#so cruel to put this woman in front of my stupid face when she's in a relationship and she's probably gonna go away soon anyway

[i-appear-misssing]

Sweet lord help me she leaned over my shoulder and touched my arm and I had no blood left below my neck

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Hi! So at the end of Loki how he becomes part of the multiverse tree and everything resets. but what if the reader still remembers Loki so she goes to look for him and try to give him a happy ending.

It's so sad because Loki should have a happy ending and seeing what happens in the finale of the show I would like to see him not end up alone.🥺

A/n: I WILL GIVE LOKI HIS HAPPY ENDING, p.S…Wanda is also alive cause I said so. So yea obviously I changed a lotttt of things.

Side note: was gonna make Sylvie switch places for Loki’s but I didn’t want to be called stupid 😂. But if you want it as an alt end then I’ll write it.

You didn’t understand, you couldn’t understand why people couldn’t remember him. Why? Mobius,Sylvie, not one of them remembered Loki.

You refused to believe this, he couldn’t be gone, you had to do something, you had to fix this. Ignoring Mobius calling out your name, you were determined to find him, you will save Loki and you had to go to the one person that would help, the one person that could help.

Wanda

Your heart hammered as you came upon the home, the same little house you had found for the woman, one reality where she can finally be happy. You just hoped she would remember her love. You hoped that what ever Loki had done hadn’t reset this life.

Taking a deep breath, you made your way to the door. Your hand knocking on the door though relief flooded your body when the woman said your name, her head tilted to the side.

“You remember me?! Oh thank god…Wanda I need your help?”

Wrinkling her nose Wanda stepped side letting you come into her home. “Why wouldn’t I remember….what’s wrong?”

Patting your lips you ran you nervously bit your lip as you started explain everything to your friend. “And now he’s stuck in the Loom and nobody remembers him but us and he’s alone and I can’t.” Shaking your head you grasped the edge of your shirt. “Please Wanda! You’re the only one that can help me.”

Wanda hated seeing you like this, you were one of the kindest people she knew. You were the only one that helped her, the believed in her. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded her head as she grasped your hand gently. “Of course, let’s just find a place that’s not my front yard.”

Giving one last look at her family she tugged you to her car. While she knew what this would mean, she was grateful for your friendship.

•

Stepping through the portal, you glanced over your shoulder spotting the woman struggling to keep it open. “It’s okay Wanda you can let go.”

Tears sliding down her cheeks, Brooke gave you a weak smile. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, and thank you.” Turning away from the closing portal you took a deep breath taking a glance at your surroundings. Did he really subject himself to this? It felt so lonely here, so isolated.

You didn’t care if people will forget you, it didn’t matter because you would have Loki, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

A smile formed on your lips as you spotted the man sitting on a thorn. The once heart broken look on his face was replaced with a look of disbelief, your name spilling from his lips.

“It’s can’t, this must be a cruel joke.” This bad to be some illusion, something is mind made up to push back the loneliness he felt.

Giving him a teasing smile you stepped forward kneeling down in front of him. Your hands grasping his gently. “I’m not very good at jokes but I can assure you that I am very real.”

Clutching your hand tightly he was afraid that if he let go than you’d just vanish. “You must go back you can’t-.”

Placing your hand on his cheek, you let your thumb glide across his skin. “Well, it’s a bit to late for that now.” You then pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips then smiled resting your head against his feeling Loki draw you in close. “So now you’re going to have to put up with me.”

“Thank you.” Loki whispered holding you tight, hr might be stuck protecting all the time lines but at least he wasn’t alone anymore.

At least he had you.

[blingblong55]

Vigilante shit -John "Soap" MacTavish

Based on a request:

HELLO. You said you were gonna close the request soon so I'm writing this. Okay so. I have this idea but I'm a terrible writer unlike you and every other writer in this platform so I need your help to make this come true but you can decline this if you want.Drug Lord!Fem!Reader who was caught by 141 after 4 years of hunting because she was involved with General Shepherd for illegal shipping (She's a courier like Valeria). She was being all sassy and cocky that 141 had trouble interrogating her. Soap who wasn't present when the others arrested her came to the interrogation room, and was shocked to see reader, his ex-girlfriend. Reader who was bright, sweet, and funny was identified as the drug lord. You made meth, sold it, and made a whole drug empire in a span of 4 years. When they broke up, Soap told reader that his job was too dangerous for her so they couldn't be together anymore. This triggered reader to be dangerous. With her degree in Chemistry, she started this dangerous life so she can be with Soap again. Reader is a bit messed up on her head but Soap never noticed, until now. When reader saw Soap again, she was so happy and squealed in excitement. She was the opposite of how she was when interrogated by 141. She was sassy and cocky towards them, but with her Johnny, she was like her old self before she became a drug lord. The rest is yours. Thank you for your consideration. I wish you a very great day. 😷 ---- F!Reader, chemist!reader, ex-boyfriend!Soap, drug-lord!reader, revenge, lovesick ----

A/N: I love this idea and it makes me get out of my comfort zone, so thank you for this anon

Guns ran through the air, white powder scattered on the cement floor. Thirteen soldiers holding guns all directed at you. "Put your hands up!" The lieutenant barked. And you did just that, standing from your desk and turning around, holding your hands up. What? Did they think men can be the only ones to play the dangerous game? What a surprise when a beautiful woman like yourself faced them. "You're Grim?" the captain would ask and all you did was smile, bowing in front of them. "The one and only, gentlemen." Shame that all these men forget that with beauty comes wisdom and oh you had lots of wisdom. 

It had been exactly 1461 days since they started the search for you. It had also been 1681 days since someone tipped Laswell off that a new drug lord had entered the list. Valeria Garza, being your supporter, helper in making trails to transport drugs and a friend was the reason why you made a name for yourself so easily. Your past and present are all in a file. Photographs of you meeting associates, clients and workers all in a box and that same box contained that same white powder many want. 

1712 days before, John MacTavish, your five-year boyfriend sat you down, and told you that it would be mean and cruel if he led you on any longer for his job is dangerous and he may never come back. You cried and he left, leaving you with nothing but pain and that stupid feeling in the back of your head where you needed to prove him wrong. Not always is danger away from home, it can brew in a lab and make a crown for someone. 

So, without knowledge, Valeria Garza found her newest associate. She wanted to get into the cocaine business with a bang and she knew who to talk to first. The men and women in the field of science, specifically those with a chemistry background. You were smart, she knows that, so when she flew you to Las Almas, she gave you the throne to the cocaine business, as long as she had a cut of it. With that deal, you had to use that pretty head of yours to help her in another business. This involved a general, General Shepherd to be exact and he and his men wanted you two to help him ship his containers. 

If you helped them, your cocaine would be exported without worry to important people. And within just seven months of you starting the so-called dangerous life, you made a life and empire for yourself. If men could do it in a year, you did it in almost half of that time and that raised alarms for many government agencies. Throughout the first year, Valeria helped you keep tabs on Soap, a man she would come to hate later on. 

Time progressed and now, you are here, sitting in a chair, legs crossed and a smirk on your lips. "Who are you working with?" Price stands with the other two men, looking at you and all you did was clean your nails. "I work for myself," you say without looking at him or them. "Bullshit, you can't build a business this quick without help, so tell us," Gaz would soon say in a threatening voice. "Sometimes, the help is on your side of the field," you look up and smile.

"Laswell, she isn't saying much," Ghost told the radio. "Make her, you know how," Laswell's voice broke the silence in the room. Ghost nods towards his two teammates and he rests his gun on the floor. Throughout the interrogation, you kept giving them small signs that really, the helo you received were men who once worked with them but of course, you wouldn't say that directly. Not a snitch, not a stitch on that pretty face of yours. 

It had been two hours and then the doors opened, Alejandro, Rudy and Soap walked in. "Where is she?" Alejandro was frustrated, he wanted his home place to be clean and the last dirt spot was you. Once you turn around, Soap's eyes widen, that sweet girlfriend he wished he married years ago is now under interrogation for numerous crimes. "Hi Johnny!" you smile and everyone in the room points guns at him. "You betrayed us!" Alejandro was about to push Soap to the floor but you raised your hand, like some school girl with an answer. 

"What." Ghost awaited you. "He has nothing to do with me, no man helped me raise it, I got help until after it was afloat but he has never been a part of my reign." 

Alejandro chuckles, "You want me to believe you?"

"Yes, or how else would I tell you the rest, trust me, he has no part in this, except for my plan."

"What do you mean by that?" Price would question.

"Oh, did he not tell you he had a girlfriend back home? That she has a respective degree in chemistry and he broke up with her because it was all too dangerous? What a surprise." 

"Lass-"

"I should thank you, for being the reason I am this drug lord," you stand up and clap but Alejandro and Rudy quickly sit you back down. "Ruining the celebration," you mention. "Shut the fuck up," Alejandro barks. "Party pooper," you chuckle and he scoffs. "Leave us alone," Soap demands and before Rudy opposes, Ghost nods and leaves the room, the others following suit. 

"R/N-"

"I see you kept the mohawk, Johnny-"

"Why are you here and what the fuck happened?"

Within three hours, you told him all, from the end of the relationship with him to the very hour 141 detained you. As he sat down and listened, you slowly persuaded him to be with you and slowly, that began to work. "You are under arrest," he begins and you shake your head. "What, you won't want one kiss to seal the deal?"

"There's no deal, lass."

"Oh but there is, for every soldier's name I give, you owe me a date in my cell and make sure it's a pretty one," you say as he handcuffs you. "Don't make me tighten the cuffs?" He warns as he pushes you to the door. "Why, are you afraid I might moan?" you chuckle and he stops walking, pushing you to the wall. "What have you done with my sweet and innocent R/N?" His breath hits your soft skin. "You killed her along with her heart, shame isn't it? The potential she had in a normal world, was a good thing she died or else I would've never survived. You should've attended her funeral, it was sad." you laugh and he shakes his head. 

"You're crazy-"

"Crazy for you, Johnny."

A/N: I wanted to go for a Harley Quinn kind of vibe

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[lolitawestcoast]

I rarely write or post things on social media because I am more of an “observer”, but after finishing season 2 of HOTD, I realised that I, too, want to share my “unpopular opinions” (as some may say they are) with the world. I guess I got inspired by all of you whom I follow and whose posts I consistently read that are truly in sync with what I think about the show overall, especially the greens and other characters I like.

So you are welcome to read this rant/ mini essay and give your two cents about the topic. I will be discussing a few characters who I have firm opinions about and what I think we should actually focus or take away from the series.

I will start with my personal favourite, Alicent Hightower. I swear I am in minority when I say this, because all the people that I know (including close people and friends) dislike/hate her and that’s totally fine, nobody should force others to like a character but the way they talk about her (all completely stupid arguments that miss the mark) as if she’s this insufferable, evil, bad mother. She is so layered, so tragic, ugh, it makes me sick to my stomach thinking about what Viserys himself has put her through, not ONLY Otto. I say this because a lot of the conversations I’ve had with others NEVER acknowledge his part in her trauma and when I mention it I am immediately shut down, it’s kind of sad and disturbing.

In their opinion, Alicent is a BIG part of what happened leading to the war. Excuse me? Have you seen season 1? Have you followed the plot at all? That woman is a victim. I’ve been reblogging and reading a lot of people’s posts here that were completely spot on about how many sacrifices she has made as she puts it herself (“What have I done, but what was EXPECTED of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law.”) While Rhaneyra gets to do all she wants (“While you flout all to do as you please”) with no consequences because the king favours her and turns a blind eye to her actions, forever defending her even if he CLEARLY knows (and sees) what’s in front of him.

For example, that whole Alicent-Rhaneyra confrontation in season 1 was such a divisive discussion in my family, ugh, I felt like Alicent herself against everybody saying that she wasn’t in the right but you know what? She totally was. I would have had the same reaction (“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It’s TRAMPLED under your pretty foot again!”) Her life as a queen was forced on her by the MEN around her. What do you expect? How is she supposed to just take what’s happening to her and not stand up for herself and her child whose eye was fucking SLASHED. Aemond lost an eye. I just know, as a mother, I would have gone FERAL. No doubt. How can she not ask for justice, an eye for an eye (“And now you take my son’s eye and to even that you feel entitled.”) Couldn’t have said it better myself. Later on, when Aemond kills Lucerys, Rhaneyra herself wants “a son for a son”. Isn’t that the same philosophy? Why is Alicent unreasonable when she is asking for Lucerys’ eye in that moment? I don’t see much of a difference. This is one of the examples where I can’t look away and just hate someone like others do, because she has a point.

Another example is when Rhaneyra tells her that she doesn’t want to be “trapped in a castle” and “made to squeeze out heirs”. I swear, when they showed Alicent’s face after that line, I had tears in my eyes, I felt like I wanted to hold her because she DID NOT need to hear that, it was cruel. She broke my heart so many times, I almost want to say I rarely feel this way about a character in a show: “Sadness is a condition of motherhood”. My dearest Alicent, THEY WILL NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU.

Is she a bad mother as they say? Not at all. Would a bad mother literally SHIELD Aegon with her body when threatened with a DRAGON? Would a bad mother (again) use her body to protect her daughter Helaena from the smallfolk during the riots? Would she stand up for Aemond and DEMAND justice, putting herself in danger as well as in a unfavourable position with the king as a bad mother? HOW DOES SHE NOT LOVE HER CHILDREN? I mean, I have a mother who would do the EXACT same thing for me, literally take a bullet for her child. And like Alicent, my mother has her flaws, she’s been through things in life beyond my understanding (having an abusive husband), so she isn’t perfect, but she loves me with all her heart nonetheless. She has projected some things onto me and has hurt me many times with her words, like Alicent sometimes does with Aegon, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him. Even after the incident with Aemond happens, she regrets her actions, mainly slashing Rhaneyra’s hand: “It was an ugly thing, I regret it”. Otto is then the one who praises her for what she has done: “And yet, I’ve never seen that side of you, my daughter…We play an ugly game.” Once again, he is the mastermind, using Alicent as a pawn in his search for power. She is not power hungry herself.

I think it’s hard for her sometimes to look at her children, especially Aegon I think, her firstborn, whom may I remind you she had VERY YOUNG, a child herself and not see her whole grief, trauma and abuse through him. The way Emily has portrayed young Alicent, specifically in that scene where she holds her baby and she just looks defeated, sad, depressed, EXHAUSTED. While Rhaneyra gets to have children with whom she pleases (Harwin Strong is someone who she loves and cares about, judging by the loving and tender looks they give each other in some scenes) because she has an open marriage and she was lucky enough to get that. Nothing was forced on her. She had the freedom to look for her own suitors, a thing that Alicent calls “romantic” because in her mind, she would have absolutely dreamed to do the same.

Moreover, how can you say that Rhaneyra and Alicent don’t have love for each other? They make that CLEAR in the show so many times with small, beautiful details (the page, their 2 conversations from season 2, beautifully acted by Olivia and Emma). Didn’t Alicent vehemently defend Rhaneyra against the “claims” made by Otto that her and Daemon got into some inappropriate actions together? Even though his informer was right. She believed her and vouched for her to the king. She has never been jealous of her in that sense. She was envious perhaps of her freedom, yes, for sure, but who wouldn’t be, given her situation. She still loved and cared for her deeply.

When Otto is dismissed as hand and they have that conversation in the rain where he enforces on her that she has to prepare Aegon to be king because Rhaneyra will put her children to the sword otherwise, because she will be challenged by Aegon; the manipulation from Otto she has received time and time again runs deep into her adulthood. After he leaves she is alone at court, nobody in her corner. She doesn’t realise she is being used as a pawn in a man’s power games, but she becomes paranoid and determined to defend her own family. Cut to the wedding scene: after she finds out about Rhaneyra’s indiscretion with Cole, she fully embraces the colour green, representative of the Hightower house, subtly declaring war by showing up in that beautiful gown in the middle of the king’s speech (an iconic, awesome scene if you ask me). At that point, she was disappointed, angry and possibly fed up with her having to honour her duty as a queen, while her dearest friend lies and gets away with things. As much as you love and care for someone like that, you cannot overlook their wrongdoings.

I’ve also seen that she was called a “bitch” for wanting to see Rhaneyra’s child immediately after giving birth. However, she didn’t want HER to come to Alicent physically and show the baby, it was after all, Rhaneyra’s decision to go. Being her third child and Alicent probably seeing the other 2, of course she wanted to see for herself if he’ll look the same. She is the only one pointing out that they are bastards and everybody KNOWS IT. Her husband, Cole, all the people at court, hell even Harwin’s father. It is so blatantly obvious; it’s actually hilarious how Viserys dismissed Alicent and everybody who brought it up, which is fair enough from their perspective, even for Vaemond when they are discussing the succession of Driftmark. How can one NOT be frustrated? How can she not be furious? Later on, when the king states “Anyone who dares question the legitimacy of my grandsons, should have it (their tongue) removed” as Rhaneyra looks at Alicent with some sort of entitlement and power: “Thank you, father”. The rage I felt for her in that moment was so intense, because it is so unfair.

Here is another hard pill to swallow for some: Viserys has divided his family by always favouring his first daughter (he even refers to her as his “only daughter/child). He wants peace in his family but all he does is create “war”, hate, resentment, bitterness etc. Maybe he wasn’t Viserys “the peaceful” after all, at least not when it came to his own family. Never acknowledged or cared for his other 4 children he has with Alicent which in turn made them (particularly Aegon and Aemond) the way they are. Aegon even mentions how his father “didn’t like him”. Can you blame him? He yells in his face when Aemond’s eye incident happens, doesn’t give A DAMN about the fact that his son , “HIS BLOOD” , had lost an eye because he cares more that his precious daughter’s sons were insulted: “MY SON HAS LOST AN EYE FOR AN INSULT?” Yes Alicent, I was in fact, also enraged when that happened. How does nobody look at that man and see what he has done to his own family? Maybe HE has more of a role in the dance later on, together with Otto and other MEN who plotted the usurping. Maybe things would have been different had he been a better father/husband. But they sure like to blame the woman, the “scorned bitch” who’s jealous of Rhaneyra.

Even so, despite all this, make no mistake, the love and affection between the two women never fades away. That scene from season 1 episode 8, where she softly squeezes her hand (ironically the same one that has the scar she inflicted on her) and lovingly tells her not to leave after their children have an argument. You can feel their chemistry: it’s like they found each other again, after such a long, tumultuous time, at last, Rhaneyra and Alicent together like old times. That whole dinner scene was so peaceful, literally the calm before the storm. The poison runs deep in the family, it can’t be erased just like that, in one night. You can see that whatever foundation Viserys thought he had built within his family and the realm, it all crumbled down in the end.

Alicent needed someone to support her and remind her that it is NOT her fault: what happened to her, that she was used, abused and her innocence stolen from her. She was so desperate for this.

I won’t even have enough time to write everything here about Alicent’s life, at least nothing that hasn’t already been said (beautifully put by others that I read so far, you are all making me feel seen by the way!❤️)

Maybe I am too emotionally attached to her, but I can’t understand the constant hate she gets from CERTAIN people. It is so frustrating to try and explain everytime all the details in the scenes with her to others, I guess it doesn’t matter in the end. “It’s just a fictional character” they say; yes, indeed. I get very passionate sometimes because I was a film student and movies/tv shows are and will forever be my life and I am always analyzing all the details (force of habit, because I had to do this a lot for my assignments).

I don’t even have a side (team green, team black) fuck that nonsense. Personally, that strategy marketing which HBO constantly tried to shove down our throats is just bullshit; in the end, NOBODY (except Helaena) is truly a role model or a “hero”. The whole idea of this entire show and its events is about the smallfolk and the dragons who are nothing but collateral damage in this foolish civil war. While the privileged fight for a throne, the others suffer, the real innocents.

When I watch the show, I don’t even care about childish things like taking sides, like this is just a basic argument between two people, I just have a couple of characters that I root for or feel close to because they speak to me in a very specific manner. Also, the actors are tremendously talented so they literally make the characters compelling, maybe beyond what they get on the page of that script (which sometimes it’s not much or enough, if you ask me).

Hopefully I am not alone and I’ve seen here that I am not (I almost feel like part of a community at this point🥹), but in general I prefer the team green characters (which DOES NOT mean that I dislike or hate anyone in team black), I just think they are more complex, fucked up, relatable, and acted so damn well (although EVERYBODY in that cast is exceptional). I think I like the whole “dysfunctional” family vibe the greens have.

That being said, I like Rhaneyra as a character, for sure, I don’t dislike her at all, but I don’t know if I like what they are doing to her, script wise. Emma is exceptional in their portrayal of the character with what they are given anyway, but the writers are certainly making her more seem like the “hero” of the story, although I can see she has a lot of flaws. She is FAR from perfect. What I gathered from her as a character is that she is quite hypocritical in many aspects, especially when it comes to Alicent. In certain scenes in season 2 for instance, she points fingers at her for the things Rhaneyra herself has done. Blames her for starting this war when in fact, it wasn’t Alicent.

Unfortunately some fans are way too biased and are so blinded by what the show is feeding them to see and acknowledge her wrongdoings and see beyond this “rightful heir” tag she has. I am starting to see more interesting and complex things from Rhaneyra, mainly from season 2 and I am hopeful to see what’s in store for her in season 3. Although, I’ve always seen her as someone more nuanced, thanks to Milly and Emma’s stellar performances. She isn’t very likeable to me, because I see through her, for what she is. But I like when she gets more like her book counterpart (if you know what I’m saying). I like to see that: more complexity.

Furthermore, I was absolutely gutted when Rhaenys died (she really should have been queen🫡), what a great character. I love that Jacaerys got some more personality in the last few episodes of season 2, because I wasn’t convinced before of him as a solid character. This also leads me to the idea that Rhaneyra is definitely a bit selfish in pursuing her claim to the throne and totally overlooking his (valid) feelings towards the other bastard Targaryens claiming the dragons. I loved his speech and how he stood up for himself in a way.

You have to objectively look at these characters most of the time while watching the show and it is truly unfortunate that many people in the fandom are so blindly biased and defensive of some of their favourites, especially Rhaneyra because I see that happening mostly with her. You can’t judge them, but god forbid you tell them you like the greens, especially Alicent, Aemond (even Ageon) or Cole (speaking from my own experience) then you are definitely going to be judged because they are somehow seen as the antagonists of the show.

In my humble opinion, the show DOES NOT have protagonists or antagonists because like I’ve mentioned before, that’s not the point at all. Each one of us has their own “favourite war criminal” and that’s that. Let us, the audience just enjoy supporting the characters we like and stop judging each other. This is not real life, it’s not that deep. I like when I talk to someone and they express their love and passion for a character, even though I don’t feel the same, it’s quite nice to do that without criticising and getting into an argument with that person. We respect each other’s opinions and move on.

Anyways, went on a bit of a tangent there but moving on, Baela is also a character I like a lot, because I need somebody that supporting and wise in life by my side, for real. She is a gem. When she says something, I listen.

I know this might sound odd but I don’t actually HATE anybody in this show. I can say I dislike Daemon for pretty well known reasons at this point, no need to list them here, although I don’t feel hate for him necessarily. I am raising my eyebrow a bit at how Aemond turned out so far, although I still think that Ewan made him one of the coolest, most compelling characters in the show, especially in season 2. He is a delight to watch because his presence on screen is just THAT fucking gripping. I still see him as an underdog, especially looking back at his childhood and what happened to his eye and all that. I still feel for that child, for how he was bullied and undermined. I can’t completely overlook the things that happened to him which lead to the events of season 2. Although, as a book reader, I am a bit disappointed in some of the writing regarding his character (a discussion for another day).

This is a big one, but I also didn’t get why SO MANY people HATE Criston Cole, like he’s actually universally the most hated character in the show so far (based on how Fabien Frankel himself was harassed on his instagram which breaks my heart). It is such a sad, but funny thing to see at the same time.

This guy is certainly NOT the worst character in the GOT universe; if you rewatch GOT (which I’m currently doing) he really is no match for some people you see there. He was clearly wrong in many aspects in this show, especially with the event of Blood and Cheese and what followed. I would say that I disliked his behaviour and I certainly did not align with many of his actions and opinions at certain points in the show, although I do feel that he is remorseful and has had quite the journey in season 2. By the end of this season he went through quite a horrific experience (the battle at Rook’s Rest) which I think changed him mentally and you can see that, courtesy of Fabien’s great performance (when he has that conversation with Gwayne in season 2 finale, which I loved).

I’ve seen the memes with him and the constant topic being brought up of him being “bitter” and hung up on Rhaneyra because she turned him down when he suggested that they should run away together, but I don’t even think it goes on for too long, at least in his mind. Yes, he calls her names and talks shit about her at times (indirectly) but I think later on he’s moved on from that, at least since he started to be more intimate with Alicent (who he says is the “beacon” he follows) because rightfully so, she saved his life in many ways, I guess literally and metaphorically. He doesn’t have time to think about his bitterness towards Rhaneyra anymore, with all that has taken place since they had that encounter, at least I don’t think so.

He has had quite the journey and at this point I just think the hate and the jokes are getting old and more like, there is no other character we can hate so we are all pointing fingers at “Crispin” as I’ve seen and heard people call him. I just can’t even bring myself to hate him, I respect how smart he is and how skilled in battle he proved himself to be. Surely he is not as one dimensional as people are making him out to be. Yes, the memes are funny and all that, but some people are too mean spirited, it makes me think they are projecting a little bit too much. Even Fabien himself is moved when somebody praises his character or says something nice about him (I saw that in an interview some time ago, he was genuinely happy someone complimented him because he has seen the hate and I just wanted to go through the screen and hug him, he is so kind, bless him). Give him a break guys, please.

Again, this might be quite an unpopular opinion, but isn’t Cole justified in a way to be upset and resentful over what happened between him and Rhaneyra? Wasn’t he used that night to satisfy her needs and quite frankly her frustration because she didn’t get what she wanted from Daemon? She could care leas about him as a person, about his honour, his duty. Most of the time she was too carefree and ignorant of these concepts. Wasn’t there a power imbalance between them? He tried to resist, he didn’t pursue her. What was he to do? I wondered often what would have happened if he denied her that night.

After their affair, he asks her to run away with him (which I admit it was a bit funny the way he put it, to leave behind her privileged life to go somewhere and sell oranges or whatever) but in that moment, the way she looks at him and answers, I’m sure broke his heart, because he thought she might have feelings for him. I didn’t even see them as simply having “sex” but more like “making love”, it was quite tender and beautiful. I don’t think he was wrong in assuming that, after all, they were each others’ firsts. He feels hurt, cheated and used: “So you want me to be your whore?”. I can’t lie, I felt for him in that moment. Everything he had to his name, as he says, was taken from him. Can we not feel some sympathy for this man? Is he not justified in thinking that Rhaneyra is “a cunning spider”? As far as he is concerned, she has fooled him and stolen his honour, left him with nothing to his name. He was already by the standards of those times, a nobody.

Can we just be reasonable as an audience and just stop following others like sheep on this “chain” of hate?

Don’t even get me started on Aegon. I won’t even expand here why I also never hated him (although I want to make it CLEAR that I DO NOT condone what he did in the show, under NO circumstances) even though again, I am disappointed on how his character was changed from the books (if you know, you know). I feel he has been treated unfairly just like his mother and there are a lot of reasons he is the way he is. Like I said, too much to get into. But once again I praise the actors for giving such nuanced performances, THEY are making the characters come to life.

I feel I already said too much and I don’t want to get into the book and the parallels with GOT because I would have to write a thesis then and this has already become an essay.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you, I appreciate you reading this; it is my first time posting something like this. I don’t really post my opinions online because the internet is mean and toxic but I really wanted to get this off my chest. Maybe in hopes that someone else shares the same views (which I think we’ve established there are quite a few people here on tumblr who do). I am so excited to read more posts/opinions and hopefully be part of healthy discussions about this show and its characters. Please be respectful.

[tlaragihai]

Okay so. I have seen some tlovm criticism about season 3 and I think I have enough words to say my opinion.

I think one of the flaws of this show, not only in season 3 but in general, is that the writers invent some cool and important thing, but don`t consider the tone and/or implications. And the whole scenes are ruined because of that.

Examples (that i can think of right now):

1) Remember the flashback in season 1 when Anders teaches Cass and Percy about the residuum? At the end there Anders is disappointed and hissing something like "No one appreciates me" and "Pray you never find reality knocking at your door" - right in front of Percy and Cassandra. Right in front of the children of the lord of these lands. Like, why. Like, we get it, they had to establish Anders's bitterness and betrayal.

Okay, but. Why. Does. He. Threaten. Them. Right. In. The. Face. They can just go to their parents and tell them the whole story! As a result, Anders looks like a caricature stupid villain who is so evil that he can't hold his tongue, and we the viewers are left to wonder how Anders still maintained his position after making such threats. And it has a very simple fix! Let him say this - with the closed door, where no one can hear him! Wow, smart, cool, we have a villain and no one of the characters suspects.

2) Kaylie reveal. Yes. Because, to me, the scene is too romantic. Kaylie seems interested, laughs, playfully suggests the ropes, the whole tone sounds like there is going to be a sexual scene.

Except she knows they are related. She has zero romantic interest in him, because she is here to give justice to her failed father. If she's just pretending in order to deceive him - okay, but they should have made it more clear from the start. And if they were showing her through POV of charmed oblivious Scanlan - they also should have made it more clear. Now the scene looks like she wants something bad - and okay, maybe she will rob him after sex? Maybe she'll use him in some other way? Anyway, the sexual thing is goi.... oh no, she's his daughter.

No. No. Tlovm writers, please. Why you are showing it like this.

3) And the whole last dialogue between Percy and Ripley. Would it be cool to show how much Percy has changed? Yes. Would it be cool to have him deceitfully killed by this very cold and merciless woman? Yes.

Then why, why, WHY the dialogue goes as it does??????

Percy knows her. He knows she is cruel and unstoppable. Damn, they hit us, the audience, for two seasons with an idea that Ripley is evil, evil, cruel, has no ethics, and doesn't want to change her ways in the slightest.

Then the fuck why he's talking to her like he does in the show? Okay, he wants redemption, he himself was saved, after all. Understandable. So WHY you are showing that "redemption moment" not as a last-second hesitation, not as a second of doubt that cost him his whole life, but as a FUCKING THOUGHT-OUT SPEECH???

Percival de Rolo would never ever believed her in any way. Hell, they themselves showed this in ep 2 when he pretends to cooperate but builds a fucking bomb instead!! Guys!!! Wake up, you've already established that he knows the danger and doesn't trust her!!!!

And at the defining fucking moment we have "i think your mind is brilliant you can do great things just change" something instead of "I forgive you, but I cannot let you live"

I am fucking sorry??????

That is the thing. She is too dangerous. Death is the only thing that can stop her - and Percy knows it and we the audience also know that. He kills her not because of his vengeance - he kills her because this is the only way to put this to an end. You want Percy who has forgiven? Percy who finally let his vengeance go? You just had to pull this out from the campaign! Okay, but seriously. Show me Percy who hesitates for just a second. Show me this tiny moment of doubt, when "I forgive" outweights "I can't let you go"

(And THEN she would kill him).

Instead we got a whole speech. As if Percy believes he could save her. Haha. And his death looks like a STUPID, NAIVE move because of that!

And! And!!! This all is happening after Whitestone. After the change they themselves brought into this adaptation and fucking ACKNOWLEDGED IN THE SAME GLINTSHORE EPISODE. Ripley destroyed Whitestone. His home. Twice. The city that the whole audience was rooting for for three seasons. They showed us how it was rebuilt. They showed us how much Whitestone means to Percy and Cass, to VM and their allies. It was truly a home. Seeing it destroyed was a tragedy. Percy was begging Vex "to end [Ripley] for good" because of what she has done. In episode 7 he tries to kill Anna for that and says something like "I want nothing to have with you after Whitestone".

And then. He gives her a redemption speech. I can't. I want him to acknowlegde mercy and second chances and everything - but saying this to a woman that doesn't show any remorse or desire to change falls flat. I just want the writers to consider not only their cool ideas, but other things and context they've created.

[mikoyamisheadcanonblog]

Sanji x Fem Reader helping her cook a meal

🍳Sanji🍳

Word Count: 1108

“I need your help,” a soft voice rang in his ears catching Sanji’s attention. He glanced up to stare at the female figure standing in front of him holding a large cookbook with complicated recipes in it. She just smiled gently at him, “I want to surprise my crush with a romantic three-course meal,” she held up three fingers.

Sanji frowned at hearing the word crush escaping her lips. He stared at the beautiful woman with the even beautiful innocent smile unaware of how her words hurt him. He frowned at the thought of the stupid Marimo that had caught her attention earlier today as they shared a private conversation. Sanji had watched getting a little envious watching the two. He could only watch his own crush flirting with another man.

“You know he probably wouldn’t appreciate all the work you did preparing his meal,” he thought of the stupid swordsman who barely appreciated the delicacy of food and rather drown everything he ate with sake. “You should probably make something simple for him,” he added quickly before he could hurt the woman with cruel words. He was a gentleman first, hurting a lady’s feelings wasn’t in his nature.

His grey-blue eyes scanned the woman reading any signs to see her thoughts, but she just smiled at him unaffected.

“I worry I wouldn’t be able to impress him if I stuck too simple,” she answered him, “He would probably treat it like any other gift,” she answered glancing away. Sanji took the book from her hand and flipped through the recipes. They were complicated and would at least take a whole day to make and multiple hands and move quickly so the food wouldn’t burn or overcook.

“If the moron isn’t impressed with a gift you made from your heart he isn’t worth your time,” he said closing the book. He watched her face drop a little, “I think I know a recipe that should impress him and easy enough,” he added quickly, removing his cigarette from his lips.

She smiled at him, “I trust you,” she told him. He ignored the gut-wrenching feeling twisting in his stomach, the feeling of jealousy and anger knowing that the stupid swordsman wouldn’t appreciate her cooking. He wouldn’t appreciate her as a woman as a person.

Still, he would help her out in many ways he can just to see her smile.

--

The curry recipe was simple but took a lot of work more than she expected. Gathering the ingredients he helped her through the steps, he couldn’t stop the few snarky comments that would escape his lips about her crush. 

He couldn’t imagine the stupid swordsman appreciating the work she put into making the meal or appreciating the taste of the curry. “He has no tastebuds you know,” Sanji said as he was moving the meat in the pan, “I am going to kill him if he just swallows the food,”

She just laughed a bit, “I am sure he will enjoy it after all he appreciates hard work,” she was unaffected by Sanji’s words each insult he had towards her crush was followed by words of flattery about her. He was always sweet carrying about her feelings and keeping her safe. He was the first to help whenever she needed help and was always there when she needed him. She just hoped he enjoyed the meal she cooked for him.

She was deep in thought as she peeled the potato’s mind worried about Sanji’s reaction when she did give him the food. Would he accept her love, or would he compare her to Nami or Robin? She frowned her heart aching at the thought of rejection. Would the blond hand accept her love or would he treat her like a friend always in the friend zone?

“Ouch,” she hissed as the knife cut through her skin, she dropped the potato and glanced at the cut on her index finger, blood slowly began to drip from the cut. Trying to keep calm she glanced surprised when Sanji was holding her hand and staring at the wound with a concerned look on his face.

“You have to be careful when using a knife princess,” he said holding her hand close to her lips.

Her heart rate increased rapidly in her chest; she was about to play the part of the female lead when the male lead licked the blood away.  Instead, though he dragged her to the table and sat her down pulling out the first aid kit.

He had cut himself numerous times when he was younger and learning to cook the wound itself wasn’t deep but he and been worried. His first reaction was to grab her delicate fingers and lick the blood away, but he had to hold back her fingers inches from his lips. He stopped himself, he had to address the wound first then they would get back to cooking.

“Why didn’t you lick my wound?” She couldn’t hide her disappointment as he was cleaning the wound, with a cotton ball and disinfecting it. He didn’t want her beautiful skin scarred. She was sure if it was Nami or Robin he would have played the romantic hero.

“The stupid swordsman wouldn’t blink twice when he sees how hard you worked on his meal,” Sanji growled he couldn’t hide his irritation the beautiful woman before him was hurt. She was working so hard for an asshole who only cared about booze and swords. He frowned at the thought of her fingers getting cut and was scared for the jerk who would only swallow it and not appreciate anything.

“Hmm, what about Zoro?” she questioned tilting her head hair falling in front of her face. Sanji was wrapping it with a bandage and taking care of her wound.

“He is a dumbass,” Sanji said, “He wouldn’t know good food if it hit him in the face,” why couldn’t he shut up. He was furious seeing her go through all that work and knowing the dumbass would just stomp on her feelings, “but your hearts belong to another man, and I am a gentleman and will respect it,” he sighed as he held her hand he wanted her to understand she was important to him. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“My heart belongs to you,” she whispered. “The meal was for you,” she glanced at the floor ashamed preparing for rejection.

Sanji stared into her his own heart ready to burst before he could only chuckle, “Then I will gladly accept,” it moving her hand close to his lips he nibbled on her finger.

[thegreymoon]

The Story of Minglan

Honestly, I don't think any of this was cruel to Wang Ruofu.

First, she backed her sister when she stuffed a concubine into Minglan's house in a clear attempt to shit all over her marriage. Then she poisoned Granny Sheng when she rightfully punished her for it. She deserved both her punishments. In fact, they didn't go far enough, IMO.

***

I cannot anymore with this fucking woman 🙄

Who gives a fuck who gave birth to him? That is his GRANDMOTHER. Whom you tried to POISON. Also, he is a government official, and a moral and sensible man. Him covering up for your crimes would have been a failure on all fronts.

***

No.

Your best hope is that Granny will not live longer than ten more years since she is already quite old. And if she does, that she will have moved over to Minglan's house by then, so that she doesn't have to look at your stupid face every day.

***

And after all this, she still continues to be driven by grudges and resentment.

Of course he will have no love for you. Of course he will try to get some recourse for his dead mother. It's no wonder that none of the illegitimate kids love you because how have you treated them? Certainly not well. You may not have sold them into slavery the way your sister did with the kids in her home, but if it had been up to you, all three of them would have died of neglect and you would not have cared. Changfeng and Molan luckily had their real mother with them until they were grown, and Minglan had Granny. You deserve nothing from any of them.

***

I AM ANNOYED BY YOU!

DOES THAT COUNT? YOU ARE STARTING TO GET ON MY VERY LAST NERVE.

My guy, you cannot force trust and intimacy and yelling at her about it is not helping your case!

I find him so pointless as a male lead. He has not done a single plot-relevant thing since he married Minglan. He just whines and whines about how he's not getting enough attention from her while she goes out and about, making new friends and solving Imperial marriage problems. In this last arc, he just swooped in at the very end to take credit where none is due because of course, the writers couldn't have had Minglan resolve the situation, no, Mr. Feng Shaofeng had to have a place in the spotlight too. After everything she did, right at the end, they made her so bumbling and helpless, so that he could swoop in to rescue her. I'm beyond pissed.

***

LMAO, imagine bringing up Wang Ruofu as a role model for anything.

Shut up, shut up, shut up. This drama was miles and miles better without you looking for trouble where there is none.

***

I am on her side here.

I'm super aroace, though, and I can't stand whiny, needy men encroaching on my space and time, demanding more than I am willing (or able) to give. Seriously, fuck off.

***

LMFAO

Minglan did him the biggest favour.

***

Wait a minute.

Doesn't that make Old Master Kang her grandfather??

Gross.

***

What you don't know and don't want to know not only about your daughter but about your entire family, could fill not just a book, but an entire library.

And she is like this because you are worthless and spineless.

***

LMAO, she read him to filth 🤣🤣

I love her so much! Definitely one of my favourite heroines, if not THE favourite right now!

***

Pathetic.

***

Wait. Her??

Didn't Sheng Hong get rid of all of them?

Also, what happened to her leg? Did she also get caned or tortured or something?

Terrible fate, she had such a comfy life with Concubine Lin for so many years and now she has to do hard labour with no hope for things improving.

***

LMAO, so what?

It's not you who has served three Emperors and it's not your memorial tablet being worshipped in the Imperial ancestral hall.

***

LMAO, that's right Minglan, put them on the spot!

They want you to do their dirty work for them.

***

LMAO, of course, let's change the topic quickly, now that the spotlight is on them.

***

Ah, so all of them are slaves, after all.

MInglan gave her the greatest gift. Her freedom to live as a free citizen. I hope she does the same for the rest of them, if she hasn't already.

[zigrethsnotebook]

Hey! I was talking about idea prompts, and here I am, really, really soon… Hmm. My head works way too fast sometimes. I'd like to suggest two Stan prompts (again, you don't have to do both, just the one you like).

Stan and the Northwest relative. The idea is that the Reader is a distant relative of the Northwest family, who is not very beloved in the family, since she chose her path through a very scary teenage rebellion and the subsequent construction of herself as a person and her career. (Considering that Pacifica's father literally WON his wife in a race, and raised his daughter with a bell, I think the attitude towards women in the Northwest family is a little… Dismissive?). After Pacifica's family goes bankrupt, the Reader comes to town because she loves Pacifica. The Pines find out about this through Mabel, and naturally they are prejudiced against the Reader - rich, arrogant, all that. But at the same time, they don't know her face. And the Reader meets Stan at some point. Flirting happens - and she loves this strange "stupid" kind of flirting. They become close in some simple, everyday little things, they are very comfortable with each other. But from time to time the Reader hears a discussion of herself in a somewhat negative way. It doesn't bother her, she even treats it ironically. She likes Stan, she knows for sure that he likes her (a confident woman), the rest doesn't matter. And then at some point Pacifica comes to the Shack with the Reader and the truth opens up. I think this can be interesting and even comical. But this is just an idea

This is a platonic idea, I hope you like it. The Reader is a small child from another dimension destroyed by Bill, whom Bill took and gave to his "friends" for fun. A portal opens, and the Reader sees salvation in this. Ford is thrown into the multiverse, and the Reader manages to jump into Stan's basement. And here's the interesting thing: she is not a human (perhaps she can adapt to a human appearance, but only with age and not completely), she understands only her native language, she is scared. Stan is in despair, anger, grief, does not understand what this is and generally considers it all a very cruel joke. As if the portal took his brother, and in return spat out this squeaking thing. Stan is very negative, but he understands that there is a child in front of him. And he could not throw a child out into the cold. Therefore, he leaves the Reader. And they begin to get used to each other. The reader feels safe with Stan, tries to comfort him after the fake funeral (in her own way, for example, by bringing him a beautiful pine cone), tries to copy human appearance. Stan teaches her to speak out of boredom, tries to figure out what to feed her when she goes out into the city out of curiosity, still not looking completely human, he protects her from teenagers (the same ones who had a hand in the death of the store owners. I think they look a lot like bullies)… I think it might turn out to be a cute story. They are both very lonely, they find support in each other.

Again, it turned out too much (I really want to learn how to write briefly), but I hope you like some of these ideas. Thanks in advance) =^._.^= ∫

Wow! Okay so these are two very different ideas and I do like them both!

That's why I won't put the stories into this post but instead link the first one here and the second one here.

By the way, with ideas so well tought out already, you could also write them yourself if you wanted to. I think you could be very good at writing! But I totally understand if you don't have the time or energy to write and I am more then happy to write them for you!<3

[jjksugurugeto]

Satoru Pays Attention This Time

Satosugu, Fix-It

What if Satoru was there for all the moments when Suguru needed him most?

----

Suguru is sitting with Haibara in the hall in front of the vending machines when she walks in. 

“Hey! You with the hair… Are you Geto? I was wondering what kind of women you go for?” She struck a pose. 

Suddenly, Suguru was even more tired than he had been before. He could just tell just by looking at her that this conversation would end up being really draining. 

“Who are you?” He said, instead of answering the woman directly. 

“I like the type of girls that eat a lot.” Haibara said, with his typical uncensored enthusiasm. 

“Oh?” She said, with minimal interest.  

“Haibara.” Suguru could only manage, at his junior’s naive audacity. It made him feel that much older and ten times more exhausted.

“Don’t worry about her, Geto. She’s not a bad person. I can tell, I’m a great judge of character.” Haibara said, confidently. 

“I always kind of thought you were stupid, Haibara...” Everyone looked around as Satoru walked up to the group. “...but now it’s confirmed.” Satoru grinned, looking right at Suguru. 

They hadn't seen each other in a while. All the curses rattling around inside Suguru, in his gut, making him nauseous, keeping him up at night, seemed to settle down as he and Satoru made eye-contact.  

“Satoru.” Suguru said, just to say his name, “You’re being rude.” 

Satoru walked right past the strange woman and sat between Suguru and Haibara on the bench, spreading his legs annoyingly wide so that his knee pressed against Suguru’s. He put his arm around Suguru on the bench top behind him. 

More wild and cruel things settled in Suguru’s chest. 

“That’s okay, Geto. Gojo’s not a bad person either, y��know?” Haibara said, enthusiastic smile still firmly on his face. 

Poor, sweet, Haibara. A child born of summer and watching too much Power Rangers. Suguru bit back the impulse to shake his head pityingly and simply say “Haibara” again. 

He and Satoru exchanged a look. 

Suguru bumped his own knee against Satoru’s.

Be nice. 

Satoru grinned at him smug like a well-fed cat. 

“Well, I guess I’m out of here!” Haibara said, jumping up suddenly. “I’ve got to go meet up with Kento for our next mission. Don’t want to be late!” 

Before anyone could get out so much as a, “goodbye,” he was around the corner and out of sight. “He’s annoying.” Satoru said, but his smile was kind, “And so much energy. How does he do it? Hey, Suguru, were we that annoying when we were his age?” He leaned into him as he said it, pushing his face close to Suguru’s, like he was trying to monopolize his view. 

For a moment, Suguru was lost in thought. They had been that boyish at one time. What a difference a year could make.

“So,” the woman cut in, “Do you plan on answering my original question?” She said, smiling directly at Suguru. 

“What question?” Satoru asked, butting in. 

“Not until you answer my question first.” Suguru said.

“Suguruuuu what question?” Satoru said, poking Suguru’s arm, and then his cheek when Suguru ignored him. 

“Who are you?” He asked her, continuing to ignore Satoru as he started a barrage of pokes, with both hands now. 

“Don’t ignore me, Suguruuuu.”  

“Special Grade Sorcerer Yuki Tsukumo.” She said, striking another pose. “Does that name ring any bells?” 

“Suguruuu. Suguru. Suguru. Su-gu-ru.” 

Poke. Poke. Pokepokepokepokepoke. 

“Wait, so you’re her?” Suguru said.

That got Satoru’s attention. 

“Oh, I like the sound of that.” She said, beaming. “What have you heard?” She purred. 

Satoru had finally stopped poking Suguru and was staring at the side of his face instead as if he too was waiting, rapt, for Suguru’s answer. His stupid laser-beam eyes burning a hole in his cheek.  

“That you’re a special grade who never accepts any missions.” Suguru said, bluntly.

“Yea,” Satoru cut in, with relish, turning his stare on Tsukumo, “A real good-for-nothing. Who I heard has been wasting her time abroad.” He said, smiling his most angelic smile at her. 

Suguru couldn’t understand why he seemed to dislike her so much. Maybe they had history Suguru didn’t know about? 

“Man. I really hate Jujutsu High School.” She said, slumping suddenly. Clearly pouting. 

Suguru and Satoru exchanged another look. 

“I’m joking. Though it is true that I don’t get along with Jujutsu High’s policies.” She said, coming out of her slouch. Her tone suddenly more serious. 

That caught Suguru’s attention. 

“All they’re interested in is treating the symptoms of a problem.” She continued. “And I want to do something to treat the cause.”  

“You… want to treat the cause?” Suguru asked. 

Satoru was looking back and forth between Suguru and Tsukumo now. Probably annoyed they weren’t paying any attention to him. 

“Right. Except rather than hunting cursed spirits, I want to create a world where they don’t get born in the first place.” 

“I love cutting off my own nose to spite my face.” Satoru said, turning to Tsukumo with a smile fixed in its dulcet acidity. “Except I would never do that, because I’m not stupid, and also because I have a perfect nose. Don’t I, Suguru?” He turned again and started pushing his way into Suguru’s line of vision again, trying to get him to make eye contact, but Suguru wasn’t really paying attention. 

He leaned forward. Yuki Tsukumo had his full attention now. 

“Would you care to learn a little lesson?” She said, quirking her eyebrow like a challenge, once again looking directly at Suguru.

“Uhg. Boooooring.” Satoru said, drawing out the word obnoxiously. 

“Hush.” Suguru said, cupping one hand behind Satoru’s neck and the other over his mouth. 

Satoru licked his hand. 

“Satoru, that’s disgusting. He said, mildly, “Where are your manners in front of our guest?” Then pushed his hand harder into Satoru’s face, attempting to smother him.

Satoru flailed accordingly.

A brief scuffle ensued. 

“I can see you’re busy.” Tsukumo actually seemed a little irritated now. She didn’t have the same tolerance for the Satoru Gojo Effect as most people on campus. You had to build it up slowly. Like resistance to poison. “Maybe we can talk more about my research some other time, Geto?” 

“Like that’s going to happen.” Satoru said, finally managing to pull Suguru’s hand away from his mouth. 

A shame. His face had been turning the most lovely shade of purple, Suguru thought. 

He turned back to Tsukumo then, not really feeling apologetic for their behavior at all. 

“Yes. I’d like that.” He managed, giving her a charming smile. 

Satoru made a noise like cats fighting. 

“Maybe next time we can discuss things more privately.” Suguru could see Satoru’s hackles raising, inexplicably, from the corner of his eye. “And hey, maybe next time you’ll tell me what kind of women you go for.” She said, as she walked away, with a wink over her shoulder in Suguru’s direction. She did not, Suguru noticed, say “goodbye” to Satoru. 

“Blehhh.” Satoru stuck his tongue out and pulled the skin on his cheeks to make a ghoulish face at her back as she too disappeared around the same corner Haibara had earlier.

“Jeez, what a weirdo.” Satoru said casually, like he hadn't acted like a feral cat the entire time they had been talking. He leaned back, crossing his leg over his knee and placing his arm back on the bench behind Suguru's back.

It would be weird if Suguru leaned into it a little, right? He did it anyway.

They both sat there, not looking at each other, staring down the hallway instead.

“Did you know her?” Suguru asked. He was genuinely curious. 

“Never met her in my life. In fact, I still haven't met her. I refuse to have met her. Who are we talking about again?" Satoru said, in a rush.

Suguru pressed his fingers into the space between his eyes, which was sometimes the only correct response to anything Satoru said or did. 

Also, he was still extremely exhausted. 

"Besides,” Satoru said, finally becoming a little more serious, “you know what she was talking about, right? Genocide.” 

Suguru froze.

There it was, really. Laid out plainly in the space between them.

“C’mon. Have you had dinner yet? I’ll take you out to eat and point out all the many many reasons why Yuki Tsukumo is wrong. And why I’m always right.” Satoru said. 

Treating it like a game, a philosophical argument. Not like Tsukumo and by extension, Suguru, was entertaining mass genocide as any kind of viable solution.

Which, Suguru wasn’t, not really….

[discopaddock]

UNDER THE WATER - LEWIS HAMILTON

PAIRING: lewis hamilton x fem!reader

GENRE: angst

NOTE: have to post it again since i lost my account :(

WARINGS: drowning in water, dying, topielica

Y/N L/N was dead. She drowned in the lake, where she was spending time with her best friend and crush, Lewis.

She didn't mean to drown. She was only crying over the lake because of her crush being in love. She was heartbroken and distraught after seeing him kissing a girl. She sat on the sand and cried more and more with every moment, making every animal come and sit next to her.

The last being came from the lake, but the girl didn't see it, because of the tears in her eyes. A mysterious woman sat next to her and started to stroke her hair.

“Shh, dear Y/N, there's no need to cry because of this stupid dickhead” the blonde woman said to the girl, who was still crying out her eyes. “I told you something” the woman announced, holding the girl's face and staring into her green eyes. Next the woman stood up and started to walk into the water of the lake, deeper and deeper with every moment.

Y/N went after her, like she was cursed. At some point she stopped feeling the ground under her feets, but she was still following the mysterious woman. Next she was fully under the water, where the woman was standing and waiting for her. When she stood in front of the woman, she immediately grabbed her hand and started swimming to the bottom very fast, where she put Y/N and put her hand on her neck, taking her last breaths away from the girl.

So well, now Y/N had nothing to do about the fact that she went into the water after the Topielica and she was going to die.

L/N was trying to move her body: she was kicking her legs, moving her hands trying to stop the woman, but she couldn't do anything – water was inhibiting her moves and she was getting more tired with every little motion.

Topielica was straddling her little body and holding her both hands on Y/N's neck. She had a cruel smile on her face.

She was smothering L/N because of a huge plan. But she couldn't tell her anything until she wasn't dead.

So she killed her.

Topielica could say that the younger one was looking beautiful and adorable while choking and breathing her last.

When the girl was finally lifeless, the woman disappeared and never came back.

But when the girl woke up, she heard Topielica's voice in her head.

Under the water, there was only her soul, her body was swimming offshore, so everyone was crying over her fate now, including Lewis.

The police affirmed that Y/N died in an unfortunate accident, without help from the other people. She was found in white, satin, long dress with hair, which covered her whole face on Saturday morning by some man. In her blood there was found some alcohol, so police said that there was a mishap in which Y/N was going back home after a party and started to swim, while being drunk and drowned accidentally.

Lewis, after hearing that, couldn't stop crying. His best friend was dead! He was broken.

Of course his mates were trying to cheer him up and took him to a party, where he got drunk and by some fortune, he was at Y/N's lake.

It was a cold night in late November, but after seeing Y/N swimming in the lake, Hamilton immediately took off his boots and jacket. He walked into the water and followed the girl, who was wearing her white, satin dress.

“Y/N, wait!” He called her, but she had already dived. So he dived too. He was looking for her in the water, but he couldn't find her.

But she found him.

He was smitten, seeing her. She was alive! He was seeing her, her face and blonde hair (that shouldn't be supposed to be blonde) and a wild smile on her face.

He smiled after seeing her and with no hesitation he started kissing her back.

And because of that, he was dead too.

He wanted to step back so badly, but the grip of her both hands in his neck was that hard and he couldn't do that.

And when Y/N knew that he was dead, she finally got off him and swam away.

Now both of them are dead. But her heart was broken before and while drowning in the lake and his was broken after the drowning.

Both of them had their lesson.

She won't cry anymore because of some stupid boy.

And he will never reject his best friend anymore.

[charmante-mp3]

Devilish - Ch. V

The more I write on this the more scared I get, knowing damn well I can't write action scenes for the life of me.

--

Warnings below; - This is a demon!Ateez x angel!reader (not for long however) so there is talk of religion. As an atheist I really don't refer to 'God' or Jesus but I do not mean any harm for religion. In this writing I do, however, use real religious names, that being said, this is purely fiction! - Also for confusion purposes, I do cut back and forth from present to future. If you see '~' that is currently what is happening, so be aware! - Descriptions of injury/violence

(This entire thing might just go unedited but it's nice to warn ppl)

Prologue <<prev.<< | >>next.>> 1.0k

Months or even years passed, no angel would speak or look in my direction. It confused me, I wasn’t aware they would be this cruel. Of course that was until I met Ye’un.

“Excuse me?” A voice spoke from behind me, I had assumed it wasn’t for me so naturally I ignored it and kept walking. Then, a girl with dark brown hair stopped in front of me.

“Hi, you look a little lost and sad. You alright?” My eyes widened. No one had spoken to me before, so why was she the first?

~

“And where have you gotten this nonsense from?” A new king had risen to power in the underworld. An older woman, alive since the start of war between demons and angels. She stood in front of the eight divines, bringing forth a prophecy.

“I assure you it is not nonsense my king, for years people spoke of an angel falling from the heavens to be the next queen. She’ll rule beside the descendant of Azazel and his council. All that has to be done is stopping this war,” Hongjoong couldn’t tell if she was genuine or just wanted all of this to be over. Then again he did want to put a stop to this pointless war anyway, but it wouldn’t benefit himself in the eyes of hell. 

“I’ll consider this pointless prophecy, that’s all I can say. You are dismissed,” The woman had made her exit and Hongjoong had turned to his council. 

“An angel ruling beside us, that’s intriguing I will say,” Seonghwa spoke his opinion first. 

“I wonder if they’re as pretty as they say!” Wooyoung spoke loudly. Hongjoong had thrown his head back, as the other members debated this information. 

“Alright,” Hongjoong had interrupted the noise, “Let’s test this stupid prophecy,” and he sent a letter to the archangel himself. 

~

“This is quite peculiar,” The hierarchy of angels spoke, addressing a personal message from the demon king. 

“Since when have demons proposed to end this nonsense, they started it,” A man spoke to the left of Michael. 

“Azazel himself has been reincarnated yet I don’t understand why they would hold different ideas,” Another had spoken. 

“There is talk of a prophecy, once the war has ended an angel would fall. Seemingly the angel would rule at their side,” Michael started, “I would assume the king is not very happy with that arrangement, but who am I to turn down the end of this war,” He finished.

“And who would be foolish enough to fall from our heavens?” One of the men had questioned. 

“I’m sure it would be our newest descendant from Asbeel,”

~

The pain started to make me dizzy, I could feel the blade slowly detaching my wing from my back. 

“Ah maybe I should give you a break, wouldn’t want you to pass out before I’m finished would we,” His words sent a chill down my back. This unknown demon had made it clear, he wanted me to feel everything.

“You’re kind shouldn’t be allowed to have such beautiful feathers,” He said before going right back to slice open my wings. 

“Ah maybe I should introduce myself, I would like you to know who took these lovely feathers. My name is Dagon, of course that soon won’t matter,” Dagon chuckled after those words. The man was taking his time, not rushing to make this painless. Tears ran down my face, as I just wanted this to be over. 

“Dagon!” A voice had boomed from behind us, it was familiar but fear consumed me, convinced only more pain would come my way. At least that’s what I had assumed. I had felt the man be thrown off of me, jumping up and assessed the harm done to my wing. Instead of the lovely white, it was now dripping with red as blood fell down the feathers. I jumped as a hand made its way on my shoulder, I looked over to see one of Hongjoong’s council members. For a second I was blown away by the beauty of the demon. He had slightly longer hair than the others, but he did carry half horns like many of the others. They bled from a beautiful green to black. Once he had looked over to me, his eyes made me uneasy. They shouldn’t have, his eyes were soft, almost sad as he looked over me. 

“We should get you fixed right?” He spoke, holding his other hand out to me.

“Who are you?” my voice had wavered from the pain surging through my body. 

“My name's Yeosang, come on let's get you to a safer place,” I shouldn’t have trusted him, but my hand found its way in his and I let him carry me back to the castle I just escaped from.

~

“Dagon!” Hongjoong’s voice echoed in the air. While he wasn’t ecstatic about the prophecy coming true, the scream had filled his veins with such anger and worry. Mingi was quick to throw him off the girl. Yeosang rushing over to help her as she scrambled up. I could see how her wing had been hanging on by a thread. As soon as Yeosang had carried her off my attention flew to the man who caused such a stir. 

“Why do you insist on such disruption Dagon?” San spoke. I could feel the rage radiate from his words. 

“I’ll be damned if I let an angel rule hell itself,” Dagon said words he had already said time and time before.

“Well Dagon it seems as if that’ll work out, hell is exactly a place for the damned,” Wooyoung said. He had tried to speak in a joking tone but he held just as much rage as the others. Dagon started to struggle in Mingi’s hold, succeeding very little. 

“Take him back with us, I’m sure he’d enjoy the same pain he had inflicted on the poor angel,” Seonghwa suggested, and I definitely was not opposed to this idea. I could see anger and fear flash through the demon's expressions. 

“I do think it’s time to introduce you to the oubliette,”

[stesierra]

Word-finding tag game thing!

@writernopal tagged me in a game! I have no idea how to do these tag games but I'll try my best! My words are: savor, listen, feature, badge, and custom.

Am I supposed to tag someone else??? How do you know who wants to be tagged? Please tag yourself if you want!

Writing under the cut.

Savor- Court Phoenix. Kerra's POV

One of the guards kicked my legs out from under me. I landed hard on my hands and knees, and wisdom kept me there. I didn’t need an introduction to this woman. This was Gehiral, who Chujulan and Batoktoa had sworn would beat me if I treated her like a real person. Nothing I did would impress this woman. Better to stay humble and escape as soon as possible.

The regalie gazed down at me, her fingers clenching around the arm of her throne. She said, “You are Kerra, the fireling.”

My head hurt, but I nodded even though it made the world wobble.

She leaned forward, pinning me under a poisonous glare. Coolly, she said, “I summoned you yesterday, and you did not attend me. You are here to explain yourself and receive your punishment.”

My jaw dropped, and I struggled to find words that wouldn’t offend. “I’m very sorry, regalie. But no one came to tell me.”

Her frown was beautiful, not even creasing her skin. “I ordered my servants to send word. And you claim that they did not?” Her gaze shifted to a girl who sat on a pillow at the edge of the room. “Did you or did you not send a summons to this woman?”

The girl bowed until her forehead touched the stone. “Regalie, we sent a letter.”

The letter. That stupid letter. I said, struggling to keep my voice humble. “I did receive a piece of paper. But I can’t read, regalie. It meant nothing to me.”

Her eyebrows flew up, and she looked at me as though I were a dog that had failed to do a trick. Her laugh rang in my ears, elegent as chiming bells. “You are pitiful, aren’t you? Landbound and ignorant. I thought perhaps you might be interesting, since my brother asked Father so sweetly to let him keep you. But you’re nothing.”

My temper flared, and my head pounded, and unwise words formed on my tongue. I bit it until I tasted blood.

“Well, as long as you are here, you may entertain me. Show me your magical power.”

“Have your servants bring me a torch, and I will, regalie.”

“Why do you need a torch? Summon fire for me.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. No human can. My only magic is that fire doesn’t hurt me.”

Gehiral’s laugh was crueler this time. To her servants she said, “Bring the torch. Bring clothing that is not fireproof. Burn her alive, and let us see if her magic will save her.”

I stood in front of her until they brought me a coarse gray dress, patterned with stripes of black and white.

“Put it on,” Gehiral urged.

Was I supposed to undress in front of this crowd? Humilate myself in front of the regalie’s eyes? I opened my mouth to refuse. But I couldn’t look away from the cruel amusement on her face. Chujulan was right. She would beat me, or worse, for defying her.

I rose to my feet and yanked my shift dress off over my head and stepped out of my trousers. For a moment, I stood naked except for my breastband and underthings. Then I dropped the gray dress over my head and tugged it down to cover my bareness.

The servants carried in the torch next. Fire danced at its head, and black smoke curled up to taint the air.

“Give it to me,” the regalie said. She took the torch when they brought it and rose from her throne. Her steps sashayed towards me. She came close enough that I could’ve reached up to touch her face. Close enough to see her faint smile.

She thrust the torch into my chest, and fire climbed the robe, transforming me into a bonfire. The servants took the torch away as she returned to her throne. And I? I stood there and burned.

The robe blackened and fell apart, but the fire chased away the dizziness that had troubled me since waking. It stilled the drummers in my head. The regalie thought me a performing monkey, and she didn’t care if I died to amuse her, but fire was, as always, my friend.

When the last of the robe turned to ash, the fire ran out of fuel to burn, unable to spread to the stone floor. It sputtered out, leaving me blackened but unharmed.

I wanted to punch the regalie’s smile off her face. She said, “I suppose you are a legend after all. You had best dress properly, fireling. Or shall I send you to the Judge for being out of uniform? She will see you never repeat the mistake.”

Chujulan had mentioned the Judge when she’d told me to wear only the clothes she sent. The way the regalie savored the words told me I didn’t want to meet her.

Listen- The Halfway Revenant

When she finally reached the archive, three of her cousins waited outside for her to unlock the door. She let them in, murmuring greetings, and went to wait for Shad.

He finally arrived ten minutes later and raised his eyebrows at the sight of her sitting at his worktable. “Something up, Mindral?”

“You could say that,” she said, pushing a chair out for him. “I found something last night. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

He plopped down on the chair and faked shock. “You? Not know something? That’s impossible.”

She shoved his shoulder. “Shut up and listen. I found evidence that the Cherefs committed a murder. That they stole the transcription device plans. It was never their invention at all.”

Shad gaped at her, his fake shock turning very real. “What? That’s—You can’t be serious.”

She squeezed her hands into fists. “But I am. I found a journal. Kuldeev Nimina’s journal. He invented the transcription device, not the Cherefs. And somebody stole the plans. The next day, he died at the bottom of the canyon. Don’t you see? It wasn’t an accident.”

Shad tore at his hair, still goggling at her. “This is huge, Mindral. This is too big. Too much. Way too dangerous.”

“I know that,” she snapped. “We can’t publish this in Shaneh. The Cherefs would fall on us like wolves. But if we can get the information to the Niminas, they can rip the Cherefs down for us.”

His lip wobbled. “I don’t think it’s worth it. You should bury this. Just destroy the journal and pretend you never found it. Doing anything with it… It’s risking everything.”

“Shad, this isn’t a little scandal. This is a murder. This means that liars and murders have risen to rule over us. Don’t you think we have some responsibility to see justice done?”

“No,” he exploded. “It’s too dangerous, and when was that ever your job? You’re a researcher, not a detective. You’re a member of a lesser family. Leave that business to the key families. Stay safe, here, and forget it.”

Feature - Mud-Child

She reached the pit and leaned down to grab the handle of the door and yank up.

Rebeka muttered a curse and turned towards the clay pit, tossing the dry clay in one of her slop buckets as she passed. It spattered dirty water across the brick floor.

The door lifted half an inch, squelched and stopped.

Rebeka frowned. She tugged again, then set her heels and heaved backwards with all her weight thrown in.

The door didn't move.

She shoved at it, and wriggled and pried. Sweat ran down her neck. A cool evening? It was broiling.

The door ripped from her hands. Tore her nails, studded her palms with splinters. It shot towards the roof, and Rebeka's feet skidded in a puddle. Her back slammed into the floor. Her head bounced off brick. Somewhere nearby, the door clattered to the ground.

For a moment, she lay still and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. She was old enough that a bad fall might mean more than just a day or two in bed. But nothing seemed broken and—

Hair rose at the back of her neck. Something was in the room with her. Something wrong.

She'd done nothing to make a door move like that.

Rebeka eased her eyes open a little at a time. The ceiling overhead didn't have a door embedded in it, but it seemed darker than it had minutes before. Something was blocking the window. Or someone.

Before her paranoia could whisper any more mad notions, she shoved herself to her seat and swung towards the window. There would be a logical explanation for this, just like always.

She stared into clay. It towered above her, gleaming wetly. Her hand prints still marked it, given when she'd kneaded dry earth with water and jammed the result into the pit in her floor.

She'd buried it under wood, but door was gone now, and her hand prints were fading. The clay rolled towards her, the last of it snapping free of the pit like a viper's tail.

"Gods!" Rebeka scrambled to her feet, snatching up her broom as she passed it. "Oh, gods!"

The top of the mound shifted, turning on a nonexistent neck to follow her flight. Rebeka swore it was looking at her without eyes.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. It was just grandmother's tales. If she'd lost her spark, her child-making-magic, she would've felt something. Would've felt this moment of terrible birth.

Arms peeled from the central mass, as Rebeka might sculpt a doll. A real neck stretched out. A head rounded its end.

Rebeka stifled a shriek. The tales weren't supposed to be real. Damn Simun for being right about anything.

Rebeka whacked it over the head with her broom. "Get back in the pit! I didn't dig all that up only for you to waste it! Get out of my clay!"

The clay oozed towards her, half her height now. It stretched high as her elbow when it grew legs. It turned a featureless face towards her.

The whisk stuck to its brow as though she'd dipped it in pine sap. She yanked back for another blow.

"Get out, you damned spark!"

The handle snapped. Rebecca staggered back with half a broom.

The monster stopped. A fingerless hand plucked the shattered broomstick out of its head. The broom left a bristling halo of straw behind.

The other hand, a formless pad, stretched towards Rebeka.

Rebeka impaled the monster on the broken end of the broom and ran. She bruised a hip on her work table, and one of her cups toppled and splattered against the ground, deforming to a squashed bird's nest. She charged out of the house, tripped over the cat and grabbed it up. Ran with it between the hills, towards the weed-choked road.

Rebeka had muscle, but she wasn't twenty anymore. She faltered at the edge of the dirt track, a red iron burning beneath her breastbone. "Got to go for help," she gasped to the cat, "Got to tell the town—" She stopped.

Tell them what? That she couldn't stop what she made? That Simun was right?

The cat wriggled from her arms and bolted home. Rebeka stared after it. Her jaw set. Damn it, she was not going to let Simun be right.

Rebeka got the ax from the shed. The last of the setting sunlight glinted off the honed blade. On second thought, she grabbed the shovel, too. Ax in her right hand, shovel over her shoulder, she stalked towards the house.

The studio door hung open, but she circled to the other side of the building and peered through the windows, like some peeping tom in the bushes. Lurking in her own bushes. What had the world come to?

The monster crouched near the work table. It had no definition, only vague shape, like a child swathed in wrinkled gray. The broom lay beside the pit, pieces fitted together and covered over in clay. Rebeka blinked. The monster did nothing more.

She circled back to the door and entered with her ax at the ready, the shovel clutched tight. The monster straightened. It had sparse hips and broad shoulders, which prickled the hair on the back of Rebeka's neck. So did she.

The cup that had fallen from the table sat on the ground before it. The monster had merged the split cup back together, crimping the seam like a pie crust. Now it picked it up and tried squishing the corners back into a round. The cup simply squished flat in the other direction.

Rebeka stared at it and lowered the ax. This wasn't like the old stories.

It made one more awkward attempt to right the cup, then held the vessel out to her, still crouched low to the floor.

This wasn't at all like the old stories.

Sorry, I never use this word.

Badge

Custom - Court Phoenix, Kerra's POV

Chujulan opened one last door and revealed the center of the building. It had no roof and Hes took off to wing into the sky. She and the full moon dimly lit the white sand that filled this circular courtyard.

I stepped into the sand, and my shoes sank in deep. Stone seats circled the edge of the courtyard, but no one sat upon them.

Behind me, Chujulan said, “This is where you need to watch your shoes, Kerra. Don’t wade around out there."

I tensed, but before I could step out of the sand, Hes landed on my shoulder, and in her light I could see everything.

To the right, chains and shackles covered the wall, and six cages lined up in the sand, too small to hold a person comfortably. Yet someone's torn tunic lay locked up inside one, fluttering in the night breeze.

A block of wood crouched at the center of the sand pit. Stains darkened its surface. It glistened, and the sand around it was soaked and splattered red. Something had been dragged through the red sand, towards the left. Left, where I could see more red out of the corner of my eye—

Chujulan had stepped down into the sand with me. She put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don't look over there, Kerra.”

But it was too late. I stared at a pile of a dozen naked bodies. They lay smeared with gore, and the stumps of their necks still oozed red. Their heads sat lined up in the sand as if watching me, eyes open and empty. My stomach rose into my mouth, sour and sickening, and I knew if I opened it I would vomit all over the sand.

Hes squawked, and we both looked up. A bony woman stood on the other side of the pit, behind the horrible block. Voluminous green robes draped her, striped with gold and black. Her sleeves were stained with blood. A very tall axe stood against the wall behind her.

She wore her hair and makeup just as Chujulan did. Almost. A golden shape adorned her freckled forehead: a thick bar that stretched from brow to brow, and two circles that hung from each end.

Chujulan stepped away from me and said, “Judge.”

“Marshal,” the woman said. Her gaze flickered across me, and I flinched backward. “I do not recall inviting you to my domain. Leave.”

Chujulan strode forward, across the bloody sand. “No, I don't think I will. What's going on here?”

“Excuse me?” Such polite words should never sound so dangerous.

Chujulan kept walking, right up to the block. “You can hardly blame me for asking myself 'has my father's judge turned into an axe murderer and slaughtered all the servants?' I mean, you already have the axe.”

Behil glared. “The servants work when the sun is up, as befits their station. At night, they mind their own business, in their own rooms. You would be wise to do the same.”

Chujulan put a boot up on the execution block and leaned towards the judge. The judge twitched. “It is my business. Do you know who made it my business?”

“You?” was the sour reply.

“The sagan.”

Behil wilted. “What?”

“He sent me to check on you.”

“Why?” She sounded angry. “I have kept up with my duties. As long as the guilty are delivered to me, I will always carry out my duties.”

Chujulan glanced left. “Yes, I see you're already ahead of schedule for the night. But you're acting strange. Did you really think he wouldn't learn of it? He has his own eyes and ears on all of us rials. We aren't allowed privacy, not from him.”

“Define strange.”

“Shutting up the servants at night. Leaving all the lights off. Wearing clothes that don't fit. Kerra, send Heslibra over.”

I opened my mouth, but Hes was already taking to the air. She wheeled once around the rials before diving to land on Chujulan's unprotected arm. To her credit, she didn't flinch at the impact, or the talons, or the fire. She held the phoenix up like a torch, and even I, on the other side of the pit, could see what it revealed.

“You're pregnant,” Chujulan breathed. “Are you mad?”

Behil said, “I am not. I am going to be a mother. It is a joyous thing.”

Chujulan said flatly, “It's illegal. You're the damned Judge, and you can't claim you didn't know. Father is going to—”

“I know what he would do. I am, as you say, the Judge.”

The two rials stared at one another. Hes took to the air with a rising shriek.

“And when he orders you to judge and execute yourself?” Chujulan said, touching her burned arm gingerly.

Behil's chin stayed high. “Then his will be done. But I do not think it will come to that.”

“Father sent me to check on you. Your secret is not safe.”

“Yet keep silent, and no judgment need ever be made.”

Chujulan dropped her foot to the ground and settled into a fighter's stance. Fury was in the lines of her back, the set of her shoulders. Suddenly, I was frightened of what might be unleashed. “And drag me down with you, when you get found out.”

“Only if you did it for my sake.”

“As opposed to?”

The judge folded her hands above that pregnant belly. “The babe's. By our laws, if a woman conceives and chooses to carry to term, no other order or custom takes precedence above preserving the life of her and her unborn child. Even the sagan's.”

“You would know.”

“Yes. I would.” She tilted her head towards me. “Just as I know your companion is out of uniform. She is landbound, and her dress lies about her status and claims rights she does not own."

I flinched. I looked towards the heads that lined up in the sand, watching this unfold, and wondered what it would feel like to be decapitated.

Chujulan snarled, “The sagan has approved the outfit. Don't you ask me for mercy, Judge, and then turn round to threaten me and mine.”

The Judge raised her eyebrows. “Is she yours, then?” It was the same question I was thinking.

“Close enough. I like her better than I like you. Sister.”

“We are rials. We do not have sisters. Only competition.”

Um. Let me know what you think?

[stardust-in-my-mind-blog]

THE WATER TORTURER

(To remind me why I wake up at 2 in the morning wanting to scratch my own skin off in unexplainable rage. I will put the energy here and not engage. I will put the energy here and not engage. If I read this enough times maybe I can absorb and become immune to the patterns. Time will tell! Will not engage. Will not engage.)

[Lundy Bancroft, Why Does He Do That?]

The Water Torturer's style proves that anger doesn't cause abuse. He can assault his partner psychologically without even raising his voice. He tends to stay calm in arguments, using his own evenness as a weapon to push her over the edge. He often has a superior or contemptuous grin on his face, smug and self-assured. He uses a repertoire of aggressive conversational tactics at low volume, including sarcasm, derision—such as openly laughing at her—mimicking her voice, and cruel, cutting remarks. Like Mr. Right, he tends to take things she has said and twist them beyond recognition to make her appear absurd, perhaps especially in front of other people. He gets to his partner through a slow but steady stream of low-level emotional assaults, and perhaps occasional shoves or other minor acts of violence that don't generally cause visible injury but may do great psychological harm. He is relentless in his quiet derision and meanness.

The impact on a woman of all these subtle tactics is that either her blood temperature rises to a boil or she feels stupid and inferior, or some combination of the two. In an argument, she may end up yelling in frustration, leaving the room crying, or sinking into silence. The Water Torturer then says, See, you're the abusive one, not me. You're the one who's yelling and refusing to talk things out rationally. I wasn't even raising my voice. It's impossible to reason with you.

The psychological effects of living with the Water Torturer can be severe. His tactics can be difficult to identify, so they sink in deeply. Women can find it difficult not to blame themselves for their reactions to what their partner does if they don't even know what to call it. When someone slaps you in the face, you know you've been slapped. But when a woman feels psychologically assaulted, with little idea why, after an argument with The Water Torturer, she may turn her frustration inward. How do you seek support from a friend, for example, when you don't know how to describe what is going wrong?

The Water Torturer tends to genuinely believe that there is nothing unusual about his behavior. When his partner starts to confront him with his abusiveness—which she usually does sooner or later—he looks at her as if she were crazy and says, What the hell are you talking about? I've never done anything to you. Friends and relatives who have witnessed the couple's interactions may back him up. They shake their heads and say to each other, I don't know what goes on with her. She just explodes at him sometimes, and he's so low-key. Their children can develop the impression that Mom blows up over nothing. She herself may start to wonder if there is something psychologically wrong with her.

The Water Torturer is payback-oriented like most abusive men, but he may hide it better. If he is physically abusive, his violence may take the form of cold-hearted slaps for your own good or to get you to wake up rather than explosive rage. His moves appear carefully thought out, and he rarely makes obvious mistakes—such as letting his abusiveness show in public—that could turn other people against him or get him in legal trouble.

If you are involved with a Water Torturer, you may struggle for years trying to figure out what is happening. You may feel that you overreact to his behavior and that he isn't really so bad. But the effects of his control and contempt have crept up on you over the years. If you finally leave him, you may experience intense periods of delayed rage, as you become conscious of how quietly but deathly oppressive he was.

This style of man rarely lasts long in an abuser program unless he has a court order. He is so accustomed to having complete success with his tactics that he can't tolerate an environment where the counselors recognize and name his maneuvers and don't let him get away with them. He tends to rapidly decide that his group leaders are as crazy as his partner and heads for the door.

[marinerainbow]

How cruel and heartless are your brother and sister?? To not let Ghost get herself lost in your house and laugh at her stomps of fury??? 🥺🥺🥺🤣🤣🤣

Gonna put the other 'half' of this ask under readmore. And @just-kit-ink I'm tagging you too because I bet you'll get a kick out of this.

Yes! Yes I think Greasy gets Poppy's angry stomp the most XD well for one, exactly that scenario you wrote; he was supposed to be hanging out with her, and now he's ditched her (remember that platonic Greasypop scenario you sent me where Greasy literally shoves Poppy out of the way because a woman looked MAYBE interested in him??? Poppy definitely stomped then XDD). Also when he's being his gross self... Or when he's being mean to Stu... Or when Greasy tries to make light of something he did that was wrong. Just- In general, Greasy is the most infuriating to deal with for Poppy XDD

And he reacts to it just exactly as you wrote it. He either doesn't take it seriously, or he's very condescending about it (would YOU be able to take Poppy seriously?? I know I wouldn't 😅). Both because A) she doesn't look, and isn't at all, intimidating. She's not gonna throw anything at him (except maybe her sandal), and B) he's gotten the Bunn stomp so many times by now, it's like a kid who gets grounded so often they don't even care anymore. Just like "Sí, sí, I know. So, did you bring the paprika I asked for?" "... Yes I did, but I'm still mad at you!" "Ah, excelente! Now let's get started on dinner." =-=

Though if they're in a relationship, I think he might pay a bit more attention. Like at first, he acted like the whole world was burning down when she got mad at him (because he doesn't want to lose this with Poppy, and he's overdramatic). But after a while, he still listened, but it was obvious he wasn't too worried about it now that they've established themselves XD "What did I do now, mariposa?~" *angry stomp* "Well don't hold back, tell me how you really feel~"

As for the other weasels. Oh my god XD

Wheezy: He thinks it's adorable and hilarious XD regardless if they are dating or not. Though unlike Greasy, he'll still take Poppy seriously. He knows that if Poppy's stomping, she must be pretty upset. So he'll resist the urge to laugh (or will just grin because she is too cute, depending on how severe it is. Like if Poppy just caught him smoking in a non-smoking area. Or she's just getting huffy with him (like if he poked fun at her kissing stool again XD)) and hear her out.

Psycho: You know those kinds of siblings who will laugh their asses off when the others are getting in trouble, but when THEY get in trouble they don't think its so fun anymore? That's kind of how I imagine Psycho reacting XD when she's mad at the others, he can appreciate how adorable her wittle angy stomps are from an outside perspective before getting on her side of the fight (or actually getting on the weasels' side?? Omg imagine how mad Psycho would be at himself if he was actually agreeing with Greasy or something! XD "This hurts me more than it hurts you, Poppy...")... But when Poppy gets mad at HIM, suddenly it's not so cute anymore.

Poppy: *stomps at Greasy*

Psycho, in his head, watching the two exchange stomps and words: 'Look at her face!!! It's all scrunched up and fluffy!! She looks nothing like the boss when he's scowling. I wanna squish her cheeks. Oh, she's stomping now?? Ohhhh, look at that!! It's barely making a sound!! She's just so soft, even when she's mad. Oh, Greasy isn't listening? I'll make him listen!-'

VS

Poppy: *stomps at Psycho*

Psycho: 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 'Pop-Pop is mad at me?? What did I do?? We were snuggling in the morning! Did I leave the razor out? Did I forget to say goodbye?? Wait, is today our anniversary? I checked the calendar though! Wha-' *sees the newspaper on the table, with the Toon Patrol's latest crime on the front page* ... Oh.

Stupid: At first he thought she looked funny, and he just giggled whenever she did it. Maybe even copied her XD but after the others told him what it meant... Bro is just sad already. He doesn't want Poppy mad at him! She starts stomping, then he gives her the 🥺 face, and Poppy starts feeling bad that she got mad at him in the first place. Stupid did nothing wrong!

Poppy: *stomps at Stupid*

Stupid: 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 are you mad at me???

Poppy: Oh my god, Stu, sweetie no I'm not. I'm so sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault! 'I'm a monster! 😭'

Greasy, watching this all go down from the sidelines after Poppy stomped at him for something that toooootally wasn't his fault at all:

Bonus! Shiny: ... She can't. She can't taker her girlfriend seriously XD like, she gets Poppy is mad at her! She knows that. But everytime Poppy stomps, Shiny can't stop the giggling XD which only makes Poppy MORE frustrated and stomp more, and Shiny starts to full blown laugh XD "Babycakes, I'm sorry, I just can't take you seriously like this!"

I've seen videos of pet rabbits stomping when they don't get their way, and the owner is just laughing and arguing right back with them XD and I have two things on this.

1. Has Ghost stomped at any of you guys yet? What did you do to anger the poor little angel? XD

2. I'm making it canon that Poppy stomps her foot when she gets angry/huffy. Especially if she can't even say a word she's so mad... Greasy is the one most often on the receiving end of her oh so terrifying stomp, next to Smartass, but I'm certain the other weasels have witnessed it too XD

Poppy: >:(

Smartass: =_= *unsure whether to roll his eyes or laugh at Poppy's fluffy angry face* How mad are 'ya toots?

Poppy: *wordlessly stomps her foot once*

Smartass: Is that so?

Poppy: *stomps twice*

Smartass: Well I'm sorry you feel that way. *looks back down at newspaper*

Poppy: *frustrated rabbit noises*

1. Yes, she has XD Not me that I've noticed, but I asked my brother and sister. She does it when she doesnt get the run of the house XD We like to let her run around in the livingroom/kitchen but we close the door so she doesn't go sprinting off and we lose her under someone's bed- and apparently, when someone closes the livingroom door so she can't escape, she gets all huffy and stomps XD (ma'am cool your jets, the kitchen is the best place to be anyway 😅 XD )

2. OMG YES XDDD Thats so so cute!!! XDDD

'Is that so?' 'Well I'm sorry you feel that way' SMARTASS!! XDD I wanna see the others reacting to this!!

You think that Greasy cops it the most?? I'm just picturing this happening when he's coming onto someone not-interested at a bar or something when he was supposed to be hanging with her. And she's just silently stomping, while Greasy is either b a r e l y paying attention like "sí, sí, sí, Poppy, I know, whatever, go pee, I'll be waiting right here when you're finished with your private business." before immediately returning his attention towards his prey- or he gives her such a look, just a complete, condescension-drenched kind of a look, and goes "Can we help you??"

[k-indie]

who knew he was a yandere

# 📂 leaked files collab ! }{ @cirigiri for you and your collab and thank you so much for letting me join! }{ yandere!suguru geto x f!reader }{ mdni 18+ pls! }{ cw; smut, abduction, mention of car accident, gojo is an instigator/accomplice, mentions of blood, dark content, dubcon, forced domesticity with extra steps }

"don't say you love me. you don't even know me." she pushed at his chest, wanting the distance he could never allow but that was quickly snuffed out when his arms pulled tighter against her back, caging her with his body, his love. "oh, but i do... i do know you. i know everything about you from the way you scrunch your nose in disgust when a man flirts with you, to the way you can't sleep with an over sheet because you feel suffocated under it, to the way you think you don't love me back. but you do."

Despite the blindfold, she knew exactly where she was.

the scent of palo santo and sage lingering, piggybacking on the air conditioning that was verging on too cold in such daunting circumstances, filling her senses in hopes of calming her shivering body, convulsing nerves.

the sound of the random beep of her fire detector was the second sensation that grounded her as much as it could every so often. she was at home. her home.

tied up, blinded to the men who had brought her there. how had they known where she lived? where she worked? had she been stalked? for how long, if so? or was this a random choice from a few days prior?

she wondered how long it would be until her captors showed their faces. she'd already heard the deep, husky voices on the first encounter, and even now as the men whispered amongst themselves. what were they saying? what were they planning?

god, how she wished she could go back in time and stop herself from assisting the man in the street in front of her job. fuck this doctor shit, she thought. maybe if i weren't so caring this wouldn't have happened...

as if the thought was spoken aloud, her captors stopped whispering and one of them engaged her kneeling form, stooping to one knee in front of her and finally speaking directly, "you really are a stupid little thing, aren't ya?"

a hand gripped her chin, tightening the hold when she tried to move her head back from the man's cruel grasp. "and still fighting. no matter, we'll fix that very soon."

finally, her eyes could breathe, but it was blurry. probably from the drugs. they would wear off soon, she could feel it.

she could vaguely make out the silhouettes of a tall man with snow-white hair and another with raven-black locks. sniffling for a moment to suck up the blood that dripped down her nose, she squinted to attempt a better view of the men before her. "who are you?"

"ah, ah. we'll be asking the questions. you may leave, gojo."

"but the fun just started, can't i stay a little longer?"

the man knelt in front of her snapped his head back and flicked his wrist. "you can have your fun later. you already fractured her bone. i need to make sure she won't feel the pain," turning back to look at your face, "can't have my queen ruined by anyone else," he finished in a barely audible whisper. tutting, the man who was called 'gojo' quickly left her apartment with a light slam of the door.

"now, where were we? oh, yes. i am geto suguru."

beginning to piece the information together and slowly feeling the burning, itching, and sharp twinge of her nose, the girl grimaced and shook her head. that drug must've acted as both an anesthetic and a sedative because the young woman had been punched during the fight she put up against the stronger man who had previously walked out. "i know you're feeling the pain now. but i will only help you when you swear yourself to me."

laughing in spite, she dropped her head real low and sighed, "and why the hell would i do that? you're holding me captive in my own home. i believe the only swearing you need is swearing your soul to the lord. or therapy, whichever comes first."

he was amused, it seemed, as the woman looked back up at her captor, finally able to see the refined features of such a terrible man, chiseled jaw and sit-able face that she hated to curse to the ends of the earth and then some.

pulling her by her hair, he spoke quickly and angrily into her ear, making sure to drag out every syllable while dragging his lips against the shell of it, "you. will. obey. your god."

"i do obey him. ugh!," snatching her head backwards harshly, she was adamant about continuing despite the rough treatment and manhandling, thrashing in his hold as much as possible, "and it isn't you."

it tasted like venom, so she figured it felt like it to some degree when this man gave her a nasty glare and pinched her nose. screeching at the heightened pain, she stilled herself completely and closed her eyes. shaky breathes fleeing her lungs and fanning over his lips, she let a single tear drip from her left eye in frustration.

"just relax, pretty girl. soon enough i'll show you that i am the one you should fear instead."

staying true to that promise, he sure was quick to leave the woman lying on the floor of her living room, cool marble pressing against her skin in a way she hadn't realized served as the greatest comfort to her compared the shuddering cruelness that she'd been stuck with hours ago. he'd give her a chance to mull it over, offer a freebie to get out of the slow-burn tormenting he'd inflict on her until she did give in.

he didn't tend to her nose, he didn't even wipe the blood away, but he did wipe the remnants of what little blood of hers that got on his fingers directly on the white, Dior blouse she'd just bought a week ago. ruining her life wasn't enough. nay, he certainly would rub it in-- quite literally.

he was surprised she wasn't screaming, groaning in pain, or even pleading or dealing with him to let her go. it was her house after all, so she'd be begging for him to leave, for him to untie her, for him to get that fucking stain off her goddamn expensive shirt!

but when she thought she could peace in falling asleep against the cold floor, he was at her back once more, whispering how he would do unspeakable things to her if she continued to deny her god, and disobey him.

at this point, she had two options; obey and give in, or disobey his stupid ass orders and see what he held in store for her. a fractured nasal bone was the least of her problems at this point. perhaps it wasn't even fractured and the septum was just deviated. she sure hoped so.

she'd watched many films, read many books and fan-fictions that portrayed a strong female lead in situations like these. they were compliant and smart in the beginning before ultimately bringing the captor to justice... or death.

perhaps that may have been the better choice, so she'd take her chances.

"fine. what is your name?"

surprised at her newfound submission, he granted her the first name directly, regardless of whether she knew him or not, he wanted to skip the formalities quickly as he would have her screaming his name later anyway. she would know only suguru and in due time geto would become her own surname.

"geto suguru, i yield. you are my god and i will obey you."

lifting herself off the floor without much ease, hands still tied behind her back and verging on numb, she turned her head to face his seated position on her luxurious sofa. "good girl. c'mere."

a crooked smile that was certainly genuine in insanity spread to his ears, happy that his dumb little lamb was able to learn quickly, smart enough to know right from wrong and keeping him happy instead of livid.

she certainly wasn't the first victim, but she may have been the smartest.

he tended to her nose finally. it had taken her back by how professionally done his ministrations were, as if he too were a doctor of some sort. when asked, he merely stated that he'd learned how to fix someone up over the years and refused to answer anymore questions. he wasn't ready to give her that much information, she hadn't earned his trust yet.

"i am going to untie you now. i need to see to your bruises, so be a good girl for me and don't fight. it will not work out in your favor."

experienced much?

nodding once, "yes, sir," she bit the inside of her cheek when he watched her face for any signs of deceit. finding nothing but a blank stare, he reached around her with both arms, untying the rope slowly, hips pressing between her legs atop the counter in her master bath. she almost couldn't tear her eyes away from his suddenly gentle gaze. he was truly beautiful and if the circumstances were different, she'd consider letting him go down on her, or the other way around.

but he was an enemy, faux-sworn god or not, he wouldn't touch her unless he tied her down and sedated her sassy tendencies.

as it turned out, her septum had been deviated but the pain she once felt disappeared when she got lost in his deep, black eyes that pierced more than her soul. he slowly moved her arms to her front, keeping them locked in his tight grip just above the wrists and he broke the staring contest to take a gander at them.

following suit, she nearly gasped at the darkened bruises blinking back at her. how long had those ropes been on? she was surprised she could even move her wrists, which only gave way to suguru assuming she was wriggling out of his hold.

"did you forget what i said already, little lamb?"

"no. i just... wanted to make sure my hands will remain in good health. i wouldn't disobey you after i just swore my loyalty, i'm not a monster unlike some people..."

hissing at the pain, she watched as he pressed some ointment into her wrist and massaging it in before moving to the other to treat it the same way. kissing each of her wrists, he whispered against them while looking up to meet her curious gaze, "i love you."

"don't say you love me. you don't even know me." she pushed at his chest, wanting the distance he could never allow but that was quickly snuffed out when his arms pulled tighter against her back, caging her with his body, his love. "oh, but i do... i do know you. i know everything about you from the way you scrunch your nose in disgust when a man flirts with you, to the way you can't sleep with an over sheet because you feel suffocated under it, to the way you think you don't love me back. but you do."

now, wrapped in gauze and coated with some numbing cream, he pulled her off the counter and locked the bathroom door, eyes roaming every inch of her body clad in designer and still wearing those heels he couldn't wait to fuck her in.

"strip."

raising a brow, she turned away from him and with shaky, weakened hands, she began to undress, but he wasn't having any of that backside until he had her where he really wanted her.

"turn around. and strip."

sucking in a deep breath and letting it go slowly, she obeyed and looked him in the eye, continuing to slowly undress all the way down to her undergarments before slowly removing those as well. "do you like what you see, sir?"

tilting her head and holding back a disgusted glare, she posed for him slightly, hoping he'd turn away and leave if she pretended to like him watching over her so predatorily.

to her chagrin, it only pleased him that much more and gave way to his curious fingers, leaving nothing unattended. "turn around."

in doing so, she finally released the ugly glare at the wall of her shower, wishing death upon him as it was just wasn't enough. at the feeling of his hands on her lower back, gliding down to cup her perfectly round derriere, she grunted under her breath and dropped her head.

taking the chance to give the back of her neck a chaste kiss that walked its way down her spine, he decided he would shower with her. perhaps he'd run a bath instead so he could feel her body against his... but not yet. she hasn't earned that much intimacy from him.

.

"are you going to get in or not?"

he undressed quickly, turned on the hot shower quicker, and motioned for her to step in before he did. reluctantly following his silent order, she slid past him as close to the shower door as possible so as not to press her ass up against his body, his length hanging heavily and slapping against his thigh.

if the circumstances had been otherwise, she would've taken that chance to push against him just to tease, but she feared that doing too much of that could cause an accident she wasn't ready for.

pretending circumstances were normal, she let the water run over her body as normal, relishing in the way it relaxed her even more than the cool, marble floor and the kindness he'd shown her only moments ago when he dressed her wounds. he loved to watch her in her natural habitat, but something was different, much more exciting to be in her habitat right beside her.

lightly skimming his hands around her waist and tickling the stomach he wanted fill with his love, he pressed a kiss to her warm, wet shoulder while she took her sweet time lathering her body in the soap he loved to smell on her. and only her.

she almost stopped moving at the feeling of his hands around her body, but decided it best to keep moving as though he didn't exist. and it worked until a hand trailed down to her cunt, sliding a finger through her delicate labia and pressing against her clit. she jerked against him for a moment at the sudden pressure, stopping her movements altogether before kissing her teeth, dropping the soap, and turning to face him.

"i have so many questions for you. and you will answer every single one of them before you ever touch me here again," moving her own soapy hand down to her pussy, she replaced his fingers with hers, spreading her legs slightly and rubbing herself down and kept a cruel gaze locked with his.

"such demanding words for a weak thing like you."

gripping her throat tightly, he pressed her against the wall of the shower, face dangerously close to hers. she didn't stop rubbing her clit, if anything, she sped up the pace, bucking against her own hand dropping her mouth open when she pushed two fingers into her own hole, feeling herself up and he allowed it, enjoying the show until she moaned his friend's name. that set him off.

he pushed her hand away from her cunt, turning her around with both arms pressed against the wall above her head. fisting his hardened member, he aligned it with her entrance, "you little slut. thinking of a man you barely laid eyes upon and you're already moaning for him. you won't know anyone else's name except mine when i'm finished with you."

the stretch was tough to take, the size was not easily accommodated, and he fell into a brutal pace as soon as he bottomed out in her cunt.

she was trying so hard to remain silent during such abuse, but he felt too good to keep it to herself, she fought inside her mind to keep him out of the loop of her pleasure, but a loud cry took over when he pulled her hips back with one hand and stabbed her cervix, penetrating it with little ease, pushing her up the wall as he filled her womb with his bulbous tip, every grip she held on his cock grew tighter with every thrust.

"say my fucking name. and don't stop or i'll kill you."

having no choice but to comply, she did as was told, calling out his name as though it were her personal prayer to her god. how amazing could sex be with her captor?

so fucking amazing, he had her cumming on his cock in seconds, allowing her to thrash in his hold and roll her hips back against him as she squirted all over him.

it didn't stop there, no. he pulled out of the shower, placing her on her shoulders, ass up and he pounded even harder then. still calling his name, she lifted a leg behind him and pressed it against his hips, throwing her ass back to meet his rough thrusts. he stopped for a moment while she sped up her pace once more, milking him for what he would allow her to have before catching her offering and slapping against her cervix with a ferocity he wanted her to feel with every step she would take later. if she could.

"dirty fucking slut- hah! -gonna cum in this pretty pussy."

"sugaaaa~ cum deep inside me, fill me up with your monster cock, daddy, haaah, yes yes yeessssss~"

arching her back further, he slapped her supple butt with both hands before ending the aggression with sloppy thrusts and a bruising grip on her hips. "good fucking girl, beg me to fill you again..."

"oh, please, suguru, please give me your cum. let me feel all of you," lifting her head to turn around to face him, she offered a sexy pout, pushing her hips back again to meet his thrusts, clenching her pussy every time she pushed back against him as if she wasn't tight enough on his fat cock. he grunted, tugging roughly on her hair and pushing her head to one side to collect her lips with his in a sloppy, rough kiss.

"spit in my mouth, handsome..."

he was absolutely feral now, giving her exactly what he wanted and watching her play with his saliva in her mouth before swallowing just as he came, shooting thick ropes of his obsessed love inside her breedable womb.

"mm, fuck... you feel s'good, baby. please don't stop..."

she was too far gone in the pleasure to even acknowledge her circumstances with the man anymore. she could care less about being held captive when he was stretching her out this fucking good, making her cum repeatedly all night in all of her favorite positions.

"where's suguru?"

"oh, he's with (name)."

"who's (name)?"

"the woman he's been in love with for a while."

"what? suguru's in love?"

"yeah. she didn't even know him until today. he's been watching her for some time. i helped him kidnap her, too."

"..."

"yeah... who knew he was a yandere."

© pulchritxde }{ do not repost or translate }{i got so tired in the end to do a proper ending }{ so sorry but please enjoy }{ tagging @k-takuri bc she helped me with this }{ might make a part two where reader looks back on the situation and then where she ends up with suguru later on }{ love you all and peace !

[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!