know it’s for the better. - g. suguru
pairing: geto suguru + fem!reader, implied gojo satoru + fem!reader
summary: but butterflies cannot see their own beautiful wings, so he’ll gladly worship you quietly.
warnings: canon au, angst (please forgive me ily all), mentions of violence, vulgar language, crude humor, time-jumps, cameos from shoko, megumi, yuji, nobara :3 comfort.
word count: 16.8k
a/n: this fic has been my baby for a month, i’ve poured so much love into it. treat her well <333 loosely inspired by the songs “first love/late spring” by mitski and “waiting room” by phoebe bridgers. there are so many references to so many things in this :) some quotes that i will think about forever. hope you enjoy.
october, 2006.
“nine out of ten times.”
it’s the first sentence you say out loud after minutes of silence, and you’re given a puzzled look. it kinda makes you want to laugh, the confusion etched across his face so foreign that it’s rather intriguing. he’s golden, even under all the darkness. the world makes space for fallen angels.
“nine of ten times… what?”
you resist the urge to thumb that furrow in his brows, the creases looking wrong upon his soft features. you only smile, snuggling closer to him. either the room is magically colder, or suguru forgot to close the window. you give him the benefit of the doubt.
“that i would choose you.”
you’re slurring your words almost, but more from the plain laziness in your movements rather than from genuine exhaustion. suguru hums, fingers tapping along your arm. it may be around four in the morning, but you couldn’t sleep.
the both of you hadn’t been able to for a while.
not since riko, not since toji, and definitely not since the new scar trailing across your stomach. shoko hadn’t been able to make the repair seamless.
you didn’t really mind. a lot of things seemed pointless nowadays.
“and the other time?”
your eyes linger on the strand of hair that always falls imperfectly on his face. a little crack in his flawlessness, though you’re not sure how grand that observation actually is.
you sit up a bit, propping your head with your arm as you look down at his pretty brown eyes. narrow, as they currently are, but still evidently alluring.
“well, i think it’s okay to be selfish sometimes.” you reason, voice soft. sometimes the dependency you had with suguru worried you. waves can crash, but the water itself remains. you think you’ll always be bound to him. his, forever. and yet you say, “i’d choose myself. just for a bit of sanity.”
it’s meant to be lighthearted, but the silence that falls afterwards kills any tone of playfulness that statement might have held.
you wish you had been a little more greedy.
•••
september, 2007.
emotions were complicated things.
it’s complicated to process the bullet you watch fly through a child’s head. it’s complicated to process your near-death experience. it’s complicated to process process the news of your classmate’s death. it’s complicated to process how it’s expected for you to go back to normal. it’s complicated to process everything.
so you curl up further, and hope that the news you’re hearing now is only a nightmare. because again, it’s too complicated to process.
“he killed them.”
and with the way satoru says it, repeats it, you think he wants you to sit up and hug him. be vulnerable, because god knows it’s been so long since you have.
but you lay there, back in the bed that you used to sometimes share with the criminal. the stillness makes satoru’s stomach drop, and he can’t will himself to say it again just for the chance of getting a reaction from you. but how much pain can a heart take? because it felt like yours might give out at any moment.
you didn’t sign up for this.
naively, no, you didn’t sign up for this.
“how many?”
you’re not sure why you ask. any number would have you spiraling, but with the silent refusal satoru gives by not replying immediately, you’re sure the answer would kill you alone.
he knows. he knows the exact number, he’d seen the report.
but he stares at your desolate form, eyes scanning the mess in your room. or, lack of. he hardly saw you get get out of bed these days if it weren’t for missions. the only sign of movement from you were the plushies that used to adorn your bed, now sprawled on the floor. for a second, he wonders if they’re gifted from who he thinks they’re from. but that thought feels stupid the moment he thinks of it, because - yes. of course they were. that man had loved you like his lungs naturally loved air. he loved freely, graceful in the way he cared. about satoru, about you. anyone, really.
so saturo makes a decision, hoping that it alleviates a little bit of the ache that he now concludes he will attempt to shield you from. because he cares about you too much to see you succumb to your own internal wounds. he wants you to be strong, like him. like suguru was. he can’t lose you too.
“i don’t know.” satoru lies, and he hopes that sentence can at least ease your heartbreak. but he feels it just as much. sorrowful, the kind of pain he’s been too familar with for a while now. he frowns when you don’t move.
obstruct from his view, your hands grip your sheets as tight as humanly possible, and you’re sure that you break skin through the fabric. you want to cry, but you can’t. not in front of satoru. not while he’s right there.
because this doesn’t affect you. you didn’t care.
so what? suguru had left you to the wolves. to fend for yourself. he became a monster. it didn’t bother you.
and you try to convince yourself to think the same when satoru sits beside you. you’re still thinking it as his shaking hand places itself on your side.
but you give up when he lays beside you, feeling his grief. and that pain only cements itself further as you begin to quietly sob months worth of misery.
you don’t feel much better after.
•••
march, 2008.
nine out of ten times, you’d like to be given the option to wipe your memory.
the other time would be the ability to travel to the past. it’s hard to decide which could be better, or arguably worse. maybe you could save haibara - tag along on that stupid mission and fight that stupid curse. switch places with him, even. the world seemed a lot duller without him in it. nanami spoke even less than he did before. you couldn’t keep up a conversation with him.
was it irrational to think that you might have been able to kill toji too? he just caught you on an off-day. you’re the reason he killed riko. it’s your fault that a child is dead.
there’s so much to be sad about, you’ve started to confuse those ugly feelings with plain normality. it’s natural to feel like this. you can’t really remember better days. they’ve blurred, causing twisted retroactive interference.
your rock had fled. any form of stability you had crumbled with the weight of your sorrow, and you’re forced to miserably pick yourself back up because you’ve never really been used to being alone. satoru wasn’t really around anymore, and shoko never left her studies. you certainly weren’t abandoned, but, unfortunately, you understood that grief couldn’t just halt time forever.
you’ve mourned so much, it feels silly to still have the same ache.
but how do you even move on? what’s the process like? because you’re almost certain you wouldn’t be able to survive it.
you’ve began to rid any remnants of him in your room; any proof of his existence. clothes, specifically, because they hold on to his scent, and you think if you stop for a moment to actually look at them you might break down again. you see memories in them. times where he’s worn the black t-shirts, or his white button-up. insignificant at first glance, but it’s your life you’re holding on to.
you stuff them into bags as quickly as you can.
if he’s not here, he can’t hurt you.
at least, not anymore than he already had.
you think it’s cruel that you’re stuck with a person’s presence even if they’re not physically there anymore. you’ll always associate this room with him. the world, at that.
and maybe it’s childish that your first response (after the sulking) is to trash his belongings, but you can’t think of anything more rational to do. the universe will move on without him. you can’t be left behind too.
when you’re finished, you’re not sure if the sight of five large trash bags and an emptier room makes you want to sob or hit something. it’s like life has lost it’s color - a new vision, duller than what was deemed humane. torturous.
yet you can’t bring yourself to pick them up and take them out of the room. you’re idle, staring at them like they’re just meant to disappear. you hadn’t realized how much your room consisted of just him.
trash, is what you’re unintentionally calling everything in them. but you don’t think that, never in a million years.
if it were up to you, you’d keep everything exactly where it was, and obliviously continue a cheery facade. but the thing about awareness is that after it’s discovered, you can’t really leave it. it’s branded into your mind, poking at your brain with a stick because it will annoyingly never have the intention to leave you alone.
it’ll sit with you in your darkest hours, and you’re unable to predict when light will shine through.
“dump them.”
you jump, defenses high on alert as you instinctively fall back. almost immediately after, you drop your hands, sighing.
shoko is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. you’re about to ask her how long she’s been standing there for, but her lingering gaze on your conflicting pile of issues answers your question before you have the chance to.
“i’ll do it for you.” she offers, finally looking up to meet your eyes. they’re a little sunken in, and she looks restless. it’s the first time you’ve seen her in nearly two weeks. she’s ditched the short hair since a few months back, the length sitting comfortably at her chest now.
you dumbly stare, non-respondent on purpose. you don’t want her to do that.
she seems to recognize the discomfort on your face at her suggestion, and you watch as her brows bitterly furrow, a small glare now directed at the bags. but you don’t get much emotion other than that.
“you can’t cling on to this shit. it’s unhealthy.” she softly explains, shaking her head. you wonder if that’s her medical opinion or genuine concern speaking, but you don’t ask her to elaborate. instead, you turn around, taking a seat at the edge of your bed.
you kind of want her to leave.
“what’s healthy, then?” you retort, shrugging. it sounded a bit hypocritical coming from her. shoko had barricaded herself for the past six months, not even offering an ounce of genuine sympathy. in reality, you know it’s because she’s naturally avoidant. she didn’t crave support like you did. she didn’t need it like you had. because shoko has always been independent, never strung up on people. and you envy that more than anything.
“i don’t know.” she answers honestly, pursing her lips. but with one look around your room, and she’s certain it wasn’t this.
hesitantly, lets herself inside, eyes scanning the bareness. if it were any other day, she’d see suguru at your desk, or on your bed. he’d wave, and you would greet her with open arms. everyone knew the two of you were nearly inseparable (if it weren’t for satoru). the room always had a pleasant atmosphere when the two of you were in it. it feels cold and grim now, though. shoko has to fight a shiver.
you observe her, waiting for a joke or two. you’re nearly hoping, because any form of comedic relief had begun to be your craving. you needed an escape from all of this.
but instead, she turns back to you and wordlessly sits beside your tense form. it’s quiet for a bit.
there’s a charm that shines on the top of your desk, catching her eye. it dangles among other souvenirs, and shoko has to avert her eyes when she realizes that they’re all gifts from a certain deceased underclassman.
everything about this room feels like a graveyard.
“satoru comes back today.” shoko suddenly says, letting the first thing she can think of be verbalized. her eyes stay on the wooden floor this time. “he’s been in kyoto for a couple of days.”
you hum, nodding. you didn’t know.
if shoko kept her distance, then it was like satoru had completely faded. you couldn’t even remember the last time he had texted you.
then again, you weren’t sure if you’d even respond.
“i was thinking we could eat dinner together… when he gets back.”
your head perks up. barely.
that sounded familiar. mostly because it had been a routine up until recently. never verbally established, but it was natural for you and shoko to be accompanied by two towering sorcerers as you ate whatever satoru had decided on for the day. he was a picky eater. there’s a bitter taste on your tongue as you realize you’d be missing a member now.
“we can.” you nod, awkwardly kicking your feet back and forth. silence again.
you can feel shoko’s annoyance. how she’s trying to get you to talk, but you’re stupidly stubborn and refuse to. however, she knows you a little too well, and plays the waiting game. because she knows you’re weak when it comes to your heart, and weaker when it comes to the people you love. her included.
it’s not a relief when you finally break. if anything, it’s painful to hear, to watch. and though it’s only one question, it’s so complicated that it feels like you’ve asked her how the universe itself was created. simultaneously, it’s equally as simplistic.
it doesn’t even sound sad. it’s hollow, void of any distinct emotion. you’re staring at the wall.
“shoko…” you don’t pay attention to how she stills and watches you intently. you’re oblivious to the frown on her face, how she leans in just a little closer. and the widening of her eyes as you finish speaking. “how are you… okay?”
you feel particularly pathetic. shoko was so strong. satoru was the strongest. and yet here you were, more fragile than ever. on an alter, you’re a mere viewer from below. simply watching perched gods, basking in all their glory. the difference always evident, never comparable.
and yet shoko stares for a little, dumbfounded.
no, absolutely no one was ‘okay.’ the world was crumbling in front of everyone’s eyes. but you’ve always been a reminiscent person, she supposes. you search for familiarity. it’s harder for you to let go.
“did i tell you that?” she asks, more rhetorically than anything. there’s a teasing tone that her voice holds, but it does little to rid the tension of your question. you slowly shake your head.
“then how do you know that’s true?”
you shrug, fiddling with your fingers. “i don’t know.”
you want to tell her that your thoughts are purely based on toxic comparisons to yourself, but the air feels a little thick already, so you don’t.
“c’mere.”
there is no protest made when she wraps her arms around you, and forces you to fall into your bed with her. the pillows under your heads dip, and you’re enveloped in the softness of your blankets. shoko’s warm, and if you closed your eyes you might mistaken her hold to be like a mother’s affection. evident adoration, just by the touch. you’re derived and soak it up as much as you can, leaning into her.
it reminds you of late nights where you’d have sleepovers and gossip until the sun came up. too tired to train the next day, yaga ordering laps regardless of your visible fatigue. and you’d run with gleeful smiles, energy lifting as you were side-by-side again. an unexplainable friendship one could never truly describe with words, just pure thoughts. it’s sickeningly nostalgic, because you think about the fact that it really had not been that long ago. how quickly things change.
shoko nuzzles her face into your hair affectionately and sighs. she squeezes you tightly. declarative - ‘i’m right here.’ never enough to make up for the lost time and avoidance, but enough for now. because shoko didn’t act like this normally, and for you to see her in such a state meant more than just any regular apology.
“i think you know how to love better than any of us.” she admits, and that sentence alone has you curling a little more into her, your chest suddenly feeling tight. she leans in, and her lips form into a sorrowful smile as she observes you. full of pure understanding. again, a connection that could not be made with words. it feels a little spiritual. she brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. “that’s why you find it all so painful.”
hesitantly, you offer a sad smile, her words all bittersweet. it makes you laugh a little distastefully, the reality of them hitting you at once. “well, that’s not fair.”
“it’s not.” shoko agrees, nodding. “but it’s a lovely thing.”
you make a face. recently, it’s only brought you suffering. the good bits don’t seem as worth it - as ‘lovely’ as she describes.
you pause, contemplating for a little. and your voice is affirmative, like you’ve never been more sure in your life. you kinda sound like a naive child.
“i don’t want it. take my feelings. i don’t like them.”
it’s true. it’s the biggest truth you’ve ever told with the biggest sincerity. and you know it’s not possible, that you’re stuck like this forever. a soft, easygoing heart that beats for everyone around it. your words make shoko snort - a real genuine laugh. you giggle through watery eyes.
“the world sucks.”
this time, it is a pitying smile that shoko gives you. lop-sided, and hesitant. she feels bad.
her arms leave you, and she opts to instead lay facing you, faces mere inches from one another. you’re both laying on your cheeks, against folded hands. shoko taps your nose.
“you know what i think?”
you hum, sniffing a little as you try to focus on the small amount freckles across her face instead of the overwhelming urge to let some tears fall. it works, for the most part. you count twenty.
“i think the world gives strong feelings to strong people.”
you smile at that.
shoko was something else.
“i’m pretty fucking strong then, aren’t i?” you mumble, tired eyes blinking as you sigh. shoko’s eyes crinkle as she returns the fondness, a hand resting on your cheek.
“definitely.”
and you can only hope she’s right.
there’s nothing that interrupts those sweet moments of tranquillity. where you can act like everything is just a little better, because in all honesty, it was. shoko’s good at making you feel like that.
if you really thought hard enough, this could be just another regular day. you want it to be.
you feel shoko’s finger poke your chest, and she gives you a pointed look. it’s like she could read your mind - subconsciously, as if she had the ability of a third eye.
“it gets easier. every day it gets a little easier. but you gotta do it every day — that’s the hard part.”
she leaves it at that.
you lay together, appreciating each other’s mere presence. and it feels nice. support, like you craved, but words even more. you aren’t able to formulate how much you adore her, but actions speak louder than words, so you shuffle just a tiny bit closer.
you’re not sure how much time passes by.
when shoko stands up, she rids you of her warmth, leaving the cocoon of wonder and comfort she’d so gracefully created for you. yet you feel fine, that isolating shiver now replaced with content. you think you feel a little lighter too.
“be outside by seven. if it’s up to me, we’ll all get sushi. no promises though.”
she’s back to being more standoffish, but still your same shoko. you nod appreciatively, the thankfulness worth the weight of a million tons. your eyes follow her as she walks across the room.
the door shuts, and you’re left alone again.
you can feel your heart beat a little faster, the realization of your commitment to the later plans finally dawning upon you. it would be the first real reunion since then. maybe a chance to talk things out. be levelheaded, get some communal closure.
or, maybe you’d be able to ignore the past and focus on the present. just act like friends eating lunch. because that’s all it was, wasn’t it?
begrudgingly, you force yourself to stand, too aware of the fact that your habits of wasting time in bed have far exceeded a reasonable amount over the past few months. it was time to get better, be better.
your hands grab the first bag.
it’s heavy, as you imagine all the other ones are. but you suppose if you don’t think about what’s in them, it’ll make the process a lot smoother.
you’re nearing the door when you stop.
it’s a small paper, it’s yellow exterior almost blending in with the sunlight escaping through the windows. you inch closer.
and it’s pathetic that the sight of his handwriting on a sticky-note makes you lose your breath. shameful, because how are inanimate objects this damaging?
it’s hung above your desk. by haibara’s gifts, and by notebooks you never really used in this academically-lackluster school.
you stare at it for a while, hand resting over your forehead as you take in every minuscule detail. you let go of the bag.
it’s the last note suguru had ever left you, made a few weeks before his disappearance. before everything went downhill. little poetic phrases that would embed themselves in your mind until death. you’re afraid to look.
it’s neatly written, displayed in purple ink. doodles of clouds and flowers surround the words. he had a habit of leaving them around. you suppose you never caught this one.
there’s a little heart next to his signature, encapsulating just a memory of lost devotion.
‘how strange to dream of you, even when i am awake.’
your hand crumbles the note in a second.
the paper is evidently weak, and when you open your hand back up, the words are still clearly there, haunting you. and you know you don’t have the heart to throw it away. or, realistically - throw anything away.
you fold the note gently, and leave it on your desk. your body yearns to leave, to escape the suffocation of what suddenly felt like walls that were caving in. you slam the door on your way out, bags and all left behind.
you’d definitely prefer to wipe your memory.
•••
april, 2005.
“you’re so annoying.”
satoru grins, standing proudly as you repeatedly attempt to hit him on the head, your touch stopped by his infinity. he’d only recently learned how to control it decently - claiming that he needed to because you had a bad habit of using him as your punching bag.
“you know what though? this is a good thing.” you muse, arms crossing as you finally give up. satoru’s head tilts, and you raise a brow. “no one wants to touch you anyways.”
there’s a dramatic pout that immediately finds itself on his face, and he whines from instinct, letting his guard down for a moment to shove you. you slap his arm before he has a chance to react.
“she’s right.” suguru nods affirmatively, earning a gasp from the white-haired male, and suddenly, suguru is being shoved too. you giggle, briefly making eye contact with him. it’s a little too quick for your preference, but the stolen glance has you holding your breath for a moment.
it’s exhilarating.
suguru is beautiful in a way that is hard to describe. but it’s not from a loss of words; you can speak endlessly about him. he’s everything a person could dream of and more. but it’s little gestures that truly draw you to him. how it seems like he always lingers, attentive and patient no matter what boulders you seem to throw at him. he’ll carry that weight on his shoulders easily, and with the most effortless smile. it’s a gentleness that you weren’t even sure was possible before you met him. he defies all expectations, all normalities.
“oh, i forgot to ask-“ satoru turns to you, raising his brows. sometimes his glasses bothered you. his eyes were freakish, yes, but you also had a conflicting urge to always look at them. “how’d your mission go yesterday?”
you cringe, involuntarily stiffening as you replay the events in your head.
“stupid semi-first grade. i let my guard down for a second and it almost clawed me.” you sighed, rolling your eyes. you fail to notice suguru’s eyes widen. “but we exorcised it right after. i swear i saw nanami shit himself.”
there’s a stark difference in reactions from both boys. while satoru snickers, suguru stays quiet. white and black.
“glad you’re still with us.” satoru beams, ruffling your hair before you have a chance to swat his hand away. “right, suguru?”
all attention flocks towards him, and you and satoru patiently await his response. he’s looking off to the side.
he feels a little childish.
there’s an uncomfortable pit in suguru’s stomach that he can’t shake off, and he swallows thickly, nodding with a dismissive cough. “yeah, glad it went well.”
obliviously, you flash him a thankful smile.
it makes him feel the tiniest bit better.
he wished yaga would pair you two together, or even put you with satoru. an actual backup - not someone below your skill level. haibara and nanami weren’t comparable; they were still new to jujustu. younger, less experienced. he holds a little resentment towards your abilities, and while he knows you’re never sent on missions that are tougher than you can handle, he always has an inkling of worry that lingers uncomfortably. he hates not being around you - not knowing if you’re okay. and he knows you’re a reckless fighter. you brush off the mention of critical injuries and move on, completely unbothered. the burden of stress came so easily when he was around you and satoru.
“you have another one tomorrow, right?”
you hum, nodding as you fiddle with the end of your uniform, sighing softly. “it’s across town i think. not sure who’s coming with me yet - maybe it’ll be shoko if i beg hard enough.”
suguru has to fight a wince. also not an ideal companion. shoko didn’t specialize in combat.
she’d only be actual help if you were wounded, and -
“why not me or satoru?”
he speaks before he thinks, and iternally, he punches himself in the face. he can see satoru stop moving in his peripheral vision. he thinks he sees a smirk. coy, but no words come out.
scoffing, you deadpan. “where’s the practice in that? you guys will kill it before i even get a chance to see it.”
and that’s true, because it’s happened dozens of times before. show-offs.
“we can get kikufuku after!” satoru exclaims, completely disregarding you as you begin to protest rather loudly. “i’ve been craving it. i haven’t had it since last week!”
“wait longer.” you sneer, glaring at him. “i rather go alone.”
now that, suguru would verbally be clearly against, without any hint of shame.
“boo.” satoru deflates, rolling his eyes at you. “that won’t even happen.”
it wouldn’t. you hadn’t earned that trust yet - the absolute certainty that you’d survive if you did a mission alone.
suguru’s glad.
“not yet.” you chirp, and the hopeful smile on your face doesn’t help anything. “but soon enough.”
there’s that unwavering aura you always hold that makes suguru feel a little sick. it’s determination, stubbornness, that follows you and keeps you whole. when you talk like that, words void of any doubt, he knows you mean it. and you’ll accomplish it, because your will for achievement is stronger than your rationality.
but he has you now, right in front of him, so he’ll ease himself of the worry. for now.
“in a million years.” satoru remarks, sticking his tongue out at you, not even bothering to look your way as you hold up a rather unpleasant finger in his direction. playful banter was regular between you two; you fed off of each other’s energy. suguru seemed to be the mediator.
an observer, with eyes particularly always lingering on one certain person.
•••
spring has flowers blossoming again, and you feel inclined to stay out for as long as possible. the confinements of your dorm feels like an obstacle, and it’d be a waste to miss out on the beauty that winter’s absence welcomed.
it’s perfect weather.
the cursed weapon in your hand had begun to feel rather light, your arm adapting to the overpowering weight. you disliked close-range combat, but you were being sent on tougher missions now, so there was no room for complaints. your abilities needed to strengthen.
and it’s frustrating, really. to have to constantly forgo complete confidence and figure out where you’re weakest; you could easily make a list with areas of needed improvement. a lot of your classmates seemed to lack that issue. you suppose what’s worse is that you’re completely aware it wasn’t a competition - but you had convinced yourself that at the least, you needed to stay on their level.
even if that meant working ten times harder, even if that meant exerting yourself past a reasonable amount.
but this routine has gotten you this far, and, sincerely, it hadn’t been too much of a problem to keep up with.
in fact, you could probably do a little more.
“you shouldn’t train so much, you’ll strain yourself.”
your stance falters, though you easily recover within the same second. maybe a little too late, but you tried not to be nit-picky. he was naturally quiet.
“i gotta keep up with everyone somehow.” you quickly grin, trying to calm the visible pants of your labored breathing. it’s futile, and you momentarily turn away, as if embarrassed to look anything but perfectly composed. to look less than him - or anyone, really.
your back is towards him.
suguru can read you perfectly. it’s with ease that’s almost completely overbearing, and some part of him believes that he’s only been put on earth to watch out for you. like it knows that you aren’t the kindest when it comes to yourself.
it’s so natural that he supposes it might be his true purpose.
you only hear him hum from behind you, and suddenly there’s a weight pushing down on your raised weapon, ushering it towards the floor. gentle fingers graze against yours, and you let him grab it from you, albeit with some hesitation. he places it on the floor.
“let’s take a break, yeah?”
he doesn’t even need to coerce you, you’d follow him blindly if he asked. you always do.
and he’s leading you, knowing you’re behind him without having the urge to look back and check. exhaustion lingers, but you’re too entranced by him to focus on the sore ache of your limbs. he’s graceful as he walks.
“we trained this morning.”
you freeze momentarily, looking off to the side with a shrug. it’s not that he sounds hostile - it’s just a bit more monotone than normal. “practice makes perfect.”
suguru makes a noise of acknowledgment, but it sounds a bit absentminded and dull, lacking any understanding. like a huff of annoyance.
“right.”
he shouldn’t be this bitter, this cold, when speaking to you. it’s rough against his tongue, and his entire body, mind and all, is actively telling him to stop. emotions are ugly things, though. it makes people less rational; less aware - say things they may regret.
suguru slows his steps, up until you’re beside him, where you should be. and by a glance at you, he knows he’s gotten too uncharacteristically rigid. you’re looking at him, confusion clouding your head. concern, actually. he sees it now.
“did i do something wrong?”
the meekness in your voice, haunted with worry, clears his senses in a millisecond. his eyes widen. panicked, he feverishly shakes his head.
“no — no. of course not.”
he sees you relax a bit, but you’re still looking questionably at him. your head tilts. “then?”
suguru sighs, swallowing thickly as he stops walking. it’s an enchanting sight, grassy fields just a little off main campus. you see a few flowers.
you follow after him as he sits, greenery cushioning your bodies as you settle. suguru picks at the weeds, his eyes on the floor. he speaks quiet, voice among the gentle breeze as his hair flows in waves. you have the urge to remove his hair-tie and see it fully.
“i just worry about you.”
you don’t even attempt to hide the slight flustered smile that finds itself on your face, body feeling overwhelmingly warm. he’s avoiding eye contact for once. l
it’d be a lie if you claimed you didn’t notice the tension - the smiles, the laughs, the soft-spoken volume of his pure voice. so silky smooth it’d rid you of all your worries in a second. but there’s something so alluring about never saying it out loud. like it’s your little secret the two of you can keep, because adoration itself is something so beautiful it needed to be dragged out for as long as possible. you’ve grown to be a little impatient, though.
you nudge him teasingly.
“don’t. i’m right here.”
and it’s true; suguru sees it as a privilege. to be around your presence, to just talk to you — he worships the ground you walk on, and he’s not sure how to tell you that might be the reason why he worries so much.
instead, he chuckles, head bowing momentarily.
“i wish it were that easy.”
you bring your knees to your chest, giggling lightly.
he’s cute.
undeniably.
“it is.” you urge, dragging out the last syllable as you sway towards him. he meets your eyes. “just trust me like i trust you.”
suguru thinks that you’re sometimes oblivious to the weight of your words. they can be so intimate, and you’ll deliver them like any other sentence. as if you hadn’t just made his stomach churn, and his heart beat a little faster. he trusts you more than a healthy amount. he’d trust you with his life, his future — he’d leave everything in the palms of your hands.
“i do.” he replies, reassuringly. it’s earnest, and you smile. suguru bites the inside of his cheek, and closes his eyes. “it’s everything else that scares me.”
and there’s really nothing you can really do to help that fear, because you know it’s completely reasonable and realistic. tomorrow is never promised, especially with the hectic lives you live. you want to tell him that you have similar thoughts when he and satoru are out for days at a time, no return window strictly placed. that it has you pacing back and forth until their arrival, and even then you downplay your relief. but that’s a little embarrassing to say when he’s listening so intently, so you keep quiet.
you turn to him, shrugging with a smile you pray looks more optimistic than sorrowful.
“we can only ever hope for the best.”
a little hollow, less declarative than preferred, but it works the same. suguru nods in silent agreement.
suguru used to think that exceptional beasts like you and him could not fall in love — that it was the secret of ordinary people. for beings, who can alter the world, were special in indescribable ways. but he’s grown to be more open-minded, more accepting.
because what else could he do? you were so irresistible that it ceased the existence of his birth-given psychology. his mind, altered just for you.
“you know… you don’t have to prove yourself of anything.”
this time, it’s suguru who nudges you. he leans in, and you feel his hair brush against your arm. it tickles, but you don’t flinch. your body naturally welcomes the proximity, tingles and goosebumps etching across your skin. you squint, waiting for him to elaborate. and he does, with one validating sentence that kinda erases the possibility of self-doubt. just for a bit.
“i think you’re strong.”
he’d move stars for you, talk to the moon if it meant you got to keep the shimmer in your pretty eyes. and he’d ask the sun to stay out longer so he could continue seeing your rosy cheeks.
he’d gladly live for infinity if he could be the reason you get flustered forever.
you’re very pretty like this.
his eyes are watchful, observant as you scoff bashfully, avoiding him. and you quietly respond, with that same soothing voice. he thinks it could be a lullaby.
“i think you’re strong too.”
suguru smiles, nodding and all-knowing. he pokes you playfully.
“i know.”
you’d complain, but his tone lacks any arrogance. just a statement, enough said. because he knows how you think, how you observe.
and while you don’t say it out loud, your eyes are telling him ‘thank you.’
how beautiful the act of reading an expression is. of knowing a person so easily it’s like clockwork, unraveling intricate details to form a conscious understanding.
he watches your eyes narrow, and awaits a question he knows is on the tip of your tongue. your face looks a certain way during contemplation.
“you like doing this stuff?” you ask, tilting your head. “being a sorcerer, i mean.”
as if the two of you had other options. you didn’t.
but there’s something comforting about answering known questions. speaking the obvious into existence, letting the information linger in the air.
“i like it.” suguru replies, smiling. “if you get rid of the bad stuff.”
his voice gets quieter at the end, but you save him the questioning glance and smile back.
you hum, nodding. “like what?”
and you can name a million bad things. every day is a reminder of them. the two of you have that in common. but thankfully, the world has been kind enough to not let you experience them. your optimism hadn’t been tainted.
and as you expressed to him — you try not to dwell over the ticking clock, only ever hoping for the best.
suguru’s hands are behind him, propping himself up as he gazes at sheer, distant clouds. the sky is a pretty mix of yellow, orange, and red. evening approaches.
“well, all that self-sacrificing stuff for the betterment of mankind — for starters.” he sighs, head leaning back. you wonder if you imagine the way the slight slivers of sun sparkle against his skin, and how angelic his aura seems in that very moment.
you scoot a little closer, gaze matching his as you look upwards.
“we’re helping so many people, though.” you reply, glancing at him for a second. his eyes are closed, like a cat basking in the warmth of the light. you want to kiss his cheek.
“we are.”
“i think it’s cool.”
“it is cool.” he affirms, nodding. one eye opens, and he shamelessly stares as you obliviously observe the world. suguru is suddenly grateful that this view is currently only reserved for him, as he’s sure anyone would fall in love with you in this exact moment. yet, at the least, he wants you to see yourself in his neutral vision.
but butterflies cannot see their own beautiful wings, so he’ll gladly worship you quietly.
he looks at your hand on the grass, right beside his. it’s contemplation that’s been built up for months, thoughts of you invading all his senses. suguru figures that if he had a flower for every time he’s thought of you, he could walk through a garden forever. he inches his fingers closer.
and pauses when they’re less than a centimeter away, pulling back as you break the silence.
“i mean, i’d die for you guys too.”
suguru tenses, and you grow nervously quiet from the sight of his surprised expression, feeling suddenly embarrassed. an awkward laugh leaves your lips in an attempt to ease the gloom of your words, and you mindlessly wave your hand. “if it came down to it, y’know.”
you would in a heartbeat. you’d do it a thousand times over if you could, but you don’t tell him that. that proclamation is reserved for only you.
and as suguru looks over at you, stares, he doesn’t think he’ll ever despise an idea more than he does now. it’s blazing, the thought horrendous.
“don’t say stuff like that.” he demands, shaking his head brazenly. you can feel his eyes still on you, and he’s lost his smile. “don’t ever.”
all the defense, the stoicism, stemming from the thought that — yes. he 100% believed you would die for anyone. and that terrified him more than anything.
suguru isn’t sure how to communicate his thoughts in a softer way. he doesn’t mean for his demeanor to grow so cold again, but it bothers him - makes him sick - that you can say things like that so easily.
“i didn’t — i’m sorry.” you stutter, eyes wide. you swallow thickly, “sorry.”
and again, it’s hard to be upset with you.
but this, he can be against. he needs to be.
“you can’t think like that.” suguru speaks, softer this time. it’s pleading, as if he’s begging for a bit of mercy. and he is. “please.”
he wants to tell you that it’s okay to be selfish, to prioritize yourself first. but it would seem a bit hypocritical coming from him, because he knows he’d throw everything away in a whim if it meant keeping you safe.
love blinds him, he supposes.
“okay.” you nod, eyes on the floor. “i won’t.”
you’re considerate enough to lie, despite knowing full well that your words don’t align with your mind whatsoever. and you think suguru knows that.
he’s staring. you can feel it, eyes as intense as a midnight sky. you feel a little afraid to look up and meet them.
but it’s only instinct when he speaks your name softly, a coaxing whisper among suffocating tension.
you think he looks ethereal when being clouded with concern. godly, towering upon you. the magnitude of his gaze truly shows with the lack of distance. you register the feeling of his hand on yours before anything else, the touch searing from pure shock. a large palm covers your skin.
“… i’m sorry. i just care about you a lot.”
worry is care. it’s one of the greatest devotions — the act of panic for another person.
suguru thinks that romance may actually be the most horrific thing in life. that it’s not curses, but love. it’s the deepest weakness.
“you kill me when you get injured — when you speak like that.” he mutters, and the two of you don’t say a thing as his hand inches higher.
it feels a little harder to breathe.
“can’t promise i’ll stop.” you reply, a pitying smile finding it’s way on your face as you watch him close his eyes briefly.
“i know.”
suguru feels a little like a broken record player, doomed to repeat the same phrases like it’s clockwork.
it’s futile, you’re mutually aware.
he can’t control you, he’s unable to dictate what decisions you make — no matter how stupid, or how horrid they are to him. but he can’t bring himself to stop trying. maybe, if you’re reminded your value, you’ll eventually think the same.
but, honestly, the way you’re looking at him right now could make him believe anything.
“did you find out who’s joining you tomorrow on your mission?”
the corner of your mouth quirks upwards, and he knows your answer before you say it out loud. he grins.
your other hand places itself on top of his, and you smile back. heart giddy, but you try your best to keep your composure.
“i pulled a few strings.”
•••
december, 2015.
you wonder if growing up not only changes your body, but your soul.
because it takes a long time to realize how truly miserable you are, and even longer to see that it doesn’t have to be that way.
it’d be kinda hard to feel your unhappiness now, regardless.
“i prefer if you keep them outside, megs.” you wince, eyeing the dirt-covered paw prints on the hardwood floor.
the two perpetrators stand on either side of their summoner.
flushed and clearly embarrassed, megumi curtly nods. his hair moves the slightest with the movement, and he turns his head away from you, kicking his foot back and forth. “sorry, i wasn’t thinking.”
the dogs leave your eyesight quickly after. you snort, playfully rolling your eyes at him, walking over to ruffle the dark spikes on his head.
“it’s okay, don’t worry about it.” you smile, silently pleased when he doesn’t move away from the ministration. he’s always been more lenient with you, a fact you hold high over a certain white-haired sorcerer. “plus, i’ll just make satoru clean it up.”
if you had blinked, you might had missed the way megumi’s mouth quirks up, satisfaction clear as day. it makes you giggle, up until you finally inspect him closer. your eyes linger on the dirt covering the side of his white shirt, and you softly sigh, pursing your lips.
“how was the curse?” you ask, nudging him a little where the stains are most prominent. “roughed you up a bit, huh?”
megumi’s introduction to jujustu wasn’t entirely seamless, but he was definitely a natural. an anomaly, like satoru. born with talent.
you watch as his face turns sour, and his eyes suddenly narrow, the stoic expression more familiar. he avoids your gaze and looks at the door expectantly, mumbling something under his breath.
“what?” you reply, brows furrowing as you lean a little closer in hopes he’ll repeat himself. megumi’s mouth opens again, and he’s about to, but an obnoxious ‘i’m backkkk!’ interrupts him.
you share an unimpressed look with the younger boy.
satoru strides inside, whistling with a grin. you’ve spent too much time with him, years ticking off your lifespan from both the annoyance and contentment that he simultaneously brings into the world. he and megumi had left early in the morning, and it was around midday now — too long with him, as you can clearly pinpoint on latter’s face.
satoru’s hands are in his pockets, and he shuts the door with his shoulder, leaning back against it.
“missed us?” he smiles, and he walks over to throw an arm around megumi, which is immediately thrown off. satoru glares momentarily, but quickly looks back up at you, clearing his throat. “missed me?”
you stare, sighing softly before gently tugging megumi towards you.
“i missed megumi.” you correct, crossing your arms. your head motions to him, “and why does it look like he got pushed on the floor? i thought you said-“
“it was a grade three!” satoru immediately exclaims, and points to the boy beside you in accusation. “he told me not to get involved.”
despite his adult frame, satoru never really outgrew his childishness, still quick to blame anyone other than himself. his defensiveness was mildly irritating, but you've come to grow used to it. your head shakes disapprovingly, and you huff. “he’s thirteen, you idiot.”
satoru’s smile turns a little mischievous as megumi looks at you quizzically, a frown on his face. “so?”
you rub your head in annoyance, ignoring satoru’s ‘oooo,’ and gently flick megumi on the forehead. “you’re not an official student yet. dealing with curses by yourself can wait. for now, you fight with satoru.”
satoru dramatically sighs, and much to your dismay, approaches you. his arm infamously wraps itself around your frame, body leaning towards you, and it feels like the weight of an elephant, crushing you as you stumble. he doesn’t let up. “you worry too much. and he exorcised it! maybe with a little less ease than expected, but-“
he grunts when a hand collides with his side, and you’re too busy pushing him off to see the way he sticks his tongue out at megumi.
maybe your concerns were a little irrational, but your heart was in the right place. megumi was still young, still enrolled in a normal middle school — albeit, close to his last year — and you had originally planned to keep him completely innocent for just a while longer. no world of killing, curses, and whatnot. but satoru had pushed him into it within the first few months of his complicated adoption, and you secretly knew that there was nothing you could do to completely shield that side of the ugly world for him.
so, you suppose the least you could do was teach him how to protect himself. in case you or satoru couldn’t.
“well,” you sigh, defeatedly. there’s a lopsided smile on your face, and you expectantly look to megumi. “how was it, then?”
there’s a boyish smile, a little shy, that appears on his face. “cool.”
“see!” satoru grins, arms raising in victory. “he loved it, and he should probably do it more often-“
“fine, fine.”
it’s always been pretty futile to argue with satoru. not only is he stubborn, but painstakingly arrogant. he tends to think his ideas are always the best, simply because they’re made in his very head. and you can’t discredit them, because normally, they’re alright. but it can be frustrating. he’s also really hard to deny.
it’s only natural to give in. just so you can avoid drawing it out.
“awesome! i think he’s ready for a special grade!” satoru claps his hands, and you deadpan, rolling your eyes.
“don’t kill my kid.” you mutter, shaking your head as you turn, ignoring the way satoru’s smile settles into something a little more genuine. heartfelt, maybe.
truth be told, you’d trust satoru with everything and more. you worry and fret, but at the end of the day, he’ll still be there. he’s been stuck to you like glue for years now, and it didn’t help that you practically live under the same roof. different rooms, but realistically having no actual space. it’s nice, and you really do hold him in your heart deeply. at an arm’s length.
you end up being stuck with cooking dinner yet again — satoru winning because otherwise he’d ’poison the kids’ (which, you think is stupid because he could easily just follow a recipe. also, he’s used that excuse before.) — and it’s like clockwork, a routine, when you find yourself sat across from him on the couch afterwards, tsumiki and megumi long gone in their respective rooms.
you’ve found that gojo satoru acts a bit differently when it’s just the two of you. less irritable, and easier to talk to; you’ve noticed this since you met him. his voice gets quieter, the blindfold comes off, his hair falls, and you’re presented with a more raw version. and maybe the kids get a different version too, but you find that hard to believe when megumi’s distaste is so palpably strong.
“movie?” satoru asks, peeking at you through narrow eyes. his face is a little smushed by his palm as he leans against the armrest, and there’s a lazy smile on his face. he looks kinda tired, weirdly enough. exhaustion is so foreign on his face that it looks almost fake. you wonder how much he slept last night, spotting hints of darkness beneath the pretty blue of his vision.
you think it’s strange that you don’t get sick of his presence, even after all this time. that’s it’s forever missed more than loathed. you’re always in such close proximity, practically doing everything together, and yet you find that crave him every second he’s not beside you. pitifully, it might just be the attachment issues you’ve subconsciously formed, and have unfortunately plagued satoru with. but that reason just seems a little too sad for you to fully admit. everything realistic is somehow bitter. you softly sigh, momentarily closing your eyes.
you’d love to stay, just to hear his idiotic rambles and comments. they always brought more substance than the film itself. and he’s been gone all day. you rub your forehead, feeling a small inkling of guilt.
“i have a mission later.” you reply, apologetically, and smile sincerely. “but when i come back, yes.”
an active report coming from a town over — information on paper only describing the energy as ‘ominous.’
“oh,” satoru’s eyes widen, and though you’re unable to read the exact emotion on his face, he seems a little alarmed. nearly wincing. he’s kinda upset that you didn’t tell him sooner, that being visibly clear — but then again, did you really have an obligation to? he didn’t really tell you whenever he had missions. but that was because he’d return in a few quick hours every time. satoru didn’t like being gone for too long either. he never dragged out his departures; he hated to leave you by yourself, even if the kids were with you. it feels a little cruel. you watch his eyes dart towards the windows, and he shifts, facing you. the movement is a little awkward, and he pauses before his speaks, hesitant with his words. “want me to go with you? it’s kind of late.”
it’s sweet that he asks.
“satoru,” you chuckle, tilting your head. “it’s a couple of second grades. i’ll be fine.”
a little white lie, but you craved some action. satoru always got stuck with the interesting missions, and even then they posed no such threat to him. all of your assignments were simple, too easy to be considered enjoyable. if this was going to be the route you were taking in life, — exorcising curses — then you could at least make it somewhat fun.
satoru can tell something’s off. you’re too dismissive, and you won’t look at him directly. but he feels as though it’s not his place to scold you, and he trusts you dearly, so he ignores his gut.
“alright.” he shrugs, his arms moving behind his head as they nonchalantly cross, contrasting the way he feels a little unusual. “call me if you need anything.”
•••
december brings cold winter air, and you blow into your palms, attempting to warm the skin that’s begun to grow a little numb.
more people should go on nightly walks, you think. maybe then it’d be more calming. every street you’ve turned to is nearly empty, the only comfort being provided by dim overhead lights. but you suppose you’ve gone through more fearsome events, so this shouldn’t really be that big of a deal.
it’s a little frustrating to be walking around so aimlessly. the report gave no specific location, just the brief mention of a couple of previous sightings. by now, they’d more-than-likely dispersed to other areas.
you’re slightly tempted to call satoru for some help, as you’ve never been the best at detecting curses at a long-range, but you refrain.
it was late, and you know he’d probably never let you live it down.
satoru would never say ‘no’ to you. but there comes a price with that reliability and expectancy. small instances, like when you caught a cold, and had asked him to order for you at a coffee shop because your voice had been to sore to do so. he complied, but not without a relentless amount of teasing, even going to far as to lie to the barista, saying ‘sorry, she’s just really shy.’ he lived for your embarrassment, and it was generally harmless, so you couldn't reprimand him for it.
but sometimes every time, he’d have his own small apology. like how right after you had returned home, there was soup coincidentally ordered on your front porch.
satoru had walked inside without looking at you.
he can be tolerable. rarely.
you're nearly persuaded to go back home, midnight beginning to take a toll on your tired eyes. as far as you were aware, the curses hadn't caused harmful havoc. but it'd be pretty humiliating to head back without a small victory, and even then you'd probably stay up feeling guilty.
unintelligible whispers break you out of your thoughts, and you blink, eyes scanning the area.
goosebumps arise, and your head turns.
finally.
you nearly jump when you see it, though keep your composure, standing straighter.
it’s hardly detectable, as it stands. fairly large too. it might actually be a second grade.
you huff, brows furrowing as you inspect the curse. this was the cause of the ‘ominous’ energy? you feel it, but it’s looks don’t work well with it’s written description. maybe you’d be heading home sooner than you expected.
your hand reaches behind you to grab your weapon, and you move forward, testing to see how fast it’s reflexes are.
it doesn’t move.
you pause, rolling your eyes briefly.
“at least put up a fight, dude.” you mumble, nearly sighing as it continues to plainly watch you. you walk a little closer, up until you’re only a few feet away, and hum. “you’re not the brightest…”
you insert your weapon back into it’s sheath, and stare. it’s been a while since you’ve had the chance to see a curse so closely. they’re all usually extremely reactive, not sparing you a second before attacking. violence is their prime instinct; the main thought in their heads.
when you reach your hand to poke it, and it still doesn’t budge, you know something is wrong.
oh.
your entire body stills, and you’re certain that you feel your stomach drop to the floor.
something felt familiar.
confirming your terrible suspicions, the curse disappears in front of your very eyes. not exorcised. you’re staring at the empty space that it once occupied, too bothered by the fact that your heartbeat has picked up ten times faster.
you almost reach for your phone, but stop, feeling as though it wouldn't be the wisest decision.
this suddenly all feels a little too calculated. you don’t even attempt to grab your weapon again.
shock numbs your bones. it bleeds through and renders you useless.
you hear your name before you see him, and you figure it feels the same as the nearly-fatal slash toji had given you almost a decade ago. so painful that it makes your heart stop. it’s spoken with such intimate fondness — too much for your poor heart to comprehend.
his ubiquity is so daunting that you’re sure all time ceases to exist.
you don’t want to turn around. you want to run, flee before you know it’s too late. before you hear him speak, and the world comes crashing down all over again. you’ve tried so hard to piece it back together. every tiny detail - you’re not sure if you’d be able to start over. why now? when you’ve finally been better. when you finally believed that normality was even possible to achieve.
but you’ve always naturally given into him, and that habit stays strong even after all these years. you think he knows that too.
it’s with upmost hesitance that you turn around.
you’re not sure what to do.
he’s a sight for sore eyes. healing, beautifully transparent. a dear smile, inviting you closer. or more like a predator awaiting it’s prey. your body is giving you every negative cue, yet your legs stay in place, submissive to his presence that’s been so horrendously missed.
he a little looks older. or maybe that’s just the unfamiliar sight of all his hair down.
“hi.”
a part of you thinks that if you ignore him for long enough, he might disappear. leave you alone, as he’s chosen to do before. he’s lost the right to be welcomed.
fury is really the only emotion you could accurately pinpoint. you hate how soft he speaks. you hate it more than anything.
if you could stomach it, you’d ask him to close his eyes and turn the other direction. you’ve always been weak when he looks at you so intently, as if studying you to the finest detail. but you refuse to be the one to look away first - you selfishly crave his attention more than you value your own self-respect.
and as suguru looks at you, he thinks you’ve made it impossibly more difficult to do anything but beg for undeserving forgiveness. he’s staring at reflective streams, seeing as they slowly trail down your face. it must feel nice to be falling tears, symbolic of raindrops returning to the ocean. he’d like to sit in front of the ocean again. with you, being careless teenagers just for a little longer. but the ocean brings back bitter memories and the thoughts of a certain brunette child, so he refrains from thinking further.
“… don’t cry.”
it’s not a command of any sort, but instead a quiet plea. you’re too pretty for tears. too pretty for pain, too pretty for this unfair life he’s plagued you with.
he watches your eyes visibly widen, and your hand raises quickly, using your sleeve to wipe remnants of your intense emotions. it stains your skin a bit red from how roughly you move, lashes dismally coated with the aftermath.
“i’m not—“ and you huff, your throat feeling tight. your head bows by instinct, and you shake it firmly. you press your palms to your eyes for a few seconds, pushing harshly, as if the pressure could ease some of the shock, or ground you in any way. “i’m not fucking crying.”
cautiously, suguru nods. he’ll play into you, listen to everything you say even if it’s not entirely truthful. anything to make his appearance less daunting and harmful. he waits for you to speak, knowing the sound of his voice may not be as pleasant as he had hoped. he’s not sure what he was expecting.
battered already, in so much internal sorrow you might collapse, you breathe as deeply as you are able to. it shakes, and you opt to biting your lip instead.
harrowing disbelief is tainting your skin and bones, and it feels hopeless to even try understanding why he’s here. waltzing right back into your life, bewitchingly present. words linger, staying on the tip of your tongue as you internally battle yourself to release them. release you.
the air smells like rain. and you think — all this anger, it was once was love.
“i hate you.”
and there’s a frown on your lips, trembling as you try to muster up all of the loathe, resentment, and frustration into those three words.
it fails. because the admission is not of truth — if anything, it’s guilt. for the sole reason that you know your feelings stand the exact opposite.
you hate suguru for leaving you. not him as a person; him as a thought. a thought that consistently runs rampant through your mind, adding fuel to a prevalent fire that refuses to be extinguished. and you imagine that he likes that he still has that effect on you, because the hauntingly serene smile he holds doesn’t even falter, not for a second.
you’re forced to stare at him with that expression, and it feels wickedly taunting. not as comforting as it had before.
“that’s alright.”
it’s all he puts out into the air, and that gentle tone he holds kinda makes you want to hit him. he’s not like satoru — you’re sure he’d let you. but suguru can sense your agonizing heartbreak. he’d sense everything about you with his eyes closed. and he feels guilty for making you reopen old wounds, but he’s unaware that they’ve never been given a chance to properly heal.
geto suguru sees a little bit of you in everything lovely. the sun shining in the morning, the smiles on two pretty little girl’s faces, the moon casting a dim halo over the world at night.
you’ve only become a greater treasure. one to be cherished, to be adored. he’s missed you in his sight more than anything. you’re still a angel on earth, incredulously beautiful. even with tears, even with that despaired look on your face. he’s fighting every urge in his body to not step closer and mend your broken self.
he’d like to run his fingers over your soul and pour his love into each crack he finds.
“give me a few minutes. that’s all i need.”
he’d prefer an eternity. but he thinks that he’s asked for something reasonable.
it’s expected when you scoff, glaring daggers with blurry vision. but it doesn’t make it any less painful.
suguru can take it. he deserves it.
“please.”
the distaste on your face refuses to falter.
you crave to love without it having consequences.
since when had caring become so much of a burden? it’s evil, honestly. maybe stone-cold was the way to go. nanami might be on to something.
“stop this, suguru.” you whisper, hand sliding down your face in frustration as you let out a bitter sigh that lacks any amusement. “leave me alone.”
he savors the way his name sounds on your tongue, the drawn-our syllables holding the same familiar care of nearly a decade ago. it feels longer, too much time spent away from you. it lightens his aura, makes his senses heightened in almost a feral way. you speak of him like fate.
old habits refuse to die, and he stays where he is, the same face of persuasion used as he outwardly refuses your answer.
“kill me, then.” he shrugs, and he thinks he might actually die from the way your frown falters into shock once again. his smile twitches, nearly threatening to downcast.
it should be what you do.
suguru was a dead man. that fact hadn’t slipped your mind. you remember when satoru saw him, in the flesh, after the sentence. he couldn’t bring himself to kill him then, and you could briefly recall the look on his face when you softly told him you could eventually do it if he wasn’t able to. that solemn twinge, knowing something you wouldn’t admit out loud.
because satoru knew, better than anyone around, that if you went through with it, it would break you past the point of repair.
suguru, seemingly satisfied with your stillness, steps a bit closer.
it kinda feels like doom. you think the world may stop for a moment, and that all the bad things in life will come and finish you off. that death will take your hand, guiding you, kinder than anything that’s ever really touched it. because what it’s held before has cursed it.
when his hands reach up, you expect a knife in the throat — any consequence for the stupidity of your compliance. but the blades are soft, and they raise to hold your face. gently, as if earning the trust of a stray kitten. because they’re not blades, they’re his hands. he feels you shaking against them. and it’s odd that all tranquility really needs is a certain sight; reassurance in the form of a graceful being who has been absent for too long. you don’t move. you’re unable to. instead, you stare, taking in a lost future. hair you used to brush yourself, eyes that would watch you with such visible adoration. they still do, and that realization alone has your head hurting.
you feel his thumb wipe below your eye, and it feels cold over your heated skin. suguru sighs, his eyebrows furrowing ever-so-slightly.
“you’re very beautiful.”
it’s spoken almost hopelessly, as if the admission physically hurts for him to say. in a way, it does. he’s let go of one of the last devotions to you that he’s kept bottled inside of him, because he knows this might be the last time he sees you. he has to let everything go. you need to know what he thinks of you, how important you are. how he’s submitted his soul to the disaster of loving you since you were teenagers.
by the way his eyes narrow, and his pupils grow just a tiny bit bigger, your eyes widen, and you’re pushing him away instantly.
you know what comes next. you’re able to predict it before it’s able to horrifically conjure itself out loud.
“no, suguru.”
he follows after you, a firm yet gentle hold on your forearms stopping you from completely leaving. you’re already shaking your head, biting your lip as it threatens to quiver. he’s trapping you, and he knows he’s already won.
“let me.” he coos, rubbing the skin of your trembling limbs. and you try to convince yourself that you shouldn’t sympathize, or fall for that sweet, missed voice of his. how he’s just a stranger you unfortunately know everything about. to ignore gentle aura you’ve missed so much that you felt as though you’ve never been able to get a grip on the pain in your chest. “let me say it.”
you’re not built for this, not capable enough to take another harrowing blow.
“leave — fucking, leave.” you seethe, frantically attempting to pull your arms back, though his hold has gotten stronger, and the fight that you have left in you is quickly diminishing by the second. there’s a moment — the tiniest sliver of time — where you stumble, and you’re being pushed closer to him before you can blink.
“you don’t want me to.” suguru shakes his head, eyeing you carefully as you stop your movements. it’s declarative.
you’d like to slap him. knock some common sense into his head because, obviously. you never wanted him to. not when you were sixteen, not now, not ever.
it’s just defense. because you cruelly know that letting him in will just make everything worse. walls were needed for protection, even if the doors are halfway open.
his hands find themselves cradling your face once more, and he’s pulling you, a small gap being the only distance left between a terrible decision. you’re subconsciously following, body keen on obeying his every move. his gaze feels a little intrusive, looking so intently you have the urge to turn your head and close your eyes. your breath is shaky, and you feel a little light-headed.
you wonder if anyone else in the world has ever loved someone this terribly.
hastily, your hands place themselves on his chest with an attempt to push him away, but they stay pliant. you look at him, incredulously.
“what is wrong with you?”
it’s clear when his expression darkens a little, and he dejectedly looks to the side. you catch his eyes widening a bit, the harshness of your tone foreign, because you’ve only ever spoken to him with such tender care. you’re spewing out words with cracks in your voice, nearly whispering because you’re afraid that if you speak any louder, it’ll truly start a storm.
“you… you kill people, leave me — leave everyone — and then…” your eyes close, and you feel the liquid trailing down your cheeks again before you’re able to stop it. you can’t finish your sentence, too busy holding your breath to calm a threatening sob.
it feels like you’re sixteen again, and everything is crumbling.
his arms move slowly as they wrap themselves around you, and you feel even more inclined to cry when he presses your head against his chest. like he’s done dozens of times before. he sucks, the world sucks. this comfort is long overdue, and you still can’t find it in yourself to complain, simply succumbing to the pressure of his presence. you’d like to hug your younger self. because she needed this, even if it can’t really count as closure. even if you currently felt your knees buckling from beneath you.
“i wish i could take away the pain, pretty girl.”
suguru won’t give you false apologies. he only feels guilt for causing you harm. he dislikes how pain looks on your face, and he wants to tell you that he’s unable to sleep at night without you, that every day is a challenge. that truthfully, the ache is mutual. but he has something to accomplish, and you stand on opposing sides.
the two of you are stubborn people.
“take it,” you tremble, and your arms are already around him, despite the screams in your mind. he feels safe. he feels like everything and more. “please, please, take it.”
the pleading in your voice makes suguru feel horribly ill, and he tightens his grip on you, not really knowing what else to do.
it’s worse when you’re the perpetrator. the criminal, the evil. he wonders what your life might have looked like without him in it — how happy you could have been. should’ve been.
but there’s been bad things — events that he’s sure might had ended horrifically differently without his existence.
he wonders how your scar looks, now.
suguru’s fingers are firm as they reach below your chin, and he forces your eyes to meet once more. they’re red and glossy, but still undeniably captivating. he’d like to look at them forever.
“i would, if it were that easy. i promise you.”
you believe him. it could be from the genuine strain in his voice, or your muddled brain that’s clawing to escape your own head. what good is a healthy mind?
he’s saying your name again, and it’s quieter this time. more intimate. you don’t cower, you stay, even huddling the tiniest bit closer. you’ve given up on composure, you’ll let him selfishly have you. besides, it feels nice when he’s treating you so delicately. hands ghosting over your cheeks, eyes that admire your desperate, sad ones. you don’t stop him this time, numbly prepared for the aftermath.
he pauses, trailing his thumb over your jaw, and swallowing thickly. he’s never quite looked normal. always too perfect in comparison to everything else. he smiles, and you see a hint of something that you can’t really classify as full joy.
“i love you.”
the world doesn’t end.
you’re still looking at him, thinking that it will for a moment. instead, you see bashful pink.
‘i love you’ is such a tricky sentence. it’s powerful, meaningful, and could also be a lie. the power of speech is that there really are no limits, and you suppose that’s what makes bad people. sometimes.
he toys with the collar of your shirt, briefly, and lets out a breath of amusement through his nose. suguru feels lighter. and simultaneously horrible. he tilts his head, barely, his voice quiet.
“will you let me kiss you? even if you hate me?”
there’s a little teasing in that sentence, and he nudges his nose across the side of your face affectionately. you’re unaware of how hard his heart beats against his chest as soon as he asks.
you’re sixteen once more, and you’re silently nodding before you’re able to think further.
you’re imagining fairytales you can’t believe in.
it’s hard to determine how long you’ve thought about it. his lips on yours. your hands are in his hair and on his face nearly immediately. you’d trade a lot of things to be this close for longer — you wish to be combined. and he’s soft. he’s so soft you dread taking your hands off of him. if heaven was a place on earth, it’d be this.
pitiful.
he tastes sweet, like a forgotten dream. butterflies suffocate your insides as you stand, and your knees feel a little weaker. suguru is a bit impatient with his movements, hands trailing down your sides to squeeze and caress. his touch feels hot and is hastily done, but gentle nonetheless. you feel his lips curl up against yours, and your stomach flips.
you rather not pull away. pulling away brings back reality, and fantasy is really all you want. if you kiss him a bit harder, and close your eyes a little longer, you’re able to stay.
he pulls back first.
you’re breathing heavy, eyes wide as they bore into his. he might be the most precious thing in your life, and you’re not sure if you’re able to let him go. you’re afraid that you’ll love him forever, and that you’ll never be in the same place again. this feels cruelly temporary, and you know it is. by the way his expression settles, and the way he repeats those three words so quietly, it’s meant for only you to hear. a fact.
“i love you.”
you swallow thickly, in a haze that’s caused just by his very being. a drug-like addiction, and you feel so content it’s like you’re home.
suguru knows you won’t say it back. and in all honesty, he prefers it that way. it’s what’s best. what matters most is that he knows you mean to. he’s able to read that lovestruck wonder on your face so easily it makes him warm. it was both a relief and horror to be known so perfectly. you, who still wears your heart on your sleeve. he’s forever grateful that you’ve always been so giving, so selfless when it comes to him. he feels as though he abuses your sweet compassion.
you tug on his sleeve.
“we can work something out.” you whisper against him, and suguru knows he’s gone too far. he’s tensing, and his eyes are anxious, a small shake of his head contrasting your nods. “i’m yours. i’m yours before anything else.”
heart, mind, body, soul. you’re bonded for life, and you’ve known that since you were young.
“oh, no, baby.” suguru hurriedly answers, and the desperation in your voice, the way you clutch on to him a little tighter, has his head reeling. he’s panicking. “you’re better where you are, sweet girl.”
you know his mind is made up, that it’s fruitless to try, but you’re so blinded by desires that you don’t even care that you’re begging him. he’s mean, doing this to you. there is no ultimatum or other decision - this is it. you’re just destined to be separate, and that hurts to realize, so you’re glad he’s cushioning the blow. just enough for you to keep standing.
suguru is complicated. he hates that he is, he hates what his life has brought him (the only exception being the beauty of the people in his past; you included), but he’s certain that you’re safer as it is. golden and pure. with satoru, with shoko. and you’re strong. you’re so strong he can’t put it into words.
maybe he had some reasonable motives — riko’s death, yours and satoru’s near deaths, haibara’s death — but they’ve shaped him. shaped you, more, as it seems. you continue your life, even after it’s been tainted red, and blackened with misery. satoru, the same. you can take a bit more. you’ve gone through the worst of it. at least — it’s what he selfishly tells himself.
it was stupid to come see you. kiss you, at that. but he can’t bring himself to regret even slightly. if he’s considered evil, barbaric, he’ll gladly take the titles if it meant spending more moments with you. it’s cruel, not malicious.
you’re still his person. but he can’t have you fully — at least, not in this lifetime.
suguru isn’t really sure he could pass on the torch so easily. to give you up completely — the most ultimate sacrifice. where there would be a possibility of his replacement, and the loss of his heart. he can’t trust anyone with loving you; no one can really love you like he does. he’ll take pride in that.
“you’re going to live a long, happy life.” suguru quietly assures, nudging his nose against yours. your eyes are tightly shut, overall avoidant. this might be a nightmare, if you believe hard enough. “find someone who loves you, and you easily will, do everything-“
“i don’t want anyone else.” you interrupt, eyes narrowing as they open, like the idea is something of the unthinkable. “you’d be stupid to think i do.”
this might be worse than unrequited love, you think. every feeling is mutual, besides the belief that you should be together. he’s the bane of your existence. and that kills.
suguru is reasonable. you understand his refusals, why the two of you can’t be — how immaturely you’re thinking about this. you can’t leave your life behind for him, it’d be asking for your own death sentence and the loss of everything left that’s good in your life.
you can’t create a cycle, as much as it pains for you to come to terms with.
“i can’t have you, pretty girl.” suguru sighs, trying to ignore the way his voice wavers the tiniest bit. he’s growing desperate in persuasion, but even he falls flat against the situation. “i want to, so bad, but it’s not right. we’re not right.”
your chest feels tight as you stare up at him.
you wonder, truly, if he’s aware of all the turmoil he’s caused; that he’s let happen, because he never even came back to offer a mere shoulder for support. he simply left you in the dust.
it hurts to hear, especially coming from lips that had been pressed so wonderfully against yours. you still can’t bring yourself to hate him.
you used to fear irrational ideas. that if you let someone in, take care of you, you wouldn’t really be yourself anymore. independency never worked well, and you’ve strung on a bit too hard to a knight in shining armour. a being like icarus, who’s flown too close to the sun. you were right, it seems.
you’ve lost, and it kills to realize.
bitterly, you remember hearing some time ago that ‘it gets easier.’ or better. it’s been repeated to you, multiple times. the reality is, you’re not too sure. what gets easier is maybe the coping. but even that is still evil and painful.
hopeless, you stand, and your voice feels hoarse.
“… suguru?”
how can you hate something so natural? when it feels as though those syllables are meant to be spoken in repetition. his name means excellence; to surpass all.
suguru looks at you, eyes previously occupied with gazing upwards to avoid an act of human emotion. they mirror yours, glossy and faintly red. no visible tears. he has the self-control you lack.
but you can be a little selfish.
“can you…” you take a deep breath, and lean a little forward, resting your head in the crook of his neck to escape a reaction. if he feels the liquid of your tears, he doesn’t comment on them. he’s awfully warm. you’d like to lay in bed with him under a summer sun again. you’re trying to force every part of him into your memory while he’s pressed to closely against you. how his hair tickles your neck, the security of his loving arms keeping you from physical harm, how pretty he looks up close.
it’s not greedy to ask for a final request, you think.
“can you stay with me, then? for a few more minutes?”
an innocent question, while he’s been nothing but cruel. despite everything, you’re still you.
it reminds him of his youth. when you and satoru would get into playful arguments, gaining a few steps on him, only for you to turn back and check that he was still there. or when you would return from missions, him being the first person you looked for every time, just to let him know you came back safely.
sometimes, you’d come back a bit battered up, and instead of confiding in shoko for help like any other person would, you trusted him with treating the wounds. all natural, because that meant you got to spend more time together. human bodies are fragile things. he realized the true extent of that after toji. you really can’t take anything for granted.
so it’s really no wonder why he fell in love with you. why he came to fully accept it. and his belief stands strong — anyone would. angels are irresistible, he finds. he would sometimes see wings.
suguru’s glad you can’t see his face. because maybe then, you’d catch the sight of a reflective shimmer trailing down his cheek.
the embodiment of your dreams, hopes, and desires holds you so gently, a little tighter now. he nods against you, but it feels disconnected, because he’s faded into darkness that has already consumed him. too far gone.
time is nothing for now.
and you wonder if it actually does get better, or if everyone is just lying to you.
•••
september, 2018.
“sensei?”
blinking slowly, you immediately straighten at the sight of three towering figures above your relaxed position.
there’s a panic that sets in at the recognition of how watery your eyes feel, and your head turns in an instant to cough awkwardly, avoiding their stares.
it’s around noon, judging by how pleasantly the sun shines through the window, and how awake your students look. yuji liked to sleep in sometimes.
“did i zone out for a bit?” you mindlessly chuckle, the words feeling a little strange on your tongue. you might have a migraine from how much your head is hurting. “i didn’t get too much sleep last night, sorry guys.”
your smile radiates a reassuring warmth, and the concern on their faces leaves by the time you look back at them. if jujustu didn’t work, maybe you could take up acting.
“we finished the warmups you instructed!” nobara beams, short hair flowing after her as she proudly stands. she glances at yuji, her eyes narrowing. “well, me and fushiguro did.”
yuji shoves her.
nobara has always reminded you of rough recovery rooms and gentle curing hands. it makes you a bit nauseous, the nostalgia of it all.
the sight of the whole trio sometimes felt like daggers digging into your heart, stabbing greedy wounds into open gashes before they have a chance to heal.
brighter days for them, a dull ache for you.
“you weren’t awake yet-“
“i told you to wake me up!”
“you did not!”
yuji and nobara bicker for a second, and you feel a little overwhelmed.
because since these two have set foot on campus, they had seemed oddly familiar. unbeknownst to them, but relentlessly distressing for you. you’re silent as you observe, the uncomfortable pit in your stomach staying clear as day. stubborn, because that’s only natural for you.
more than a decade has passed — nearly three years since your last encounter, almost a year after his death, and yet here you are. the hurt just as strong, because you’ve realized that the pain will never fully go away, and you suppose you’ll have to adapt to living with it forever.
but you’re grateful. though you couldn’t go back to the way things were, you have a chance at stopping the cycle. after all, you know little about what the future has in store for them.
you hope it’s kind. you want those grins to stay permanently, for their youth and innocence to linger for as long as possible. because you never had that luxury. the end of your purity was far too quick, adult emotions flooding your senses. you’d do anything to keep them from feeling like you.
plus, you’re allowed to grieve over the child you could’ve been.
“alright, alright,” you blink, interrupting them before their voices can get any louder. they immediately quiet down, turning to you expectantly. it freaks you out a little.
you were still relatively new to whole teaching thing, not used to being followed so attentively. it felt weird to give orders — to have them be listened to, really. satoru was more of a natural, his cheekiness benefitting him perfectly. even if the students found him undeniably strange.
“give me ten minutes and i’ll meet you outside.” you wave a hand, pointing to yuji. “and sorry kiddo, you’re doing some laps for getting up late.”
you fight a smile as you witness a pout form on his lips, nobara’s laugh drowning out his whining. you’d probably only make him run one, but it was always amusing to lie to his face. you adored yuji — he was a bundle of joy graciously given to the universe. it’s pure luck that he ended up with you.
you watch as nobara drags him out, your head resting on your palm, softly chuckling. they complimented each other well. like siblings, you think.
your head turns, finally facing eyes that hadn’t strayed away from you since you woke up from your daydream. it's like a sixth sense now. you know when he's looking at you, when he seems genuinely bothered. it took time to know him. he’s a hard shell to crack.
“you don’t get special privileges, megs.” you snort, motioning your head towards the door. “go join them, i just need some time to wake up.”
megumi looks unimpressed (and honestly, when does he not?), sighing softly before coming closer. the cushion beside you sinks as he sits, and you raise a brow questionably. his voice is blunt, quiet as it fills the room.
“you think too much.”
it surprises you a little, but you’ve come to learn that megumi is rarely predictable, and to always expect the unexpected.
“do i?” you muse, your smile visibly weakening as you softly laugh.
he was too aware of everything, perception like no other. he reminded of you of suguru sometimes, behavior so nonchalant in comparison to the rest of the world. they were both silent observers.
megumi nods, and you realize he’s rather close, only a few inches away from grazing your skin. touch was something megumi struggled with growing up, so you never pushed it on him; you hated making him uncomfortable, while satoru could care less. the giant didn’t understand boundaries. but sometimes, movie nights in his adolescence led to him latching on to you in his sleep. he had his moments.
it makes the action of his hand raising, pressing your head into his shoulder, much more meaningful.
“don’t think.”
megumi’s never been one for melodramatic situations. growing up, he’d used to complain when tsumiki would force him to watch disney movies with her, getting visibly annoyed when he’d spot her tears during more heartfelt scenes. you never brought up the fact that he’d let her rest her head on his shoulder (you secretly wonder if that’s why he’s doing that now), or would rub her back. megumi’s not kind, per say, but he knows how to secretly love (in his own, strange way. similar to satoru), and you think that’s more important than anything.
“that’d be cool.” you sigh, closing your eyes. your eyelids feel heavy on your face, and you try not to get too comfortable, remembering that you’d have to get up in a few minutes. “wish it were that simple.”
megumi hums, staring straight ahead.
your past is a secret to him, tightly kept in the confinements of your heart. and that's really the only hint he's ever needed to know that it still affects you. satoru, the same. he knew little about your lives before he came into the picture, only hearing bits and pieces when you and satoru would get a bit sleep-drunk and giggle about old memories. he's always tried his best to listen, soaking in any details he can. people are generally more honest and open when physically tired. it's why they confess things during late night conversations, and why the flow of words comes out more natural.
you were different from the idiot that had originally taken him in. megumi can scream from every rooftop that he hated gojo satoru (despite it being secretly untrue), but you? the mediator, who he looked up to more than anything? impossible, it’d be criminal.
maybe you disliked seeming hopeless in front of him, but he didn't mind that vulnerability. he wished you'd trust him with it more — that you knew he would never dream of judging you. he's not too well with words, or communicating, really, so he's also not too sure how to tell you. a double-edged sword.
"you're okay, though — right?"
his eyes glance downwards towards you, dark blue highlighting the inklings of concern. it's not awkward when he asks.
he has a heart, despite satoru's beliefs.
heart warmed, you grin, raising your head to look at him with crinkled narrowed eyes.
you find it funny how the world works. going in some strange, bittersweet chain of events because here you were, caring for the life of a dead man’s son while he had permanently tainted yours. and you're happy. not completely, but sun shines through. the blinds are halfway open.
something that had once seemed so dark has been becoming technicolor.
"yeah." you nod, sincerely, and pat his cheek gently, stifling a laugh when his face scrunches in silent disapproval. "thank you for asking. really."
his face gently pulls away from your touch, and you can tell he's slightly flustered, just a tad embarrassed at your small affection. you're grateful for him, unbelievably thankful for the bits of effort he's always put into caring about you (and tsumiki. and maybe the tiniest bit for satoru. tiny.). a true blessing.
gingerly, he stands up, hands in his pockets as he glances at you again, double-checking. you smile.
he only continues to walk towards the door when you give him a nod in reassurance.
you're left staring at your hands when he leaves, a soft sigh escaping your lips. some days are harder than others. it's the toss of a coin, no chances pre-determined. you simply wake up to the surprise every time.
admittedly, you miss the version of you that doesn’t really exist anymore. naive, but more open. fearless and valiant, only ever seeking improvement. you feel bitter that you took that time of your life for granted.
you’ve found that everything’s felt easier, though. something in the air is different.
“hey, did you leave the kids outside? it's hot out there and they're complaining like crazy-“
you hear footsteps come to a halt, and your head tilts up, finding satoru in it's vision. he stands in place by the door, eyes wide as he stares.
"hey," you nonchalantly wave, stretching to alleviate the soreness in your muscles. "i'll be out in a second."
you attempt to get up from your seat, but satoru ushers towards you, stopping you from successfully moving.
"woah, woah, woah — what’s got you so blue?” he asks, scanning over you briefly. there's a light-hearted smile on his face, and if you didn't know him well enough, you might have mistaken it for amusement. but it's down-casted slightly, and he's looking at you a little too intently.
you snort, rolling your eyes playfully, “i’m not blue.”
satoru blinks, unappreciative of the response that he can only justify was from being around him too often.
“fine — what’s wrong with you?” he corrects himself bluntly, crossing his arms. your eyes follow him as he takes a seat beside you, and you internally sigh, thinking about how you’ve left your three students to perish under the sun.
you wave a hand dismissively, "nothing.”
“aw, c’mon,” satoru drawls, and you have half a mind to complain when he sprawls himself over your lap, his eyewear pushed upwards and off his face as he looks up at you. the blue twinkles, even under the fluorescent lighting. “you’ve never been a good liar.”
“okay, now that’s a lie. a bad one.” you scoff, poking his nose. “i’m a talented actress. oscar worthy.”
he playfully winces, narrowing his eyes at you. “no one’s ever been honest with you before, huh?”
“who needs opinions?” you roll your eyes, nudging his head softly. “it’s all about self-love now.”
“yeah, yeah,” satoru whistles, peering up from one eye, the other closed as he visibly relaxes against you. “see how far that takes you.”
you gasp dramatically, “mean.”
the corner of his lips quirks up, and his familiar smirk returns.
banter was natural with satoru. it was hard to take anything seriously with him around.
he brings joy in mundaneness.
“you shouldn’t trust megumi, y’know.”
confused, you pause, looking at him questionably.
“why?” you ask, and you’re internally conflicted as you attempt to recall every recent memory in your head that’s a classified secret. or, something you’ve generally told megumi as of late. nothing comes to mind.
“dunno. he told me something was wrong with you when i walked past him right now.”
your eyes widen, and you groan, head falling back against the couch’s soft exterior.
traitor.
“so,” satoru continues, and his voice is softer, a little more serious. “really — what’s wrong?”
it’s always been pointless to beat around the bush with satoru. he’s impatient, immature, and wonderful. a bad mix that makes you wonder how it’s even possible that he’s generally likable.
“nothing.” you emphasize, rubbing your head in slight annoyance. “he’s making it up.”
you rather not have this conversation. not while the air is half-hearted, and everything has been steady. but he’s right there. and it might not hurt as much as you think it will.
satoru gawks, mouth open, before poking you harshly. “now you’re calling our son a liar? low blow.”
you huff, “he went lower by betraying me.”
a beat of silence.
“so he was right?” satoru blinks, and he’s sitting up hesitantly, awaiting your voice, or a movement. anything to confirm.
“will you leave me alone if i say no?”
“no? you just admitted he wasn’t lying.”
“oh. yeah.”
you’re smiling lightly, faintly awful because you’re not too sure how wise you’re being. maybe this was only the mature option.
“um… i was just thinking. about him.”
you hadn’t really spoken much about last december. there was no tension or anything — it was just a touchy subject for the both of you.
satoru had more right to be bothered.
you expect his expression to drop — for it to grow uncomfortably quiet, leaving you to voice a regretful apology. you’ve rarely seen satoru break. his joyous front is him in natural form. sorrow doesn’t look right on his face.
he’s only been at his worse around you. and that’s a fact that binds you for life, as dismissive as you two seem to act about it.
angels carry weights off your shoulders, and satoru smiles a little. albeit, visibly bittersweet, but a smile.
“we do that a lot, don’t we?”
he’s stupid, annoying, and infuriating when he looks at you like that. as if you two are similar, and he knows how to ice the bruises on your back.
(he does.)
geto suguru is an enigma. is, because even in death, he’s found a way to stay alive. he lives in memories; in thoughts that keep both of you awake at night.
“i guess i just …” you trail off, staring at the floor. you’d be okay with living the rest of your life by satoru’s side. he’s peace, and he knows you tenderly.
you exhale, a small bitter chuckle leaving your lips.
“i don’t know what to do with all the love i have for him.” you admit, arms laying flat as you shrug with a despaired smile that makes satoru feel a little hollow. your hands flow freely, motioning for a few moments before resting back in your lap. “i don’t know where to put it.”
you haven’t known in years. it’s bundled up, suffocating your insides and exhausting your soul. he’s too well tangled with it.
a lot was left unsaid.
answers you crave, questions that will forever follow.
“i’ll take it.”
satoru grins, and you have to bite back a smile from how infectious his expression is. it radiates sunshine.
you feel his warm hands cup over yours, and he gently rubs across your knuckles with his thumbs, soothing that isolating cold. “you can give it to all of us, actually. but more for me.”
he’s silly, and he’s everything and more.
you wonder if you would’ve made it through without him. he’s impacted your life so heavily, you can’t imagine a world void of his presence.
“you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you mumble, smile ever-so-visible as you playfully nudge him. satoru nods feverishly.
“i’d adore it.” he’s beaming like the cheshire cat, and your expression falls flat as you await whatever idiotic words would flow out of his mouth next. he brings a finger to his chin and hums.
“you know what, though? maybe give some extra to megumi. but i’m not really sure any love could save that kid. not even a mother’s. he's creepy, i'm telling you-“
“satoru.”
he innocently smiles, eyes closed. “just a suggestion.”
you playfully roll your eyes.
it’s all romanticism until it truly hurts. love seems so small, so trivial, when you’re not being affected.
satoru hides his grief better than you ever could. he copes uniquely, and you suppose his way may even help you a little.
they should invent a healing that is linear, you think. so you can’t fall behind, and you can be all-smiles too.
but you’re close enough.
just the right amount, actually.
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#NightSkyChallenge: Prompt 7 — The night I lost a bet. [“You know what this means, don’t you?”] [6.6k]
— Summary: Joel has no idea why Bill gifts him with the book. Had he rambled about you that much? It seemed impossible—to be fair, but surely there were other things besides your name on his tongue. Besides how much you love your books and care for them. Besides how much he's learned since he met you because of them.
Either way, the book means you lost the bet. Joel cares for very little since Outbreak day, but this—oh, this he took it to heart. You'd lost, and he intended on collecting his prize.
— A/n: Canon-divergence; Reader and Tess met Joel at the same time, and all three became a tight-knit unit. | 🏷️ Tags & warnings⚠️: explicit mature content, minors DNI; age gap, mentions of canon-typical violence, confessions, touch starved, dry humping, oral sex (m receiving), slow & deep sex, but also rough sex?, dirty talk, little spoon Joel.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤmasterlist | read on ao3
All he can think about when he sees the bookshelf is your words, even if they were spoken on a whim years ago.
"There's no fucking way you can find a classic in good conditions anymore—not even Joel 'I can find anything' Miller is immune to decay and years of nature taking over. They're all gone, Joel. I just have to accept it. I bet there's not a single one that hasn't been wrecked by either people's ignorance or fucking mold eating every single page."
He remembered those words as clear as the day's first rays of light.
Not because of them, precisely. Because of what came after. He had blurted, "Bet what?" out of sheer instinct, only for you to reply with:
"Anything."
Maybe you were being metaphorical at the time, but Joel took it seriously. He outreached his hand for you to shake. "I'll take that bet."
If he never found a book, nothing would change.
If he won, on the other hand. Well—there's something Joel's been wanting from you for a long, long time.
That's why when he enters Bill's house for the first time, Joel stops dead in his tracks on the corridor leading to the kitchen.
You'd been to the house before with him and Tess.
Just like him, you had stood outside the whole time while Tess and Frank went about their rambles and deals. You, Joel, and Bill were all cut out from the same cloth—death stares etched onto your faces as if you were marble, grumbled conversation that came up here and there between long sips of wine.
Neither you nor Joel had been inside yet.
It's the third time he visits, first one without you, and he sees it—
Bookshelf.
One of Bill's doors is open on the way to the kitchen revealing what used to be an office but now looks more like a symbiosis of an atelier and library. It's — nice, Joel guesses.
It's not his thing.
Books — those are your thing.
Joel has no idea what connects you to the pages, but he knows it runs deeper than just academic pleasure, or snobbiness (an assumption made by many who met you).
It's as if whatever elements existed within paper, inked with words that strung together beautiful stories — it moved you.
Joel was entranced by the way you were able to quote several passages.
Few things remained that were worthy of admiration, or interest. He easily placed your small and precious book collection high above on his list.
That, and your ability to bring those stories to life somehow.
"Are you a reader?" Bill's voice is expected — Joel heard his steps approaching and stopping behind him when he did.
He scanned all the shelves, so he looks back to answer Bill. "Not really. Tess never mentioned who's the little Librarian between us? Our reader's absent today."
"If my, uh... —
If mine... if they brought strangers into our situation... I wouldn't be happy either."
"Oh. Well. They seem to listen to you as well as mine listens to me."
"I hope she feels better soon." Bill says the words and they sound so real. Spoken freely, not through gritted teeth or accompanied by his usual stiff shoulders.
Joel's hands rested on his hips. "Yeah." He hated this part — with Bill and Frank it was harder to not talk about things. He was pretty sure Bill didn't even like him, just like Joel didn't like him that much, but they saw each other. Understood one another. "Yeah, me too."
"The medicine you gave — it helped." That came out through gritted teeth. Joel held back from smiling at the unspoken admission—you sold me real shit. It's saving my partner. Thanks. "Frank's talking about — lavender. Herb garden and all. God."
Joel snickers and they exchange a look. "Good luck with that."
"I'll definitely need it." Bill's hands pat his sides, and Joel recognizes his motion before bolting out of a conversation. "Feel free to look at them," he waves a hand in direction of the shelf before leaving Joel there alone.
He does look.
One by one, Joel checks the titles because if you were here, that's what you'd do, and "when in doubt, always do what you must".
He hated that your words stuck to his brain so easily.
They were sticky like honey, which also resembled your voice. Or maybe that was only the way he heard it — Joel enjoyed listening to you talk.
"When in doubt, always do what you must" came after he left behind some supplies in order to help during a run, and you'd gotten mad at him for the first time.
It was then that Joel noticed how fucking tough you were.
Complete the mission. Help when you can. Do what you must.
If he was here already, he might as well read all the titles. Who knew how long he'd last? If he'd be here again, or if you would?
When his eyes land on Frankenstein, Joel knows he hit the jackpot.
That's when the memory of your bet sparks behind his eyelids, and he's cursed with the way you smiled that day.
Anything.
There was something Joel wanted, badly.
He cut out his own permission to want anything that strayed from finding Tommy again, getting clues to somehow discover a way to find his brother, get him back, but you planted the seed in his subconscious by simply existing — he was powerless to stop it.
One second, you and Tess walked into his life.
The next, he had on one side a best friend who cursed as much as him and on the other a menace who popped into his subconscious state, giving him dreams for the first time in years.
You two brought back a sense of humanity into his day-to-day life.
In return, Joel tried his best to do good for both of you.
Keep you safe however he could. Slip extra ration cards into your stack so you could more.
Small things like that — things that he later realized were only the seeds for the want that blossomed.
Joel wanted you out of the smuggling business.
He wanted you to be safe.
It was fucking ridiculous.
Your hand never missed the trigger timing — if there was anyone around the neighborhoods he lived more skilled in knives than you, he'd eat his own hand, and you were clever.
Quick, sharp, rational.
Despite all of that, he hated the sight of your back whenever a deal had them going outside.
Every time he saw a pistol or any other weapon in your hands, he wanted to throw it away as hard as he could.
And here he was, facing Frankenstein.
Anything.
Fuck. Joel hated how he hesitated.
If it belonged to anyone else, his hands would've already made the book meet the secret parts of his backpack, but he couldn't do this to contacts so good like Frank and Bill.
He couldn't fuck up this one.
Shit.
(Maybe he did like the two men, after all. Just a little.)
Joel has no idea why Bill gifts him the book.
One minute they're sitting alone drinking scotch while Tess and Frank finish up the trade and the next, they're talking about old hobbies they regretted not paying more attention to. Conversing like two normal people. Like Tess and Frank do, only without all the niceness and excitement.
At one point, Bill asks, "Did you see anything you liked?"
It takes a second for Joel to realize he's talking about the room and the shelf. Joel shakes his head. "Wasn't a big fan of readin'." A lie, he thinks. "Even that's a stretch. I — probably should've done it more now that I think about it."
Bill's answer is a hum. "Yeah. Lots of things I wish I should've done. Properly. Piano's one of them."
Joel eyes the item in the room. He recalls you and Tess talking about how Frank was lucky to know an instrument. "Frank's good at it, though?"
"He was rustier when he arrived, but yeah — he's doing good now."
Joel admires that. Some things are probably talent, he figures. "Practice's everything. 's why I feel bad for people whose thing was, like, artsy. Y'know?" He lists you and Frank as examples. "They ain't got means to do what they really love now."
That's when Bill shares that Frank paints. Piano and drawn, painted art — that was nice. Frank probably missed a lot of things.
If what you said was true and artists withered without their art like some plants did without sun or water, then he must be sad nowadays.
The new information sparks up a memory. The abandoned art supply on Canbose with 5th Street — was it possible there were some there?
Joel kept the doubts to himself so as to not spark any hopes of things he'd fail to deliver, but the real surprise is that he and Bill have their first conversation there.
It's a nice one.
Joel loathes that his brain comes up with the knowing looks both you and Tess would give him and Bill if either of you saw the way the two men can converse so easily once the guns are gone.
Bill's — he's okay.
Rough around the edges, sure, but in polished, sturdy ways.
He's also a little box of Pandora.
The last thing Joel could expect was being called aside by Bill before he leaves with Tess, only to find him hiding behind the door waiting for him with a furtive air in his stance, as if there could be any secrets that they'd keep from theirs.
Bill extends the copy of Frankenstein without meeting Joel's eyes. "Here." He all but shoves it into Joel's hands, and then nods. "It's the one you kept touching."
There's no reason to play bargain or pretend this is a gift he's too humble to accept.
He does as he's told, thanks Bill with a long nod, and walks out.
It does beat at his mind on the walk back to the QZ, though—had he rambled about you that much?
It seemed impossible—to be fair, he always managed to keep the conversation away from himself, but surely there were other things besides your name on his tongue. Besides how much you love your books and care for them. Besides how much he's learned since he met you because of them.
Either way, the book means you lost the bet.
Joel cares for very little since Outbreak day, but this—oh, this he took it to heart. You'd lost, and he intended on collecting his prize.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTWO DAYS LATER
The smell of your apartment envelops him every time.
Everything's open.
You keep plants hung in several places on your wall, and they're all so tall and green. Big, imponent, and your habit of walking through the place and touching one of them, sometimes going as far as plucking a leaf or petal out of them—the air suddenly turned into myrrh, lavender, eucalyptus.
Joel wished he smelled nothing other than here.
"Heard you were feelin' better," Joel says as soon as he has eyes on you.
There's more color on your cheeks. When you smile, Joel sees it reach your eyes even if it remains small in your lips. "Still feel like shit, though."
Tongue sharp as ever, then.
He chuckles and walks in as you move aside in invitation, gaze checking through the apartment as he takes off his shoes.
Joel always pays attention to everything that surrounds you.
While you ask about the trades you missed, he takes note of the spotless state of everything around him. Stainless windows, shiny floor, a sharp citrus scent lingering even around you.
Stress cleaning — check.
"Did you finish the food I gave ya?"
"Of course," you answer. Joel's happy to hear that — you ate very little on the first day you got sick, and he gave you some of his food to make sure you ate.
The two of you take a sit in the kitchen, and as you talk about work, he analyzes you better.
You had your most comfortable clothes on. They came from a box he found not long ago that was your size exactly; the shirt has wet stains on your chest, and your wet hair tells him you felt good enough today for the first time in a while.
Good enough to gather the patience to wash your hair in the sink.
"Don't mind Inoctus, you know he says that shit about the Fireflies all the time. I ain't gonna argue with him again," Joel waves a hand, and then gets to the part he wanted to talk about. "Never mind him, though — did Tess tell you about what Bill and Frank found for us? What Frank fixed?"
"No, not yet."
Excellent. "We've got some good news. Oh — and before I forget. D'you think that art supply on Canbose still has some supplies left?"
"The one that intersects with the 5th?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. I don't see why it wouldn't have," you shrug your shoulders. "It's close enough to the QZ for it not be completely raided and I don't see who would prioritize stealing art supplies in the middle of everything." It made sense to Joel, and he felt a rare sense of giddiness tingling. "Why?"
He leans back on the chair. "Frank's a painter."
"No way."
Joel grins — you understood him. "Yes, way."
"Fucking hell. Is there anything he doesn't do?"
He laughs. "I know. I felt the same way."
"He plays the piano, he should be obliged by law to stick to that cool thing."
Joel likes it when you're feeling a little petty — the scrunch on your nose is adorable. He wants to pinch it between his fingers, even if he never did. "Anyway..." He shares the other updates about the trip to their house without you, then talks about the people who contacted him — the ones that gave him any trouble are your expertise, and Joel loves the set on your brows when you're listening.
He has no idea how someone who looks so precious can have such a wicked mind.
"She looks so — I don't know. Not this ingenious. Mean. How the fuck does someone who's always hummin' songs under her breath can intimate grown-ass man?"
"You're the only fucker who thinks she looks like an angel, Joel."
"Nah, we both know that's a lie."
"No, you're just delusional. If anyone thinks she looks angelic you better bet they're comparing her to Lucifer."
Was he? Delusional.
Tess always made him feel like he was faced with a Truth Mirror whenever he opened his big mouth around her.
After a couple of hours, you've already cooked some things — with the little help he could offer — for the both of you, taken notes of the people you need to talk to.
Joel realizes that time passes only when you.
Outside of your presence, it's all a snowball. Stale.
"Ah, shit." You get up in a rush.
"What?"
"Almost lost the time for my pills again," you mutter under your breath.
"You really need a watch." From where he sits at your kitchen table he can see your profile — the roll of your eyes. He huffs in disbelief, ignoring the feeling of his mouth tugging in the corners.
After you take your med, you sit on the couch and find his gaze from across the room. "Clean the table for me?"
Joel never says no to you.
Not for lack of want — fucking god must know how many times he's craved saying it, enunciating each letter with gusto. No.
It never came out.
He cleans the table thinking about how much he's delaying it.
The book's inside his duffel bag that remained next to your door all this time, but it weighs on his back somehow.
He did more than just clean the table as he tried pushing down the little mean jabs his mind took at itself.
You can't force her to stay outta business.
She ain't never listened to a soul in her life—who are you to tell her what to do?
Once every while, you would venture into Joel's personal space and place a finger where his brows pinched together. The first time it happened, the effect had been immediate—Joel was so shocked by the act that his whole face relaxed; not his body, though. His body froze, and he had stood there in a perfect portrayal of a statue.
You do that when he sits on the couch.
Your presence is so damn familiar to him that even lost in his own mind, he finds his way through the maze. He sits by your side, leans back, and drops his head on the couch.
When he feels your finger touching his frown, Joel opens his eyes.
"What's bothering you?" Your finger leaves, and he misses it.
Joel turns his head to the side. "Nothin'." He likes the way the color's back to your cheeks. A week on anti-inflammatory meds made you a little gray, and nothing about you was dull.
"You're a shit liar," you say.
He scoffs. "No, I'm not."
"You really are, though," you argue, fighting a smile. "And just so you know, your accent gets thicker the harder you try."
At that, he frowns. "No, it doesn't—" and fuck, he hears it. How the fuck did you notice that? His frown deepens, and you chuckle at him. "You pay attention to the strangest fuckin' things." It's said in the same gruff way he says most things, but there's enough admiration underneath it that you hear it for what it is.
"And thank god for that — it's what's kept me alive. Us alive," you snort, giving yourself the credit you're due for once.
In the end, he blurts it out. "I found it."
"Found what?" you ask, truly confused at the abrupt change.
"Something you told me I couldn't."
"That's... oddly vague," you reply. "I name a lot of things you can't find. You seem to think you have superpowers."
"No powers. Just talent." He shrugs, and gets up to retrieve the book. "What's the one thing you told me there was 'no fucking way' I could find?"
The second it takes for your brain to connect the dots is the time Joel needs to find the copy in his bag.
Joel sees your eyes dropping to it when he turns around. Widening. Freezing that way. Your lips parting only a couple of inches as your jaw slowly drops.
He sits with more satisfaction on your couch than he's sat anywhere in a long time.
The book falls with a soft thud between your bodies.
All the space he puts between you two is replaced by it —
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein.
"You know what this means, don't you?" he asks.
When you look up, Joel's caught off guard.
The moisture in your eyes shines under the light coming from your kitchen. Joel's throat becomes restricted by an invisible force, and his eyes sting in response to the sight.
"What the fuck, Joel?" your hands pick up the book with a reverence that makes his skin tingle. "Where... how —" both times you start, then stop. "My god." He just watches. You turn the book around, eyeing every millimeter. "This is real," you mutter. He's aware you're not even talking to him at this point. "Have you—" you look up at him, and he feels special enough, "have you opened it? Are the pages—it's whole?"
The way you breathe out the word.
A reverence. So sacred.
Joel might as well consider the bet paid if he wasn't so far gone on what he wants.
Kind of.
"It's whole," he confirms.
Joel almost opens up his mouth to make a teasing remark. Ask if you'd like to be left alone with it, maybe. Instead, he lets you examine it to your heart's will, which takes a while.
He's always comfortable in the silence with you.
That's when he started realizing the trouble he was in.
When he came over just to sit at the same table as you. Have dinner in silence while you cleaned your guns. Sometimes, he'd imagine a bottle of scotch would make the two of you end up in whispered conversations under the dim, yellowish lights of your place, but it never happened.
Joel's too much of a coward to let his guard down with you.
He wouldn't be able to do what he did with the others — a sweet release in the dark; an impersonal match of bodies, mingled in sweat and joined in more ways than it should seem possible, but never looking each other in the eye.
You looked him straight into his soul when you spoke to him. Every time.
"This means... you won the bet," you say.
Joel blinks out of his thoughts. "Sure does."
"So." You put the book down gently on your lap, then gaze at him, eyes piercing into his. "What d'you want?"
Tough question. Joel felt the tingle that never left his skin covering him from head to toe. His throat constricts around the words — his body starts to heat up. He shakes his head, and is overwhelmed by how the air seems to charge between you both. He licks his lips, and says.
Like a coward, his eyes fall on Frankenstein before he speaks.
"Can't have what I want." The naked truth. What's the point of lying to you, anyway? You're a shit liar. "So I'll ask for a close second," he adds quickly. Something magnetic pulls at him, and he looks up — a mistake. Fucking mistake—you never looked at him this way. Is that red on your cheeks? "I — uh; I want a voucher. A veto power."
You blink, utterly confused. "What?"
"A veto power over you." It's the closest he could think of on his way here. Some kind of power, since Joel has no right to demand anything from you. "On a decision. I—If you said you're comin' on a mission, for example. I could say 'no. Veto.' and that'd be it. No arguments. I want a veto card over you. Just one."
You stare at him for a few seconds, and Joel can almost see the engines in your brain turning.
Joel sometimes feels you're more than just yourself. The eyes on your head see far beyond what's in front of them, and he feels naked quite often when in front of you.
"Just tell me what you want," you say.
Can't have what I want, he told you. He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."
"How would you know?"
"I just do," he argues.
"Maybe you're wrong."
"I'm not!" The storm swirls and lifts him from the couch. Joel turns his back to you, overcome by the reality of it all. "I know I'm not. There isn't—what I want is impossible. There's no such thing anymore. It ain't like the books, or finding fucking chocolate or—it ain't. I wanted you safe. How fuckin' stupid is that—" he chokes on air, gasping around the words. "There's no safe anymore." Softer, and lower, it comes out again. "There's no safe."
Most of the time, Joel's control is kept on a tight leash. His hands have a vicious grip around it because if he loosens it, it'll run off.
His hands are shaking now. He should turn back to face you, to see if he's just said too much or fucked it up somehow, but—you get up. He hears the squeaking of the couch and your steps approaching.
Then, as slowly as you approached him when you first met, he feels it:
Your hands slide around his middle. Your palms spread across his back and contour his waist, and you're hugging him—you hug him from behind, and Joel's chest expands with the air that your presence brings.
"Joel." You hug tighter. He can feel your upper body pressed against his back, and his hands come up to rest on top of yours, shaking as they are. He wants to speak up, but you beat him to it. "I thought I was going crazy, Joel."
Crazy? He is going crazy. You're wrapped around him and the world is yet to implode; Joel feels a knot in his throat that wasn't there before. "Why?"
It hits him — the answer.
Before you're able to say it hits him in the chest, because your hands grip him by the ribcages but not with force; all your fingers need to do is apply gentle pressure on him and Joel feels that you want him to move, so he lets you.
You spin him inside your hold, and Joel goes willingly.
When he's turned and facing you, the answer is there, all over your face.
Your hands stay on his back, but your eyes are searching on every inch of his face for any sign, for anything to deter you from what you want to do.
Joel sees it. He is delusional.
"I want the impossible too," you say. It comes out in a soft whisper, and Joel mentally curses all the moments of silence between you two where he felt the air as palpable as you inside his arms right now. When you looked at him, almost through him, and he turned a blind eye to it in fear that it was exactly what he wanted and craved for. "Is it — too much?"
He's incapable of answering.
His hands come up to your face, and he fits his palm on the set of your jar, where his thumb can touch your cheeks.
You melt to the touch, eyes closing along the way.
All those times you two shared a laugh and a look, and the silence hung in the air as your eyes were unable to leave each other — this. It could've been this.
"Tell me to stop and I will," is all he can say before he dives.
Joel meets you underwater.
The same way you're drowning in his hands with all of your weight supported on his body, Joel submerges as his mouth meets your kiss.
It's a waiting game — you were waiting for the moment he'd realize, he thinks.
Joel may be out of touch with reality itself, but some things can pierce through different dimensions.
Raw things never fail to elicit the strongest form of feeling and your desire pulls him under—real, demanding.
Although he remembers being a vocal partner in bed, he has no words or taunting remarks for you—he'd rather kiss.
Your mouth parts so eagerly for him that Joel wants to shut up.
He has you shutting up, moaning in his mouth as his tongue slides on yours. His fingers grip tighter on your hair. Your arms cling to him, then both of them let go to wrap around his shoulders instead, and Joel feels the despair as you climb up higher, as you press your body harder against him.
He understands it. Empathizes, even — he's feeling it on him the same way.
Your desperate, wet kisses rekindle connections long lost in his brain.
Joel remembers the desperate and insane horniness of youth when hormones mix with inexperience and everything feels new and like a raw, open nerve.
This tastes like those moments.
It'd been so long since Joel was touched and your hands start a mapping of his body that start to get him drunk.
It hits him that it's you. He's kissing you, and you're kissing back with so much force that he has no air, there's no air in his lungs—
He pulls back, gasping, and feels your nails digging into his scalp. The moan scratches the back of his throat and Joel only notices his eyes are still closed when your forehead touches his and your breath starts mingling with his.
Opening his eyes is a blessing. And a curse, most likely.
Seeing your mouth swollen and puffy makes him greedy.
Then — "Are you stopping?" you ask. Hoarse voice. Breathless. "I didn't tell you to stop," you add, whining.
Joel picks you up in one motion, and the laughter that bubbles out of your chest reminds him that you're light — you're the ghost that pops up in his dreams shining with the pink hue of sundown and you're the hope of his mornings, the scent of coffee and pages and herbs that make him feel like this earth could still have a sense of home even if he denies that fact, gritting his teeth at the fact the world still goes on.
He pins you against the nearest wall. One without a shelf, or furniture.
With you pressed against the wall, he has better support. He can trace your thighs with his palm, can get his hands underneath your cotton shorts, your blouse.
"Are you trying to kill me?" you ask him. Your head hits the wall behind you, and Joel looks up to see you watching him as he maps you. You visibly swallow when your gazes meet, and Joel wants to say so fucking much, but nothing comes out at first.
All he wants is to make the pink on your lips become permanent.
He wants to rip every item of clothing on you with his hands, and wants to —
"Joel," you lean forward, capturing his lips in a kiss and stealing all the images he had of you pinned on your own wooden floor, cheeks pressed against it as he took you from behind.
When your tongue meets his, Joel feels something snapping.
He growls into the kiss, both of his hands groping your asscheeks as he desperately grinds his hips against your body.
This kiss is even better than the first, even if it kills all of his oxygen faster.
Joel never kissed like this. Not this messy, this wet and sloppy mess of need, and dry humping, and swallowing your moans only to have them be echoed back to you when you grind your hips down in the perfect way—
When he pulls back for air this time, Joel grips your head by the hair, making a fistful at your nape.
"This is not just now, is it?" he asks. His own voice sounds like sandpaper and pure lust, and he's not even beginning.
"No, no," you shake your head. "I need you, Joel."
"Fuckin' hell," he has more to say, but now he needs you naked. "'m gonna take off your clothes. Then I'm gonna eat your pussy 'cause I've thought about it too many fuckin' times." Your jaw falls open at him, and Joel smiles despite himself. "Yeah. You gonna let me, baby? Hm?"
Your only answer is to nod desperately, grinding against him as your eyes close.
Joel's in heaven. "Did I win what I want?" he asks.
"What?"
"My veto," he pulls you away from the wall and starts carrying you to your bedroom. "I still want it. Can't have the impossible but I can have a veto."
You laugh as he kicks your door open. "You want a fucking veto? Joel, all you have to do is hold me by the chin and say 'no' or 'yes' and I'd do it. It's that simple. Always have been. " You grab his face between your hands and pierce him with those All Seeing Eyes. "I'll give you your veto, if that's what you want." You kiss his lips, sighing softly. "'m sorry I can't promise you I'll be safe, but I can promise I'll try."
Joel knows he's about to do something that can't be taken back when he lies you down.
He nods just so you know he understood, but the knot's formed again and if he speaks, Joel will cry — the words wouldn't come out anyway, even if he wants to say them.
Joel's unsure if they haven't been burned out of his tongue.
He takes off your clothes one by one. Ironic for someone who wanted them ripped to pieces not a minute ago, but to have you laid in front of him soothes the desperation somehow.
His plans get interrupted, though, because once you're naked and all of his brain is mushed into nothing but skin skin you you touch touch touch, you stop him from kneeling down at the edge of the bed with a touch and one request, "You too?" your gaze is so open and vulnerable that his hands go to his shirt. "No — lemme. Please."
Joel does, and you do the same to him, taking his clothes off one by one.
When you drop to his knees in front of him, Joel is powerless.
He's too stunned to say or do anything but look.
Even his hands that itch to touch only manage to do so when they're flying for some support so his knees don't buckle and he falls — you grab his cock by the base with one hand, look up until his eyes are locked on yours, and then licks a wet stripe from his balls to the tip.
Then you do it again, and again, until Joel's coated in saliva, and you can suck around the tip, swallowing him down in one go.
He grips your hair for life support, cursing under his breath.
Joel's vocal about how much you're fucking killing him.
You go at it slowly, which is even more torture, but he gets it. He remembers you talking about not being with a person for the longest time. How it made no difference for you to have the physical or not because the attraction wasn't there unless there something underneath it — for someone who's out of practice, you must have the knowledge.
Your tongue runs on the sensitive skin between the dick and his balls, your mouth suctions when it's taking him down and when you start bobbing your head, using your hand to cover the parts your mouth can't reach, Joel has to physically pull you back.
"Stop, stop —" his hand on your hair pulls you back, and Joel curses again when you whine at having to let go. "'m gonna fuck you, baby, it's okay, 's okay," he gets you up by the neck, and is kissing you right after.
That's how he falls in bed with you — with his cock leaking pre-cum, his back already coated in sweat and your mouth tasting like him.
Joel eases the fall with his hand, not wanting to crush you with his weight. He wants to eat you out — Joel wants to bury his face in you, but when he makes a move to go down, your legs clamp around his waist and your head starts shaking.
You pull back from his kiss, "No — later, you can do that later, just — please," you guide your hand between your bodies to hold him and guide his cock to your entrance. "Waited too long, Joel."
I need you, Joel.
"Wait, wait — " it'll be over too fast if he sees you all the time. Joel has an idea. "A position that's better for you first. I wanna see you too, but I want you to feel good. Turn around for me."
"You want me on all fours?"
"No," he shakes his head. "Just turn around."
You obey him, and Joel grabs one of your pillows to push under your waist. You rest your cheek on the one under your head, and he positions himself first before crowding your space with his head on the crook of your neck.
He dips his fingers in first, spreading your wetness all over you before lining up.
It's sinful how good the position is.
He fills you up, bottoming all the way out. Joel's thick, but not too long, and he knows this angle is as good for you as it is for him. "Feels good?" he asks in your ear.
Your only response is his name.
"Is that a yes?" he pulls all the way out, and slams it back in, wanting to feel the drag. Wanting to feel your walls clamping around him. How you open up to accommodate all of him. "'Cause you feel like — fuckin' heaven, baby — louder, say it louder —"
"Feels amazing, Joel," you cry.
He knows it does. Joel hasn't felt anything remotely close to pleasure in a long time, so this might be too much, he might be in danger of growing an addiction, but he's past caring.
He drags it out.
Joel wanted to fuck you senseless a while ago, but now all he wants is to stay buried in the tight and warm haven of your cunt until you're both too spent to move a muscle. "'m gonna stay — all fuckin' night — inside you, baby — hm, whaddaya think?"
"Yes, please—"
"God, I love — that's all you can say to me."
"Don't stop," you cry out louder.
"I won't." He couldn't.
He doesn't want to. He doesn't.
Joel thrusts into you slow, measured and deep, until the heat in his groin is climbing like your nails digging at his sides. He loses count of how many times he sucks on your shoulders, how many bite marks you must have on your neck, of how many single-worded compliments he spills in your ears as he fucks the words out of you.
When you beg to cum, Joel flips you over and hoists your leg higher so he can go in deeper, and he fucks you the way you've been begging him to — crying around his fingers for harder, and faster, Joel, please, please, I'm not gonna break —
He gives it to you like both of you have been dying to receive, and when your legs start shaking around him and his name drops from your lips in a scream, Joel pulls out, coating your stomach in the hot strings of his cum.
He doesn't collapse on top of you, which is a miracle.
He does lay strategically next to you in order to avoid his own mess until he's able to feel his legs again.
Your fingers thread his hair during that time.
The spasms of your legs make him smile, and the little hums that leave you without you even realizing make Joel float on his bliss.
When he comes back to himself, he gets up to get a warm towel. He cleans you both, just enough so sleeping is okay. He pulls up the duvet and puts you underneath it before climbing under as well.
When he lays, Joel expects you to turn around;
Instead, you wrap around him in octopus style, and whisper, "Turn around."
He obeys, and is rewarded by you spooning him.
Joel thinks he might be dreaming.
"Are you gonna be here tomorrow?" you ask after a while.
Your bodies are as tangled as they can be. Your hands caress the hairs on his chest and your breath is on his neck, and still, you are stared he'll leave.
"D'you want scrambled eggs or you prefer the toast?" he replies.
There's a kiss on his neck. Another on his shoulder. He grabs one of your hand to pull it to his lips, and kisses it.
"Scrambled."
"'kay. Where d'you keep your sugar? I can never find it."
"I'll show you tomorrow," you kiss his shoulder, and squeeze his body. "Joel?"
"Yeah, baby?"
He can feel your smile because your lips are on his skin. He's gonna use that more, he thinks. "I might wake up rubbing myself all over you," you whisper.
He laughs. "Fine by me."
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⚠️ if anyone being tagged would like to not be, just let me know in my inbox (which you can also use to talk to me about all the appeals of Joel Miller with his hair slicked back, you know... or what you thought of this one.. just saying... <3
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