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osamusriceballs · 5 months

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The Accident - Part XIV

Atsumu x fem reader

Warnings: Alcohol

Words: ~ 2.3 k

About: Meeting Atsumu- not in the way you planned though >.<

Part I II -> Next Part

"How would you feel about maybe going out tonight? Hinata and Kageyama will be there too. They would love to see you again, y/n!" You press the phone against your ear and listen to Yachi's cheerful voice while you get a glass of water. "I'd rather stay at home, if that's alright with you." Yachi breaths out deeply at your reply, and you embarrassedly scratch the back of your head.

"That's okay. Is it... because you're still thinking about him?" She carefully asks, and your heart skips a beat when your thoughts drift to him.

She's talking about Atsumu, who still hasn't tried to contact you after more than a month- and you still stalk his Instagram every day, kind of hoping that he'll notice you. A part of you finds yourself very pathetic for that, but you know that you'll let him go eventually. Or at least you hope that you'll be able to. You still feel a pang in your heart whenever you receive a letter addressed to "Mrs. Miya" or when you look at the diamond ring that you finally put aside in a box in your nightstand.

"A bit, yeah. But it's not because of him. I'm just a bit tired. I'll probably go to bed early today."

She hums and hesitates for a second. "If you need me, or if you need to talk about him again, you know that you can always reach out to me, 'kay?" You smile fondly at her words, her concern for you making you feel a bit more at ease, because you know she'll always be on your side. "Thank you. Have fun and say hello to Hinata and Kageyama!"

"I will!"

You both say goodbye, and then you end the call. A relaxing night with a good TV show and a facial mask sounds just perfect to you. And this also might help you to get Atsumu off your mind.

xxx

The shrill ringing sound of your phone wakes you in the middle of the night, and you're alert when you blindly reach out for the phone and see the contact's name.

Osamu Miya is calling

You remember when he had given you his card back then at Onigiri Miya's while Atsumu was using the restroom, just in case anything ever happens, and you had saved his contact without giving it much thought but never reached out to him. Why would he call you in the middle of the night?

You hesitate but finally take the call.

"Hello?"

"Y/n? It's Osamu. I know you probably don't wanna talk to me too, but can I ask for a favor?"

You're in shock when you hear his familiar voice, even more so when you hear his request. "Uhm... what favor?"

"It's about—ya know. Tsumu. He's... kinda unstable ever since ya ignored him. I wanted—" You frown at his words and can't help yourself but to interrupt him.

"Wait a second. What do you mean ignored him?"

You sit up straight in your bed, all your fatigue gone instantly. "The message he left last week? Listen, I get it, he is an idiot, and he is a little pain in the ass, I wouldn't listen to him either."

You blink confused, having no clue what he's talking about and he seems to interpret your silence as agreement.

"Forget it. Y/n, the favor. Can ya come over at Onigiri Miya's? He's drunk and dumb, and I can't do this anymore. I don't know what'll happen if he keeps up with that attitude."

You hold your breath while you listen to him, and your jaw drops at his words. "I- I don't know what to say. If you really need me, I'll come. I don't know if I can be much of a help though."

"Yes. Yes, we need ya here. Ya need a taxi? I can get ya one." He is quick to offer and you hear him sigh in relief.

"Uhm... yes, that would be good. Thanks." You hear a loud shout in the back and the sound of a shattering glass and flinch subconsciously. Osamu curses and yells something inaudible before you hear him clearly again.

"You're welcome. Thank ya for helpin' me out."

"Uhm... sure? I Shouldn't you call his girlfriend though?" Osamu yells another time and you nervously fidget with the blanket in your hands.

"His girlfriend? Wait. Ya actually met her? No wonder ya never tried to reach out. Forget that freak real quick, just come here. He can explain that whole thing to ya."

You stay silent and then nod. This might be the only way for you to find out what really happened back then. "Okay. He'll have a lot of explaining to do, though."

"Sure."

You nod and hang up the call to get off the bed, your whole body feeling electrified. You definitely wouldn't have thought that you'd meet him so soon- leave alone tonight. But thinking about how you've been feeling during these past few weeks, you know that you need this. You need to talk to Atsumu Miya, and you need to talk to him tonight.

xxx

You take a deep breath when you finally stand in front of Onigiri Miya. Not exactly how you expected your Saturday night to go, but here you are. At 2:10 am.

You hesitantly reach out for the door and pause. How will he react when he sees you? Has Osamu already told him that you'll come? How will you react when you see him? You push the door open with sweaty palms and you're met with a sight you did not expect.

Atsumu is sitting at the counter of the restaurant with Osamu standing right next to him, both of them yelling at each other and Osamu wildly gesticulating and throwing a towel. You spot two bottles of beer behind them on the counter and you're pretty sure that they are both from Atsumu. They both don't seem to notice you, still too absorbed into their fight.

The door loudly falls shut behind you and both suddenly stop yelling—not that you could even get a single word—but the sudden silence is almost awkward. They turn to you, and they both just look at you like you're a ghost, without saying anything. You wait for a few seconds, but can't stand any more awkwardness when the silence stretches longer.

"Uhm... hello?"

Atsumu suddenly gets on his feet and approaches you, and you stand there frozen when you see his red-rimmed eyes and the way he's almost stumbling while trying to reach you. Before he gets even close to you, he suddenly falls to the ground, his feet clumsily tangling with each other.

"Atsumu!" you quickly get closer and kneel next to him, concern evident in your voice, and he heavily gets on his arms and lifts his upper body just enough to look at you. You stare wide-eyed at him, your hands hesitantly reaching out for him but pausing mid-air while you look down at him.

"Y/n?" It sounds a bit slurred, and you nod with a frown.

"Yeah." You awkwardly stare at him while he clumsily takes a seat on his ass, his eyes now shining happily while he watches you. "I missed ya." You force a smile on your lips that you hope doesn't look too bitter. He pinches his eyes together, and one of his hands comes to your cheek—almost slapping you, and you flinch a bit when he leans a bit closer, the strong alcohol in his breath evident when he exhales deeply. "Ya don't look happy." He looks sad while he watches your face, and you suddenly feel tears in your eyes. "I'm... you hurt me, Atsumu." You know that he is intoxicated, and that he is in no state to give you a proper answer, but you still needed to get this off your chest.

"Hurt?" he echoes, his eyebrows furrowed while he's trying to understand your words. "Don't wanna hurt ya."

You nod and gently take his hand to remove it from your cheek and hold it. He looks kind of cute sitting there on his ass, and you simply stare at him, a part of you wanting to cry while another part wants to yell at him, but you just stay silent.

You hear someone clear his throat and look at Osamu standing behind him and watching you both attentively. "Don't wanna interrupt, but I wanna go home. I couldn't get him to leave tonight. It's gotten worse since last week. Since that message he left ya."

"What message?" You frown and direct your attention to Osamu. He raises an eyebrow and gestures towards Atsumu. "The one in which he pathetically asked ya to talk to him?"

You shake your head. "I didn't get a message from him."

"Oh." You look blankly at Osamu, and he looks blankly at you. Atsumu's hand suddenly tightens around you, and he whines cutely. "Y/n! Talk to me- yer here for me!" Osamu rolls his eyes and sighs deeply.

"I'm sorry. I was just so annoyed, couldn't stand him. It's fine if ya don't wanna give me a hand here."

"No, I can... I can help you out. What do you want me to do?" You try to ignore how your skin prickles where Atsumu starts to rub circles on the back of your hand, something that feels surprisingly way too intimate for you.

"Can ya help me get him home? I can get ya a taxi or- wait. Do you have a driver's license?"

You nod, and Osamu smiles happily. "Ya wanna drive his car then? Don't worry about the insurance, it's all good. You're officially married after all." He snorts at that and grabs Atsumu's bag to search for the keys. "It's only fair that ya get to drive his damn car then."

Your eyes go wide when you think about driving Atsumu's luxurious car, but you know that Atsumu does not live too far away, so you hesitantly nod, thinking about how nice Osamu has always been to you and how you want to help him out of this misery. And since you're already here, you can at least help him get Atsumu back.

You turn to Atsumu and try to smile as sweetly as you can. "Atsumu? Will you come with me then?" Atsumu seems to have a hard time understanding what you want from him, but finally nods and grabs your hand tighter while he tries to get on his feet. Osamu is quick to come from behind and to pull on his shoulders until he's fully standing, and you raise your brows when you see Atsumu barely pulling himself together. "I'll help ya get him in the car. I need to close the store; will you manage on your own after that? You can call if you need me."

You nod wearily and watch him carry Atsumu basically to the front door, when Atsumu starts complaining. "Y/n, come with us—" he whines and grabs your hand tighter, and you actually smile a bit when he's pouting adorably. "I'm here. Don't worry."

It feels like an eternity to get Atsumu in the car when he calls for you every few seconds and wants to make sure you're still with him, but Osamu finally managed to get Atsumu on the passenger seat where he starts snoring after a few moments.

Osamu sighs and rubs his eyes. "If he's not waking up when yer at his place, ya can call me. I'll take care of him then."

You nod and take the car keys with a slight hint of nervousness. You're just glad that the streets are basically empty at this time, so it should be fine for just a few minutes of driving. And technically, you're still his wife, so this should be fine, even if you scratch it accidentally. Osamu looks at you and nods, and you grab the keys tighter. "Thank you." Osamu opens the car door for you, and you slowly get on the seat. "I really appreciate it. Yer gettin' a free meal when yer comin' to Onigiri Miya next." You softly laugh at his comment and nod. "I'll come back to that offer."

He grins and yawns tiredly. "Drive safely."

You turn on the engine, and you wave at him. "You too. See ya."

"See ya."

xxx

The ride went smoothly, and you couldn't be more thankful when you finally park the car in the spacious garage. Atsumu has simply been snoring next to you, just mumbling a few inaudible things every now and then and the streets were basically empty at this time. You exit the car and open the door on his side, softly shaking his shoulder. "Atsumu? Can you come with me? Atsumu?" You coo, trying to softly wake him up, and he finally opens his eyes, still groggy and sleepy. "Y/n?"

"Yes, it's me. Will you come with me?"

He seems to have a hard time understanding what you want from him again, but he nods.

"Come here." You wrap Atsumu's arm around your shoulders and desperately pull him with you, and he finally gives in and lets you take him out of the car. "Y/n... missed ya. Yer gonna stay the night? Ya can have my bed. We can share. Share with my pretty- wife." He hiccups, and you take a deep breath to suppress your feelings. He sounds so genuine and cute, you almost want to believe his words. "Come on. We can talk about that later."

You have no idea how long it takes you to bring him to the elevator—more like drag him to the elevator—but you sigh in relief when you press the familiar number, even though the elevator has brought you so many painful memories by now. He mumbles some barely understandable words in your neck, his weight heavily resting on your body while you pull him with you as soon as the doors open.

"Come on, we're almost there."

"Hmm... coming." He lulls, following your direction, and you both finally make it around the corner—only to find someone already standing there. A familiar face that you hoped to never see again.

"You?"

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 8 months

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in the dream i don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap ; shoko ieiri

synopsis; ever since the battle in shinjuku came to its conclusion, nothing’s been the same as it used to. but you don’t think anyone is doing quite as badly as shoko.

word count; 4.5k

contents; shoko ieiri/reader, gn!reader, canon-typical mentions of death (iykyk), angst, hurt/comfort (but not very heavy on the comfort), jjk spoilers (up to chapter 236!!), mild gore (mentions of blood, autopsies and general gore-ish imagery? nothing too bad tho), shoko ieiri deserves better, includes gojo slander (stay safe gojo nation)

a/n; first of all i just wanna apologize to the shoko girlies for writing angst when we’re already so starved of content, i have like 50 fluff drabbles planned for her but chapter 236 threw me into a mental angst pit so </3 yeah. i love my wife!!

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while.

the thought sneaks its way into your subconscious, as your feet carry you to her morgue — a rotten thought you just can’t seem to rinse away.

it’s not very hard to notice. she doesn’t talk as much, for one. not that shoko was ever much of a talker, but now the silence around her is deafening. thick and heavy like the spine of a knife. and she smiles even less.

you can’t remember the last time you heard her laugh.

the crescents beneath her eyes are darker than ever, darker than you thought possible. a murky purple that you’d find soothing in any other context, but like this it’s just revolting. her eyes are deep and dark, the same as ever, but now they’re glazed over with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

apathy, maybe.

or bloodlust.

the scent of cigarette smoke that follows her is suffocating. indistinguishable from her natural scent. you don’t know if she’ll ever be able to scrub the tobacco stench off her skin.

(you’ve given up on counting the exact number of cigarettes she smokes each day. you’re not sure you want to know the answer.)

she doesn’t even look alive, anymore. like some part of her already reached its expiration date. a spectre, wandering the hallways, filling the air with the slow, ominous clacking of her heels.

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while — and it’s so obvious. her grief is so heavy, her sleep-deprivation so severe. you’d have to be blind not to notice it.

so why hasn’t anyone said anything?

you gnaw at your bottom lip, trying to suffocate the bitterness swimming inside your veins. it’s a dumb question, really, because you already know. you don’t want to acknowledge it, because it’s so unfair, but you know. of course you do.

no one has the time to. it’s as simple as that.

no one’s doing well, anymore. not since shinjuku.

not since gojo died.

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing. always with her, tucked away within those eyebags, in the pockets of her coat. in that smell of tobacco, never-fading, always lingering. it follows her like a ghost, like something she’ll never quite be rid of.

(like something she doesn’t want to be rid of.)

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing, and it always has been. but recently, it’s been downright overwhelming. it used to be subtle, the kind of thing you notice if you look close enough. if you squint. if you even care enough to try.

but now, it’s more like a haunting than a simple ghost.

(geto. nanami. yaga. and now gojo, too.

how many people does she have to lose before whatever’s watching is satisfied?)

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while, and it’s obvious, and it’s sickening. she still does her duty to a tee, but she isn’t quite there anymore. gaze always forlorn, as if she’s trying to convince herself of something.

and yet no one says a thing.

everything is one big mess, right now. you don’t want to blame anyone. everyone’s exhausted, completely and utterly spent, but they’re still planning it all out. even in the midst of their mourning. because they don’t have any other choice.

this is not the kind of situation where you should be pointing fingers. a part of you is angry, livid even — but you know the others are doing just as badly. it’s not like you aren’t, either.

still, though. isn’t this just too unfair?

”i brought you coffee!”

making sure your voice doesn’t waver is tougher than you initially assumed. just the sight of her sends a tremor running through your ribs; sunken down in her chair, papers in hand, eyes scanning the pages methodically. papers of what, you’d like to ask — but you already know.

(she’s reading through the post-mortem examination report, again. searching for something you don’t understand. you’re not sure she does, either.)

and she looks exhausted.

try as you might, your voice ends up sounding a little stale, as it flows from your lips and reaches her ears. but the attempt is there — the attempt to sound cheerful, calm. normal. to give her something to hold on to.

shoko looks up at you, and her lips curl in a way you think is supposed to form a smile. it doesn’t. her eyes look into yours but it’s like she’s not seeing you at all.

when you go to give her the cup of espresso, your fingertips touch. only for a second, before she curls her fingers around the ceramic handle. she receives the coffee with a small murmur of thanks, but you don’t notice because you’re too busy thinking of how cold her skin feels.

(cold like a ghost. cold like death.)

shaking away the shivers down your spine, you allow your gaze to trail over the morgue. it looks the same as always. cold, empty. foreboding. today, you think it feels just a little chillier than usual. matching the temperature of the outside world, where everything lies buried in heaps of snow and frost.

hesitantly, you plop down in the seat right next to hers. with such a narrow distance, you can smell the tobacco sticking to her clothing. it makes you want to throw up.

(you try not to look over at the couch in the corner of the room, where a certain someone used to slack off. his awkwardly long limbs would dangle off the edges, and shoko would pretend that she didn’t enjoy his company. you were more than content with silently admiring the smile she was trying to hide.)

shoko doesn’t look at you, professional in the way her eyes run across the files. cause of death: damage to central intestines, subsequent loss of blood. from a cut to the stomach, right below the liver and spleen.

you look away before your eyes can read another line.

leaning back in your chair, you exhale a tiny sigh. desperate to fill the silence with something, anything at all. you scramble for topics, racking your brain.

(what could you possibly tell her that she doesn’t already know?)

”the others are still planning everything out,” you speak, playing with your fingers idly to distract yourself. ”i think it’s going well.”

shoko hums, unaffected. ”that’s good.”

she’s speaking to you, but that feeling of unease still won’t go away. her voice sounds still, flat. empty of emotion. but you can tell she’s trying to be polite.

that’s no surprise. shoko isn’t the type to ever show how she’s truly feeling. she’s not the type to ask for help, either. people come to her for help, not the other way around. that’s all she’s ever known.

(in that sense, the two of them were alike.)

but that just makes it all the more important for you to be there. even if you’re a little awkward, and even if you can’t do much. even if it’s only for a moment or two, you want to see her smile. you want to feel for yourself that she’s really there.

looking over at shoko, you wring your hands together, the cold air of the morgue nipping at your sweaty palms. she’s drinking from the cup, one finger around the handle as her other hand flips through the papers.

”does it taste okay?” you ask, softly. if only you could ask her that under better circumstances, with cups of espresso made with better coffee machines than those at jujutsu high. ”i made it myself, so…”

”it’s fine.” shoko takes a sip. dragging her syllables out, as if mustering the will to speak. ”don’t worry.”

short sentences. almost cold, but you know better than that. she just doesn’t have it in her to pretend that everything is normal, anymore.

and it makes you uncomfortable. this silence.

a couple months ago, it would have felt comforting; a quiet, peaceful kind of solitude shared between the two of you. nostalgic, like the smell of morning dew. or the way moonlight feels on your skin when the world falls asleep.

the silence you had with shoko always felt so tender. a single moment of peace, before the other shoe dropped. just that one moment was enough to give you the hope you needed to make it through another day.

you loved being silent with shoko. you loved her silence, the way she could soothe your very soul without saying a thing.

but now it only stings your skin. you fear that you might drown in it.

there is nothing to say. you want to ask her how she’s doing, but you already know. you want to ask her why she’s still reading the files from gojo’s autopsy, but you already know.

you want to ask her if she can still keep going, like this. but you already know.

she doesn’t have a choice.

(something crumbles, deep inside your chest, like ashes cast into the sea.)

”hey. shoko?”

she hums, again. weak. quiet. absentminded, acknowledging your words but not really hearing them.

you take a deep breath.

”i think i’m going to quit being a sorcerer.”

silence.

for a moment, nothing happens. nothing moves, or speaks. the air is cold and crisp and carries no meaning, no words, nothing at all.

like time is frozen. frozen like all the bodies shoko’s had to dig inside these past few months. frozen like gojo was when she found him in the snow.

frozen like your youth, a glass marble kept in your pocket for moments when you feel as if the ground beneath your feet is about to slip away. then you’d take it out, and look deep inside it. watch the swirling of greens and blues and purples. that streak of indigo right in the middle of the glass. memories of the past, to give you comfort.

to remind yourself of why you’re doing this. to give you a reason to keep moving forward.

(south or north, it doesn’t matter. stay as you are or move forward, look to the past or to the future — none of it matters if you aren’t alive. that’s the conclusion you came to.)

shoko’s expression, too, is frozen. it doesn’t change, even as you let those loaded words fall from your tongue. you watch her carefully, out of the corner of your eye. she doesn’t even look at you, gaze still glued to the tiny letters detailing exactly what gojo’s pulse was at when he got cut.

but something flickers, in the depths of her irises, so fast you barely catch it. something you can’t identify, but it’s still something. it’s movement. it’s alive.

”not right now, obviously,” you elaborate. suddenly a little nervous, now that the words have been made manifest. ”but… you know. once all this is over.”

not sure what else to say, you trail off, fidgeting with your fingers again. voice wavering pitifully towards the end of the sentence, because deep down you know it’s not a question of once, but a question of if.

(if this ever ends. if i don’t die tomorrow, or the day after that.)

you swallow the lump in your throat, and look at her. trying to find her eyes. trying to keep her alive for as long as you can, this sequence of motion, this moment frozen in time.

trying to reach her.

”you won’t ever have to worry about me dying,” you throw in, like the words are light and not heavy as bricks. but you know she needs to hear them. ”i’ll leave, and then — and then…”

staring down at your lap, you link your hands together. exhaling, a little breathless. sheepish, in a way. ”… well. i don’t know. i haven’t thought that far ahead, yet.”

you never had the chance to. you didn’t even really think of it as a possibility, as something you could do. and you know it’s not a possibility for shoko. the choice to be a sorcerer was never hers, from the very beginning.

a user of the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing almost any wound, more power and capability than a child should ever have. invaluable. she’s saved so many lives you’re sure she’ll be reborn as a god.

but the choice was never hers.

a soothing kind of ache blooms in both your palms, as your nails dig into the soft skin. hard enough to form crescents, like the ones under shoko’s eyes, that she’ll never be rid of no matter how much she sleeps. the choice was never hers.

isn’t that just too cruel?

they don’t deserve her. none of them do. the elders didn’t, the jujutsu world doesn’t — not even the students. no one deserves it; everything she does for everyone, day and night, just slaving away in the morgue or her office. cutting up curses and old friends. every second of the day, always that same buzzing of her name being called.

shoko, someone needs healing, come quick!

shoko, i know it’s 2 am and you have work tomorrow, but there’s a curse that i need you to dissect.

shoko, i think i got a paper cut, would you mind taking a look?

none of them deserve her.

you think of gojo. a flash of white hair, a grin brighter than the sun. a bloodstained smile — one shoko had to wipe away.

something ugly claws its way up your throat.

none of them deserve her. especially not him.

what were you thinking, leaving her all alone like this? so much for being the strongest. you couldn’t even stay alive.

why would you die with a smile on your face? do you have any idea how cruel that is to her?

you idiot. don’t you know how much she missed you?

— yeah. none of them deserve her. gojo doesn’t, the world doesn’t, and neither do you. no one does.

what shoko deserves is to live a normal life.

and she never will.

it’s foolish. it’s naive, a juvenile daydream. but you wish for it so, so badly. so much that even just the thought alone feels like too much to bear.

you wish you could bring her with you.

you wish you could take her hand in yours, and run away. leave it all behind, every single thing, without caring about the consequences. you’d hold her hand and never let it go, and then you’d run and run until you were both high on adrenaline and breathless laughter.

maybe you could go somewhere, together. somewhere better. outside of japan, where there are less curses. money wouldn’t be an issue, you both have more than you know what to do with — one of the perks of having a job that’s bound to kill you. you could settle down in some smaller town, peaceful, maybe a little secluded. just to make sure no one finds you.

maybe you could open up a little shop, together. or spend all your days tangled up beneath the blankets, catching up on lost sleep. talking and whispering, like you’d do back at the sleepovers you used to have. you’d make her coffee every morning, and tea every evening. you’d spend the rest of your life trying to make her laugh as loud as possible.

there’s nothing you want more. absolutely nothing. there never will be.

— but you can’t ask her.

you can’t ask her to come with you, no matter how much you want to. that’d be the cruelest thing you could possibly do to her.

she would never agree. you’d only be hurting her more. so selfish, all of these wishes. it was so much simpler back when you were just kids. when you didn’t have to care about duties or responsibilities. when your cognitive empathic abilities were just a little more lacking.

a sigh flows from your lips. resigned, but somewhat hopeful, all the same. tainted with the murmurs of a memory that’ll never happen.

”maybe i’ll open up a bakery, or something.” you tap your fingers against the desk, smiling a little to yourself at the thought. or trying to. ”then you could come visit.”

shoko looks into her cup of coffee. watching the swirling of the vortex, the abyss that gazes back at her. she doesn’t look at you but you can tell she’s listening. then she puts the cup down, and you glance at her now-empty hand.

shoko’s hands have always been pretty. even when they’re covered in grime, or stained with blood. thin, a little bony, smooth skin obscuring clear blue veins. moles litter her hands like stars in the sky; one right beneath her pinkie, another by her wrist. the more you look, the more you find.

tentatively, you broach the distance between you. curling your fingers around her slender ones, where they rest on her lap. linking hands. it’s a slow movement, drawn out and careful, accompanied by the heavy beating of your heart.

(her skin is cold to the touch. your skin buzzes with unease, but you don’t let go.)

then you smile. a small thing, not really optimistic, but the attempt is there. something for her to hold on to. looking deep into her eyes, admiring the hazel glow that never quite left them.

”i’ll give you free pastries.”

a moment passes. shoko’s fingers squeeze around yours — weakly, but it’s there. movement, motion, life. a way of reaching out. a way to hold on.

her eyes continue to trail over the page, but you know she’s not reading any of the contents. you’ve caught her attention. a small victory, but you’ll take what you can get.

”i don’t like sweets,” she reminds you, leaning back a little in her chair. allowing her eyes to flutter shut, at last — and it’s not much but it’s something. a moment of relief for those tired, tired eyes. more tired than any 29 year old’s should be.

”i’ll change your mind,” you promise, mustering up enough will to sound smug. ”my pastries will be out of this world. you’ll get a sweet tooth in no time, sho.”

she exhales a breath, vaguely amused. your smile widens, hopelessly. her happiness was always the root of yours, wasn’t it?

then she looks at you, one eyebrow raised in lazy scepticism. ”can you even bake?”

”nope,” you deadpan. ”but i’ll learn. you’ll see.”

this time, shoko almost chuckles — and it’s more than you’ve gotten out of her in recent memory. god, you missed that sound. a little raspy, from all the cigarettes, but still so honeyed and smooth. hearing it makes you feel as if everything will turn out fine, in the end.

(what a powerful thing, for a voice to do. one so lovely it anchors you to the earth.)

a faux pout curls its way to your lips, and you squeeze her hand lightly. ”don’t laugh, i’m being serious!” your pout shifts into a soft grin, a little teasing. ”i’ll get you addicted to sugar instead of nicotine.”

”haha…”

shoko laughs. shoko laughs and it’s beautiful.

shoko laughs, a genuine laugh, and it’s so beautiful that you almost don’t notice the tears in her eyes. almost.

and then you realize your mistake.

a memory comes to you, then. you recall a hushed conversation, beneath a cloudy summer sky. the air was heavy with the scent of lilacs and cigarette smoke. two people were beside you, and all you cared about was listening to the tilt of their voices. that, and nothing more. a time before everything and everyone went south.

(”you know, shoko. you really should drop those death sticks of yours.”

”i don’t want to hear that from the guy who needs 40 grams of pure sugar every day just to function.”

”rude! and as far as addictions go, sugar is a cut above nicotine, don’t ya think?”

”whatever. just worry about yourself, gojo.”)

by the time you realize, it’s already far too late. the tears have already begun to fall. little droplets of grief, sticking to her skin.

they trickle down the contours of shoko’s face, and fall onto the paper in her hand, smudging the letters. she clutches it tightly, crinkling it, just to make the damage worse. her other hand is still holding yours, chipped nails digging into your skin gently.

but she keeps laughing. low, hazy laughter — pained. she sounds like she’s in pain, and that’s because she is. even if no one ever cares to mention it.

(how cruel, for her to be born with the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing any physical wound; leaving her with too many mental ones to count. never to be healed or acknowledged, in this life or the next.)

you can only stare. helpless to her sadness. her eyes are a little red, and she’s biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood — a drop of scarlet falls onto the paper, and you think of gojo again.

you think of shoko finding him. running to his side. doing all she could to heal him, to patch him up — getting blood all over her hands and clothes. red everywhere, staining the pure white of the snowfall. like something out of a painting.

she did all that she could. pressing down on his chest, positive cursed energy pouring out from her fingertips in tandem with the snow. pressing two shaky fingers to his pulse point, just in case. just to find any sign of life, absolutely anything. hoping so tenderly that she’d feel the flutter of his pulse. that he’d get up, and laugh obnoxiously, and ask her if she really thought he’d leave her behind so easily.

you’d never seen her look so scared. so desperate, a primal kind of fear you’ve learned to associate with self-driven survival. the way some animals can claw their way out of a predator’s stomach if they’re swallowed whole. but she did that to save him. trying to claw him out, herself. from the belly of the beast.

she did all that she could.

but gojo didn’t do anything. he just laid there, split in two. frozen in time, eternally young. watching the sky. smiling.

(what a wonderful way to die. what an awful thing for an old friend to find.)

before your mind can catch up, your body acts. muscle memory, in the way your arms curl around her midriff to bring her close. tucking her into your side while she sniffles and cries. still laughing, like she’s still trying to convince you that she’s fine. like she’s isn’t falling apart at the seams.

the dam breaks. the ice shatters. everything comes crashing down — and you’re there to pick up the pieces. despite everything.

it’s not enough, it never will be. but at least it’s something.

it’s heart-wrenching, the way she clings to you. like you’re the only thing she has. the dry laughter that spills from her throat devolves into sobbing, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, nails clinging to the fabric of your clothing like she’s trying to anchor herself. broken sniffles fill the space between you as she hides away, in the crook of your neck.

(the sound makes you feel like someone drove a knife from your sternum down to your stomach.)

all you can do is hold her. quietly, delicately. as if she could break if you squeeze her too hard. as if she’d shatter like a sheet of glass if you were to say the wrong thing again.

you hold shoko like she’s fragile. because she is, regardless of what anyone else says. because she’s a human being, and she’s grieving, and she needs this.

eventually, she musters up the will to speak — and it’s awful, raspy, broken syllables she has to force out of her throat.

she chokes on the words like they’re poisonous. like she’s been carrying them around for decades, bubbling beneath the surface, waiting to be let out.

“don’t — don’t end up here,” shoko pleads, voice wavering through the syllables. full of fear. “please.”

you know what she means. she doesn’t have to say it, because you know.

don’t end up in my morgue. don’t end up on my autopsy table.

shoko sounds meek. she sounds close to falling apart. you’ve never seen her like this before, clutching onto your sleeves as if begging you to stay.

“you’re — you’re the only one i…”

she doesn’t finish, cut off by a broken sniffle. but she doesn’t need to.

you’re the only one i have left. i can’t lose you, too.

please don’t die. please don’t leave me behind.

a shaky inhale. your arms tighten around her waist, tugging her closer. praying that she’ll feel the steady beating of your heart, the undeniable proof that you’re alive. that you haven’t left her yet.

you blink away the tears in your eyes, grasping for control over your wavering voice.

“i won’t.”

and maybe it’s cruel, maybe it’s the cruelest thing you could do to her — making a promise you know you might not be able to keep. but you do so anyway. helpless to her sadness. at the complete mercy of her grief. you’d do anything to stop the tears from falling, to soothe the turmoil in her chest.

“i won’t let you be alone, shoko,” you murmur into her hair, with all the comfort you can possibly muster. ”not now, or ever.”

three words yearn to be spoken, resting on the tip of your tongue. three little syllables, desperate to be heard after living in the back of your throat for so many years.

and for a second, you think you might say it.

you think you might say it, breathe life into the statement. you can almost taste it, can almost hear it. can almost see what her expression would look like.

but shoko sniffles, and hugs you tighter. protective, like you’ll leave if she doesn’t. so tightly that it hurts a little.

and you swallow the words, once more.

right now, this is enough. it’s enough that you’re alive, that you’re here. that’s what shoko needs, right now.

she doesn’t need your love. she just needs you to stay alive.

so you will. you decide that you will, no matter what. you’ll leave, and you’ll open up a shitty bakery that won’t get any customers — and you’ll give her free pastries for the rest of your life. you’ll get her so addicted to sweets that she’ll have no choice but to come back for more.

shoko cries like a child. filling the silence of the morgue with her shaky breaths and quiet sniffles, little hiccups and whimpers. the tears never seem to stop, and you wonder how long it’s been since she last let them fall.

you hold her in your arms, smoothing a palm down her back, counting the bumps of vertebra — and don’t say anything. there’s no need to.

for now, the soft patter of your heartbeat is enough.

ijichi stands just outside the morgue, unmoving. not saying a thing.

it’s muffled, hushed and quiet, but still audible. the sound of childlike crying. the kind all sorcerers do their best to keep to themselves.

in his arms lie a bundle of papers. the final pages of gojo’s autopsy report. it’s important that shoko sees them — vital, according to her. something about the six eyes, the possibilities they hold. the hope that maybe, just maybe…

— he clutches them tightly, and then walks away.

#the wlw urge to leave everything behind and start a bakery together……#idk how to feel abt this i just!! needed to get some shoko thoughts out!!! she’s my fave jjk girl and i love the way her grief is portrayed #i just hope gege does her justice but i have a good feeling that he will!! if not its on sight #she’s so special to me. the airport scene hurts sm because she really is all alone now :(( its so fucked up i SOBBED into my pillow #well i mean. she still has ijichi. and i love him dont get me wrong but like. STILL #im delusional tho so i think next chapter shoko will use her rct to heal gojo #and then we’ll get a scene of him leaving the airport with shoko. trust me gege and i are like this🤞#sorry for basing all my titles on siken poems. anyway go read ’i had a dream about you’ its so shoko #shoko ieiri #shoko ieiri x reader #shoko ieiri x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk spoilers #jujutsu kaisen spoilers #jjk 236 #jujutsu kaisen 236 #…. i think. thats all the tags…….

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auspicioustidings · 8 months

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The Blood Druid

Blue Blood Part 3

Summary: Continuation of the Wild Prince/The War Duke. Your lack of knowledge about the birds and the bees finally gets revealed.

Words: 1.9k (look this was supposed to be longer but my keyboard keeps randomly double spacing so everything is taking way longer and typing is making me want to commit homicide so take this while I wait until I can get a new one)

CW: Very light smut

Price and Kyle had been ever so eager to continue and you had promptly shoved them out of your chambers. You were embarrassed and confused and you hated that your body kept so easily melting like that. What was happening to you? Had men always held such sway over a woman's body and you had never known before? It scared you that they could so easily make you feel like you had caught fire and you did not care to be saved. If it was so easy, why had nobody done it before?

You screamed into your pillow, just wanting to not be the only one not in on the joke. They had certainly seemed very pleased with themselves, seeming almost indulgent when they had left after you had somewhat angrily told them to. Like you were some misbehaving little pet that they found adorable. Like they hadn't just made you go boneless and dumb in front of a true Blood Druid. You had thought the moniker was just meant to scare, never in your wildest dreams did you think this Kingdom would be as reckless as to have one amongst them.

Ok, time to think. Time to stop being a child and figure out what was going on. You could do this, you were, are? You are a damn Duchess, you can read and write and for goodness sake you can think.

You had been told that touching yourself between your legs was sinful, the Prince had been able to predict that from your reactions. So it had been apparent then that you had not done so? Did the feeling lessen then over time, allowing you to maintain some sort of wit about you if you were experienced enough? He had said, oh Gods, he had said something about a finger inside. You blushed crimson, feeling the pulse of that liquid heat again at the thought. Inside you. Like the Duke's tongue had been? Oh no, your body was already getting so worked up even remembering.

You lay on the bed on your back, taking shuddering breaths and trying to find some sense of calm. Ok. All you needed do was practice. If you were more accustomed to the feeling, you would not be as taken off guard next time. You may not be able to emulate the feeling of a rough tongue against you, but you dipped your fingers down your body, slower and more tentative than they had been this morning.

You were already so slick from what the Duke had done, closing your eyes and sighing when you felt your body begin to react again. You were languid now, viewing this as an exercise in patience the same way you did with learning Latin. That's what this was, learning. You would learn what this was.

Clit, he had called that little nub you rubbed over your clit. It was such a moody thing, so particular about how it liked to be teased. Not too hard, not too fast. But then as your blood started rushing it wanted more pressure and a faster pace. You found when you thought of the Prince kneeling by your bath or the Duke kneeling by the wall sparks fired inside you and your wetness grew. Your eyebrows furrowed as you took the pads of your fingers away from the sensitive bundle, feeling the loss instantly. You slid your fingers down to your entrance, rubbing and biting your lip as you felt the catch of your fingertips on the dripping hole.

You only used your middle finger to press. The sponginess of your insides was a foreign texture and the feeling of being squeezed by the twitching walls made you withdraw. It frustrated you to tears, not understanding what you were doing. How did two strangers know your body so much better than you did? And why was there some suggestion that they needed to know it in order to ready you for your husband? The wave of feeling inadequate made all that delicious heat turn to ash in your mouth and you withdrew your hand, punching it down into the plush mattress beside you with a whine of frustration.

There was a knock at the door which was novel in a way, nobody seemed to ever bother knocking. You fixed yourself, thinking that if it were the Prince or the Duke you'd want to just pull them in, have them touch you again in the way you wanted. It made you feel both hot and mortified at the same time. You should send them away, make it clear you were no little pet to be made to purr whenever they wanted. You'd not find out which you would have done.

"Hope ye'll naw mind if I don't call ye Duchess, nae such thing where I bide."

Gods he was such a compelling creature up close. The elaborate fabric wrapped around him was held in place by nothing but clever donning, his hair was shorn on the sides and his eyes were so... Saints help you they were so warm and kind on you. You were in equal parts intrigued and terrified of this man, caught frozen in your doorway.

"Looking a bit peely-wally there hen, why don't we get ye some water hm?"

You moved in a stiff shuffle as he herded you to sit on the edge of the bed and filled a glass from the pitcher, giving you little sips which you almost choked on with how close he was to you. Close enough to tear through your throat with his teeth you thought, close enough to drink your blood. He sighed with a little grin, making sure you got some water before putting down the glass and falling back gracelessly to sit cross legged on the floor by your feet, leaning back on his arms.

"Yer feart of me."

That pride that had been slowly waking up these past few days came alive.

"I am not 'feart' of you. You may have conquered a Kingdom, but I am not a King."

“Ye think I button up the back wee yin? Yer feart because I’m a blood druid and the West has always been feart of what they don’t understand. If naw for your betrothed everyone here would be the same.”

“Ghost. The Prince said his name was Ghost. And you are John MacTavish.”

You weren’t sure why you felt the need to say it, but somehow it seemed important to let this man know that you had some knowledge. Big scary Blood Druid sat on your floor looking up at you, relaxed as anything. He was the third man who had lowered himself to be beneath you and it made something fizz, some animal instinct purring at the small act of submission from men so dominant.

“Simon. His name is Simon Riley. And aye, my name is John MacTavish. Johnny is fine if it’s you.”

“Johnny”, you tried it out, wrapping your tongue around it. He seemed pleased and you could not stop the annoyance blossoming on your face at how easily you had moved from terrified to having a casual conversation.

He laughed, leaning forward to put his hands on your thighs and lean his head on one like some affectionate puppy, big eyes seeming liquid gazing up at you with such fondness.

“Ye look at me the way Simon does before he skelps me wee yin. Cannae give me that look if ye want me to behave all proper for ye,” he said, his hand on your free thigh squeezing. Gods, not again.

“Please…”

He perked up at the strained cry coming from you, head raising so he could look fully at you. Whatever he found in his appraisal seemed to change his mood, his eyes narrowing for a moment.

“Wit’s that worry for? Whit did Gaz say tae ye? I’m naw going tae take yer maidenhood, just going tae make you feel good. Get you ready.”

“I don’t understand what you mean!” you shouted at him, tears starting that you tried to hide behind your hands.

You felt so stupid. So small and weak and stupid. What did you need to get ready for? What did he mean by your maidenhood and why had he assumed you were worried he would take it rather than the truth that you were worried he would make you feel as his companions had and it would overwhelm you? Gone was that relaxed nature of his, instead he seemed tense.

“Look at me” he said with such a steady command that you followed the instruction, dropping your hands. “Tell me whit ye ken about yer wedding night. Naw the one in this Kingdom, the one ye thought ye’d have in yours. The one yer ma would have told you about.”

“My mother died when I was born.”

“Who looked after ye then?”

“I- well there were servants that attended to me.”

“There must have been one that telt ye aboot yer womanhood aye? Taught ye about yer bleeding and whit it meant?”

“Of course” you huffed, “father was furious when I stained the sheets as a girl. They made sure to teach me how to hide it properly after that to not damage anything.”

The hand on your thigh tightened and then loosened rapidly a few times, but the man in front of you kept his expression neutral.

“Yer wedding night, whit did they tell ye about it?”

“Well I… it happened very quickly. I wasn’t told anything before I was in the carriage and then I was alone for the journey.”

He blew out a breath, stood and bent to press lips to your forehead and then looked at you with such a ferocity in his eyes that you remembered every horror story about Blood Druids and thought them all surely true.

“I’ll naw kill yer father without yer permission wee yin even though I should, fucking hackit wee shite that he is. Seems he left a good bit out of yer schooling.”

That horrible feeling of missing something came to a crescendo. This was confirmation enough that there were some important facts you were missing. Some knowledge held from you that meant you were defenceless against all these new sensations. And it was this monster who was the one to tell you. Although who was it that had always told you that men from the Northern Isles were monsters? His hand now against your face, rough thumb rubbing at your tears, did not feel like that of a monster.

“Gaz and Price I cannae guarantee will be able to stop themselves if they find oot that ye didnae even ken whit they were doing. Fuck hen, we’ve been mean tae ye haven’t we? Poor thing naw even knowing whit’s expected of ye from yer husband.”

“Don’t treat me like a child.”

“Aww dinnae get all bratty on me now jist cause yer mad ye dinnae ken anything,” he cooed, making you feel that way you had with Price, that pulsating anger.

“Well stop using it against me and teach me then!”

John MacTavish had never really pretended to be a good man. He was probably as close to a decent one as he reckoned a young lady could find, but certainly not good. If he were a good man he’d have left, found Kate and asked her to teach this little Duchess all about the romantic and erotic arts. But the temptation to lead you into a little snare wasn’t one he was inclined to ignore. Fuck you were so easily led, so predictably lashing out and giving him exactly what he wanted.

Oh he would be more than happy to teach you all about what you wanted to know, and he was going to take his time doing it.

#cod #cod au #fanfic #mhairiwrites #tf 141 x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #I swear this was originally a fic to have a go at writing smut and now I am back on my bullshit of there needing to be plot #why am I like this?#also really shooting myself in the foot here by very much setting up for maximum smut in the next chapter #can she deliver? Probs not bestie #confidence in writing at an all time low but the voices persist so whatever

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dazais-guardian-angel · 1 year

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Dazai truly has become Oda in every way imaginable now. :’ ) the final words he gives to Sigma are the exact same words Oda gives to Dazai in the original scene Asagiri wrote for the end of the Dark Era stage play, 後は頼んだよ, “I will leave the rest to you.”

And I really love the progression of the way his eyes look in this chapter, and how Sigma is allowed to have this moment of questioning and rebelling against all the faith Dazai had naturally been leading him to place in him up to this point, which is what I hoped would happen. He’s been confused ever since Dazai first chose him, and everything he’s ever known about how everyone sees/treats him turned upside down by Dazai’s words and actions, and just when he’s finally started to feel like he’s found some hope and lowered his guard, Dazai pulls him back underwater, instantly reinforcing all of Sigma’s trust issues and reinforcing that he should never believe in anyone, because (he thinks) everyone lives to manipulate other people. Dazai’s dark eyes here reinforce that, too, and the other panels around this point where they look white and hollow and demonic, all like Fyodor’s. He appears like an evil, looming force pulling him back under, trying to kill him, when Sigma is so close to the freedom of the air he desperately wants (aka free from pain, which is what he’s been seeking his whole life).

But then Dazai makes this face, and the first one I posted above, and Sigma understands, even without words, that Dazai doesn’t have evil intent: on the contrary, he actually is bound and determined to save his life -- and the light in his eyes comes out through this determination and kindness, arguably the most light we’ve ever seen his eyes have in the entire manga (in the “I leave the rest to you” panel too). The “No” could be Dazai wordlessly telling him to not leave the water, but my first assumption was that it was Sigma telling himself no, stopping his own train of thought about Dazai being the same as Fyodor and someone he shouldn’t have trusted -- he soon realizes why Dazai stopped him, and that he’s still going to try to save him, that he wasn’t wrong about him, and it’s all because Dazai’s earnest expressions get through to him.

And it’s just so heartwarming to see how far Dazai has come. :’ ) He tried so hard to save Sigma (doing the most physical action we’ve ever seen him do, really), did his best to be reassuring and comforting to him afterwards, and then reaffirmed his promise to ensure he escaped Meursault alive, his final words to Sigma echoing Oda’s and his last action being to save an orphan, just like Oda did in his last moments. Obviously Dazai isn’t actually going to die, he’ll be saved somehow, but I do think as of right now he really does think this is the end for him, and that he didn’t foresee the elevator dropping -- he was examining the wires a few chapters ago because he thought he might need to know how to open the doors in case Fyodor pulled an uno reverse, hence why he looks more annoyed than shocked when the water starts, but here, when the drop collision sequence is initiated, he looks genuinely shook in comparison. There’d be no reason for him to give the thumbs up if he knew more danger was on the way, either; that’d just be cruel. No, I don’t think he saw this coming, and it’s important that that turns out to be the case: it’s important that he spent what he believes to have been his last moments saving someone like Oda wanted for him, and doing what Oda would have done in the same situation. That doesn’t mean that it’s okay that Dazai throws his life away so easily, and cares so little for his own safety; he still has a long way to go in that regard. But it’s still so beautiful to see how much he’s changed, and how much he’s truly begun to embody Oda and his legacy; the fact that he messed up and miscalculated, because Dazai isn’t infallible, but in turn didn’t hesitate to use his last moments to save Sigma. Oda would be so proud for everything he did here. :’ ) 💖

There are a lot of options for how Dazai will be saved, and by who, but personally I hope (and I kind of expect) that Sigma chooses to not give up on him and ultimately plays a role in saving his life, to return the favor and repay him for his kindness. Not only would it be a beautiful way to initiate Sigma’s ADA entrance exam as people have said, but it would bring the Dazai > Atsushi > Sigma chain full circle: Dazai saved Atsushi at the start of the series, allowing him to (spiritually) save Sigma at sky casino thanks to the growth fostered in him by Dazai, and now finally, Sigma could potentially save Dazai thanks to Atsushi kickstarting his own growth (and Dazai continuing it). Fyodor is overly cocky right now and so tunnel-visioned on killing Dazai, it’s possible that he has no idea that Sigma managed to escape the elevator and is now a wild card; even if Sigma doesn’t go as far as killing Fyodor himself (which I don’t want, tbh; that’s endgame stuff arcs down the line and imo Nikolai and Dazai should be the ones involved with that), he could throw a wrench in the jailbreak duel, and help Dazai and Chuuya get out alive. It would be poetic, and only fitting, for Fyodor to underestimate and be outdone by the kind of person Dazai told him is the strongest in chapter 77 -- a self-proclaimed “ordinary man” -- who could only have the strength to take such action thanks to the chain of kindness that Oda originally started. 💖

#bungou stray dogs #bsd 106.5 #meta #this chapter was literally everything i could have wanted i am SO EMOTIONAL #I WILL NEVER BE OVER IT #ASAGIRI GIVING ME LITERALLY EVERYTHING I EVER COULD HAVE WANTED #DAZAI HAS GROWN SOOOO MUCH HE'S BECOME SO MUCH LIKE ODA I COULDN'T BE MORE PROUD 😭😭😭💖💖💖#as soon as i saw that big panel of his face i was like........ he looks like oda......... ASAGIRI I SEE YOUUUUUU #AND THE FINAL WORDS #I SEE YOUUUUUUUUUU #ISTG IF DAZAI THINKS ABOUT ODA WHEN HE THINKS HE'S GONNA DIE BEFORE HE GETS SAVED I WILL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST #ASAGIRI PLEASE THIS IS THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY I WILL CRYYYYYYY 😭🥺🥹💖#Dazai was so much like Oda here and Sigma looked just like Atsushi in that one panel DONT TOUCH MEEEE #THIS WHOLE CHAPTER WAS SO PERFECT #I NEED SIGMA TO SAVE HIM NOW #the longest chapter we've gotten in AGES and it was a banger god bless #tbh i really needed this after season 4 lmao i needed a reminder of why i love this series so much :''''') something to soothe my rage #asagiri saw my bitterness at anime sigma and was like 'here u go babe i got your sigma and dazai and oda feast'#probably means next month will be short again and a pov change lmao 🥲💔#gonna enjoy this while it lasts #anyway i was really happy to see that moment of Sigma getting mad even if it didn't last long (and for a beautiful reason)#because he Deserved that #(because that's what i wrote in my fic and i feel vindicated now even if that wasn't the main focus of this chapter looool oops-)

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