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trashlie · 2 years

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Please tell me about your shoujo journey. Do you think Skip Beat will outlast ILY? 😂 The pacing is on a whole other level of slow, I gave up on it, two decades running and Kyoko's only aged a year damn! I understand the frustration with the flashback, it is quite sluggish, but we're seeing the true impact Alyssa had on Shinae's trust, how it affects her relationship with Nol now, and what it means for them in the future. Plus we're getting some vital Alyssa content. I feel like she's become even more ambiguous to me. I have no idea where her head is at. I miss reading your analysis. I'd love discuss to her with you after the arc ends and we get our long awaited Shinae x Nol moment. It's been so loooong since we've seen them.

OOOOOHHHHHHH MY GOD ANON LMAO that question just made me pause HARD lmaooooooo. Listen. For alllllll the shit people say about ILY, I just feel it in my BONES that Skip Beat will outlast EVERYTHING lmaoooooooooooo GOD. Like, I'm sorry but ANY TIME people talk about slow pacing I'm just like.... I'll read this whole 30, 50? page chapter and WHAT HAPPENS? HOW MUCH TIME PASSES? NONE! lmao I like to do an annual "catch up" on Skip Beat now and then (when I remember lol). Like I LOVE that the mangka made it about more than just Kyoko's love life but also MAN each acting project is literally years long for us as readers!!!!!!!! lmao thanks to Skip Beat I have the patience to weather ANYYYYTHIIIIIIING hahahahahaha. Taking three months to get through a flashback arc? I can handle it! ILY could take 10 years to reach completion and I'd be, frankly, okay, because at least it could wrap up faster than Skip Beat ever could LMAO (and honestly like... 10 years of solid story telling is pretty ace in my book but that's a whole other thing lmao)

As for my shoujo journey, I'll be honest, it's not SUPER long! I didn't start reading manga until I was graduating high school, so by the time I started to dig into things, after some time I found myself growing out of it? Or, rather no it was more like... there's just a lot of tropes that were present in shoujo I was finding I wasn't into? (Like, oh my god so many triangles where I'd be like MEH I actually prefer the second lead. I learned very fast that a lot of your typical "first leads", at least back in the day, were NOT my style.) I still have a soft spot for a lot of stories that I loved, though! I haven't read Lovely Complex since god probably 2014, 2015? But I STILL loved it back then and I'm really eager for a re-read. I uh.... I really went through a Hirunaka no Ryuusei phase? Like.... lmaoooo it was a Big Thing for me hahhaha (I own the series in Korean, actually!!!!) My first two manga, though, were Skip Beat and Hana Kimi; my friend bought me the first Skip Beat volume at our school book fair and another friend bought the first few volumes of Hana Kimi and shared them with me! Hana Kimi is one of those that like.... you know it doesn't hold up over time, it leans heavily on tropes that are considered ethically nonos these days, but it stays special to me because in spite of all of that, idk I just! Enjoyed it! And now that I'm older I am okay saying "I LIKE THIS THING THAT IS FLAWED AND IMPERFECT AND I DO NOT NEED TO DEFEND IT" lol you know? There was the obligatory Vampire Knight phase that I finally fell out of but OOOF that was A Thing. (I was SO obsessed with it at first lol and I LOVED the art sooooo much that I read another series by the mangaka, MeruPuri which, frankly, was REALLY weird so nothing about Vampire Knight actually surprised me ngl LMAOOOOOO) You know I remember once starting Special A but I do not think I ever finished that! I put myself all the way through Ao Haru Ride even though I kept telling myself I needed to drop it and pretend it didn't exist. God what a trainwreck that one was lol like.... idk I'm not saying this as a dig to people who did enjoy it! There were just times I wanted to enter that story and punch people lmaoooo but I wonder what I would think if I went back and read it again now in the vein of like.... sometimes people are selfish and make bad choices because they are human? lol I also REALLY loved Orange but I'm going to admit I haaaaaaaaaaaaaated the ending and to this daaaaaay I haaaaaaaaaaaated it so much but that's a whole other post lol. LOVED the story, LOVED the art, was super into the theme, but just hated the execution of the ending SOOOOOOOOOO MUCH ;A;

lol I said it's not super long but look at me, rambling on and on!

I know no one is surprised that I wound up talking A LOT and just.... following, there's so much ILY rambling going on about why I appreciate and enjoy this flashback arc, and how I think it boosts the rest of the story so far lol so here's a read more, haaaha.......

I definitely feel you on how Alyssa feels even more ambiguous lol which is so funny. I love the insight and having a better idea of who she is as a person, even if we still don't fully know all of her motives. Just seeing her as a complex character like everyone else has been great. We all know I'm a sucker for parallels lol and seeing how everyone has their own traumas, that everyone has a root for who they are, is the stuff that keeps me hooked on ILY. Alyssa was very easily written off by people and I don't defend her or anything - I really hope we get to see her take responsibility for her actions and ownership for the hurt she has caused, whether on purpose or not - but also, it always felt like she was suuuuuuuper reduced down by fandom on a whole. I think a very human thing quimchee is good at capturing is that we don't always mean to hurt the people we do, but it still happens, and that sometimes good intentions can make things worse in the longrun - and this can go for Alyssa towards Nol or Shinae, frankly.

Honestly, too, something I love about her is like... like you know how if you read a novel, the protagonist is supposed* to be the character who makes the right choices and does good things? And when people are presented an "unlikable protagonist" it's usually a character who is acting on their emotions and responding to their experiences - it's a character making the choices that we ourselves might make. (* I'm saying "supposed" here because a protagonist DOESN'T have to make the right choices, but it turns out people really hate media where female characters make selfish choices lmaoooo) I guess that's what I like seeing about Alyssa in this flashback. I've seen a lot of people say that Alyssa is weak for caving to peer pressure or something but like... was that not the middle school experience? I don't know a lot of people who were super self-assured and full of confidence in middle school - but especially someone in Alyssa's position who has never really interacted with kids her own age and is so afraid of ostracization. Like a lot of the woven storylines of ILY, something I love is that we are shaped by our experiences, right? Most people never faulted Shinae for shutting down and putting up strong defenses when we first met her in the story, because we know she'd been screwed over by life and people and as people who have been there before, we understand self-preservation tactics. She even basically admits it herself that she WANTED to open up to people. Shinae wasn't guarded because she hated people, she lied to herself because of how much she'd been hurt and she was afraid to take that chance again and try it. Shinae is afraid to be burned, Alyssa is afraid for people to ever have a chance to burn her. It's so inherently HUMAN to be afraid of being alienated, to want to BELONG, to want to feel like you fit in. She faces a daily crisis in how she is desperate to belong with people who might not accept her if they knew what she was truly like.

And idk, I cannot fault her for that completely, because it took me until my early-to-mid-20s to learn to be okay on my own and that it was better to be myself than try to fit in where I wasn't wanted. I put up with shitty friendships for a long time because I had myself convinced that it was all worth it. So a middle schooler struggling with this is SO VERY real, and it's wild to me to see people fault her for this. Alyssa has done some things worth being mad about, but seeing her written off for being a human middle schooler is WILD to me.

That's a whole other tangent LOL but it's something I haven't really gotten around to ever talking about. Like, whatever, I cannot - and I won't even try lol to - convince people to like Alyssa, but frankly, I think all of the characters of ILY are SO dimensional and fascinating, how can I not enjoy exploring parts of their story? I think sometimes people think that if I say "I enjoy a character" it means I endorse everything they do. I DO like Kousuke and Alyssa. Would I want to be their friends? Good grief, no. But I'm here as an observer of a story and I think it's fascinating to see how their experiences bring about the circumstances of this story. That moment of dramatic irony when Alyssa promises that she won't stop being Shinae's friend, but we know how it all ends, we all know that's a promise she does not keep, and we know how those events affect Shinae and much of the story that unfolds!

how it affects her relationship with Nol now

I feel like this is something that doesn't come up a lot? Or maybe I just missed any period of fandom when they might have discussed it? Like.... if Shinae hadn't been burned like this by Alyssa, she wouldn't carry the paranoia she does - not about Maya and Rika and certainly not about Minhyuk. Even to this day, we saw that Shinae worries that even the people she trusts are humoring her - because she's been there, she trusted someone who hurt her. The entire trajectory of her relationship with Nol would be completely different! A really beautiful aspect of Nol and Shiane's friendship to me is not just that he managed to make Shinae open up - it's that now that we know how Shinae lied to herself, how she was hurt in the past, how trusting people burned her so badly - but the fact that despite everything she'd been through, she WANTED him to be someone she could trust, she WANTED him to be worth letting down her guard.

Like, again!!!!! Everything that happens in this story only does so because of circumstances and events that precede it. Shinae going to Nol's school was not just because she wanted to check on and see her friend - she was desperate to prove herself wrong, desperate for Nol to prove that he was worth the chances she took, that trusting him was not another mistake she knew better than to make.

I think a flashback arc shows us more than just insight into her relationship with Alyssa, which we've established was something very important, something special that was destroyed. It's the juxtaposition of pre-accident Shinae, who was willing to open herself up, who was plucky and bullheaded and just wanted to be appreciated it. Contrast that with the Shinae we meet early in the story, who has herself convinced it's okay to be alone, when now we know she was yearning to be appreciated, maybe yearning for someone to fight for her the way she fought for Alyssa but believed that something like that wasn't possible. I think we also see the flashback because while we've seen some of the ugly moments of Shinae's life, we never really saw how we went from this point to that point, you know? How there are small pockets of things in her life that make her want to keep believing in what she knows better than to believe - in teachers who listen to her when she tells the truth, in friends who stand up for her and defend in - even as her life starts to crumble. She can't escape her past, she's literally being haunted by it, even as she tried to put it all behind her. Her father is falling more and more into alcoholism due to stress from school plus his job, and soon he's going to be saddled with medical bills and having to take care of Shinae, which is probably what derailed school completely. THESE are the experiences that made the Shinae we know - a Shinae who is TERRIFIED of being hurt but also LONGS to be proven wrong, a Shinae who wants to share an experience she thought maybe she doesn't deserve, a Shinae who quietly believed maybe the universe just wanted to punish her for existing but still tries so hard to defy it.

Idk like yes we get that sense of Shinae without the backstory, but I think it really emphasizes this so much more? And I think it's also some kind of proof, maybe, that Alyssa IS more important than people have given her credit for, not just in the past but also in the future of the story. She doesn't exist just to move plot and drive wedges between relationships or something lol she, too, a complex character with complex experiences and god isn't that the sum of so many moments of people headbutting? That we are complex and sometimes struggle to see beyond our own issues, because what we deal with blinds us? Alyssa is blinded by her desire to escape her family and experience something NORMAL and be liked. Maybe she DOES want attention! Kousuke is blinded by a sense of destiny instilled in him since he was young, blinded by paranoia that fed off of this "destiny", blinded by his inability to accept his father's human nature, blinded by his fear that the only thing that makes him matter to his father is threatened. We met Nol thinking he was a character who looked out for others but even he's been blinded by his misery and by the feelings of worthlessness that has been punched down into him.

We butt heads with people because sometimes we are so caught up in our own struggles that it's hard to understand that others struggle, too, and I think that's where some of the best conflict comes. Like yeah there's good conflict in "Shinae has been roped into attending this horrible formal" but there's something poignant and painful in "Shinae unintentionally repeated the Alyssa cycle when she let Nol in" and even BETTER we get to see how she's grown from it!

This is, as always, lmao a very rambling tangential departure from the main point lol but!!!!! I have had a lot of feelings here and I know part of peoples' irritation is they want to get back to Nol and Shinae right now, but I think seeing Shinae's past helps create even MORE appreciation for what Nol means to her - that he is someone who hurt her but she is still willing to give another chance - and moreover, that we can see that though Shinae came from a loving home, she, too, has suffered her own abuse, was battered and beaten down by people, and unlike Nol, she was able to conclude it doesn't make her bad. Idk it's so beautiful to me and I get really overwhelmed lol it makes me appreciate their friendship SO MUCH more, for what they mean to each other and what they can be, you know? Seeing Shinae's resilience, through the new girl at middle school hoping to start all over to failing at that to putting up that guarded wall to finally taking a chance, finally giving in and accepting that yes, she still has hope, there's still faith, and Nol was that spark. UGH!

ANYWAY lol I do think we are probably nearing the end of this flashback arc. I don't know how many episodes I think remain - I generously said less than 10 a week or two ago lol but I think that was very generous. The timeline (and Alyssa's behavior) feels like we are approaching the point of Alyssa pushing Shinae and YES i will be so happy to go over the whole arc with you!!! I've been wanting to make a post that I keep holding off on, because I don't know if it would be better to do it now or wait for the whole arc to end, but I think there's a good conversation to be had about how a lot of Alyssa's behavior is directly tied to her homelife - how it's implied her father is someone who, at the very least, shouts a lot - and how that ties into her deflective, people-pleasing nature. Again, Alyssa is not really a spineless, MEAN-spirited person. She, like everyone else, is just the sum of her experiences, and I don't think she's learned to deal with them in a healthy way. (And frankly speaking, what about her relationship with Nol IS healthy anyway?)

I know this is so much more than you bargained for lol but you KNOOOOWWWW I love these asks and it HAS been so long since I got to just.... ENTHUSE about this - not just try to analyze or talk about what an episode has revealed but just GUSH about it lol so I could not help myself! But yes, once this arc ends, I will be READY to dissect and discuss EVERYTHING. I feel so emotionally invested, knowing that Shinae is about to experience the worst burn of her life, while she's still so trusting and earnest and aaaahhhhhhhh it's going to HURT so much ;~; But in a maybe cathartic way. (Also, and this is something I should get to later, I think something big about this flashback is that, y'know, it's kind of implied that Shinae has repressed a lot of this. Her memories of the moment are hazy, Alyssa appeared in a series of people Shinae was shocked to realize she harbored so much anger towards. I think as much as this is for US to see exactly what happened, I think it's also kind of a wake up call for Shinae, who has repressed and ignored so much of this, and I'm really REALLY curious to see how she reacts after return to the present. Is she angry? Sad? Sad for her younger self? Is it cathartic for her? How raw is it? Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh)

#I Love Yoo #ILY Brainrot #Shinae Yoo #Alyssa Cho #Nol #Nolan Oliver T. Lochlainn #lol what was my nol tag? I just gotta create one for him i swear!#GOD it's been so long since I just gushed and rambled lol I AM SO SORRY FOR HOW MUCH I WROTE i do not know how to restrain myself #also just talking about shoujo again!!!!!!! i haven't really read a lot in a long time but i'd be liking if i pretended it wasn't a #sort of formative foundation you know? part of what was so fun about early ILY was the homage it paid to shoujo manga before it evolved #i'm sure i left off LOTS of manga too #i randomly think about heroine shikaku because i don't think there were many manga i saw as far through as that one that i HATED as much #LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO #IT WAS A COOL CONEPT AND IT WAS SO FOILED AND DISAPPOINTED?! i love the idea of girl believes she's the heroine of her life but SIKE SHE'S #NOT and has to learn to resolve that and yknow LET GO OF THE DUDE SHE OBSESSIVELY LOVES but they did not give me that story!!!!!!!!!!!!#anyway look i have really missed ILY asks like i just feel? weirdly? rejuvenated?#sometimes i receive an ask and i have to let it sit for a couple hours so i can mull over it and prepare myself but with this one i just #launched right in lol i was so excited to yell about shoujo and my eternal patience thanks to Skip Beat and this whole flashback and YES #what it means for her relationship with Nol! what it means for her as a person! what it means for the Shinae we first met vs who she is now #GOD i love her so much ;_____________; Shinae is so wonderful ;~;

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haeryna · 3 months

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the purest shade of white ↪ okkotsu yuuta x reader ⸙͎｡˚⋆ 𓋼

summary: yuuta looks almost like an angel, you think to yourself grimly, as you shift on the balls of your feet. you haven't seen your best friend in a couple years now, not since he left for africa. too bad he's attempting to kill the kouhai that you're trying to protect.

tw: manga spoilers! anime watchers, do not read. mild angst but happy ending. starts at the beginning of ch. 139. naoya zenin is here and he is his classic asshole self. reader is in the same grade as yuuta, both in age and in terms of cursed energy. swearing because reader is a bad bitch. mildly suggestive. unironic use of "senpai" and "kouhai." slight descriptions of blood and injury, everyone is subjected to the author's attempts at writing dialogue and fight scenes. not proofread but at this point that shouldn't be a surprise. it is blatantly obvious that the writer also does not know how to end stories

notes: thank you for 100 new friends! :) poll is technically still up but i'm impatient and yuuta was winning by a pretty decent margin so here it is lol. divider by @/saradika-graphics!

"Yuuji!" you yelp, slicing the head off a curse with a clean stroke of your katana. Purple ichor splatters to the ground as you whirl, searching for the familiar head of pink hair. "Stay close to me!"

Behind you, Choso grunts with exertion, sending out another bolt of Piercing Blood. Panting, you weave through the curses, letting their corpses fall behind you. Yuuji, where is Yuuji?

As the last body falls, you can't but let out an exasperated huff at the sheepish grin on Yuuji's face. "Don't scare me like that," you chide. "How am I supposed to protect you if I can't even find you?" Yuuji opens his mouth to protest but you shake your head. "I made a promise," you tell him, pain rippling through your heart dully. Gojo-sensei was long gone, stolen away by one of the people he had loved most in the world. Grimacing, you sheathe your katana, mindful of the blood that stains your palms, as you try to ignore the memory of his words all those months ago.

If anything happens, I need you to protect Itadori Yuuji. I know they're going to pull something on him once I'm not there to back him up.

"Senpai, what should-"

Yuuji immediately tenses as your hand flies to the grip of your katana. "I smell a rat," you mutter, nose wrinkling as you turn to face Naoya Zenin, standing atop a bridge. He bares his teeth at you in semblance of a smile. "How perceptive as always," he mocks.

"Cut the bullshit," you snap, hand still resting on the pommel. "What do you want?"

"Fushiguro Megumi," is his rather bland response, and you shift your feet into the opening steps of Flowing River.

"What do you want with Fushiguro?" Yuuji yells, and the way Naoya's face twists makes you want to vomit.

"I think I'll have him die."

Cursed energy fills your body as you leap. Naoya's resounding cackle burns through your ears as you swing, barely grazing his shoulder. Before you can push forward off your feet, a heavy presence rests on your shoulders, locking you in place. All four of you freeze. Yuuji and Choso look horrified, and Naoya looks as though he's broken out into a cold sweat. But you know this feeling, feel it settle back into your body as if it never left.

Okkotsu Yuuta steps out from the building ledge, dark eyes unreadable. Your body sings. Yuuta, Yuuta, Yuuta! His hair has grown longer, bangs sweeping over his forehead, eyebags a little darker than they used to be. You can feel Rika's presence, swirling around you in a mass of death and decay. You're used to it. You've grown to crave it, even. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, his facade cracks. Confusion, fear, and...regret?

Yuuta leaps, slamming into concrete and sending shockwaves deep into your bones. "Who's with Itadori?" God, even his voice is different, so different from the boy who said goodbye to you so long ago. You open your mouth to speak, but Choso beats you to it, brows furrowed.

"So you're Yuuji's executioner."

Blood turns to ice in your veins, and you can tell by the pained expression Yuuta has that you aren't hiding your emotions as well as you think you are. Naoya laughs. "I was going to tell you that, but you were being too emotional like the bitch you are."

"Who're you?"

Yuuta's voice is cold, but as Naoya babbles on, you can feel the horror settle thickly into your chest. Choso and Yuuji are talking behind you but it feels like you're underwater, you're sinking, drowning, and Yuuta must have come to a conclusion because all of a sudden he's surging forward-

You move before you can even think, steel clashing against steel. "Yuuji," you say, through gritted teeth. "Run."

A horrible grating noise fills the air as you let cursed energy flow through your body, shoving Yuuta's sword away from yourself. "I won't let you kill him," you hiss, body already shifting into Jagged Bolt. Yuuta's eyes flash as you surge forward, katana in hand.

"How would you describe my cursed technique?" you had asked Gojo, mindlessly swinging your feet. Gojo hums.

"Have you ever heard of Newton's Law's of Motion?"

You had crinkled your nose at that. "No?"

"An object in motion, stays in motion. Except you are the object. And your cursed energy is the motion." You remember how Gojo's lips curved slightly. "In other words, once you start, nobody can stop you."

You're crying, you realize with a start, as you cut a line into Yuuta's chest. Moisture seeps from your eyes as you twist your forearm into a parry, katanas sparking with each strike. Belatedly, you sense that Yuuji, your foolish, stupid, loyal kouhai has stayed, trading strikes with his fists between the precise movements of your blade. Your heart drops as Yuuta reaches for the ring on his finger.

No. No!

He twists it, and Rika appears behind you. Claws sink into your shoulder and you let out a cry of pain as she flips you into the ground.

"Be nice, Rika," Yuuta chides, as you hit the concrete. Blood spurts from your mouth as you choke, fingers clawing at the ground desperately for your katana. A piece of scaffolding is practically crushing your legs; instinctively, you know that if you try to break through it, you'll tear your limbs right off.

As Rika holds Yuuji up, you lunge desperately, uncaring of what you have to sacrifice. Inumaki's arm, the way half of Nobara's face had been practically ripped out of her skull, the remains of Nanami-san, the way that you were the one to find Maki's charred body-

I can't lose anyone else.

You scream as Yuuta pierces Yuuji's chest with his katana, cursed energy building in your legs as you prepare to shoot forward. Yuuta turns, eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion as he sees you about to tear yourself in half just to reach Yuuji.

With a wave of his hand, Rika dives for you, and everything goes dark.

Yuuta had known you were special from the day he'd first met you. That spring, when Gojo-sensei had dropped him (and Rika) into a class of unsuspecting first years, he remembers that out of the four of them, you had moved so gracefully that he hadn't processed the katana in your hand until you'd pressed it against your throat.

"Gojo-sensei," you'd hissed. "What is this?"

While Maki, Inumaki, and Panda had been subsequently bruised up by Rika, you had dodged every single one of her movements until Rika had been (barely) called back by Yuuta.

"Another Special Grade," Gojo had hummed. "Just like you, hm?"

Special Grade?

What he hadn't realized then, he realized later; you weren't just special to him, but to the entire rest of the Jujutsu World as well. Special Grade Sorcerers were rare, Maki had told him. "You only have it because of Rika," she'd scoffed, "but she deserves it."

You quickly became one of his closest friends. You were fast enough to dodge Rika's ire, even laughing whenever she tried. You'd shown Yuuta kindness that he didn't think he deserved. You broke him out of his shell enough so that when he left for Africa, he felt as though he was standing with his own strength. His first katana had been the sister blade of your own, forged from the same metal by the same hands. The way your eyes had lit up when you saw it was a memory he cherished.

Somberly, Yuuta eyes the chains encasing your wrists and ankles, each decorated with the slips of protective paper that would nullify your cursed energy. Most sorcerers required only one. You required at least twenty.

He knows you, knows the way you always take the strawberry daifuku, leaving him the red bean ones even though he knows you prefer the red bean. He knows that you push yourself hard, harder than he's ever seen anyone work. But most of all, he knows your loyalty, how once your heart finally lets someone in, you'll never let them go.

Did you miss him like he missed you?

The chains are more for your own protection. He needs you to hear him out before you attempt to end his life for a second time. Yuuta knows now that Gojo must have asked you the same thing he'd asked him; to keep Itadori Yuji safe from the whims of the higher ups. Gojo, being the forgetful bastard he was, probably didn't alert you to the fact that he'd gone to Yuuta for help as well. Crouching, Yuuta eyes your body with a sad tilt of his lips. The injuries you'd sustained were immense, and it had taken quite a bit of his own cursed energy to reverse.

Will you forgive him?

You're asleep, breath hitching every so often. Yuuta wonders what you're dreaming of, before pushing the thought away. Tenderly, he cups your face in the palm of his hand, calloused fingers stroking your cheek.

"You need to wake up now," he murmurs, as your eyes flutter open, first in dazed confusion, before sharpening into panic.

"I'll miss you!" you'd cried, as you clung to Yuuta under the shade of the large oak. You were the first person he had told about his departure to Africa, and you took it hard. Yuuta had stood frozen as the first of your tears had dripped down your cheeks. It was the first time he'd seen you cry.

"I'll be back before you know it," he'd murmured, pressing a featherlight kiss to the top of your head. You'd looked up to him, eyes teary.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he'd said, interlocking his pinky with your own. A love like Yuuta's is a dangerous thing, you know, but in this moment you feel nothing but safe.

The first sensation you feel upon awakening is the dull ache in your (miraculously still attached) legs. The second is the warmth on your cheek. Yuuta is standing above you, hand gently resting against your face. Immediately you lunge forward, teeth bared. The rattle of chains stops you, and you swear. Of course he would have taken precautions. Yuuta looks almost hurt as you violently shake off his touch.

"Don't touch me, I swear to god I'm going to rip you apart."

Yuuta says your name sadly, but you're practically trembling with rage.

"He was just a kid, with the kind of power we wield, why the fuck would you listen to the higher ups?"

Yuuta echoes your name a bit more firmly, but you ignore him, tears building in your eyes.

"You're no better than the rest of them are you, you're just-"

"Senpai!"

Your heart stops as Yuuji pokes his head out from around the corner. They must have brought you back to Jujutsu Tech, you think distractedly. Just how long were you out?

"Yuuji!" you cry out, scanning his body for any injuries. He seems to be uninjured, but most importantly, he's alive. Tears fall down your cheeks. "Are you alright?"

Yuuji appears horrified by the sudden outburst as he hastily holds up his hands. "I'm fine, senpai, really, I'm sorry for worrying you. Okkotsu-san is actually on our side, I swear! It was a binding vow, that's why he had to actually kill me, but he did some really cool Reverse Technique shit and I'm all good now!"

Warily, you eye Yuuta, whose expression resembles that of a kicked puppy. "Okkotsu Yuuta," you say, voice hard. "Let me out of these chains right fucking now."

With a wave of his hand, the papers attached to the chains fall to the floor. Yuuta looks dejected as he looks away from you. "I'm so sor-"

Before he can finish you immediate tackle him into a hug, knocking the both of you into the floor as you bury your face into the soft slope of his neck. "You're such an idiot," you sob, unable to hide the rush of emotions going through you. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Tentatively, Yuuta wraps his arms around you, and you melt, pressing yourself closer to his body. "To be honest, I think Gojo-sensei is to blame. I think he forgot to mention to either of us that he asked us to do the exact same thing."

You let out a hiccupping laugh. "Of course he did. That forgetful asshole."

The sigh Yuuta lets out is shaky as he nuzzles the top of your head. "I'm so, so sorry," he tells you earnestly. "I must have scared you, and Rika's mad at me for making me hurt you like that. I think she likes you, even though she pretends not to."

You look up at him, really look at him, and see the look of adoration in his eyes as he stares back down at you. Thankfully Yuuji's escaped long ago, most likely understanding that you two would need privacy. "You came back," you whisper, and Yuuta's resulting smile makes your heart skip a beat.

"I promised you, didn't I?"

Before you can stop yourself, you pull Yuuta down for a searing kiss. He's so soft, and you nip at the plush of his bottom lip teasingly, pulling a whine from his throat. His large hands grip your hips, and in retaliation, you grab a fistful of his hair and tug. The breathy noise he makes goes straight between your thighs. You know he can feel your smile against his lips.

"I missed you," you breathe, pulling away. Yuuta looks dazed, lips kiss swollen, pupils so dilated that you can barely see the soft brown of his eyes.

"I love you," he blurts out, and your resulting laugh is airy as you press another chaste kiss to his lips.

"I've always loved you, Yuuta," you admit. "During Shibuya, I thought I wasn't going to make it. You were the only thing keeping me going."

The look in his eyes is fierce as he tugs you back into him, enveloping you in his arms. "You'll never have to worry about that again. You have my entire life. Where you go, I'll follow, and if I die, not even Death would be able to separate me from your side."

"Those sound a lot like wedding vows, don't you think?"

Yuuta's blush covers his entire face and you grin, pressing one last kiss to his lips. "Come on now. We have kids we need to protect."

As Yuuta leads you to where the others have convened, even under the dark circumstances you're in, the warmth of his hand clutching yours fills you with a giddiness you hadn't experienced in months. The sentiment is quickly dashed as soon as Maki opens her mouth.

"Fucking finally. Inumaki owes me 3,000 yen."

#haerinwrites #jjk x reader #jjk x reader angst #jjk x reader fluff #jjk angst #jjk fluff #yuta x reader #yuuta x reader #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #i'm actually maki with the fucking finally #i love friends to lovers !!

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ozzgin · 4 months

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Sorry to bother you, but the bodyguard post you did was just 🤤🥰😍 and I can't stop thinking about it day later

Have you ever seen Oshi no Ko? I'd love to see Bodyguard react to someone trying to do something similar as what happened to Ai.

Fans get wind their beloved idol might have feeling for her staff, so a crazed fan tracks down her private address. He plans to get revenge for "His idol cheating on him" but doesn't know there is a guard dog inside ready to bite any threat to his precious charge.

Sorry to keep ragging on about the topic, I just adore you work enough that it lives in my head rent free.

Happy holidays

-🌟

I sadly haven't seen Oshi no Ko, but your description sounds very interesting. Thank you for the idea! I've combined it with your previous suggestion, I think they work together really well. Happy Holidays to you, too! :)

Yandere!Bodyguard x Idol!Reader (II)

Your new manager has sent you home for the holidays after persistent rumors surrounding you and your bodyguard. And, as luck would have it, the fan responsible for the accusations successfully sneaks his way in. Sadly for him, you’ve never left the watchful gaze of your loyal, mean dog.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

TW: violence, threats, mentions of stalking

(Cover from the manga “A girl and her guard dog”)

"Enjoy your holidays!"

The driver cheerfully bids you goodbye and speeds away, leaving you behind the imposing gate. You drag your luggage inside and nonchalantly toss it with an annoyed huff.

What now? You're all alone in a hollow mansion.

Early December you begun receiving worrying letters from a fan, making wild claims about you and your bodyguard. Naturally, you laughed it off. Your bodyguard found them equally amusing. So much, that he'd ask you to read them out loud as you rode him. "I w-won't stand for it. You know we ha-ave something special going on, (Y/N)-chan." You barely managed to form coherent sentences, feverishly clinging to the large man underneath you. "You heard the guy. Better be on your best behavior", he'd add with a chuckle, wiping the drool from your mouth.

The new manager, however, wasn't as relaxed about it. He couldn't risk tarnishing the reputation of his beloved cash cow, so he suggested you take a break from personal assistants until the rumors tone down. If you remained within your expensively secured house, you wouldn't need any guarding. So, he caringly prescribed a dose of homely isolation for the upcoming holidays.

"Don't be so dramatic", he said, "Jesus spent 40 days in the desert by himself. And he didn't have your indoor cinema or jacuzzi bathtub."

"Yeah, but he had the Devil to tempt him. Where's my bad guy?" You whined as a retort.

You let out another groan and throw yourself on the couch, fiddling with the remote. Kind of them to decorate everything for Christmas, you think as you eye the gigantic kitsch of a tree slapped in the middle of the living room.

Fuck. What an absolute waste of time. All because of one crazy fan. You almost wish he'd show his stupid face so your bodyguard could pummel it to bits and crumbles. You wonder what he's doing by himself. Is he going to be assigned to another idol? Probably not, two weeks is too short of a time for anything. You check your phone.

Suddenly, the screen lights up. A text notification.

"Bored?"

Heh. It's almost as if he can read your mind. You smile to yourself and type your response, stretching onto the sofa. Your little back and forth messaging goes on until you look up and notice the room has gotten darker. Already evening. You can hear your stomach growl, so you get up and drag your feet towards the kitchen, searching for takeaway fliers. If you're going to be under house arrest, the least you can afford is junk food.

Once you place your decadent order, you hop onto the counter and idly dangle your legs in anticipation. Your favorite off-duty guard dog has abruptly told you he needs to go and is now offline. "Something came up". What could possibly require his immediate attention? A mistress? You giggle at the idea. In all your time spent together, you haven't seen him glance at a single woman. If he must, he will engage with other people using one-word replies, visibly uninterested. You never considered him much of a talker, but his behavior with anyone else, in comparison, is downright hostile.

There's a rustling sound and you jolt. Was the food delivered already? It hasn't been that long. You jump off the marble countertop and freeze in place once you see the man standing in the doorway. His face is concealed with a medical mask and he's audibly panting, the hot air fogging up his glasses. You notice the knife in his hand.

"How rude of you to cheat on me so shamelessly, (Y/N) dear."

Huh? Your eyes widen in realization. Was this the crazed fan bombarding you with threatening letters? Your features twist in utter disgust, still transfixed on the weapon within his grip.

This little shit. Not only does he break into your home, but he decides to intimidate you with a department store kitchen utensil. Is that all you're worth? Is that any way to greet one of the top idols in this country?

You angrily pull the nearby drawer open and grab a long, sharp blade. The man tenses up and steps forward, but you stop him in his tracks, throwing the item at his feet. He stares at you, bewildered.

"It's a Yoshihiro Sashimi knife. More than your monthly income, most likely." You state as you leer down at him, grimace plastered on your face. "Pick it up like the animal you are."

He cannot move. Is this his beloved (Y/N)? Her pretty, innocent smile and sparkling eyes have been replaced by this hateful scowl. He feels like a cockroach about to be stepped on, a mere vermin invading her personal space. This can't be right. It's him that should be upset, he's the betrayed party. When has she gotten so...Ah. This must be the work of that bodyguard. He's always known. The way he looks at her, with a predatory glint as if marking his territory. He should've noticed earlier. Poor, sweet (Y/N), at the hands of a brute. Tears form in his eyes and he opens his mouth to speak up, but a burning blow assaults his back and everything goes black.

Your bodyguard casually walks in and lifts the intruder up by the nape of his neck.

"Are you okay? Did he touch you?"

You blush and wipe your eyelashes dramatically, releasing a gentle sob from your puckered lips.

"Touch? He almost killed me! I was so scared...I thought I was done for."

He frowns at your words.

"I'll take care of it."

You can feel the familiar knot forming in your stomach. As he drags the body out of the kitchen, you follow behind enthusiastically.

"Do it in the living room!" You almost squeal.

"Are you sure? It will get messy. I'm not letting this one walk out." He warns you with a worried expression.

"Yes, yes!" you nod, all bubbly. "Right here, next to the Christmas tree."

Once the gory spectacle is over, the bodyguard sprawls onto the sofa, exhausted. He exhales loudly and runs a hand through his hair. You are about to join him, when a thought crosses your mind.

"Now that I think about it, how did you know I was about to be attacked? That was some really extraordinary timing."

Out of reflex, he palms his pocket to check if his phone is still within his possession. Thankfully he hasn't left it in plain sight. You squint suspiciously.

"Are you spying on me or something?"

He remains quiet for a few moments and eventually lowers his head apologetically, avoiding eye contact.

"Forgive me, Miss."

When he glances up again, your small figure is looming over him.

"Wow, what a pervert you are." You push his chin up with your dainty fingers. "How will you make it up to me for such nasty habit~?"

"Is there anything you want me to do?"

"Good boy."

#female reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere bodyguard #yandere imagine #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #male yandere x reader #yandere original character #yandere oc

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alotofrandomfangirling · 8 months

Text

Dating Roronoa Zoro would include (liveaction!Zoro x female!reader headcanons)

Tw: slight cursing, a bit suggestive towards the end, mentions of sword fighting

A/n: okay so i decided to give it a try myself lol this is completely based off the live action (i haven't watched the anime nor read the manga). I hope you like it, i'm so in love with our green haired baby 🥰 also forgive me for any mistakes, english is not my first language 🙏🏻

• First things first,we gotta make it clear: Zoro acts tough and all but deep down he is a big softie akslajskak

• The thing is, because of his past, he isn't very used to being treated kindly

• So when he found you it was like his world completely changed

• He cherished every little act of care you did for him

• He loooved when you ran your fingers through his hair

• He would close his eyes and enjoy it with a small smile on his lips

• Or when you caressed the back of his neck when you kissed him

• It drove him crazyyy

• He loved these little delicate touches that made his heart do a backflip

• And how about when you grabbed his face, looked deep into his eyes and kissed the tip of his nose?

• Boy would blush like hell

• "You're so cute when you blush" - you'd tease him with another kiss on the cheek

• "No, i'm not" - he said frowning and trying to brush that off, which only made you giggle and kiss him again

• You would always make sure to let him know how much you loved him

• And even though he wasn't the best in expressing his feelings, you could feel how grateful he was for that

• He would always look at you with the most passionate eyes and that's when you knew he loved you just as much

• And he would show it too

• Hell he would do anything for you

• Once he made Sanji prepare a whole feast for you (with him helping ajdkajskaj) because you accidentally let slip you missed food from home

• Or that time he secretly bought you a cute bracelet he saw you staring at when you stopped by at a village

• That's how much he loved you and wanted to make you happy

• And the straw hats would always tease you guys about it

• Except poor Luffy who didn't understand anything that was going on lol

• But he saw how happy you both were and, if his crew was happy, he was happy too

• Now Zoro wasn't much of PDA

• But he made sure to show everyone you belonged to each other

• He would usually put his arm around your waist or around your shoulders

• (When he did the latter one, you liked to intertwine your fingers with his which he thought was super cute ajskajskja)

• You on the other hand liked to hook your arm with his when he had his hand in his pocket

• Let's be honest you loved feeling the strong muscles of his arms

• Yeah, his physique was something you admired a lot

• You loved to watch him practice his sword fighting

• The way his strong arms moved

• That pretty face he did when he was concentrated

• The way his fingers moved on the sword

• Him all sweaty...

• okay let's stop over there

• He noticed you watching and one day he had a brilliant idea (or so he thought)

• You were a very skilled fighter, but you had never tried fighting with a weapon

• So he decided to teach you how to fight with his swords

• Ngl it was tough

• But you were very decided to try your best

• But actually the best part turned out to be being extra close to him

• "Hey, you have to position your arms like this" - he said as he gently lift your arms with a touch so soft it gave you butterflies

• He stood behind you as he helped you correctly hold the sword, putting his hands in yours (yeah like a big cliche move lol)

• He was so close you could feel his breath on the back of your neck

• Which only made you even more distracted and had you get the move wrong again

• "Zoro, love, let's be honest, i can't do it. You are the greatest swordsman i know and i'll never be any close to that, so let's just give up" - you said, frustrated

• "What? No. (Y/N), you are the most determined and dedicated person i've ever known and i'm sure you can do anything you want" - he said, holding your hand and looking at you lovingly - "just... try it one more time. For me?" - he said with puppy eyes and you couldn't say no to the man you loved so much

• You grabbed the sword again and to your surprised you nailed the movement

• "I did it! Oh my gosh, Zoro, i did it!" - you said smiling from ear to ear

• He was as surprised and happy as you, with that pretty smile he didn't show often but that you loved so much

• He grabbed you and spun you around as you both laughed

• "I knew you could do it" - he said as he put you on the ground again - "i'm so proud of my girl" - he kissed your cheek

• And now it was your time to blush as he ruffled your hair

• (Needless to say, Usopp and Sanji were watching the whole thing and started making fun of you two, which only made you blush even harder lmaooo)

• Okay so we all know and love his deep voice, right?

• Now imagine his morning voice 💀

• After spending a ahem very good night together you'd wake up next to each other in the morning

• "Morning, Zoro" - you'd say still sleepy

• "Morning, babe. D'you sleep well?" - he asked in that deep, raspy voice that gave you all the butterflies

• Damnnnn

• You'd get weak in the knees all over again lmao

• And that could lead to something else 👀

• But that's a whole another story ajdkajskaj

• And speaking of his voice

• He wasn't much of talking, but he slowly started opening up to you

• Sharing his thoughts, fears and stories from his past

• You saw through him and broke down his walls, so he felt 100% comfortable around you

• You'd lay down together and talk about everything

• That was such a special and intimate moment for you

• You loved being there with him, taking in his scent and listening to his voice while he traced circles down your back

• He would tell you stories about Kuina and the promise he made

• You swear you had never seen him that vulnerable

• But you were glad he felt safe enough to share that with you

• In the end you just hugged and reassured him

• "I know you will keep your promise, and i'll be here supporting you until the end" - you said, gently cupping his cheek

• "Thank you, (Y/N)" - he said softly, and you could see the warmth in his eyes - "now i have another reason to believe i can make it"

• "What is it?" - you asked, a bit confused

• "Having you by my side" - he said in his low voice, laying down and closing his eyes

• Your heart fluttered at that 😭

• "It's my pleasure, Roronoa Zoro" - you said smiling and cuddling him as you both fell asleep <3

#roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #one piece live action #netflix one piece #live action roronoa zoro

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miirohs · 8 months

Text

a little sugar and spice [v.s.s]

pairing: OPLA!Sanji Vinsmoke x Fem!Reader wc: 0.7k cw: n/a an: *in dj kahled voice* another one- also i started reading the manga! this was lowkey inspired by this one reel i saw in a series called cheese church- chessus bless guys!

"Finally awake?"

Sanji stood there, towel thrown over his shoulder as he mixed something, pausing for a moment to look at you.

There was a brief silence, in which you coughed, trying to fish a response out.

"Did i fall asleep here again?" You groaned, the sticky feeling of the leather ever present as you pulled yourself up sluggishly.

"You did, i'm not complaining. I got a lot-" He pointed to the chopped vegetables sitting to the side, "-of meal prepping done. It's just as quick as i remember it being."

"Speaking of which, when did i fall asleep? The last thing i remember was coming in here for something," You muttered, trying to recall any more you could.

"Nothing much. You came in here for a glass of water, and eventually you fell asleep on the couch," He said, smiling widely, "you tried to help me with the pastries i was making too, but you kept messing with the batter."

You shrugged, getting up and stretching.

"You want something to eat?" He asked, wiping his hands on the towel, "You haven't had anything since yesterday." Before you could protest, he gave you a pointed look, "And don't you try to protest love. As i recall, you drank the entire bar dry last night and started professing your love for m-"

"Shut up," You flushed, mouth opening and closing as he gave you a victorious smirk.

"Still, you know i'm not wrong." "Why you.... you know what? I'm not sure you'd be able to make what i want," You said, sticking your tongue out at him, "i'm very choosy about what i eat."

He gave you a deadpan look, rolling his eyes, "What? Fancying yourself a picky eater today love? I assure you, i can make anything you can imagine."

You thought long and hard, biting your lip before it hit you.

"I want a grilled cheese."

"A grilled cheese?" He let out a little laugh, putting down his knife, "Are you sure thats all?"

"Yes. That's all i want. A grilled cheese," You said, slamming your hands down on table, eyeing him up and down. "If you don't make it, you're not man enough-"

"Challenge accepted," He said, quickly putting away his other tools, "I'm assuming you know where the cheese is. Go get it-"

"Already on it," You said plainly, opening up the cabinet. Among various bottles and boxes, there sat a wrapped block in the back, wrapped with twine.

"Found something!" You pulled it out, coughing as he took it from your hands. Unwrapping it, he whistled, showing the block of cheese to you.

"Mold. I wonder how long it's been back there." He said, and you groaned, seatings yourself on the island in front of him. "Aw bummer, what are you gonna do now?"

Sanji chuckled, placing the block on the counter, "You know we never waste any food love, so now we just salvage it as best we can."

Within minutes, the sizzling of the bread filled the kitchen, and the aroma of melting butter and toasting bread wafted through the air. Sanji's concentration was evident as he flipped the sandwich with precision, ensuring it was golden brown on both sides.

As you reached for the cheese, he swat your hand away, shooing you off the counter.

"Sit down, you need to be more patient cause perfection doesn't rush itself." You huffed, sitting back down at the island, tracing the pattern of the counter.

The sound of ceramics being placed on the counter made you look up, grilled cheese and a mini green cake looking right at you.

"There you go, love. One grilled cheese, as you asked!"

"Mmm, this is amazing, Sanji," you exclaimed, stuffing the food in your mouth, "You really outdid yourself with this one."

Sanji's seemed satisfied as he watched you enjoy the sandwich, retreating to get something from the back.

"I'm glad you like it, love. By the way-" He returned, smaller plate in hand, "- i have something for you to try."

You didn't respond, looking at the mini cake he handed you.

"I'm guessing you're wondering what that is?" He said, and you nodded.

"It's a mini matcha cheesecake. You should try it," He urged you, and you obliged, taking a bite.

"Hmm. It's good..." You replied, wrinkling your nose.

"You're not telling me something," He said,

You glanced at Sanji, "Well, it's good, but it's missing something."

Sanji arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Missing something, you say? What could possibly be missing?"

"Sugar," You replied.

Sanji's eyes widened in mock surprise. "Sugar? You think my cheesecake needs more sugar?"

You nodded, a playful glint in your eye. "Definitely. It's got that nice matcha bitterness, but it needs a little sweetness to balance it out."

Sanji gave you a smile, clearly enjoying the banter. "Sugar would throw off the delicate flavor balance, but let's see if I can meet your sugar quota."

With a flourish, he reached for a small jar of powdered sugar and lightly dusted the cheesecake with it. "Now, give it another try," Sanji said, pushing the plate back to you.

You took another bite. "Mmm, that's much better," you declared with a satisfied smile.

"I guess i just didn't use as much sugar as i usually would, since you're so sweet."

"Don't forget i've got a bit of spice in me too," You rolled your eyes, leaning in closer.

"Indeed," He muttered, sealing the distance between the both of you, kisses tasting with the faintest hint of some kind of sweetness unknown to you.

"Hey Sanji I thought i smelled something really good cooking and- Oh!" You both tore away from each other, Luffy watching you as Zoro stood behind him, annoyance scribbled all over his features.

"First thing i see this morning-"

You hopped off the counter, blowing Sanji a kiss as you ran from the kitchen. Your departure was followed by an angry rupture and laughter, resounding loudly through the halls.

"Wait- You idiot why would you do that?!"

"Well i wasn't the one initiating PDA this early in the morning!"

#opla x reader #op live action #opla sanji #opla sanji x reader #opla x y/n #sanji x reader #sanji one piece #opla #opla fanfiction #one piece live action #sanji vinsmoke #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x y/n #vinsmoke sanji x reader

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lovelybrooke · 10 months

Text

The way things were before (Platonic Yandere Muzan x reader)

This was inspired by the last episode of the latest season where we get some Muzan lore. This is kinda my first time writing real angst so tell me what you think. Keep in mind this is based on the anime and I haven't actually read the manga.

Pt.2

Check out my other works here: Masterlist.

Anger.

Ever since Muzan was young, one emotion he always felt was anger. It stuck to him like a tumor, destroying him from the inside out.

He felt anger for his illness that prevented him from having a real life. He felt anger for having to be tested on by doctors nearly daily. He felt anger that people looked down upon him as he grew weaker and weaker. But more importantly, he felt anger that nothing changed. He never got better, he never got stronger, no matter how much time went by.

As he aged, and his illness got worse, Muzan accepted the fact that his anger, his hatred for everyone would never leave him.

That was, until he found you. His beautiful, wonderful child, the only thing that could quell the rage inside of him.

You weren't his biologically, no, but that didn't matter to him. Before he was too sick to leave his bed, Muzan found you orphaned living on the streets and took you in. Ever since, you've been repaying him by taking care of him.

"Father, it is time to take you medicine." There you were, right on time. Muzan refused to take his medicine from anyone else, even his most notable doctors.

He was too weak to sit up, simply moving his head to acknowledge you, watching as you sat down in front of him. Muzan didn't complain as you moved his head so the medicine could travel done his throat more smoothly.

Once done, you lay his head back down, putting the small bowl down next to you, blessing him with a kind smile. "How are you feeling today father?" You question.

"I'm doing fine now that you are here, my child." You giggle, the smile reaching your eyes. A small smile graces Muzan's face at your happy demeanor. Even if it is only for a second, Muzan is happy.

"Oh, I almost forgot." You gasp, "The doctor has new medicine for you, he wanted to give it to you himself."

Muzan let out a childlike groan, rolling over to face the balcony. It was beautiful outside, but Muzan couldn't help but feel annoyed. The sun was too bright, the wide was too strong, the birds were too loud. Even the thought of having to interact with his doctor for a second caused his blood to boil.

You roll your eyes at him, "Father, you have to take your medicine, the doctor knows better than me." He does move to face you, but you could tell he was annoyed.

"The doctors are incompetent." He moves back on his back; his brows cross in frustration. "They have been treating me for years, but here I remain, trapped in by bed." He laments.

You frown at his words, looking away from your father with sorrow. You remember a time when he was still healthy enough to spend time with you, your favorite days being when he would grow flowers with you, teaching you about their meanings and medical uses. But now, just standing was enough to strip him of all his strength.

You've been forced to watch as your father grows more resentful for the people around him, hating his doctors, maids, even gardeners for simply existing, being able to live the life he most desperately wanted. On days where his illness is at his worse, he mumbles about wanting to destroy them all, something you assumed was delirium caused by the medicine.

Even though your father has changed, you still love him, and you can't help but see him as the carefree, happy man he was when you were younger, even now. It's why you so desperately want him to get better, so that maybe you could go back to the way things once were.

"Father, I promise they just want to help." You try and talk some sense into him, though his resolve doesn't budge. You sigh, "it would make me really happy if you let the doctors give you the medicine." You put emphasis on the word really, in hopes it would motivate him. To your luck it did, Muzan moving to face you, sighing at your pleading face.

"Fine." Was all he said, feeling warmth bubble up in him as you smiled. You leaned down and hugged him the best you could.

"Thank you, father." Muzan smiles, happy once more.

---

You haven't visited you father in days, him forbidding you from entering his room a few days after he took the new medicine. You didn't mind though, it probably had some bad side effects, so you left him alone. Though, you couldn't help but question whenever he ordered for a worker to enter his room, especially when you swore, they never left.

Today was the final straw, you had to see your father. Workers had been disappearing left and right, and you knew your father was not going to be happy about it if you kept it from him.

As you get closer and closer to your father's room, a stench more disgusting than anything you've smelt before entered your nose and caused you to gag. You would've thrown up than and their if you didn't cover your mouth quickly.

The smell only got worse as you slowly crept towards the door, it nearly becoming unbearable. You swallowed down you fear as you knocked at the door. You could hear the faint sounds of crunching, like someone was chewing on something tough which made heartbeat against your ribs.

"F-father, are you in there." The chewing stopped and your heart sank. Your hands shook as you heard someone move towards the door. Slowly, the door opened, revealing your father covered in blood. He smiled down at you creepily, a stark contrast between the horror that covered your face.

Muzan moves to cup your cheek in his hand, blood smearing on your face. He could hear your fearful breathing coming from your nose as you inhale and exhale in rapid succession. He rubs your cheek, trying to calm you down as you look into his room, seeing the mangled-up bodies behind him. Your breathing became even more erratic at the sight, Muzan simply sighing with a frown.

"(Y/N), you don't understand-"

"You killed them, father." You whisper, backing away from him.

"I am much stronger now; I can protect you." You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. What was he talking about?

"You killed them." Your repeat you back hitting the wall. Muzan was directly in front of you, looking down intimidatingly. For the first time in your life, your father scared you.

"I had to, my child." He answers, his voice calm, but you could sense his annoyance. "It's the only way I can remain strong."

You don't say anything as he moves closer, hugging you into his chest as your world went dark.

---

It's been years since that day.

Your now older, more aware of the situation you're in. You father was now a demon, forced to consume humans in order to live. You realized quickly it was from the medicine the doctor gave him, and you curse him everyday for doing so.

He took your home from you, forcing you and your father out of your village. He took your life from you, forcing you to remain hidden with you father. Most importantly, he took your father from you, him now a husk of the man he once was.

Along with the myriad of strange side effects, your father couldn't go out in the day, the sun causing him immense pain, one of the only few things that could hurt him.

You learned to treasure the mornings, them being the few hours away from your father. While he was busy learning all he could about his aliment, you were trying to maintain the image of a normal human being. Working, socializing, anything you could do to forget about the atrocities your father committed when the sun set.

You wish things would go back to the way they were before.

"-N)? (Y/N)?" Oh, you were in the hospital, getting blood work done. You look over at the doctor in front of you, him attempting to get you attention.

You've been feeling terrible for the past few days, constant headaches, hot flashes, soreness. You could barely move without pain. You got blood work done, now waiting for the results with anticipation.

"I just wanted to ask you a question before giving you the news." His voice is solemn, not giving you a good feeling. "Does your family have any history of illness?"

You want to answer yes, but that would we wrong. You're not Muzan's child, so you shouldn't have inherited his illness. "No, my father was plagued with illness years ago, but he's...better now and I'm not his child biologically."

The doctor nodded, looking away dejectedly. When his eyes finally met yours, they were serious, "You've developed a rare blood disease." You heart sinks, but the doctor continues, "I suspect about a month or so is what you have left."

You could feel tears in your eyes, but surprisingly you didn't feel all that sad. Ever since you were young, you've accepted the fact that you would die, it's something you've learned from your times on the streets. The doctor continues talking, but you don't hear a word, to busy wondering how you're going to tell Muzan.

---

"Father, I'm home." No response, but you know he heard you.

On your way home, you accepted that you weren't going to tell Muzan. You knew if you would, he would try to turn you, and you couldn't accept that fate. To you, even death was a better fate than becoming a demon.

You slowly make you way up to your father's study, knocking on the door before entering. Like most days, your father is hunched over his desk, books and papers strewn about.

He doesn't acknowledge you when you enter, even when you move to stand beside him. You take a look at the scientific papers, not understanding a single thing about any of them. The only recognizable thing was the blue spider lily that for some reason was crucial to father.

"How was your appointment?" He doesn't look at you, flipping through pages of a book.

You sigh, shaking your head, "It was fine. Apparently, I was overreacting." You let out an awkward laugh. Muzan nods, before moving his attention back to his book.

It's like he was consumed by this flower, it was the only thing he cared about. You missed you father, even though it's been years since he's felt like one. In a way, you feel like death would be more welcoming than the life you have now, one that is consumed by fear for the man your supposed to feel safe around.

You left without telling you father, silently hoping you wouldn't see him in the morning.

---

Your hopes were not answered.

It's been week, but death does not come, all that greeted you was endless pain.

Your father found out when you collapsed one morning, and while he was mad you lied to him, he was livid when you refused to be turned into a demon. He's never yelled at you before, it surprised you when he screamed and threatened you, but you didn't change your mind.

In the end, your father was forced to watch you slowly succumb to your illness. You attempted to brighten his mood by framing the situation as repaying you. You took care of him, now he is doing the same. The only difference being you won't make it out in the end.

"Father, do you remember when I was little," You murmur to him; you voice raw and quiet. Your room was dark, blocking out any light so you could barely see your father looking at you. "You used to grow flowers with me." Your giggle sounds almost painful, but the smile on your face was one Muzan had nearly forgotten. "I'd get so sad when mine would die."

He doesn't speak, he can't, "Then you'd tell me not to cry, because death is normal for all living beings." Your voice is getting quieter as you speak, but he doesn't acknowledge it. "You were trying to comfort me about your death, I didn't know that at the time."

Muzan wants you to stop talking, he hates the pain in your voice. "I wish we could go back to the way things were before." You said, before finally going quiet. Muzan hears your breathing stop before letting out a sob.

---

It's been over a thousand years since your death and ever since then, Muzan has been filled with anger.

Anger for this imperfect world that took you away from. Anger at you for refusing the life he could've given you. Anger at himself for making your last few moments miserable.

He doesn't know who to blame for his misfortune, but he knows that if he lets anger consume him, he'll find someone to blame.

Muzan chooses to remember you when you were younger and at your happiest. When he's alone, his mind often wanders to these moments, when you were just a child, so small he was afraid anything would hurt you. He never let you out of his sight, wanting to protect you from the world.

Though in the end, he still lost you.

Since the day you died, Muzan was filled with rage. And he will continue to be until the day he sees you again.

He just wishes things would go back to the way they were before.

---

A/n: I don't even know if this counts as Yandere but whatever.

#yandere x reader #soft yandere #platonic yandere #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer #yandere demon slayer x reader #yandere demon slayer #kny muzan #kny x reader #platonic muzan x reader #muzan x reader

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s4lv4tions · 8 months

Text

numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands.

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope.

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business!

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with.

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone?

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking.

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest.

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying.

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard.

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it.

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning.

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.)

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke.

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt.

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly.

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off.

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need?

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun.

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate.

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead.

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up.

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them.

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you.

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick.

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living.

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice.

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all.

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later.

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it.

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased.

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness.

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but—”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths?

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns.

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay.

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will.

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body.

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised.

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him.

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw.

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of.

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—”

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish.

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die.

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact?

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves.

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin.

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata.

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight.

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry.

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities.

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless.

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce.

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier.

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release.

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes.

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever.

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness.

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more.

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful.

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far.

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again.

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you.

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others.

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips—

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk.

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

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stsgooo · 5 months

Text

Clumsiness.

✩࿐ summary: maomao notices that the eunuch's behavior is odd recently. she's set on discovering the root of the cause.

warning(s): idiots in love, slight angst, mentions of bullying, fluffy, maomao pov. wc; 3.1k

pairing(s): jinshi/fem!reader

a/n: binge watched all of tad last night and wanted to write smth for jinshi just because i have my weaknesses. i don't know exactly what this is except random rambles. anywayyy, i haven't read the manga yet so please no spoilers :3

m.list ao3

THERE'S VARIOUS THINGS THAT MAOMAO SIMPLY DOESN'T CARE FOR. The uncomfortable mornings where it's too chilly, the work she catches after one of the servants loves her ideas, and idle chatter that comes with silence. However, the thing she doesn't care for the most is when Eunuch Jinshi decides to make his random and surprise appearances.

It usually brought trouble and a headache for her. His smiles and violet eyes staring into her very soul. She never looked forward to them as it always accompanied some random job in another part of the palace she simple didn't like. Or he would ask of her some impossible task that not even the gods could grant him. Maomao could do without Jinshi's behavior.

However, she could easily recognize when he wasn't acting himself. On this day particularly, she was especially aware of Jinshi's lack of excitement.

She was called and pulled aside from her duty's in the Jade Pavilion to report to Jinshi's quarters. She was quick and made little pause in her stride over. A simple routine that they both silently agreed to. He would call and she would make her way over as quickly as possible.

It was when she arrived, she realized things were not to routine.

Jinshi was laying face flat against his desk, unmoving except for his breathing. Usually, he'd be sat up, smirk on his lips, and his legs crossed as he regarded her smugly. But now, it was like she wasn't even in the room as he made small groaning sounds of disdain, his fingers tangled into his tresses as he gripped his scalp.

He was definitely not acting like himself from the bat.

"Xiaomao, thank you for coming on such short notice." Gaoshun greeted her with a small bow, offering her a sympathetic glance as he turned his attention to Jinshi. "Jinshi-sama had a matter he'd like you to take care of."

Maomao raised her eyebrows, eyes cutting back to Jinshi who remained unmoved. Is he going to present the matter himself? She thought, watching as Gaoshun inched closer, nudging the younger man's shoulder with his elbow. He seems quite the mess.

"Apothecary," Jinshi's voice was muffled as he spoke, his head still tucked into his arms. Maomao looked to Gaoshun who just sighed heavily, ducking his head. "A servant from the Garnet Pavilion has fallen ill, I'd like for you to help her feel better."

"What's her symptoms?" Maomao asked, eyes watching the pathetic man flatly.

He tensed, his head moving to peek at her from between his arms. "I fear this is more a matter of the mind."

She frowned. "I can't cure the mind, Jinshi-sama."

He finally pushed himself to sit up, an indignant pout on his lips. "I thought you could do anything." He retorted smartly.

"I never said that."

Honestly, this man asked too much of her too quickly. It was enough that he asked her to solve murders of high ranking military officials, but it felt a little much to ask her to cure some girl's mental ailments. A random girl who had probably contributed to the near death of Lady Lihua at that. Maomao already felt a vague frustration fill her at the thought. Maybe it was one of the girls she had the pleasure intimidating.

She was going to decline when she spotted the look in his eyes. Not the flirtatious or rather perverted glint it usually had, but a desperate one.

"Can you at least try?" He almost sounded defeated, his shoulders hunched and eye bags heavy.

Maomao still felt the overwhelming urge to give him a hard time. "Try what, exactly?"

He released a frustrated grumble, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe lend an ear, or offer some type of comfort? Anything that will possibly ease her nerves." He waved a flippant hand around, eyebrows knitted together. "It's making me wo... it's making Lady Lihua unsettled."

Maomao couldn't help the interest that came with his unspoken words. He was worried? It wasn't uncommon, nor did it seem that he would hide his concern for others. But the mere fact that he had corrected himself and tried to cover it up, piqued her curiosity and interest.

Either way, she had no choice.

Maomao tucked her hands into her sleeves, bowing. "I can make an attempt. Now, if you'll excuse me." She turned away, barely missing Jinshi's hopeful and beaming expression. She was about to exit when she happened to glance towards the sitting area, where a tea set sat, broken and contents seeping into the floor. Her eyebrows raised. "You'll carpet is going to stain."

She paid no mind to the loud groan and thud of Jinshi's head as she exited.

It took Maomao a while to find the girl that had Jinshi worried and she had learned quite a bit about the worrisome girl while on her search.

She had been in the palace for a long time, since she was a young child. Her work had mostly consisted of cleaning clothes and mending. Until she had caught the attention of Lady Lihua a few months ago while she was in recovery. Supposedly, she had started to bring an arrangement of flowers whenever she brought clothes. The kindness hadn't gone unnoticed. She had supposedly been accepted into Lady Lihua's personal servants. Much to the chagrin of the other servants.

It didn't take a genius to detect the disdain and disgust in the servants voices when Maomao had inquired about her.

She talks to herself more than anyone else, stated one with an eyeroll.

Her routine is more important than Lady Lihua's wishes. Our poor lady. Mourned another.

She's so on edge, it's really easy to get her worked up. It's not our fault if she breaks something. Snapped another.

General consensus, this servant was a problem.

However, it was what Lady Lihua said herself that caught Maomao's attention.

She had stumbled across the concubine during her search, the woman flanked by two of her servants. She looked to enjoying a pleasant day and appeared slightly happy to see Maomao, going as far to inquire what she was doing over in her pavilion. When Maomao informed her of her task, she was interested to see the small pinch between her brow.

Ah, Y/N, I haven't seen her much today. I sent her to help with mending clothes. She's kind, just... I hope.... Well, I hope you can find her and bring her back. Lady Lihua offered little else to guide Maomao, but she could see the vague concern, the worry in the woman's eyes. She also saw that disgust in her companions eyes.

Who exactly was this servant?

Maomao found herself in the washing area. It was mostly silent, most of the girls either having dinner, or in bed. She made her way to the back where one of the few stragglers sat alone, sniffling as she scrubbed away at a stained robe...

A robe that looked oddly similar to Jinshi's.

In all honesty, she wasn't sure how to approach this. As she spotted the red shamed cheeks and the tears that silently and boldly made their way down the woman's cheeks, Maomao usually had something psychical to cure. An aliment that weighed heavily on their health, that was life or death. She could make a medicine for that. A drink, a food, a cream-- something that would satisfy the monster resting in someone's body.

The mind, though, the mind simply was a territory that Maomao never touched. Much too difficult, much too complicated, it was unknown territory. She couldn't see things from their point of view.

Just try lending an ear.

Maomao cleared her throat, feeling a speck of sympathy as she watched the girl tense, head snapping over to stare back with wide eyes. "Hi, are you the servant from the Garnet Pavilion?"

If possible, her eyes widened more, her hands clutching the robe to her chest. "Y-Yes..." she uttered, watching Maomao closely. "You're that apothecary everyone's been talking about..."

Not a question, but an observation.

Said apothecary nodded in return, "Yes."

The girl shook her head, "I'm not injured! I swear, I-I was foolish and if I was injured, then I would surely deserve it!" Her face was a deep crimson, her lips trembling, and eyes watering. It was obvious she was attempting desperately to push down the tears, but failing miserably. "I-I'm quite alright!"

"You don't look it." Maomao responded back flatly. "Jinshi-sama sent me."

The girl looked appalled, her back straightening and the tears falling freely now. "J-Jinshi?!" She exclaimed, clutching the stained robe against her chest, aghast and sickly looking as she panted. "O-Oh, I've done it now. I've humiliated myself! I'm going to be punished! Jinshi didn't deserve that! I'm so sorry."

Maomao blinked at her, eyebrows raised high at the reaction. She didn't entirely blame the girl for reacting so brashly at the mention of Jinshi. She would probably do the same if she was having a horrible day and he'd been brought up. Possibly the only person she wouldn't want to hear about as she's actively in the throes of a breakdown of some sort.

She walked forward, sitting down beside her as the girl seemed to continue her one sided conversation with herself. Her eyes wide and unrelenting as she stared at the ground below. Maomao watched her with a dent between her brow, vaguely fascinated by the panic and mostly disturbed by the anger towards herself. The mini glare not directed to anyone except herself.

She'd seen women be harsh on themselves. Seen what it could do to a person. Maomao could see it in the girl beside her now. The edge of a line that she wasn't sure if she should cross.

"I-I just...." The poor girl trailed off, her hands falling back to her lap as she stared at the robe. "I'm so clumsy.... and terribly embarrassing.... and I-I was just trying to pour some tea, then...oh, how pathetic."

"It was an accident, wasn't it?" Maomao asked softly, watching the girl's reaction closely.

She seemed to remember Maomao was with her, blinking, her face growing a shade darker. "What?"

"Whatever you did, it was an accident, wasn't it?" She repeated.

The girl clenched her jaw, looking away once again. "It's always an accident. I never do anything right. The Emperor is bound to notice and then I'll be punished because I'm so--"

"Jinshi-sama didn't send me to punish you or to check if you should be." The girl blinked, staring at her with wide eyes now. Maomao could see the barely concealed shock in her eyes, the way she seemed to relax slightly. The apothecary sighed heavily, turning her attention elsewhere. "He doesn't seem the type to punish anyone for a little mistake. Especially, when he's the same..."

The last part was uttered to herself and the girl didn't seem to pick it up as she pressed her lips together. A contemplative look on her expression. "I-I know, but.... still, I feel so guilty. I've put such a heavy burden onto Jinshi, convincing Lihua-sama to take me in... to not complain too harshly... I never wanted this..."

Maomao wouldn't even try to understand the broken speech, instead her mind was focused on that little slip. Jinshi convinced Lady Lihua to take this girl in? A extreme kindness. A extreme kindness that would allow this girl to make mistakes, to try her hardest and fail, and not suffer extreme consequences. Maomao couldn't help the suspicious kick in her chest. As she stared at the rambling girl. Why would Jinshi do that for her as an eunuch? How did he have that type of pull? Or, more correctly, what did he have over Lady Lihua to pull something like this off?

Her attention diverted to the robe and she huffed-- it's was Jinshi's. She was the cause of the tea mess. The cause of Jinshi's red face, his low mood, and the worry on his face.

Could he, perhaps..... Oh, what a development for a eunuch.

"Are they cruel to you?" Maomao cut into her rambles once again.

"Who?"

"The other servants. They can be cruel."

There was a prolonged silence. Maomao didn't dare interfere or break with the concentration. Her thoughts were wild and she was trying to grasp one that would benefit exactly what the apothecary was searching for. A string of thought that was sensical and helpful.

"Yes... so cruel," her lips wobbled again, she sniffled and tried to push the emotions away. "I didn't even do anything and they were so cruel. I tried telling Jinshi, but he's done... done so much for me, I can't throw that away. I can't take advantage of his kindness."

"Even if it was kindness now, how is feeling like this any type of comfort? Or kindness?" Maomao stood up, waving a hand. "You don't have to feel like this. Like you have to suffer for his feelings. If you're close, tell him that you liked your prior job, or ask for another."

The girl blinked slowly, lazily, a new exhaustion in her eyes as she regarded the other. "W-What's your name?"

She straightened. "Maomao." She bowed.

The girl stood, her hands tucked into her sleeves, she bowed in return. "Thank you, Maomao. It's been my pleasure to meet you."

Things seemed to return to normal, the routine was back in place, and Maomao hadn't been tasked with taking care of crying servants. Her conversation with Jinshi afterwards had been short and straight to the point.

Did you speak with her? Jinshi had been sitting at his desk pleasantly, ignoring the overwrought expression on Gaoshun's face.

Yes. Maomao had answered, eyeing Gaoshun oddly as he shook his head.

Jinshi perked up, And? What did she say?

I believe she's going to speak to you directly when she has the chance, Jinshi-sama. She informed him instantly.

Jinshi had beamed in a way that made Maomao weary, watching as he happily threw himself from his chair and up, already walking towards the door. Well, I'll just find her myself! Thank you, Apothecary!

She didn't get to say anything in return as he vanished around the door. Gaoshun offered his sympathies before running to follow the man out.

Maomao was just glad to have things back to normal. That's what she thought about as she approached Jinshi's quarters. Normalcy was welcomed and her heart was happy to return to things she knew. Medicine and the frolicking in the mini patches of growth she could take herbs from. Things were normal.

As Maomao approached, she was skeptical to enter as she heard a crash.

Okay, maybe not entirely normal.

She knocked on the door, hoping to hear that Jinshi was busy, but the door was opened and Gaoshun stood there with a thin smile.

"Xiaomao, thank you for coming." He bowed and stepped aside to let her inside.

When Maomao entered, she was half tempted to turn back around and leave.

Jinshi's face was stuck in a frozen state of shock, a crimson shade and his jaw dropped. He was sitting on the couch and his hands were up. In front of him, on her knees, was Y/N, frantically rubbing at his robe while apologizing profusely. She didn't sound like she was crying, but still sounded extremely embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry, Jinshi! My shoes are a tad big-- No, I'm not making an excuse!" She frantically tried to explain, pulling back to stare up at Jinshi with wide eyes. He remained unmoved, just making small noises of distress. "Jinshi, are you alright...?"

"I-I..I..." Jinshi just blinked at the wall across from him.

Maomao turned to Gaoshun, expression flat, "Can I come back later?"

Gaoshun looked ready to respond when Y/N spun around, her expression pulled up with delight and a beaming smile on her face. "Maomao!" She left Jinshi to his shock to wrap her arms around the younger girl (by one year). A tight hug that was unrelenting and conveying her exact emotions of pure elation. "My savior!"

Savior? Maomao thought as she blinked, arms stuck at her side. What is she even doing here?

She pulled back, placing her hands on her shoulder's, squeezing. "Thank you so much, Maomao! If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be blessed!" She continued on with her delight.

"Blessed?" Maomao audibly questioned, eyebrows furrowed and raised.

She nodded in response, smiling happily as she clutched onto Maomao's hands. "Yes! You gave me the confidence to tell Jinshi about my unhappiness! He's allowing me to work at his attending maid." She informed gracefully, sounding more happy and carefree than she had in the washing area the weeks prior.

Maomao wouldn't admit it, but it made her lips twitch upwards.

Y/N suddenly paled, turning back around. "Oh, Jinshi, I'll get something to clean up with!" And she darted out the room before Jinshi could give any type of response.

Maomao turned her attention to Jinshi with a tilted head, finding great amusement in his embarrassment. "You must be really fond of her if you gave her a job here." She observed.

If possible, Jinshi's complexion darkened further, his posture straightening. "Pardon?" He squawked, eyes wide as they stared at the younger girl.

She didn't understand why he was acting like she had said something scandalous. It wasn't uncommon for someone to grow fond of another's presence. Even if they were stripped of their manhood and promised to the Emperor for life. Y/N was kind enough and Maomao assumed they were friends of some kind to have Jinshi calling in favors of some kind.

Still... his reaction...

"You two seem like good friends." Maomao clarified.

A weight seemed to lift of his shoulders as he leaned back into the couch. "Yes, I suppose we are." His voice was a mere utter, soft and distant. It appeared that he was contemplating something forgotten or something that he often thought about but pushed into the back of his mind.

Y/N reentered with a cloth and small basin of water. She returned to Jinshi's side who stared at her with a blush and wide eyes. The attention he gave her was close and unwavering. No type of falter and no distraction that could possibly take away his attention. She appeared completely oblivious as she scrubbed away at the stain on his robe resting on his thigh.

Maomao narrowed her eyes on the glitter in Jinshi's eye, ready to make a comment, when Gaoshun placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll inform you of the favor, Xiaomao." And he tugged her away.

However, Maomao thought endlessly about the expression on Jinshi's face. The kindness he exhibited for the girl much too clumsy for her own good. The tenderness he regarded her with. It was almost as if... Well, that couldn't be right.

It was almost as if Jinshi liked Y/N. In a more than friendly way.

Maomao scoffed at the thought, laying down in her bed. Her pa always said she was too speculative. Much too whimsical.

The man was an eunuch after all.

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