasn’t demeaning or rude, just genuine and curious and worried  and without harm.

Mikey turned his face up towards where the sky was supposed to be. “Cold blood," he shrugged. "You know how it is."

Mei stopped again. This time to stare at him like he grew a second head. "No, I don't," she blinked. Then held a hand up, palm forward, "wait, backtrack, you're cold blooded?" 

Mikey also stopped and also stared. The realization smacked him in the face. "You're not!?"

"You are?!"

"I'm a reptile, of course I'm cold blooded! How are you not?"

"Most Yokai are warm blooded! I never would have asked you to come out in the cold if I had known!" She made her cup float and reached for him. "Show me your hands,"

Mikey obliged, taking his hand out of his pocket and resting it on one of hers. She lifted it closer to her snout and turned it supination- palm up.

“Spirits, your fingers are almost blue! Why didn’t you say anything?” Mei demanded in an oddly motherly tone, wrapping her own hands around his. Her hands were so warm… no wonder she wasn’t as cold as he was.

“You were enjoying yourself… I didn’t want to ruin it!”

“You could’ve said something!” She shot back, tone now creeping toward concern. “This is very worrying! We can go shopping some other time, we could’ve stayed inside! I don’t want you to just- I don’t know, drop to the floor in brumation like you’re dead or something,” she rubbed his hand as if trying to get his blood flowing again. Because that would help.

“Sorry,” Mikey apologized. “But I didn’t want you to feel bad for accommodating me. I want to spend time with you. I wanted to make you happy, ‘cause when you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Mei let out a little whimper-like noise, or perhaps it was a coo? “Mikey…” her expression couldn’t land on an emotion. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped when Mikey shivered again, and she stopped herself. “Here, let’s get out of the middle of the walkway.” Mei didn’t let go of his hand and dragged him over to a nearby bench. Her cider followed her in the air. She sat down, her long tail curled to outline the spot next to her, and tugged him down next to her.

Mikey of course obeyed, because who was he to deny her?

Mei wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. Her tail plopped itself into his lap, a comforting, heavy weight. Mikey could feel a tug on his mug- his previously only source of heat- as Mei’s magic pulled it out of his hand. It watched it go up to hover alongside hers. “You’d better not mix those up, hot cocoa is sacred,”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. Should I ask Shangti to come pick us up? I’m sure he won’t mind taking us - well, you - back to the manor. Or I could carry you back. Or levitate us back-”

“Shangti have a car or s’mthing?”

“... a what?”

“Carrying it is then.”

~~~

Ten minutes later and they were drifting down from the air. The Tian Manor stood below them, seated on a cliff overlooking the rest of the Hidden City. He’d never been inside before- at least, outside of the times where he snuck onto Mei’s bedroom balcony just to see her, back when they were still a secret.

The building itself was almost 100 feet tall with three floors and ionic columns made of white marble marching up the sides. The walls were made of dark green stone- malachite, if he remembered from Mei’s history ramble- with a marble-like swirl pattern within it. They went through the front doors, through a mud room, and entered a huge foyer. They went under the landing of the two giant staircases circling the foyer.

“You have such a pretty house…” Mikey murmured, his voice muffled from his nose being tucked into his jacket and pressed against Mei’s front from the way he was being princess-carried.

“Glad you think so. Hopefully you’ll be ‘round here more often from now on. You know, when you decide against freezing to death.”

“Oh, please, it’s not that cold. At worst my heart stops beating for a while and I go comatose for a few days.”

He was promptly dropped onto a couch. “Sorry. What?”

“Box turtle thing,” Mikey exclaimed, making himself comfortable against the armrest. Mei disappeared from his sight, presumably to find some blankets or something. Their cups still floated in the air.

The mutant took the chance to examine whatever room he was in. The couch faced something that looked like it might be the Yokai version of a TV. Closer to him was a coffee table a shade lighter than the dark red-brown leather of the couch. Underneath the screen was a fireplace. Over to his left was something akin to a pool table.

“Game room?” He guessed.

“Hm? Oh, I suppose you could call it that. We call it the den,” Mei replied, popping back into sight with a bundle of rich, emerald green throw blankets. She helped him wrap himself up comfortably until it felt like he couldn’t move. Then she helped him free his arms so he could drink his now-room-temperature chocolate.

Mei, the solution to all of his problems today, crouched down by the fireplace and cast a small fireball spell. The hearth bursted into dancing yellow flames. His cocoa was once again torn from his grip and went to hover by the fire to reheat it. 

Mei sat down next to his blanket burrito and took his hands. “You feel like a corpse,” she noted.

“Happens to the best of us,” he replied with a small smile. She gave him a look before scooting closer. She took his hands and pressed them against her sides, under her sweater and against her scaly skin. Her elbows tucked against his hands to keep them in place.

Mikey’s eyes widened. Holy shell she was so warm. Is this what warm blooded creatures felt like all the time?!

He felt Mei’s muscles stiffen. He glanced up at her face to see it scrunched up, probably in effort not to recoil from his undoubtedly cold hands. He was pretty sure he was making a weird face too.

“What, never touched a corpse before?” Mikey tried to joke. It was Mei’s turn to shiver. Mikey was pretty sure he was blushing, if that was even possible.

“Miguel,” the yokai scolded. “Enough with the death jokes. They’re not funny.”

To you, he thought. Out loud, he apologized. “Sorry. Leo must be rubbing off on me.”

Mei huffed. Mikey shifted how his hands were positioned. It could've been ten seconds or a minute or an hour before he managed to compose himself enough to mumble, "your scales are soft,"

"... Thanks."

Mei didn't meet his gaze, but her cheeks were darker than they were supposed to be.

"What, I can't compliment my gorgeous girlfriend?"

Mei's face darkened further. It was adorable. "You warm yet?" She asked to avoid the question.

"Hm… mostly. My lips are still a little cold," he started, blinking up at her innocently, "care to help me with that?"

Oh, if only he could record the look she gave him. It made him want to giggle like they were fifteen all over again. So he did. And in the process of that, he pulled Mei by her waist so the Yokai flopped into him with a strangled yelp of surprise.

"ACK- Mikey!" She complained, wiggling against his hold. But alas, he was a building-thrower and the most Mei worked out was when she practiced her archery. Within a second Mikey had one arm wrapped firmly around her torso, pressing her against him now. Mei quickly gave up and lay limp against his plastron. Her tail flopped around clumsily behind her.

Mikey pulled out his most charming grin. "Can I get my daily dose of kisses now, my love?"

All of Mei's muscles melted with her annoyance. Her face and gaze softened into something adoring. Her hands moved to rest against Mikey's chest. Mikey moved his hand to rest against her warm cheek in turn. 

She sighed dramatically. "Oh, if I must." 

Then she leaned forward and pressed a gentle, warm, long kiss on his lips. It left his green skin tingling. "You're such a dork." All of the love in the world was stored in her voice. Mikey could feel his tail beginning to wag from its confines.

"Yeah. But I'm your dork, aren't I?"

"Yeah," she pecked his lips again.

And so they stayed like that, cuddling and trading sweet kisses, until the two fell asleep, until the sun reached its peak, and until a dark teal Qilin adjusted their blankets and answered the texts blowing up Michaelangelo's phone. They stayed like that as Shangti reassured the little box turtle's worried family that he was okay, that the Titans would take care of him, and that the two would return as soon as they awoke.

And so, they stayed.

[nikniknikin]

E rated wip I've had for ages.

Scarian choking smut fic I keep telling myself I'm going to finish but I legit started this as my FIRST forray into the fandom a whole ass year ago. This is DONE ENOUGH and the rest of the ideas I had arent coming out. If I ever get the energy to come back to this I want to elaborate on the jump and the fight.

TW: Frottage, choking, under negotiated kink, canon typical violence death and suicide.

The desert nights are cold, and while dead bodies don’t produce heat, whatever arcane trickery keeps Scar animated burns white hot somewhere in his bones. It’s odd, he knows the wind coming through the arrowslits is frigid, his skin can still feel that, but his red heart keeps his core feeling warm as a bonfire. Grian on the other hand is shivering on the adjacent bed. His clipped wings are puffed up and tucked around his torso and Scar can hear his teeth chattering. He gazes at the perfectly oval shaped silhouette that his partner makes against the moonlight coming in through the window. The lump shivers. Macaws were a tropical species right? The thin woolen blanket must not be cutting it for the poor bird. Well he can’t let that go on now can he, especially not when he’s uncomfortably warm. He speaks in a raspy stage whisper, voicing a question he very well knows the answer to. 

“Psst- you still awake?” 

He hears a put upon sigh then the lump shifts. 

“Yes.” 

“Cause you’re cold?”

“Freezing actually.”

“Here, take my blanket, I don’t need it.” Scar sits up and tosses his blanket over Grian, who immediately flaps a wing and flails an arm to jostle it off of him and back to Scar’s side of the doubled up beds.

“Wha- no. You’re cold too, surely?”

“Y’see that’s the thing G, since I went red I feel like a furnace. Whatever’s in here keeping me kicking,” he pats a fist to his bare gray chest, “it’s giving off plenty of heat in the process.” 

“Really?” Grian reaches out a hand without thinking, but stops just short of touching Scar’s shoulder as his mind catches up with his curiosity. He tries to mask the hover-handing as just reaching over for the blanket, but Scar’s eyes glint with keen recognition, and he doesn’t let Grian just brush the gesture off. 

“Really,” he confirms, “here, touch my muscles, go ahead.” Grian sighs and rolls his eyes, but when Scar takes him by the wrists and pulls his hands towards his collarbone he doesn’t resist the motion.He makes a halfhearted grumble of protest, a quiet but fond you ridiculous man under his breath. Despite that he doesn’t pull away. The warmth coming off him really is welcome and frankly a little fascinating. He may have his fingerprints on the scaffolding of this universe, but that doesn’t mean that here from inside it he knows everything about their revivals. Corpses are supposed to be cold, but Scar feels feverish. With his new gray complexion it reminds him of putting his hands on sun warmed smooth stone, but soft. Scar twitches at his touch, a high pitched ooh coming along with it. 

“You weren’t kidding. Your fingers are like icicles.”

Grian smirks at the noise, moving his cold hands up to either side of Scar’s incredibly warm neck. This gets a full squeak out of him, Grian giving a satisfied hum in response.

“Hey you asked for this, no take backs.” 

“I did, I did. You did so good today, you deserve to stick your little popsicle hands anywhere you want.” 

Grian snickers, but before he has a chance to respond, Scar tilts his head, covering his fingers with his cheek. The other Scar puts a hand over, encasing both of Grian’s hands with warmth from all sides. He lets out a long, fully involuntary sigh of relief and feels his shoulders and wings relax as his shivers finally subside. He grapples with his pride for one moment longer, but ultimately shifts closer and cuddles up to Scar’s chest. His head slots neatly beneath Scar’s chin. When Scar talks Grian feels the movement against his hair, and feels the reverberations from his throat.

“Seriously Grian, that triple you got woke me up in a way.”

“Good to know you’ve been sleeping on the job.”

“No, I mean that I get it now. Red life stuff. Hearing you cackling at the explosion made me want to kill.” 

That prompts a breathy little laugh from Grian followed by a half exasperated finally. 

“I do Grian really, I want to kill.” “Good.”

It becomes a whispered mantra, Scar reverently repeating I want to kill against the shell of his ear, the curve of his jaw, the column of his neck, just over his lips. Grian smiles and whispers back yes, yes, yes, each time, like praising a dog that’s finally mastered a challenging trick. His tone is giddy and gleeful, and his smile is bright and sharp right up until the moment that Scar’s hands wrap around his neck and squeeze. 

“Grian, I want to kill. I want to kill. I want to kill.” 

“Yes, good, yes, ye-ghhk.”

The word catches in his throat as Scar’s grip tightens and Grian’s face goes slack with shock. His open mouth flaps, once, twice, and again as his brain tries to process what’s happening. Confusion finally blooms into panic as his pulse thunders in his ears and his hands fly up to claw at Scar’s wrists. To his surprise they come away easily, and in an instant he has Scar’s wrists pinned to the wall behind his head. His red eyes are suddenly full of remorse and even something bordering on fear.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m not sure what that was. It just, it’s just like pushing Ren off that cliff. I didn’t think it’d work, it was just too tempting not to. It feels so good to tease.”

Grian draws in a shaky breath as he feels a cold draft hit the back of his neck. Scar was just fooling around, like he did with everything. He wasn’t ever a real threat. Besides, even if he was wouldn’t it be fair? He’d pledged his green life to Scar, but if he wanted to waste that gift then that was his right after all. He doesn’t want to go yellow, but he’s not backing out of his vow. This life was Scar’s to do with as he wished. Something about the comparison to Ren rattles around in his head. Scar was right, they’d all agreed to this. Immortals playing at feeling real deaths. They all wanted to know how mortality really tasted. He releases his hold on Scar’s wrists and hunkers down beneath the blanket again, tucking his frame against Scar’s once again to hide from the chill night around them.

“Tease all you want but remember, if I go yellow I’m gone.” 

“No, no, no I don’t want that. I need you here with me.” 

Scar’s arms circle around him and rub his back. His tone is gentle and almost pleading. Grian tries to relax in his hold, but the shot of adrenaline he’d gotten from being choked has other plans. It’s late, in the morning he has more work to do on the creeper farm, and he needs his rest, but his mind is buzzing and his blood is pumping, and Scar is so close and so warm and being so frustratingly tender. Grian is disappointed in his body but not surprised to find he’s hard as a rock. He tangles their legs together, unsubtly pressing himself against Scar’s thigh.

“I said tease all you want, and I meant it.”

“Oh? Oh! Oh-kay.” 

It takes Scar a beat to understand, but once he does he smirks and rolls them so that Grian is straddling him. His hands trace down to the waist of his pants making quick work of Grian’s fly and then his own. He tugs at their pants, dislodging them just enough to get their cocks free, careful of how much skin he’s exposing to the night air. To Grian’s delight he’s not the only one riled up by what just happened, and they both gasp in relief at finally getting some much needed skin to skin friction. Scar guides Grian’s hand down to circle the two of them, then brings his own hands back up to toy with the red neckline he suddenly can’t keep his eyes off of.  

“You set the pace down there, alright? And tap out if you start seeing dots or stars or anything, got it?” 

Grian nods eagerly and starts stroking lazily, once again relishing the extra heat coming from Scar’s skin. His eyelids flutter when Scar’s hands start squeezing his neck again. Before it was a sudden vice grip, but this time it’s a caress that slowly builds in force. He feels Scar’s cock twitch in his hand when he swallows reflexively at the increasing pressure, then soon enough he can’t swallow at all. He would be worried about starting to drool, but he’s locked eyes with Scar now and his partner is giving him a look. A smile so hungry and adoring that it’s hard to focus on anything other than the twinkle in his ruby red eyes and the heat pooling low in his guts. His hand speeds up but it’s not nearly enough. His lungs begin to burn, the muscles in his chest flex, trying in vain to pull in air, but Scar’s hands hold him firm. He grinds his hips down and uses his free hand to make sure they’re perfectly lined up, chasing the heat and sensation he’s desperate for. Scar’s chest rises and falls with long slow breaths that make Grian pang with envy. Each second drags out between them.

Eventually Scar’s breath starts coming heavier, something wild and deliciously brutal blooming behind his eyes. Grian ruts against him harder, faster, but it’s still not enough. He wants to come. He needs to breathe. He feels so good. He feels like he’s dying. His eyes start to roll back and everything gets shaky and blurry. He’s not blacking out, he’s just convulsing with need and want and need and want. He tries to swallow again, but all that happens is a little gurgle, and Scar groans at that. Low and long and indulgent, and Grian throbs in his own hand at the sound. He’s grateful that he’s unable to whimper the way he knows he would if any sound could escape his constricted throat. Head swimming, muscles rigid, cock leaking, he’s on the verge of tapping out when Scar releases his neck. He drinks down the chilly night air greedily and as that first gulp hits his oxygen deprived brain he comes hard enough to make his toes curl. 

Scar’s hands, still cradling his neck, slide up to cup the back of his head and pull him down into a long kiss. Grian is still too shell shocked from being choked and his subsequent orgasm to do much more than gape his mouth dumbly and heave deep breaths through his nose as Scar licks into him deep and hungrily. Eventually he gains enough composure to start kissing back, and it’s only then he realizes he’s tasting something bitter and pungent and familiar. He pulls back, sitting up and looking down at Scar quizzically. There’s a smear of pearly cum on his chin and across his lips. Grian giggles, impressed and incredulous. 

“Oh wow. I hit your face? I’ve never shot so far.” 

Scar takes one hand off of him to wipe at what remains on his face and licks himself clean, smile all smugness and satisfaction. 

“Do I win a prize?”

Grian wants to hate it, but watching that tongue glide along his fingers is making his stomach flip. The heat meets the brick wall of his refractory period though, so rather than a needy whine in response he manages a content sigh. 

“Mmmm, other than the treat you just cleaned up? Gimmie a moment to think of something- my head's still a bit fuzzy. Unless…you had something in mind already?”

-grian lazily smooches 

-blowjob

-pillow talk

“But you don’t need to be adorable, you need to be bloodthirsty. Today went well but you’ve got to start taking the lead on the killing. I’m pushing the rules as it is.” 

Scar nuzzles against him, “I think I can be both. Adorbs- Abdor- Adorabloodthirsty. Got a nice ring to it, as long as I can get my dyslexia around it, right?”

“Fine. Adorabloodthirsty, but heavy on the latter half, okay?” 

“I will be so thirsty for you Grian, just you wait.”

“Scar!”

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

“Let’s let the ghosts count us in.”

On three hearts Scar turns and flees the cactus ring, but he doesn’t get far. Clumsy from taking so many hits to the head he stumbles, and that’s all it takes for Grian to catch up and tackle him to the ground. They grapple momentarily on soot stained sand and land in a sickeningly familiar pose. Grian straddles him, but this time it’s his own hands doing the choking. Scar is smiling, would be laughing even, if he could take in any air. 

Choking him would be too slow. He’d withstood easily a minute or two during their recreational strangling and he knows he can’t look down at that bloodied smile for so long. He can’t bear it, so he pulls up, raises Scar’s head up an inch or two, then slams it back down on the sandstone beneath them. There’s a wet thud, and Scar’s smile breaks, shattering into an instinctive grimace. Grian does it again, and again, and again. He sobs dryly, each crack of Scar’s skull followed by a ruthless and empty I’m sorry. He does it until the grimace goes slack and Scar’s eyes go glassy. Then he’s alone on monopoly mountain. Alone save for the howling ghosts congratulating and condemning him in equal measure. He thinks Scar might be in that ethereal crowd too now. He should be right? Just another soul bound up in this game? But there’s no cheery baritone congratulating him from beyond the grave. The watchers are still hungry, and he has the makings of one last meal in him. 

He stands, shaky on his feet, and trudges towards the cliff. He looks out over the crater, his greatest failed trap of all. Nonetheless, pride blooms in his queasy stomach, and if he was sticking around he’d be worried about the bile rising in his throat. As it is there’s no time for that because keeps his wings tucked firmly to his sides as he leaps into a freefall.

[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!

[elysianslove]

the little things ; haikyuu boys

synopsis; the little things he does that show just how much he loves you

pairings; karasuno x reader, aoba johsai x reader, fukurodani x reader, nekoma x reader, shiratorizawa x reader

genre; fluff

warnings; will make u hate being single <3

karasuno ━━

sugawara koshi; whenever your hair gets caught in anything, he’s so gentle yet quick at fixing it. if your hair is long, and you pull a bag or a shirt and your hair gets tucked in, he’ll wordlessly pull it out. if your hair is short and a bracelet or zipper gets caught he just continues whatever he was doing (talking to someone else for e.g.) while helping you out. also always makes sure your hair isn’t bothering you; if you’re leaning over writing something, he’ll always tuck it behind your ear so lovingly ahhh

daichi sawamura; massages. he’s descended from heaven for this purpose only. his hands are rough and like hard on your muscles, but it’s so perfect. he’ll approach you when you’re in school sitting anywhere, from behind, and just knead his hands into your muscles for a few seconds. euphoric. or if you live together, he always greets you with back/shoulder/neck massages in the bathtub hvjkwkd.

nishinoya yuu; always makes you try his food. always. whether it’s with a group of people or just you two, he just goes “hey babe open ur mouth” with this face 😏 bc he’s cheeky, and just shoves a mouthful of food. spoiler alert, it’s always way too hot. but it’s just tradition at this point. he takes a bite of his food, decides if it’s worthy enough for your mouth or not, then just. yeah.

kageyama tobio; buys you a snack whenever he gets his milk. if you’re special special, he’ll buy you your own carton of milk. he goes up to the vending machine and automatically thinks of you when he sees your fave snack, and it’s like mindless at this point he just routinely does it. it still surprises you to this day, even when he’s so nonchalant about it.

tsukishima kei; kisses your forehead. tsukki is not too big on pda, and even privately he’s not very touchy feely either tbh. but just a simple peck on your forehead grounds you, and it’s a small reminder of the fact that despite his outward coldness, he really does love you. he rarely does it in front of others, but sometimes, he’ll indulge both you and him, and settle a small kiss on your temple just randomly.

asahi azumane; anime jesus always has a hair tie/clip carried around for you on his wrist/in his pockets. i mean he’s always needing them, he just stocks up when he starts dating you. somehow he’s always there when you’re frustrated with your hair all over the place what a savior. later on it evolves to him carrying around your scrunchie and yes the boys make fun yes he blushes but no he does not take it off.

tanaka ryunosuke; carries you on his back, or your things, when you’re too tired to walk. whether that be if you’re too tired because of your heels or you’re just lazy, he just loves helping you out what a respectful gentleman. honestly it just becomes that every time he sees you he like barricades over to you so quick and flips you onto his shoulder or spins you around. anyways. walking with tanaka means walking empty handed bc he will never let you carry anything. ( shifts pile of bags on one arm just to hold your hand ).

hinata shoyo; learns hairstyles to try on you. whether it be short hair or long hair, expect his youtube search history to look a lot like “how to make a french braid” or “cute hairstyles for short hair for your cute girlfriend”. he’s always so entranced by you and watches so carefully whenever you do anything on your hair, and he gets do excited whenever you let him try and he gets it right. also !!! a lot of the times you’ll sit between his legs and he’ll just softly card his fingers through your hair or lightly braid it.

yamaguchi tadashi; buys you flowers a lot. he doesn’t overdo it, just so it doesn’t lose its value and worth. but for example, mondays suck ass and he knows how much you hate them, so he always makes sure to either leave a single rose on your desk/in your locker or give it to you himself if he can. it’s so endearing and motivating honestly, and the constant reminder every once in a while is so cute. continues to do it even like 3 years in, which is so fkn sweet honestly.

nekoma ━━

kuroo tetsurō; plans the best dates. seriously. like not one moment spent with him is dull. i don’t think being with kuroo entails a high energy relationship, i just mean that even a walk in the park is fun with him. he also always knows when to plan a fancy dinner and when it’s just something casual. like he always puts in so much effort, gives 120%, for every date with you. is your favorite band/singer/artist in town? he’s got tickets. the weather is amazing? you’re going to the beach. you’re sleep deprived? nap dates. 10/10

kozume kenma; he teaches you how to play his games. the fact that he’s letting you touch the console in itself says enough, but whenever he buys a new one, and learns it thoroughly enough, he will always sit by you and teach you its ways. picture you sitting in his lap while he guides your hands <333 if you’re not a gamer, he’s actually v flattered by the fact you’re willing to sit through this w him. but if you are a gamer, expect daily competitions. oh and if you beat him? you’re dead to him :).

haiba lev; instead of reaching for things that you’re too short for to grab it himself, he just lifts you up lmfao. i mean w the way he teases yaku, i can imagine he’d be v teasing with you as well if you’re even an inch shorter than him. but fret not! it’s all in the name of love. he’s very loving though, and if he sees you struggling he’ll just wordlessly hoist you up from your waist or something. at first it’s terrifying, but later on it just makes you giggle cause he’s like so willing to do it and it’s effortless for him hehe.

yaku morisuke; always makes sure you’re taking care of yourself, but kinda aggressively? lmao anyways. like he’s always “babe have u eaten” and if u say no expect him to start yelling like “what do you mean no??? are you insane???” v dramatic but honestly <333 he’s always texting you after parting ways “did you get home safe” or on weekends where he cant meet you, he’s asking how it was, if you indulged yourself a bit, relaxed. it’s very sweet and he makes sure it’s not overbearing. he just wants his baby to be healthy and happy.

yamamoto taketora; walks on the side with the cars. it’s not a very noticeable thing, but you see it, and you recognize it. he makes sure he’s always walking where cars are speeding by, a hand on the small of your back guiding you away and to the other side of him. it’s the little notions of protectiveness like if he’s driving and stops suddenly, he’ll put a hand out to keep you from lurching forward, he pushes you gently out of the way before you bump into someone. things like that.

aoba johsai ━━

oikawa tōru; he doodles in your notebooks, or on your skin. if you have class with him, and sit next to him, he’ll always be doodling on your notebook like little hearts or stupid, cute things like your initials + his in a heart. or if you’re at a study date together, and you’re focused on your laptop screen, he’ll leave little encouraging messages on your notes for you to notice when you’re revising. sometimes you’ll be sitting with him at lunch or even if you’re out w him and a bunch of other people, and he happens to have a pen. expect a little smiley face on your inner wrist, or a heart plus his initials ( o.t. )

iwaizumi hajime; he helps you take off your make up/takes it off for you. if you’re too sleepy, he’ll just take the products he’s used to seeing you use and start following it step by step after he props you up next to the sink. while he stands between your thighs he just so gently starts rubbing at your skin and washing away the make up. if you’re already asleep, he’ll have to like google the steps oh my god im gonna cry hes so cute. if you don’t necessarily wear make up, then he’ll just help you do your nightly routine, or even your shower routine, like using a body scrub or a face mask or, bruh, even shaving lmfao.

hanamaki takahiro; saves everything you buy/send/make him. i mean everything. has literally over two thousand photos of you, all the polaroids or postcards are saved in a little box he has under his bed. anything you make him (unless it’s edible) he has. if you make him a small embroidery thing he will literally attach it to his sports bag or something. any chain you make him is automatically added to his keychain. that flower crown you made with him on one of your first dates? he still has it. the flowers are dead but the memory loves babyyyy

matsukawa issei; carries extra clothes of his for you to borrow. hey have i mentioned that mattsun is big? 😃 because he is 😃. meaning regardless of your size or height or whatever, his clothes will drown you <3 i see him as preferring more oversized or just loose shirts rather than tight ones, so yk. on you???? if y’all are just hanging out and you even think about being slightly cold — here have five options of mattsun’s clothes to choose from. he always makes sure they smell like him too. it’s self indulgent really, because he loves the way they look on you, and he loves that it leaves a trace of his scent on you. territorial? i think yes.

fukurodani ━━

bokuto kōtarō; always hugs you like it’s the last time he’ll see you. sometimes, even if he doesn’t know it, you need his hugs badly. y’all are gonna try and tell me bokuto doesn’t give the best fkn hugs??? yeah get outta here with that bs. he SO does. he either kneels down and wraps his arms around your waist, picks you up, and spins you around, like he hasn’t seen you in 3 years, or he’ll just wrap his arms around your neck and pull your head to his chest, cradling it, and just sighing like he won’t see you for the next 3 years. his hugs always make you feel so much better, even if you weren’t feeling down to begin with.  

akaashi keiji; plays with your hands and caresses them. it’s the delicate feel and gentleness of it all. akaashi’s generally an anxious person, leaving him very fidgety. but once you two get together, and he starts being comfortable with you, expect to find your hand always between the two of his, just fondling with him. he’ll trace random figurines on the back of your hand, or have his fingers ghost over your wrist and up to your fingertips. if his hands are especially shaky, expect him to just grab one of your yours and hold it tightly between the grasp of two of his. it conveys trust, and all you have to do is kiss his knuckles gently and he’s melting.

konoha akinori; he has your reminders app linked with his, and sneaks in small, motivating messages. every once in a while you’ll get a notification from the app that tells you to drink water or have a snack (or text konoha he’s bored and he misses you). also always sends you pictures to distract you from stress. like it could literally just be a picture of him smiling with a thumbs up and you’d just ,,, melt bc you love him so much.

shiratorizawa ━━

ushijima wakatoshi; he has so many plants that are named after you, or your nicknames, and he’s like so gentle with them too. like strokes their petals and speaks to them so softly, the same way he does with you. you’re honestly so curious how he hasn’t run out of names, but he’s just a genius like that. whenever you go over to his place, and he’s bought a new one, he’ll take your hand and guide you to where it’s growing and just be like “look it’s baby y/n” and you just 🥺🥺🥺

semi eita; he has a playlist on his phone, that’s constantly being updated, for you and him to listen to. the first time he showed it to you, you were stargazing and he took out his phone and headphones and was like “i made a playlist for you wanna list” and every part of your body lit up in flames im not joking. now, a lot of the times, you’re coming back home on a train, and your head is on his shoulder and you’re sharing headphones listening to the playlist. when either one of you is driving you’re blasting it (a lot of the playlist is the hsm soundtrack)

satori tendō; tendo reads people so well, and being in a relationship with him means he will read you so well. so a lot of the times, in social situations, he’ll recognize the signs of you wanting to leave, for example, or if someone’s bothering you, he’ll know exactly how to approach it too. this also entails having a lotta inside jokes hehe, and also just like. talking with your eyes. yk that thing. yeah. all you have to do is look at him a certain way, and he just knows exactly what you just said.

goshiki tsutomu; he buys the both of you this small plushie, and whenever you’re missing each other you just. squish it. and he squishes his. he would rather die than let anyone know this, but you’re not too keen on letting anyone know yourself tbh. it’s just this little thing you have, and it means a lot more to you than just this. when he first bought it he was like “look we have matching plushies” and you passed away on the spot ❤️

shirabu kenjirō; loves trying out new recipes with you. he’s not too big on cooking or baking, but there’s just something about doing it with you that really — hits the spot yk. nowadays, whenever he comes across a new recipe on social media that he thinks you’ll like he just automatically sends it to you like with no words no texts just the post and you’re like “OMG CAN WE DO THIS” and he’s like “why else would i send it. yes we can :)” hvskwkeke

end note;  thank you sm for the love on my last two posts!! i’m glad you guys enjoyed them sm. if you have any requests, they’re open and i’m happy to deliver, mwah!

[alstroemeriadissonance]

Killshot (Part 1 - NSFW)

Starting a new series this time. Thanks to Rory for helping me bounce ideas!

Assassin hijinks AU where Vyn is ripped out from his life in Stellis early on, due to political turmoil back in his homeland. As Duke Vilhelm de Haspran, he has to deal with assassins sent after him, including a rather inept yet persistent one named Rosa

May contain non-con elements. Please do not read if this type of content upsets you.

Chapter 1 doesn't have much spicy bits, but the next chapters will.

The man who wanted to remain Vyn Richter was pissed. 

Very pissed. 

And cold. 

It was very cold, where he stood right now. As cold and frigid as his barbed, barricaded heart. 

He could not even appreciate the fact that he was somewhere he used to cherish, in his grandmother’s old manor, where fond memories for lived, thrived, and lingered on, just for him. The cozy, carpeted refuge furnished with lived-in, yet ornate and elegant Victorian-style furnishings; all of their comforting beauty blessed in the sunset glow emanating from the crackling fireplace, whose warmth was entirely negated by the large hole in the glass window, letting the immense cold from the blizzard outside flow into the study–all disregarded, even outright scorned at the moment.

This man wanted to remain as someone named Vyn Richter–the up-and-coming psychiatrist destined to upend the entire mental health industry in Stellis–an identity he fought so hard to obtain, and to which he devoted all of his blood, sweat, tears, mind and heart to create.

He wanted to remain in the midst of his budding rose garden, the garden that can never be in this desolate snowy hell of a landscape.

But no. Certain political machinery had started to turn, and they dared–they dared–harm his upstanding father, maim the old man until he could not stand, nor speak, just so certain people with their petty interests could get at him.

And so Vyn Richter, upstart psychiatrist, was no more, and the man was back to being Vilhelm Richard Albert de Haspran.

Now the Duke Vilhelm Richard Albert de Haspran. 

And the Duke was pissed. 

He glowered at the young chit of a girl–likely not having seen more than twenty winters–bound to his desk chair using the spare curtain tassels lying around by the windowsills. 

Small shards of glass still hung by her loose auburn hair. 

Duke de Haspran inwardly winced at the fruitless stupidity of this girl shivering in her seat. 

This idiot really did scale all three floors, outside, by hand, in the blizzard. In the dead of night. 

He threw a glance at her bound hands, that he had brusquely–yet carefully–wrapped with thick, warmed towels to treat the mild frostbite that resulted from the night’s would-be-assassin’s sheer foolhardiness.

The urgency of the situation made him forgo sealing the girl-sized hole in the glass window wall for now. 

“Again, girl, tell me.” the young Duke said, clothed casually in a white long sleeve shirt and trousers; clearly ill-attired to protect himself from the sudden gush of winter cold that resulted from her crashing into his study through the glass window. 

Yet he seemed unaffected by the painful cold washing over his body; instead, what he exuded at the moment was his imperious, regal bearing–back straight, shoulders squared, hand on his hip, his glacial gold eyes looking down at the still shivering assassin hopeful with utter contempt.

“What did your handlers tell you about me.” There was no inflection to his tone as he asked; only a flat, emotionless statement. “Did I hear you shout ‘prepare to die, you godless heretic’, as you smashed your body through my window, yet cannot even unsheathe your blade from scabbard as you were an imbecile enough to scale the walls with bare hands. In a blizzard.” His voice was clipped, like a school teacher about to dole out detention to a repeat offender. 

The girl’s fiery, determined olive gaze countered his absolute zero glare. She did not reply, and instead set her jaw in defiance.

The Duke continued, “I had to so graciously treat your frostbitten fingers, lest you leave this manor without your fingers, or,” a meaningful, menacing pause. “Without your life. In a wheelbarrow, to be thrown to the lake. Like three of your compatriots that I had to dispatch earlier today.”

He casually showed the Assassin Hopeful his hand. Closer inspection revealed bloodstains between his fingers and across his palm. “I have not had enough time to wash my hands, little girl, and I am not in good spirits at the moment. Do not test me. So, tell me what your handlers told you about me.”

Radio silence from the Assassin Hopeful Tied to the Chair.

“I will count to three,” said the Duke in his voice smooth as silk wrapped around a blade. “One.”

The Assassin Hopeful merely glared at him.

“Two.”

She was still glaring at him, yet her lips started to tremble.

“Three.”

The girl valiantly upheld her silence, and remained silent.

The Duke de Haspran waited for an entire second, before he bore over the girl to–

A loud rumbling resounded in the study; a sound so loud it was easy to pick up over the wails of the blizzard outside.

The Duke froze in his tracks, and instead said, “Girl. That, undoubtedly, is your stomach.” He looked down at the Assassin Hopeful who now was about to tear up in what could be construed as humiliation. “Are they now sending me ill-equipped, ill-trained, malnourished assassins?”

The Assassin Hopeful bit back a sob.

===

Rosa wasn’t always so desperate. 

She was living her full life as a young woman at the cusp of adulthood, until her parents died in an untimely accident leaving her and her adoptive brother, Luke, to fend for themselves. 

They were both of legal age, no longer minors when their parents passed away, and they thought they were fortunate enough not to land in the System.

Until Luke contracted a chronic illness that necessitated his being confined in the hospital, indefinitely.

She tried her hardest–she really did–picking up any and all odd jobs she could get her hands on, sacrificing her dreams to become a lawyer. Rosa loved Luke to a fault, and there was nothing she would shy away from for his sake.

And so when an obviously shady-looking man dropped by her doorstep, claiming to be a distant relative and offering to take her and her brother in she grabbed at the chance immediately with no questions asked.

Yet when she was delivered into their fold, completely uprooted from her old life, there was no warm distant family to welcome her, nor a respectable job that required her hands. Instead what they threw onto her lap were the following options: prostitution, or if she felt particularly adventurous they could assign her a hitjob which, if successful, could mean she never would have to work a day in her life ever again, and that went for her brother as well.

Life hasn’t exactly been easy for Rosa for the last couple of years, and so the choice was easily made: she opted for the hit job.

===

Fifteen minutes had already passed since the Duke excused himself to go off somewhere. 

Prior to leaving he did quick work on sealing the shattered glass pane with some duct tape and a wood panel he had to tear off the side of a shelf–Rosa swallowed nervously as she witnessed the Duke effortlessly rip apart the entire side of a shelf with his bare hands–and the problem of heat loss was fixed, albeit temporarily.

Rosa waited patiently, in relative comfort, shielded from the bitter cold.

Not that there were many options for someone tied down securely to a chair, anyway: Rosa jiggled the silken tassel that bound her gradually warming hands: there was absolutely no allowance for her to work with, if she intended to try to escape. Her feet and back were also very securely tied to the chair legs and back rest, respectively. 

The Duke was incredibly meticulous with his hands.

God. When does the suffering end? Rosa was about to wallow in bitter self-pity when the aroma of something absolutely, mouthwateringly delicious wafted into the study. It smelled faintly of cooked garlic, and… Rosa tentatively sniffed the nippy air. Cheese?

Her ears could pick out faint sounds of what seemed to be sizzling on the pan, and clinking of utensils from the adjacent room that the Duke disappeared into.

Is that a kitchen? Who’s cooking?

Her stomach grumbled at the incredibly appetizing smell. 

Damn it. I’m here bound and I don’t even know if I will walk out of here alive, yet I am still thinking about food. Haha. I am so done for. What was it he said earlier? Wheelbarrow my dead ass to the lake?

Her lips trembled, all the while trying to smile to hype herself up. 

Luke, I’m sorry…

Tears had already saturated her lap by the time the Duke walked back into the study, bearing a single plate of what looked to be a heaping plate of rice.

Rosa sniffled, then looked up to see him place the food onto the study table. The smell of garlic and cheese wafted from the plate, and the delicious aroma permeated the study even more. He’ll eat his dinner while making me watch, knowing I’m so hungry. Rosa gulped.

That’s just low.

Grumbling could be heard from her stomach again, and Rosa merely ducked her head to hide her helpless shame. 

An irritated tsk sound came from behind her, then her world tilted a bit. Rosa yelped in surprise.

The Duke had tilted her chair backwards, then dragged it with Rosa and all, towards the table where the food waited for them.

He turned the chair–and Rosa–to face the food set by the edge of the table.

Then pulled another chair near her, and took his seat.

Completely baffled, Rosa looked at the Duke as he shoveled a mouthful of steaming hot rice using a spoon, blew on it briefly, then–holding her gaze with his own–shoveled the food into his mouth.

Ugh. I’m right. He’s going to torture me by making me watch while I eat. Close enough for me to smell how delicious the food is. 

Shit.

After taking his time to chew and finally swallowing the food, he took a swig of water from the tall glass set beside the plate of rice.

“There,” he said after patting his mouth with a napkin. “I am alive, yes?”

“Huh?” Rosa exclaimed, this time well and truly perplexed.

The Duke ignored her, and took another spoonful of rice, blew on it a few times, but this time lifted the laden spoon to her mouth.

Rosa only blinked at it. The spoonful of food was so near her mouth all she needed to do was to open her lips and lean just a little bit…

“I apologize if this is not to your taste,” the Duke said curtly. “This is the only meal I can cook at such short notice. You do not like garlic in your food?”

Rosa was going to refuse–why would she let her mark trample on her dignity by letting him feed her–but her stomach spoke on her behalf with yet another loud grumbling.

“My hand will not move until you take the bite,” said the Duke. “And this is not free. As I feed you, you will answer my questions. Is this clear?”

Ah well. At least his motive is now clear.

Willing herself to fate, and her hunger, Rosa opened her mouth and took the proffered bite. It was incredibly delicious: piping hot rice saturated with butter, garlic, and cheese. As Rosa chewed on it she was able to pick out other subtler flavors; the entire mouthful was so sublime and this, coupled with the memories of her father’s home cooking, almost brought her to tears.

“Water?” The Duke asked as soon as she swallowed the mouthful.

“Yes, please.” She replied, meekly. 

He brought the rim of the tall glass to her lips and carefully tipped it, allowing her to take a small sip. 

As soon as she drank the water she said, “That counted as a question.”

The Duke snorted inelegantly. “Fair enough.” He took another spoonful for himself and proceeded to feed Rosa with the next bite. 

It felt oddly intimate, the way they were sharing food from the same plate. 

“I do apologize for having to eat alongside you,” the Duke began, as if reading her mind, “But this serves two things. First is to show you that the food and the cutlery are not poisoned.” He took another spoonful, then after swallowing he continued, “Second is that I have not eaten a single bite since this morning, as I was, again, busy with dealing with your compatriots.”

The mention of ‘compatriots’ made her frown a little–she was not told she would be working with others–and the Duke picked up on it. 

“Are they not your colleagues?”

I guess the question and answer portion starts now. “No.” Rosa said after she finished sipping water. “They didn’t tell me there were others.” 

The man watched her closely as she talked, as if looking for certain tells. His sharp gold eyes felt like they pierced her so thoroughly her hairs could not help but stand on end.

“I see. Well then,” He said as he fed her another spoonful of garlic cheese risotto, “You have not answered my question from earlier. What did your handlers tell you about me?”

Rosa took her time chewing her food, thinking about her reply. “Heretic. Usurper of power. Killed your father for your own ends,” she said afterwards. Then, “Um, water, please.”

The Duke’s eyebrow twitched, yet he merely let her sip from the glass of water. “Heh. How dare they.” After a moment’s worth of thinking he asked, “And what do you think about it?”

“I don’t care, really,” came her flat admittance. It was true. 

“Interesting,” said the Duke. “When you went through all the trouble to infiltrate my premises, you did so with no cause to sacrifice your life for? You must think me either weak, an easy prey. In other words, you may be stupid. Or,” He took a sip of water. “You may be desperate. Which are you?”

Again, those glacial, piercing cold eyes, watching her carefully. Once again Rosa could feel her hairs stand on end.

“...you called me stupid, earlier, so that is what I am, I guess,” Rosa muttered, guardedly.

“And so you are desperate, put in this difficult position,” he said, easily sussing out her halfhearted lie. “Do you want to know how I can tell?”

“Um. sure.”

“Firstly, you are no assassin. You are not even worth a diversion, little girl.” Another spoonful of risotto lifted to her lips.

Rosa cringed at his callous words as she chewed her food. Well. Excuse me.

“Next, based on what you just told me, you are coerced in some way or another. There is a lot at stake. Father’s debts? Hmm.” The Duke eyed her hawkishly as he rattled off possibilities; his unnerving, unblinking gold stare never, ever leaving her.  “No, you are too proud for that. Debt of honor? Literal lives at stake, perhaps? Ah, there we go,” he murmured as he carefully tilted the almost-empty tall glass of water to her butter-glazed lips. “Someone is being held against their will.”

Rosa’s blood froze.

“They’re right,” she murmured, daring to meet his gold eyes with her unflinching olive ones. “You are a man of witchcraft.”

Duke de Haspran threw his head back and howled in laughter.

Rosa merely looked on in silence as the man who acted in regal indifference gave himself into uncontrollable, laugh-until-one-cries laughter.

“Oh–ah. Hahaha.” He sniffed, wiping a tear off his cheek with the back of his hand. “Snrk. Haha.” His composure slowly came back. “Ehem.” He cleared his throat.

“So, they are at it. Again.” He grinned in such a way that Rosa’s blood turned cold once more. “The Church already acquiesced with my demands. Formally at least. Why am I hearing this ‘Psychology is heretic blasphemy’ shite once again?” 

“Beats me. I only know what they tell me.”

Seeing that the plate is finally empty, all food consumed, the Duke took the napkin and gently patted Rosa’s lips to wipe off the butter.

“I think I have heard enough. Well then,” he crossed his arms. “I am feeling very generous tonight, and so I shall undo your bonds and let you go. I hope to not see your sad face ever again.”

Rosa merely blinked at him. Not due to disbelief, but because of her thoughts racing through her mind. No, no. Luke is still–

“No, no.” Rosa steeled herself. “I will–”

Whatever amity the Duke had was quickly dropped and the temperature in the study dropped by a couple of degrees. 

“Little girl. I was made to understand that you were desperate, and that you are only doing this because of extenuating circumstances.” His gold eyes once again bore holes in her entire being. “I was a man of patience, but they are wearing my patience very thinly, pet, do you understand me?”

Rosa silently stood her ground. She did not give any response, verbal or otherwise.

“You are in the immediate vicinity of a man who had blood on his hands–not now, for I have washed the blood off my hands before I cooked our dinner–and you are telling this man that you are still attempting to kill him for your own gain. Are you daft?”

Fuck. I really should have kept my mouth shut. Yet Rosa knew that she can’t exactly return to her handlers, defeated, willing Luke’s fate to the gods.

Either Luke dies, or she dies. If Rosa had any choice in the matter, she’d rather choose the latter.

“I–I…” Rosa bit her lip.

The Duke looked at her wordlessly, waiting for her to gather her wits enough to form coherent sentences, arms crossed, fingertips tapping against an arm.

“I have been given a week to kill you,” she muttered. “That also means my brother will only have a week to live, if I fail.”

“Ah,” was all he said. Then, after a moment’s thought,  “And if you keep up this charade of ‘trying to kill Duke Vilhelm de Haspran’, for this entire week, it should guarantee his lifespan within this period, yes?”

“Yes.” Yet something in his words caught in her mind and her eyes widened a little.

“What.”

“You said…Duke de Haspran.”

“Yes. It is I. What of it.”

Rosa merely gaped.

“...” This time, it is the Duke’s turn to blink.

“...you went through all the trouble–” the Duke muttered a string of curses. “They did not tell you who nor what your mark is? They only told you that someone heretic, a man of witchcraft, a patricide lives in this manor?” A pause. “But not who exactly this person is?”

“Um.” For some reason, Rosa felt like she was caught with her pants down, or without any school assignment to turn in. 

Duke de Haspran fell silent. He planted his elbows onto the varnished surface of the study table; and with chin propped on steepled fingers he sank into his thoughts. 

And as the infinite cogs in his brain worked, Rosa took the chance to closely look at the man, without having to avert her gaze, or to focus her attention entirely to his eyes as they stared down at each other.

It quickly dawned on her that the Duke was immensely pretty. She did not take notice before–or if she did, it just did not register–but his combination of moonlight silver hair and gold eyes, rare even in Svart, granted him an ethereal beauty. 

His bespectacled eyes, partly hidden with his pronounced, long silver eyelashes, also bore a certain exotic allure that she had never seen from the locals.

If this man is the Duke, why have I not seen him before in the papers or on the TV?

And she was under the impression that the Duke was old. Very old. 

This man, however, looked to be around the same age as her and Luke. Maybe slightly older, but his age was hard to tell, what with his regal stature and poise.

Rosa did not realize but the longer she stared at him the deeper the blush on her cheeks became. She did not even realize that she was blushing in the first place.

“Alright,” the Duke muttered as he resurfaced from his thoughts. “How about this? Let us play a game.” A small smile played on his lips. 

A dangerous smile. Rosa wondered what is this time, and if she would see the light of day tomorrow.

“Simply put, I will allow you to try and kill me within the time frame they have given you. And I shall not retaliate.” His grin bore just a smidgen of mischief. “A week, they said?” 

What is this man planning to do with me? “...Yes.”

“And you can make use of any methods, pet. Any weapon. Even poison, if you so wish. Except for one thing, which is,” he dropped his smile. “Bringing another soul with you as you make your attempts. Once you do this, our deal is over, and I will retaliate.”

He reaches out to touch her hair, absently brushing off the few stray shards of glass that still clung to her auburn tresses. “And believe me, I will easily know. One does not escape my eyes, here in my domain.”

“W-what do you gain from this? Are you toying with me?”

“Yes,” was his blunt confirmation. “I will not even bother asking who your handlers are; the ones you know probably are proxies who do not matter in the grander scheme of things, and,” another smile spreads on his lips, this time one of condescension. “I most probably know who they are. I am only waiting on a certain…proof before I make my move.”

A tremor made itself felt in the pit of her stomach. “I can do anything?”

“Anything, pet. This is not a sport, you are trying to kill someone.” His smug grin betrayed his sheer arrogant confidence. “Indeed, even if you use your body in that manner in the interests of getting closer to me, I will not mind.”

The look that Rosa threw at him was an implicit message that if her hands weren’t bound, she could have slapped his smug face, Duke or no Duke.

“Ah, that was tactless and offensive of me. Mea culpa.” 

Yet it was not clear in his face whether or not he meant the apology.

Rosa had had enough. “Thank you for your hospitality. Um. Duke. I think I’d like to go for now and plan my next attempt on your life.” Her voice was cold, yet still trembled.

“Oh? And where will you go, exactly?” The Duke drawled. “You just told me you cannot return to your handlers empty-handed.”

“This stupid girl will figure things out.”

“This manor has numerous empty rooms,” he said as he stood up, his hand fishing out a switchblade out of his back pocket. “Feel free to occupy any of them.”

He knelt in front of her seat, and started slicing through the silken tassels that bound Rosa to the chair. “You may also make use of the weapons that you can get your hands on.” After slicing through the tassels that bound her wrists the Duke carefully removed the now-cool towel that covered her fingers. With a gentle touch he inspected her hands–they no longer bore the signs of frostbite; warmth had now suffused her digits. 

“Try moving your fingers,” he told her.

Rosa did as she was instructed, and to her immense relief that her fingers were no longer frozen; as she wiggled her fingers she breathed out a sigh, a confirmation, perhaps, that she would be able to see the sunrise later. 

Yet she was still guarded; she glanced warily at the switchblade still in the Duke’s right hand and she knew that as long as she was in his immediate presence her chances of survival was 50/50, or worse, at best.

The Duke noticed that she was looking at the blade, which he held despite having undone all of her bonds. “My apologies,” he muttered as he pocketed it. 

“Well? You are free to go,” he said as he stood up, towering over her seated form. “So go. And take any room you like. All of them are equipped with a lavatory.”

“...what do you have to gain with this?” Rosa dared ask. “Why–”

“You tarry too long,” the Duke interrupted her. “Any longer and I may…” he bent over her, his lips right next to her ear. “...develop a wonderful misunderstanding of the situation.” His voice, soft and breathy, flowed directly into her ear, sweet as honeyed caramel. 

That was the Duke de Haspran’s first, and only mistake. 

He neglected the fact that he already undid the bonds of her wrists.

Rosa, indignant and flustered–her cheeks the color of dark apples–leaned back, as far away as she could while still seated.

And slapped him across his cheek.

Hard.

===

When Rosa finally left through the door, huffing, the Duke merely looked on as he rubbed his stricken cheek.

There was something to look forward to for the next week, at the very least. As inexplicable as it was, he rather enjoyed the exchange he had with the girl. 

It was a welcome distraction, and a refreshing bit of interaction that was bereft of the usual kowtowing and the banal niceties that came with having no one to talk with aside from those who knew their place.

He bit down a grin. 

Well then.

He brought out his smartphone and pressed one of the numbers in his speed dial. “Ogier? Yes. There is this girl…”

===

The next day. Midday.

The Duke let go of the wheelbarrow’s hand grips to wipe the sweat off his brow. 

It was incredibly cold, but the trek from the manor to the nearby lake–while pushing a wheelbarrow laden with four bodies–was not exactly an easy task, especially when it involved trudging through the thick, post-blizzard snow.

Trees in the throes of their winter death surrounded him; he was still in the middle of his trek from the lake back to his manor, and the path he took passed through a dense forest bereft of foliage.

The deathly quiet cloaked him in a strange comfort that he was very familiar with, a silence that came mercifully like a refuge in between the flurry of activity that he had to deal with on a daily basis.

His breath came in white puffs; yet it was slow and measured. 

And did not betray the fact that he had already noticed the presence of another man a few feet behind him. 

The Duke did not bother turning around, nor did he bother to unsheathe his weapon. 

Instead, he once again picked up the hand grips of the empty wheelbarrow–its tray bed suspiciously coated in a dark, almost brown red–and continued the trek back to its desolate white-covered garden. 

As if he never noticed anything, or anyone, at all.

Whoever it was, was already a few paces behind him, almost an arm’s reach away. Yet the Duke did not worry, for–

The unmistakable sound of a gunshot resounded from a far-off distance, followed by the quiet thud of something dropping onto the snow.

This time, Duke de Haspran let go of the wheelbarrow and turned to look at the fresh casualty that lay face down, a blooming of vermillion blossoming rapidly underneath their head.

He inwardly debated if he should make the trip back towards the lake to dump the fresh body, but thought the better of it. 

Let the Cleaners take care of them. Or let the snow bury them. 

Once again he continued the trip back to the manor, pushing the wheelbarrow over the thick layer of snow. 

It matters not.

What did matter, however, was the splash of red that splattered all across his back, including his silver hair. 

I suppose an early shower is in order.

===

The Duke de Haspran had just turned the shower knob off when the bathroom door slammed open. 

Steam filled the entire bathroom, and coupled with the fact that he did not have his glasses on all he could see is a certain familiar silhouette, quickly making her way towards him. 

He did not bother grabbing the steel pipe he laid against one of the shower walls with the express purpose of defending himself in close quarters. 

Instead he lunged and darted towards her, effortlessly side-stepping to dodge a striking arm that seemed to be wielding a weapon. A knife, perhaps? 

Whatever it was, he knocked the weapon off her hand with his fist–eliciting a yelp of pain–and with both hands grabbed both of her wrists, pulling her down with him to the damp tiled floor.

Pinning her body to the floor, with both of his thighs, straddling her waist.

And the Duke, the Duke who just came off fresh from the shower, was of course naked.

Smiling, he bent over to bring his face close to Rosa’s tomato-red, flustered own.

And he whispered, after a low, sultry chuckle that flowed like fine wine, 

“Do you not like what you see?”

Then he laughed.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Hi, maybe you don’t remember but remember how we talked about where In the Disney Villains Imagine, how about the Disney villains doing the Kabedon on the reader *Kabedon is where person pins their lover to the wall like in an anime The villains I thinking for this imagine maybe Hades, Jafar, Gaston, Clayton, Rourke, Hook, McLeah Then the reader will be all flustered and shy which makes the villains think it’s cute

THIS TOOK FOREVER, I'M SO SORRY.

So I couldn’t follow your request completely because writing a reader who is flustered and nervous over and over gets repetitive and un-fun for me to write. I really hope you like them anyway!!

The ones that do involve a cute, flustered reader though are: Clayton, Jafar and McLeach

I think the only one in which the gender is specified is Gaston (Female).

Warnings: Well, FURY or something like that in Hook's, and sexual references (Especially in Jafar’s and Gaston’s) but actual smut only in Rourke’s and only if you want to read that far (I’ll indicate when the smut begins). Its from behind (Anal), just to keep it gender neutral- so if you have a vagina and if you don't like the idea of taking it up the butt, just imagine its going into your v from behind. Also involves degradation and dub con.

Captain Hook:

“Hoooook… “I hold up my hands cautiously, stepping back towards the door out of his cabin as the captain gets out of his chair and rounds his desk, a mad look in his eyes and his fingers on his left-hand flinching and clenching and irritated. “Calm down, it’s not that big a deal! Remember- it’s not good form to lose your head!”

“Peter… P-Peter Pan… “Oh god, he’s repeating himself. He’s really mad. My gaze flickers from him to the door. “K-k-kidnapped you, and- and held you hostage to t-tell… tell stories… and that’s where you’ve been the past 3 days??”

I chew on my bottom lip nervously, ringing my hands and tracing my wrists with my thumbs which are still raw from the ropes Peter used. “Ye-… yeah… Yes.”

“I thought you’d been eaten by the bloody crocodile!!”

I wince, squeezing my eyes closed when he suddenly roars, swings his arm and stabs the globe by his desk with his hook. Oh jeez…

When I crack my eyes open again hesitantly, instantly a clipped gasp forces itself wildly from my throat because suddenly Hook’s right in front of me and forces my body a foot back, to where the wall is. The wood shocks my shoulder blades, and my eyes widen to double the size, in pain. “Ah- Damn it- “

“You’re my hostage!!” He roars, slamming his hook into the wall by my head now.

Managing to gather my wits, I try to put a stop to Hook’s tantrum. Furrowing my eyebrows, I intend entirely to keep my hands to myself, when he suddenly slams his hand to the wall on the other side of my head and the shock -because he gives no signal at all, before doing these things! – causes me to jump and grab up onto something, anything - his shoulders, - for comfort. Still, I try to slow my heartbeat and look sternly at him. “Hook, calm down. Remember- remember, I ‘was’, your hostage, okay? Now, its significant other but-”

His eyes, for a moment, so crazed that its clear he really did think me dead for the past 3 days, breaks my heart and stops my words. Then I swallow spit and go on, looking into them bravely. “But, I understand why you’re upset… But, and I want to you to listen close right now... I'm fine.“

Finally, the abnormally crazy look in his eyes dies down to sadness and relief, his voice coming out even more stuffy and cold and flu-esque than usual as he cries out. “Y/Nnnnnnnnnn! Pan will pay for this, I promise!” He buries his face into my shoulder, messy hair tickling my face as my body relaxes at having my husband back to his goofy, calmer, far less terrifying state. I pat his back, feeling his body shaking under my hand.

“I know, sweetheart, I know… “

Clayton:

"Yikes!" My eyes snap closed and I seize back against the tree closest to me, freezing as still as I can when Clayton suddenly stops walking just in front of me, whips around and yells to get back!!

Just as suddenly as I've done so, my eyes squeezed shut - and I don't quite know why, - a heavy thump hits the tree just beside my head and I take in a sudden, deep, breath. Its clipped, and my fingers dig into the tree bark on either side of me. Oh don't be a gorilla, don't be a gorilla, don't be a gorilla-

After a moment, and my heart is beating so loud that I'm sure whatever is close can hear it just as loudly as I can, a gentle touch strokes against one of my cheeks and I seize up even more. Before he speaks.

"... Care to tell me why you've got your eyes closed, love?"

Immediately a breath of relief escapes my chest and my eyes open, confusion clouding them quickly after the fear is extinguished. I look at Clayton with wide eyes, seeing no threat nearby. "Wh- why did you yell, before? I- I had my eyes closed, because you made out like something... scary... was about to happen!..."

"Hm." He smirks, the bastard smirks, and my heart does a flip. "My apologies, dear." He's too close. I'm just realising, he's too close! Our bodies are barely apart from each other, and I can feel his warmth. This isn't decent- "I'm afraid it was a false alarm." His voice is smooth, and slightly perfect, and I find my inhibitions loosening. Like they always seem to do, when it has something to do with him. A large hand creeps around the back of my waist and tugs me forward, entirely against his body and my cheeks heat up and feel like fire. Clayton's smirk becomes downright devious as I stare with wide eyes, our lips an embarrassing breath away from eachother. "Or, perhaps, I just wanted to get this close to you."

My mouth moves but no sound comes out at first. "I... Uhm- Clayton!" I try to sound stern but I don't know that it truly came out imposing at all.

He seems to have liked it.

A chuckle comes out of him, gentle and deep, before letting me go- but not before giving me a kiss to the right temple. "Alright, love. Another time, yes?"

... I'm left watching him walk off back to camp, whistling, as my heart hammers in my chest and I wonder what that was and- and about, about this-

This 'Another time'????

Gaston:

“Haha, anyway Mags… “I run a hand through my hair, wiping it back from my face after all that laughter and those few beers with a friend- ready to go home. “I should probably head off- I’ll have to get up early to make ‘the master’, his breakfast in the morning. Oh, god. So many eggs… “Rolling her eyes along with me, Mags finishes her own beer with an unladylike swig.

“Yeah I should probably head home, too. My master’ll want pie, or something equally difficult for me to make.” She hops off the stool and I follow, thanking the barkeep for our drinks tonight- Wallace nods back, cleaning some mugs.

“You would think you’d get better at cooking, considering you’re a kitchen maid.” I smirk, but gaze off to the rest of the pub… finding Gaston, the master of the household I work, on the other side in his usual chair by the fire. When he catches my eye, he winks and I roll my eyes, turning back to Mags. She’s making a ‘pffff’ sound at me and waiving me off.

“I’m not going to be a kitchen maid forever!- just till I manage to seduce a wealthy Nobel man, get pregnant with his demon spawn and send them off to boarding school so I can live in riches and leisure for the rest of my life.” She explains, walking off as I follow, chuckling and shaking my head.

“Yep… “My heart always strains on itself terribly, when she talks like this, so I’m glad she doesn’t look back at me. “Sure.”

“Mark my words!”

“Jotting them down as we speak.”

Mags looks over her shoulder at me as we slip out of the pub and into the dark of night, and scrunches up her nose; A playful smirk on her plush lips.

~

Hours later and I’m home alone, as far as I know, in just my nightgown; Sneaking down to the ground level so I can check on how my loaves are rising. The only things I hear are the crackle of the fire in the lamp I’m carrying and my own footsteps-

Until loud, heavy, unsteady footsteps that are certainly not my own barrel in the front door and start trudging all over the place. I sigh, and my shoulders relax. Gaston’s home, then.

I continue towards the kitchen normally though, not really caring to say hello - chances are, he’s drunk. And I don’t care to deal with the bastard when he’s like that, - albeit a little calmer. At least I know when Gaston is home, that I’ll be safe if there’s an intruder.

Even if I am most certainly not safe, from misogyny and general stupidity... and my own stupid mistakes.

God- sleeping with the man you work for. How much stupider can you get? Its not like he's going to fall in love with you and offer you any kind of future! And what did I even start this for? I don't even remember, half the time. Its not like he's nice to me. He's not even Mr Darcy. He's horrible. And I'm a moron.

As I’m turning a corner to pass the living room and head on to the kitchen, Gaston comes out of nowhere suddenly and a huge hand slams right into the stone wall behind me- I lean back calmly, away from him; Rolling my eyes. “Y/N… “Oh- jesus. His breath smells like a distillery.

“Evening, Gaston… “

His blue eyes boil into me as his other hand finds my waist, guiding me towards him slowly- and I let him. My hands slip up his arms to his shoulders - muscle memory at this point. He's mine to touch, for now. And unfortunately I'm his... probably, forever. Until he gets bored, at least, - , looking up at him with one irritated, raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

His eyes stop assaulting my lips with their gaze and he presses his own lips firmly together, in a tight line and straightens up a bit in order to glare at me. “What?” He snaps, referring to my stern expression and tone.

“What do you have to say?” I'm referring to this morning. What he said to me, this morning. I may be an idiot, and doomed, but I wont put up with his bullshit all the time. That would be just too much. I couldn't handle that- not that I deserve the reprieve.

“About what?”

“��� “My eyes only narrow and I slip my hands immediately away from him, causing his eyes to widen in surprise and desperation and a displeased growl to slip from him. Like he's some feral animal.

“Fine- goddamnit, fine. Mm. Women.” Gaston spits the word out like a curse - which is, honestly, an improvement to the patronising way he used to say it; Like nothing I ever did would amount to anything, -, shaking his head. After a moment, he takes a deep breath, and leans in closer towards me. I press myself back into the wall, refusing to touch him until he says it... even if I want to. “I’m sorry. I should not have… eugh,” His fingers scrape against the stone by my head, gathering his last remaining inhibitions. “I should not have called you a bitch this morning.”

“No you should not have.”

He glances up at me again, a glare in his eyes. Ferocious and bloody… which, unfortunately, is the reason we’re in this mess together. Or- why I’m in this mess. He wont be inhibited by our dalliances at all, if it gets out. This is why I gave into him, why I can’t marry a rich noble and live out my days in leisure like Mags plans to do. Because this look in Gaston’s familiar, infuriating blue eyes makes me feel things a good girl, would never have. Things I should... ignore...

But I cant. I couldn't, no matter how I tried, and so he won.

So no, I won’t let him push me around- but I won’t leave him, either. Even though I know this has no future for either of us; Just with me as his… and his future wive’s… maid.

“Now,” A gasp slips from me as Gaston bares down at me, pressing my body between the wall and his own, and resting his forearms on either side of my head as I look up at him- eyes full of a lust of my own. “Stop refusing me.”

… I lick my lips, forgetting all the reasons i should leave. Okay.

Then his mouth is on mine harder then I expected and I lose myself entirely.

Hades

(You’re in the Underworld- I dunno why, that’s just where I pictured this happening)

A hot flash or rage lights Hades up as I turn and try to walk off again, a growl ripping through him.

“Oh! - “Suddenly my eyes go cross eyed because Hades arm is in front of my face, stopping me in my tracks- no longer, can I walk along the wall. Settling back down on the heels of my feet, I turn around and lean on the wall, looking up at him. I grin and raise my eyebrows, an air of naivety surrounding me like a fake halo. “Oh, hi Hades, what’s up? You want something?”

The sarcasm dripping off his tongue is almost palpable. “Oh, no, I followed you down three hallways calling your name just to stare at you.” He rolls his eyes, blue hair flickering with little orange flecks that turn into embers and float to floor.

“Well that’s kind of creepy, Hades, I wouldn’t recommend that with lady friends… - or gentleman callers! Or, uh… gender neutral romantic pals. Whatever you’re into, really- “

“Yes I wanted to talk to you!”

“Oh!” He’s just so fun to tease. I smile again innocently, tucking my arms behind my back, touching the wall. “Well then what’s up?”

An unnerving smile that makes me think he knows what I’m up to but is not amused by it at all (But that he knows how to win) slips across his Aegean features, and my grin wobbles- fighting to grow wider. “Well I did want to ask you to stay for dinner with me, but now I’m getting that you need to be straightened out, babe.”

“Who, me? I’ve done nothing!”

“Mm, liar.”

I drown out my own giggle by returning his kiss when he leans down and connects our two pairs of lips, tilting my head into it.

The kiss is nice; His kisses are always nice, and I find I’m immediately consumed by it like always, wrapping my arms around the back of his neck - while careful not to set my sleeves on fire, - and thoroughly enjoying the warm feeling of his lips moving smoothly over mine. Our tongues touch just when the pleasure was reaching it’s high, and a moan tears through me as his large, spindly fingers wrap around one side of my waist and I arch my hips closer to him, mouth opening wider to get more. More, more. More...

But Hades pulls back, then, and I moan out of the loss of pleasure this time, letting my hips sadly return to a natural place. “Oh- Come back… “

“Aw, wouldn’t be a punishment now if I did that, princess. Would it?” My lips turn into a deep pout, as my gaze follows my hand travel from his hand and each individual knuckle on it that is pressed against the wall beside my face, up his arm and his sleeve, to his shoulder and his neck where my hand lands and stays. A sorrowful sigh escapes me.

“… so,” I moan reluctantly, but letting him peel my body off the wall anyway even though what I really want right now is nothing but to stay there and kiss some more. “You said something about dinner?”

Jafar:

“Eep!” When I realise his hands are on the wall, now, and I’m safely - well, ‘safe’ is being defined loosely here as ‘currently unharmed’, - between Jafar’s arms at 3 and 9 o’clock, his body at 12 and the wall at 6, I flick some hair out of my eyes and straighten up again. My eyes grazing in a way I hope, is lazily up his tall frame like I definitely do not care about this position and am cool and not panicked right now at all like how I truly, honestly feel in my very soul right now. One of his hands is pressed flat to the wall by my head, and the other is by my waist. My waist! He leans in close to rear his nose right in front of mine and my eyes flicker panickily between his eyes and the rest of his face, right down to his lips. “You know Jafar, you’re tall enough. You don’t need to hold it over… ” It takes all my strength to use the word ‘over’ instead of it’s more sexually charged neighbour... ‘against’. “me… like this… hah… “

This is closer to a man then I’ve ever been before- and on top of that, its Jafar! I know it’s unwise to like him... to want him... but I do, and this is too good a situation for me to be in! I cannot be here. What is he doing?? I like it but it is not wise.

“Now Y/N, I suggest you quit teasing me out there, and continue your search for a suitor,” Teasing! How the hell am I teasing??

Don’t ask ‘or what’, don’t ask ‘or what’, don’t ask ‘or what’, that is totally inappropriate- “O-or… what?” Fuck!

A half smirk quirks at one corner of his mouth as he shifts closer. Our bodies nearly touch. My cheeks are as as hot as the desert outside as I continue to lean back on the wall, causing my chin to raise up as the back of my skull touches the stone and I’m looking completely up at him- meeting his leer. He’s honestly like a snake rearing up to attack. “Then, Y/N,” There’s something about the way he says my name… A low growl/hiss affect, I have to listen to it. It demands my attention, to enjoy it for the seconds it takes to come out. No matter what I’m doing, no matter when it happens. And he knows it. “I’ll have to take you away from the party, and punish you.”

What is that wet sensation in my undergarments-

Quickly, I get out a, “Y-yes sir!”.

“Good,” He sweeps back, leaving me a cold, lifeless skeleton stuck on the wall. He pushes his cape back behind him as he turns back to the festivities and returns to his normal persona. Eyes slightly duller, but no less focused, and mouth spread in a deep line. “Now I want to see you in there in less than a minute. I’ll be watching the door, Y/N.”

With that, he swishes off back into the party and I just sigh, hopelessly. These feelings are getting out of hand. Like he said, I need to get a suitor! But how can I do that, when every thought I have is clouded by fucking Jafar... fucking Jafar...

Cheeks still seemed in heat from that exchange and the thoughts in my head, I slump on the wall a bit. “Arghh, what do I do… “

McLeach

(Basically what he does is the same he does to poor Cody. Except, with sexual tension involved)

McLeach had been testy all day, or since I arrived at least. I wonder what’s wrong? Is he okay? Did he not sleep well?

“Oh! - “Quickly shifting from wide eyes and an ‘o’ shape on my mouth because he leaped at me suddenly just now, to a wince, I turn to Percy’s face- which is very close to mine. My cheeks go warm at the sight. Then I glance to the side, seeing the sharp silver of a machete jammed into the wall right beside my head and become slightly nervous. But not more then I am happy to be in such close proximity to McLeach, still. Yeah maybe theirs's something wrong with me. “-Yep, that’s a knife… by-by, my head… ” I move to frown at him, blush still evident across my cheeks and down my neck… “Oh- Wh-Why though?”

“Stop doing that!!” He complains, voice rough and volume brash, death-glaring me down, with his jaw set tight.

My eyes are blown open wide at the situation, with McLeach so close, and keeping me pinned to a wall, and the knife! And he’s mad- goodness, he’s mad. Lips pulled taught in a closed-mouth scowl and eyes narrowed down at me, and completely tapping me against the wall. “What??”

“Stop... biting… “He looks up to the sky for a moment, his grip on the knife tightening, before his gaze flickers back down to my face. Specifically my mouth- then suddenly my eyes. “… your lip.”

Only realising I’m even doing that now, I drop a plush, beaten-up-feeling bottom lip from between my teeth and look up from beneath my eyelashes at him, eyes wide and apologetic - and confused, - and wonder, is that better now?

His chest is so close to mine that I can feel him breathing, slowly and steadily; Deeply. Trying to compose himself. I lay my hand on it gently, my eyes round as I peer up at him. “Are you okay McLeach?… “I tilt my head to the side, taking a gentler approach as my eyes soften. “Percy?”

My heart’s beating so fast I can hear it in my ears, hot and hard as he continues to grimace down at me, before huffing and flinging himself back from the wall and turning his back to me.

“Careful there, missy… might lose myself, one day. That’s some superpower, you got there.”

Rourke:

(This serves as a second part to This Drabble that I did for him months ago.)

My back immediately arches on impact with the wall and a hiss escapes me, turning into a growl when I relax back against it and glare up at Rourke. He’s got a smirk on his aggravatingly handsome face and both my wrists in one hand, held above my head; Effortlessly keeping my struggling at bay. If there were any struggling, in the first place. Which there isn’t, because I know it would be useless and he would like it too much, but he likes to be thorough. Or maybe he just likes to have me helpless… which is definitely a possibility, with the way he’s leering down at me now.

I just glare - up, up, up - at him, a firm scowl tight across my lips. “You asshole.”

“Probably. But besides the point. We’re here, because evidently- I haven’t trained you well enough yet kid. Which, I have to say, is pretty damn disappointing. I wasted all that time on you… just for you to throw it back in my face when it counted. What’s that for thanks?”

“The punch… “I smile grimly, ruefully- pushing my face up spitefully into his as he just gazes down in amusement. “That, was thanks.”

“No manners at all; Guess that’s another thing I’ll have to teach you and your little ingrate of a brother!” Rourke growls, letting his anger show for a moment - even tempered man that he is, it’s quite a sight, -, his fingers tightening around my wrists and the rest of his body rearing closer to mine; His teeth grit in my face. “You first.”

~ 🖤 The smut starts below 🖤~

A gasp tears its way out of me as he yanks me away from the wall. "Fuck- "

We're in a secluded area of Atlantis at the moment, assumedly because Rourke doesn't care to dirty his hands helping the others pack up, or he has better ideas of how he can spend his time - by torturing me, probably, - and he guides me to a nearby truck. With a big hand he jolts it open, and practically throws me inside. "Hey, Rourke you dick what- ah!- " As I'm pushing myself back up from the back seats, Rourke suddenly grabs one of my ankles, and jerks me slightly back. This fucking guy- "What the hell!?"

"Stay still." Is my only answer, his voice gruff and... familiar. I've heard that tone before. Rolling over and resting up on my elbows, I'm surprised to see him unbuckling his belt. My eyes widen to the size of saucers.

"Are you serious!?"

Suddenly he leans into the car, and I lay back down in my attempt to stay defiant, and away from him, despite the intrigued and horny way my heart pounds at this.

Good god. I'm messed up.

His eyes are dark and stern as he speaks, and he's never been this way before when we fucked, but I'm into it. One of his big hands - big, strong, capable hands, - find my right thigh, and pulls it to the side, before his lips crash down against mine and I cant help it. I cant fucking help it. I kiss him back with fervour, ringing my hands back around his neck to drag him down further against me, before running one hand through his hair. His tongue is pushy and stubborn but oh god- oh god- oh god.

My hips buck up suddenly, aching for Rourke's touch - no one else would do. The bastard, - and he shoves them back down into the seats, none-too-gently. And a sigh, an actual sigh, escapes me at getting manhandled like that.

He suddenly rips his mouth from mine, and I feel deeply disappointed at the loss of heat and his mouth, when suddenly one of those big, strong, capable hands I sited earlier comes up and wraps over my mouth. A squeak comes out of me as my eyes widen, and grins, wickedly at me. "I think I told you, Y/N. I'm teaching you a lesson. This ain't gonna be a picnic."

My squeak is more confused now. Because what the fuck does he mean!?

The fucks smirk only gets worse before he shows me his finger- holds it up between our faces so I can see it. And twirls it.

He wants me to roll over.

He wants me on my stomach.

My eyes widen and I hope very much that the amount of hell no I'm feeling bleeds through it and he understands... and he does.

But that doesn't matter. He makes a disappointed expression at me, just being a dick, before shrugging. And its dangerous. My stomach actually drops at the action. "Fine."

Then he slips out of the car, and only a moment passes of me just being in the back of cold truck, before hands enter back in and promptly wrestle me over- much against my struggling to stop it. "Fuck- you- Rourke! You are not- "

"That's enough running your mouth, I think. Jesus christ, can you talk. Ever heard the quietest people have the loudest minds?" I'm now on my stomach, and roll my eyes as he runs his own mouth about me. What a dick. "You must be real empty, in there." He knocks back of my head gently with his knuckles, but its infuriating. I hiss back, snapping my head to the side as if to say I'll come back there. He chuckles, and cuts off my rather short-lived bout of not liking him, as he - and I don't know when he pulled it out at all, but he did and now-, - rubs fully hard length between my thighs- against my (Insert Sex Organs You Possess). Immediately an unbelievably desperate, pleased whine escapes me, and my head falls forward. My pants are still on, but I've had him inside me enough times to know that its going to be good. That I want him. Fuck. A hand finds my waist and a thick thumb rubs across the skin under my shirt, as Rourke leans over my back, close to my head. "I think I can practically hear, the one thing goin' on in your pea-brain, though."

"Shh... " I can barely put together words, in anticipation. God- My heart aches. I'm so messed up- "Shut up... "

Then his hand comes up to hold my face again, thoroughly covering my mouth, and I let my eye lids flutter shut.

"That's right dollface, calm down. Ain't no one going to hurt you... " Silently I take in a deep breath, resisting the urge to fight again, and make this worse then it is. And its not that bad... its just... I want to refuse. I want to be strong. But I'm not. That was always Milo. Still, my fingers clench when Rourke speaks again. "Much."

An indignant whine escapes me, behind his hand but then he's getting rid of my pants and I help him by lifting my knees so he can pull them all the way off. When cold air hits my bare skin and grit my teeth and bare it, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Then my heart's beating violently against my chest when Rourke runs the head of his cock against my now exposed entrance, and I squeeze my eyes totally shut. "Coming in."

And as soon as he sheathes himself in me for the first time (that night) and stretching me deliciously, a pleased whine slips out of me, and I push my ass back into his evil touch. More.

"Now that's my Y/N."

This time I growl, before suddenly Rourke pulls my hips up with one hand- and totally buries himself in me once again and my growl immediately turns into a shocked moan, as I bite down on my bottom lip. No- God- Please- Move!! Grinding himself through me aggravatingly slowly, but rough enough against my walls to make me go crazy wanting him, Rourke chuckles and I can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks again. "Now I don't want to hear anymore back talk, you hear me?" I don't answer, partly because I'm stubborn and I don't want to, and partly because he's got his hand over my mouth so no answer I give would be dignified, at all, but he's not having that as he groans back, there, in annoyance not pleasure, and pulls out. A breathless whine escapes from me, when the hand on my mouth disappears, too.

But then he hits me - no, he fucking spanks me, - , and my eyes blow wide open and my mouth falls open too at the sensation that it causes my pussy/dick. There's no way. No way! No way, did I like that... But... the way my pussy clenches/dick strains cannot be misconstrued. I loved that. Fuck. Slowly, meekly, because I'm fucking shocked that I liked that and that he dared to do something like that on me, I lower my head. Resting my forehead on my arms carefully. "Now, you little fucking traitor- " I'm the traitor!!?? "Did you hear me? Or am I going to have ta' make this little ass of yours red."

"I fucking heard you."

"You're lucky I'm so benevolent, Y/N." Rourke teases, shoving himself into me again, my wet hole already beginning to milk him as I shake. "Any other commander back home might take the belt to that ass for back-talk like that. But I got a bit of a soft spot for you."

Oh... 'lucky me'...

Quickly he finds a steady rhythm, fucking us both into neat, tidy, swift orgasms- he never liked to spend too much time on this. He would just take what he needed and leave. He has other shit to do, - , burying himself in my sopping trench so many times and just harder then anyone else, my mind goes totally screwy. He's literally fucking me brainless. Unseemly moans fly from my lips on a constant loop, every time he rolls those hips into me, and the sounds of both his own groans and the vulgar sound of movement in this truck drag me groin first into climax.

Mine comes first, obviously, and I steal myself as cum shoots out of me unlike any simple fuck before. It seems to to turn Rourke on even more, as throws himself in even more forcefully a few more times- before I feel his cock twitch against my skin and he shoves himself entirely inside of me in order to come without getting it anywhere.

He's tidy like that.

It fills me up all warm and crammed and I would never admit to it but its hot.

Sighing when he finally drags himself out of and away from me and tucks himself away, Rourke buckles himself back up so no one would ever know he just fucked - meanwhile I'm an absolute total disaster zone, - . I roll over on the seats, pushing myself up with a scowl, leaning back on my hands. I glare at him fiercely.

"Now, that ain't a pretty face." He grins, a wicked look in his eye.

"You're sick." Is all I say, before searching around for my pants. Before I can grab for them though, Rourke reaches forward and grabs my chin one of his hands- jerking me up to look at him.

"Maybe, dollface, maybe. But you fucking love that. Now what does that say about you, pray tell?" But he doesn't want me to talk back, as viciously lets me go and looks away; Checking whether the coast is still clear. And I'm left for a moment feeling terrible about myself.

... Before I roll my eyes, forcing myself to go on with what I was doing.

He's wrong. There's nothing wrong with me. He's just... a good fuck.

That's all...

As I'm struggling to pull my pants back on in the back seat of a vehicle - not easy! - theirs suddenly voices nearby and my eyes widen. They flash to Rourke, but he's already, casually, shutting the truck door on me and stepping in front of the window.

[inkyblinders]

Dancing with the Devil

Pairing: Luca Changretta X Reader

Author’s note: So excited to share my first fic on this blog! I’m still trying to figure out the ins and outs of Tumblr as it’s been a hot minute since I’ve last used it, but if you like my writing please repost and follow for more :)

The story (part one of many, hopefully) is set in early Season 4 and is in second-person, but you’re also a character with a name.

And in case you can’t tell...I think Luca Changretta is criminally underrated.

Warnings: Some mild smut.

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There is a stranger in the Garrison tonight.

He isn’t a shipyard laborer, neither tired nor grimy from the perpetual muck that belongs to Small Heath. In fact, he is more polished and well-dressed than anyone you’ve ever seen, except for perhaps the Shelby brothers who frequent the Garrison.

But this man is no Peaky Blinder.

He leisurely surveys the customers in the pub, eyes obscured by a fedora that slants on his head. An unlit cigarette hangs between thin lips. It’s a halfhearted attempt to blend in, as if he’s doing this as a courtesy but cares not in the slightest if he rouses suspicion.

You are used to breaking up bar fights and mopping up the bloody aftermath, but this man makes you more uneasy than any roughhousing drunkard you’ve dealt with. He is too quiet, his eyes too sly.

“This must be the trouble Tommy was expecting,” you think to yourself.

When he catches your gaze from behind the bar, a hawk-like smile cuts across his face. He winks then, and you flush even as something dangerous spikes in your throat. The whiskey you hold in your hands is just like his. Another prop, another facade.

“Anything else for you then, sir?”

He looks up from beneath the brim of his hat. His face is slyly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a striking nose you crave to run down lightly with your fingers. Now you understand why he tries to keep himself hidden.

Here is a face that, once seen, would not be soon forgotten.

A tilt of his head, a voice as like raw silk as you shiver.

A tilt of his head, a voice as like raw silk as you shiver.

“Your daddy owns this place?”

So he’s not from Birmingham, after all. Every man within a fifty-mile radius knows who owns the Garrison. They might have never met the man, but they certainly know the name of his younger brother.

“No sir, he doesn’t.” Your voice is carefully polite but clipped, praying it doesn’t betray the pounding of your heart as you watch him take off his hat and run a hand through dark, slicked-back hair. You’ve seen Tommy talk like this with men he mistrusts, and he mistrusts a lot of men. No matter what, you are not volunteering any more information than necessary.

He waits for you to say more, and his smile doesn’t falter when you remain silent. “Well then, signorita, will you tell me who does?”

The Italian. So it is him.

Fuck.

“The Garrison is owned by...a family from these parts. Do you have business with them,” You can’t help but add impulsively, “Signore?”

His dark eyes widen with pleasure at your flippant remark in his own language. He is playing a game, and you are playing along with him.

“What business would I have with Gypsy fucks like them?” He leans forward, “But sweetheart, you on the other hand...”

Working for the Shelbys means minding the pub when Arthur’s gone, and spying for Tommy when he needs intel on whoever he’s feuding with at the time. It’s more serious than simply turning the other cheek when there’s a cutting in the streets. But you are not prepared to face an enemy alone.

Even if he is as charming as the devil.

Even if he wants you, and you want him back.

For the millionth time, you silently curse Tommy for forbidding you from having a gun, a knife, anything to protect yourself while in the pub. You had asked him about it one night, afterwards, and he only replied, “It’s bad for business if a girl like you gets caught with a weapon she can’t handle.”

“Then teach me,” You had retorted, balling up his trousers and chucking it at his head, “You think you can protect me. But what about when you’re gone?”

Tommy had looked up from buttoning his shirt then, his gaze steely and blue. “I have eyes in all of Birmingham. And besides,” He smiled ruefully, “You’re never in danger unless I put you there myself.”

In the pub, the Italian watches your expression. And in a moment of madness, you almost take up his veiled flirtation.

But then there is Tommy. Tommy with his inscrutable blue gaze. Tommy with his whores. And now you are angry at yourself for thinking of him when he was probably fucking some other woman in Camden Town. For business, he would explain, avoiding your eyes.

“What business would you have with a barmaid like me?” A whisper of regret fills you as you turn to leave. You are halfway up the stairs that lead to your room above the pub when you hear a caress of a single word that turns your blood to ice.

“Isabel.”

The Italian is leaning against the banister, eyes drinking in your figure. And now he saunters up the steps. You scamper up the rest of them but he is quicker. In a flash he spins you around, his body snugly against you and the second-floor wall. An arm over your head, caging you with his tall frame.

The intoxicating scent of tobacco and roses fills the crevices between your bodies.

Your eyes flash dangerously as he bends down, daring him to force a kiss. But he only murmurs into the crook of your neck, “Where is Mr. Shelby tonight?”

You answer breathlessly into the shoulder of his freshly-pressed suit, “He could be at the betting shop. Could be with his wife at home. I don’t-- ”

“The other Mr. Shelby, Isabel.”

Maybe he already sent his men after Tommy. Maybe Tommy’s already dead in a ditch, in godforsaken Camden Town. Or maybe, just maybe, this man really doesn’t know where he is, and you are the only person who can tell him.

He has you good and compromised. No one can help you, so you must save yourself. Instincts kick in, your mind feverishly formulating a plan. It won’t be the first time you’ve done something like this, and on Tommy’s orders nonetheless.

Loose lips sink ships, and men are so pliant after a romp in the sheets. Mindful of your mission now, you angle to ask for his secrets, anything you could find out that gives Tommy an advantage.

Only this time, your heart actually catches as you gaze into the mafioso’s lethal eyes.

A pause then, wondering how much you should reveal, and you confess, “Tommy doesn’t tell anyone where he is until he’s already there.” It’s a half-truth—he told you.

“So he’s Tommy to you then?” The man is pleased with your slip of the tongue. You’ve told him a secret he already knows.

“You are his woman.” He caresses your face with the back of his hand, etched with ink. A cross. Rosary beads. And there, a black-palmed hand. Just like the ones he sent the Shelbys.

I want to see where his tattoos lead to.

“You are his woman,” he continues, and something dark and sweet fills his voice as he purrs, “And you are not afraid of me.”

“I’m not giving up Shelby secrets even if you seduce me,” You stifle a whimper as he wedges a leg between your skirts, and you think of nothing except the way you ache for him to come even closer, until there is nothing between you but skin on bare skin.

“Tommy has whores who might give him up for a pound or three. Although,” you smirk, “I won’t tell you where you’d find them, either.”

“Oh sweetheart, didn’t you hear me?” So close you can feel his heartbeat with your fingertips, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

A deathly promise.

“I’ve come for you.”

He slants his mouth, his lips pressing hotly to yours as you surrender to desire. The kiss is swift and hard. The two of you come together, again and again, like lightning and thunder. As he cradles your head with one hand, the other slips underneath your blouse to palm your breast. You arch against the wall. The onyx rings on his hand are cold, and they pucker your nipples as they bite your skin.

Somehow you find your fingers seeking him too. But it’s not enough to touch the exposed skin between the gaps of his buttoned shirt. You want more.

When you pull apart he is panting, lips apart and wet. His once slicked-back hair now mussed, you imagine yours is too. For the first time this evening, his arrogant face is a little shocked, as if the taste of you affected him more deeply than he expected. You unclench your fists from his shirt and slowly take his face into your hands. You draw a line down the bridge of his nose, feeling all its bumps and ridges.

You murmur huskily, “Why did you really come to Birmingham?”

He tilts his head expectantly, and you are lost in his devastating eyes as he replies.

“Pleasure.”