#chest and throat are still a little tight but otherwise i feel so normal right now

[someoneimsure]

hey idk what's going on but i hope you're ok. i can't say i'm here for you if it's like, too heavy a topic but i'm down to distract ya or something if ya ever need it.

I really needed to talk about this apparently. So I'm going to ... talk about it and just talk about my experience with being triggered. And knowing someone is listening does help, strangely. It also might help distract with it, idk. I don't mean to overwhelm this ask but I hope it gives some context as to what was happening and that it helps other people who go through something similar.

I am a little embarrassed to talk about this and almost put all of this under a read more, but I think that might also make it worse so. Apologies for the long post.

What triggered everything is, it's--I can't say it's stupid because that makes the situation worse. It was not stupid. But it felt "stupid".

Basically, I was thinking about something to write about (a personal experience turned into a viligante!reader snippet for tumblr) only to then experience very random--okay, not really random, but seriously intrusive thoughts about my biggest traumas all at once. I was so upset that I felt I needed to leave tumblr temporarily because I believe some BS on tumblr caused it and it was--it was not stupid, my reaction to it was not stupid, but it felt "stupid" because it was a significantly delayed trauma reaction and the situation really didn't call for such an--It's not stupid, but it felt "stupid".

First time I've experienced that in a literal decade. It was horrible. Half of my brain was super pissed off about it, about myself, about my body, which did not help the part of myself that just kept spiraling down a deep dark rabbit hole of nausea, dread, and shaking. It was like a dragon stomping around in the brain while the rest of me was tumbling down a very steep mountain. It caused a lot of emotional pain and the heavy blankets I used would not work.

So I stepped off tumblr. Tried the heavier heavy blanket, which also didn't work. And discovered I couldn't write. So nothing changed.

So I went back to tumblr because there was nothing I could do to change my situation and just... talked about it? Sort of? More like complained about my body--which is not stupid, not my fault, it happens sometimes, I'm okay.

So I posted that I was experiencing something horrible and clearly it's--it was not stupid, but it felt "stupid", and the part of myself that was angry and furious and yelling about it was fighting the part of myself that was starting to seize my heart in what felt like a fist covered in iron needles. Which is the indicator that one of my worst anxiety attacks was starting, which always turns into me lying down on the floor wait for hours for the heart pain to stop.

And then I saw the responses on tumblr. And responded to them. And I felt better after posting and acknowledging that people had noticed and I realized it was Not Stupid like my brain kept telling me. The angry part of me shut up. Then I got more responses. I responded to those as well and acknowledged them, and fuck therapy works guys. I almost felt normal. The heavy blanket was working again.

So what could have been a potential trip to the hospital has turned into a learning experience and I am sooo much better now, omfg. I am also extremely exhausted and tired, haha. But I feel almost normal again. That is such a relief. I cannot express my gratitude enough for everyone who reached out and helped me.

Sorry if this is too heavy. Putting the experience into words helps me contextualize it and even feel better about it, strangely enough. I'm gonna maybe write a reader!vigilante snippet that covers the feelings aspect and how it was resolved but with the BatClan. It might turn into something longer, though I probably will not post unless someone expresses interest.

Thank you sincerely for the ask. <3

#i am not ready to talk about the trauma that did trigger this #only because i am worried about triggering myself again #chest and throat are still a little tight but otherwise i feel so normal right now #i could cry i feel so good #just thank you so much for asking! <3 #asks #personal stuff #my body is exhausted but at least it's not super exhausted #i am probably going to bed early because of all this #i forgot that i actually started writing because it was like therapy #it made me feel better #triggered

[radio-writes]

Congrats on the 300 followers Vien! for the event:

"They were there, you weren't" + "What keeps you up at night?"

Embracing Faded Pages of Tainted Saints

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Mentions of past physical injuries

Tags: Alastor x reader, gn reader, relationship can be read in any way

MDNI

You stood awkwardly at the doorstep of the new hotel, unsure exactly of what to do next.

You knew there was a chance he'd be the one to open the door and greet you, but truth be told you were hoping otherwise. You thought you had worked through all your emotions about him years ago; but standing in front of him now, you realized that was far from the case.

You felt a surge of pressure almost squeezing at your heart, but you tried your best to ignore it as you offered Alastor a small smile.

"Hey, Al. Long time no see." You tried for casual, despite the way things ended the last time you were together.

"How are you—" Al finally spoke, his grin tight as his eyes narrowed at you.

A bright, bubbly woman shoved her way to the door, effectively cutting off whatever Alastor was going to say.

She grabbed you by your hands, and you did your best to shift your focus to her. You listened, responded, and tried very hard to ignore Alastor's burning gaze on you.

You were very swiftly taken into the hotel lobby, brushing right past the tall man. You were introduced to the staff and guests alike, and you painted your best smile as the blonde host swept you here and there. You merely tried to swallow past the lump at your throat as you greeted everyone.

You heard this place offered a chance at redemption, as well as some sort of protection from all the horrors Hell had to offer. You thought it was worth it, that the solace you could find in here would greatly outweigh having to be near Alastor again.

But his mere presence, just knowing that he was in the same room as you again, was already eating at you—suffocating you.

It was like you could feel the sharp stabbing pain across your gut again. The blood—the life—leaking out of you. The desperation crushing your heart. 

"I'll take it from here, Charlie, dear." You heard his voice before you felt a heavy hand at the small of your back. "This lovely demon seems to be a little bit overwhelmed. They can do with some rest, don't you think?"

The bright blonde agreed easily, allowing Alastor to quickly guide you along the halls of the hotel and away from all the excited chatter.

"You're alive." Alastor stated, his eyes set ahead of himself as he walked beside you. His hand had retracted from your body, now resting behind his back.

No thanks to you.

"Nope, still dead." You tried to joke, a soft, fleeting attempt at a laugh following it. But you stopped immediately when you realized that, despite his wide smile, Alastor didn't seem to be in the mood for jokes.

"You were bleeding heavily." He said instead.

You tried to keep your responses vague. "Yes, I...I remember."

You've thought about it many times over since your near-second-death experience. How Alastor had always been a dear friend of yours, through life on earth and Hell. How you both knew you were helpless at that time. How it was perfectly normal for him to choose to save himself instead.

You've forgiven him, at least that's what you told yourself. You still saw him as a friend, even after he abandoned you—and that's why you would never let him find out about your betrayal.

You could never hurt him like that.

You thought that this was all so crystal clear to you. That you've long healed this wound, but evidently that wasn't the case.

Just seeing him now. So well poised, so put together, cozying it up with the Princess of Hell. His smile was as you remembered it, and not a hair was misplaced on his head.

He had continued on like nothing happened, like he didn't once leave you to die.

And there was that awful, bitter, anger slowly filling your chest. That nauseating feeling of betrayal that twisted your gut. No matter how hard you tried to stick to reason, to remember all you've resolved in the past years, you just couldn't help but hate how he was able to move on so easily.

The rest of your time heading to your room was silent. Just a constant soft static noise following your steps. You spent that time fighting your base instincts to just jump him, throttle his neck, scream at him.

How could you? How could you just leave me to die like that?

Alastor finally halted by a door, his clawed hand turned the knob and ushered you in. 

You looked up at him, smiling once more as you tried to hold onto your more logical side. "I don't know how I feel about you having keys to my room." You try to joke again.

Oh did you miss the times when the two of you wasted hours in hysterics; just exchanging the dumbest jokes you could think of.

But that felt like almost two lifetimes ago.

"This is my room." Alastor clarified.

"Well that explains the swamp." You say bluntly. You walked slowly in, not exactly knowing what you were doing here now.

"I thought we could sit down for some coffee—" Alastor said, closing the door behind him. His hands reached for a coffee pot, but paused before he could reach the handle. "No no, this definitely calls for something much stronger."

He sat down on one of the seats by the fireplace, easily summoning two small glasses and a bottle of rye on the table. 

You watched him tentatively, heart tightening at the familiar sight.

There was once a time when nights like this was something you looked forward to—but it didn't seem that way anymore.

Your eyes couldn't help but narrow at how well off he looked. It's like nothing had changed for him at all.

You attempted to be civil, still, and made your way to sit across him. It's was stupid to hold a grudge against him for something like that. What he did made sense, and you shouldn't be mad about it.

Your eyes scanned the knickknacks scattered about his shelves and walls, eyes catching on a wide set of antlers mounted high above.

"That yours or a friend's?" You once again tried to lighten the mood. Whether it was for your sake or Alastor's, you weren't sure.

"We both know I've never been one for small talk, dear." Alastor said, pouring alcohol in your glass before his. He easily downs the drink he poured himself before filling it up again. "How are you alive?" His head tilted.

The moment the words left his mouth it felt like someone emptied a bucket of ice water over you.

The question simply came out of nowhere. Sure you had expected him to ask sooner rather than later, but to jump right to it?

Your half-assed smile dropped just a fraction of a bit.

Looking up at your old friend, the ever charming, ever present smile, you realized that perhaps you were being stupid—and not for the reason you originally thought.

You've been friends with this man since either of you could walk, friends through his stupid murder fixation, friends through his takeover of Hell.

But he left you for dead.

He finally found out that you survived and the first thing out of his mouth was an interrogation?

Where was your fucking apology?

So maybe, just maybe, you've been stupid this entire time. That you didn't need to be making excuses for him. That you didn't need to forgive him. That maybe your anger, your want to hurt him back, was more than valid.

You picked up your own glass and downed its contents in one go, relishing in the familiar bitter taste.

"There's no bed." You noted instead of answering your old friend, your grip was tight around the glass you held. "Where do you sleep?"

"I don't." Alastor answered simply. He moved only to fill up your glass again, but his eyes never strayed from you.

You weren't sure how much truth there was behind his words. Sinners still slept, and no matter how highly Alastor thought of himself, he still functioned the same way the rest of you do.

"What keeps you up at night, then?" You couldn't help but ask.

Perhaps it was an attempt to piss him off. Make small talk, delay from giving him answers.

But as much as you hated to admit it, it was likely because there was an answer you wanted to hear. One caused by that part of you that still hoped for your old friend to show you even just a hint of a conscience.

Perhaps if he gave you that, it would be enough for you to hold onto civility. It would be enough for your to at least honor what past friendship you had with him.

"Nothing in particular, really." Alastor glanced away from you, downing his drink once more.  "There's just no rest for the wicked, isn't that what they say?"

You followed his lead, throwing your head back and letting the alcohol burn its way down your throat.

It almost felt like old times when you'd compete with him in old dingy bars.

"Ah, I figured you wouldn't be hung up on it." You held your empty glass in your hands, a finger unconsciously caressing its cool surface.

"My bad, dear." Alastor gave you a faux look of guilt, but the mockery that dripped from his tone easily gave it away. "Did you want me to mourn you for a couple decades?"

You rolled your eyes. "Considering everything we've been through, I'd have expected at least a few years." 

You noticed Alastor fill his glass up again, he knocked it back just as quickly as the previous ones.

You both looked like you were drinking your problems away, but it seemed like this was more of a habit. One formed through a lifetime of repetitions.

"I can start now if you'd like." Alastor smiled at you.

Your brows raised. "I am very clearly not dead."

"You might be soon." The static in his voice was heavier, and for a split second you could have sworn his pupils changed to dials.

Your fingers stilled against the glass you held, feeling your skin prickle at the silence that followed.

The wood in the fireplace crackled, and the eerie light coming from the green flames added just a tinge more terror to your situation.

Or it would have if the only emotion you felt wasn't an all consuming rage.

The clear threat hung in the air for a second before Alastor spoke again. "So tell me," 

How long have you been alive?

Why didn't you tell me?

 "How are you alive?" He said.

You had no idea why on earth he was angry. What gave him the right?

"We both know the answer to that already, don't we?" Your own smile tightened, teeth clenched hard to keep yourself from growling at him.

You tried to stomp out your anger, but every time you tried to reason that he used to be a friend, you couldn't help but be brought back to that time.

Lying in a pool of warm blood—your own blood. Seeing the exorcists flying down to you, racing to see who could kill you first. Turning your head, using the very last of your strength to reach out to your friend. Watching him stand from your side and melting away into shadows without you.

"Well yes, a deal, of course. But with whom? Not many demons down in this festering tar pit have that much power. You were practically gone, dear."

Ah, so it was a pride thing, you thought. He was bothered that there was someone who could do what he couldn't. 

You couldn't hold back from scoffing. "And did that ever bother you? That I was practically gone?"

He paused. The sound of static grew messier for a few seconds before Alastor gave up on his glass entirely. He opted to just grab the bottle by its neck and drank from it.

"You seem like you were hoping it did." He teased as he set the bottle down back on the table. "Shouldn't a good friend be happy I wasn't suffering?"

Your heart clenched, eyes narrowed. The both of you have danced around it this entire time, but it just seemed like there was no longer any way to stop the words as they finally slipped from your mouth.

"Shouldn't a good friend try everything to save the other?"

The accusation, the betrayal, the bitterness, finally dripped like venom from your question.

A heavy tension covered both of you once more. The elephant in the room finally addressed properly, but it seemed neither of you knew what to do with it now.

A beat of silence.

"Then, it looks like we're both such terrible friends." Alastor said, as he sunk back into his chair. You hadn't noticed the tension in his body this entire time, you weren't sure if Alastor himself noticed it either.

But as he rested his head behind him, you noticed something you failed to before now.

He looked...exhausted. His smile was in place, his hair neat, his suit wrinkle free. He looked as perfect as ever; but he looked tired.

You were sure you didn't look any more chipper currently.

You tore your eyes away from the demon that sat across you. "It's been a long night."

"It's been twenty minutes." There was finally a hint of genuine amusement in his tone, but it felt strained.

Like it slipped before he could stop it, a habit formed through decades of banter.

"Twenty too many around you." You simply shut it down.

Still, not one apology. Did he even regret it?

You felt so confused, so conflicted, so angry, and you knew you just had to leave before you did something you would regret later on—whatever that may be.

He looked like he wanted to say something as you got up, but he chose to bring the bottle of alcohol to his lips instead.

It was only when your hand landed on the door handle did he speak. "I would do it again." 

It felt like a light went out inside you somewhere.

You didn't turn around.

"I would leave you to die—over and over." Alastor's floaty voice continued. "You were a good friend, but not great enough for me to risk my own skin."

You've known your friend to be quite the liar. He knew what to say and when to say it, and he lived to crawl under people's skin and piss them off.

But at that moment, you knew it was one of the rare few instances where Alastor was honest.

"It seemed like you wanted to know." His normally mocking voice seemed softer. Like it really was just a fact and nothing more.

"The V's were there when you weren't." You found yourself saying. You turned your head to the side just a tiny bit, but still didn't turn to look at him.

The lights flickered and your hand closed around the handle of the door.

"I made a deal with the V's. Everything about you and more, in exchange for my life." You continued, almost unable to stop the words from coming out, really.

"Your defeat seven years ago was my doing."

You really were terrible friends.

"It seemed like you wanted to know, old pal."

You left his room just as the lights fully went out.

#tw: physical injuries #friendly reminder this event has closed #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor #alastor x reader #vien writes #follower event #we went for emotional pain this time around #more subtle than outright choking the man but I feel like having a dear friend betray him as much as he betrayed them would sting a lot mor #i am firm believer that alastor CAN care if he wanted to #but i must admit i made him a tiny bit ooc here bc i had to tone down his sillies for the mood

[jokeringcutio]

Reader x Stepdad William Afton (Drabble)

AN: You got me there, ANON. All right, here's a very QUICK drabble for you, because I COULDN'T RESIST. MATURE THEMES/NO EXPLICIT SMUT. Just a happy family dinner (well....)

Also, I am overwhelmed with prompt requests and I love them, so do keep 'em coming. But if you want to help me out for reaching my goal to save up to commission a celebratory piece of artwork for this tumblr (as we've almost reached 1000 mutuals following this account :3 ) please feel free to donate me a little something on Ko-fi ♡ ︎.

based on this in my inbox: [ See Reaction to the post here x ]

The clink of silverware against porcelain punctuated the silence, a staccato rhythm that seemed to echo in the cavern of your chest. Across from you, William’s hands were steady as he cut into his steak, but there was something about the tightness in his jaw, the way his blue eyes didn't quite meet yours, that whispered secrets.

"Sweetheart," your mother's voice sliced through the tension like the knife in William's hand through meat, "it's time we talked about a paternity test."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, a wild, frantic thing eager to escape. You swallowed hard, the mashed potatoes on your tongue now tasting like ash.

"Whoever the father is... he deserves to know," she continued, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling beneath her words.

"Of course," you agreed, the word brittle on your lips. Your gaze flickered unintentionally to William, then quickly away, fearing what might be revealed in a single glance.

He cleared his throat, a sound that rumbled deep and low, a prelude to the storm you knew brewed within him.

"It's only fair," he said, but his voice was a masterclass in control, every syllable measured, every intonation practiced.

"You can ring up the boys... see if they're willing." She was all practicality, all motherly concern, not an inkling of suspicion clouding her features. If only she knew…

"Right," you breathed out, the lie sour and heavy in your mouth.

In your bedroom, Evan's chest rose and fell with the innocent trust of sleep. Unaware. Untouched by the deceit that hung thick in the air. The door ajar, otherwise he wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t hear that you were near. As if somehow, your tiny son was aware that he had been born in a house full of dark secrets and possible danger.

Your fingers curled around your glass, the cool surface grounding you. Water, while your parents were drinking wine. Wasn’t your mom still trying for a baby? Had she finally given up now that she saw how it was to be between diapers and the soreness of giving milk?

William's gaze flitted toward the open door where your son lay oblivious to the grown-up games played at his expense.

"Will do it tomorrow," you promised, your voice a whisper of determination laced with dread.

"Good girl," your mother smiled, contentment lighting up her face. But in William's eyes, the reflection of a different kind of pride—a dark, devouring satisfaction—flickered and then died.

You pushed your plate away, appetite lost. While inside your thoughts careened like a runaway train, you tried to remain your compose. Look and act normal. But what would happen when the truth came out? What would happen when the masks fell away?

What would William do?

Because in all honesty, it wasn’t your mom and her feelings you were worried about the most any longer. She had proven time after time again to be there for you, no matter what lies had been told about you. Her two-goody-shoes daughter, suddenly a wild partying animal who had gone and get laid whilst drunk – even if she bought it she faithfully helped take care of you and your newborn son. She was so – so darn sweet! Like an angel sent from the blessed sky. If she’d forgiven you this, then you wouldn’t doubt she would forgive you the truth.

But…

Could you bear her disappointment? Right now? Could you see her so crestfallen and betrayed? Did you want to break that dam and wait whilst pain raked through you both – a pain that only time could mend?

Beside you, William scraped his throat, his thick fingers scraping past your thigh underneath the table. The horny beast. Even now he couldn’t stop touching you.

Shouldn’t he be working on one of his new robot animals? Like that yellow bunny suit he was making to resemble your favorite plushie? With the only difference that it was ten times bigger and build for him to wear?

You tried not to glance at your stepfather, not even when his fingers reassuringly squeezed your already bruised thigh. You gritted your teeth at the soreness – thanks to his latest bout of fucking, of course. The man took his chances whenever he could.

No, the real problem here was your stepfather. William was a tall, strong and dangerous man. His mind worked in ways that only left you guessing. And you had no doubt that he had hurt others in the past before to get exactly what he wanted.

If you wanted to play this game, you had to play it right.

Silently, you vowed to protect Evan from the shadows that lurked behind William's aviator glasses, from the manipulations that twisted beneath his agreeable facade. You would stand between your son and the man who wore danger like a second skin.

"Let's finish up here," your mother suggested, unaware of the battle lines being drawn right before her eyes.

"Indeed," William agreed, and his smile was a predator's grin, hidden in plain sight.

The baby slept on, his dreams untainted by the turmoil that swirled just beyond his reach.

#anon answered #quick drabble #Stepdad William Afton x Reader #William Afton x Reader #william afton x you #Stepdad William Afton

[quinloki]

Birthday Request Event

"It's my birthday and I'll write what I want to \o/"

Gift Details ♥ Reader: afab!reader Character: Trafalgar Law Kink: #11 Bondage/Shibari Prompt: #13 "Don't worry, I'll take care of you." & 8. "Stay still." Gift Giver: @jiholeen & @laws-princess

You two had such similar asks I smushed them together and made a longer than normal drabble for it.

Summary: It's your first time being bound, and Law intends to do so properly.

Content Notes: bondage, rope, rotor toy used, vaginal fingering, forced orgasms, pet names, biting.

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

You stood naked in the room, shivering, though not from the cold. The blindfold over your eyes was by your own request, but it wasn’t doing you the good you hoped it would. You could feel his presence as he moved around you. The feel of the rope – coarse but not stiff – slipping over your skin as he brushed it along all the curves and tender places you had.

“How does it feel?” He questions quietly. Evenly. So terribly calmly.

You’d admitted to Law some weeks ago that you wanted to be tied up. You didn’t really know much about it, and he wanted to be able to do it safely, so all he’d asked for in return was some time to research it. Now you were in his bedroom, dealing with step one – which rope did you like better?

“It’s… it’s a little rough, but soft too. I like it.” You admit, voice shakier than you wanted it to be.

“We’ll start with this one then.” He states, and you feel his fingers trail across your shoulders lightly. You feel your muscles twitch at the teasing touch, and you try to hold in the soft moan that threatens to escape you. “It’ll be hard to say which is best until we use them all, but this was the most recommended as well.”

There’s a bit of silence as you can hear the sounds of the rope against the floor. You’re trying to keep yourself calm, but the anticipation almost carries more weight than the light touch earlier.

“We’ll start with a basic harness, and work from there.” Law explains. He’s in front of you now, and you feel the shift of his shirt as he reaches around you, looping the rope around your neck. “We’re going to keep it loose here.” You can feel two fingers against your throat as he makes the first knot. It’s snug, but not tight.

Holding the two sides of rope together he pulls it mostly taut down the front of your chest, stopping and making another knot. You feel a shiver run through you as he works, and you almost want to take the blindfold off.

If you look at those golden eyes right now, however, you might just crumple to the floor before he can finish the harness.

He leans forward, tugging you close with the rope. You can feel his lips against your ear and you squirm.

“Hold still, snowdrop.” He says firmly. “Let me move you when I need to.”

You nod a little. “Y-yes.”

“Yes?” He prompts, lips pressing against your neck softly.

“Yes, sir.” You correct. You can feel the heat rushing up to your face and ears.

“Good. Open your stance, I need room to bring this through.” He instructs. You can feel your embarrassment growing as you shuffle your feet apart, standing with them more at shoulder width than together. “There we go.”

You feel the rope against your leg for a moment as he steps around you, keeping the ropes together and tying another knot. You feel the knot rest against the small of your back lightly as he separates the ropes and loops them around your waist, threading them through the front of the rope harness. He tugs, pulling it snug and you feel a knot you hadn’t noticed before push against your slit.

“Ah – um… L-Law?” You stammer the question, gasping as a tug of the rope pushes it past your labia and against your clit. You buck at the sensation, your legs nearly buckling, and you feel a sharp tug of your hair as you’re held against Law’s chest.

“Stay. Still.” He commands. There’s a smile in his tone despite the rough actions and you’re aware that he knows full well what he did to you. Your breath falls heavy from your mouth, but you nod as he takes a step back.

He continues to loop the rope through the rest of the harness, bringing it up and looping it through the back of the loop of rope around your neck. The pattern, and opposing tensions created because of it, kept everything in place neatly.

His hands are over your shoulders, sliding down your arms and slowly guiding your arms behind your back. Soft kisses against your shoulders as he laces his fingers in yours for a moment has you struggling to stay still. Needy sounds escape you as his kisses move up your neck, nibbling the curve of your ear.

“I’ve got you, little snowdrop.” He purrs, his voice falling into your ear like sweet honey as he begins to tie your hands behind your back. “Tell me if anything goes numb. Even if you’re almost going to orgasm, you have to say something, understand?”

“Yes sir.” Your fingers kept brushing against his hands while he worked, and sometimes you’d feel his fingers trace lines in the palms of your hands when he could.

Once he was done he took a moment to check the knots. He asked you if anything was uncomfortable, and slipped his fingers under the ropes in places he was concerned might be too tight. Once he was sure that you were comfortable enough, you expected him to tease you relentlessly, but it seemed he had something else in mind for your first time in ropes.

It was cold and hard and no more than the size of his thumb, as he pushed it past the ropes and wedged it against your clit. You knew what was going to happen a split second before it did. The rotor purred to life against your clit and as you gasped, Law leaning down to kiss you.

His fingers teased your nipples, tugging, pinching, and rolling them between his fingers as he deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He starts to kneel, guiding you to move with him, keeping you steady and stealing kisses from you as you move.

He braces you against his knee, pushing the rotor against your clit more forcefully as he turns up the intensity. You squirm under the ropes, gasping pleasure into the kiss as he holds you in place on his thigh.

“I’m going to take the blindfold off, okay?” He questions and you nod your head.

Your eyes are wet and dazed. He’s not kissing you, but your mouth’s open in want, pleasure rolling off your tongue.

“You are really turned on,” Law muses. “I can’t wait to hear all the sounds you’ll make for me.”

Law’s earlier soft kisses are replaced by heavy bruising kisses against your skin. He leaves marks everywhere he can, leaving red bite marks in tender places causing you to buck and moan and cry into the air. His hands keep you where he wants you, moving you with a tug on the harness, or holding you still with an iron grip in your hair.

“L-Law I’m gonna c-cum, please!” You beg, body shivering against him as your legs twitch and your toes start to curl.

He pulls you close, keeping the rotor pinned against your clit as he reaches around and slips a finger past the rope, pushing his middle finger into your pussy. “Cum for me,” he demands, his voice rushed and strained.

You buck enough to bring your feet off the floor, squirming uselessly against the ropes as you scream your first orgasm into his chest. Pleasure rips through your body and it’s not just the orgasm that feels good, but the struggle itself.

Sunk against his chest you’re almost crying as you draw in shuddering breaths, the intense pleasure abating a little. Law’s finger twists and a second one pushes inside you, filling the room with wet sounds as the rotor revs up to what you hope is its highest setting.

The stretch from two fingers, the insistence of the rotor, the pleasure still tingling through you and the sheer fact that you cannot get away are working against you. If against is even the right word, you’re not sure, but the pleasure is building up again and it feels too soon.

“Law – Law, please… please… I’m gonna… Hnnnnngh – cum again, please!” You beg.

“Cum again.” He huffs, holding you tight. “Scream little snowdrop.”

His name falls from your lips in broken pieces of pleasure, crashing against his shoulder as your shuddering body fought uselessly against the ropes. His fingers thread through yours, holding you tight as you tense and spasm from the orgasm, your cries of pleasure falling into heavy gasps as you work to catch your breath.

Wet fingers grip your ass as he pulls his fingers out from inside you. You squeak from the sensation and hear Law chuckle a little as he tilts your chin up.

“L-Law, the rotor.” Your eyes are hazy and tired and you’re struggling to stay focused on him, especially with the continuing buzz between your legs.

“It doesn’t go any higher.” He answers, and you shake your head.

“It’s – that’s not the issue!” You gasp, struggling as he grips your ass with both hands and starts pressing you into his thigh. “L-Law – please!”

“Mm, am I making you cum again? Is that what you’re begging for?” He grins as his fingers squeeze your ass again.

“N-no, I – yes, but with… with y-you inside me.” Your voice falters at the end. Those golden eyes seem to look right into your soul and it’s embarrassing.

“I was inside you earlier.” He points out, leaning down and kissing your cheek before he whispers in your ear. “You’ll have to ask clearly.”

“Your… your cock, please. Please Law I want it.” You beg, squirming as the relentless rotor continues to tease you.

You feel him shift your legs, straddling you over his hips and not just his thigh. You can feel pressure as his erection pushes against you, causing you and Law to hiss softly at the vibrating pleasure.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice husky and needy as he moves the rope aside, letting the rotor fall to the floor. “I’ll take care of you.”

Check out the event - requests are accepted until 7/31/2023 EST

#birthday request event #one piece drabble #trafalgar law #law x reader #x reader #reader insert #I hope I am forgiven for smushing gifts together #Thank you both for this ♥ I might expand on it further honestly #but I didn't want to go too high on word count for the event xD

[honeycombstrawberry]

healing hearts

pairing: adrian chase x gn reader (established relationship) rating: gen+ word count: 2,688 one-sentence synopsis: adrian assumes the worst when he hasn't heard from you in a couple of days, even though you've only been home sick with the flu. author's note: i have been. so very sick. take care of me adrian chase

>> read on ao3!! <<

There’s an incessant pounding coming from— somewhere.

You’re not totally sure what the source of the noise is. Actually, you’re not even entirely sure that it’s not completely in your own head. It’s certainly hurt bad enough for the last— you lift your head to squint at the bleary numbers on your bedside clock— two days that you could be hearing a pounding by now, to reflect the pounding ache inside of it.

Checking the clock again, just to be sure, you verify— yeah, you’ve been asleep off and on for about two days, now. You don’t know what monster flu you caught, but it’s completely knocked the wind out of you.

You’ve had pretty much no energy since you got back home from work the other day and immediately crashed. The entire time you’d been on shift, you’d started feeling worse and worse; on the commute home, you’d nearly had to stop and vomit on the side of the road several times. It’d been a miracle you made it home in one piece at all, let alone managing to drag yourself into bed.

Since then, you’ve been alternating between struggling to get anything into your body, struggling to keep it there, and— sleeping, mostly. Lots of sleeping. It’s felt almost impossible to stay awake, your body continuously attempting to turn itself off to heal itself.

Your aching head is still throbbing in time with what you’ve determined is definitely an outside-source sort of knocking-pounding.

“Hello?” you try to ask, but your voice is scratchy with disuse and illness. Trying to clear it just hurts, so you give up, grimacing as you push yourself upright. You rasp, “Hold on,” but whoever’s knocking doesn’t hear you, or otherwise doesn’t care.

Your joints hurt like hell, but you manage to get yourself on your feet and moving in the direction of your front door. It definitely takes longer than it would normally; you’ve only made it to your bedroom doorway when you hear a bafflingly loud crash from down the hall, your head splitting with the sudden jarring noise of it.

Instinctively, you push the heels of your hands into your eyes, then drag them up until you can grip onto your hair, for a moment, head throbbing.

“Where are you?” you hear a voice down the hall, and you’re simultaneously relieved and incredibly confused that it’s Adrian. “What the fuck— What the fuck—”

“What?” you ask, your voice still cracking, leaning in your bedroom doorway.

Adrian whirls at the sound you make— barely a word, really, but loud enough to be heard this time, at least— and you’re not prepared for how upset he looks. The expression on his face is inexplicably devastated, agonized with the sort of emotion you don’t really expect to see outside of the direst of scenarios. Even, really— Even then, Adrian’s got a smile on his face, most of the time.

Not now, though. Now, he’s half-dressed in his Vigilante gear, and panicked, and running down the hallway towards you before you can even try to process that he’s here, let alone what the hell is happening right now.

Without hesitating, he wraps you right up in his arms, burying his face in your throat. His hold is tight, and your muscles all ache, but it almost feels good, in a pressure sort of way. The way it settles something inside your chest, too, isn’t something to be ignored; you feel a little bit better just for not being alone, just for having him here. You’re not— Your relationship isn’t serious serious, but you—

He still means a lot to you, more than you think anybody else in your life means to you, at this point. He’s still a source of comfort to you; he still makes you feel better. You hope your relationship will become more serious— maybe even serious serious— but it’s not there yet. But—

Still, here’s Adrian, gripping you so tightly it feels like your ribs move. You hug him back, even though you’re a little confused.

“What’s wrong?” you ask him. Your congestion and scratching throat make you slightly incoherent, but he still seems to understand what you’re saying.

“What’s wrong?” Adrian asks. “What’s wr— I thought you were dead.”

“Why the f—” you start, but then start coughing, your voice too abruptly sharp and rough for your throat, right now. Adrian backs up a little bit, panicked, when you bring your arm up, covering your face as you cough and struggle to breath, for a moment. You nearly end up gagging, at the end, but there’s really nothing in your stomach, so you manage to straighten out again after a moment, dizzy and frowning.

“What’s wrong with you?” Adrian asks, quickly. “Something’s wrong. What happened? Did you get poisoned, is that what this is? Poison? Did someone hurt you? Did—”

“Adrian,” you cut him off, head throbbing. You immediately feel a surge of over-emotional guilt for interrupting him, your illness-addled brain bringing up too much unnecessary feeling in response. Almost tearfully, and embarrassed because of it, you say, “I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Adrian says. “I’m sorry, I should be— I should be quieter, sorry. What can I do? What’s wrong, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you tell him. At his incredulous expression, you tell him, “I’m just sick. It’ll pass.” You hesitate, thinking you’re going to sneeze, but it doesn’t happen, which is kind of worse. Frowning, now, you say, “I just feel like shit.”

Adrian pauses, looking like he wants to push back into you at the same time that he’s not sure he’s allowed to. After a beat, he asks, “Why didn’t you— I tried calling? You didn’t answer.”

You glance backwards into your room, at the bag that you’d dropped on the floor the second you got home. Your phone hadn’t ended up anywhere near its charger, nor your hand; you’d completely forgotten about it, honestly. It’s probably been dead for over a day by now.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, feeling genuinely apologetic, new guilt coursing through you. Your voice almost breaks when you say, “I didn’t mean to, I was just sleeping,” and you flash with an embarrassed heat because of it, forcing you to flush hotter than your fever’s already brought you.

“Oh, hey, it’s okay,” Adrian says. His face is crumpling, tone softening; you feel bad for being the reason it’s there, even if you’re not entirely sure why it’s here at all. “Don’t be upset, I’m not mad, I’m— I was just worried about you, and, like, you didn’t call or message or even, like, view my messages, and I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong but if I had I wanted to give you your space, but then nobody else heard from you and you haven’t posted anything and I was starting to panic a little bit that something happened, or someone took you, or they hurt you because of me, or that maybe you would—”

He cuts himself off, this time, chest heaving. He’s visibly agitated, practically vibrating in front of you, when he lifts his eyes to meet yours. You’re surprised to see the fear in them, and the hurt, because everything— everything is fine. It’s going to be alright; things like this happen. Really, it’s no big deal. People get sick. It’ll be fine.

Adrian, though—

Adrian didn’t know that.

Your chest clenches, your heart doing a strange sort of squeeze at the idea of not hearing from Adrian at all for two days, at the concept of him just dropping off the grid and not responding for no apparent reason. You’d—

In his line of work— or, his preferred line of work— you probably would have assumed the same thing. It hurts something in you, that his fear for you made him this terrified, that your absence rattled him this badly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, mistaking your silence. “I didn’t mean to talk so much again, you probably have a headache, and I’m—” He huffs a laugh that doesn’t sound all that amused, says, “I’m not making it any better, probably. Fuck, I’m sorry. Is there— Can I get you anything? Or I can just go— Actually, yeah, I should probably just g—”

“No,” you insist immediately. You reach out to grab onto him again, tilting right into him. Maybe your relationship isn’t serious serious, but it’s serious enough to be intimate; he wraps his arms around you in return without hesitating, kissing the side of your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he replies. “You’re sick, I shouldn’t— I was being clingy, I didn’t want—”

“No, you’re not,” you tell him. You don’t mean to interrupt again, but you can’t let him think this was anything but what it actually is. “It’s not clingy to want to hear from me. I’d be scared if I didn’t hear from you, either.” You bury yourself in his chest, taking comfort from him. You’re starting to get more exhausted, the longer you stand upright, your joints and spine and muscles and— everything aching; you trust him to hold you upright, though. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, I just kind of— fell asleep. And I haven’t been awake that much. I’m— That was stupid. I should’ve thought—”

“Hey, no, come on, don’t do that,” Adrian says. “Sorry, I just— It’s not your fault. You just— You’re sick, you’re allowed to be sick. It’s shitty. I’m not— I don’t— I shouldn’t assume, just because I’m not here doesn’t mean—”

He stops again; you can feel the tension in his body, muscles tight. His armor’s hanging off him in pieces; the rest of it, you assume, is in his car. You wonder what his intentions were if he hadn’t found you here— if he’d thought you were missing and went out searching for you as Vigilante. You’ll have to ask him about those plans, another day; you’re a little intrigued by the instinctive protective streak in him.

For now, though, you’re trying to figure out the tension in what he isn’t saying, not what he isn’t doing. You think over his words for only a second before you get it, all of it clicking into place, a puzzle that fits until it’s a picture you can understand.

“Maybe now’s not the best time,” you say, half-incoherent through your throat and sinuses and emotion and everything else, “but maybe we could think about living closer. Like— together.” His arms automatically tighten around you, his face coming down to bury in his hair. “If you wanted. When I’m feeling better.”

“I’ll move in right now if you want,” Adrian answers immediately. “I’ll— Are you sure? You sure you’re not, like, fucked up on cold medicine? Do you know what you’re saying? What year is—”

“Adrian,” you laugh, even though it makes your chest tight. You can’t help it; it just happens, even through your sickness. “Yeah, I’m sure.” You push your face closer into his shoulder. “It’ll make it easier next time one of us’s sick.”

“So much easier,” Adrian insists. Without missing a beat, he ducks down to scoop you up. It’s so effortless for him, it’s as though you weigh nothing at all; you’re standing, and then you’re airborne, swept up in his arms. “Plus, then we can, like, hang out. We can hang out all the time. And we can— We can watch TV together! And movies! And we can make dinner together, and learn to, like— I don’t know, we can have— hobbies, and go places on the weekend, and decorate together, and I can—” He sets you down in bed again, his monologue broken for a moment when he presses a kiss to your overheated forehead. “—Yikes, you’re hot— and we can get a dog, maybe, or something like a— I don’t know, something cool, like a— house horse or something— And I can see you all the time and I’ll wake up every morning and you’ll be here with me.”

Adrian collapses down in bed beside you, at the end of it all, and you automatically turn towards him, seeking his comfort. You feel cold, even though you know you’re warm; his skin is so nice against yours, and you push for more of it, shoving pieces of his uniform out of the side to get at more of his flesh, desperate for the comfort of him, to feel better.

“As long as you’re sure,” Adrian adds, at the end of it all.

“I’m sure,” you tell him, already halfway back to sleeping.

“Oh, man, I should probably, like— do something,” Adrian says. Before you can ask what he actually means by that, he says, “Do you want soup, or something? I can make chicken, or—”

“Stop,” you tell him, your weak stomach turning at the thought of eating something right now.

He sees the color drain from your face and pulls you back in to rest against him, your head on his chest, ear over his heart.

“Maybe later,” he allows. “I’ll get you some water, though, maybe? Or I can help you change your clothes, or get you comfy. Want me to plug in your phone? Or bring you to the living room, and then you can watch the TV in there if you wanted, or if you wanted to take a shower, maybe, or a bath—” He stops himself, then. After a beat where he seems to think so loudly you can hear the gears turning in his head, he asks, “What do you want, though?”

You’re already most of the way back into what you want, right now. Half-asleep, you tell him, “I just wanna rest a little while,” muffled by his chest. You yawn, jaw cracking, the soft material of his undershirt shifting beneath your face as you do. “I want you.” Tightening your fingers around him, you ask, “Would you—”

“Yes, yeah, obviously,” Adrian answers, before your question is even finished. “I’ll be right here. Whole time, not going anywhere.” He kisses the top of your head. “You get some sleep. Your body needs it, you rest. I’ll keep an eye out for you. On you. Keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, exhausted. You can feel some stirring sort of excitement in the back of your chest, something that’ll probably come into full bloom once you’re healthy and coherent and awake enough to process that the two of you are going to be moving in together. “Can I have a hug?”

Adrian huffs an amused little laugh that sounds so impossibly fond that you want to melt inside of it. You can’t help loving him, hearing the love in his voice.

“Of course you can,” he says. He tugs you in tighter, arms wrapping closer around you, holding you near to his chest. “How’s that? That better?”

It’s so nice. It’s so nice, and so comforting, and you feel so much better— in your heart, and mind, and soul, if not in your body— and you can’t help the next words falling out of your mouth. It feels like he loves you, and you know that you love him, so you murmur, “Lots better. Thanks. Love you.”

Beneath your ear, Adrian’s heart starts speeding up impossibly quickly, faster and faster, thudding harder and harder. You’re already falling back asleep; you’re not coherent enough to realize what’s happening, or even what you’ve said to him.

“What?” he asks, but you’re completely unconscious again. Your head on his chest, eyes closed, breath evening out though it rasps through your tight chest and throat.

Belatedly, he realizes you’ve fallen asleep. He doesn’t know if you know what you’ve said, or if you mean it, but— it feels like you do. It does. And he realizes, then, the words that match the feelings he’s been feeling this entire time: he loves you, too.

You’re fast asleep, and you don’t hear him, but he says, voice half-hushed, grinning, “I love you, too,” and tightens his grip on you, kissing the top of your head again, keeping you held close.

-

adrian chase taglist, pt. 1

@deputyrook @bb-skyrunner @himboelover @pieriinova @gcldtom @violetrainbow412-blog @amysuemc @saturnngal @neptuneswritingwork @jewishdelis @myguiltypleasures21 @pinkygunslingy @chaseadrian @breathing-in-waves @rishlurh @goblynnrockz @theowritesstuff @themartiansdaughter @dallasvakarian @missscarlettangel @samantha24015 @hillaryroadheadcllinton @ohmybubbletea @buckys-estrella @witchywcmans @ladyrebel25 @eviejune @vigilantesluvr @qjuiq-odakyu @xothatnerdykid @awkwardfangirl2014 @thevalkyrior @mattsmanpain @sunflowerfive @deirdre-belle @anthonyedwinstark @sexysquatch @jelliebeanss @zofps @crimscnrains

#adrian chase #adrian chase imagine #adrian chase x reader #adrian chase taglist #vigilante imagine #vigilante x reader #vigilante #vigilante taglist #dcu taglist #dcu #hbo peacemaker #peacemaker tv #peacemaker imagines #peacemaker x reader #peacemaker #dc taglist #dceu #dc #dc comics #reader #reader insert #gn reader #gender neutral reader #honeycombstrawberry

[sasholotl]

just a little something I wanted to write after seeing volume 2. Robin might not have saved Nancy in canon, but she definitely comforted her afterwards :)

''Are you okay ?''

Nancy startled at the quiet voice, raising her head to meet Robin's concerned eyes. The tall girl looked tired, her cheeks and forehead covered in ashes and grime, her lips slightly twisted downwards. Still, her eyes glinted with something that made Nancy's insides twist.

''Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,'' she said, straightening slightly, curving her lips in a smile, eyes roaming around the empty room. If Robin's raised eyebrows meant anything, Nancy had done a terrible job of pretending she wasn't plagued by the visions Vecna had sent her. ''I mean, we're all terribly tired I suppose, but otherwise I'm-''

''Fine ?'' Robin replied with a teasing smile as she sat next to her on the couch. Nancy had to suppress the strange urge of shuffling closer to the girl. ''You already said that. And honestly, you don't really look fine. To me, at least. You have this sad face, and you've been staring at nothing for the past five minutes despite Steve giving you his best puppy eyes.''

''Steve did-'' She began, before interrupting herself, frowning. ''I'm okay, you don't have to worry about me.''

At that, Robin rolled her eyes, scoffing. ''Yeah, sure, I definitely don't have to worry about the girl that just got vecna-d. Yep, totally normal behaviour, not to worry at all.''

''Vecna-d is not a word.''

''Don't try to change the subject.'' Robin's hand twitched at her side, as if she wanted to reach out but got too scared. It brought a warmth in her belly, a feeling Nancy didn't care to examine right now. ''I know we barely know each other. But we're friends, right ?'' At Robin's hesitant gaze, Nancy couldn't help but nod fiercely. Robin relaxed slightly, giving her a bashful smile. ''You can tell me anything. I'm here for you, Nance.''

Robin lowered her eyes, curling her fingers in a fist then uncurling them. In the few days they had known each other, Nancy had come to associate this gesture with Robin being nervous. The simple idea of Robin being nervous was enough to ignite a burst of confidence in her chest. Her eyes dropped on the taller girl's hand, and she swallowed, contracting her muscles in anticipation.

Before she could act, Robin's eyes snapped back to hers, and the girl grabbed her hand tight. Robin's hand was soft and warm against hers, and somehow, she didn't want her to ever let go.

''It's okay not to be okay. You don't have to always be brave and fearless. God knows none of us are right now. That's why we have to support each other.'' Robin smiled, and it looked so gentle and kind, it made Nancy's heart expand in her chest. ''Lean on each other and all ?''

There was so many things she wanted to say. But the words wouldn't get past the lump in her throat, so Nancy only nodded, screwing her eyes shut against the burning in her eyes, and leaned against Robin, trusting the girl with her whole heart.

Robin shifted against her. For a brief moment, panic crossed her mind at the thought of Robin drawing back. But the girl only draped one arm around her shoulders, tugging her closer until their sides were flushed against each other. Nancy allowed herself to relax, burying her head against Robin's shoulders, basking in the comfort and warmth the other girl offered her.

They stayed like that, in silence. If Robin felt the need to talk, she didn't do it, instead settling on humming a song in the back of her throat, the vibration reverberating through Nancy's cheek. At one point, fingers began rubbing circles on her shoulder. Her body sagged even further against Robin's, and a groan of appreciation escaped her.

''Should I take it as proof of the bright future awaiting me in the career of masseuse ?'' Robin finally said, her voice coming out raspy.

A shiver coursed through her back, but she ignored it. ''Might be a tad exaggerated.''

Robin snorted. ''Just a tad.''

Nancy hid the smile playing on her lips, quietly wondering at the ability of Robin to make her forget her problems.

''Thank you,'' she whispered, tilting her head to watch Robin's face. Her chest tightened upon seeing the mere distance separating them. It felt right. ''For being there.''

Robin stared at her, her face devoid of anything. Almost carefully blank. ''Kinda my job as a friend, no ?''

Each words sent a puff of warm air tingling her own lips. If she were to lean forward just a little bit more, just a few inches...

Robin's eyes flicked for a nanosecond to her lips, before darting back up, a sliver of fear darkening her face. Raw pain twisted Robin's face and she opened her mouth but before she could say anything, the door to Eddie's trailer bursted open, Steve and the others quickly entering the tension filled room.

They jerked away from each other. Nancy chanced a brief glance towards Robin but the girl was avoiding her eyes, jaw clenched, fingers curling and uncurling again.

She shook her head, focusing back on the discussion. There would be time later to dissect their whole interaction.

Or she hoped so.

#stranger things #ronance #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #robin x nancy #i was so disappointed by volume 2 #im now drowning myself in fics to forget canon #i hope you'll like it #and if anyone wanna talk about ronance #im free

[ruki--mukami]

(TW) (NSFW) Hey,hot stuff 🥵. Your like so sexy and awesome...but part of me is scared of vampires and bdsm...My scared side is so boring... self-preservation and having dignity is sooo boring. I wanna be like a private little slut,livestock,and toy for master. I don't think you're like professional at it,but hypnotize me please 🥺 I need a dominant vampire stud like you to tame me and my perfect body. Be as extreme in your guidance as possible. Make me happy by killing my pathetic dreams.

⚠️ NSFW BELOW: 18+ ⚠️

“So, you’re frightened of Vampires and anything extraordinary, yet you’d approach me of your own volition… Either you are a masochist or you’re too stupid for your own good. Possibly both. Well, throw that so-called self-preservation of yours to the wind, Livestock. You can’t simply beg to be fucked and tamed and then claim that I am not a professional, because I can assure you you’ll be regretting that foolish word choice posthaste. Not to mention how confident you are that your body is worth taming in the first place. Hm… I suppose I could start by checking the quality of your blood.”

Snatching you by the scalp, the Vampire encroached until his frost breath practically breezed past your face like the coming of winter, fangs imminent as he descended into the delicate adipose of your shoulder, eyes shutting hurriedly in tandem with the eruption of blood spouting into his mouth and down his throat like an ambrosial cataract. Everything from the sweet notes to the subtle coppery hints aroused him as copious amounts of your life force left your veins, leaving you nearly immobilized and severely weakened in his firm grasp. When his eyelids lifted, no longer did his stormy blues rain a drizzle of apathy but rather an awakened electric cobalt, eminent of something snapping within. 

“Haah… Yes, you make a fine toy for Master indeed. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d wager this bite just now aroused you more than horrified you. Heh, you truly are a little slut. Though I still haven’t forgiven you for your crude way of approaching me, Livestock. It seems even now you still only see me for my looks and what I can offer you… Perhaps biting a second place will make you feel some guilt.”

This time, Ruki tore away at the clothing obscuring your chest, unmarred and ripe for his ivory stakes as he trailed his lips from the jut of your throat down to a breast and punctured his fangs through once more, ferocity glowing in his enticed cerulean hues as the most beautiful shade of crimson stained your skin like a painting he believed belonged in a museum from how expertly he engraved himself into you. Rather than hoisting you by your hair, his hand snaked down towards your gorge and gave it just tight enough of a squeeze to leave you with bated breath, panting and clinging onto dear life. Cloyingly sweet, richer than chocolate, and smooth as honey, your blood continued to bewitch the Vampire by the second as he discarded the remaining garments, smirking upon the sight of bare flesh yet to be pierced with his greatest weapons. 

“This tastes exquisite… Almost like it’s not even blood anymore. From now on I expect you to hold your neck out for me on command,” he cooed, releasing said area. “With this, you’ve been branded by he who shall tame you. Yes, that’s right. This is only the beginning; I have yet to fully claim you as my own. My personal property, my possession, and as you so bluntly put it, Master’s private little slut. As inviting as you were the first time, you’re going to have to be a bit more convincing with your words. I want you to refer to yourself as something far more degrading—otherwise I’ll suck blood from your genitals this time. And I know you wouldn’t want that, now would you?” A chuckle of cold humor escaped him as he gazed directly into your normally refulgent eyes, slowly but surely devoid of life from the incoming anemia. “Beg for me. Ask me to mess up your insides like your life depends on it, since clearly you aren’t the most fond of my fangs with this puddle of red growing at our feet.”

Satisfied with the depraved pleading thereafter, a loud, triumphant cachinnation left his besmirched lips, dropping you to the floor without a moment’s hesitation. 

“Hahaha… It’s so amusing what humans will say to save their own skin. Very well… I shall do as you so desperately ask. I’ll stir up your hole and spill every ounce of cum in there until you have my child and bestow my mercy upon you like the cum-glupping pet you are. By the time we are finished here, your insides will begin to take on the shape of my dick from how much I pound you in, making you the perfect cock sleeve for your master. You’d like that very much, wouldn’t you, you whore? Well, from this day forward, you’re not just any harlot. Get on all fours and I’ll show you.”

Leather rummaging and metal tintinnabulations of a belt falling undone resounded from behind as Ruki wasted no time in removing his pants, underwear, and any other obstructive garments from his well-endowed member, springing forth at full attention that you could’ve sworn you heard it slap his own stomach from how erect he was. A pair of two frigid, calloused hands seized your rear and then suddenly the tip of his length followed suit, prodding the entrance in a grinding motion back and forth until finally he rammed half of himself in with one moan-eliciting stroke, your walls immediately surrounding his hardened cock as he zeroed in on the remaining latter thrusting into your clamping aperture. 

“Good pet… You wring me out so well. Haah… So tight, it’s like you were born for this moment. Born to be Master’s cum-glupping dog,” he growled in sheer bliss as he spanked your voluptuous ass, pulling back his hips a bit only to hammer inside vehemently. Slapping sounds of flesh on flesh, and even his very balls assailing your entrance echoed throughout the scene as the Vampire grabbed a fistful of your locks again, putting the earlier violence to shame. At the every beck and call of his supernatural force, your lower frame thrashed and writhed from how Ruki fucked you in earnest. “That’s it… That’s my livestock… Haah… Tell me who’s the only one who gets to break you like this.”

Giving your roots a rest, his hands trailed along your delicate mounds until he was pulling and pinching at your sensitive buds, grunting with each brutal thrust that kissed your innermost sweet spot with ease. It was as if he really did intend to split your spent hole in two with that gargantuan size of his, bruising your hips in a white-knuckled hold. Under siege from the pleasure of your warmth suffusing him, those pained bellows to fuel his sadistic heart, and the earlier bloodsucking, Ruki doubled his efforts. Faster, rougher, and from a different angle of penetration from before, he pounded the answer out of you. Fucked each agonizing syllable of his name from your lips, permanently denouncing it the sole word in your vocabulary from how relentlessly he wrenched you open.

“Fuuuck, ahhh, it’s time this greedy livestock receives a reward… Haah, you’re so erotic when you scream in that lewd voice, loud enough to tell the whole world that I have you all to myself… Ahh… Almost there…! I’m cumming… Now shed some tears and thank me for filling you to the hilt…!!”

As both you and Ruki ascended to the peak of ecstasy, he leaned forward to inflict a symmetrical bite mark on the other shoulder, blood spilling simultaneously with his white essence that stuffed you completely and cascaded down your thighs in semi-opaque rivulets. However, in spite of this, the Vampire kept thrusting regardless of how much bigger he grew, regardless of how much he already came inside of you, and regardless of what leaked onto the floor. By now you surmised the night was still young, and he had no intentions of stalling his monstrous stamina.

“All mine… You’re all mine, Livestock.”

#diabolik lovers #ruki mukami #mukami ruki #ask #react #diabolik lovers rp #dungeon #(( idk why i went so crazy with this ask but sure ig. ))

[oh-katsuki]

yandere izuku midoriya mirror sex ??? [ if you haven’t already ] i’m in love with your content. ❤️

oohhhh i normally don't do requests but... this is so good. this is such a good request bc yandere!izuku been on my mind for a HOT minute.

wc: 1.2k

tw: non/dubcon, choking, squirting, mirror “sex” (heavy petting), fingering

you didn't want to be here. that was the simple truth of it. you weren't sure how izuku had managed to get you into his apartment. maybe it was because he was the top hero, or because some part of you still salivated over his build even after the multitudes of frightening texts he'd sent you after your first (and last) date. still, here you were in front of the full body mirror that rests against the wall opposite his bed, sitting on the floor between izuku's legs with your own spread open and on display, his big hand rubbing gentle circles into your clit.

it was embarrassing, the way he kept his eyes glued on your cunt through the mirror, licking at his lips slowly while he watched the way you'd twitch each time he hit the hyper-sensitive bud just right. your hands were shaking, placed on top on his thighs with a feather light touch, lips pressed into a tight line as you tried to quell the little whimpers that forced their way from your throat. 

“see, i told you it would feel good.” izuku spoke, low and into your ear. “what’s wrong? not gonna make any noise for me?”

you shook your head, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as he took a finger and teased your cunt, pushing into the entrance slightly before dragging his slick coated finger back to your clit. 

“you don’t like it? your pussy says otherwise.” he chuckled, head dipping down so his lips rested just below your ear. “you’re practically dripping...” 

izuku’s lips kissed the base of your neck before he slipped one thick finger past the tight ring of your cunt, insisting that he’ll give you a little more. he curled his finger upward, growing frustrated as you remained silent through each calculated movement. his free hand moved to your neck, tilting your head so you could see yourself, see the way you slut your cunt out for him. 

“you have any idea how long i’ve been waiting for this?” he murmurs, the hand around your throat beginning to squeeze a little too tight for comfort. “n now you’re not even gonna say anything? 

you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, eyes locking with his as he slipped a second finger into you and pumped in and out of you more roughly. then you gasped, a low whine that started in the pit of your stomach when he brought his thumb to your clit. 

“there it is.” izuku’s hand dropped from your throat, making it’s way to your exposed chest as he brought his lips back to your neck, maintaining eye contact. “good girl. you like it here, huh?” 

you’re making eye contact with him in the mirror, afraid that if you look away, he’ll punish you. even if you didn’t necessarily want this, you wanted punishment less, and fighting the bubbling pleasure in your stomach was already hard enough as it was. you could see his fingers disappearing into you, curling inside of your cunt into the spongey spot that made your stomach turn over. 

the noise your pussy was making, sinful and wet in the quiet of the room, made you all the more embarrassed, heat pushing it’s way onto your face as small gasps broke through your lips. it was so quiet save for izuku’s low breathing in your ear and the sound of your weeping cunt with his fingers buried to the knuckles in it. you hated to admit it, but his fingers felt incredible. they were thick and long, reaching places inside of you that no one had before and– even against your better judgement– it made you wonder what the bulge pressing into your lower back would feel like if he buried it inside of you. 

“getting louder now, yeah?” he teased, picking up his pace inside of you. your head fell back onto his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut and a strangled cry tumbling from your lips. then, izuku’s thick hand was on your face, pinching your cheeks together as he jerked your head forward. “watch. don’t want this to go to waste. i want you to watch me turn you into a mess. would you like that, pretty?” 

you couldn’t say no, not with his fingers digging into your cheeks so hard it hurt. izuku’s voice was gentle, typical of the number one hero, but so threatening. it was mean, the way he was talking to you, knowing that you couldn’t fight him off and knowing that you were losing your will to try; at the mercy of his adept fingers. 

if you couldn’t get away, you figured you could give in. izuku liked you, that much was more than clear. in fact, with the way he kept his eyes trained on yours, it seemed he was obsessed with you. izuku was obsessed with the fight in your eyes, the way it melted from your face with each curl and the little mumbles that fell from your lips in time with his ministrations. 

“y’gonna cum?” he asked, biting your neck, hand still holding your cheeks. “i think you are. you can’t hide it from me, i can feel it.” 

he wasn’t wrong. you were climbing towards a blinding high, breathing picking up as you struggled to break your head free from his grasp. 

“you’re gonna watch. you’re gonna watch me make you cum, okay?” it wasn’t a question, more of a command and laced with a dark underlying tone. “i know how to treat you, right? i’m so good to you, aren’t i? giving you my fingers even after you denied me for so long.” 

izuku pulled you back against his body, rutting his hard cock against your lower back while he fucked his fingers into you harder. fuck, you were climbing so fast, breath hitching in your throat as you teetered on the edge. 

“cum. god, please fucking cum. say my name when you do it.” he commanded. “wanna hear you tell me who makes you feel so good. it’s me, isn’t it? fucking tell me.” 

“i-it’s you.” you choked out, mouth falling open as you reached your climax with a roll of your hips into his fingers. “fuck, izuku. m’c-cumming.” 

izuku’s eyes rolled back in his head for a moment when you came before they shot back to your face, watching his name tumble from your lips as you unravelled. you were rolling your hips into his hand now, putty in his grasp as he completely broke you down. he thought it was cute that you didn’t have a very strong will. and it was worth the wait, all those months spent trying to earn your trust, just so he could treat you how you deserved; because watching you cum on his fingers, tight cunt clamping down around them as he fucked you through it, was beyond his wildest dreams. 

his eyes were fixed on yours so intently, even as you started gushing around him, crying out that it was too much. his fingers? too much? you’re so cute. 

“fuck, there you go.” he groaned beside your ear. “you’re so good for me, yeah? letting me treat you well.” 

#izuku x reader #deku x reader #deku x reader smut #deku smut #izuku x reader smut #izuku midoriya smut #mha x reader #mha x reader smut #yandere!izuku #yandere!izuku x reader smut #mha smut #izuku smut #midoriya smut #mha #yandere!izuku x reader #bnha #bnha smut #my hero academia #my hero academia smut #[ 📕 – writing ] #tw: choking #tw: dubcon #tw: noncon #tw: dub/noncon #[ ⛓️ – kink: choking ] #[ ⛓️ – kink: yandere ]

[sukirichi]

a thing or two (m.)

tutor geto has a thing or two to teach you.

cw. oral sex (f and m receiving), lube, unprotected sex, sweet! geto, halloween setting so priest! geto, age gap, slight body worship, fingering, overall romantic sex, kitchen counter sex, dirty talk, lots of kissing, mutual masturbation, intoxication, pwp, unedited as always eep

note. for my right boob @sixeyesgojo​ my first ever geto fic and i hope it’s to your liking...writing this with a frozen arm and numb fingers weeeee, i almost became a geto simp.

Halloween festivals have never felt livelier in the city. People dressed up in various outfits milled about the events place, your drink nearly sloshing on the ground the more they bumped into you. 

Bass and music boosted from the large speakers smack in the middle of the grounds, and everyone danced to their heart’s content, you and your friends a huge inclusion to the crowd.

You don’t really go out to parties that much. Hell, you don’t even drink.

But after numerous encouragements from your friends, you’re now dressed in she-devil skin-tight black dress, black lipstick, and red horns placed on your head. It’s hard not to feel confident and sexy – the kick of the liquor is settling down as well – when you’ve got human eyes, vampiric red eyes, ghoul sclera lenses and even a fucking Cyclops eye turning your way.

You’re excitedly grinding against your friends, the whoops and cheers mixing in with slurred mumbles of the lyrics.

The night is young and so are you. 

This may have been your third or fourth drink, you don’t really know, but probably some way along the second since you’re not really hammered. You’re somewhat sober enough to feel large hands gripping your hips, a protest of not tonight, Dracula about to leave your lips when you come face to face with a face you never thought you would see here.

Clad in a long black cloak, a silver cross hung around his neck, his dark hair in a neat bun and black earrings a perfect completion to the hauntingly stunning look he pulled off, your throat ran dry.

“Sir Geto?”

“Hey, it’s you,” your tutor spoke up with unmasked interest, his curious eyes trailing down your revealing outfit…the way your dress hugged all your curves and how your breasts are practically popping from your top. Geto smirked, “And please, we’re not studying at home, just call me Geto. Surprised to see you here.”

“Well, it’s Halloween, would be a shame if I didn’t go out,” laughing nervously, you found yourself acting out of habit as you twirled a strand of hair to your finger. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d have work.”

“Nah, the boys and I are free for tonight,” he answered with a grin, nodding to where his friends – a really tall white haired man and a bored blond who looks like he’s ready to leave anytime – dancing and drinking at the corner. Geto must’ve felt your unnecessary prolonged stare at his attractive friends for he’s pulling you closer again, not sexually or even hidden with motives, but because it’s hard to hear each other through the music.

“Hey, do you wanna dance?” Nodding, you waved goodbye to your friends. They didn’t really notice considering they’re way too hammered and occupied dancing with others. Surely, they wouldn’t notice your little escapade.

Geto’s warm hands leads you somewhere out the bar and into the open grounds, where cups are already littered on the grass and people are drunkenly shaking their ass to everything and everyone.

It’s a ridiculous sight that has both you and Geto laughing.

“So…you liking the festival so far?”

“It’s…pretty fun,” you admit and loop your arms around him with ease. Normally, you wouldn’t be doing this. 

He may not be your actual professor or teacher, but he’s still a family friend of your friend who’s been tutoring you for the past semester and is basically the only reason you can endure math. Granted, he’s always been deadly attractive, but you’ve never really been affected by it, not up this close, anyway.

But you’re most definitely closer now, and Geto’s forehead is pressed against yours as he sways you both side to side.

“My first time drinking and I feel so light,” Geto hums at your slightly intoxicated eyes, his grin turning gummy when your curious hands trail up his robes to experimentally grope his pecs.

“First time, huh? We’ll I’ll be here to hold you up if you feel dizzy.”

“Thanks,” you beamed up at him. Geto, albeit being at least seven years older, feels so youthful that you’re not really bothered by the age gap. Again, it could be the alcohol, but he feels so warm, so nice, that you lean back to survey him this time around. “You look great, by the way, though you’re dressed up as…”

Geto rolls his eyes before you can finish.

“I know, the priest costume looks weird, but we found it pretty funny so here I am.”

“No, no, it looks great,” you wave off, your smile freezing on your face when a nostalgic song starts to blast through the speakers. In your head, in your head! “Zombies by the Cranberries. A classic.”

Geto’s hands snake around your waist before they hover over your ass, his eyes mischievous and slanted as he mumbles, “It’s a great song to dance with a perfect little devil with.”

You don’t know who leaned it first.

Not like it mattered, when Geto tasted strongly of strawberry flavored bear and cheesecake. An odd combination, even more so with his spicy cologne, but it only has you pulling you in closer to him.

He’s such a great kisser. Legs turned to jelly, knees weakening and lips locking in rhythm to the beat – it feels like it’s just the two of you in that moment. Geto smiles through the kiss, tongue prodding your lips to open before you’re gasping for air. Your attempt to regain air back to your lungs is cut off when Geto leans closer to slip his tongue inside your mouth, greedily sucking on it until you’re moaning in his arms.

Soon enough, you’re both holding on to each other to the point you might as well be fucking openly.

Geto is cupping your cheeks as he excitedly kisses you, his smiles intoxicating and the bubbling laughter he lets out much like music to your ears.

“Yo, Geto, are you sure about this? She looks like a minor, dude,” one of his friends speak up, and that’s when you see his white haired friend – who has extremely azure eyes that you can’t tell whether it’s contacts or not – crossing his arms on his chest, though his amused smirk said otherwise.

If anything, the guy is only suggestive, wiggling his brows up and down as he puts his fingers into a V shape, his tongue poked out.

You snort at his gestures, and just like how Geto did before, he turns your cheeks towards him again, his gaze feral and wanting. “I assure you,” Geto murmurs over your lips, “She’s not.” Eyes wide and all attention to him the way he wants, Geto’s smirk is cunning before he leans down to capture your lips in another heated kiss.

Stumbling back to his apartment turned out to be a lot more challenging. With the urgent need to relieve each other of this burning in your cores, you and Geto have made out everywhere, hands kneading each other’s skin until you fall awkwardly at his bed.

There’s no time to worry about it though. Not when he’s eagerly unbuttoning his robe, his dark hair messed up and a few strands shielding his eyes that glimmer when you struggle to squeeze out of your dress. He helps you get it off before he hovers over you, knocking your knee with his to make you fall open. You’re left completely vulnerable and naked under his predatory gaze, large hands smoothing over your skin – from your ankle, up to your thighs and the dips in your body, before he settles right above your breasts, nipples hard between his fingers.

“Fuck, you look stunning,” he praises, biting his lip at the same time you drunkenly giggle. “Bet you taste perfect too.”

“Only one way to find out, then.”

“Come here,” Get growls and rips off your panties, your half-hearted protests completely missed in his haze of pleasure. Upon seeing you bare for him, wet and pussy lips glistening, Geto groans deep in his chest. “Such a pretty pussy. Shoulda fucked you a long time ago when we were alone for so many hours,” curling his upper lip, he begins to settle down between your legs, peering up from you under his lashes as he teasingly blows air over your core that has you shivering. “I could’ve taught you so many more things, don’t you think?”

“Careful there, father, wouldn’t want you to sin tonight.”

“Oh no, you don’t get to do that to me tonight, sweetheart,” he laughs evilly, joined by you afterwards at the little teasings. “You’re a little devil and I’m nothing but a mortal man. Of course I’d fall to the consequences of my sinful desires.”

Sitting up with your elbows resting on the mattress, you tug him by his cross, hard. “Here’s your one way ticket to hell then,” you dared, letting your legs spread wider and pushing his head down. Geto inhales sharply when the tip of his nose nudges your clit, drawing out a shuddered moan from you. “Feast for yourself.”

“Hmm, you’re a whole ass fucking meal, baby,” he marveled, giving little teasing bites on your inner thigh that you’re sure would leave a mark. “I’m going to devour you.”

Geto isn’t kidding.

You clearly undermined him, or perhaps you knew all along what he could do and you just wanted to bring out this side for him, because riled up Geto who was excitedly sucking on your clit like a man starved had you seeing stars in the whites of his ceiling.

“Hnggrr, G-Geto, fuck!”

“Yeah, you like that?” he chuckles from your pussy, the vibrations of it sending electricity jolting down deep to your core. Geto begins to trail down, his tongue playfully poking your entrance as slick coats his muscle and cheeks, licking and kissing everywhere that you actually find it hard to keep quiet. Narrowing your eyes at him – and you wished you didn’t, because you’ve never seen a more lewd sight before – you slap your palm over your mouth, the only thing keeping your legs apart the strong grip he had on you. “Don’t be shy, babe. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves tonight. Scream as loud as you want. Let the neighbors hear how good I’m fucking you.”

“Y-you’re so lewd, fuck-” you announce, but the sounds of your squelching being sucked by his eager, unquenched self is even more lewd. “Geto, I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Geto just pushes you over the edge, ignoring the way your thighs are shaking and you’re pushing him away once the overstimulation becomes too much to handle. You giggle when he sighs at not being able to eat you out anymore, but his glistening face is a lot more arousing than entertaining. Struggling to catch your breath, Geto smirks at how easily you’ve come undone, groaning as he wipes your juices with his thumb and licking his lips afterwards. He bends forward as he stares at you the whole while, slipping his digit through your mouth in a silent demand for you to taste yourself.

Never pulling away from holding his gaze, you wrap your lips around his thumb, swirling your tongue and sucking just hard enough that he absentmindedly humps the air.

“You okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Shut up. You literally ate my soul out,” you stare at the trail of saliva connected to his finger, the image so fucking dirty yet arousing that you begin to clench around nothing. Meanwhile, Geto’s biceps flex as he runs his hand through his hair, and that’s when you see he’s so rock hard that he probably feels uncomfortable. “Do you want me to…?”

“You don’t have to. It’s okay.”

“Seriously, Geto, you’re declining an offer to get your dick sucked?”

“I mean, I’m not against it but-” you shove his boxers down and immediately take him into your mouth, no foreplay at all, and your teeth graze his dick as you do so. Geto’s hips sutter forward in a knee-jerk movement he almost falls down on his bed, but catches him on the last second to not crush you. He ogled at your cock-stuffed mouth and puffy cheeks, his breaths sharp from the pleasure he’s receiving. “Sh-shit, not so fast, baby. I don’t want to cum like this.”

“Hmm.”

Staring up at him innocently, Geto closes his eyes and runs his finger through your locks, slightly bucking his hips deeper into your mouth. Even in his euphoria, Geto is careful to let you go at your own pace, though his self-controls falter a little bit the moment you fondle his balls.

His eyes snap open. Teeth bared and belly flexing, you keep rendering him frozen with how you take him in deeper until his hair is tickling your nose, cheeks sucked in and hollow as you slide his cock along your warm walls. “Oh, fuck, you’re really a fucking devil, right there, yeah,” he hisses, taking a handful of your hair so he could get a better look at you. “Well, who would’ve thought? Always seemingly so innocent. Who knew you could suck dick like this?”

“You like it,” you tease while pumping his shaft up and down and giving kitten licks to the head, where Geto smirks at you.

“Yeah, I love it,” he corrects, his cock twitching on your dainty hands that look so tiny in comparison to his girth. “But no way I’m coming tonight anywhere than your pussy,” Geto pushes you back down on the bed where he showers you with heated kisses, wrists pinned under his grip and hickeys left everywhere on your neck. His sticky fingers trail down your skin to finger you, the sensation too much, too good, too wrong, and that thought alone that’s been drumming into you as the intoxication fades away make you both pause.

“I-I…”

“It’s okay, just relax,” he reassures, withdrawing his fingers that can’t get past your pussy that has now tightened the minute he touched you down there. Geto sends you another approving glance before he pumps his shaft and up down, aligning it with your entrance and kissing you flat on the lips the whole time. “I’ll put it in, okay? Tell me if anything hurts.”

“Hey, hey. Breathe,” he cups your cheek while looking deep into your eyes, though that slight pinch on his forehead let you know he experienced the same discomfort.

Geto must’ve realized both of you aren’t getting anywhere tonight because soon, he’s falling back to this side, eyeing your pussy with longing and lust before his arm lands over his face.  “Well… Maybe not tonight.”

“Geto,” you begin, turning on your side in hopes of easing the pained frown on his face. “I’m so sorry…”

“Hey, it’s fine, really, don’t worry about it,” he blinks at you and rests back on the pillows, his hand already wrapped around his hard, throbbing cock where the tip is leaking. “Let me just relieve myself. I’m so fucking hard it hurts.”

You don’t know what you’re expecting, but definitely not for him to jack off right beside you. You watch; perplexed, awed, undeniably aroused as he holds your gaze, his jaw clenched and accentuating his sharp features more from the movement. Geto is absolutely shameless as he fucks his own fist that is cum-stained, beads of white pre-cum coating his incredibly thick shaft with thick veins.

It’s so wrong yet so fucking hot that you can’t help but do the same.

Sneaking your fingers down to your kitty, you rub your clit and bite your lip, pleasuring yourself the same way he does. Geto exhales in wonder from watching you masturbate, his muscles ripping and arm so buff, you wonder why he hasn’t folded you in half yet.

Oh right, you’re too anxious to ever have his dick inside you, yet you’re shamelessly rubbing circles in your clit. Spreading your pussy lips open, you slide your fingers down and collect your juices, gasping right beside Geto who’s angrily pumping his dick.

Geto suddenly leans back on his calves to stare at your pussy and jacks off, catching some cum from your pussy lips which makes you giggle in surprise, but he comes back to fisting himself. The eroticism of your actions pushed you both to the edge until the both of you came, his dick softening and his cum shooting all over your thighs.

“God, you’re so sexy, I could stare at you all day.”

“That was…”

“Yeah,” he breathes out in stuttered chuckles, throwing a leg over the bed as he stands to hs full naked, cum-stained glory. “Hey, I’ll clean you up. Do you want something to drink or eat? A glass of water, maybe?”

“That sounds great.”

Geto comes back with a shirt of a rock festival and wipes his cum from your stomach, then folds it to wipe your arousal off. He helps you settle inside his oversized shirt that is warm, comfortable, and smells so faintly of him that the exhaustion of tonight’s events is rapidly coming to you.

“Come here. It’s pretty cold tonight,” You gladly cuddle with him, your head laid on top of his buff arm while his free one is wrapped around you.“How’s your studies going? Do you understand math a little better now?”

Despite his innocent queries, his actions are everything but.

His hands are trailing up to slowly to stroke your nipples. Geto thumbs at the hardened peaks before he softly squeezes your breast, letting his hand repeatedly graze over your sensitive nipples as if it’s second nature to him. It turns you on so bad, but you’re exhausted and you’re rubbing your thighs together, sighing and quietly moaning every now and then.

“A-a little, I guess,” you answer, a little bit distracted. He’s modest and no longer aroused (judging from his state inside his boxers), so you try not to start something you’re not prepared to finish. “Hey, Geto, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you more of an ass or boobs person?”

Geto handles the question with ease. “As long as the proportions are right, I like both, and I like yours,” he grins, cupping your boobs in his hand as if to prove a point. Then, he tugs your (his) shirt up just enough to reveal the erect nipples, his eyes narrowed before he sucks lightly on the sides. You gasp at his ministrations but voice no complaints, and neither does he when your nails dig into his arm. “Yours are so beautiful.”

“Flatterer,” you playfully punch his chest, but Geto only chuckles and brings you closer to his chest, his lips warm on top of your forehead. “I’m pretty sleepy…”

“Then sleep. I’ll still be here tomorrow, don’t worry. You’re free to stay as long as you like.”

The next day, Geto is already gone from the room. You’re not worried because one) this is a one night stand with your hot tutor, you’re not supposed to be attached, and two) the smell of pancakes wafting from the slight crack of his door is very much present.

Stretching your arms out, you pad to where Geto is busy flipping pancakes. He’s already dressed comfortably in a white shirt and dark sweats, turning around to smile at you at the sound of your footsteps. “There’s a naked girl in my room? Wow.”

“It’s not like you haven’t seen everything last night.”

Geto doesn’t need to gesture you to come closer to him, you’re already too pulled in by his presence that you’re wrapping an arm around his neck while he kisses you flat on the lips.

“Doesn’t mean I get tired of it,” he teases, lips lingering above yours before he drifts down the crook your neck, voice deep and husky as he greets, “’Morning. Can you pass me the syrup?”

Nodding, you bend over the counter. The syrup is located in the bottom of the pantry and you’re halfway to opening the glass panels when you hear Geto shut off the stove. His hands come to grip on your hips as he grinds his hard cock on your exposed bottom, his lips hovering over your ear. “On second thought…I think I’ll have my meal a little differently.”

“G-Geto.”

“I bought lube while you were asleep. Maybe it’ll make you loosen a little bit?” Geto touches you down there, his eyes glimmering with mischief once he witnesses for himself your state. “You’re already wet babe,” he announces, proudly presenting his wet fingers right before your eyes. “Wait for me.”

Nervously, you fix your shirt and hair as Geto runs to the living room where he pulls out a bottle of lube and discards his shirt somewhere. He wastes no time in lifting you up to the counter where dives between your legs, and you’re tugging at his hair as his tongue eagerly licks your wetness.

“Geto, ah, stop playing around!”

“Wasn’t planning on it, babe, I’m a little impatient,” Geto stands up again to kiss you for a quick second before he grabs the lube and spreads it all over his cock, his fingers experimentally prying your hole open to see if you could take it.

Once his digit slides in with ease, you moan the same time he grins wickedly.

You think he’ll go straight for it but Geto takes his time with you, making sure you’re properly stretched open before he splits you in his half with his cock. He’s really thick, after all, and your tight little cunt needs to adjust well to make sure you enjoy it rather than be in pain. Once satisfied, you pull Geto by the collar and wrap one leg around his waist to bring him closer, gasping when his tip slides between your pussy lips.

Both of you are too lost in a daze of lust to be able to speak properly. One nod from you is all he needs before he’s slipping inside your warm walls, his head falling into the juncture of your neck where he keeps grunting on how good you feel around him.

You can’t help but scratch down his back the deeper he drives his hips, the mere movement of his cock sliding against the bumpy drags of your tissues making you fall apart.

Not a minute later, your shirt is bunched up under your breasts, free for Geto to suck on while he fucks the living daylights out of you. His knuckles turn white from how hard he’s gripping the counter, another hand planted right under your knee to keep your leg spread open for him. You’re moaning openly under him, strings of fuck yeah right there and shit, Geto, you feel so good filling in the early morning air that would’ve been innocent if there weren’t such loud sounds of skin slapping against skin mixing with the chirping birds.

You squeeze Geto’s ass as he plants himself deeper inside you, setting a pace that is both mind-numbing and exhilarating.

It’s hard to believe that just days ago, you’re in the exact same place sharing waffles with him, only you’re studying math and he’s wearing glasses; professional, formal, polite – the exact opposite of the sinful things he’s doing to you right now.

Geto’s grunts are almost choked in your ear as you come hard, walls convulsing and spasming around his thick length.

He immediately pulls out his hard cock to come all over your thighs instead, watching the way your hole clenches around nothing while his slippery dick is smeared and repeatedly slapping your inner thighs. You keep gasping as you ride out your orgasm, thighs burning from the uncomfortable stretch of having one leg propped by him and the other heel planted on the counters. Geto’s moans are deep, sinful, and inherently masculine the whole while he shoots his deep all over you, creating a mess both on the counter and on your skin.

It takes a while before you both regain your breath and composure, with Geto awkwardly pulling his pants up as he laughs along with you. “So…breakfast?”

“Yeah,” you giggled, “I’m famished.”

Safe to say, that morning was spent with not much enough breakfast, but definitely lots of kissing and even more fucking around. Everything Geto said the first time you met him had been proven true – he did have a thing or two to teach you.

#suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader smut #suguru getou x reader smut #getou suguru x reader smut #geto suguru x reader smut #suguru geto smut #suguru getou smut #geto suguru smut #getou suguru smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto x reader #geto x reader smut #getou x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen romance #jujutsu kaisen x you #geto x you #suguru geto x reader imagines #geto suguru x reader imagines

[hongism]

04 - s.mingi + degradation (18+)

» s.mingi x gn!reader » 18+ dni if minor » language, explicit smut, cock caging, degradation, praise, ruined orgasms, overstimulation, manual stimulation, anal fingering, use of sex toys/dildos, use of a riding crop, oral sex: m receiving (but not really), some impact play/cock slapping, use of gendered slurs (directed at mingi), dacryphilia, subspace, dominant reader, submissive mingi » wc 2.7k » link to masterlist

today you have mingi on his knees, skin pressing into the pale carpet in a way that looks more comfortable than it really is. it’s deceptively innocent, even without an ounce of clothing on his body and feet tucked under his ass like he’s trying to seem smaller than he actually is. it won’t work in his favor; such behavior never does when he’s already gone this far. 

instead, it earns him a light smack over the top of his thigh with the riding crop in your hand, and the impact draws a whimper from his full lips seconds later. a slight bit of saliva trickles out the corner of his mouth, enough to catch on his chin and stop there before falling further. the visual is intoxicating in a lot of ways, things you don’t like to admit outside the bedroom out of fear of ruining the pretty, picture-perfect innocence you seem to bear there. some part of your brain does wonder what those people would think seeing you dominate mingi in this way when they always assume him to hold that position in your relationship.

on his knees, drooling and whimpering with a solid metal cage around his big useless cock, and you over him with a smile on your lips.

it’s intoxicating.

“you enjoy this, don’t you?” you inquire. the edge to your tone feigns true curiosity but your gaze says otherwise, something borderline sadistic to the way you look down at the man on his knees. “must be so hard having such a nice big cock only to have it locked up right now.”

the riding crop pushes under his chin. you raise his head to look more clearly at his face slowly, admiring the glisten on his brow and in his eyes. something twists in your brain. 

you want to see him cry.

“i asked you a question, baby boy.” 

mingi’s thighs twitch at that nickname, a blatant cue to how much he enjoys it, and his watery gaze flits up to look you in the eye.

“there’s my pretty baby, looking all good and needy for me,” you coo. there’s a faux innocence in your words, lacing some easy praise in to heighten the blow you’re about to deliver. “what a pathetic slut.”

if he could crumple to the floor, you don’t doubt that he would do so now, but he has enough sense to stay put despite how the words send a shudder through his spine. he tucks his hands further under his legs, pressing between where his calves and thighs squeeze together and make his skin splay like the perfect canvas for you to paint on. the red streaks across his pale skin, the sheen of sweat over them, and the way his muscles tremble from the effort of keeping still — he’s a masterpiece, one of your own creation, and you don’t plan on letting anyone else see him.

for now, though, you wish for those crystalline tears to fall, you want to see spit smeared over his neck and chest, and you want to hear him gag prettily for you. 

“what do you want, baby?” you take a moment to squat down to his height, head tilting to the side as you look him in the eye. “want me to touch you?”

mingi offers his first weak nod of the night as his cheeks flush a pretty red and he ducks his chin to the side. 

“good boy.” perhaps it’s a bit too cruel, the way you lower the riding crop further and slip the tip between the small gap in his cock cage. the leather digs into his dick, teasing his slit enough to make mingi writhe under your touch. he’s still good though — still stays put and doesn’t try bringing his hands out from where they’re losing feeling between his legs. it’s going to result in his first ruined orgasm, and you count the seconds in your head before he cries out and a weak trail of cum spills through the slit of metal encasing. “must be hard having to cum like that, baby. can’t even put your big dick to good use, huh?”

“n-no,” mingi whimpers as you pull the riding crop back and hold it to his face.

“clean it for me.”

his tongue slips out like he’s putting it on display. you give him a sweet smile that’s deceptively innocent again. the first slap of the leather on his tongue is a shock to him. it’s almost enough for him to lose his position and grab for his crotch, and you’re nearly tempted to take the cage off for him so he can cum properly. he has to earn that right though. you only give him two more sharp hits to the tongue before turning away and stepping over to the edge of the bed. mingi pants behind you, almost dog-like in how hard he’s breathing.

“need a break, princess? what’s your color?”

“green…. ‘m okay, ‘m okay, p-promise,” mingi huffs out in response, lifting his gaze to you as you look back at him over your shoulder. 

“my pretty baby, you’re so good for me,” you singsong back through a tight-lipped grin. “made to be my perfect little toy… made for me, yeah?”

“y-yes.” 

you exhale a breathy laugh despite his affirmation not being funny in the slightest.

“you aren’t being so chatty tonight, love, are you sure you want me that badly?”

“i do!” mingi almost stumbles over his words in the rush he makes to affirm them, and another laugh slips free, one that comes from your chest with more force. “i do, please, i want you.”

“please?” you echo, arching a brow at the collection of toys before you. you settle on one in particular and pick it up with delicate fingers and a smirk. 

“please, please, i’ll beg, i’ve been good. i’m still in position! i’m being so good for you, y/n, i really am, right?”

“you are…” you turn back towards mingi, letting a genuine smile of adoration come over your lips. “you’re being my perfect little princess, baby. the perfect toy for me. you’re always so good, aren’t you?”

mingi nods like a man possessed, motions erratic in his rush to affirm your words. you press the head of the dildo in your hand further into your palm. 

“do you wish this were you?” the stroke you give to the shaft is long and obnoxious, emphasizing the twist of your wrist and how you squeeze the base lightly. mingi goes dumb for a moment; his gaze flits over the silicone then up to your face then back down to your hand that repeats the rhythmic motions. “can’t even use your stupid cock to please me right now, but that’s okay, right? you can get off if i fuck myself with this in front of you, no?”

the whimper that leaves mingi is borderline pathetic.

“don’t worry, my love. i won’t do that to you. you’ve been so good for me tonight… there’s no need for punishment, okay?”

“promise?” he asks, lashes growing wetter by the second. your gut twists and turns, the desire to see those tears fall over the balls of his cheeks rising up only for you to squash it a second later.

“promise, baby boy.” you step closer to him again, and rather than kneeling down to his height, you merely stop before him and lower the flesh-toned dildo to his lips. “won’t you be a good cockslut and suck for me?”

it’s a lewd mimicry of an actual blowjob — the visual of him taking the dildo that’s settled in your palm right beside your hip almost makes it look real. his lips stretch around the girth, the size of it almost akin to how his own erection would look if not for the metal keeping him locked up right now. there’s a certain haziness to the way mingi blinks up at you, the motions slower than normal like he’s thinking too hard about it or approaching a different mindset that will leave him needy and clingy for hours to come. not that you mind — taking care of him afterward is almost as good as taking care of him during, and you’d rather die than be a bad dom for him. 

you push the dildo to the back of his mouth, hitting his throat in one easy thrust, and the tears overflow. they stream over his skin with ease, and you see his shoulders begin to cave in a bit with each passing second. his hips jut in little staggered motions that betray his intentions, but you simply let him strive for a friction that will never really come. not the way he wants at least. 

he’s drooling around the cock between his lips and wetting it more and more with each thrust. you can't resist the urge to take your free hand to his chin, catching a dribble of saliva and smearing down towards his chest. you cross the planes of his flat chest with a wet path in your wake before reaching one of his budded nipples. just brushing over it with the slightest amount of pressure has him groaning out a low moan. like music to your ears, he repeats the sound when you tweak his nipple a little harder. 

“you can cum, baby boy. think your pathetic cock can squirt for me?” you pull the dildo from his mouth to let him speak, obviously waiting for an answer with the way you dangle the fake cock just out of his reach. his voice comes out gravelly and low when he manages to squeak out a response. 

“good whores can.”

“is that what you are, my love?”

“please,” he whispers, an edge of desperation to his tone, and you can’t deny him what he wants.

“yes, my baby, you’re a good whore for me. all mine.” you nudge the dildo back to his waiting mouth, putting more pressure into your push this time around. mingi takes it almost greedily like it can’t get in his throat fast enough, and he all but leans into it seconds later. you squat down to his level, at last, keeping one arm up to thrust the silicone between his plump lips that have long since swollen up from the overuse. you don’t have your key on hand — it’s over on the bed along with your other supplies — but you won’t be needing it quite yet, reaching down to grip the little bit of his shaft that isn’t trapped within the metal cage. 

mingi gags around the dildo once more, but this time you aren’t nearly as deep in his throat, so you withdraw the toy to let him choke out a few words. 

“c-can you finger me? please?” 

your mind goes blank for half a second, hand reaching up to sweep away some of the leftover tears on his cheeks before you recover and remember your place in the scene. 

“mm, keep sucking.” you push the dildo down to the floor then go to pull mingi’s hands out from under his thighs. the freedom has him flexing his probably numb fingers as best he can, but he doesn’t waste any time in sitting up on his knees and bending in half to reach the fake cock once more. you get to your feet, eyes taking in the pretty expanse of his back and ass, the red marks on his hamstrings that indicate how much pressure he was putting on his hands. even as you retrieve the lube from the bed, mingi doesn’t budge and continues to follow your gentle orders without complaint.

you announce your arrival behind him with a sharp backhand slap to one side of his ass, delighting in the way he jolts and clenches around nothing. his noises are muffled by the dildo, but still music to your ears as always. his cock dangles uselessly between his legs, and the metal encasing jingles with his sporadic movements. 

your first finger is cold when it slips into the heat of mingi’s ass, no effort put into trying to warm up the lube when you know how much mingi enjoys that first chill a little more every time. your fingers aren’t nearly as long as mingi’s so the effort that goes into searching for his sweet spot is far greater than it would be the other way around. he seems to content to wait, dick still dribbling strings of translucent cum like he never stopped cumming in the first place. you know by now he’s surely bordering the brink of overstimulation, the limit where it starts to become too much, but he keeps whining each time you threaten to pull your fingers out of him.

“one more, baby boy, then we’ll be done for the night and get you cleaned up,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him at this point because of how far gone he is. it’s endearing in a way, at least in your eyes it is, and it turns intoxicating once more with the first brush of your fingers over his prostate. 

“hngh, o-oh… y/n, ah, i’ll cum early!” his mouth pops off the dildo to spew the words, and spit pools on the wood floor with his motions. 

“the sooner you finish, the sooner we can get you in the bath, love.” you dig your fingers as deep as they can go, crooking them midway to repeat the same brush over his sweet spot. it garners you the reaction you were after — mingi cries out louder than he has so far in this session, legs going weak as he threatens to topple over. you grab for his hip with your free hand and try your best to steady his big body before he fully falls. all his cock can do at this point is give a few more weak spurts of the same translucent cum that pools on the floor between his legs. “good job, baby, look at you. you did so well for me.”

“y/n, i-i, fuck, i—”

“shh, baby, you’re okay, i’ve got you, okay?” you turn him to the side as gently as you can, trying to avoid any of the bodily fluids that are now spread over the wood, and help him lay flat against the floor on his back. you won’t make him stay there long, only enough for him to catch his breath and get some feeling back in his legs. you’ll get the key to his cage later too; you can’t risk leaving him right as he’s coming down from an orgasm even if it’s just a few feet away. so you drag yourself up his lanky body and settle over his waist with hands planted on his shoulders and a smile on your lips. “you with me still?”

“y-yeah,” he pants, eyes squeezed shut so tightly that there are wrinkles around his temples. you shift your hands up to brush over those spots, and the man under you relaxes into the touch. 

it’s a slow process, bringing him down from the intensity of the orgasm and overstimulation, but it’s comfortable as well if you ignore the sweat sticking to your bodies. 

“mm, okay, ‘m back, i’m back. fuckin’ drowsy as hell,” he murmurs some time later. the way his words slur is indication enough of his exhaustion, but you aren’t about to let him pass out on the floor like this.

“okay, big boy, up we go then. let’s take a bath and let me get everything cleaned up then you can pass out.” you move to climb off mingi and get to work, but he catches hold of your waist and tugs you back down to his face momentarily.

“love you, baby.”

you smile into his lips, pressing a chaste kiss there.

“i love you too.”

#mingi smut #ateez smut #ateez x reader #mingi x reader #mingi drabbles #mingi imagines #ateez drabble #ateez drabbles #ateez imagine #ateez imagines #mingi drabble #mingi imagine #kinktober2021 #erm hello #im early tonight #now i have to go take a quiz so <3 #enjoy in the meantime #be back in #an hour? #or so? #we'll see HAHA

[kashimos-hajime]

the colour yellow | jjk

summary: “You once said love manifests the most twisted curses. I never thought of it that way before, but I’m starting to think you’re right.”

WARNINGS: ANGST!! hanahaki disease but not an au, HOSPITALS, DEATH, DESCRIPTIONS OF DISEASE, UNHEALTHY WEIGHT LOSS, pining, unrequited love, complicated feelings, its just sad. there are some light-hearted moments, and happier/softer aspects in the ending but it is generally sad in the ‘what could have been’ department pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader, past geto suguru x fem!reader, mentions of satosugu word count: 29.9k lmao

a/n: i just needed to get the hanahaki out of my system. it did not work. i took liberties w the timeline because idc about actual jjk canon in this fic thanks. 

playlist for this fic

crossposted on ao3 x

Your Innate Technique always gave you a green thumb. Meaning, similarly enough to Yaga, you could plant cursed energy into objects.

Where it deviated, Satoru knows, is the type of object. Plants—trees, leaves, flowers. 

Ironic, he thinks numbly as he walks through the hospital. Shoko had told him that at this point it was palliative care until you died—nothing else would work. Cursed energy only fed your sickness, and even her technique could not heal the damage fast enough. Stupid. Idiotic. Cruel.

Cruel. That was the word.

He hadn’t seen it himself but from how his old friend had described it, it could only be cruel. 

His footsteps tap along the linoleum floors, urgent, but not too fast. A part of him dreads what he will see—his mind swirls with the possibilities, and of guilt.

Why didn’t he just come sooner? Why did he think it was okay to wait, to dismiss Itadori when he said you’d been checked in for your coughing fits?

“She’s strong. She’ll be fine,” he had said. Itadori’s small frown. “A little feather in her throat isn’t going to knock her down.”

Why? Why? Why? Why did he say that?

Because it had to be serious to put you in the hospital. For fuck’s sake, you were still that teenage girl who stood outside his dorm window in the middle of a thunderstorm to bring Fushiguro a birthday present before you left for a curse expedition a thousand years ago, and the woman who welcomed him into your home unprompted on December 24th, your cheeks dry, lips pressed in a brave smile.

You had held him tight enough he could not see the blood, scrubbed him in a bathtub, ran your fingers through his hair until the sweat and grime was gone. You took care of him because he knows the belief that no one should be left behind to suffer alone has been engrained in you since the day he’s met you.

He should’ve known. A girl abandoned for being cursed had turned into woman with a saviour complex who’d barely even think about telling him you were dying. 

Dying, of all things, from a disease no one knows how to cure. And you’re a sorcerer.

He could’ve laughed. The irony is enough to make him smile.

Your room’s in a tiny corner of the hospital, down the hall from a nurse’s station, and as he walks through, he can see the grey sunlight streaming through the window, glaring against his glasses. He lifts them to rub the heel of his hand into his eye.

He doesn’t want you to worry when you see him, and mostly, he needs to stall. His heart is in knots in his chest, and he spots a chair beside the door with your name in the plastic slate, so he sits down. His knees feel gummy and he leans forward, the visitor’s pass clipped to the front of his shirt hanging. 

Satoru tugs the glasses off his face, fits his palm over his brow and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s chilling in this dead end, and he swallows tightly. Everything tastes so dry as he looks up and shoves his hand underneath the sanitizer dispenser, rubbing it all over his hands just so he has something to do.

After a few minutes, he gets up and sets a hand on the knob. 

It can’t be as bad as he’s imagining. At most, you’re a bit sick, but you’ll still be spritely, warm in the lips and with arms outstretched and, “Satoru, finally!”

He opens the door. 

You’re sitting hunched over in bed. Silhouette outlined by the white-grey sunlight from outside your hospital room, you’re trembling as you hold onto a receptacle. An IV is hooked to your arm, a hospital gown is barely hiding anything, and it feels immoral to even look so Satoru doesn’t. Instead, he pauses by the doorframe and closes his eyes for a moment as your gaze flashes to him. 

He feels it, to be honest. The heat of your stare until it is wrenched away by a violent cough you instinctually muffle by your palm, blood splattering over your hand, soft, velveteen purple petals falling from your lips and into the receptacle in your lap. 

You’re supposed to have a green thumb.

Vines bend to your will if you command it, you can summon forth thorns to impale your opponents, send thick creeping ivy to barricade a doorway. It doesn’t matter if there is no greenery in your immediate area. At the sweep of your hand, the ground could rumble with the sound of trees twisting their gnarled roots into feet to march at your command.

Just as long as they’re within range and you’ve touched them in the past few hours, they’re yours.

So, why can’t you stop this?

Plants are supposed to listen to you, right? As he stares at your shaking body on the bed, curved over the plastic tub, thick globs of bloodied spit drip from your lips and soaked purple blossom petals entwine with your life essence. His heart plummets to his chest. You retch, spit, choke, and every sound stabs him in the chest as he takes a weak step forward, hand stretched out limply.

Your name flutters, barely leaves his lips before you’re looking at him again, a bit of a mortifying image but nonetheless.

Even so, you smile, despite the blood painting your face, the exhaustion morphing your body. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks, and your hands shake around the receptacle. You look battered, bruised along the arms where the needles keeping you filled with antibiotics, medicine you need, had punctured you.

And still, you’re beaming at him. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Hi, Satoru.”

His hand falls. Eyes wide, he cannot take another step. You wipe at your lips, tossing the tissue into the trash before pushing the plastic receptacle onto the table and swinging your legs off the bed.

“Don’t—“ he croaks but you don’t listen, sliding your feet into slippers and grabbing your IV stand to take a step towards him. Your knees nearly give in but you stick out a hand before he can rush to catch you. Then, you’re pushing yourself up and walking over to him. It’s more of a shuffle, but Gojo finds he can’t care as you land on his chest, hands pressing into his back.

You’re a bit cold in his arms, and he wraps himself around you, trying to rub the heat back into your skin as you shudder, but your heart is still racing as it always does around him, and you…

You’re the type of person who can shift how the air feels and looks to his Six Eyes with your smile or your tears or your frown, and in that moment, the air bleeds yellow with your joy. It’s so bright in his soul that it makes his heart skip as you shift on your feet against him, hands sliding down so your arms can circle his waist and haul him closer. 

“Gojo Satoru turning off his infinity for little ole me,” you murmur, voice raspy, as he closes his eyes, cradling your head. Without another word, he sinks into you. “Talk about the world ending.”

Why didn’t you just call him? Why did you let him stay away for so long? He doesn’t want to ask why it’s happening, or how. He already knows you’ll just lie. But he wants to know if you think so lowly of him that you thought you didn’t matter to him.

After Suguru…

How could you think that? He’s screaming inside his mind as he touches your back, feels the faint protruding ridges along your skin when he pushes down. It makes your spine a bit more pronounced along the knobs, your shoulder blades a bit bumpy, but otherwise, it’s almost normal. One wouldn’t even be able to tell without touching you and actively searching for it. How could you think I don’t care?

This isn’t the work of a cursed spirit, that much he knows. It seems much more seductive, sneaking yet unhurried in its nature. This is agony in effigy. There’s something rotten inside you, but he can’t tell what it is. The energy is everywhere.

You pull back to look up at him with a soft smile, then tap his nose and tell him to join you before turning around and climbing back into bed with energy that betrays your earlier fits. You grab your robe that you’ve left on your bed before getting up again and walking around, shrugging the fabric back onto your shoulders.

He sits down in a visitor’s chair that is still cold.

“It comes and goes,” you explain first with your new, croaky voice, stretching your arms above your head and rubbing your neck. It doesn’t look painful, but you clear your throat a lot to see if it helps. So far, nothing. “So, it’s just like a really bad coughing fit, to be honest.”

“How long has it been going on?” Your hip cracks and you let out a relieved sigh. Satoru arches an eyebrow as you animatedly stretch your face. “What are you doing, silly?”

“It got worse a few weeks ago, enough that Nanami insisted I check myself in around two weeks ago?” you say, after counting on your fingers. Satoru’s heart plummets. “But it’s levelled out since I’ve been moved here and off-campus. And I’m stretching. When I get back out there, I have to remember how to emote.” You flash him a bedazzling grin and a bit of the weight lifts off his shoulders as you swallow down another cough. This time, it’s successful and you only let out a short, raspy breath before shaking it out.

You aren’t even doing that bad. 

The blood, the flowers, that must’ve been just a bad bout, but otherwise, you seem quite normal.

That’s what he tells himself, and he believes it.

With relief, he stretches out his legs, leaning his head back on his hands. Your room’s pretty nice—much nicer than an average hospital room. Plants on the windowsills, some get-well-soon cards and a desk in the corner filled books that you look like you haven’t even begun to read, some paintings hanging off the walls. 

You wave a hand to grab his attention again.

“Don’t look,” you chastise, tying the robe around your waist. “Some of these are works in progress.”

“So Itadori and Shoko were just exaggerating,” he assumes. You look up at him, quirking an eyebrow. “If you’re attempting to paint, I know all that’s happened is that you’ve lost your mind.”

“Shut up.”

“Well, they made it out as if you were dying. If it’s just a lung issue, they could probably just fix it and we can get back to exorcising curses and making fun of Fushiguro’s teen angst,” he says, crossing his legs at the ankles. You step over them to go to the window and examine your plants, and he eyes you in his peripheral, watching you inspect one of the leaves before looking next at some blooming flowers. You don’t answer, and the grey light makes you look melancholy until you shrug.

“The doctors say I need to rest, save my strength and all that,” you finally say vaguely. “And don’t make fun of Fushiguro.”

“I’d never do that.”

You tilt your head and arch an eyebrow skeptically before flicking his forehead with a sharp donk. “I’m not above slapping the shit out of you.” He opens his mouth to argue and you hold up a finger, shutting him up. “And you can’t hit back as revenge. Ill hospital patient rights.”

“You can’t take the moral stand. Vengeance has no gender bias,” he exclaims, sitting up but you merely smirk, leaning over and shoving your face into his space before turning your head to present your cheek. His eyes widen as you poke your own face tauntingly.

“Do it, then.”

Gawking for a moment, Satoru stares but you only wink and he pushes you away lightly. You stumble a bit and he jumps to his feet to catch you but you manage to right yourself up, shooting him a foul glare. He glares back in response.

“Well, obviously, I wasn’t going to actually slap you,” he says, indignant.

“So you pushed me instead? Gojo, in your words, you are the strongest. You never know how to control the strength you push out.”

“Yes, I do!”

“One time, you patted Megumi on the back and you sent him into the pavement.”

“He was nine.”

“It still happened!” you cry, although an impish smile is already curling at your lips and it isn’t long before it spreads to Satoru, warm bright yellow and enough that it absolves any of the remaining pain in his body as you straighten up, holding onto your IV stand for support. The metal rattles a bit as the wheels roll. Your feet brush the ground. You lift your head up wretchedly.

It’s almost like that weakness sobers you.

The expression that overtakes you frightens Satoru to fucking death. 

His face feels like it numbs, staring at the darkness that seeps the light away. You stare at the metal pole your fingers are wrapped so tightly around, and then you look at the bag hanging there, clear and round and soft to your touch as you straighten up.

“Satoru,” you say softly.

“Yeah?” His voice is so quiet he’s not sure he even speaks. He can’t remember the last time you had looked so dispassionate at anything in his life. Even death had left its mark—black frowns, long streaks underneath your eyes.

Your apathy is dark purple, an endless void colour. 

“When I die, make sure Shoko’s the one who cuts me open to find out what’s wrong with me.”

Something prickles at his fingertips. He touches your shoulder and half-thinks his fingers will go right through you.

“You’re not going to die,” he insists firmly. “It’s just a bad cough.” You look up at him and blink. Then you touch your lips and shudder down another cough.

“We all die.”

“It’s not your time, yet.” His fingers dig into your shoulder. You don’t even wince even though you’re clenching his jaw but he can’t find it in himself to loosen his hold. It feels like the Jaws of Death. A crocodile’s bite.

So much for not being able to control his own power.

“It’s just a bad cough.” He ignores everything Shoko had said. Sometimes she’s wrong—sometimes, it’s not even that bad. He’d just seen it, hadn’t he? You were stretching, jumping onto your bed, acting like nothing was wrong.

Palliative care? As if you needed it—

You blink, then, and look at him. Stare at him as if you’d never said those words, and he had never reached out. 

You jerk your shoulder out of his grip. It stings more than it should.

“Right. But I’m just saying. You know how you always say I’ve got a few screws loose. It just makes sense someone will wanna crack me open to see what was going on up there and I want it to be her.” 

You smile, and the yellow cancels out the purple. 

Colour theory. 

But Satoru doesn’t smile back.

“What about the flowers?” he asks after a while. You’ve climbed back onto bed and he’s sat back down. You’re blowing into a spirometer, and every time, without fail, the ball shoots up to the top, clattering against the plastic. He watches, hoping that the next time, it’ll do the same thing again.

You stop and look at him. “What about them?”

“Is it some optical illusion? Why are they in your throat?”

“That’s a harder nut to crack,” you muse. “I don’t really know. It’s like when you’ve got food in your esophagus and you’re trying to cough it up so it doesn’t feel stuck anymore except it keeps building up. That only started a few days ago, though, so maybe, someone drugged me or something.” He doesn’t laugh and you frown. “Not funny?”

He shakes his head. “It’s freaky.”

.

He sits on the bench on campus. 

He’s cancelled classes because he didn’t come up with a standard lesson plan and his students are glad to have a Monday afternoon off, even if they’d never say it to his face. In truth, he’d spent the whole weekend at the hospital until he reeked of antiseptic and pollen. 

You coughed up five petals, and without fail, a nurse would come in hourly intervals to collect them. Shoko came once, to check up on you and to collect the samples. If she was surprised Satoru was sitting in the corner on his phone, she didn’t voice it.

“She’s not even doing that bad,” he says to the air, more accusatory than anything. The woman standing by him doesn’t answer and sits down beside him uninvited. Turning to look at her, his eyes narrow behind his blindfold. “You said she needed palliative care until she died. The doctor said she could leave tonight.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive concepts,” she informs, not looking at him. Shoko looks a bit out of place in the warm colours of the garden. Half a corpse herself. Waif-like. “The doctor’s letting her relax in the comfort of her own home before she dies. That’s all.”

“She’s not going to die.”

She snorts. “Denial isn’t a good colour on you.” The words could’ve been delivered colder. Satoru is grateful that they weren’t. 

Shoko rests her hands on her knees, tilts her head up, and sighs. Her long hair is like warm chocolate in the sunlight, spilling down her arched back from the knot she tied. “If you have any idea on how to fix this, I’m listening with both ears.”

“I don’t even know what it is,” he says. “Coughing and flowers? I’ve never heard of a sickness like that before.”

“Nanami pointed out that it could be a curse someone placed on her. I don’t know why, but it’d be an explanation.” Satoru spreads his legs, plants an elbow on his knee and leans forward to look at the ants travelling along the cobblestone before his shoe. “It manifested on some negative emotion lingering inside her and it’s growing every day, but she won’t budge.” Shoko sighs. Her purple eye bags look worse in the sunlight, but he would never tell her that. “Maybe you’d have a better chance digging into her. With Geto gone, there’s no one else to ask, is there?”

“What about you? What happened to girls and their little secrets?” he jokes, trying to ignore the ache that begins to bloom in his chest. Shoko eyes him wryly.

“I have suspicions, but there are some things girls don’t ask other girls,” she retorts. “It’s never been my business anyway. My job is to treat her, and I’ve given her options. It’s up to her to take them. Grief is a birthing ground for curses, and if she’s letting them feed on her freely, you know what fate is waiting for her.”

With that, she gets up and leaves as quickly as she arrived. Satoru swallows the smell of flowers and feels sick.

.

Monday night, Satoru pulls up his laptop and looks through, searching up words he can string together in a coherent sense to get the answers he wants. As rare as it probably is, some research wouldn’t hurt, would it? Some curses had a trademark affliction—maybe this one does, too.

So he searches up flower coughing to see if there has ever been a record of strange deaths that have made the news. If not, he’ll go to the jujutsu databases, but for now, maybe some publicity could put some answers to this question.

He is surprised when one of the first results is flower coughing disease. 

When he hits enter, the white screen blasts into blue irises with numerous results all repeating the same two words.

HANAHAKI DISEASE

And Satoru reads, and reads, and reads. He reads two weeks to three months, he reads unrequited love, and removal, and disappearance of romantic feelings and capacity for romantic love.

He reads fictional disease and wonders how much of it really is fictional. 

His phone pings with a text, and he grabs at it, tilts it just enough to get a glimpse of the screen. It’s from you, and he hasn’t read a text from you in so long he almost doesn’t recognize who it’s from except he does because… who else could it be?

[Greenbean] 11:02 PM

hey!!! guess whos finally fucking free oh my god

ugh out of the hospital and forgot how actual air smelled like lol bitch im so hungry i could eat a zoo

Letting his phone clatter, he sighs and rubs his face roughy, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before snapping his laptop shut and getting up. His phone buzzes again and he reaches for it blindly, the screen lighting up as he goes to bed.

[Greenbean] 11:03 PM

we should get smth to eat!! i wanna go to that new ramen place in ikebukoro

[Satoru] 11:03 PM

fine but you good???? who picked you up from the hospital? still insulted you didnt let me tbh

also what did the doctor say???

[Greenbean] 11:04 PM

bc ur a menace who doesnt know how to drive 

he said itd get worse before itd get better so still gotta go for checkups but yeah dont worry and nanami came bc he didnt trust me not to try and walk home lol but he did buy me dinner

wasnt enough though!!!

…

[Greenbean] 11:06 PM

ok but fr does he think im insane

clearly id flash some skin and hitch a ride duh

…

[Greenbean] 11:10 PM

youre just gonna leave me on read? yikes

[Satoru] 11:12 PM

i was getting ready to sleep silly

and yeah ill come pick you up on saturday for lunch?

[Greenbean] 11:15 PM

sorry making instant noodles rn but yeah that sounds fine

wait youre sleeping so early lmfao

[Satoru] 11:16 PM

im old :/

  [Greenbean] 11:18 PM

u sure are

(image sent)

look!!! my babies are still alive!!! idk how but miracles do exist im tellin ya

[Satoru] 11:24 PM

inumaki, maki, and fushiguro broke into ur home to water them but dont tell them i told u

[Greenbean] 11:24 PM

wtf

[Satoru] 11:25 PM

yeah idk when but i think u teaching inumaki how to pick locks has opened up too many possibilities but also its really funny thanks

now go to sleep u need to rest

[Greenbean] 11:28 PM

whos gonna make me lol youre not my dad

[Satoru] 11:29 PM

lol 

remember how i can teleport 

lol so cool

[Greenbean] 11:30 PM

dude

wtf

fine 

goodnight hoe </3

[Satoru] 11:31 PM

goodnight knock off poison ivy <3

.

“You’ve looked better,” Shoko says. Satoru raises his head wearily as he pushes off the wall. Shoko’s holding a cup of coffee, her lab coat fresh on her shoulders and eye bags looking more printed on rather than natural swelling. Satoru can’t help but feel the same exhaustion. “Definitely looked worse. What do you want? It’s early.”

“Have you ever heard of Hanahaki disease?” he asks. She shakes her head, and he pulls up the page on his phone and hands it to her. She takes it from him and her eyes scan the screen as he continues, “It’s this fictional disease, something that stems from unrequited love, and I think it could be related to whatever she’s experiencing.”

“I thought you were set on willing her to survive,” she replies dryly, shooting him a quick look and adjusting the coffee in her hand. “But this is definitely one of your stranger theories.”

Satoru ignores that last part. “It’d make sense. With her Cursed Technique, maybe it manifested in a way that links to it.”

She pushes into the office, setting the coffee on her desk and sitting down. Satoru sits down on the exam table closest and leans forward eagerly as she continues to read the page, scrolling down occasionally before scrolling back up and sighing. “This is a stretch. The timeline doesn’t match up to what this is saying.”

“This is a curse. It doesn’t have to follow fiction.” His body feels sore, janky even, everywhere. He barely got a wink of sleep last night and he knows he’s paying for it, now. “Hell knows life rarely does, anyway. But the symptoms matches too well, doesn’t it? The flowers—you’ve done scans, haven’t you?”

She deliberates his words carefully as she looks to the file cabinet and pulls out a binder. Satoru catches a flash of your name on the spine before she moves her coffee and his phone out of the way to flip it open.

“The scans we’ve taken have only just begun to show small growths in her trachea,” she allows, “and we don’t fully understand how cursed energy affects our bodies, so I suppose it could be something like Hanahaki, if the negative energy stemming from December 24th was what brought this on or if these symptoms started when we were still students, but she’s been experiencing shortness of breath a few months before Christmas.” Satoru’s lungs squeeze the last of the air out of them at that, and a cold sweat drops down his spine as she hands his phone back to him. “It only started getting worse Suguru’s death, which meant there had to have been a trigger before that.”

In the back of his head, he hears your voice, light and yellow, saying a few weeks. It got worse a few weeks ago. 

“Worse?”

“The first petal fell some time after Christmas. It’s been a slow, but steady progression since then. Sometimes, it’s two or three. When it’s not a good day, there can be as many as seven to ten.” Shoko switches on the lamp on the corner of her desk and adjusting the direction of the white light before flipping the page. “But if we can find the original trigger and alleviate that pressure it’s putting on her, we could buy her more time.”

“So it’s been nearly six months since the first petal,” he says. Shoko nods. Satoru is grateful for the blindfold—she can’t see how blank everything looks on his face. “It said sometimes, the disease can last for eighteen months.”

“As you said, this isn’t a fairytale.” She half-spins on her chair to face him and leans back into it, crossing one leg over the other and jiggling her knee. “I saw that one of the solutions is excise the growths at the cost of the attachment. That was one of the options I gave her when the growths first appeared. She said she wanted more time before she could decide.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because she’s smart, and likes to push her damned limits. And if this is truly the basis of the curse”—she gestures to Satoru’s phone. Her expression flickers—“those flowers are feeding off cursed energy. Cutting them out would remove those negative emotions, but at a cost of something else. Maybe whatever feelings she has regarding the trigger.”

Satoru looks down at his phone. It feels heavier than a thousand cinderblocks in his clammy hands. His fingers are numb as his screen dims and finally locks itself. Pressing the button, it illuminates again to reveal a picture of a cactus you gave him for his birthday years ago, blooming with delicate purple petals. 

His heart rends. That cactus is long dead now.

“But, Suguru’s dead.” 

“That’s why I asked you to ask her,” Shoko mutters. 

Turning to her binder again, she picks up a pen and clicks it, lowering it to the paper before pausing, and Satoru looks up as she stares at whatever words are printed into the page distantly. A strange affliction is on her face, almost tormented, and Satoru is not-so-kindly reminded that before Suguru and Satoru, Shoko was your best friend first. 

“Tell her how idiotic she’s being,” she enforces quietly. “The longer it lives, the more permanent damage is inflicted. With the unpredictable nature of curses, that won’t take long and by then, it’ll be too late to consider removing it.”

.

Saturday comes too fast, yet not fast enough. By the end of the week, Satoru is all but finished with teaching, and is waiting outside your apartment, leaning against the car as he scrolls through his phone. He’s done a bit more research on this Hanahaki disease, but even the word makes him shiver with the implications. 

“Satoru!” Turning, he catches you loping easily towards him. You’re dressed in billowy, wide-legged dark mint green pants and a pretty white top that makes you look more nymph than human, with a canvas tote bag hanging off your shoulder. You flash him a smile as you fiddle with the fabric tie at the waistband of your pants nervously. “Hi.”

“Hey. Hope you don’t mind I brought Ijichi along for the ride since someone claims I can’t drive.”

“You don’t have your license, sir,” Ijichi says wearily as you bend over to wave through the window. "It would be illegal for you to be on the road in any capacity—oh, hello, ma’am. It’s nice to see you doing so well.”

“Thanks, Ijichi. I think I’m doing better after getting out of there,” you say as Satoru opens the car door for you and he smirks, eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses. You straighten up, looking at him before poking his chest and it’s almost just like the good ole days as you break out into a grin that crinkles your entire face. “What’s with you being a gentleman? It better not be because I was in the hospital.”

“Of course not,” he admonishes. “I wouldn’t dare dream of being polite to you of all people.” Still, he sidesteps and sweeps his arm, gesturing for you to climb in first which you do, exhaling a bit shakily as you settle in and slide over. By the time he’s settled in beside you, you have a fist over your lips and you’re clearing your throat testily.

A worm of unease wriggles into his stomach as he clips in his seatbelt, pulling the lapels of his unbuttoned green shirt free from the strap. Legs spreading, he lets his hands fold in his lap as Ijichi begins to drive them to their destination. You’ve lowered your hand by now, looking out the window, and it’s not bright enough that Satoru can read your expression on the glass.

It’s clear you don’t want to talk about it, but still, that nagging feeling bites at him as he rolls the divider up between the backseat and the front—a mock of privacy.

“The place we’re going to gives me the same vibe as that family-owned restaurant we went to when we were students. The one in Kagurazaka,” you say after a while, turning back to look at him. You’re wearing a bracelet that jangles when you move your hand to adjust the seatbelt across your chest. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Have you been?”

“One time, before I checked in,” you tell him, smiling still. “It was really good. The perfect last meal.” Satoru does well enough to hide his frown at your choice of words as you meet his eyes. “You know, you can ask. I’m not fragile.”

“I don’t have anything to ask,” he lies. “I’m just glad you’re out of the hospital.”

“Me, too. I’ve missed so much and it drove me insane. Yaga-sensei insists that I don’t work until I’m sure I’m feeling better,” you add. “But to be honest, there’s nothing much that can be done to make me feel better.”

“I see. So you’re still coughing up flowers?”

“Petals,” you correct, “and a bit. Don’t worry. It’ll get better soon.” You wave a hand and turn to look out the window and Satoru’s appetite all but vanishes. He doesn’t know why you’re so intent on lying to him about the severity of your condition, but as your knee jiggles relentlessly the whole car ride with unbridled excitement, he wonders if you’re even aware of how sick you could be. 

His Six Eyes scan your body for signs of a curse. Normally, those plagued have their little burdens hanging off their shoulders, prying their head open, biting into an arm or leg, but he finds yours lives inside your chest, just barely hidden by the yellow light brimming from your body as you reach forward to lower the divider and talk to Ijichi.

They reach Ikebukuro before they’re dropped off after Satoru insists on walking the rest of the way.

“Give us some privacy, Ijichi! We both know you’ll just eavesdrop for the juicy details,” he exclaims loudly, leading to the man to blush furiously, stuttering that he’d do no such thing, and earning Satoru a smack on the back of his head, knocking his sunglasses askew.

“Thanks for the ride, Ijichi,” you say warmly as if you hadn’t slapped a concussion into Satoru. The Assistant Director dips his head. “See you later!” With that, he drives off and the two sorcerers are left in the busy street. Satoru looks around curiously, but you tug him along up the main road of the district and immediately turn right into one of the smaller streets. A few cyclists race past, as well as cars, but the traffic seems relatively slow despite it being the weekend. There are people walking along the white lines separating the lanes, chatting merrily as you lead him to the restaurant.

“I forgot how actual sunlight felt,” you sigh, stretching your arms high above your head as if to touch the wind breezing through. Inhaling deeply, you close your eyes. Satoru waits for you to begin to cough, and you hold it in, throat tensing a bit. 

He looks away, and pretends he doesn’t hear your sharp exhale, the soft cough you try to muffle with your hand. Instead, he looks at their surroundings, traces the green roads, watches a man park his bicycle and take the plastic bags out of the basket before rushing into a store. The air smells faintly of smoke, and Satoru waves in front of his face to see if it’ll help dispel the scent, but it’s so engrained with the hint of meat, honey, sweets, and flowers, that he can’t.

“I saw Suguru here once,” you tell him suddenly. He blinks, head snapping to you, and you’re already regarding him with a faint smile, eyes a bit dimmer. The warm yellow energy has faded to a burnt orange as you look ahead. “A year or two after he left. It’s why I moved closer a few years ago. I guess I had this weird hope that I’d see him again, but I never really did.” A faint grin graces your lips again, as if you’re not even aware you’re smiling. Fondness overtakes you. “I think about him a lot these days.”

“Me, too.”

“Of course,” you chuckle a bit, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I’m being insensitive.” 

“No, you’re not. He meant a lot to you, too. I don’t own him, or his memory.”

“I know, but he was still your best friend.” Unbidden, a voice in Satoru’s voice finishes it for you. My one and only. 

“Did you guys talk about anything?”

“Not really anything important,” you say, shrugging, but by the way your eyes shift in the light, glimmer differently, he knows you’re lying. He knows it’s none of his business, but a part of him hungers for new parts of Suguru and it’s powerful enough to take control of his tongue.

“Nothing’s not important. He was a wanted criminal.”

“I think we both know somehow that part never mattered to us.” You look at him, and run a thumb under the strap of your bag. “To any of us. But…” You tilt your head to him and your smile grows tender. “…since you asked, we talked about us. He told me about what he wanted, the kind of world he was determined to create. He paid for my dinner, kissed me goodnight like it was normal, and then he was gone. Never saw him again until last December.”

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. 

He remembers that day ten years ago in Shinjuku. The coldness in which Suguru had looked at him. He can’t imagine that same poison directed at you. He couldn’t even imagine Suguru looking at him like that in the first place until he did.

“Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?”

“I used to have nightmares about it,” you continue distantly. “Because I could’ve left with him, but I didn’t. And I could’ve killed him, but I didn’t do that either.”

“If you want to kill me, kill me. There’s meaning in that, too.”

Satoru’s chest tightens. His heart feels rotten to the core. “I didn’t, either, until I did.” You smile a bit more, at the irony. “Would you? Have gone with him, that is.”

“I didn’t, so what’s the point in debating it?” you ask before shrugging thoughtlessly and answering anyway. “I think tackling curses at the source is important. I just didn’t like the way he was doing it. If I thought I could somehow change his mind, just a bit, on his methods, maybe, but by then, he was too far gone.” 

Your eyes, chips of glinting sunstone, mellow as a cyclist trills at them with a bell to get out of the way. You step out of the way, away from Satoru for a moment, before returning to him, and when the back of his hand brushes yours, he’s startled at how cold your skin is. 

Satoru is quiet as he absorbs all of this. He doesn’t really know what to say, and you don’t prod him for a reaction as they turn the corner again. 

“It’s just over there,” you say, pointing to a small restaurant, people milling by the door. There’s a sign hanging over the door, off-white with black kanji painted on and your arm falls. “There’s a line. Huh.”

“We can wait,” Satoru says when they stop at the edge of the crowd. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay. I’ll go put our names in then come back.” You disappear into the crowd for a moment before resurfacing and joining his side again, something in your hand. “It should be, like, fifteen minutes. I said the bar was okay.”

“That’s fine.” Shoving his sunglasses up into his hair, he cracks his knuckles and migrates to the wall. You follow, and he slouches against the concrete pillar. You adjust the tote bag against your body and lean against the other side just around the corner. Their elbows brush, and you tilt your head to look at him, smiling. Your face has caught the sun perfectly, and Satoru can’t help but smile back.

He wonders how to bring up this Hanahaki disease theory. You look so perfect, so happy in this moment where their eyes meet, that he can’t bring it up. Maybe it’s selfish, but it feels like it’s been so long since the two of them even managed to see each other for more than an hour. With how overworked jujutsu sorcerers are, it’s hard to recall the last time they both had downtime at the same time that wasn’t spent catching up on sleep.

You look away, shoulders shaking, as if that’s enough to hide your coughing, and he thinks, Later. There’ll be time for that later.

“Here’s the menu,” you tell him once you’ve calmed down, extending your hand. He takes the paper, unfolding it as you cross your arms and tilt your head back on the concrete. Reading down the list, he keeps an eye on you out of the corner of his vision, and your fingers play at your lips as you swallow. Reaching into your bag, you twist the cap of a water bottle and chug half of it down.

“Do you have any medicine? For your coughing?” he asks casually. You hit your chest with a firm fist, clearing your throat and looking at him in surprise. The water bottle returns to your bag.

“Oh, uh, no. It doesn’t work. Just gotta keep hydrated and avoid any possible triggers,” you inform. You turn up the street as you speak, crossing your legs at the ankles and sinking against the concrete. 

“And what are those triggers?”

“And you say Ijichi is the one digging for gossip,” you snort with short, choked huff. Satoru rolls his eyes, but keeps looking at the menu. “Don’t worry about it. I’m avoiding them.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“If I wanted your dry wit, I would’ve gone to the original.”

“I don’t copy off Shoko. I take bits of everyone’s personality and twist it to make it my own.”

You shake your head. “Whatever you say.”

Your name is called a few minutes later and the pair push off the concrete pillar, heading through the crowd and into the small restaurant. It’s not too dimly lit, a bunch of natural light from the street streaming in through the open windows, and the air is rich with the smells of the kitchen as they sit down at the bar.

It’s not long before they’ve ordered, and Satoru has gone through his first bowl and is well into pouring his second into what remains of his broth before he remembers to even check up on how you’re doing. You’d been right—he loves this place. The atmosphere isn’t overly loud, but the mumbling of nearby patrons is enough to make him feel like he isn’t quite alone. It’s sheltered away from the world, and although he’s used to girls staring, no one has gone up to him which is giving him time to his own thoughts and food. Everyone here seems to mind their business—everyone likes to stay in their own bubble. 

Here, he isn’t the strongest, or quite so special. It honestly feels kind of nice.

You’re sipping on your broth, tilting the spoon towards your mouth and your lips are pulled into the warmest smile he’s seen since they were kids. The light’s hitting you just perfect again, more cool than warm, but it’s got you on the cheekbone, illuminated your lips. Satoru wonders if you know how to manipulate light, or if that’s just your natural blessing as you tilt your head towards him, eyes squinting from your own joy.

For a moment, another image flashes in his head. Him along the end of their group of four—you and Shoko, Suguru and Satoru. It’s almost poetry how much of a glimpse he can see in your smile. You would always be laughing, and Suguru’s cheeks would always be red, and Shoko would charm the guy over the counter to hand over a bottle of shochu. Satoru would tease his stupid best friend, and pay for their meal because “I’m friends with a bunch of goddamn freeloaders.”

But that moment ends as quickly as it came, and it’s so fucking heartbreaking that Satoru never thought their last meal together would be their last meal together. He would’ve cherished it more—done anything to make them stay in that ramen shop in Kagurazaka.

“Do you like it here?” you ask. 

He blinks. You’re studying him behind that smile of yours. Watching. Always watching. “It reminds me of when we were kids,” he replies. When he realizes that didn’t answer the question, he adds, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

You grin, delighted. “If I knew how stupid you’d look sucking up these noodles, I would’ve brought my camera like when we were students. I still have it, you know.”

“Next time, then.”

“Yeah, next time.”

Satoru pays. He insists despite your protests, and snatches the bill from you anyway, swiping his card as quickly as he can. 

After, they walk slowly around the district, looking at the other restaurants and stores for desserts or souvenirs to bring back, and it makes him so nostalgic, his heart wilts a bit in his chest. 

He is saying something about buying some soymilk for Megumi when you stop suddenly, deviating to the side of the road to cough. It grows so intense so quickly that your eyes widen as if you’re surprised, too, and you place a palm flat against your chest as he comes to your side. You wave him back, and he frowns, running a hand down your back as you finally manage to dislodge the petals in your throat and spit them into your palm.

Satoru sighs, staring at the cursed things. The energy emitted from the petals are raw, potent, and his nose wrinkles at the stench that comes from powerful curses as he softly asks, “Do you know what Hanahaki is?”

“Flower vomiting?” you whisper through your raw vocal cords. You shake your head, slamming your sternum with a tight fist and flinging the drenched petals to the ground with a wet slap. “Itadori… said something about it, once. Never really paid attention, I—”

Satoru squeezes the back of your neck gently. “Whatever this curse is, it could be something like that.“

“You don’t want to open that can of worms, Gojo, of what is causing this.” Straightening up, your eyes widen and your cheeks puff up as you choke down another bout. Wobbly, you spit out, “It’s under control. I swear.”

“Are you sure?” His fingers brush your chin to turn your face towards him so he can look at it more clearly, and the instant their eyes meet, you lurch over, slapping his hand away and succumbing to the wracking. Hands shooting out to grab your elbows, Satoru barely eases you to the ground as your legs give in.

You collapse to your knees, hard. A hand is slapped over your mouth but your whole body shakes with the seizing of your lungs. Eyes widening, your cheeks puff up as Satoru grabs your shoulders, falling to his knees beside you.

“Hey! Hey, breathe!” His fingers dig into your shoulders and your nostrils flare, trying to follow his instructions. Bloodshot eyes and blueing lips, your inhales are shaking and incomplete, gasps for air that do not take in any oxygen before you’re kneeling over, hand falling from your lips. Blood splattered over your palm, you let out a low noise of pain. Satoru’s hand glides down your spine, rubbing in soothing circles as red spit falls to the pavement in thick globs. 

People all around stop to stare, eyes masked with concern, but he can’t care less at that moment despite the burning scrutiny. He shoves a hand into his pocket, speed-dialling one of the top numbers of his list.

“Ijichi, I need you to take us to the hospital, now!” Letting his phone drop with a clatter, he scoops you close but you slam your bloody hand against his chest, pushing him away. You throw yourself away, hands twisted tight in the fabric of your white shirt and Satoru looks down at the red handprint on his tee before blinking. “What are you doing? We need to get—“

“I’m—I’m fine!” Your voice, broken, is drenched with ice as you continue to wheeze, grasping at your chest as if you could reach and tear out the growths with your own hand. “Gojo, I’m fine!”

“No, you’re not!” Grabbing his phone, he hears a loud car horn, and looks up to see Ijichi leaning out of the driver’s seat, waving his arm frantically. Without another thought, he scoops you up and runs out into the street, ignoring the tires screeching, the cars horns blaring at him and the angry shouts as he jumps into the car and slam the door shut. 

Ijichi sets off at a drive, no directions needed. Satoru is sure he’s breaking as many laws as he can as he pushes you back against the seat to buckle you in. Blood dribbles down your lips in bubbles as a thick, gurgling sound begins to grow in your throat and he wipes at your chin with his sleeve, clicking the buckle into place just as you pitch forward. He jerks back just in time as you retch, and, slowly, torturously, you gag out three petals, one after another. Your fingers claw at your own throat, panicking and desperate as you struggle to breathe.

The petals fall in wet pools between your feet, landing on the carpet, and he spares them not even a glance before forcing your head between your knees. You’re still hyperventilating and as Satoru sweeps a hand down your back and up to your neck, his fingers come into contact with something sticky. 

Sweat. It drenches through your shirt so suddenly that Satoru reels at the wet marks spreading through your shirt, making the fabric translucent. Your heart is racing, tripping over itself. When you finally stop coughing, you breathe in harsh pants as he keeps your head between your knees.

Your fingers lace at the back of your head and he grabs them firmly, reassuring that he’s still beside you. 

.

“She’s stable,” Shoko announces to the waiting Satoru and six students. The latter came when their teacher had told them of what happened, and Itadori still clings to Fushiguro’s arm by an iron hand, fingers clawlike into his friend’s bicep. Kugisaki chews on her thumbnail, a bit paler than usual and there are crescent indents along her forearm where she had dug her nails in. Maki’s hand rests on her shoulder. Inumaki’s on the phone with Panda, and he turns the screen around so he can see the Strongest Sorcerer who does not feel quite so strong.

Satoru’s assurances that you would be fine had done nothing but send them into a quiet that scared even him. 

“Is she okay? When can she get out?” the kids demand suddenly.

“We’re waiting for the updates on her scans from the doctors, but she’ll need to stay here under observation.”

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Guess that means she gets a few more days off while the rest of us are working our asses off,” he teases. Maki shoots him a glare and his eyes close in a way he hopes arranges his expression in one of joy as he shrugs helplessly. “Well, that means I have another girl I have to spoil.”

“Aren’t you too busy with the four already blowing up your phone?” Kugisaki mutters sourly. Satoru pretends not to hear. His phone has been silent without your texts, and it’s cold and heavy in his pocket.

“Can we see her?” Fushiguro asks. Shoko nods, but holds up a hand and the kids skid to a stop.

“She’s resting. I’m unsure if you know, but certain topics of conversation or trains of thought can lead to more attacks, so stick to talking about your curriculum. Topics you think are safe.” The woman shifts on her feet, a wisp of brown hair swaying in front of her eye. “It’s unavoidable, but use your judgement.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The students walk off down to the dead-end hallway, and Satoru turns to Shoko who has her arms crossed over her chest. She steps up, scanning him like he’s got contraband, and he raises his eyebrows innocently.

“What?”

“It’s getting worse. I hope you managed to get answers,” she says. At once, Satoru’s facade drops, and a sober sensation overtakes his face.

“No, I didn’t. She’s heard of the disease, at least. We talked about Suguru, but it wasn’t like it was under lock and key.” The brunette shakes her head at his words, gesturing for him to sit down beside her. Doing so, he leans back into the uncomfortable chair as she crosses a leg over the other. “She said she thinks about him a lot.”

“She still loves him,” Shoko says bluntly. “She gets that far-off look when she talks about him. You two should trade secrets some time.” A shake of her head, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I healed what damage I could, but I can tell those growths inside are expanding. The attack only seems to have agitated and prompted them to take root.”

“How…” It’s hard to formulate the question. Luckily, Shoko knows him well enough.

“Without seeing the scans, I won’t know. Based on her last ones, I thought at least four months. Now?” Her lips press into a thin line. “She’ll be lucky if she gets two.” Shoko’s eyes flicker down Satoru’s front, and her lips press into a wry line. “And change you shirt. You look like a murder suspect.”

Glancing down, he looks at your dried bloody hand print, stark against white, and he gets up abruptly. Shoko doesn’t stop him.

He walks down to the dead-end hall. He can hear Itadori through your open door cracking jokes, Kugisaki relaying every detail of her shopping trips, and you’re wheezing your laughter despite Maki scolding you to save your strength. Satoru stops just outside your door, out of sight, and rests his head against the frame, content to just listen.

“Tuna mayo.”

“Is that right?” you ask Inumaki. “Lay it on me.” 

You sound exhausted, beaten to the bone, but still, when Fushiguro says something too quiet for him to make out, you still have the strength to tease him for worrying.

.

The night is warm, and he sets the last plant back into its place on your window sill before cracking the window a bit at your request. He’s busied himself making this place as homely as possible as quickly as possible, and in the process, had walked in on you staring at your own scans on the lightscreen mounted on your wall.

“Thanks, Satoru,” you say over your shoulder. He joins you by your side to stare at the scans. Granted, Satoru didn’t cheat his way through medschool like others have, so he doesn’t understand much, but he can tell what is and what isn’t supposed to be there. The floral-like growths situated right where the main bronchi meet the trachea, for one.

The roots spreading across your chest like cracks in concrete, for another.

“The doctors want to monitor this,” you explain, pointing at the roots, “to see whether or not it’ll grow around my lungs or continue outward, around the ribs and spine. If it’s the former, I’ll slowly suffocate and die. If it’s the latter, I’ll slowly suffocate, become paralyzed, and die.” You smile grimly. “Not quite a win-win.”

“Exactly the opposite.” He inspects the growths and through the blue-white-black imaging, he spots the tiny stems emerging from the main growth, sprouting into your lungs. He guesses, with time, those will grow into flowers of equal size before sprouting more shoots.

He wonders…

As if sensing his hesitance, you scratch your collarbone and look at the scans with a new glint.

“The doctors say if I avoid another attack like today, I’ll probably have two months, three if I’m blessed, but because of how big the growths have gotten already and its volatile nature, it’ll be impossible, so we’re looking at a month. Maybe a month-and-a-half?” You smile at him, throat bobbing. “Guess it’s good to have a number,” you add shakily, a short puff coming at the end of each breath as you struggle to fight the cough. “Being a sorcerer, too much uncertainty, I think.”

“You should tell Nanami that. Maybe this time, it’ll convince him to stay away,” he retorts, turning away from the scans. They’re burning his eyes and he doesn’t want to look at the real thing for much longer. You turn with him, walking back towards bed and climbing in. “Are you sure you don’t want the operation? Shoko could do it so fast you wouldn’t feel a thing.”

“No, not yet. There are some complications that’ll definitely occur and I don’t want that to happen.”

“But it would save your life,” he argues. “What risks are frightening enough that you’d even consider not having it?” Your gaze flickers as you take another wheezing breath. The strength seems sapped from your limbs—you’re a scarecrow hanging off its pole as you swallow tightly. Satoru leans against your window sill and crosses his arms over his chest so you can’t see the frustrated fists he wants to make. “If this is about Suguru…”

Resolutely: “It isn’t.”

“You’re going to die if you keep going down this road. I don’t understand why you’re hesitating.” In the back of his mind, klaxons begin to scream.

“Satoru, some things are just beyond logical reason.” He jerks his gaze away, pushing his glasses up his nose pointedly. You sigh. “I know it’s hard, but this is my choice. I just want you to be here so you know it’s okay.” 

Your hand stretches out. Blue eyes flash to your outstretched fingers and he takes it before he can stop himself. Your fingers curl over his palm, tugging him closer and he lets you, sneakers dragging over the tile until he’s sliding into the chair by your bed. It squeaks against the tile.

“Please don’t be angry with me.” That’s all. That’s all I ask.

A hard, heavy sigh, this time from his end. He tightens his hold on you as you sit there, smiling hopefully. His heart thunders in his chest. “I’m not angry.”

You perk up a bit, and his index finger unfurls to rub your wrist. It feels colder than normal. “Promise?”

He wishes he could lie half as well as you. Either way, he tries his hardest: “Promise.”

By the time it’s quarter past nine, you’re already getting ready to sleep. You have enough pillows to surround your entire body, and he fluffs them up, helps you arrange them until you’re sighing against the white sheets, burrowing in with a sedated smile on your face.

Satoru sits down again on his visitor’s chair and you watch him lazily through the dim orange light stemming from behind your bed.

“You don’t have to stay here and watch me, creep,” you mumble, turning your face away to stare at the ceiling. You cough dryly, but it subsides moments later. Your voice is nothing but a croak as you let out a tired groan, and Satoru smiles to himself, cheek to his fist. 

“I feel robbed of our afternoon together. Making up for it now.”

You look at him again incredulously. “We’re not even doing anything.”

“I don’t know when you were told that every second of us being together had to be us doing something,” he huffs. “I like being in here. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s too much. You’re annoying me.” Even so, your voice turns fond as you roll onto your side, away from him to settle in to sleep and Satoru’s warm gaze lands on your shoulder gently rising and falling as you slowly drift off. 

He already knows you’re gone by the time he’s standing up and gathering his jacket. Walking around the bed, he glances at the bathroom to check the light’s off and catches a glimpse of his shirt. A coil wraps around his gut at the muddy red handprint pressed into the fabric and he turns away to look at you instead.

Your face is in perfect peace, half-buried into a pillow you’re hugging into your chest, and he only soaks in those features. His hand twitches, and his infinity wavers as he raises his hand as if to touch you. Your eyelids flutter and he freezes, fearing he might’ve woken you up, but you only mumble incoherently and turn into your pillow.

Satoru watches on silently just as a breeze sweeps into the room and he looks up where the window he had cracked open. The breeze takes hold of the plants, uplifts them until they sway like a tender dance. 

His chest begins to hurt. The smell of the antiseptic is starting to sting, so he moves his hand to the light switch instead. Flicking it off, he turns to leave.

.

Every time Satoru walks down to the end of the hallway, a different memory will play in his head until he’s playing a movie over and over every single day. Of the first time he met you, although that one is blurry. Your sixteenth birthday when the four of them had piled into your dorm room to drink themselves stupid.

One-and-a-half weeks go by before he realizes that he only replays the moments where you feature. Like his brain is preparing him, reminding him. For what, he doesn’t know. 

He can’t come every day—considering the low number of sorcerers has been taken down by one more, it means besides teaching, he still has to work for the Higher Ups as well as his own personal agenda—but when he does make it, he always makes sure that he soaks in every second. Even the horrible parts. Maybe, especially the horrible parts.

You have scans taken every other day to monitor your progress, so when he arrives at an empty room, he isn’t surprised. It’s when there’s movement in the bathroom that sends his nerves prickling until he catches a slab of golden hair and reading glasses flashing in the sunlight.

“Nanami,” he greets.

“Good afternoon.” His jacket’s off and his sleeves are rolled up. With a quick sweep of the room, Satoru notes that the windows are cracked open and the aforementioned jacket is folded over a chair sat in a square of sunlight.

“Do we need to be so formal?” he complains, bypassing the bathroom and searching for another chair. The one Nanami’s taken by the plants is still warm and Satoru isn’t keen on the idea of sweating so soon. During his search, he stops by the windowsill and his eyebrows rise curiously at the new plants and trash bin pressed up right underneath. “What’s happening here?”

“We were planting new seeds when she had to be taken for her scans. She insisted I finish potting the plants.” Noting the empty terracotta, Satoru bends over and prods at the moist dirt. “I have to go soon, though. I had hoped it wouldn’t take as long as it did and she would be back by now.”

“They started taking MRI scans when the branches continued to grow outward rather than inward,” Satoru informs. “It takes around forty-five minutes, on top of the CT scans they’re taking, too. That’s if she doesn’t start coughing in the middle of it.” 

“I’m guessing she does.” Nanami adjusts the glasses on his nose, wiping at his hands free of the last of whatever dirt might’ve been clinging to his hands.

“Yup.”

“I see.” Satoru looks at the plants again. The blond man across the room throws the towel into the dirty clothes basket.“Has she… spoken to you of what to do with her effects?”

Gaze hardening, he doesn’t move at the question. Of course, he’s thought about it, but those bouts of weakness have never been longer than a few minutes. There’s no use in wasting time on a reality that won’t come until it does.

Hopefully, it never does.

“I’m so sick of everyone talking like she’s signed a death sentence,” Satoru murmurs, turning around to look at the blond man at the door to the washroom. “She still has time. Not a lot. It’s not convenient, but it should be enough.”

“She’s already considered the benefits of taking the surgery, and yet she actively decides to postpone it. You know she’s stalling,” comes the steady reply.

“And what about you?” Satoru asks. His words are biting, icy, but Nanami seems unfazed as he begins to loop the tie around his neck. “Would you do it?” Blue eyes meet a stoic face, and the coldness seeps into Satoru’s body. Nanami sighs.

A part of Satoru wonders why he even bothered asking. He already knows the answer—

“No.” Eyebrows shoot up. His mouth drops open and a strangled noise escapes his throat. Nanami merely continues on, quiet as death. “Perhaps it’s because I’m willing to accept my death, but, to be honest, I don’t know how to let any part of Haibara go. I’ve accepted it, but he’s still in my heart and my head.” Lips parting, Satoru takes a step forward as Nanami slants his body away, continuing to fold the fabric into a tie. He looks statuesque, unmovable, and something tightens in Satoru’s throat at the stone-like mask taking over his face. “I’m unwilling to do anything to taint that memory.”

Wordlessly, the blond walks over to Satoru to take his jacket from the chair, rolling down his sleeves and slapping his watch back onto his wrist. Standing less than two feet apart, the two men finally meet eyes.

“Gojo,” Nanami murmurs. “I can’t say I understand your burden, but I am by your side. I do not always agree with your choices, but I still respect them. As your kouhai and as your colleague.” His lips pull in a facsimile of a wry smile and there’s an understanding Satoru doesn’t understand haunting his handsome face. “However, she is your friend before mine. I think your opinion matters much more than mine. Don’t abuse that power.”

Satoru’s eyes nearly reflect in the lenses of Nanami’s glasses. He wishes his friend would take the damn pair off. 

In truth, the reason he’s so irritated is because he knows. If he insists enough, begs enough, there will always be a chance that he can convince you. That you will give in, not because you are selfless, but maybe because you’re too selfish to let him stay mad at you.

An unstoppable force meets an immovable object, and sometimes, the force wins.

But he’d promised, hadn’t he? To not be angry with the choices you’ve made?

“Jeez, it’s somber in here. Who died?” you tease as Shoko pushes the wheelchair in after you. Both men look away from each other. You’re still walking steadily, but an IV is hooked into your chest now, and it’s so obvious you’ve lost unhealthy weight that looking at you is hard sometimes. Satoru does, anyway. 

Noting Nanami, you straighten up. Surprised, but pleased: “You’re still here.”

“I was just leaving,” he says. You frown, but don’t protest. A jujutsu sorcerer’s work is never finished until one stops breathing. “I finished planting the seeds you asked me to, and watered them.”

“Thank you.” He dips his head to you, then to Shoko, before departing, and you watch him go for a moment before your eyes land on Satoru and you smile. The air around you shifts immediately to a vibrant yellow. 

“You’re early, Satoru.” You head towards the bed as Shoko parks the wheelchair by the door. “It took way longer than I thought.”

“That’s because you threw up pistils today,” Shoko replies dryly. Satoru straightens up and looks at Shoko more carefully. Placid lookimg—usual for his mortician friend in the jujutsu world—but there’s a blanching in her knuckles that isn’t usual. “The CT wasn’t good. You know that.”

“Well, it’s still more time than I could’ve asked for, you know.” Shoko shakes her head, and meets his eyes before leaving the room, presumably to talk to your doctors. “Party pooper.”

“First day knowing Shoko?”

You laugh sarcastically, adjusting the hospital gown on your body before climbing into bed slowly, as if your joints ache. Satoru’s feet shift on the tile when he realizes his body moves to help and he freezes. You’re breathing audibly by the time you settle in and you meet his eyes, wondering if he’s noticed.

Of course he has, he wants to tell you. He notices everything about you.

Then, you sigh, and the yellow energy around you flickers into something darker, something grey, something that reminds him of summer thunderstorms.

“The roots have reached the edge of my rib cage and are encroaching on my stomach now,” you inform bluntly. “I probably won’t be able to keep food down in the next couple of days so they’re going to up the ante on this thing.” You gesture to the catheter by your clavicle. “So that’s not really fun. And, they want to start taking scans every single day because the growth is increasing exponentially. The doctors think something triggered the flowers to begin blooming in earnest. Like spring has come to my body, and I’m having the worst fucking time of my life.”

Despite your admission, your smile only falters in that it no longer reaches your eyes. Satoru shoves his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do.

The word Hanahaki still burns, whispers coyly in his ear. It teases the tip of his tongue as he watches you look to your windowsill where your new plants are and get up, walking over to inspect your friend’s work.

He wonders if he can bring it up again. If he can insist that there’s a way to save you—

But Nanami’s words linger, too, and he bites his tongue until he tastes iron. 

“Oh, look.” He blinks at your voice, turning to look. Your fingers sink into one of the pots and before he can ask, blue energy flares up around your hand and into the soil and a shoot breaks through the dirt, unfurling as it grows higher and higher into the air.

“What is it?” Petals are beginning to form, the shade of a warm, gentle red that fades in shade as it reaches the stem. Satoru comes up next to you as the first flower blooms and his eyebrows rise. “Tulips. Huh.”

“I used to love them,” you tell him, picking it off and extending it to him. Eyebrows furrowing in surprise, he takes it as you sink your fingers deeper into the soil, sending more cursed energy into the seeds. More stems to replace the one you had picked continue to grow and you pull your hand out, wiping at your fingers with a towel.

Satoru tilts the flower towards his nose, taking a whiff.

“Used to?” he repeats, and you nod.

“Trees and flowers have their own language.” Your eyes do not meet his as you watch the plant continue to grow. Your muscles go slack, and your fingers touch the petals, mind not quite aware of how you’re moving. “Red tulips mean eternal love, and fame.”

Blinking, he looks down at his own bloom. 

Suguru. He hears you say his name, even in the silence, and remembers years ago, walking through Tokyo. A neighbourhood he doesn’t remember, his best friend looking at the florist’s shop and immediately perking up to head inside and buy a bouquet after something had caught his eye.

“For a girl,” he had admitted sheepishly. 

“Only one?” Satoru asked, horrified. “You can’t settle down! We’re meant for so many more women than just one!”

A sharp nudge to the ribs. Raucous laughter. “Shut up!”

Quietly, Satoru’s fingers tighten around the stalk as you tilt your head to the sun, inspecting something he won’t understand. He doesn’t have a green thumb, and although you say you aren’t the smartest, he’s seen you grow the college’s gardens in a way that has amplified the beauty already lingering on the grounds. You had dismissed it as a little side project, but seeing you water your plants dutifully, spread feed and root out weeds, makes him wonder if you know how to put half-efforts into anything.

When you garden, you never take the easy route. You labour for the satisfaction, and pour sweat and tears into the soil.

When you love, you love with all of yourself and more. 

It’s what makes whatever he wants impossible.

Because he is the same, and they will never change.

When Satoru goes home, he places the tulip in a vase and the cursed energy prickles at his fingertips.

.

You get worse and worse with every visit. 

Each day brings him another raw wound, salt on blood. You slowly grow more and more ragged, even though you stay in the hospital, confined to your room. 

There are days Satoru walks into your room to you hunched over the toilet, spitting blood and flowers into the bowl and vomiting all you ate the night or day or hour before and he already knows what he has to do. A cold, damp rag to your forehead, a crouching stance beside you as your grip on the toilet seat becomes rigid like steel.

Other days, you’re still asleep because the night before, you’d been hacking up half a lung and half a bouquet. Sometimes, you’re curled around a plastic receptacle already full of your half-attempts to dislodge the pressure building in your chest. 

Or, you’re crying into your hands, breath coming in rapid bursts as you try to force your head between your knees to stop the world from spinning and Satoru holds you when you beg him to, and stands in the corner of the room when you push him away.

Afterwards, you always grab onto his sleeves, his arms, and sink against him, shivering. For hours after, he’ll curl around you on your hospital bed, no matter how much his body cramps, until you insist you’re fine.

“It’s a little like touching death,” you told him once, voice raw and fatigued. “When it’s a pretty bad day, and I think I’m going to die alone, it happens, so all I have to do is not think about it.”

There’s a flawed logic there, but Satoru was too busy pressing his nose into your hair and feeling the warmth of your body to reply any more than, “I’ll be there. I promise.”

Two weeks pass (fourteen sets of scans, a different pair hanging from the lightscreen every day tell him that) and Satoru watches as the branches spread through your body, past the reaches of your ribs, and the flowers have spread to your lungs so quickly he’s sure the time for you to decide is running out. 

You’re near-passed out against him on the bathroom floor one evening, and although it’s not closet-sized, it doens’t make the arrangement any less awkward. He’s up against the bathtub, legs sprawled all around you as he holds you in his arms. On the edge of the tub, there is a bar of bodysoap and a bottle of lotion he recognizes as the same one Shoko used to buy when they still had time. Your sink counter is filled with your toothbrush and cup, handsoap and a microfibre towel hanging off the edge smeared with lipstick, foundation, and black streaks of who knows what.

Shoko must have spent the night while he was out hunting a curse in Sendai. Good. He doesn’t like the nights when you’re alone and he can’t be there.

His fingers brush over your shoulder blade, and he travels over something rigid cloaked by your skin. Your eyes are closed, and you’re nearly asleep as you curl deeper against him. Looking down at you, he presses curious fingers into your shoulder blade only for you to let out a soft groan.

“Did that hurt?”

“No. It just feels like you pressed down on a big sore muscle,” you mumble slowly. He trails his fingers over, feels the bumps of the roots curling around your bones before following it towards your spine. It disappears the closer it reaches the trail of knobs that go down your back, and he moves back to your shoulder again. “Doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Does anything?”

“Mostly my stomach,” you tell him. “I’m so hungry all the time, but I can’t eat.” He glances at the IV stand, the only other witness to the events in this bathroom. It leads down through your gown and past your clavicle. Monitored every day in case the growths dislodge it, it’s one of the only things keeping you alive. “And my throat. It feels like I’ve scratched it out until it’s bleeding.”

He tilts his head. His lips barely brush your sweaty scalp despite how cold you feel in his arms “No surgery?”

You shake your head, what remains of your strength slowly coming back. “They say the flowers and roots have taken up sixty-five percent of my chest cavity. It’s not only inhibiting my lungs, but my heart and stomach, too, so it’d be kind of hard to get rid of it all. Not impossible, but it’s really risky. That, on top of the already-present consequences—”

“So let’s say we start with the lungs,” he cuts off, trying to not sound too desperate but these past few weeks have worn him down to the bone. Although he thinks he’s managed to hide it from his students, Shoko has offered multiple times to prescribe him sleeping pills just so he can shut his mind down.

He said no every time.

Your legs draw up and he squeezes your shoulder carefully, looking down. “Are you ready to get up?”

You nod. “I think so.” He wipes at your lips with the rag he left on the counter and you roll your eyes as he makes sure no blood is left on your face before throwing it back up and carefully adjusting you against him.

“Do you want my help?”

“My answer does not matter to you,” you shoot back teasingly and he lets you pull away from him before reaching up with one hand to push yourself up. Your arm wobbles, your feet kicking back underneath you and slowly finding theirselves on the floor. Satoru withdraws, ducking underneath and back up so he can stand, hands floating around your body as you draw the IV stand towards yourself and grab on. When he’s sure your knees might give in, he grabs your elbow, but you shake your head. “I think I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you breathe, raising your head to look at him. Your lips curl in a soft smile, and you clasp his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t even do anything this time,” he says.

“Not everyone stays for the pathetic girl on the floor of the bathroom floor,” you quip. Turning around, you begin to head back to bed and he trails behind you carefully.

“If the girl’s you, then I think exceptions can be made.”

“Hospital bonus.”

“It adds that you’re in the hospital, too,” he agrees. “My morals are just.”

“Isn’t that a relief?” 

It is. It is a relief that you still have the strength to joke with him. 

You climb back into bed. Satoru returns to the bathroom to make sure the bathroom is flushed and it’s clean before returning and perching on the edge of your bed. Pulling out his phone, he shuffles his shoes off and tucks his legs to his chest, leaning against the foot of your bed and scrolling through his messages.

Not much to miss, to be honest. 

“There’s supposed to be a lunar eclipse on the morning of the 28th,” you say suddenly. Satoru looks up. You’re leaning back on the mountain of pillows, exhaling and inhaling measuredly in a way he now knows is your way of fighting off another bout. Squinting against the orange glow of the sunset, there’s a longing in your gaze. “I want to see it. Outside and everything.”

“You’re not supposed to leave the hospital.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Oh, we’re abiding by rules, now?”

“If it keeps you around, yes, we are.”

“When did my best friend turn into such a party pooper?” Looking at him, an impish glint lives in your eyes. He balks.

“Don’t you dare insinuate that I’m not fun.”

“Then… take me to see the eclipse.”

“No. There’s nothing to even see.”

“I want to see the moon disappear, Gojo,” you declare. “And if you won’t take me, I will definitely sneak out.” 

It paints a pretty pathetic picture, and he can’t help but arch his eyebrows at your determination. The air purifier drones on. The nurse turned it on after dinner, he guesses, and he has the strange urge to kick it as you fix him with a fierce stare. 

“You probably won’t be able to walk by then,” he says.

“That won’t stop me.” He knows it won’t. The corner of his lips pulls into a slight smile as you continue, “I just want to go outside one last time. Is that really too much to ask?” Your words are tinged with a fine dusting of humour, and he shakes his head.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word for you, Satoru.”

“I still mean it.”

“And I learned that from you.”

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fine,” he caves. Your face lights up, and he sets down his phone, legs unfolding to brush the floor as he leans over to flick your forehead. Your eyes squeeze shut at the contact and you slap his arm away sluggishly before he soothes the smarting spot over with a smear of his thumb. “I’ll come by, and we’ll sneak out.”

You beam and he slips his feet back into his shoes and pockets his phone so he can focus his attention on you. 

When visiting hours end, the nurses offer to set up the cot for him like they always do. You pretend not to look at him out of the corner of his eye, awaiting his answer behind your laptop screen, and he spares you a quick glance before saying yes.

“She likes you,” you tell him after one particular nurse with dyed purple hair who always wears a fishtail bids them goodnight. Satoru fluffs up his pillow ceremoniously, having shed his jacket and taken off his jeans to hide underneath the blankets. The fabric is cold against his bare chest, and he pulls his glasses off, sets them on the stand right behind him.

The black frame holding up his mattress rattles a bit as he punches his pillow one last time and lies down. He turns on his side and looks at you. You’re turned on your side, too, and your brow is furrowed as you fight the sleepiness.

“Is that so?” he asks carefully. “What do you think about it?”

“I think if you wanted someone with a hectic schedule, you could pick someone else,” you say vaguely.

He raises an eyebrow. “Does she have a bad attitude or something?”

“I dunno.” There’s a subtle fire igniting in your words. You look a bit more awake, and your eyes are shifting the air into a smouldering red. He squints up. Your face is shadowed, but you’re still silhouetted by the orange light behind your bed as your shoulders rise and fall greatly in staggering, weighty breaths. “She wouldn’t understand. I guess.”

He hums. “So I should find someone who understands me but can’t be there for me? Sounds like the set up to every tragic love story ever.”

You laugh, and it’s the saddest sound in the world.

.

Friday, July 27th arrives in clouds.

Satoru scouted a spot before where they can watch the eclipse. He settles on one of the highest buildings on campus with a balcony where they can sit against the railing and watch the moon disappear. You can’t eat, but he still buys your favourite food from all over Japan, travelling to different prefectures in hopes that they still have your favourite dessert or drink that you mentioned once—he even gets you a new polaroid camera. He doesn’t know exactly how well the eclipse will show up on it, but, memories, right?

Maki makes a dry remark about how much he’s running around lately, probably to make amends to a girl he’s scorned. Satoru deflects and says he’s actually trying to impress one this time.

It’s been a five days since his promise to bring you. You lost your ability to walk steadily two days ago and to speak effortlessly only yesterday. The roots have extended through your body, pushing the muscle of your back and shoulders, and it’s made even moving painful, so he intends to carry you everywhere he can, holding your IV bags if he needs to. 

The doctors say eighty-five percent of your chest is now occupied with foreign growth. Satoru wishes they’d just tell it how it is—you’ll probably be dead by next week.

He arrives at the hospital and walks the path he’s walked so often over the past few weeks that he is sure he could do it with his eyes closed. The nurse’s station, and there’ll be the purple-haired one and the one with a double helix piercing on call at this time. Then, twenty-five steps to the end of the hall where the window often lets a lot of natural light in. Today, it’s grey and not much, but it’s enough to cast his shadow long and blurry.

He stops in front of your door to sanitize his hands when he hears voices within and hesitates.

Your door is closed, which means you don’t want people to interrupt, and he moves away from the rectangular window, back pressing against the tiny slab of wall between the frame and the corner of the hallway. Glasses slipping down his nose, he tries not to listen but he can’t help of himself.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” you say weakly. You sound awful. Satoru wonders if he’s missed one of your panic attacks and curses himself. “If I don’t sound sure, it’s because I’m dying… and sounding like a fragile piece of shit… comes with the territory.” Your words are coarse, and a harsh anger grates his ears as you cough violently, a terrible retching sound ending with a splat following right after. 

“I wasn’t doubting you,” Nanami replies calmly. “But this could be done in so many other ways.”

“Look, Nanami. I’m not… brave enough to say any of it. Now, sit down. Your standing… it’s making me nervous… Thank you.” Satoru’s legs feel numb as he sinks down to the floor, tilting his head just enough to listen clearer through the sliver underneath the door. Resting his elbows on his knees, he runs a hand through shaggy white hair. It feels dry and lifeless. 

He can’t remember the last time he took a shower that was longer than ten minutes and more than ice-cold bordering on just beginning to warm.

“Take care of him for me,” you croak and his fingers tighten against his scalp. Nanami doesn’t answer, and you let out a sound that can only be described as pure agony as another bout grasps you tightly. You’re wheezing by the end of it, gasping painfully for air, and the monitors start beeping rapidly, a dinging that echoes in his head as Nanami’s low voice soothes you, tells you gently to calm down. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Breathe with me,” Nanami orders, and everything falls silent. Satoru stares at his lap. His head is beginning to pulse with the monitors when the beeping finally starts to fade. “Good. No sense to waste your strength.” 

Wobbly, spitting: “I��m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” A pause. “It’s not your fault.”

You laugh, as if Nanami’s cracked a funny joke, and it’s gut-wrenching. “Remember how… we can curse each other? Ourselves? True curses.”

Faintly amused, immeasurably strained: “I thought it was still a hypothesis regarding those who don’t have the correct bloodline and the ability to curse through their own will.”

“No…Not a hypothesis. Real, Nanami. Real. No one knows how cursed energy affects us. Not really. Since, in my opinion, it’s entirely based on how we process things… it’s so difficult to say but when you know someone…” You break off to clear your throat. “The curse of adulthood… some of us got that too early… but we can survive that and even if it’s not a curse by… definition, we still feel it, right?” 

Satoru clasps his hands together just so he doesn’t rip the door open at the hinges.

“Right.”

“And… knowledge… can be a curse. Even if we can’t see it.” A ragged breath. Then, another laugh too loud for the grey light outside, too bright, a spark before it fizzles into, again, pained choking. “Nanami, remember last year… the job out in Yama… Yamaguchi?”

“Yes.”

“And we came back… Okkotsu was beginning his first year at the college… what I—what I told you?”

“…Yes.” A beat passes. A chair shifts on the linoleum floor and Nanami clears his throat. “I see.”

“I don’t want him to be so alone. I know I was never the strongest or the smartest or the most talented but I liked to think he let me in because I was there. Not because I understood. Maybe… Maybe because I didn’t. Nanami, please… he always try to stay so far away from the people he thinks he can’t love. Tell him… tell him—“

You break off and Nanami assures you with a steadfastness Satoru has counted on so many times before: “I will.” 

“…thank you.”

Eyes shutting tight, Satoru rests his brow against the heel of his hand. His head is aching, and a hard fist grabs his chest, squeezes his heart until it feels like it’ll burst. So this is how you’re really feeling. When you’re not smiling, this is what you are. Angry at the world, and heartbroken.

So terribly heartbroken.

And you couldn’t trust him with it? Because you thought he couldn’t handle it? 

He can take it. It’ll be okay because he’s the strongest. He has to be. 

I’m the strongest. I should be okay. I’m the strongest.

I’m the Strongest.

The headache gets worse so he gets up from that corner in the dead-end hallway, all the while three words replay in his head like a goddamn gramophone.

Nanami doesn’t come out of the room for a while. When he does, Satoru walks down the hall with takeout and a smile plastered on his face as if he had heard nothing at all.

.

At just past one-thirty AM, Satoru sits up from his cot and rubs at his eyes. After dinner, the both of them had forced themselves to go to sleep in order to have enough energy for their little late night excursion. He glances at you, a slumbering shape on the bed, and gets up, slowly sliding on the lights. They burn a dim orange, glowing on your face, and your eyebrows furrow as he touches your cheek.

“What?” you mumble, vexed, and he smiles.

“Are you ready?” he asks. A backpack is situated at the end of his bedframe and he reaches for it, unzipping it carefully as you crack your eyes open. “We’re going to go see the eclipse, remember?” Pulling out clothes he robbed from your room in the staff facility from when you used to work full time, he grabs your shoulder and shakes you gently. The gnarled roots under your skin feel strange against his fingers as you groan weakly. “Do you want five more minutes, Sleeping Beauty?”

You don’t answer, burying your face into your pillow and he shakes his head to himself. It’s going to be all right, he thinks. I planned for this setback.

Slipping into a dark long-sleeve, he parts the black-out curtains to let light come in. He checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror before running a hand through his hair and washing his hands with a cold stream of water. By the time he leaves the bathroom, you’re sitting up already, heel of your hand rubbing against your brow as you groan. In your other hand in your lap, there’s a splash of blood and a lone petal, and he rushes to your side instantly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even hear—“

“It came out easy,” you assure as he grabs a tissue to pick it off your hand and throw it into the receptacle at the table just beyond the foot of your bed. Wiping at your mouth roughly, he hears your complaints and your hand shoves against his shoulder to tell him to quit it. “Ah, I can do it myself!”

“Shh! Do you want every nurse storming in here while we conduct our super secret getaway?” he whispers, and your eyes fix on his. Dark circles mark your face like bruises, but that light is still the same—glimmering, bright, like twin suns and just as warm. Making sure your hands are clean, he wipes the invisible streaks of blood just to be sure before grabbing your clothes and setting them at the end of the bed.

You glance around the place sluggishly, at the paintings you never got to finish, and the books you haven’t finished reading, before settling on him. “What are we going to do about the… about the machines? And my IV…” 

“Oh, trust me. I may have bribed a nurse or two,” he confesses and you send him a scandalized look. He shrugs. “What? You told me a woman liked me and I couldn’t help but turn on my natural charm.”

“You’re awful,” you say without meaning it and he smiles as he moves your bed into a sitting position. You cough lightly, but sit up straighter as he carefully unhooks the huge bag and pump from your stand and gently slides it into the pocket in the backpack, resisting the urge to squish the pouch a bit. Strapping the pump in, he makes sure it’s secure as you peer around him to catch what he’s doing. “Is this… safe for me, you—you know, medically-speaking?”

“Nope.” He adjusts the tubing to avoid any kinks. “But, Purple gave me this backpack and she will come as soon as we come back to make sure you aren’t dying. And, if anything goes wrong, I promised her I’d come back as soon as possible.”

“Promised her?” you echo “I see. So that’s what Purple… was doing before my afternoon nap. I thought you guys traded suspicious looks.”

“Yeah. I’m pulling big strings. Now, c’mon, silly. Let’s get you dressed.”

You roll your eyes with a whistling breath. “Watch the tube… and c’mere, then, Gojo.”

He grabs the jacket first and does exactly as you order. Wrapping it around you, he helps you thread your arms through before zipping you up carefully as your shoulders begin to shake. Bending over, you reach blindly for the receptacle at the end of the bed and he hands it over to you.

A wad of saliva mixed with blood slips between your lips and you let out a low noise before forcing yourself to cough harshly again and again. Satoru watches. No matter how many times he sees you rip your throat up just to breathe with a bit less pressure in your chest, it doesn’t get any easier.

You manage to get up a whole magenta blossom. It blooms from your mouth like something out of a horror movie and lands in the receptacle before he’s wiping your mouth.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

They continue on.

Coat, next, zipped up, and a scarf, then he’s scooping up your legs to help you twist on the mattress until your feet are dangling off the edge. He weaves your legs through the sweat pants, careful not to let his gaze avert from his task even as the hospital gown trails up your legs. You shiver at the exposed skin and gooseflesh pimples your thighs as you lift up your hips to help with the effort. He pulls the hospital gown free from the waistband and lets it fall over the hem so you’re completely covered before falling back.

In a crouch, he pats your knees and makes the mistake of looking up only to find your eyes already on him, searching, nearly mystified. Satoru’s throat tightens. The faint light streaming from the window catches half of your face, as if half-divine. There’s a curiosity there, lingering, and the way you look at him makes him freeze in his spot.

Is this how Suguru saw you a thousand times before, a thousand lifetimes ago? Is this what he felt? 

Did he see the way your pupils dilate, the flare of your nostrils as you exhaled so quietly that it felt like a feather against his lips despite the distance between them? Did he see galaxies in your irises, home in the softness of your stare? Is that why he kissed you the last time he saw you? To memorialize their love for himself, to remember what it looked like when you loved him?  

Did he feel like he could fight dragons, crush demons, rip their world apart at the seams and rebuild it again with bloodied nails if it meant you would never cry again? Is that part of why he did it? So you would never be lonely again? 

Because if so, Satoru understands. 

Because if so, Satoru would do the same.

Because he always saw you as just pretty, because you had always been just his friend, and then his best friend’s girlfriend, and then his best friend, so there were always lines drawn in salt, scuffed and distorted over the years, but…

But in the light, tired and lost in his gaze, you’re nearly ethereal. The only reason he knows you’re not a goddess is because he’s still touching your knees, and your breath quivers, as if you’re just as disconnected from the world as he is in this moment.

Lips pressing together, he looks away, and the moment’s gone. 

He glances at the clock. 

How long has it been since he moved? It feels like hours.

Twenty-seven seconds.

Twenty-seven seconds of temptation, and then Satoru turned away. 

He slants to grab a pair of thick woolly socks to give himself something to do. You’re still watching him, head tilted down just so, and he carefully takes hold of your ankle.

He focuses on the little things: the iciness of your skin, the way you pick at the fabric of your sweatpants absently as you watch him work, the way you shiver a bit when he touches you.

He rubs heat back into the arch of your foot as you reach into your jacket slowly to carefully remove the nodes monitoring your vitals. You seem stiff to the bone, and your fingers are rigid with anticipated pain as you peel off the stickers. In the back of his mind, he remembers the days that feel like yesterday when you weren’t hooked up to so many machines to assure both you and him that you’re still alive.

Removing the cap for the oximeter from your finger, you shake yourself out a bit, clearing your throat. He slides one sock on, and then the other.

“How’re you feeling?” he finally utters.

It takes you a moment to answer. “Bottom half feels tingly. Usual these days. My body feels like a big giant bruise,” you inform quietly. Your voice is nothing more than a rasp. “Very warm and toasty, though… Thank you.”

“Just gotta get the shoes on and then we’ll teleport there.”

“Okay.” He helps you slip your feet in, something straight out of Cinderella, and then he stands up to take your hands. Your fingers slip into his palms, and he holds you so tightly as you slide off the bed. The instant your feet hit the floor, your grip intensifies and your head snaps down to the floor. You find your footing after a moment, and he lets go to crack open your window. Moving your plants aside, he climbs out to glance around. 

The air is crisp and cold, but not too bad for him. Even so, he’ll probably slip on a hoodie before they leave and he ducks back in to your room to do so, tugging it down his waist before grabbing the backpack.

“Arms through,” he instructs, slipping the backpack onto your shoulders. Guiding you closer, he helps you shuffle as close as possible towards him before turning around and bending over. “Alright, climb on. We’re going.” 

Your arms touch his shoulders, his hands shoot out behind him, and you fall.

Fingers hooking on your thighs, he boosts you up and your arms wrap around him, your own fingers wrapped so tightly around his collar that it nearly chokes him. Haphazardly stepping through the windows, his fingers sink into the fabric of your sweats. Your breath is warm against the shell of his ear, and he can feel your heart pulsing against his back as he turns to look at you. 

He smiles. “How’s it feel?”

“I’m still not sure if you’re going to let me die.” You press your face closer to his head and your arms tighten. “But the wind feels so good. So, so good.”

“That’d be too undignified,” he teases, and then he jumps. Time seems to slow as it always does when he’s about to teleport. He imagines the staff facility on the campus, quiet as a cemetery at this time of night, and his heart lurches forward. For a moment, his senses leave him all at once. He can’t taste or feel or see anything for a fraction of a second, then it comes to him in blinding speed. His hearing, as always, is first, then his eyes, smell and then touch and smell.

His foot lands on stone, as if he’s just finished a small skip, and he grins as he sweeps the courtyard. No one, as planned. The building’s to his immediate right, and he climbs the steps, using your knee to nudge the door open.

“That was fun,” you comment. “Convenient, too. Blink of an eye, and you’re somewhere else.”

“You can’t even begin to imagine how many lines I’ve skipped because of it,” he comments. The lights are all off, and he heads for the kitchen immediately to grab all the food he’s bought. Setting you down on the kitchen counter, he takes out another canvas bag and stuffs all of the food in.

Daifuku with of all kinds of fillings in the fridge, fresh dorayaki, canned coffee and aloe drinks, sweet soymilk and other wagashi they used to feast on when they were younger. Mostly because Satoru would buy enough to feed a kingdom so he always had something on hand for his overactive brain. You watch him with wide eyes as he moves around with such purpose one could think he was preparing to fight an army, but as soon as he finishes, he flashes you a smile.

“I think you’re going to like where we’re going a lot, silly.”

“Didn’t have to buy stuff,” you mutter, fingers playing with the tube leading into your backpack for a moment.

“You haven’t eaten in weeks. I thought maybe we could at least try. Maybe not now, but at the end of the night, before we go back. Just in case.”

“I can’t eat, though.”

“Don’t know until I stuff it down your throat,” he replies cheerily, and you smile at him so brightly it’s almost like you aren’t sick. Then, that smile turns into a cough, a fist in front of your lips, and your expression is frozen into one of exasperation before it flickers into strained. He sets down his bag, already knowing what comes next.

You make a hacking sound, deep in your throat, and he shifts you closer to the sink so you can lean over and throw up. Gagging, it comes in red and clear torrents, the cursed energy spilling out of your body nearly making it incinerating to even touch you as you clutch the edge of the sink basin. 

You fall to your elbows, and Satoru eases you off the counter so he can hold you up instead of the cramping body contortion you sink into. Cupping the juncture of your shoulder and neck, his thumb sweeps soothingly over your root-invested spine, tossing the ends of the scarf over your shoulder and out of the way.

Settling a hand on your hip, he presses you against the countertop so you don’t fall, and hopes your legs can hold you up long enough for him to reach for the hand towel. You spit just as he manages to grab it, snapping back into position and peering over your shoulder to inspect how much you’ve coughed up. You shudder and a tortured moan wrenches out of your throat as you sink, forehead against the cool metal.

You’re scorching to touch, but he tightens his hold on you anyway, setting the towel aside for just a moment. Carefully, he pulls you back up and you let out an drained whine, but he shushes you quietly, turning you around and guiding your head over his shoulder so you don’t stare at the rot any longer.

Satoru knows you would, even if you pretend like you aren’t plagued with morbid, self-destructive curiosity.

Looking into the sink, he counts a few petals and three whole flowers, and you’re quivering against him as he wraps his arm around you. 

“Alright, lean back for me,” he whispers into your ear, and you obey. His arm around you crooks so he supports your head, the other grabbing the towel again. Exhaustion seems to have sluiced through you, and your eyes are nearly unfocused as he dabs at your mouth carefully. His blue eyes focus on the gentle curve of your lips, and your cheeks puff up before you swallow tightly and let out a shaking breath.

“You’re really close,” you mumble in that exhale. He tilts your chin to the light to make sure he hasn’t missed a spot, and your eyelids flutter as the corners of his lips quirk up. His Six Eyes pick up a muted yellow emanating from you, and it’s so warm against his skin that he can’t help but relish in the feeling. “You smell nice.”

“Good. I took a shower before I came today. Well, yesterday,” he amends softly. “Alright, let’s go before you hack up your other lung.”

“Funny.” Nonetheless, he scoops you back up onto his back and he rinses down the sink as you rest your head against his. He feels you breathing steadily, much easier now than before. Red swirls down the drains, and he watches the magenta petals slowly reveal their true colours. There’s a flash of white in the center of each one, and he wonders silently what flower it is and what it means.

Maybe he’ll find out some day.

When the kitchen’s back to the state they entered, he grabs the bag of food and holds onto your legs tightly as your arms around his neck shift and pull him closer. 

This time, when he teleports, it’s not as jarring. Walking around the balcony, he makes sure no one’s in the area before checking that the door to the roof is locked and heading back out into the night air, towards where they can see the moon clearest.

“Hey, open your eyes,” he whispers over his ear, and your head shifts.

“Hm? Oh!” He feels you wriggle, but he doesn’t let you go as he walks closer to the spot he’s set up. Near the railing, a blanket surrounded by pillows is laid out surrounded by a few space heaters. The moon is hanging perfectly in front of them, and the light illuminates the forests in silver as a gentle wind whistles through. Tranquil, the only sound is his footsteps on wood as you manage to pull your legs free with a harsh twist of your torso. Your hand slaps against the railing and he whirls around to hold you up but you grit your teeth. “I can do it.”

Breathing in deeply, you pull yourself past him using mostly your arms. Your feet drag as if they’re not really attached to a living body but you still move steady onward, and he walks ahead to turn on the heaters and set the food down as far away as he can so it doesn’t spoil too quickly.

“Satoru,” you breathe as if for the first time,” it’s so fucking beautiful up here.” Looking up, his heartstrings twinge. Your face is bathed almost entirely in silver, and it drapes down your body like silk, illuminating the cord of your throat he can see above the scarf, the strength of your hands. A smile brighter than even the most blinding sun rays comes across your face and he finds that the moon pales in comparison as your knees begin to give.

Reaching forward, he helps you sink down slowly, and then sit down, legs hanging off the edge and then you’re leaning to rest your elbows on the middle bar of the wooden railing. You can’t stop staring at the moon, and Satoru can’t stop staring at you as he opens the box of daifuku and pops one into his mouth. 

“The eclipse should be starting in a few minutes,” he says, checking his watch. 2:10. Four minutes to go. You finally tear your eyes away from the moon to look at him.

“I forgot…” you muse. “I forgot how bright… the moon was.”  

He settles in beside you and offers a canned coffee, but you shake your head. He cracks it open for himself. 

“We’re about to watch the moon change,” he notes. “But I read that it’ll last six hours.”

“Really?” Excited, you look up at the moon again. The lunar rays outline your already-pronounced eye bags but it also makes you look more beatific. “That’s just proof… our time here on Earth is so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. It really makes you—makes you think how much we really matter. Which doesn’t seem like a lot, compared to things like a… fucking lunar eclipse.”

The moon’s opinion doesn’t matter more than mine, he thinks. “Well, while we’re waiting for your next epiphany to hit you,” he says instead, “you never answered my question.”

You smile, intrigued. “What’s that?”

“What if we removed the flowers bit by bit, rather than all at once?” he asks. Your gaze snaps to him, but he only regards you honestly. “That gives you a fighting chance.” Your eyes widen imperceptibly, and he grabs another mochi ball and takes a bite.

“The roots and flowers are too entangled in my chest to be removed safely. It’s either they remove my lungs completely, or not at all, and finding a… match for one lung is hard enough, much less two perfect lungs…” You trail off and shrug. “Well, that’d take forever… and I wouldn’t get much… longer, anyway. I’m a sorcerer. I always knew… I was going to die, so why not die on my own t-terms?”

He frowns. “Why not try?”

“Give me your phone.”

He does so, and watches you type in a query you must’ve typed before with how quick your lethargic fingers fly over the screen before you’re shoving it back towards him and leaning forward on the railing, chin to your forearms. You don’t even look at him, as if you don’t want to watch him crumble.

He reads: The first year after the transplant is the most critical period wrought with surgical complications, chances of rejection, and infection… Although there are some reports of some people living for 20 years post-transplant, many people do not make it past 10 years and only half make it past 5…

His stomach curdles. “Five years is better than nothing.”

“Five years worrying when my lungs are going to… kick it,” you correct. “Besides, my ribs are mangled by the roots. And my heart. My stomach. My spine. I’m undernourished, exhausted, and everything in here”—you gesture slowly around your abdomen—“is doing overtime. My body’s too weak to handle any kind of surgery that wouldn’t heal me… immediately.” 

Your eyes find his, and it’s as if lightning strikes through him like a spear—piercing cold and electrifying. You’re beginning to blue in the lips like you’re freezing to death, but he’s sweating under the blast of the heaters. 

Pulling off his hoodie, he drapes it around your shoulders. You don’t react anymore than: “Sucks, but that’s how it is.”

A few more minutes pass by in silence. Their knees knock into one another, and Satoru can’t stop looking at you as you breathe in the home you left months ago, head lifted to the inky universe.

“You know I can tell when you’re—when you’re angry with me,” you utter, not looking at him. “No matter how much you smile at me, you’re still too passive aggressive to cover it up.”

The words spill out of his mouth as you lower your gaze to him. “I’m sorry.” No sense in lying. 

“That’s okay.” You smile for a moment, like he hasn’t said something worth ruining a night over, but when you look up at the stars, it fades. Wistful, you cock your head at the moon that hasn’t gone away just yet and lower your chin to your arms again. “It’s not really something that was… fair of me to ask anyway.” 

.

Just as the moon turns yellow, he remembers something. Bending back to root through your backpack, he excuses himself. You frown. “What are you—“

“I got a camera for this occasion,” he announces, withdrawing the camera and a plastic bag, leaning back to snap a quick picture of you. You squint at the flash, mouth opened in an incredulous smile and face half-turned away, before the photo rolls out. “Like the one you used to carry around.”

“Some memories to hold on to, huh.” You reach for the camera and your fingers wrap around it, aiming it right at him. A flash and two peace signs later, another image joins the one of you Satoru slides into the plastic zip bag. “Hold on. I want to take another one.”

“We should do one of both of us.”

“Ugh, fine… I don’t look good at all, though.“

“Too late.” He snatches the camera from you and sticks out his hand, dragging an arm around your shoulders and you lean into him, temple against his cheek as he snaps another photo, and then another of him making a stupid face. Another of you mid-laugh. You’re wheezing for air as he keeps grabbing the polaroids as fast as he can with the arm that’s around your shoulder, leading to a bunch of jostling that has you in stitches at his frantic panic whenever the new photo chugs out of the slit.

When he’s had his fill of making you laugh, Satoru leaves you alone to look at the moon. He can’t stop grinning stupidly with every photo and while you watch the moon slowly descent into the earth’s shadow, he shuffles through the photos he just took of them together, trying to brand them to memory.

The way he looks at you in these photos makes him believe in something. In something that could’ve been there if they had more time, and he could convince you to open your heart up to a new possibility.

.

Another hour passes. The moon hangs a strange transition between black and blood red and a paler peach orange. A glimmering yellow dot sparkles below it, and he wonders if that’s Mars.

The forests seem almost hauntingly quiet, and no one has spoken in the darkness. You regard the moon, so enraptured, and more photos have joined the zip bag, but they’re mostly of you. He’s managed to sneak them in by turning off the flash and upping the brightness settings so it’d still be visible, and he hopes you never realize that he’s got them. 

Satoru has never been interested in astronomy, but the stars in your eyes are changing his mind.

He’s dug his hand into the bag of dorayaki already. He remembers it’s supposed to be for you, too, but his hands are too empty without the camera, his brain going a mile a minute and the air absolutely quiet with nothing. 

Twenty minutes ago, you asked him to help you take off your coat so you can pull on his hoodie, and haven’t moved since zipping yourself back up. The air smells only of canned coffee and the stinging wind carrying the scent of cedar. Feet swinging, he drapes his arms over the railing and looks up at the red moon.

It is pretty. Magnificent, and ominous, almost. The night is so much darker without the moon. Sheesh, colder, too. I wonder if you’re feeling okay. Maybe I should check, but you don’t seem to be shaking. Worst comes to worst, I could up the level on the space heaters…

“I don’t think I ever got to hear his last words,” you muse quietly, voice cracking, rousing him from his monologue. His head swings to you. Your eyes are barely open as you rest your cheek against your forearm, and you don’t look at Satoru despite your head turned towards him. Instead, he can watch the pieces of you fall apart without your scrutiny. “I used to think… that I didn’t care.”

“Do you want me to tell you?” he asks slowly as you continue to stare blankly over his ear. Your chest stutters in its inhale and the exhale is just as shaky as you smile a bit to yourself. He takes that as answer, and as he speaks, he sees Suguru’s smile—bright against the darkness of the alleyway, and a reminder of a simpler time. Satoru’s heart quickens from the memory “‘At least curse me a little at the very end.’”

You’re quiet for a moment, as if soaking that in. Then, you draw yourself up and sigh. “That sounds like him.”

You say it fighting off a laugh, even though it wracks your body with such intense pain you can barely breathe. You begin to wheeze not even a second in, and still, your face is cracked into an agonizing smile as you blink, tears slipping down your cheeks. Your eyes squeeze shut and your body goes stiff as you cough, hands flying over your lips. Your shoulders shake so uncontrollably it’s like an earthquake in your body, but Satoru cannot find it in him to calm you down as you hunch over yourself.

It comes in its own course, until you’re nothing but a gasping body, crying into bloodied palms cupping purple flowers, and the low sobs that spill and stutter out of your throat makes Satoru wish he never told you.

“‘At least curse me a little at the very end,’” you repeat to yourself, voice raw and iron-like, and your eyes finally rise to meet his. Nothing but hollow purple pierces through him once more. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds like him.” 

An apology bubbles at his lips, but you continue before he can even begin. Your hands fall to to your laps, and you look at the decaying flowers, thumbs stroking the petals. “I could never make him truly happy… could I? Just like he said… nothing would’ve been good enough for him while we lived in this kind of world. No matter how many times I sat by him while he swallowed… swallowed those curses, held his hand, held him, I would have never been… enough to make him laugh from his heart.” Your tears cast dark shadows. “I held him, Satoru, with all my might… and I still felt him slip away between my fingers.”

That’s how Satoru learns you were there that day, December 24th, not a snowflake in sight. Just a few metres away, you stood for only a moment before you walked away from the man you loved so he could die without any regret, at the cost of your own guilt eating you alive.

No one speaks after that. Satoru cleans your hands slowly, carefully, giving attention to each finger, before swiping your lips, and then he wipes your tears away but you’re not crying anymore.

You just look up at the moon emptily and he scoots closer in hopes to keep your returning trembling at bay.

“Ten years is a very… long time to love someone.” You break the silence. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Fifteen, thirty minutes? He looks at you, and your lips press into a thin smile. He lifts his arm so you can scoot up close next to him. Your eyes never leave his face, regarding him with new clarity. “I just… realized.”

“Ten years is a very long time for anything,” he replies quietly, their faces very close. Their noses brush, and a warmth spreads through his cheeks as he presses the tip of your nose against his. You don’t pull away. Instead, you almost lean closer. Your nose is cold against his hot face, and he rubs it slowly with his own, trying to send heat back into your skin.

“A very long time to… wait.” Your eyes flutter shut, and your breath is warm over his lips as you slowly tilt your head so their foreheads meet. His hand squeezes your waist. You smell like the hospital, but there’s still the fragrance of the fresh-cut grass and herbs clinging to your skin as he moves his head just to the side so his nose presses into your frozen cheek. Your arm moves as if dragging through honey until it’s wrapped around his neck, palm flat against his shoulder, just as their brows press against one another. 

Something ignites inside his chest, incinerating the rot that seems to grow inside his own chest—it’s his dread, he realizes a moment later. An ugly knot of dread for what’s to come, the guilt, the cold grief that’s just out of reach. 

It’ll unfurl soon, he knows, but for now, he welcomes the relief you bring him.

In this moment, you are his, and he is yours, and that is all that matters.

His eyes close. His cheeks are burning hotter than the heaters surrounding them, and he feels a smile pulling at his lips as your fingers curl against the back of his neck.

“When will people… stop waiting?” you ask him, hushed like a secret.

Eyes opening, he answers you in the same soft voice, “Probably when they die.”

Your eyes crack open once more and he catches a sliver between your heavy lids. You’re so close he sees every detail of your irises, the pores of your eye bags, the way memories flicker through your pupils like fish in a river.

Your exhausted smile grows more genuine—something inside you seems to rear its bright little head, but it’s sad, and he realizes, then, what you must’ve been thinking. Words fumble at his mouth, but he doesn’t let anything slip as you lift your face away to rest your head against his shoulder.

.

You’re dozing against him. Satoru is staring up at the moon in your stead. It’s nearly fully that famous shade of dark blood red, but not quite. He can’t hear anything except the buzz of the space heaters and your breathing. His arm is still wrapped tight around you, holding you flush against him. He’s wished he’d done it so many times before that now, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

You’re dying. Even as you rest against him, he feels it. The weakness in your body, the way you’ve turned ghost-like. The strength of your Cursed Energy has become more prominent now that you don’t have the energy to channel it properly, and it’s centred so strongly in your chest that he can feel it poking curiously at him, leaving little marks, a souvenir for when you’re gone.

His fingers dig into your side. You let out a noise, head shifting, and he rips his gaze away away from the sky as your hand falls away from where it had rested around his neck into his lap.

“Satoru?” you whisper brokenly, and he nods, smiling. He pulls you closer, but their bodies are so pressed against each other that it only serves to make you huff a bit.

“Hey. You’re still with us, don’t worry,”

“Not worried,” you mumble, lifting your head with difficulty. “Just glad you’re here.” You tilt your face to the moon. “It’s still… red, huh…” You shake, your hand at the hem of his shirt twisting tightly. He reaches to squeeze your arm and hopes it’ll be enough now. “Pretty.” Throat dry, he does not answer. His white hair falls into his eyes as you look up at him, and he decays at the vulnerability in your gaze. “Aren’t you glad… that we saw the eclipse?”

Jaw clenching, he nods and tries his best to smile. Your hand lets go of his shirt and you shuffle up close enough that your other arm sneaks around his waist. Touching his chin with trembling fingers, your eyes glitter in the darkness of his shadow.

“I’m going to miss this. The moon, stars, how… fucking short… ’n’ beautiful life is,” you finally whisper, throat tight. “Makes shit worth living for. Maybe… won’t miss it… the most… but, top three.”

“Top three?” he echoes. “Top three sounds pretty good to me.”

“And, y’know what, Satoru?” you continue in the same low, husky tone, as if you’re about to change his world one more time.

He drops to the lowest, quietest voice he can manage and moves his head closer. Their noses nearly bump into each other again, and you smile as he quirks an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“You’re… going to miss me… more.” 

Your hand on his waist travels up his shoulder and he feels the last of your strength in your muscles as you pull him towards you. Letting you, his arms wrap around your waist as your other arm shoots around his neck, clinging on so hard that he’s sure his spine might break. 

Flattening his palms against your uneven back, he closes his eyes and slides a hand to cradle your head close.

“And promise… me something,” you breathe into his ear. Your lips brush the shell of his ear, and a shiver shoots down his spine.

“Anything.”

“When I kick it,” you whisper, “take my body, and bury me… yourself.”

Throat swelling shut, Satoru’s glad you can’t see the way the blood drains from his face as he nods and holds you tighter. “I will.”

.

“One more photo for the road?” he asks. You lift your head from his chest, and he looks as you reach to sweep his lips with cold, trembling fingers. He smiles, his hand on your thigh squeezing meaningfully even though you can barely feel it now. Your arms are bundled between your chest and his, and he hauls your legs on his thighs more securely up his lap, arm tightening around your torso.

“Satoru,” you murmur, tilting your head to him. His eyes never move from yours as he picks up the camera, and your hand falls from his lips. “I’m glad… that it was you.”

He snaps the shot and the only sound that fills the silence is the camera chugging out the polaroid. Your eyes are dark, murky and unfocused, and he feels your stammering inhale in his very lungs as he presses his forehead against yours.

“I’m happy it was you, too,” he whispers. You search his gaze for only a moment, and then turn your head to the moon once more. 

Lowering the camera to the floor, he sneaks his other arm around you and rests his chin atop of your head, eyes sliding shut.

.

Nanami, Yaga, and Ijichi approach, dress shoes tapping against linoleum floors. Satoru and Shoko say nothing to them as they join in watching through the glass doors.

Satoru doesn’t like the room they’ve moved you to. It’s too full of machines, too open to passersby who could just look in if the curtains aren’t drawn, and even then…

It smells too clinical here. Too full of artificial light. The ICU is a mechanical sort of silence than the quiet peace of the dead-end hallway. There is no warmth, no books, no paintings. Your plants have been removed, and Nanami has taken all of them into his apartment except the red tulips which rest on the dinner table in Satoru’s kitchen.

You stopped being able to breathe on your own only a day after the eclipse. That was two days ago, and the ventilator is doing nothing more than prolonging your agony. Soon, the growths will block your lungs entirely, suffocating you from the inside out. 

The doctors have stopped taking scans.

“It’s only a matter of time, now,” Shoko had said. “Her directive says we let her go as soon as she can’t come back.” Quieter: “Her pulse ox has been dropping. It won’t be long.”

Ijichi’s face is stony. Satoru doesn’t know why he focuses on him out of everyone. Leaning against the nurse’s station, he stares blankly at the Assistant Director’s. Maybe because he thought he’d be a wreck. Out of all of them, Ijichi’s the most emotional, but his lips are set firm from where he stands between Nanami and their principal.

Maybe Satoru’s just looking for permission to fall apart, but that’d be stupid. 

I’m the strongest. I’ll be fine.

“I’m going to go in,” he announces. No one protests. Nanami sits down and crosses one leg over the other, fingers steepled and eyes indecipherable. Shoko sits beside him. There’s the faint scent of smoke clinging to her lab coat. 

Ijichi dips his head, but doesn’t sit and Yaga excuses himself to talk to the nurse about your condition.

Satoru sanitizes his hands, approaches the door, and pulls it open before stepping in and sliding it shut behind him. 

Click. Hiss. 

The sound of the ventilator is the only thing that occupies the room. That and the monitors. It’s very dark, despite it being the middle of the day. Mostly because you can’t open your eyes wide enough to withstand the sun anymore, so Satoru had asked the nurses to bring the same blackout curtains from your room here. The lights are dimmed until it’s only an orange glow right behind your bed. 

Click. Hiss.

Sitting down, he doesn’t take hold of your hand just in case you’re sleeping. The intubation tube rests on a pile of towels on your chest, and it takes a long time before your eyes open and your head tilts just enough to look. Your hand twists on top of the covers until your palm is tilted open.

He slips fingers in, takes hold. The feel of your skin making everything worse. You’re colder than you should be—it’s sweltering in this room, enough that Satoru is already beginning to sweat even through his short-sleeve—and your fingers just barely twitch against the back of his hand, tracing strange shapes.

You blink, tapping his knuckle, and he frowns.

“What’s up?” Withdrawing, he feels your nail scrape against his flesh and he looks down. Curiously, he takes your hand and places it on top of his so your fingers can touch the lines of his palm. “Are you spelling something out?” he asks, amused, glancing up again.

Another blink, slower this time.

He leans forward on his elbow to touch your cheek before resting his cheek against his fist.

“Alright, give it your best shot.” 

Your eyelids flutter, lips trembling in a weak smile. Your index finger begins to trace shapes, kanji, into his palm. Your chest rises and fall slowly, pumped full of air by a machine hooked to your lungs, forcing breath into you as your writing grows sloppy by the passing second but you still persist.

ANGRY?

“Angry?” he repeats, and you blink slowly again, fingers insistent on grabbing his palm. Folding his fingers over yours, he arches his eyebrows. “If I was angry at a terminally ill patient, that’d make me the asshole here.” Your eyes squeeze shut, eyebrows rearranging in what he recognizes as your laugh in silence. More seriously, his hold on you tightens and he lifts his head to brush his fingers over your brow. You tilt your head more to him, gaze murky warm. “How’re you feeling?”

It takes a while, but he feels your hand shuffle back to trace your answer on his hand.

BETTER

“Better. Yeah?”

Another lethargic blink. Yes.

“It’s because of me, right? I knew it. I knew it. We should tell Shoko—I’m the newest medical innovation in town,” he proclaims, and his smile begs to slip off his face but he only forces it back on, shoves it into place. Your eyebrows move again, like you’re struggling to hold back your laugh. Your eyes slip shut and do not open again. 

Your face goes lax a moment later, and your fingers loosen a bit, but he doesn’t let go. He just wants to touch your face and trace the lines into his memory. 

Satoru stretches his thumb along the swell of your bottom lip while carefully avoiding the tube. He runs his knuckles down your cheek. His fingers brush your pulse point along your neck, and he feels the slow, weak beat.

Click. Hiss.

He thinks you’re asleep for a while, until your finger drags over the flesh of his palm and he looks down, hand lifting from your face. 

“Hey, I’m still here,” he whispers, and your face turns towards him slightly, the tube in your mouth shuffling. He reaches forward, cupping your face and holding you still. “Hey. Don’t move. Your lungs are weaker than the rest of you and I’m not about to watch you die.” Something grabs onto the front of his shirt near his stomach and he looks down to see your fingers hooking on the cotton of his tee, twisting it weakly. “Oh, sorry.”

He draws back and slips his palm back into yours. Your index finger taps against the heel of his hand before your nail drags deliberately. One stroke. Then another, and another. Gojo wishes your eyes were open, because then he would be able to determine what the rest of the sentence could spell out before you’re done, but he’s patient. 

HERE

“Here?” You tap on his hand. Yes. “What’s here?”

YOU AND ME

“You and me,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get that. At least… now you can see Suguru again, right?” Your hand goes still and he looks at your face, reaching to touch your cheek again. You’re placid—doll-like, eyes shut, living dead. “I’m a bit jealous of that, but you should rest easy. It’s been a hard few months, hasn’t it?”

Another weak twitch of your finger on his hand.

“No matter what happens, don’t think I’m angry at you, or the choices you’ve made,” he continues. “As long as you let me stay here, I won’t waste a single second of it, okay?” Tap. He squeezes your hand so tightly your eyebrows twitch, even as you slip away from him. “For all your saying that you’re weaker than me, I never thought that. Not really.” Satoru raises your hand to his lips and he closes his eyes. “Being the strongest is pretty lonely. Used to be so fucking cocky about it, huh. Thought no one could touch me or the people I cared about because everyone would be too scared.”

Your fingers curl against his palm and he lowers his head to press your knuckles against his brow.

“I was wrong. I’d give anything to have you both back, but I can’t, and I hate it. You’re supposed to be with me at the top. I don’t want to be alone again.” His eyes are burning from the strain of keeping them open, but he refuses to miss a second of you being alive when the time is trickling like sand in an hourglass. He feels it like a heavy stare on his back, wondering if this next breath will be the last one before your brain finally decides to shut down. Your organs have been shutting down for nearly weeks now. He knows it’s out of pure selfishness that they’re dragging precious moments into agonizing hours. 

He knows you’re exhausted. 

Resting his chin on your fingers, he swallows. “I don’t know how to let you go. I wished I’d come sooner. I was careless. I know that. We could’ve had more time…”

Your fingers squeeze his as tight as you can before letting go. Somehow, he hears your voice in his ear. Something about being grateful for the time they did have.

“You were right, silly.” He chuckles to himself, bitter, anguished, and lowers your hand back to the bed, not letting go yet. “Ten years is a long time to wait. I let you down, but I’ll make sure you go easy. I promise.”

Satoru lays his head down on his forearm and he swears he catches your lips pull into the faintest smile. He stays there for hours, watching your face, stretching up to touch your unmoving face. The only sound is his steady breaths, the beep of your monitors and the click-hiss of your ventilator. 

It’s 1:04 PM when he falls asleep to the sleepy circles you trace into his wrist

It’s 6:22 PM when only one of them wakes up.

.

At 11:00 AM the next morning, during one of the hourly tests, they declare you brain-dead. With the announcement of your directive being honoured by your chosen proxy, Satoru himself, classes are cancelled and they are scheduled to take you off life support at six.

Ijichi brings them lunch and dinner. Satoru doesn’t eat. Only sits by your side, leaned back into the chair and looking at you while he still can until the clock ticks and ticks and ticks towards doomsday. The kids come to say final goodbyes while he watches on. Inumaki, as always, brings Panda through his phone, and Satoru wishes there could’ve been some way to sneak Panda into a high-class hospital just so their last moments together aren’t cheapened by a screen.

Shoko enters five minutes before it’s time, hand finding his shoulder and he looks up just long enough to catch her blank stare resting on your face.

She doesn’t say anything, only moves to the other side of the bed and sits down in the other chair.

The doctor pumps you full of sedation drugs, so you won’t feel any of the pain, unhooks the machines, and extubates you, explaining all the while what he’s doing just to fill the silence. As he pulls the tube from your throat, something in Satoru turns icy when a purple petal is plastered to the side of the plastic, but the doctor does not acknowledge it any more than murmuring that he will give them privacy.

Your rattling breaths echo in his ears as he watches the numbers slowly drop, but even your inhales fade to nothing more than soft, slight wheezes. The tape has left a strange mark around your mouth, and you’re unmoving otherwise. Shoko gently reaches and touches the eye bags that are, for once, worse than hers before shaking her head and pulling back. Everyone else waits outside.

Hours pass by in torturous years. 

Satoru wears the same stony expression the whole while, finally surrendering into his desire to hold your hand. 

His heart hardens. He goes completely still. Shoko talks but he can’t really hear anything except the slow beeps of your monitor once you pass certain thresholds. 

There are nurses waiting outside. They’ve grown used to the company, he thinks. He thinks one or two are crying. Soon enough, they’ll come in to turn off the machines tracking your vitals so the sounds don’t drive them crazy, banging in home that you’re dead, dead, dead.

After a while, Satoru realizes you aren’t quite breathing, although your chest moves. Sometimes, there’s a gasping sound, like someone surprised the breath out of you and you’re inhaling sharply to replace it, and he imagines your fingers twitching against his hand one last time.

It’s very slow. Much slower than he imagined it to be. Maybe you’re still fighting. Maybe you don’t want to go.

Satoru can’t imagine why. Where you’re going, there’s no pain, or exhaustion, or blood. Where you’re going, Suguru waits.

He leans against his hand, elbow on the slight incline of your bed. Letting go of your hand, he touches your face, feels the soft puff of your breath, the curve of your jaw. You’ve lost so much weight from the sickness you barely look like yourself, but you’re still you. The cursed energy is still yours. His Six Eyes sees it. His soul feels it.

It tangles with his own where he touches you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over him. 

He wants to sleep, let time pass, and wake up to you dead.

It seems a much better alternative to watching you slip away, but he’s always been selfish when it came to personal affairs.

.

You die two hours later.

Shoko closes her eyes and leans back into her chair as the nurse comes in to turn off the droning monitor. Her face is dry and she takes long, measured breaths as if trying to temper something swirling inside her. Satoru’s hard heart cracks as he squeezes your hand to see if you’ll wake up. It doesn’t quite sink in, even though he can hear someone crying outside, and when your limp hand doesn’t react at all, he shakes his head and gets up, pulling his sunglasses off the collar of his shirt and sliding them back onto his face.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and rakes his face over your body, your face.

He’s seen a dozen dead bodies before, maybe more. You look just like he did on December 24th. At peace, younger. Like you’re glad the suffering is over, and Satoru turns his face away sharply and leaves the room. He doesn’t know what to say and he’s not sure if his voice is still here. 

Everything feels dry and dull and grey.

“Sensei,” Itadori whispers wetly, reaching out a hand, making him stop. The students are all sitting in a small area, but they stand upon seeing him leave the room, and he gives them a plastic smile that makes all of them flinch. Maki is scowling furiously at the ground as Inumaki takes hold of her bicep but she flings the hand off and stalks away, hiding her red face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells them as Kugisaki runs after Maki. He watches the two go before turning his attention back on the students. “The important thing is that she didn’t suffer. Arrangements will be made, but there won’t be any rush, alright?” The words feel lacking, but he still manages to smile. “It’s been a long day. Go home. Rest, shower, eat. Let’s remember that she doesn’t want us to be here, slumping around looking like idiots. She wants you to all to take care of yourselves.” He arches his eyebrows insistently at his students, but they don’t seem to hear him.

They’re only looking through the glass doors at your coolling corpse, at Shoko who stands, and speaks to the doctor when he comes back in.

Fushiguro is the only one really looking at him, and the teenager has a silent question in his stare. 

Satoru shakes his head, and Megumi nods.

“Classes are cancelled for the rest of the week,” Yaga adds. “Ijichi will drive you all back to the college in thirty minutes. Make sure you tell the girls.” He directs this to Inumaki, who nods.

“Salmon.”

Later, Megumi finds him smoking a cigarette leaning against Shoko��s car. Satoru’s never liked the taste of the stuff so he doesn’t really know why he’s smoking other than the fact he doesn’t know what to do. 

Up is down, left is right, and you’re dead. 

Nothing seems right, but Megumi gives him a good excuse to stop. Flinging the cig to the ground, he stomps out the ember and re-arranges his expression into that shielded smile of his, but it feels a bit weaker. Sharp, janky, wrong.

“Why haven’t you gone home yet? Ijichi should’ve taken you all back by now,” Satoru says wearily as Fushiguro stops before him, hands shoved in his pockets.

“I stayed behind to look for you,” informs Megumi. He looks a bit fractured, but the boy’s never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Satoru makes a mental note to dig into his psyche at a later date, and stretches an arm out to wrangle the boy into a hug against his side.

For all of his complaints and mumbles and scowls, Megumi’s body still relaxes a bit against his, and even though he doesn’t hug him back, when he tells him, “You should go home and get some sleep, too. These past few months haven’t been easy on you, either,” Satoru feels a part of his old self raise its bloody head. 

Glancing down at a head of spiky hair, he knocks his knuckles into his student’s skull. “Have you been keeping an eye on me?”

Megumi crosses his arms, glares over Satoru’s elbow, but even his voice is quieter. “You need to take care of yourself.”

Satoru smiles again. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “But you’re not worried about me, are you, Fushiguro?”

Megumi ducks his head and doesn’t answer any more than, “Someone has to pick up the slack, now.”

.

“Thanks, Ijichi,” Satoru says with a huff, digging the shovel into the ground and stepping on the metal edge. “Not every day you help me carry a dead body and dig a grave, huh.”

“No, sir,” Ijichi replies. He sounds a bit hoarse and tired as he wipes at his brow.

It’s been two days since you’ve died. The college grounds feels a lot less lively. He took a walk in the gardens yesterday, and saw Yaga planting new flowers. He had strode past and ignored the tears on his sensei’s face, and absently wonders now why he hasn’t cried yet as he grabs the shovel and yanks it out of the dirt, tossing it to Ijichi.

It feels kind of stupid, but despite how eviscerated everything inside him feels, he just can’t.

Either way, he’ll deal with it when it becomes a problem.

Satoru wipes at his brow, too, with a heavy sigh, and heads to where a cloth-covered shape is resting on the ground. Your corpse is light in his arms as he bridal carries you to the hole he’s just dug into the grass. It looks suspicious as hell, but it’d probably be even worse if he’d been walking around with a dead body over his shoulder, stitched back together after an autopsy by your best friend. 

Good thing they’re only in the forests outside the college campus. There won’t be any civilians for miles.

“You can go,” he says over his shoulder, setting you down by the hole they’ve dug. He takes in a deep breath to calm himself and Ijichi’s footsteps hesitate before beginning and fading away moments later. Falling to his knees, Satoru begins to carefully unfold the cloth just enough that he can see your face and chest. 

He squints behind his blindfold at the ripples of energy still seeping from the stitches along your chest. Sinking his hands into the lush, cold grass, he twists the blades with rigid fingers at the stench of rot coming from the curse before he draws back.

Hands on his lap, he stares at your face. You look frozen in time, eyes closed, skin clean, and there’s that unnatural stillness about you that only comes with the dead. It’s strange. He probably couldn’t have imagined someone so vivacious could be so motionless if he hadn’t seen it first with Suguru.

He had asked not to hear the results of your autopsy. Not now, maybe not ever. It’d be fresh lemon juice in a weeping wound. All he knows is that the curse clings to your corpse, and Shoko could only remove the growths that were no longer being fed for examination.

“Weird that this is where we’ve found ourselves,” he begins humourlessly. “With how we were living, Suguru always said I’d die first. Doing something stupid, being too cocky.” He slides a hand into his pocket and withdraws something he’d snipped this morning from the last plant you had grown with your Technique. A red tulip with a short stem that’s a bit crushed, and beginning to decay, but… everything can’t be perfect.

“I never thought I’d outlive you.”

Reaching forward, he places the tulip gently on your chest, takes your cold arms that are just beginning to loosen up again from rigor mortis, and folds your hands over the stem.

“Eternal love, and fame,” he repeats to himself. The energy nearly swallows up the tulip, but as it radiates from your chest, flickers in the slight breeze, Satoru sees flashes of red and green, much brighter than everything else around him, and knows that it won’t be consumed. Sitting down, he hugs his legs to his chest and stares at your dead body blankly, chin on his knees.

He had had a plan. He was going to just… put the flower there, exorcise the curse inside you, and bury you so you could finally rest. He wouldn’t hesitate because this is something you entrusted him to do.

But this is the first time in months he hasn’t had a cloud hanging over his head, and his body feels so much ligher without the burden of your disease hanging off his shoulders, that he can’t help but relish in it. Speak to you without worrying about saying the wrong thing, of people overhearing. He’s finally… free. 

It feels fucking awful.

“You were right, by the way.” His voice is dull, resonating deep in his chest. There is no August sun breaking through the trees above, only from behind him, and the golden beams touch your chin, down your throat and chest. It sets the red of the tulip on fire. “I miss you. And I wish I could’ve said so many things, but we ran out of time.” A faint smile. “No matter what you think, Suguru loved you. It’s why he came to see you one last time. I knew him better than I knew myself, and I know he was happiest knowing you were at his side.” Closing his eyes, the ache in his heart swells as he utters out, “So was I.”

Burying his his face in his forearms, a cup inside him seems to tip over and everything feels too hot for him to breathe in. Ripping his blindfold off and tossing it away from him blindly, his eyes snap open wide as he tries to breathe. His ribs constrict his lungs, and he presses his eyes into his arms, hands shaking as he sinks his nails into his biceps. 

Harsh pants puff against his face as he tries to reign in his shuddering, but he can’t. The knot in his heart twists until he thinks he might die, and distantly, he hears soft footsteps so faint he’s not sure if he imagines it. Gritting his teeth, he stifles the bruising feeling welling up in his throat.

Gentle hands brush down his shoulders soothingly, sending a wave of nausea through his body, and he jerks away.

“Damn it, Ijichi, leave me alone!” Wrenching his head up, his eyes widen at the figure crouched in front of him.

Arms falling lax to the grass and his knees widening, his jaw drops as a thumb teases his parted lips. You step between his legs and crouch down, limber and strong. You look healthy again, bright eyes and full cheeks, young like spring, and when you smile, it fills him utterly with light. In your hands is his blindfold, and you ruffle his hair, tilting your head curiously.

“I’m not Ijichi, but… do you really want me to go so soon?” you ask as he rakes his gaze up and down your body. There is still a purple shell encasing your legs, but as you shift your weight on your feet, it falls like fragile eggshells to the ground and sinks into the dirt, disappearing for good. Peering around you, his eyes widen when he sees shards of a purple shell in shatters all over your corpse.

He’d only seen this once before, eight months ago, with a certain student of his and the cursed spirit of the girl he loved and who loved him.

Face burning, his gaze snaps back to you as you poke his cheek and continue to grin. Leaning back on his hands, he tries to stop the intense shattering of his walls by clenching his jaw, but the shudders overtake his body, his chest, his throat until he’s letting out an ugly sound and blinking hard as if that’ll hide it away from you. Something devastatingly warm immediately shoots down his cheeks. Covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow, he turns his face away but your warm hands cradle him carefully, thumbs brushing underneath his eyes.

“Yuuta, you’re right. Rika isn’t cursing you.”

“No,” he whispers, arm falling. His fingers sink into his shoulder as if that would be enough to wake him from this nightmare. “No. I can’t—Did I—Did I kill you?” You squint studiously, not letting go of his face as he lifts the hand from his shoulder and reaches to touch you. It shakes, and he snaps it into a fist to stop it, looking at his fingers that have done so much harm—shed so much blood. “Did I do this to you?”

“You cursed Rika.”

You chuckle fondly, like he’s said something silly, and set a hand on his fist, pushing it down firmly. “You can’t control how other people react to your words, Satoru.” Your voice changes, and your eyebrows draw together in something bittersweet. “And you can’t change something you didn’t know. The chances of you cursing me and me cursing myself are irrelevant. It doesn’t change anything about where we are, now.”

Satoru watches you, lips parted, as you tie the blindfold around his neck. You feel so real, so close, and as you slide your hands down his shoulders, to his chest, he jerks his head down to stare at your shoes in the grass. 

So he did. 

“I see,” he murmurs.

That’s it, then.

“Satoru, please look at me,” you whisper, fingers stretching to his chin. With the gentlest of pressures, you prompt him up and he finds your face, your smile, where all colours begin and end. For a moment, the world seems to inhale all of its life back into its core—the leaves whistle, the sun is warm and golden, and he lifts his hand to touch you again, but you pull back before he can. 

“I can only thank you for being my friend. For staying with me until the very end.” You laugh quietly to yourself and lift your hand from his face. “I would make a joke about a curse, but I know it still hurts, so I’ll save it for when I see you on the other side, okay? When it heals a bit more.”

“It’s never going to hurt less,” he croaks. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know how much you mean to me.”

Your smile softens. Satoru tries to eternalize that expression forever. “I’m honoured, but, I hope it does heal. I don’t want you to learn how to carry so much pain around. I don’t want you to be numb.” You touch his cheek again, as if you’re trying to soak in as much of him as you can, too. 

“Do you have any last words?” he manages to ask raspily, and you chuckle, tilting your head and running your hand through his hair again. His eyes flutter shut at the scratch, the sensation of your nails against his scalp, and then there’s your hand at his jaw, holding him all together. He wants to hold you so badly he thinks his muscles might cramp into stone at the desire.

“What does it matter?” you ask curiously. “You already know how I feel. That will never change. And if you ever want to know what I think, or what I’d do, you can just ask Shoko and think about it yourself. You know me well enough to not need me nagging about it.”

“But, it won’t be enough.”

“It never will be,” you agree. “But isn’t it wonderful that we even got to know each other at all?” You lean forward, and his eyes flutter shut as you hold him to your chest. He can’t hear your heartbeat anymore, but your warmth is almost the same. The echo of your voice rumbles in his head as you speak, and maybe that is enough. “If you want my last words, you already have them.”

You draw him back, and give him one last smile. The air shifts golden yellow to his Six Eyes, for the last time. 

“Until we meet again, my Satoru.” 

You fade without giving him a chance to answer, taking all the colour with you. 

Staring at the empty air where you had been just a moment before with wide, burning blues, he whispers your name brokenly before burying his hands in the dirt, squeezing his eyes shut, and letting boiling tears scald his face red.

.

“If you want my last words, you already have them.”

Spinning the key ring on his finger, Satoru looks dully at the door knob he had just unlocked. There’s no one in the hall, and he debates whether or not he should turn around, but Shoko had insisted. There’d been something left for him in your old apartment, and according to her, it would be spoiled soon if he didn’t go.

“Oh, what the hell,” he mutters, catching the key in his palm and shoving it into his long coat. Tugging it tighter around himself, he twists the knob and pushes it open. He can’t remember the last time he was in here. Maybe five or six months ago, when they both had a day off that didn’t need to be spent at the college.

There aren’t any plants anymore. He supposes Nanami, Ijichi, maybe even Yaga have taken them. He swears he’s seen a few in the gardens lately, but who is he to say? Toeing off his shoes, he makes his way down the hall. 

 Everything is just as you left it, with clean counters and empty tables. The curtains are spread, letting in so much September sunlight. It hits random display pedestals of different sizes, all the surfaces big enough to fit a pot on. Your watering can sits by the sink. There are photos hanging on the walls, propped up on the desk, on your shelves, polaroids taped to the walls. 

Reminders that someone did live here. That there is a whole life unknown to strangers but evidence enough that whoever used to be here, they had people who would miss them.

Walking up to the counter, he drags his fingers along the surface, feeling the dust collect up to a square of pale light. A clean circle is all that’s left as a clue that there used to be something there, and his heart twists.

Who knew he could miss fucking plants of all things?

Sweeping his gaze around, he brushes off the dust on his jacket and hooks a thumb on his blindfold, sweeping the area with an eccentric eye. The TV is off, your bookshelves are in their usual untidy state, but even the reaching vines of the bean plant is gone from the highest shelf.

 “They really scooped this place dry,” he muses dryly to no one. He can still hear the music you’d play for late nights, the smell of dumpling soup. He walks down the hall and still remembers how many steps it takes to reach the bathroom that guests would use. 

He had hunched over that bath on December 25th, and let water soak through his hair as strong fingers worked the sweat from his scalp and skin.

Four more steps to the guest best room on the right, and another three to the end of the hall where a door leads to your room. It’s already open, and he steps in easily, tugging his blindfold all the way down off his face. Hair falling over his eyes, he sweeps it aside and surveys the room. The walls are still that pretty shade of cream, and your bed is made carefully, dark olive blankets resting atop your white sheets. He smiles to himself, despite the twang in his chest.

Walking deeper, he approaches the cabinet by your bathroom, and picks up the photo you have by your jewelry stand.

A smile curls his mouth. He remembers this one. First year, their first September. All four of them had gone together to Sapporo for the autumn festival. 

He sets the photo back down and looks into the bathroom. Your toiletries are all lined up, waiting for their next use, and he swallows as he raises his gaze up to the mirror. His blue eyes look a big too big on his face from the past month alone, and there are red-purple half moons printed onto his face that have only just started to fade. He swears it only looks worse because of how much pale light is streaming in from the windows, and he tugs at his collar uncomfortably, clearing his throat.

Turning around, he looks at the offenders for making him look so awful, and finds a medium-sized pot sitting on the window seat. It’s the only thing sitting on the flat, wooden surface, in partial shade and almost unfurling before his very eyes.

Satoru frowns, walking around your bed to inspect the plant. 

The flowers are a warm magenta colour, and his eyes widen at the flash of white he can see leading to the center of each bloom. Brushing a thumb over the petals, his jaw sets as he tilts his head to get a better look at the plant. So this is what was growing inside of you. Huh.

There’s another slip of white near the dirt, and his eyebrows furrow, fingers seeking the thing. It crinkles when he touches it, and his frown deepens as he manages to grasp it, pulling it free underneath the leaves and stems of the plants. Sitting down beside the pot, he dusts off the dirt clinging to the paper, and reads his name along the front in your print before flipping the envelope around. There’s something sticking out of it, a sloping shape that’s hard but not too big.

Curiosity peaked, he tears the envelope open carefully and peers inside. A binder clip is inside, holding something together, and he flips it upside down, letting everything fall. The letter slides out first, followed by whatever the binder clip is holding together and he squeezes his thighs together so it doesn’t fall to the floor.

Setting the letter aside, he picks the bundle up. 

Polaroids.

They’re polaroids of different sizes that have him smiling despite the heavy sorrow twisting his entire chest.

Various pictures of Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and you together, and he finds most of them are of him and you. Pictures of him hiding behind plants of various sizes, a picture of him drinking soju, because Suguru liked it the most and insisted he try, while leaning against Shoko who was knocking back a shot of tequila. There is a shot of Suguru, wet with mud and smiling like sunshine, while a drenched Satoru was in the background, flipping the camera off in the middle of a storm. 

More and more pictures, enough to spill out of his lap, and he picks up each one, desperate to remember when or where you took them.

And, sometimes, he can’t. Sometimes, they are just moments that he’s lost because he never thought they’d be important, and now moments he’d give anything to remember.

There are pictures of a fern he had named their first year, little annotations on the bottom of some others. Dates, but with no context otherwise. Names scribbled in black ink. 

You’re in a lot of them, your smile timeless, your joy infectious even through film.

Arms slung around Suguru, face smushed against his, artfully blurry perhaps on accident, and annotated with scrawl that read: I call this masterpiece “Dumb Sweethearts” by Gojo Satoru :)

A picture of him and Shoko and Suguru, of them in one of Tokyo’s night markets, you behind the camera, the lights flashing and warm and pink, making them all look like they’ve transported to some other kind of cyberpunk world. 

You and Shoko lounging in the gardens, having a tiny picnic at your insistence, and in Suguru’s handwriting in black: JUST GIRLS BEING PALS

Satoru stares at Suguru’s writing the longest, not even at his words, just the strokes of his pen. This is a new part of him Satoru thought had been destroyed, and he starves for it. It’s like his one and only lives and breathes in the ink, in those snapshots of him caught in eternal youth. When they’d been happy and unaware and not innocent, but cocky enough to think they could rule the world. 

It’s hungry, the way he goes through each photo, searching for another glimpse of you, of him, of them together, until Satoru is all out of moments to feed on, and still, he feels empty, flicking through the last few photos.

You in a pool, arms wrapped around Shoko and beaming like the sun.

A shot of Satoru and Suguru climbing trees shot from below, your eyes and skeptically raised eyebrows in frame, captioned big dumb monkeys

And the last one…

He holds it to the sunlight and his gaze softens.

A selfie of you kissing Suguru on the cheek. It’s mostly dark, but they were definitely in the bathroom, and the flash made Suguru’s outstretched arm look pale as a ghost, but even so, there’s no mistaking the happiness captured there. He was sticking out his tongue, winking, and red as a beet so he was either drunk or you had said something or both. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, nose squished against his cheek, eyes squeezed tight as he took the shot.

Turning it over, Satoru’s heart plummets into his chest. In Suguru’s clean, blocky writing:

THE GIRL IM GOING TO MARRY ONE DAY <3

And crossed out is your reply followed by a little note:

dummy doesnt have the nerve to propose SHHH!!!! ONE DAY C:

One day.

It sounds so much emptier now.

He lowers the photo back to his lap, and glances around him, at all these scattered moments captured forever. Gathering them up again, he relives them all over again, looking at each photo for longer to see if he’s missed anything, but mostly his stare lingers on your face, and on Suguru’s, and his own, too, because he can’t remember what it felt like back then, but he is sure it feels so much better than now.

The polaroids come together a neat stack and he is careful not to scratch any of them when he clips them together. The top photo is of you with your arms wrangled around Suguru and Satoru, your face split in a maniacal laugh, their mouths open in shock, eyes bulging in how you must’ve scared them witless. 

Shoko’s messy writing at the bottom, for it must’ve been her who had taken the photo: BREAKING NEWS: Japan’s Strongest Conquered by a Woman.

A smile cracks his weary face and he runs a thumb over their faces before sliding the photos back into the envelope for safe-keeping. 

Then, he grabs the letter. His name is written again on the first flap, and he reads it three times over before unfolding the paper, not quite ready but also not sure if he ever will be.

Immediately, a faint, herbal-like scent slashed with antiseptic flows from the page and his stomach curdles as your script pours down the page. 

Swallowing, Satoru shifts and leans against the wall, hiking a foot up onto the seat and holding your inked characters to the light. There’s a date inscribed at the top.

Thursday. 

The first Thursday after you had been released from the hospital. Your last Thursday before you were back in for good.

“Shit.”

He folds the letter again and tilts his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

Does he want to read this? Does he really want to fucking read this? 

Taking a deep breath, he clears his throat and lowers his gaze to stare determinedly ahead of him. The purple flowers greet him warmly and he shakes the shiver out of his body before tightening his grip on your letter and unfolding it again, forcing his eyes on the page.

My Satoru,

I sent all the pictures I had of Shoko to her, and she has some of Suguru, too. Now that I’m gone, there’s no use if I keep them. Maybe you two could share some time, laugh it up over these old memories. I know she says she can’t stand you, but to be honest, who else is there that will remember us now? Who else is there to remember Suguru for more than his bloody hands and me as more than that girl too sick to do anything but die? 

Some legacy we said we’d leave, huh.

I don’t think I told you this, but with this disease catching up to me, it’s hard not to form hypotheses on why it’s happening or how. I have quite a few theories, and, unfortunately, none of them are pleasant or unriddled with angst. By now, you’ve probably figured out it’s a curse, and if you’re smart enough to ignore how much I’ll probably deny it, that it’s some love bullshit. If you didn’t know, now you do.

I know it’s weird. Suguru is dead. It shouldn’t be happening, right?

That’s what I thought, too

You once said love manifests the most twisted curses. I never thought of it that way before, but I’m starting to think you’re right. I don’t want to curse you by dying, but I can’t help but wonder if we can control who we curse. If I hadn’t heard you say that, would I still be here? Healthy? Okay? 

I don’t know. I can’t predict alternate timelines, because I got to live one life, and that’s more than most people get. But, because I know you, you want me to entertain you. I’m sighing as I write this.

Look, I know the pain would still be there. I know I still wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for what I did, even if it was what had to be done. I know I would still miss him. I know that I would still long for the day I didn’t feel guilty for loving someone else.

If you didn’t curse me, I cursed myself. It drives me crazy that this is how the die was cast, even now, even after months where I could’ve accepted this, but at least this physical manifestation almost makes me… calm. Like seeing what this life has done to me makes me brave enough to fight it. If anything at all, the curse brought me a greater understanding of how powerful our world is in comparison to people who… are normal. The people we have to protect.

I’m sorry. Reading this back, it sounds like I’m the one cursing you now; telling you all this knowledge that can only bring you more anguish. I promise, this isn’t what it is. I just want you to understand. You couldn’t have saved me, Satoru. I couldn’t have given you the absolution you wanted, and if that’s how it is, then I just hope that one day you can look back on this and it won’t hurt anymore.

It’s always been so complicated between us, after what happened to Suguru, and after what he did, even ten years ago. What we couldn’t stop and what we had to do that day. There was always a line that I thought I couldn’t cross, or a line you didn’t want to cross, and it was shaped a lot like him. I don’t know if it was just in my head, but there was something holding us back, and I was fine dancing around it because I saw how you felt about him and I understood. Your eyes always changed when you looked at him. When you spoke of him. Even after.

Always after.

Don’t think I’m angry. I’m not blind. I know how much you two meant to each other, and I could never be angry that Suguru is so cherished. Missed. It makes everything so much harder, so much more painful.

Look, in the end, I loved him, and you did, too. And if we both still do, that’s okay. He deserved love. 

I guess it just feels like a stab in the back that it wasn’t enough. 

But life isn’t a fairytale. None of it really matters. To be honest, I wouldn’t trade any of it for a second, and I hope you wouldn’t either. 

Maybe life isn’t supposed to be lived happily, but lived contently. And I did. I am satisfied with what I’ve done, even if I wanted to do so much more. 

I’m so grateful to have known you, to have had you by my side. I hope you can say the same. 

Don’t regret my death. Remember how much fun we had when we were stupid kids, and smile. Because I don’t want you to think your best years are behind you. I want you to be happy, even if I can’t be there to see it. I want you to be excited for your future, even if I can’t be in it.

I’ll always be watching over you, so smile for me every once in a while. Even if it seems like you’ll never feel anything again. One day, I promise you will, and it won’t feel so bad.

Yours forever and ever and ever,

(Name)

.

Throat crushed, he reads one line over and over the most. He’s memorized your letter heart, but he still carries it around with him, anyway.

“I know that I would still long for the day I didn’t feel guilty for loving someone else.”

Sometimes, he just wants to imagine your hand whispering over the page, the pen tapping against your chin, your face as you wrote, the sigh that you said you heaved. Because he’ll never hear you laugh again, see your smile. Your voice will never tease his ear, your fingers will never touch his face. There is no more laugh-wrinkles set in a face always perfectly hit by sunlight, and this is all he has left. His memory, and what you’ve left behind.

It makes him laugh how almost lovestruck stupid he’s being, but… he doubts anyone blames him. As long as he’s still doing his job, as long as he’s still the Strongest, what does it matter if he carries a dead woman’s letter in his pocket everywhere?

“Warm weather, even in the evenings. That’s a bit unusual,” Nanami observes, startling Satoru and he looks up at the blond who stops by him in the gardens. The man is wearing his grey suit, as always, and his watch glimmers in the fading gold light. “How are you?”

Satoru’s fingers tighten around the letter in his hands. As usual, the urge to crumple it up, throw it into the garbage to never see it again, has reared its head after his latest re-read, but he’ll stave it off. He always manages to.

“Fine,” he replies, glancing at the startling blood red and burnt orange leaves casually. Colours seem a bit brighter, and Satoru still squints a bit against them, despite the soft light of the sunset. He doesn’t know when his Six Eyes got so sensitive to that kind of stuff, but it almost feels good to be distracted by something so trivial as sensitive eyesight. “It is a bit warm for October.” 

Nanami hums. “How are your plants doing?”

“Mine are doing good,” he says, smiling. “The tulips have gone dormant, so nothing to worry about there. The one with purple flowers, though. It’s a tough one. It took me a while to figure out what it liked, but it didn’t go dormant or anything as long as I gave it enough water and paid attention to it.”

“That’s good.” Nanami adjusts his green lenses and sighs like he’s bracing himself for something difficult. “Gojo,” he begins, but Satoru merely folds your letter up and slides it into his breast pocket, holding up a hand.

“Whatever you’re going to say, Nanami, I don’t need to hear it.”

“Are you sure?” he asks skeptically, gaze following as Satoru stands, patting his jacket. Adjusting the lapel, he turns to his friend and when he grins, it feels like it reaches his eyes behind his sunglasses for the first time in two months.

“I’ve done this before, Nanami. I’ll be fine.” He waves it away. Nanami frowns. “I’m gonna get some dinner, though. Care to join? There’s a real good ramen place in Ikebukuro that you have to try.” The blond man observes him for a moment, before shaking his head, saying he had dinner already. “Suit yourself. Next time, I’m treating you, though.” 

Lips puckered in a whistle, Satoru turns around and begins to walk away. 

A breeze sweeps through the gardens, rustling the leaves in a discordant harmony, and sneaking into his jacket, sending a slight shiver up his spine as Nanami’s voice follows after him.

“The flower she left you is the sakurasou.” Satoru stops, hands in his pockets, but he doesn’t turn around as Nanami continues, “I wasn’t certain if if you knew.”

“Nope, I didn’t. Thanks for the info.” Lifting a hand, he barely looks over his shoulder before saluting with two fingers and smiling cheekily. It’s not as forced as it used to be. In fact, it comes quite easy as he reaches into his pocket for his phone. He knows what he has to find out now. “See ya later, Nanami.”

“Good evening,” he replies, and in a blink of an eye, Satoru is gone.

On the windowsill of his empty apartment, the sakurasou soaks in the last remnants of the day before wilting against two photos.

One of four students, arms entangled, and faces framed in eternal youth.

And another immortalizing what could’ve been longer than a few shaky months if someone had been just a bit braver.

a/n: satoru’s google search result: the meaning of sakurasou - desire and long-lasting love. 

and yes, there was an actual lunar eclipse on july 27th, 2018 (28th in japan time). it was very pretty. i researched a bit about both the lunar eclipse and the medical stuff, but excuse any inaccuracies! tis but a work of fiction <3 also, fun fact: the polaroid camera is supposed to be the instax mini 90 but ive never used it so excuse those inaccuracies as well SKNDALSDKN

ngl i did wanna write an alternative ending, but i can’t see this ending any other way. this is it. this is the canon, and we got a bit of happy feelies at the end as a treat. thank you for reading!

#fic: the colour yellow #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojou x reader #gojou x you #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk writing #jujutsu kaisen writing #jujutsu kaisen gojo #my writing

[primofate]

Shortfic: Zhongli x Childe x gn! Reader (Taking care of sick reader) Poly relationship

Listen, don’t sue me. I just have so much Zhongli x Childe x reader brainrot. I just think the dynamics would be so good. Zhongli being such a daddy good caretaker and Childe being... well Childe being Childe and you in the middle of it all, LIKE WHY THE HELL NOT? Yeah idk, I’m sorry, I indulged myself.

Categories: poly relationship, protective Childe and Zhongli, worry, possessive, fluff

Warnings: hinting at sexual activities (still very SFW though), poly relationship, not tagging anyone because I’m not sure if this is your thing. Let me know tho.

Characters: Zhongli x gn! Reader x Childe

"Zhongli…" 

Childe stands in front of the man with a defeated look in his face, eyes turned towards the floor. 

Zhongli was enjoying his tea, sitting at the table, liking the peace that it gave him. With a soft 'clink' he sets his teacup down and looks at Childe, calm gaze placed on the younger man. 

"Childe, they will be fine,"

"I just don't understand what went wrong, was it too cold last night? Or were they overworking themselves?" 

Zhongli sighs to himself, standing to close the gap between him and Childe. He cups a hand around the crook of Childe's neck, thumbing gently on his jaw. 

"These things just happen sometimes, Childe. Perhaps it was something they ate, or even just a minimal change in their routine," 

"But they look like they're in so much pain," 

"I don't doubt it, their fever is at its peak at the moment. Not to worry, I've contacted Baizhu to take a look at them in the afternoon," Zhongli moves to remove his hand from Childe's neck, but the ginger haired male grasps on his wrist and stays it there. They stand in front of each other in silence, Childe swallowing the lump in his throat that had formed out of worry. 

"Although we aren't bound by a contract…" Zhongli's voice tones down to a near whisper, Childe's eyes flicker up towards his. "...We're bound by an even stronger bond. Rest assured Childe, we are doing the best that we can," Zhongli moves his hand an inch downward towards his shoulder and squeezes it, and, in a slow and comforting motion, presses a kiss on Childe's forehead. "They will be fine," Zhongli repeats in a way that gives Childe the confidence and reassurance he needs. 

The younger male takes in a big breath and sighs it out slowly. He nods and let's go of Zhongli's wrist, head turning the slightest to listen if you've woken up. 

Nothing. 

He kinda wished that you did, so that he could ask you how you were doing. If anything hurt. If you needed anything. 

"Why don't you rest for a moment, I'll check on them in the next few hours," Zhongli motions over to the tea set on the table. There were 3 teacups filled up, one for him, one for Childe and one for you. "It wouldn't do if both of you got sick now, would it?" 

Childe sighs and agrees, "Tell me if they wake up," and so for the rest of the day Zhongli stays by your bedside, changing the wet towel atop your forehead and merely watching the quickened rise and fall of your chest. Your face is flushed pink with the extra heat your body is producing, face clearly uncomfortable. 

Suddenly Zhongli understands Childe’s anxiousness. You looked as if you were about to break. Childe was wildly protective of you, compared to Zhongli who always seemed to see things in a neutral manner. Looking at your current state though, he can't help but feel a stronger need to hide you away from the dangerous world. 

Zhongli leans back in his seat, closing his eyes to rest momentarily. He had probably fallen asleep because in the next moment he hears his name on your lips. Even without opening his eyes, he knows that it’s you. He pushes himself up and comes to see that you’re sitting up as well, flush still on your face, sweat sticking to your forehead. “Y/N,” he’s a little startled, but motions for you to wait. If Childe finds out that he didn’t call him at the first moment, he’d be livid. 

The moment he steps out of the room, his foot just an inch out, Childe is up and walking towards him. “Are they okay?” he asks, and Zhongli merely opens the door wider for him. Childe becomes a literal clingy koala at the sight of you. “Y/N!!!!” and leaps forward to give you a bear hug. There’s so many things coming out from his mouth that you weren’t even sure what he was saying anymore. 

“Ahahaha…” You laugh nervously as he grips you in a tight hug. Zhongli just watches, the edge of his lips slightly upturned into a small smile. “I’m fine, Childe, I think I just need some rest and maybe something for the annoying headache I’m having,”

You pinch in between your eyebrows as Childe pulls back, smoothing your hair back and fussing over you. “Medicine, right? How ‘bout water? Do you need water?” You smile brightly at him despite the fatigue and he beams back, infinitely glad that you were awake and talking to him. He continues his line of questioning, “or maybe kisses? How about kisses? Hugs? I have plenty to give,” It was your laugh that let him know that you were feeling better, at least better than last night when he had just found you passed out on the floor. 

“Just some tea is fine,” you reply, leaning forward to rest your head on Childe’s shoulder, him wrapping his arms around you in response.

“We’ve poured you a cup of tea already, I’ll go and fetch it,” Zhongli says, opting to give the two of you some time alone, but not before pressing a kiss atop your head, just as he had to Childe earlier. 

“How do you feel? Are you in pain?” Childe yet again asks and you shake your head, “It’s manageable, don’t worry too much,” but your lover sighs and caresses your hair carefully. Zhongli comes back a moment later with Baizhu, who had arrived just as he was fetching your tea.

“Ah, Y/N, it’s a good sign you’re awake,” Baizhu smiles sweetly, much too sweet for your liking. Childe takes himself away from your bed and lets Baizhu do a complete check of your vitals and condition. He stood side by side with Zhongli, stance relaxed. 

Baizhu isn’t stupid. He knows the kind of relationship the three of you have. He’s been on house call another time for Childe who had sustained quite the injury. He saw how you worried over him, and saw how Zhongli’s expression creased into anxiousness. 

The situation was the same today. Except that you were the patient, Childe’s face was the one covered in anxiety and Zhongli… Well… He didn’t seem too bothered by the whole thing but if you looked closely, he was slightly tense than he usually was. 

Baizhu just wanted to have his fun. How far were their boundaries, really?

“How are you feeling, dear?” Baizhu asks you as you’re sipping on the warm tea. “...Tired and… a splitting headache” You put away the cup of tea with a slight sigh, still feeling your muscles cry out for help. “Is that so?” Baizhu tilts your head up to look at him, fingers under your chin, and he peers into your eyes, a tad closer than he was before.

Zhongli and Childe tense at the motion, but don’t make a move to interfere. “Just checking your pupil dilation,” there’s an undertone of mischief in his voice, though you couldn’t tell if that’s just how he usually was or…

Baizhu’s hands slide down to your arm, taking your wrist and checking your pulse. A moment of silence passes, “Just a little fast but otherwise normal,” and lets go of your arm. He prescribes a medley of Chinese herbs to be taken as tea, telling Zhongli and Childe how to prep it. He finishes his examination rather quickly, “A normal fever, if it worsens tomorrow then you should call me once again,” he takes your hand and rubs it rather affectionately. You’re a bit surprised at the action.

As if that wasn’t enough, another one of his hands cup your cheek as he gives you a quick wink, “I wouldn’t mind getting called multiple times for such a charming face like yours,” the blush on your cheeks is suddenly not just because of the fever. 

One would think that Childe would react faster to the pharmacist’s advances, but it was Zhongli who sets his hand down rather roughly on the other man’s shoulder, “Baizhu, that’s unnecessary,” The tall man says. Almost commands.

Childe was only mid step. The green-haired man chuckles, the white snake around his neck weirdly quiet today. “I’m merely examining your...interesting arrangements, they ARE a piece of art--” and the warning squeeze on his shoulder told him that he should be going. 

He chuckles again, but lets himself be led out by Zhongli. Childe takes his place next to you, the mattress caving at his weight, “...Were you blushing just now?” he accuses you, eyes squinted.

“N-No… It’s the fever…” but your stutter tells him otherwise. He raises an eyebrow in question, obviously not believing you.  

You gulp a little, “I was just caught off guard… it’s not that I enjoyed what he said…” you pout a little. Childe smiles at the cute look on your face, he was merely teasing. “Oh? Well, doesn’t matter, I’ve seen a lot more different expressions on your face than just a small blush,” there’s a quick smirk on his face and it’s here that your face turns into a tomato. You know exactly what he was insinuating. 

Thankfully, Zhongli strolls in and sees the alarming redness on your face, concludes that Childe must have said something to fluster you again. “They still require some rest, Childe, perhaps leave the teasing for a little later,” 

His tone is stern, but only because he knows you needed more sleep. Childe smiles but continues, “I think they���re just fine! See how their cute little face blushes just for me, Zhongli,” he takes your face in his hands and turns it towards Zhongli, who was...admittedly slightly enamored by the charming display.

Zhongli coughs into his hand and turns his gaze away, “Strange how energetic you are now, just a moment ago you were beside yourself with worry about Y/N,” It was your turn to tease Childe at the information Zhongli just gave out. “Oh? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you so much!”

Before Childe could even reply Zhongli continues the sentiment, “Yes, he looked as if he was about to cry,”

“Th-That’s not!” Childe retracts from you, wanting to say that it wasn’t true but his words get stuck in his throat and it is now his turn to turn his gaze away in slight embarrassment. Zhongli and you snicker at his change in attitude but you were also curious as to what Zhongli was doing while you were fast asleep, “and you, Zhongli? I suppose you’re not one to worry too much,”

There’s silence on his end, with his arms crossed you can’t gauge his expression but he was having an internal battle on whether or not to tell you that he was actually just as worried. But...he had to be the strong one for the two of you. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips, strolls over to you and leans down to quickly kiss the side of your lips. “I worry in my own way, dear,” The way he says dear sends shivers down your spine, and you know in your heart that he had been worried too, just toned down to balance out Childe’s anxiousness. 

Childe suddenly gets in bed with you, pulling you down for a rest. His chest is against your back, arms around your waist and mouth whispering in your ear “The two of us will always take care of you, believe me,” You smile a little and close your eyes. “I know,” just as Zhongli joins in, placing himself at your front. 

Sandwich cuddles are your favourite and although you’re very much running a fever, the warmth from them is soothing. Zhongli drapes an arm on both of you, and leans down to kiss you on the forehead, brushing away stray strands of your hair as if you’re porcelain. When he pulls away he sees the look Childe gives him. A ‘Do-I-get-one-too?’ written all over his face. 

Zhongli chuckles, leans in a little bit further to place one on the other man’s forehead, and watches the two of you drift in and out of sleep. 

It’s certainly one of the most beautiful sights he’s witnessed.

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#Zhongli #Childe #Tartaglia #polyamory #Zhongli x Childe #Chili #Zhongli x Childe x reader #Genshin #Genshin fics #Genshin hc #Genshin short fic

[luvsicksubs]

 ꘎♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡꘎

sweethearts - bakugo katsuki 

wc: 1.6k 

cw: pegging / anal fingering, degradation, dacryphilia, sub!space, dom!reader (afab but i dont think there’s anything gendered?), using the word cunt for bakugo,  pro-hero!bakugo, and a lot of super fluffy aftercare at the end. 

“Y-you’re so — hic — so fuckin’ mean,” 

Your laugh is warm - too warm for something like this. With Bakugos face pressed firmly into your shoulder, strong arms wrapped around your neck - your laughter feels cruel. It sounds sweet but Bakugo knows better than to fall for it - aware of the irony in his words as your hands grip the meat of his thighs. Your fingers are bruising as they hold onto the muscle, legs lifted and wrapped your back with his calves twitching and trembling. 

You’re trying to hold in your amusement - refocusing your eyes on Bakugo in this state. Your favorite pro-hero’s expression, normally so stoic and cold now broken. Skin flushed red from the tips of his ears down to his chest - warmth running down his back in waves. He’s sobbing poor thing, nails scratching up your back without remorse.  

In an effort to get him to show some submission, you pull out full-stop. Bakugo gasps at the emptiness, whimpering as your heavy eyes watch his hole tremble. So pretty and so desperate, the feeling of hot plastic is replaced with strong hands - angular and plunging. You lay him on his back and lean back yourself, your fingers teasing and prodding the sensitive ring of muscle. It’s sore, red and puckered from exhaustion - stretches all too easily around your thin fingers. 

But it’s more precise this way, Bakugo realizes in half-terror and half-lust - eyes flickering down to your middle and and ring fingering scissoring him open. Not a tight fit by any means but Bakugo clamps down on you anyway. You laugh at him, can’t help yourself as your hand presses down on his belly. 

“You’re so mouthy, aren’tcha brat?,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the calf at your face, resting your cheek on it as you position Bakugos hips up using a pillow. His cock weeps pathetically onto the muscle of his stomach, red and burning and aching. Everything in him feels warn out and he can’t do anything but sob - not a thought running through his mind other than missing having you inside. 

“So damn disobedient but this always shuts you right the fuck up, doesn’t it baby?,” and the question is rhetorical - always is. Your fingers are angled directly at his prostate so perfectly, practically milking the orgasms out of his body with only one hand. Everything is too much. 

“Too much - ‘s too much, fuck,”  

He’s thrashing, arms desperately clawing into the sheets for life as you easily work another orgasm out of him like this. He’s lost count, doesn’t even care to know as he feels your other hand simply brush against his sore cock. He can’t breath, half choking out a sob as his body floods to weakly spurt out a thin stream of cum, if you could even call it that. 

“See? Didn’t talk back even one time right there, did you?,” and your hands, cruel as ever - draw a line in the cum that coats his stomach and the sheets. He shivers, eyes welling up with tears of shame.  

“This is the only way pretty boys like you know how to cum right?,” you ask, hand landing on his and leaving another familiar print in your wake. The pain jolts him awake, makes him drool. 

“Like your body was made for me to fuck ‘n use like a little toy, right Katsuki? Pretty little hole you got is begging to get fucked all over again,” 

“I don’ like it, swear I don’t, swear  — fuck,” 

You grin - so much spitfire in your sweet brat. You take pleasure in pulling your fingers out and thrusting them right back in, massaging his g-spot with intensity in your gaze. His eyes shoot open, frantically searching for your face in pure need before seeing your feral expression and swallowing. 

“Liar. You love it when I use you.  So pretty and perfect like this,” 

You lean up, the weight of your body pressed against his - lubed plastic cock grinding hard against his own. He bites his lip hard enough for it to swell moments after, arms desperately coming around your body for support as he loses strength. Fuckfuckfuck. 

“Tell me you love it - tell me how much you love when I ruin this pretty lil cunt baby,” 

Bakugo swallows a heavy breath as his body tightens up. Your hands feel good but it’s not enough, he knows he needs more. His body trembles, throat hoarse as he sobs and sniffles into your chest. Bruises and hickies blooming all over his skin create a hazy buzz in his head as panicked eyes find yours - gasping as he desperately tries to find his voice. A hand wrapped around his throat has him shaking violently. 

“I love it — hic — fuck.. fuck me already,” he chokes out the words between sobs, fat tears sliding down his face and onto the sheets as his hands lock around your shoulders - desperately searching for reprieve. His ass is grinding against the strap even more eagerly than before, cock almost limp and making a wet noise as it moves against his belly. 

The tip of your cock presses right against his hole, and you grin. A hand around his throat, another pressed on his stomach - you lean low. Teeth catching his ear lobe, you whisper. 

“Say please, Katsuki.” 

“Fuck, please!,” 

Like something had been triggered in you, you immediately pull-back and slam back in one fluid motion. Bakugo cries out - moans so brokenly in a silent scream as you set a violent pace. He uses his hands to hold his legs up, afraid of what’ll happen if he doesn’t as you jackhammer him into the bed. The mattress ricochets off your every movement - headboard banging loudly against the walls. But Bakugo’s voice is louder, lewd and desperately croaking about how fucking good it all feels. His cock stands to attention again - and the pleasure drowns out the blurry pains of overstimulation like a drug. You grit your teeth as the friction of the strap grinds against your clit. 

Your hand pumps Bakugo’s cock furiously as you fuck him, and Bakugo has given up on doing anything but repeating your name like a prayer. His incantations send shivers up your spine as you grunt into his ear - your own orgasm mere seconds away. 

“One more yeah? Give me one fuckin’ more - be a good little cumslut for me and give me one more baby,” 

“Oh, god,” 

Almost in tandem, you reach your orgasm only seconds after your boyfriend reaches his. You nearly choke at how hard you cum, lungs burning as pleasure curls through your body and you’re groaning into neck. Panting desperately, you lift your head-up to meet Bakugos with a soft smile

You kiss his jaw softly, smiling. 

“You did so well baby,” you hum against his throat, brushing his hair back. 

“Let’s get you fixed up,” 

__

[ after-care ] 

You would argue this is the best part. After fucking the daylights out of your bratty boyfriend - he’s half-way there as you kiss and massage his body. He’s pliant, dizzy - somewhat gaining his consciousness. He can only half-find it in himself to argue with you as you take care of him. He succumbs to your touch and silently plants himself in your lap or otherwise as you do. In the bath, he spent ample time having you hold him and scratch his scalp as you wash it. 

When he wanted kisses, he simply looks up at you - vermilion eyes catching light as you laugh lightly and kiss whatevers closest. He only closes his eyes against when he’s satisfied with it. The warm water helps him feel steady, relaxing into the water. 

You dry his hair off in the bathroom before transpiring back to your bedroom - where Bakugo curls up exhaustedly in the corner as you fix up the sheets and get him to lay down. 

You talk idly as you rub lotion down his body - watching his eyes flutter close. Your hands go over all the marks, bruises, bites and scratches with soft kisses before paying special attention to them. For the first time since you’ve finished, you get a sentence out of him. 

“You’re a demon,” he slurrs. You can’t help but break out into a laugh, you hands squeezing his pecks before bending down to kiss him. A glass of water by the bed-side prompts him to sit up and drink before leaning against the frame. 

“Nice to see you, baby,” you joke. You grown serious just as fast, sitting between his legs with his face in your hands - observing him. 

“How do you feel, angel?,” 

His eyes flutter open - sleepy and full of vulnerable adoration. You’ve fucked the fight out of him, literally so he’s in no place to deny your affection. He yawns. 

“‘s fine, stupid. ‘m okay. Are you?,” 

Your heart flutters. Sometimes he reminds you in little ways like this that this goes both ways. You nod, hold one of his hands in yours. 

“I’m fine. Worried I was too rough on you, or too mean,” 

He scoffs, almost offended. 

“Who’dya take me for,” comes his reply. You laugh, softly placing his forehead against his - shrugging. 

“Right, right,” you hum, leaning forward to kiss him deep and slow. Everything is still, slow and perfect. He opens his eyes, overcome by his own emotions and hugs you tiredly. 

“Love you, dumbass,” he chokes. You yawn as he clings to you, kissing the crown of his head. 

“I love you too, Katsuki,” 

 ꘎♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡꘎

#bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #bakugo x you #bnha x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha x y/n #sub!bakugo #bottom!bakugo #k; pegging #k; dacryphilia #k; degradation #idk what other tags im missing #after-care inclusive #will proof-read in the morning

[tainted-wine]

Primal Dissonance

Hawks x Reader (NSFW)

So anon was like:

And since I’m total ass at writing short drabbles, or maybe it’s because they called me senpai, I ended up with a whole-ass fic. This took a different route than planned but I hope you enjoy, anon!

Words: 4.3k

Warnings: Dubcon, Pheromones, Mindbreak, Feral Hawks, Rough and Public Sex, Tit Abuse. This totally isn’t as dark as it sounds.

--------x--------

Hawks has been getting noisy. Not in the usual sense; he’s always a motormouth. No, he’s been making sounds that you’ve never heard him make.

At first you thought he was sick and something was irritating his throat, but on one occasion when you offered him water after hearing the sound, he almost looked offended. You concluded that it wasn’t an illness.

You later noticed that the noise often happens when it’s just the two of you together. During late night movie viewings at his place, he’d hold you close and release a constant hum, the vibrations from his chest and wings soothing enough to make you drift into sleep in his arms. You never saw the look of disappointment in his face as he decided to cuddle you for the rest of the night.

Just a few days later, he spots you during one of his patrols and presents you with a surprise expensive gift. A ruby pendant, the same brilliant shade as his feathers, was placed around your neck by gentle gloved hands.

“Hawks—why—what did I do to deserve this?” You asked while your eyes reflected the gemstone’s sparkles.

“Just wanted to give a pretty gift to my pretty girl.” He gave you a kiss, and waves of soft hums leave his mouth and into yours, flowing through your body, stimulating all of your nerves and triggering pleasant shivers. One makeout session later, and you both pull back to lock eyes. He’s looking at you expectantly, but you don’t even know what the hell he’s expecting.

You look to the side awkwardly. “Thank you, Hawks. It’s beautiful, but I…don’t have anything to give in return. This was a complete surprise, after all.”

His eye twitches, but he smiles and embraces you. “That’s fine, chickadee.”

A pigeon appears during your hug, and the soft coos emanating from it give you an epiphany.

“A pigeon! That’s what it is! You’re cooing like a pigeon!”

This time it’s his smile that twitches. Did you say something wrong? Whatever it is, he brushes it off with a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

That was also the day you noticed his rising body temperature. You asked once again if he was feeling ill, and at least this time he didn’t appear to be upset when he answered ‘no.’

On the next night you spent in his home, he—and you’re still not over this—took your hand and pulled you in for a dance. It wasn’t some silly jig in which he blindly moved to a random pop song, it was a slow classic love song, and he moved both of you in an elegant dance fitting for a ballroom.

It was the last thing you expected from the hero that normally took you on KFC dates or, if he had the time, reserve a spot at his favorite yakitori place. But there was no way you could say that you didn’t like the way his feet glided across the floor, wings acting as a living cape that made each of his movements look all the more graceful, and you followed his pace as best as you could.

You clung onto him more tightly than intended when he dipped you after a spin, sharp avian eyes boring into you before he buries his face in your neck, and that’s when you feel more than hear the cooing return. It’s a tune that never fails to make you feel so warm and safe; you have no idea how his gentle sounds have such influence over you.

He looks pleased by your relaxed state, pulling you back up and brushing a few stray hairs out of your face. “So?”

You smiled and gave him a quick peck on the lips. “I didn’t know you had such grace, Hawks. Now hurry up, or we’re going to miss the movie for tonight!”

You scampered off into the kitchen to prepare the popcorn, completely oblivious to the baffled look your boyfriend was giving behind your back.

A few days later and you’re more certain than ever that he’s coming down with something, because now there’s a constant sheen of sweat all over his skin, and his breath sounded labored even when he was just sitting around. Since he ignores all of your pleas to stay home for just a day or two, you come up with another solution. Hawks pouts like a child when you tell him that a little nature and clean air might restore his health, but he still accepts your offer for a date at a nature park because hey, spending a day in natural beauty with you sounds great.

You practically dragged him into a bus after telling him several times that he shouldn’t tire himself out prematurely by flying both of you there. One long scenic drive later, you both arrive at your beautiful destination. The park was huge and lush with flora of all kinds, from tree-filled paths to endless flower fields.

Exploring everything this paradise has to offer with Hawks sounds like a dream, but your main goal was to loosen him up and help him feel better, so you avoided the populated areas, passing the cycling roads, the play areas, the bug houses, all of the charming attractions until you reached the long stretches of vibrant colors. The flower park.

You and Hawks began a slow stroll hand-in-hand, taking in the seemingly endless blooms, the trees shedding petals onto the walkway—all of it served as the most delicious treat for your eyes.

But when you looked at the winged hero to see if he was enjoying the scenery as much as you were, you saw that he was staring at you. His face was slightly flushed, but you couldn’t tell if it was the result of his feverish temperature or if he’s finding this whole date very romantic.

“The flowers are over there, birdbrain,” you joked with a squeeze of his hand.

His wing wrapped around you and pulled you in closer, encasing you in his abnormal heat. “The only flower that matters is right here.” There was a rough breathlessness to his voice that made the otherwise corny line sound sensual.

And then the coos returned, bringing you back to that pleasant world where everything was warm, soft, and safe. The red feathers surrounding you quivered and rippled like ocean waves of scarlet. You were supposed to be making him feel at ease here, not the other way around.

A chorus of chirps snapped you out of your stupor. You broke out of the hypnotic embrace and spot a bunch of small bouncing figures in the white lilac tree in front of you. “Aww, look at all of the little tits, Hawks!” You point at the flock of singing critters.

Hawks snorted immaturely.

Before you could withdraw your arm, one of the Japanese tits flew over and perched on your still-extended finger, leaving you bug-eyed and your mouth agape. “Hi there! You’re a brave little guy, aren’t you?” You said softly, hoping not to startle it. It tweeted in response, fluffing up its black and white plumage as it looked up at you curiously. “Hawks! It’s so cute!”

Red wings bristled, but you were too enamored with the friendly bird on your hand to even look back at your boyfriend. It continued to sing, the tits sitting in the tree joining in to create an adorable medley of chirps, tweets, and peeps. “Such a nice sound, I never realized how amazing these little guys are.” You keep watching the beady eyes that stare right back at you, feeling the bird’s little feet move quickly as it adjusted itself to get more comfortable.

And with a powerful slug from a hardened red feather out of nowhere, the tiny tit is knocked off of your finger and sent flying like a fucking golf ball.

Your pointing hand was still out as you looked on, eyes and mouth now wide open in horror instead of awe. The poor bird managed to right itself before it hit the ground, flapping frantically to ride the light breeze and fly past its tree of brethren and off into the distance, its sloppy turns and sudden drops betraying how dazed it was.  

With your short-lived friend out of your sight, you turned to the man that ruined your magical bonding session, multiple negative emotions boiling inside you and ready to spill right onto this bastard. “Hawks!” You’re prepared to blow his ears off with every ounce of frustration, every concern that’s been plaguing you for the past week thanks to the strange changes that he refuses to talk about, but then you freeze.

The man’s face has darkened, eyes narrowed with its pupils shrunken into beady slits, lips pressed together in a tight frown—he looked enraged. But the terrifying look wasn’t directed at you, he was looking up at the innocent tits still residing in the tree and paying no mind to the violent treatment of one of their own. As his wings slowly spread with feathers sharpened, your chest constricted once you realized what was about to happen.

“Stop!” You threw yourself at him, grabbing at the outstretched limbs in a pitiful attempt to stop them, the bladed edges cutting your hands. It was still enough to shock and prevent him from launching any of the deadly weapons at the birds. You felt his feathers return to their soft fluffy state as he stumbled from your weight. “What the hell are you doing? What, are you pissed that it chose my hand instead of yours? The hell is wrong with you?”

Now he was aiming the glare at you, and you couldn’t help but shrink under the intimidation. His voice was shockingly low. “Just what game are you playing at here? Gushing over another bird’s song right in front of me?”

You eyed his still-expanded wings as you tried to make sense of what he said. “What?” Was all you could say.

“Here I was thinking you just had extremely high standards, but maybe you’re the type that likes to play hard to get, or make your guy jealous and see how he handles it.” He took a step toward you, and you took one back. “Well let me tell you, I’m not handling it very well.”

What he was implying would have made you burst into laughter if he didn’t look so threatening right now. “You’re…jealous? Of the bird that was on my finger?”

He laughed, or at least tried to, but the shortness of breath made him cough. The sudden anger must be worsening whatever has been making him hot and throaty for the past days. He needs to calm down for his own damn sake. “I guess I shouldn’t be, should I? Not for a girl who gets wet over any bird that does something as simple as approach her.”

“Excuse me?” Did you hear that correctly? No joke, did you really hear that shit correctly?

Hawks just keeps on going, taking your bewilderment as more mockery. “I give you something shiny, you don’t say anything.” A flash of several feathers and you feel your arms being pulled in front of you, the red tufts tying your wrist together.

“I put on a nice dance I practiced for, and you don’t say anything. Did you even notice that I cleaned and decorated the room that night?” You’re panicking from your tied hands and don’t see him fire another barrage that goes for your ankles, their tugs forcing you to lose your balance and fall hard onto the ground with a pained cry. Your hands are forcefully pinned above your head. “Hell, you seem to enjoy my song every time you hear it, so what’s the deal?”

While your heart is on the verge of exploding from its anxious beats, the gears in your head are spinning as you try to figure out how exactly this whole miscommunication even happened, but they keep jamming, filling your head with sparks and smoke of pure confusion. “What song? You haven’t been singing anything!” You yell as you fight against the feather-made cuffs around your hands and feet, but there was no breaking free. They suddenly felt as strong and durable as elastic metal.

Hurt flashes across his face and you don’t understand why goddammit, but it’s quickly masked with another scowl. “You mean the song that’s lulled you to sleep? The song that never fails to put you at ease every time? I can sense it, you know. How calm and pleased you feel whenever you hear it. I know it’s not the loud obnoxious tune of a songbird,” he glances at the tree that continues to emanate various calls as he kneels over you, nearly straddling your waist. Smart of him to keep his groin out of the range of your knees. “But you still enjoy it, right? I’m not too upset that you compared it to a shitty pigeon.”

You only stutter in shaky breaths as he lowers himself and presses all of his weight onto you, your eyes shut as he nuzzles your face lovingly. He feels like a furnace, the sweat from his face slathering onto yours from his rough rubs.

That’s when you smell something potent. You’ve picked up traces of it from him throughout the week, a strange but not unpleasant mixture of salt and sweet. You assumed it to be some sort of shampoo or cologne, but now it’s hitting you full force and it’s making your body…respond. With each inhale, the exotic scent sends a tingle down your abdomen and a release of wetness that dampens your clothing. What the hell is happening to you?

Hawks pulls away and sniffs the air. Your feminine aroma has him moan so suggestively that it makes your core heat up even more. “Oh, so this is getting you going?” He questions in a judgmental tone before something appears to cross his mind, and he laughs with a slap to his forehead. “I’m such an idiot. I’ve been doing this all wrong, haven’t I? You’re not a bird.” He kisses at the side of your face and licks the shell of your ear before whispering, “You’re a mammal. You don’t choose a mate by their pretty gifts or fancy dances.”

The lustful haze invading your mind almost distracts you from whatever is tugging at your pants and pulling them down. “H-Hawks…” You accidentally moaned. You were too out of it to even properly convey your worry. Your pants are removed and something tickles your hips to remove your panties next—that’s when you identify them as more feathers.

“With mammals, males just take what they want. They catch her, hold her down, and fuck her on the spot.”

You gasp when your lower body is completely stripped and exposed—a mistake—Hawks’s intoxicating smell rushes into your mouth and nostrils, making you clench and gush. He lifts himself just enough for the living binds around your wrists to pull and drag you off of the stone walkway and into the blooming batches. The flowers were just tall enough to probably hide you from anyone at a distance, but the winged man crawling over and sitting in front of your feet would easily give you away. “Hawks, someone…might see us,” you mutter.

He only chuckles. “Good, I want them to see. Are you little bastards watching?” He looks up at the lilac tree that now looms right over both of you. The resting tits have gone quiet, most likely intimidated by the large bird-human hybrid that continued to glare at them.

The response was ridiculous enough to temporarily free you from your trance. “I’m not worried about the birds, you dumbass.”

“Hmph, of course you’re not. You’d let them all join in if I’d let you, wouldn’t you?”

You have so many questions about how that would even work.

But you’re interrupted by the feathers around your ankles pulling your feet apart, easily overcoming your resistance and spreading you wide open for the hero in front of you. You have to look away from just how soaked you are, juices flowing from your swollen pussy and onto the soft soil, some of it sticking to your parted thighs in strands. The sight makes Hawks salivate.

“I’m at the peak of my rut and I’m tired of waiting. Gonna make you mine.”

It’s all he says before his entire mouth is on your cunt, tearing a startled cry from your throat. The peaceful sounds of the wind and rustling leaves are overshadowed by the absolutely filthy slurps, sucks, and growls between your legs. He was being a greedy savage that simply wanted to drink you up. There were no careful methods or patterns, just a hungry tongue that lapped at every inch of you and lips that sucked on anything they could grip.

You could barely even writhe from the onslaught, what with your arms pinned over your head and your feet held down so strongly that you couldn’t even move them across the dirt. You kept your sights on the rich colors of various flowers that encircled you as the sweet-smelling haze enveloped you again, enhancing your pleasure. Despite Hawks’ sudden loss of his oral skills, the feral nature of it all—the smothered snarls against your sex, the startling feel of his teeth carelessly grazing your sensitive flesh, and the lewd sight of his face covered in your glistening juices as his glassy eyes opened and stared into yours as he ate you alive—his voracity had you boiling over.

He gulped your essence loudly, welcoming every drop of the orgasmic flood into his mouth. All of the colors in your vision blurred more with each mind-numbing pulse. You weren’t even aware of the shameless wails that left you until the blissful waves finally subsided.

Once he had his fill, he finally pulled away from your mound and boy did he look like a hot mess. His cheeks were a deep red that was slowly spreading across his cum-covered face, a beady string of your fluids hanging from his lips before dripping off. He was climbing back over you and when the fuck did he take his pants off? He must have unbuttoned and removed them while he was licking you into heaven.

He still manages to look smug while he takes in your spent form, your slightly parted lips impossible to resist. Your mouth was suddenly locked with his, the breath you were desperately trying to get back stolen from you. And then the scent returns, this time accompanied with a powerful salted lemon flavor that assaults your taste buds. The taste of your own pussy was insignificant; his aroma in both your nose and mouth is nearly suffocating, your still-recovering inner walls already squeezing out more of your slick.

His tongue thrashes about in your mouth to paint his sweet saliva on every spot he could reach. You swallow it up thirstily and feel an immediate response in your throat that somewhat frightens you. Numbness overtakes your mouth and your throat relaxes completely; you felt like it was suddenly impossible to choke.

Hawks messily pulls away, breathing heavily and licking his lips. “Look at you. All it takes is a whiff and taste of a rutting male to turn you into a submissive little bitch.” You’ve never heard him speak like that, but like every action he’s taken since you’ve been at his mercy, it doesn’t fail to arouse you for reasons you still don’t understand. “Do you want some more? Hmm?”

You’re nodding before your crippled mind can comprehend the question.

The drugged kiss has you dizzy. You’re doing your best to keep track of his movements as he straddles your chest, his cock coming into focus and pressing against your lips. He doesn’t give you a command, you simply open up like a trained whore.

You’re moaning from the addicting taste of his length that pushes all the way to the back of your throat. Once his pubes are flush against your nose, your eyes roll back and you lose all sense of…everything. Everything except for that exhilarant fragrance and flavor.

Even as he begins to move in your mouth, your tongue swirls all around the sweet meat in an attempt to taste him all over. You’re throbbing wildly, but the feathers prevent you from bringing your thighs together for some much needed friction.

He was thrusting in and out at a pace that should have you gagging, but you take the pounding smoothly. Everything was murky, save for the pleasure that was slowly consuming you. You think the birds are singing again, maybe.

Something was smacking against your chin…rather loudly, you think. Hawks’s balls. How obscene, the way he’s hunched over you and fucking your face so roughly, but it’s hard to feel embarrassed when it’s all making you feel so damn good. Drool gathers and drips down your mouth. Your throat has become a second pussy, and he was fucking it like one.

The scent has your entire body on fire and you wish so badly that you could touch yourself. It was too powerful, each breath filling you with more burning tension. Your desperate whines came out as bubbly gurgles around his hammering dick. Your climax is dangling right at the edge. All you need is just the smallest touch on your drenched, deprived pussy.

His thick intrusion suddenly leaves your mouth, allowing oxygen to properly enter your lungs and for the pooling saliva to be swallowed. Hawks says something as you cough and sputter, but everything is still too muffled.

“Good……….not yet……….finish inside.” That was all that you were able to catch. You frankly don’t care. You immediately want his overpowering scent back.

When something pushes past the entrance between your legs, you cum instantly. Your scream is silent, or maybe you just can’t hear it, as your restrained limbs twitch like mad from the excruciatingly pleasurable contractions.

You’re already being fucked roughly while you’re still coming down from your orgasmic high. You’re rocked against the flowers and the soft earth beneath, your peaceful surroundings a stark contrast to the raunchy act currently taking place among them.

Hawks leans in once again, and you have to turn away and hold your breath because you truly felt like one more whiff of that mouth-watering smell would bring you the most euphoric death. His mouth drew closer to your ear, harsh pants in sync with his rapid thrusts. There’s no way a body was meant to handle so much stimulation, yet you didn’t want it to end.

You wanted this powerful man and everything that he had. You want him to fill your womb with his seed…bear his strong and healthy offspring…then let him take you all over again…

There’s a soft rumble that brings you back down to earth, clearing your mind just enough so that all of your senses work properly again. The smudged colors return to their original shapes, and the cooing that vibrates through both of your bodies can be heard loud and clear. His song.

“That’s it, baby. I’ve got you right here. Just give in to me.” Hawks sounds on the verge of losing his voice, weak and graveled, but his singing and hips aren’t letting up.

Finally, fucking finally, the feathers release your limbs. Ignoring how boneless they feel, you use all of your strength to wrap your arms tightly around his neck, and your legs lock right above his ass. You cling onto him like a parasite and moan freely, trusting his low and soft vocals to keep you grounded as his citrus aura captivates you again.

Your involuntary clenches ruin him and take him to his peak, several more hard and deep pumps bringing you to your final climax. Both of you cry out loudly enough to scare away the tits still resting in the tree, the small flock flying off to find a quieter perch.

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

Good. That showed the little bastards.

Hawks smiled triumphantly as the small birds fled the erotic scene. Once he was certain that none of them were coming back, he returned his attention to you. Your chest heaved with each audible breath, your entire body drenched in sweat, just like his. He laid a gentle hand on your cheek, thumb stroking lovingly as you close your eyes for much-needed rest after almost losing your mind.

He did it. He finally claimed you, and all he had to do was just show a little dominance…and expose you to a hefty dose of pheromones. It was clearly way more than you could handle—maybe the face-fucking wasn’t the best idea, but it looked like you were enjoying yourself enough. No harm done.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Hawks was a cool-headed man. He’s managed to stay calm and collected in the direst of situations. Still, when he slowly turns around to see a man dressed in the park’s staff uniform, blushing at the sight of a sweaty couple with no pants on among the innocent blossoms, he can’t help but feel just a wee bit fucked.

“H-Hawks? It’s really you? Wha-?” The poor guy is lost for words from the fact that he just found the number 2 hero banging someone in public.

Eh, he’s talked his way out of tighter spots.

With a smile, the winged hero sends a few feathers to his discarded pants and withdraws a pen from its pockets.

“How about a deal, buddy? An autograph from yours truly and a coupon for my merch. All you gotta do is walk away and forget what you just saw.”

#hawks #smut #birdbrain hawks #hawks x reader #keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #tw dubcon #tw animal harm

[homoose]

A Timely Reminder

Summary: Prof!Spencer has been thinking about having sex in his office for a while now. Reader helps him make it happen. 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: smut, 18+ (minors DNI)

Warnings/Includes: established relationship, exhibitionism, light sub!spencer (but really just whipped!spencer), oral (fem receiving), penetrative sex, dirty talk, insecure!reader, jealous!reader, loud af!spencer, v light hand over mouth action

Word count: 4k

a/n: Because this Tuesday has been hot garbage... have a treat. An anon asked me if reader was a switch... here’s your answer. Also because we already got to see Spencer be jealous af, we deserved to have jealous reader, too. ♥️

a/n 2: This is a companion to the latest chapter of my series, but it can mostly stand alone! All you need to know is it’s an established relationship and she’s been invited to visit him at the university. 

Series Masterlist 

———

Y/N watched from her seat outside his office as a student slipped out through Spencer’s half-open door— looking positively dreamy. She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes as the next girl stepped in the office. 

It took another twenty minutes for the final two students to finish their visits. When the last coed made her way out the door and down the hall, Y/N stood and smoothed down the skirt of her dress. She crossed the hallway and peered into his office, knocking on the door frame.

Spencer raised his head with a panicked look, his face softening into relief when he saw it was her. “Hey. Close the door,” he begged.

Y/N stepped into his office and closed the door quietly behind her. She finally took a look around the space— fairly small but tastefully decorated. The wall across from her was one enormous bookcase, filled to capacity, of course. Light filtered in from a single window, and his mahogany desk sat on the far wall, accompanied by a wingback leather office chair. Behind his desk was a low shelf lined with a globe, some other trinkets, and a plethora of picture frames. 

“Sorry that took so long.” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know why my office hours are always so busy.”

She hummed, crossing to the gigantic bookshelf. “No?”

“No,” he confirmed exasperatedly. “No one else has that many students at their office hours. I asked.”

She laughed a little. “You asked?”

“Well, yeah.” He drew his brows together. “I don’t know if my syllabus is confusing, or if I’m— not clear enough in my lectures, maybe?” He ran both hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair. “But there are always so many questions, and I mean— there are no stupid questions, but…” He sighed. “Sometimes the questions are stupid.”

She did laugh at that, full and loud. “Well, if my professors looked like Dr. Spencer Reid, I imagine I’d come up with a litany of questions, too. Stupid or otherwise.”

He was quiet, and she ran her finger along the book she was studying rather intently. She felt him moving toward her more than heard it, felt his eyes on her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, instead pretending to peruse the titles in front of her. 

“Are you— are you jealous?” he asked incredulously. 

“No,” she defended, a little too quickly and voice a little too high.

“It’s okay if you are. Jealousy is— it’s a very normal human emotion.” He cleared his throat. “It’s, um— it’s kind of hot, actually.”

She rolled her eyes, but truthfully, his confession made her feel a little bit better. He put a hand on her waist to turn her to face him, and she could feel her cheeks burning— hoped he couldn’t see it. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes, instead staring at a spot on the wall behind his head. 

“But you know you have no reason to be, right?” He cupped a gentle hand under her chin, finally brought her eyes to his. “Why would I be interested in girls when I already have a woman?”

He leaned in to press his mouth to hers, soft and sweet. Then his hand was back on her waist and pulling her flush against him, drawing a small gasp from her mouth that had him deepening the kiss with a swipe of his tongue. His mouth was hot and hungry, moving over hers with a quiet desperation. He slid his free hand to the nape of her neck, fisted it in her hair and tugged. 

She sucked in a breath and bit a little harshly on his bottom lip, moving a hand up to grasp at his forearm. He pulled out of the kiss to rest his forehead against hers, chest already heaving. His voice was raspy when he warned, “The door doesn’t lock.”

“Okay,” she whispered. 

“But I’ve kind of… been thinking about this for a while,” he admitted, dragging the tip of his nose along her cheek.

She swallowed. “Mm, what— what’ve you been thinking about?”

“You, always.” His breath was hot on her ear, and now he had both hands on her hips. He used them to push her gently back into the bookshelf. “But specifically, I’ve been thinking about fucking you in here.”

“Oh,” she breathed, tangling her fingers in the curls at the back of his neck. 

“Yeah.” He ghosted his mouth over her neck, dragged his teeth a little to make her shiver. “Would that be okay?”

She tilted her head back to bare more of her neck to him, and he closed his mouth over her pulse point, sucking wetly. He slid his leg between hers, lifted his thigh to press against her, and she could feel her underwear sticking to the wetness already gathering there. Her breath caught in her throat as she ground down on his leg. He sucked hard on her neck before pressing a gentle kiss to the spot and lifting his head to look at her. 

“Do you wanna do that?” he asked again.

“God, I— yeah,” she nodded.

He brought his hand up to stroke this thumb along her cheek. “You’re sure?”

The knowledge that he’d been thinking about being with her in this space was more than a little overwhelming. His gaze was earnest and lustful, and she knew he was telling the truth— that she had no reason to be jealous, that he was always thinking of her. His declaration didn’t quite douse the fire of her insecurity, but at least it wasn’t burning quite so hot. And the idea that she could bring this fantasy to life, make sure his head was full of her whenever he sat at his desk or pulled a book off this shelf— that was almost too much. “Yes. Very sure.”

His mouth was on hers almost before she got the words out, his tongue sliding against hers. He brought both hands to the hem of her dress, hiking it up and slipping his hands underneath to grab at her ass, pulling her closer. He turned and walked her backwards toward his desk, bringing their entwined bodies around the corner of it, pushing her back, and half-hoisting her to sit on top. 

His warm hands trailed along her inner thighs, pushing up the fabric of her dress and forcing her legs apart. He stepped in between them and attached his mouth to her neck once more, sucking and licking and nipping a path along where her dress cut low in between her breasts. 

“What did you think about?” she breathed, winding her fingers into his hair. “What’s your fantasy, professor?” He bit down a little harshly where his mouth had been sucking. “You want me on my knees for you?”

He lifted his head and stepped even closer, bringing his hands to her hips and pulling her ass to the edge of the desk. “No. I want to be the one on my knees.”

With that, he dropped down in front of her, eye level with her pussy. He looked up at her from his place on the floor, laying his hands flat along the tops of her thighs and pushing her dress up to her waist. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties, and she lifted her hips to allow him to pull them down.

She watched as he brought them up to his nose, briefly inhaling and then folding them up into a neat square. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and placed them inside, closing the drawer and then looking up at her from under his lashes. She could barely breathe. 

He started at her ankles, taking one gently in his hands and kissing a warm path up to her knee, and then crossing over to the other side and back down.

“So soft,” he murmured, dragging his open mouth along her shin. He ghosted his fingers over her legs, pulling them up over his shoulders and settling in between her thighs.

He pressed featherlight kisses along her inner thighs, and she sucked in a breath as he inched closer to where she really wanted him. “Don’t tease, Spence.” 

She could feel his smile against her skin, and she brought her hand up to wrap his curls around her fingers, tugging a little harder than she normally would. “I’m not asking.”

He let out a moan that vibrated across her skin, and she tightened her grip on his hair. She pulled him against her, and finally he sealed his lips around her clit, sucking gently. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back with a soft whine. “Mmhmm, there you go.”

He wrapped his hands over the tops of her thighs, using his grip to hold her even more firmly against his mouth as he sucked and swirled his tongue around her clit. He brought his tongue to a point and flicked it rapidly against her, and she had to bring her other hand to his hair as well, holding tight. “Shit, baby, just like that.”

She used her hands in his hair to hold him still as she rolled her hips against his face, and his quiet groans had her heart flipping in her chest. “Fuck,” she breathed out. “Never met another man who loves eating pussy this much.” 

He nodded as best he could between the press of her thighs. “Use your fingers, professor,” she demanded. She smiled when he immediately complied, bringing one hand off where he was holding her against his face and trailing it between her legs. He shifted his mouth back to her clit, circling it with his tongue as he began to press his middle finger into her. 

She tightened her grip on his hair and held back a moan. “I said fingers, Spencer. I know you love to drag it out, but we don’t have time.”

He whined but added his index finger, slipping them into her and curling them up immediately. She had to clamp her mouth shut to stifle the moan that threatened to echo off the walls of the office as he began to fuck into her, dragging his fingers against that spot inside her on every out-stroke. 

He hummed around her clit as he thrust his fingers inside and then sucked as he dragged them out, over and over and over again, his plush lips covered in her arousal and working magic over her cunt. The sound of how wet she was had them both groaning a little too loud for their current venue, and then she was coming with his name on her tongue. 

He didn’t let up after she was finished, still lapping at her entrance and pressing kisses to every inch of her pussy, whining and moaning against her like a man starved. “How are you so good at that, hm?” she gasped. “Had a lot of practice?”

She opened her eyes, slightly unfocused as he worked her to another orgasm, much less intense but still just as good. And then her gaze fell on the shelf behind him, and for the first time she noticed that the picture frames were filled with… her. 

She finally tugged him off by his hair when his mouth became too much, and as he pressed gentle kisses to her thighs, she counted eight different framed pictures of the two of them. There were also pictures of him and the team, his mom, and the boys. But the vast majority of them were of her. 

There was one of her sipping coffee at Soho— from their first official date there. Another of her smiling against the backdrop of the arboretum. One where she was tucked under his arm with his lips pressed to her cheek. Another still where he was hugging her tight in front of the Smithsonian. 

She let out a long breath and then looked down to see him watching her, and her breath caught in her throat. No one had ever looked at her the way he did, and she knew that she really, really had nothing to worry about. “C’mere.”

Spencer scrambled up off his knees, crowding in close and pressing a sloppy kiss to her mouth. Their tongues slid together, and she tasted herself as he brought his clean hand up to her face. Her hands made their way to his ass, pulling him flush against her, and his hips jolted forward and she could feel his erection clear as day. He groaned and rolled his hips against her, and she smiled against his mouth. 

“So hard, baby,” she praised, pressing another kiss to his mouth. “You love being on your knees, huh?”

He hummed in confirmation, and she trailed a line of kisses down his jaw, then his neck. When she reached the collar of his shirt, she brought her hands up to loosen his tie. “You were so good for me.” She got the tie undone and dropped it on the desk. Then she popped the first two buttons on his shirt, dragging her mouth along the column of his throat. “You wanna fuck me now?”

“Yes, yes, please.” 

She dragged her hands down his chest and began to work on his belt. When that was undone and hanging loose, she popped the button on his trousers and lowered his zipper, then palmed him through his underwear. 

“You’re such a pretty boy, Spence,” she breathed. “You know that’s why they come to your office hours, right? Because you’re so pretty.” She squeezed a little where he was so hard and leaking from the tip. “They’re hoping maybe you’ll fuck them over this desk.”

Spencer’s eyes went wide. “Y/N, I would never—”

“I know, baby. I know,” she assured, cupping his cheek in her hand. “You probably never even thought about it.” 

“I don’t.” His voice was a little bit desperate, like he was afraid she didn’t believe him. “I only think a-about you. I— I’m always thinking about you, even when I probably shouldn’t be.”

“Mm, I’d say ‘sorry,’ but... I’m really, really not.” She brought her hands to his hips, forcing his trousers and underwear down over his ass to let his cock spring free. “Is that why you’re keeping my panties? To help you out when you’re thinking about me in here?” 

“Y-yes.” He watched as she dragged her palm over her slick entrance, and then brought her wet hand to circle around his dick. “Oh my god,” he whispered. 

“How do you wanna fuck me? Wanna bend me over your desk?” His fingers dug into her hips as she pumped his cock, and he shook his head. “No? You want me to blow you?” His hips jerked forward into the tight circle of her hand, but he shook his head again. “Then tell me what you want, Spence.”

His flush had traveled all the way down his chest, pretty and red and sweaty. His gaze was settled on her fingers wrapped around his cock. “Can you, um— can you ride me?”

She smiled and then gave him one last stroke and dropped herself off the edge of the desk. She hummed and stepped closer to him, grasping his chin and pulling him down into a hot, possessive kiss. “Should have known you’d want me on top,” she teased.

She leaned down to his desk drawer. “Do you have condoms in here, too?” She opened it and retrieved her panties, wiping off her hand on them and then folding them back up and replacing them in the drawer. 

He whimpered at the sight and then fumbled in the pocket of his suit coat, slung over the back of the chair. She raised an eyebrow. “Do you always have one in there?”

“No,” he defended, ripping open the wrapper and rolling it on. “Only when I know you’re gonna be around.”

He moved to sit on the desk, shoving the student essays and extra papers haphazardly out of the way to make room for her. She stepped in between his knees and laughed a little at the way he reached for her. She kissed him quickly before climbing up onto the desk, shifting around him and cursing under her breath. “You’ve picked possibly the most awkward position for this fantasy.”

“We— we can do it another way or— or not at all if—”

“Just—” she put a finger up to his lips “—shut up and make sure I don’t fall off the desk?”

He smiled a little sheepishly and grasped her hips, and she clung to his shoulders as she got situated over top of his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs. He wrapped his arms around her waist to steady her and leaned in to press their mouths together. “Thank you for making this work,” he mumbled. 

She kissed him again and then rolled her hips down over his cock, pulling a whine from the back of his throat. She did it again just to tease him, and then reached between their bodies to line him up. 

His grip tightened around her waist as she began to sink down on him, and she dropped her forehead to his shoulder. The stretch from this angle was always more intense, and it had her gasping out his name as he bottomed out. He rubbed his hands soothingly over her lower back as she adjusted to the feel of him inside her, pressing gentle kisses to her shoulder and keeping as still as possible. 

She finally let out a breath and circled her hips, and Spencer sunk his teeth into her shoulder. “You feel so good, so fucking thick.”

She got into her rhythm quickly, mindful of the fact that she was riding her boyfriend in his office in the middle of the day with an entire university just on the other side of a flimsy door. She worked her hips over his cock, bouncing on him and ignoring the burn in her thighs. She dropped down and he held her hips in place, grinding himself deep. She buried her face in his neck and tried to hold back the obscene moan that threatened to escape. 

Spencer didn’t bother to do the same, letting out a groan that reverberated in her eardrums and throughout the small space. She clapped her hand over his mouth and lifted her hips slightly, pulling back to whisper, “Jesus, shh— you’re so loud, Spence. Gonna get us caught.”

His eyes slammed shut and he fucked up into her, whining underneath her hand. Her eyes widened a little as he continued moaning into her palm. She rolled her hips down hard, forcing him deep, and he cried out again. 

“You want that?” she asked. “You want somebody to hear us? Want them to know you’re fucking me in here?”

He didn’t answer, just gripped her hips a little tighter and used what little leverage he had to thrust his hips roughly into her. She kept her hand over his mouth and leaned forward, partially to bring her lips closer to his ear and partially to find that perfect angle. “You want them to know I belong to you?”

He whined pathetically against her hand, and she circled her hips and kept him deep, moaning quietly into his ear. “Or is this about who you belong to?”

She felt his dick twitch where it was buried inside her, and he nodded frantically. She began to rock her hips forward and back, her breath hitching. “Is that why you have all these pictures of me?” she asked, and she saw his eyes shift to the shelf behind her. 

“You don’t think about fucking them, but they think about you.” She punctuated the thought with a slow roll of her hips. “You want them to know that you’re mine?” 

He brought his eyes back to hers, and there was a softness there that made her chest ache. She removed her hand to cover his mouth in a kiss, and he brought his hands up to cup her face, licking into her mouth and trying desperately to prove his loyalty. 

She broke out of the kiss and rolled her hips again. He kept one hand on her face and moved the other to wrap around her dress and keep her seated. She threw her head back as he rocked his hips to have his cock bumping against that spot inside her. He repeated the motion, bringing her closer to orgasm with every shift of his hips. 

She came with another gasp of his name, riding out her high and clenching around him. He pressed his mouth to her neck, kissing and sucking at the exposed skin. She continued the movement of her hips, working her sensitive cunt over his cock. “I don’t think they’re taking the hint, professor. Did you want to give them another reminder?”

He nodded, surging up to kiss her and then planting his feet to help drive himself up into her. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned forward into him as his hips began to falter. He grasped her ass and gave one final rough thrust, whining high and long into her mouth as he came. 

She began to press soft kisses to his nose, his cheek, his jaw. He wrapped his arms back around her waist and then hugged her close, panting into her neck as he came down. She rubbed one hand over his back and smoothed the other over his curls, gently twirling the hair at the back of his neck. He gave her one more squeeze before loosening his arms and lifting his head, his eyes dazed and practically sparkling. 

“Wow,” he breathed. 

She laughed. “I can tell you that this is not where I thought I’d end up today.” She lifted off of him and clutched a little at his arms as she navigated off the desk. She sucked in a breath as her feet made it to the floor, her knees and thighs already screaming. “I bet your fan club wouldn’t be this sore,” she joked. 

He grabbed her hand and pulled her back towards him, bringing his free hand up to brush her hair back. “There’s nothing to bet on, because that’s never going to happen.” He cradled her face in both hands. “You know that, right?” 

She covered his hands with her own, rubbing her thumbs over the soft skin. “I know.”

“Good.” He leaned forward to press their mouths together, unbelievably soft and sweet in comparison to the way it had been just a few minutes ago. “I love you the most.”

“Agree to disagree,” she whispered. She pressed one more kiss to his lips and then stepped out of his embrace. “Now, put that thing away before we actually do get caught.”

He gaped at her, fighting a grin as he tied off the condom and tucked himself back into his pants. She retrieved his tie from where she had discarded it earlier and dragged it from her knee all the way up to her inner thigh under her dress, cleaning herself up as much as she could.

She lifted her head to see him staring at her, his mouth hanging open. “You don’t mind, do you? I figured it was an even trade since you’re keeping my underwear.” She dropped the messy tie into her bag and draped the strap over her shoulder, tilting her head innocently. 

He lunged forward to crash their mouths together, and she clutched at his waist. “You are so fucking hot,” he mumbled, nipping at her bottom lip. 

“Mmhm, and don’t you forget it.”

“I’m literally incapable of forgetting it.” He kissed her again. “Thank fuck.” 

She laughed and used a light hand to push him off her, taking a second to take stock of his appearance. She fixed the tuck of his shirt and smoothed a few rogue curls back into place. He looked decidedly fucked out, sweaty and flushed all the way down his chest, his sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons still undone… and she couldn’t bring herself to be bothered. 

He held his hand out to her and smiled radiantly when she accepted it and laced their fingers together. “I was thinking we could get a late lunch?” he offered. 

“Sounds perfect.” 

He grabbed his suit coat and his bag, and they crossed to the door together. He opened it and allowed her to step out into the hallway, following close behind. She swung their hands a little as they made their way down the hall. “That was so fun. Thanks for letting me come.”

Spencer choked on air, looking surreptitiously around the hallway. She laughed brightly and squeezed his hand. “Funny how you’re so modest all of a sudden. Thanks for letting me come visit, professor.”

They walked out together into the quad, hand in hand, and with more than one pair of eyes on them.

———

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#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #not sfw #homoose writes

[sunflowervolvimp3]

changes (best friend!harry)

Warnings: language, nsfw content, drugs (marijuana) and alcohol

Pairing: best friend!Harry x reader

Word Count: 17k (holy shit)

A/N: So this started as two requests I had in my inbox that I got way too into and then it became this. this may be the longest stand-alone fic I’ve ever written, and it, like watermelon sugar, is dedicated to touching!!!! I spent so long on this so as always. feedback is appreciated. and if you like it, please reblog it!!! reblogging is the best way to show fic writers your appreciation <3

{masterlist}

Unless she’s reminded otherwise, Y/N always thinks of herself as a teenager.

This, of course, isn’t true. She turned twenty-six a month ago, works as a media producer for an online clothing company, and lives alone in a one bedroom apartment in London.  However, unless she physically has something in front of her to remind her of her real age and the passing of time, Y/N disregards this information.

Usually, the reminder is a bill in the mail, or a phone call to remind her that she needs to book an appointment with her doctor.  Usually, the reminder is an ache in her back, her glasses prescription getting worse, or realizing that she has no idea what her teenage cousins are talking about when she sees them at Christmas.  Usually, the reminder is enough to give her pause, but not enough to throw her for a loop.

This time, however, the reminder is her childhood best friend naked in her bathroom.

Y/N and Harry had been friends since they were in primary school, after Y/N had moved to London with her mother.  Their new house just happened to be next to Harry’s, and Anne and Y/N’s mother had quickly hit it off.  Anne had been quick to volunteer her son to be Y/N’s tour guide at school, and despite not being enthusiastic about each other in the beginning, the two began to grow closer by the end of Y/N’s first week there.  Within a month, the two were inseparable, and that didn’t change as they entered their teen years, started secondary school, and Harry left London to become a member of the most famous boyband in the world.  Just typical teen things.

However, despite their distance, Y/N and Harry had remained as close as ever.  They constantly texted, called, and video chatted with each other, and Y/N even joined Harry on tour a few times (with permission from her mother).  Although both of them had been worried when Harry left, their worries and fears never came to fruition.  Just as they balanced each other in personality, they balanced each other in lifestyle—when Y/N needed a break from high school and university, Harry brought her to shows, award ceremonies, and parties, and when Harry felt like his fame was overwhelming, Y/N sent him reminders of home, hosted countless movie nights for him, and told him story after story of university life.

They were so perfectly matched that, when they were younger, many people—and tabloids—suspected that they were dating.  Even their mothers had asked them, on occasion, if one of them had any interest in the other.  However, their answers were always the same.  Y/N and Harry were best friends, and nothing more.  Sure, they were touchy, affectionate, called each other pet names, and had even kissed on a few occasions during truth or dare at parties, but none of it actually meant anything.  Y/N had watched Harry grow from a cute kid to an awkward teen to a self-assured man, and her feelings for him had never changed, and an attraction to him had never developed.

Until now.

Harry’s facing away from her, his towel in his hand as he dries his chest.  His entire body glistens with water from the shower.  Y/N can’t stop herself from letting her eyes canvas over every inch of his smooth arms, toned back, down lower to his—

Her breath catches in her throat.  Yeah. His ass is toned, too, she thinks to herself, and only has another moment to think that she shouldn’t be looking before Harry glances over his shoulder, alarmed by the small sound she had made.

“Y/N—” His eyes widen a bit, but he doesn’t make an effort to cover himself with his towel very quickly.

Her eyes automatically follow his movement for a moment before she realizes what she’s about to see. “Sorry!” Y/N turns around quickly, her face heated. “Sorry, I—the door was unlocked, I didn’t realize you were—”

“It’s fine.” Harry fixes his towel around his waist. “Don’t worry about—”

Y/N leaves the bathroom before he can finish his sentence, walking to her bedroom quickly and shutting the door tightly behind her.

Harry, it seems, is today’s reminder that she’s no longer a teenager, because his body is that of a man.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless before, she tells herself, walking to her dresser to pick out a change of clothes.  Y/N’s seen him half naked countless times.  The whole world has seen Harry half naked countless times.  But she’s never seen him like that.

When did Harry grow up? Somehow, between movie nights and pool parties and going away to school, Y/N had failed to notice that her childhood best friend is no longer a child.  Harry had grown into his features, developed muscles in his arms and chest, tattooed designs all over his skin, and had become an incredibly attractive adult without her noticing.

Y/N pulls her pajamas off quickly, stopping to glance at herself in her full length mirror.  She, like Harry, is also no longer a child. She had grown into her features like he had, had gotten a few tattoos, made her share of mistakes, and became an adult the same way he did.  Neither her nor Harry’s growth had happened overnight.

As she runs her hand between her chest, down her stomach, brushing her hip, Y/N can’t help but wonder: has Harry noticed that they’ve grown up?  Does he still look at her and see the shy little girl, the developing teenager, or does he look at her and see a grown woman?  Is she the only one who’s been late to the party?

Y/N feels a flutter in the pit of her stomach.  Is it possible that, at some point, Harry looked at her and had the same realization that she had a moment ago?  That not only had she grown into a woman, but that she had grown into an attractive woman?

The sound of the bathroom door opening distracts Y/N from her thoughts, and she hurries to finish getting dressed.  Her shirt, she finds when she pulls it on, smells a bit like Harry’s cologne, as she had set it on the side of the bed that he slept on the night before.  She likes it more than she should.

After she’s dressed, she debates just staying in her bedroom to avoid facing Harry again for a bit longer. However, she can hear him working her coffee maker in the kitchen, and knows she can’t hide in her bedroom like a child.  She isn’t a child.

Neither is he, she thinks to herself as she touches her bedroom doorknob. Which is the problem.

Still, Y/N shakes herself from her thoughts and walks out to her kitchen.

Harry, now dressed in wide leg jeans and a plain white t-shirt, is leaning against her kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in his hand.  His hair is still wet from his shower, but other than that, he looks normal. Completely normal.

And yet, Y/N can’t manage to meet his eyes.

“Good morning.” Harry’s voice is low, a bit of amusement in it as he notices her demeanor. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine.” Y/N hates how tight her voice is as she grabs a mug from the kitchen cabinet. “I slept fine. Did you?”

Harry nods, his eyes still tracing her every move as her own eyes avoid him. “I did.  Woke up a bit early, though.  Thought I’d shower before brunch.”

Right.  Brunch.  They’re having brunch that day with a few old friends, at a place just down the street from Y/N’s apartment, which is why Harry had stayed over the night before.  Y/N was going to have to act normal around their other friends, which means she can’t avoid looking at him for much longer.

“I’m sorry.” She says as she pours a cup of coffee. “I am, I—I should’ve knocked.  I forgot you slept over, and—”

“It’s fine, Y/N.  I should’ve locked the door.” Harry says easily, the corner of his lips tugging up. “It’s not a big deal.  Besides, it’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

At that comment, Y/N pauses. “Except…I haven’t seen you naked before?”

Harry shakes his head adamantly. “No.  You have. There’s no way we’ve been friends for almost twenty years, and you haven’t.”

“Harry, believe me. I’ve seen you in a lot of weird positions over the years, but I’ve never seen you completely nude.” Y/N feels her regular ease with him begin to return, just a little bit. “I would remember that.”

“Would you?” Harry cocks an eyebrow, his coffee cup half raised to his lips.

The bit of ease that returned disappears immediately. “I—” Y/N’s cheeks heat up again. “Shut up, you know what I meant.”

Harry tries to hide his laugh behind his coffee, but fails. “I’m just teasing you, love.  It’s fine, promise.  I don’t mind that you saw.  I’m very comfortable in my body.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “Too comfortable, I think.”

“Is there such a thing as being too comfortable in your body?” Harry asks in a teasing voice, crossing his arms.

“When your best friend walks in on you naked and you don’t bother to cover yourself?” Despite the blush on her cheeks, Y/N manages to laugh. “Yes.  There is.”

“I don’t know…” Harry finishes his coffee and sets the mug in the kitchen sink. “It sounds like there’s issues with your comfort, not mine.”

Before Y/N can form a reply, Harry shoots her a smirk and walks out of the kitchen.

For the rest of the day, Y/N does her best not to think about that morning’s awkward encounter. Brunch with her friends is normal, and she just lets herself enjoy having Harry home, and catching up with everyone.  The afternoon also passes in an unremarkable way, as does that night.  Over the next few days, however, things begin to change.

Within two weeks, the atmosphere of the country has shifted.  There’s a virus that’s highly contagious and can be fatal, Y/N’s work tells her to work from home, and soon the entire country is being told to stay home to avoid catching Coronavirus.

And then Harry texts her two days later, without any warning or leeway for her to disagree.

I’m on the last flight back to London.  Pack a bag and bring some groceries to my place, so we can isolate together.  You’ll go crazy alone in your flat.

Y/N tries to reply that it’s not necessary, but her message doesn’t go through.  Harry’s already on the plane.  So she does what he says, and packs a bag of clothes, her work bag, some alcohol, and her favourite snacks, and drives over to his house.

Letting herself in with her key, Y/N begins to bring the house back to life.  She lights Harry’s candles and orders some dinner, as well as groceries for the next couple weeks.  She makes sure she gets his favourite foods, and the weird snacks that only he likes.  She calls her mum to tell her she’ll be with Harry, and Anne, to tell her the same thing. And then she waits.

When Harry finally walks through the front door, he looks more like the tired seventeen year old on his first tour than the grown man she had seen a few weeks ago.  The bags under his eyes are evidence of his jetlag and stress, his jacket is rumpled from the plane, his hair just as messy, and he looks like he could collapse the second the door closes behind him.

“H.” Y/N walks towards him and gives him a tight hug.  One hand goes to his back and the other to his hair, playing with it as she always does. “Are you alright?”

“Long flight.” Harry mutters in reply, eyes closed as he holds her tight. “Everyone’s going insane in the States.  I’m lucky I got a flight back to London.”

“Why did you?” Y/N pulls back, brushing his messy hair from his eyes. “You could’ve stayed in LA.”

“Yeah, but…” Harry shrugs a bit. “I knew you’d be alone.  And I wanted to be with you.”

Y/N can’t help the soft smile that creeps onto her face. “C’mon.  I have dinner ready.”

Harry barely makes it through dinner with his eyes open, but still insists on watching a movie after. Y/N tries to tell him that he should just go to sleep, but he won’t hear it.

“We can watch it in my bed, like we used to when we were little.” Harry gives her his best puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

Y/N shoves his shoulder. “You’re twenty-six.  Stop pouting to get what you want.”

“I’ll stop pouting when it stops working.”

Y/N laughs in spite of herself. “Fine, but shower first.  You smell like a plane.”

Of course, as predicted, Harry starts to drift to sleep within the first half hour of the movie. He slips down in the bed more and more, until his head is in Y/N’s lap completely.  Out of habit, Y/N begins to play with his damp curls, running her fingers through them at a steady pace as she watches the movie.

Harry’s breathing begins to even out as she does, and Y/N begins to pay more attention to him than the TV.  When they spend the night with each other, Y/N always falls asleep first.  It’s rare she gets to see him completely relaxed.

As much as she loves his green eyes, his eyelashes may be a close second.  They’re so long and dark that they almost make Y/N jealous.  And his cheeks…she brings one hand up to gently touch them.  They’re stubbled from his long day of travel, but the skin underneath feels soft. Despite having lost his baby fat years ago, there’s still a layer of tenderness in his body.

Y/N is so distracted by him that she doesn’t realize that she’s stopped playing with his hair, not until Harry speaks up.

“Why’d you stop?” His voice is groggy with exhaustion, lower, with a thicker accent.  His words slur together as well

“Hm?” Y/N hums in her throat in response. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Not really.” Harry’s eyes stay closed as he shifts his position a bit. “Will you play with my hair a bit longer?  Feels nice.”

The movie credits roll in the background as Y/N does what he says.  Harry sighs contently, relaxing back into her again.

Y/N turns the TV off, so the only light in the room comes from the moon through the open curtains. It shines over half of Harry’s face, catching the ends of his eyelashes.  Somehow, the moonlight makes his cheeks and lips even more pink.  

“You’re really pretty, y’know that?” Y/N says it absentmindedly, her fingers still combing through Harry’s curls.

“Thanks.” He has just enough energy to mumble a response. “’M, not as pretty as you, though.”

Y/N’s stomach flutters when he says it, so quiet that she’s not even certain she heard him correctly. “Liar.”

“’S true.” Harry’s reply is even less audible than before. “So pretty.”

If Harry was awake and more present in the conversation, Y/N might tease him.  She might try to make him blush, or roll his eyes, or laugh. Maybe, just maybe, she’d even ask him to elaborate, just enough that she could figure out what the fluttering in her stomach means.

But Harry is hardly awake right now.  And it wouldn’t be fair.

“Go to sleep, H,” is all Y/N says, shifting to lay down a bit more without pausing the movement of her fingers.

…

It takes Harry a few days to readjust to London time.  While Y/N spends her weekdays working from the kitchen table, Harry naps and fiddles with his guitar and journal.  While she can tell he’s working on something, Y/N can also tell that he’s not making much process.

A week after coming back from LA, Harry half stomps into the kitchen during the afternoon, frustration clear on his face as he opens the fridge and grabs an apple.  He bites into it angrily and leans against the counter, the irritation still on his face.

Y/N glances at him from behind her laptop. “Everything alright?”

Harry gives half a shrug. “Trying to write.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Fucking sucks.” Harry takes another bite of the apple. “I thought I’d feel more inspired, being at home and not having deadlines, but I can’t get anything out.  Not anything good, anyways.”

“I know the feeling.” Y/N sighs as she closes her laptop. “There’s been a huge surge in online orders, and my boss wants me to create more promo material, but it’s hard to focus on anything right now.”

Harry nods and glances out the window. “Doesn’t help that it’s a beautiful day, but we can’t go out.”

“We can go out.  We just can’t leave the property.” Y/N replies. “You have a giant backyard.  Why don’t you use it?”

“Yeah.  Maybe I’ll go for a swim.” Harry takes another bite of his apple. “You want to come?”

Y/N laughs a bit. “Unlike you, H, I have a real nine to five job.  I’m on the clock for another two hours.”

“After, then.” Harry tosses his apple core in the compost and gives her a grin. “I hope you packed that yellow bikini.”

Y/N crumples a piece of scrap paper in her hand and throws it at him. “Piss off.”

Y/N did, in fact, pack her yellow bikini.  However, when she’s changing from her clothes into a swimsuit, she chooses her blue bikini instead, just to have a bit of agency.  Every instinct in her is telling her to wear what Harry said to, and it’s a little concerning.  She’s never cared about dressing for him before, and she isn’t prepared to start.

Despite the different colour, Harry still grins from the edge of the pool when he sees her walk out. “Look at you.  Should’ve put you in the Watermelon Sugar music video.”

“Shut up.” Y/N sits on the edge of the pool, dangling her lets in the water.  Harry rests his head on his arms, his cheeky grin still on his face as he looks up at her.

“I’m serious.” He says innocently. “It was a fun day.  You really would’ve liked it.”

“Of course you thought it was fun; you had a bunch of beautiful girls fawning over you and feeding you fruit.” Y/N rolls her eyes from behind her sunglasses. “You’re such a narcissist.”

“All musicians are narcissists, love.  At least, the best ones are.” Harry’s grin grows as he pushes away from the ledge. “Are you going to just sit there and look pretty, or are you actually going to swim?”

“I’m going to tan.” Y/N leans her head back, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun.

Harry shakes his head. “No, sorry.  The pool is for swimming only.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

In hindsight, Y/N should’ve known what Harry was about to do.  She’s been friends with him long enough that she knows how his brain works. However, Y/N is enjoying the sun so much that she lets her guard down for one moment, and that one moment is all Harry needs.

She feels his hands grip her legs, and before she can stop him, he pulls her into the pool.  Her entire body submerges, and when she finally rises, gasping for air, the only thing she can hear is Harry’s snickering.

“You’re such an ass!” Y/N hits his shoulder hard, not caring about leaving a mark on him. “That’s not funny!”

“The pool is for swimming only.  I told you.” Harry can’t stop laughing long enough to make it through his sentence clearly. “Them’s the rules.”

“Them’s the rules.” Y/N repeats in a mocking voice, hitting him one more time. “You’re the worst.”

“Maybe, but you’re stuck with me.” Harry runs a hand through his wet hair. “At least until quarantine is done.”

“I should’ve stayed alone in my apartment.” Y/N mutters, tossing her wet sunglasses on the pool ledge. “Would’ve been so much more peaceful.”

“And boring.” Harry points out. “And you wouldn’t get to take relaxing swims like this!”

“Right.  Relaxing.” Y/N splashes him playfully. “Jerk.”

Harry just grins at you.

…

“Want one?”

Y/N glances at Harry as he packs loose marijuana into a wrapper, concentration clear on his face as he rolls it.

“You learn how to roll those in LA?” Y/N asks, taking a sip of her wine.

Harry chuckles lightly, his skin illuminated by the fire burning in front of them and the moon above them. “Yeah.  I’m not very good, though.  Usually I have somebody else to roll them for me.”

“So high maintenance.”

Another low laugh rolls out of Harry’s mouth. “Ha.  High maintenance.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but an endearing smile is on her face. “It’s still illegal in the U.K., you know.”

“I doubt the police are going to break social distancing rules to arrest me for it.” Harry’s tongue pokes out of his mouth as he tries his best to roll the joint tightly.

Y/N watches as Harry brings the wrapper to his mouth, licking it lightly.  To her dismay, her attraction to Harry had yet to fade, and spending every moment of the day together wasn’t helping.

“I’m not an eighteen year old girl on your tour bus anymore, Harry.” Y/N raises her wine glass. “I drink red wine now.  I’m sophisticated.”

Harry snorts, his eyes flickering to her before looking back down at the joint. “Sophisticated, right. Like you didn’t do body shots off the bartender at your birthday party this year.”

Y/N’s cheeks burn. “Birthdays don’t count.”

“Neither did tour buses, and neither does my backyard in the middle of a pandemic.” Harry seals the joint as best he can. “You may have a fancy job now, but you’re still my Y/N.”

His Y/N.  That phrase ignites the now familiar flutter in her stomach and, over the last few days, her core.  Something about Harry identifying her as his drives Y/N insane, even if it’s nothing new.

“And what exactly does your Y/N do?” She manages to say after a moment.

“She doesn’t take shit from anyone.  She gets drunk fast and high faster.  She’s always down for a laugh.  And, although she won’t admit it, she has a tendency to make bad decisions that she tries to suppress, but can’t always manage to do so.” Harry sparks his lighter and sticks the joint between his lips, lighting it and puffing it quickly.

“Then you should know that your Y/N can’t have a joint of her own.” Y/N steals the joint from Harry’s lips, taking a few puffs of her own from it before handing it back.

The smoke curls in her lungs, forcing a few coughs from her.

“Alright?” Harry asks, concern in his eyes.

Y/N nods, her hand pressed to her chest like she can stop the burn. “Yeah.  Just haven’t done that in a while.”

“You always cough so much. It would be cute if it wasn’t so bloody concerning.” Harry says casually, lifting the joint to his lips and inhaling.

Y/N watches as he exhales smoke slowly.  She wonders if she looks as attractive as he does when she blows out smoke.

Harry grins at her with just the corner of his mouth, like there’s a secret tugging at the edge of his lips.

Y/N really doubts it.

“Here.” Harry places the joint between her lips. “Inhale slowly.”

Y/N does as he says, doing her best to keep from coughing until the joint and his hand is away from her face.  Her eyes burn a bit, both from the smoke and the oncoming high that’s starting to twist through her body.

“That’s a good girl.” Harry praises her before leaning back, placing the joint back between his own lips. “You’ve gotten better at that.  Thought you were going to pass out the first time we smoked, remember?”

“I remember I almost did.” Y/N giggles to herself as she settles down into the couch more. “I coughed so much that I thought I was going to die on that tour bus.”

“Niall was certain you had.” Harry laughs too, and Y/N known they’re both playing back the same memory. “Wasn’t quite sure how we were going to explain that one to Paul.  Neither was I, honestly.”

“You don’t give me enough credit.” Despite the feeling coming over her, YN still takes another sip of her wine. “I was fine.”

Harry nods as he finishes the joint, setting the butt down into his ash tray. “Still…we had some fun nights on the bus when you were there.”

“That was a fun summer.” Y/N agrees, her eyes fixed on the fire before them. “Lots of good memories.”

As Y/N watches the fire, Harry watches her.  He lets another moment or two pass before speaking again.

“When you were on tour with us that summer…” He rubs his lips absentmindedly. “You and Niall.  Did you two ever…?”

“What?  Fuck?” The weed and the alcohol take away the careful tone of Y/N’s regular speech, leaving honesty and bluntness behind.

Harry laughs once. “I was going to say date, but yeah.  I guess so.”

“We didn’t date. We fooled around a few times.” Y/N shrugs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He was fun.  But we both knew it wasn’t anything serious, just something to do while I was on tour with you.”

Harry nods a bit, reaching for his own drink and taking a sip.  Y/N watches the movement with heavy lidded eyes.  His arm muscles flex underneath his tattooed skin when he moves, and the way his fingers wrap around his glass is fascinating to her.

“I figured he would have told you.” Y/N pulls her sweater around her tighter.  Now that the sun has set completely, a chill has appeared. “You guys always talked about girls together.”

“No, he didn’t tell me. And I didn’t ask.” Harry keeps his glass in his hand, looking down at it with an unreadable expression. “I thought you might tell me, but you didn’t, either.”

The substances in Y/N’s system are clouding her mind, but she does her best to focus on Harry’s words. As a way to ground herself, she pulls her sweater away from her body, hoping that the cold air will help.

“I’m sorry.” She says slowly, like it takes all her effort to get the words out. “I didn’t mean to…hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh.” Confusion fogs Y/N’s mind. “Then…why is it bothering you?”

“It’s not bothering me.” Harry denies, finishing off his drink. “I was just wondering why.  You usually tell me everything.  You always have.”

Y/N bites her lip. “I don’t tell you about every person I sleep with.”

Harry hums low in the back of his throat, but offers no other response.

After a few minutes, Y/N stands up. “I think I’m going to head to bed.”

Twisting his empty glass around in his hands, Harry nods. “Alright.  I’ll be up in a little bit.”

“You know, you have a guest room.” Y/N pauses, fiddling with the bottom of her sweater.  Her skin feels unsettled, and the fabric against it isn’t helping. “I should probably start using it.  Social distancing, and all that.”

Harry looks up at her, a stubborn look reflecting in his eyes. “No.  I sleep better with you beside me.”

When Harry finally comes up to bed an hour later, Y/N is still awake, eyes closed, with her back away from the door and head toward the wall.  She doesn’t turn over when she hears the door creak open, and instead just listens to the rustling sounds of Harry changing, going to the bathroom, washing his hands, and returning to the bedroom.

Y/N feels his weight on the bed, but doesn’t hear him slide in next to her.  Instead, she does her best to stay completely relaxed when she feels his fingers brush against her hairline, pushing back a few loose strands.

Staying completely relaxed, it turns out, is easier thought than done.  The moment Harry touches her, Y/N feels the nerves in her face burst to life. It’s like electricity, like nothing she’s ever felt before from any previous touches from Harry.  Behind her closed eyes, Y/N feels her head spinning, but she’s certain it must be the weed and the alcohol in her system.

Finally, the sheets are pulled back, and Harry gets under the covers.  He pulls Y/N back against him, and Y/N can feel the hot skin of his chest pressed against her shoulders.  Harry takes a moment to adjust before sighing, almost in content, and then he presses a gentle kiss to the back of her shoulder.

The tender action leaves Y/N speechless.  The action itself isn’t new; they had always been very physically affectionate with each other.  But there’s something about the moment that Y/N can’t quite place a finger on. Perhaps she would be able to if she was sober, or less tired, but with her brain in its current state, the words she needs are lost, and she’s certain she won’t remember the feeling in the morning.

Harry inhales deeply, his nose buried in her hair, and sighs again.  Y/N can feel him relaxing back against her, but his arms stay wrapped around her tightly.  It’s a comforting embrace, and makes it easy for Y/N’s mind to finally quiet and drift off.

…

“You’re still working?”

Y/N looks up from her laptop to see Harry standing above her, sweaty from his workout.  His hair is tied up in a little ponytail on top of his head, and he has a towel wrapped around his shoulders that he uses to wipe sweat from his face.  His body is literally glistening in the sunlight, and Y/N suddenly finds it very hard to focus on her work.

“I am.” She says finally, closing the lid of her laptop and stretching out on the beach chair. “Or I was. I’m done for today.”

“Good.” Harry sits down on the chair next to her. “I’m going to have a shower, but I was thinking we should try baking something later.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I want cupcakes, and homemade are way better than store bought.” Harry says easily, stealing Y/N’s water and taking a gulp from it.

Y/N watches his throat move as he swallows the water, how his Adam’s apple bobs, how he licks his lips when he finally pulls the glass away from his mouth.

Y/N’s own mouth suddenly feels very dry.

“Alright, yeah.” Y/N nods weakly. “We can bake something later.  It’ll be fun.”

…

“It’ll be fun.” Y/N shakes her head in disbelief. “God, I can’t believe I said that.”

“It was fun!” Harry argues, holding up a red velvet cupcake. “And we did it!”

“And we made a mess.” Y/N gestures to the kitchen around them, which looks like a warzone.  Flour, powdered sugar, and cocoa powder cover every counter surface.  There are broken eggshells on the counter, splatters of batter everywhere, and both Y/N and Harry have dyed red hands from food colouring.

“It could be worse.” Harry shrugs, clearly untroubled. “C’mon.  Try a cupcake.”

Y/N reaches for one, but Harry simply lifts the one in his hand to her mouth.  She locks eyes with him as she takes a bite, the icing smearing across her top lip.

Y/N chews slowly and swallows hard. “Yeah.  They’re good.”

Harry extends a hand, and his finger runs along her lip, collecting the icing.  He pops it into his mouth, sucking for a moment before humming in agreement. “Yeah.  Sweet.”

The cupcakes, it turns out, pair well with watermelon cocktails, and soon Y/N and Harry are sitting on the couch, takeout and cupcakes in front of them and drinks in their hands as they giggle and talk.  They’re intoxicated, but not just from the alcohol in the strong drinks that Harry makes.

“Honestly, working from home isn’t ideal, but it’s not that bad.” Y/N pops a bite of food into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Definitely not the worst part of quarantine.”

“Yeah?” Harry leans back on the couch. “What’s the worst part?”

Y/N shrugs. “It sucks being away from people, cooped up inside.”

Harry nods, but his face looks wistful. “I miss sex.”

Y/N laughs, but she nods in agreement as well. “Fuck, I know.  I miss sex so much.”

“It’s nice, you know? A good way to burn some energy…always sleep so well after…” Harry sighs, taking a sip of his drink between his phrases. “I feel like I’m back on a tour bus again, with no one around but my hand.”

A giggle escapes Y/N’s mouth. “How tragic.” She also takes a sip of her drink, and tries to stop herself from making a face.  Harry really does make them strong. “I just miss touching.  I haven’t been this touch starved since I was seventeen.”

Harry makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “We touch.”

“That’s different.” Y/N finishes her drink. “That’s friendly touching.  It’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?” Harry challenges her, a glint in his eyes that Y/N’s come to recognize as a sign of trouble.

She refuses to take the bait. “You know what I meant.”

“I don’t.” Harry says it innocently, and he reaches forward to take her glass from her. “How about I get us some refills while you think of how to say it?”

Y/N lets him take the glass (she loves his drinks, despite how strong they are), but shakes her head. “Stop being an ass.  You know exactly what I meant.”

A low laugh rolls out of Harry as he walks to the built-in bar he has in the lounge.  He begins to recreate the drinks, muddling this, adding a splash of that.  If Harry wasn’t already a rock star, she’d suggest he become a mixologist.

“Maybe I do know what you meant.” Harry shakes the cocktail shaker with ease before straining the liquid out over their glasses, which he’s filled with fresh ice. “But I want to hear you say it.”

Y/N runs a hand through her hair.  She feels warm from the alcohol, and the lit candles around them aren’t helping.  The food and cupcakes sit on the table, all but forgotten in their new conversation. “Say what?”

Harry’s lips pull up in a smirk, but his eyes show something else.  He walks back over and hands her the drink before taking a seat next to her again. “The kind of touching you miss.”

Their fingers touch as Y/N takes the glass from him, and suddenly the warmth of the room feels ten times hotter. “You want me to say it?”

Harry lifts his glass to his lips, but keeps his eyes on her. “I do.”

“I…” Y/N takes a sip of the drink (which is stronger than the one before) and then presses the cold glass to her cheek. “I miss touching.  Intimate touching.  And…being touched intimately.”  

Harry inhales deeply, stretching out his shoulders before responding. “Yeah.  I miss that too.  Holding hands, touching someone’s stomach, chest, legs…having them play with my hair…”

“I play with your hair.” Y/N says defensively, a crease appearing between her eyebrows.

Harry laughs once. “Right, but like you said…that’s different.”

Y/N clears her throat. “Right.”

Harry takes a long sip from his drink. “’S still nice, though.” Harry adds after a moment, licking his lips. “I love when you play with my hair.  You know that.”

Nodding softly, Y/N begins to trail a finger over the rim of her glass.  Whenever she begins to get tipsy, she begins to fidget more, and feel freer in her actions.  And when Y/N glances back at Harry, she can tell he recognizes the sign as well.

“What about you?” He asks, bringing her back from her thoughts. “What do you miss having people do?”

Y/N drinks again, pulling her knees to her chest as she leans against the couch’s armrest. “I miss…having my hair played with, too.  That’s always nice.  I miss having my fingers played with…neck kisses…I like when people, like, rub my arms or thighs, just absentmindedly…” She leans her head against her arm. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” Harry rubs his nose lightly, and Y/N can tell he’s feeling the alcohol, too. “What’s my turn?”

“Tell me what else you like.” Y/N smiles softly, a small laugh just barely bubbling out from her. “We’ve never actually talked about it, H.  Isn’t that strange?”

Harry turns to face her more, pausing to think for a moment. “I suppose we’ve never been specific before, yeah.” He taps his thumb against his H ring. “I like being in control, usually. Telling them what to do, where to touch me…” His eyes get a faraway look in them. “But sometimes it’s nice to give up control.  Have someone else…”

“Decide.” Y/N finishes his sentence for him when he trails off. “Yeah.  I’m more like that, I think.  I usually let someone else decide.  But I like the in-between, too.  Like…both exploring each other.”

“What do you mean?” Harry cocks his head to the side curiously.

Y/N shrugs loosely, her finger still tracing her glass. “’S hard to explain.”

Harry’s voice is low when he replies, almost like he’s somewhere else. “Try.”

“Well…” Y/N takes a drink before setting her glass down. “It’s like…do you remember your first time?”

Harry blinks, surprised at the question, but nods. “Yeah.  I do.”

“And remember how nervous you were?”

“Yeah.”

“And like…” Y/N plays with her fingers as she ponders her next words. “You were nervous, yeah, but there was also this excitement in you.  Kind of like…a breathlessness.  And you looked at the other person and knew they…”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. “Felt the same.”

“Yeah.” Y/N tucks her hair behind her ears. “And just, like, being comfortable with them, and knowing you could both explore, and ask questions, and you were both together…” Y/N feels heat rise to her cheeks as she trails off. “I don’t know.  I feel like that’s rare, but I—it’s nice.  I like it.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubs his thumb over his lip as he shifts his position on the couch. “It’s nice, yeah. Rare, usually.  But nice.”

“I think it’s rare, because, like—” The alcohol makes it harder for Y/N to gather her thoughts, but also harder to sensor them. “I don’t know, I feel like when I was younger, and hadn’t had sex yet, I took more time with, like, finding the right person? Like I wanted it to be with someone who loved me for the first time, and someone I was comfortable with, and it was. And then after, the love part didn’t matter so much for me.” Y/N glances at Harry, who seems to be hanging on her every word. “Which, like, was fine.  What mattered to me the most was that whoever I had sex with respected me. And they did, so that was…good. But it’s different.” Y/N rubs her arms. “I don’t know if that makes sense…”

“It does.” Harry assures her, placing a light hand on her knee.  He begins to rub small circles. “Keep going.”

“I just think that, like, that in-between, breathless, exploring each other kind of thing…the comfort…that’s rare because it only really happens with someone you love.” Y/N murmurs. “At least, that’s how it is for me.  And I haven’t really been in love much in my life.”

“I’ve been in love probably too much.” Harry admits, his hand still on Y/N’s knee. “Too much to be good for me.”

Y/N shakes her head adamantly. “No, H.  That’s good. That’s…brave.  You’re not afraid of how you feel.  Most people are.”

“Maybe.” Harry finishes his drink again with one long gulp.  

Y/N watches as he does, seeing a little drip of liquid slip from the corner of his mouth.  She can’t stop herself from leaning forward and wiping it away with her thumb, feeling the stubble of Harry’s chin scratch against her.

Harry watches her with hooded eyes as she leans back to her previous position.  His hand slips a bit higher, from her knee to her lower thigh, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Who have you been in love with?” He asks.  His words are slurred a bit, and his accent seems thicker.

“My first boyfriend, Parker. You remember him.” Y/N sighs, closing her eyes as she herself remembers. “And…Christian, from university.  We were together for two years.  That’s it, I think.”

Despite the alcohol, Harry’s face still shows some surprise. “Really?  No one else?  No one since Christian?”

Y/N shrugs. “I’ve dated, yeah, and had relationships, but…I don’t know.  I didn’t love any of them.  I was…infatuated.  But I never…it was intense, but like—intense like a spark.  Nothing prolonged.”

Harry hums in response. “Thought you were going to say Niall for a moment.  He was pretty torn up when you went back to school after that summer.”

Y/N’s face mimics Harry’s surprise from a moment ago. “Was he?”

“Yeah.  Moped around a bit, spent time by himself, on his phone every two minutes…” Harry’s expression shows the difficulty it’s taking him to think back eight years while drunk. “I knew it was because you left.  Thought you two had an…agreement, or something.”

“An agreement?” A giggle escapes Y/N. “This isn’t a Jane Austen book, Harry.  We didn’t have an agreement.” Once she gets her laughter out, she sighs. “He was that upset?”

“Yeah.” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “So I thought…he must be in love with you.  And you were…”

“No, I wasn’t.” Y/N says softly. “He was so upset that you thought he was in love with me?”

“Yeah.”

Y/N bites her lip. “Was he more upset than you?”

Harry takes a moment to reply, looking at her with a serious expression.  His lips are so red, and his eyes are so green, and both of them are so drunk that neither of them can sense the meaning behind what they’re saying.

“No.” Harry finally responds. “He wasn’t.”

…

“Good morning.”

“Shhh.” Y/N covers her eyes with her arm. “Don’t yell in my ear.”

“I whispered.” Harry counters, but his voice is a bit quieter this time. “Do you have a headache?”

“I didn’t know something flavoured with watermelon could make me feel so shitty.” Y/N groans a bit, shifting on the bed without opening her eyes. “What did you do to me?”

When Harry laughs, it’s not audible, but Y/N can feel it through his chest pressed against her side.

“How are you completely fine right now?” She asks, rubbing her eyes.

“I’m used to it.  I’ve always been way better with hangovers than you.” Harry presses a small kiss to her shoulder before getting up. “How does breakfast in bed sound?”

“Normally amazing, but I can’t eat right now.” Y/N mutters. “How about coffee in bed?”

“Sure.” Harry smiles a bit. “You look cute like this.”

“Shut up.”

Harry returns ten minutes later with a tray of coffee, toast, and eggs, of which he manages to coax Y/N to take a few bites.  She doesn’t really want it, but she knows it’s easier to do as he says instead of arguing.

“How about we have a movie day today?” Harry suggests after breakfast. “In bed, since it seems like you won’t be moving anytime soon.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Y/N glares at him from the top of her coffee cup.

Harry raises his hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t make you drink.  You chose to.”

“I know, but it’s easier to blame you.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Is that why you’ve been doing it for twenty years?”

“Exactly.”

Harry carefully lifts the empty tray to the ground before holding up the remote. “You can pick the movies.”

Y/N bites her lip. “If we watch Titanic, will you make fun of me when I cry?”

“Of course not.  I’ll even cry with you out of solidarity.”

“Alright.” Y/N settles back into the blankets. “Put it on, then.”

It’s easy for them to be like this, Y/N thinks, as Harry pulls her into his arms when the movie starts. It’s always been so natural for them to be physical and affectionate with each other.  They’ve never acted any other way.

Except this doesn’t feel like any other way.

Yes, Y/N has watched countless movies while cuddling in bed with Harry.  But has he ever whispered in her ear like that before?  Has he ever rubbed her sides so carefully before? Has he ever let his lips rest on the bare skin of her shoulder, almost at the base of her neck?

Y/N can’t recall. However, she’s certain that if he had, it hasn’t felt so electric.

“Look at them.  Look at how Jack watches her.” Harry murmurs his words directly in Y/N’s ear as they watch Jack draw Rose.  Y/N can feel his lips brushing against her, and the heat of his breath and tone of his voice makes her shiver.

“She’s very pretty.” Y/N nods, shifting in Harry’s arms.  She likes how warm he feels.

“I suppose, but that’s not what I meant.” Harry traces shapes on her arm. “I meant look at how he looks at her.  Do you think they have the kind of love you talked about last night?”

Y/N glances over her shoulder at him, surprised he remembers their conversation. “I think so.  Do you?”

“Yeah.” Harry says in a low voice.  He says no more, so Y/N turns back to face the television.

They continue to watch in silence, gripping each other a bit tighter as the Titanic begins to sink. As they watch a mother reading to her two young children in bed, Y/N begins to lose her composure, like always. Tears well in her eyes, and she lets out a quiet hitched breath, a single sniffle.

“It’s alright, love.” Harry’s hands move to her stomach, holding her tighter to comfort her. “Don’t cry.”

Y/N can hear the tears in his voice, just as they’re in her own. “Can’t help it.  This part and the band and the old couple in bed—they always get me.”

“I know.” Harry rubs his thumb along your side.

Y/N reaches behind her without turning around, threading her fingers through Harry’s messy curls.  She plays with them absentmindedly as she watches, and tries to ignore how right it feels to be close to him like this.  She wonders if he notices it, too.

Harry presses a chaste kiss to her shoulder.

…

The day they hit the one month mark of quarantine, Harry sits across from Y/N at breakfast with a determined look on his face.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Y/N glances up at him, her attention barely shifting from her book. “A proposition?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of proposition?” Y/N tilts her head to the side.  What she first thought was just determination on Harry’s face, she realizes, is actually determination and mischief, and she knows it won’t end well.

“I haven’t had a tattoo in a while.” Harry steals a strawberry from Y/N’s plate. “And I have a machine here, so I was thinking you could give me one.”

Y/N stares at Harry incredulously as he pops the strawberry in his mouth. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Probably.”

“I’m a terrible artist, Harry.  You know that.” Y/N shakes her head. “And even if I wasn’t, I have no idea how to tattoo someone!”

“You can watch a YouTube tutorial, or read a WikiHow.” Harry sighs loudly. “I’m so bored in isolation!”

“What do you even want tattooed?” Y/N eyes the intricate tattoos on his arms suspiciously. “I doubt I could do something like your ship.”

“Something simple.” He shrugs. “Probably lettering.”

“Probably?” Y/N says suspiciously.

“That’s why I want you to do it.  I want it in your handwriting.”

Harry’s tone is easy, but it makes her breathing shallow.

“You do?”

“Yeah.  I was thinking of something to remind me of this time, because of how weird it is.”

Despite her increased heartbeat, Y/N laughs. “What, do you want me to tattoo COVID-19 on you?”

“No.  Be a little more creative than that.” Harry scoffs.

“Why do I have to be creative?”

“Because I want you to decide what I get.”

Y/N’s eyes widen. “You’re not serious.”

“I am!  Why is that so hard to believe?” Harry asks. “I trust you. And you’re good with words.”

“No.  Absolutely not.”

…

“Make sure my drink has two shots in it.” Y/N calls to Harry as she looks over the tattoo supplies on the living room table.

Harry laughs. “I’m not sure I want my tattoo artist to be drunk.”

“The only way I’ll even be your tattoo artist is if I’m drunk.” She counters. “I still think this is an awful idea.”

Harry hands Y/N a tall glass with a light pink liquid in it. “Drink this, and you’ll change your mind.”

Y/N takes the glass and takes a large gulp, not focusing on the taste of the mixers, but the liquid courage behind them.

Harry grins, lifting his own glass. “Cheers.”

“Shut up and sit down.” Y/N mutters.  She ties her hair back before grabbing the disinfectant wipes. “Where do you want this?”

“My upper inner arm. I already shaved it for you.” Harry smirks as he points to the area, which is easily exposed in his loose tank top.

“And you’re sure I can write it with pen?” Y/N asks nervously as she disinfects the area.

“Mhmm.” Harry leans back comfortably in his chair. “What did you decide on?”

“It’s a secret.” Y/N uncaps the pen, getting closer to him.

“So I can’t know until after it’s on me permanently?”

“Is that a problem?” Y/N asks innocently. “I thought you trusted me?”

Harry chuckles. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Also that I’m good with words.” Y/N makes sure Harry’s head is turned away before she carefully writes the phrase she chose.  Then she snaps on gloves and starts the machine like she watched in videos early that day.

“You’re fine, love.” Harry assures her, seeing the nervous look on her face. “It’s a small tattoo. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Quiet.” Y/N mutters. “I need to focus.”

True to Harry’s word, the small tattoo only takes a few minutes to finish.  When it’s done, Y/N gives it one final wipe before setting the machine down and taking off her gloves.

“Alright.” She picks up her glass and drains it completely. “You can look.”

Harry peers at his arm, curiosity clear on his face.  There, in Y/N’s loopy handwriting is the phrase “touch me.”

“It looks so fucking good, Y/N.” Harry grins at her. “You did amazing!”

“I didn’t fuck it up?” She asks, chewing on her lip anxiously. “Is it alright?”

“You did a lovely job.” Harry smiles. “Wrap it for me?”

Y/N does as he asks, carefully wrapping the fresh tattoo in plastic wrap and taping it to his arm. “I think I’ll accept my tip in the form of another drink.”

Harry snickers. “Coming right up.”

Two drinks later, they’re both back in the honest and loose headspace that they’ve grown familiar with. It’s not enough that they’re unaware of their actions, but both Y/N and Harry know that their lips are looser because of the liquor in their systems.

They’ve migrated to the bedroom to get comfier, but took a few items from the bar with them.  It’s with these items that Harry tops up Y/N’s glass again as he speaks.

“So tell me…” He sets the cocktail shaker on his bedside table. “Why ‘touch me’?”

“You said you wanted something to remind you of isolation.” Y/N takes a long sip of her drink. “And that’s what we both miss the most, right?  Being touched?”

Harry nods slowly, his rings clinking against his glass. “Yeah.  I’m probably going to go straight to the bars after this is all done.  Find someone there.”

He laughs lightly, showing that what he says it half a joke, but Y/N sighs wistfully and shakes her head in disagreement. “I won’t.”

“You won’t?” Harry is surprised, his laughter fading. “Why not?”

Her shrug almost causes her to spill her drink on the bed. “I don’t know.” Y/N sighs again. “I don’t really—I’m not a hookup fan.  Not right now, at least.  It’s not what I…want.”

“What do you want, then?” Harry finishes his drink, but sets the glass down instead of refilling it. “If not sex?”

“I want sex.” Y/N says defensively. “But I want—I don’t want it to be someone random.  I want sex, but I want to be…intimate.  Like, I want to know that person cares about me, and I care about them.”

Harry licks the last of his drink from his lips. “Like that breathless feeling?”

“No.  It would be nice, but no.  That takes time.” Y/N brushes her hair behind her ear. “Just…someone who cares.  I don’t want a quick fuck, I just—”

“You want to be touched. Intimately touched.” Harry takes the empty glass from Y/N’s hand and sets it down on the table next to the bed.

Y/N nods gently, her limbs feeling loose. “Yeah.  Intimately touched.”

“You know, I could…” Harry trails off, pursing his lips. “We could…do that.”

The alcohol makes Y/N slow to recognize the meaning of his words. “What?”

“I’ve noticed you…the way you look at me, it’s…different than it was.” Harry says carefully, his eyes gauging her reaction. “For the last few weeks.  And I—I know that I’m…attracted to you, too.”

“We…” Y/N struggles to think of what to say as she finally registers what’s happening. “We’re friends.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see you as attractive.” Harry looks down at his hands. “Don’t you…?  I mean…”

“I—yeah.  I think you’re—” Y/N laughs a bit nervously. “You’re attractive, H, you know that.  We’ve just never…discussed it.”

“I’m not saying we have to fuck, or—we don’t have to do anything.” Harry straightens his shoulders and looks you in the eye. “Just—when we touch, it’s mild.  If you want to be touched intimately, we could…”

“Like, a hand job?” Y/N says slowly, her words blunt with confusion.

Harry goes a bit red, but he shakes his head quickly. “No, Christ, that’s not what I meant, I—just—can I show you?”

“Um,” Y/N swallows hard. “Sure.”

“Okay.” Harry nods slightly, taking carefully measured breaths. “If this feels weird, or anything seems wrong, just tell me to stop, alright?”

Y/N replies faintly. “Alright.”

Nodding again, Harry moves closer on the bed, sitting on his knees so he can get closer to Y/N, who sits cross-legged.  His hands rest lightly on her bare thighs, and his rings are a cool contrast to his warm skin.

Harry begins to rub his hands up and down her thighs slowly.  His movements are measured, and he watches Y/N’s reaction carefully for a sign of her disliking his actions.  However, what he finds is a nervous but interested girl staring back at him.

“Like this.  Like, what you like.” Harry says lowly.  His hands move more to her inner thighs, but they don’t creep higher. “And…”

“And…?” Y/N asks, her heart rate increasing even more.

Harry moves one hand to the hem of Y/N’s tank top, pushing it up a bit so his hand can rest on her waist. He rubs over her warm skin, marvelling in how smooth and soft it is to his touch.  His fingers graze the lace of her bra, but he goes no higher.

“How—how’s that?” Harry asks quietly.

“It’s, um, it’s good.” Y/N replies as she struggles to keep her voice normal. “Yeah.  Good.  But, um, can you…” Harry’s movements pause at her words, and Y/N feels her cheeks get even warmer. “Maybe touch my, uh, my neck.  If you’d like.”

Harry nods, and the hand on her thigh moves to her neck.  He traces his fingers across her shoulder and over her collarbone, delighting in feeling the curves of her body.  Y/N’s breath hitches when his fingers travel up her neck, and Harry swears he can feel her pulse increase under his fingers.

Y/N’s not sure if it’s the fact that she’s touch starved from self isolating that makes Harry’s touches feel so good, or if it’s the fact that it’s Harry touching her, but she doesn’t dwell on it.  Instead, she closes her eyes and tilts her head back, allowing him better access.

She feels Harry’s breath before she feels his lips, but she’s still surprised when she feels him begin to sponge light kisses across her neck.

“H…”

“Is this alright?” He asks the question right below her ear, and yet she can barely hear him because he’s so quiet.

“Yes.” Y/N breathes. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Harry returns to pressing light kisses to her skin, his hands still rubbing over her sides and hips.

For the first time since seeing Harry naked in her bathroom, Y/N can’t deny or explain away her attraction to him.  She can’t convince herself that she doesn’t want him to touch her, because she does, and she can’t tell herself that she doesn’t need him, because she does. Every fibre of her being is telling her that she needs Harry, and she needs him now.  Her heart is pounding, her skin is on fire, and her core feels like she’d going to explode if he doesn’t do something.  And yet, Y/N can’t tell him to touch her more.  She’s frozen, mind blank, and she can only register what Harry is doing at the moment as what she wants.

Harry continues to kiss her neck, never lingering too long in one spot, never sucking too hard. Every kiss is gentle and chaste, except the few rare ones that include the tip of his tongue running over her skin.

After what feels like an eternity, Harry pulls away from her neck, face flushed.  Despite his hands still on her body, Y/N makes an involuntary sound in the back of her throat.

“Is that better?” He asks lowly, rubbing his thumb against your hip.

“I—kind of.” Y/N says softly.  If anything, she thinks, it’s worse.  She needs to satisfy the burn inside her, but she doesn’t know how.

“Good.” Harry replies, but he doesn’t take his hands off her.

Y/N’s own hands have been sitting at her sides as his moved over her body, but she raises one now, as hesitant as Harry was.  She extends it towards his arm, but pauses with her fingers right over his skin.

“Is it okay if I…?”

The corner of Harry’s lips lifts up, just barely. “Yeah, love.  Go ahead.”

Harry’s skin is warm beneath her touch.  Y/N traces the outline of his mermaid tattoo carefully before moving onto others.  She loves how his arm curves under her touch, how he stays still and lets her explore.  She appreciates it, thinking that if Harry made any sudden movements, she’d force herself to pull away.

Soon, her fingers move from tracing his tattoos to tracing the lines of his muscles.  She moves down his forearm to his hand, running her fingers over the veins that show through his tan skin, over his knuckles, down the tips of his calloused fingers and back.  

Harry sucks in a breath, and Y/N’s trance flickers for a moment as her eyes move to his face to see what’s wrong.

“Sorry, just—surprised me.” Harry says, voice low yet sheepish.  He nods down to his thigh, where Y/N realizes her own hand is resting.

“Oh—” She moves to pull her hand away, but Harry places his own on top.

“It’s fine.” He says quickly. “Keep going.”

Y/N bites her lip as she turns her attention back to his arm.  Her fingers move slowly and carefully back up his forearm to his upper arm. She traces over his tattoos while she rubs her thumb gently against the muscle, and stops her fingers at the edge of his t-shirt sleeve.  With a quick glance at Harry, she pushes the sleeve up, tucking it up on his shoulder so she can run her fingers over his ship tattoo, which is one of her favourites.

“Feels nice.” Harry murmurs, his eyes following her movements.

Y/N glances back at his face, taking in his appearance.  His lips are red from the time he spent kissing her neck, and his cheeks are still flushed.  His eyes are darker than usual, and she’s not certain if it’s the candlelight or something else causing it.  There��s a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, with a few loose curls hanging down. Out of reflex, Y/N reaches up and pushes his hair back out of his eyes.

Before she can return her hand to his arm, Harry captures it in his own.  Y/N watches as he brings it to his lips, inhaling as her wrist passes underneath his nose.  Although she’s not sure why, there’s something about seeing how much smaller her hand is in Harry’s that delights her.

Harry presses a soft kiss to her wrist, following it up with another on her palm.  Y/N’s eyelids flutter at the tender sensation.

“It’s my turn to touch you.” She says softly, her voice strained.

Harry hums in reply. “I know.” He kisses your wrist once more before looking at you. “I’ll help.”

Lifting his hand from his thigh (your hand, which was underneath, stays where it is), he pulls up his shirt just enough that he can sneak your hand underneath.  He rests it on his lower chest, and even though his shirt is still partially covering him, Y/N knows she’s touching his butterfly tattoo.

“I like to be touched here.” Harry says in the same low voice.

“Okay.” Y/N bites her lip, her head swimming with alcohol and the smell of the candles and Harry’s cologne and Harry. “It…would be easier without your shirt.”

Without breaking eye contact, save for the moment fabric covers him, Harry pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side. “Better?”

Y/N’s eyes drift down to his tanned stomach.  His body is familiar and a stranger to her all at once.  She knows his tattoos, scars, every mark on his skin from a distance, but seeing it like this—touching it like this—makes her feel like she’s never truly seen him before.

“Better.” She manages to say, her hand brushing across his ribs.

Y/N spends a while exploring the planes of his stomach, the contours of his body.  When she gets to his v-lines, and runs her fingers over the ferns tattooed there, Harry shivers a bit, his hand gripping her knee tighter.

Y/N massages his thigh gently. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” Harry clears his throat. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” Y/N nods, but moves her hand further up again, over his chest and over his collar bones.  She takes a moment to trace the lines of his neck, feel the beat if his pulse underneath her fingers, and then tangles her fingers in his hair.  She uses the leverage to tilt his head back a bit, and presses her lips to the base of his neck.

Harry’s cologne smells better up close, and Y/N adores the heat of his skin on her sensitive lips. She presses small kisses over the curve of his neck, pausing over his jugular.  Her tongue darts out and she carefully licks along it before ending the motion with a kiss.

“Christ…” Harry exhales slowly, the tips of his fingers digging into her knee slightly.

Y/N knows they’re crossing the threshold of just touching each other for the sake of touching.  She can feel herself dripping in her panties, and when her eyes flicker down, she can see the outline of Harry’s half hard cock in his shorts.  Together, they’ve reached the border of friends helping each other out, and she’s certain that she wants to cross it with him.  However, she’s not sure if they should.

Pulling back enough to look Harry in the eyes, Y/N clears her throat. “H, we—what are we doing?”

Harry waits a moment to answer. “I…I don’t know.  I have no fucking clue.”

“This isn’t friendly anymore.” Y/N’s voice drops to a whisper. “It’s not just—it’s intimate, yeah, but it’s more…” Her eyes move to the outline of his hardening cock once more before looking back up at his face. “It’s more.”

“Yeah.  It’s more.” Harry moves his hand further up her thigh again, rubbing slow circles. “But I don’t want to stop.”

Y/N sucks in a breath. “You don’t?”

“It’s been so long since…” Harry trails off, his gaze drifting down to your lips before returning to your eyes. “And it’s you.  I’ve always wondered if—we—”

“I’ve wondered, too.” Y/N admits, her voice filled with nerves.  Are they really discussing this? “Especially since that day, in the bathroom—”

“I wondered if you looked then.” Harry’s voice drops lower (which Y/N didn’t think was possible). “I thought about it later that day.  I—fuck, I wanted you to look.”

A small noise escapes the back of Y/N’s throat. “This—we’ve been drinking, and—it’s the alcohol, H. Neither of us is thinking straight.”

“This isn’t the alcohol talking.  I’ve thought about—when we’re in the pool, when we cuddle, when we flirt, I—I can’t help it.” Harry closes his eyes for a brief moment, like he’s collecting himself. “I need you.  And I think…I think you need me too.”

“I do.  I need you.” Y/N touches his stubbled jaw with careful fingers. “But we’re friends.  This is going to change that.”

“We don’t know that.” Harry leans into her touch. “You said before that you wanted someone you’re comfortable with, something intimate, something breathless.  You and I are comfortable, and intimate, and—I don’t know.  All I know for sure is that I want you.”

Y/N isn’t sure if he means he wants her in a purely physical way or something more, and while she knows she should clarify that, all she can focus on is his voice and the way it’s going straight to her core.

“I want you, too.” She says simply.

Harry brings his hand to Y/N’s hip. “Can I kiss you?”

Y/N nods.  She’s not sure she’s capable of giving a verbal response.

Harry takes it upon himself to lean closer, his fingertips digging into Y/N’s skin in a way she adores. He pauses, hovering just above her lips for a moment, as if to give her time to pull away.  Instead, Y/N just waits in anticipation, delighting in the feeling of his breath running over her skin.

When he kisses her, Y/N tastes alcohol, mint, and what she swears is her own heart in the back of her throat.

Any previous kisses she’s shared with Harry have been half kisses, given in teenage games of truth or dare and in a friend’s parent’s basement.  Those kisses were safe, guarded, and an obligation.  This kiss is the exact opposite.

Although it starts chaste, it quickly grows more passionate.  Y/N can’t stop herself from tugging on Harry’s hair more than she imagines Harry can stop himself from rucking up the hem of her tank top.  His fingers dip under the band of her lace bralette as she nips at his lip, tugging slightly, delighted when a strangled sound echoes from the back of his throat.

Within minutes, Y/N’s allowed Harry to pull her to straddle his lap, his hands grabbing at her hips with a neediness she’s never seen him exhibit before.  Of course, she feels the same way, and she lets her hand run down his chest over and over, using her nails a little more each time.  Although there’s no one around to see, no party to return to, nowhere to go, Y/N wants to leave a mark.  She wants anyone who sees his chest to know that he belongs to her.

Harry breaks away from her, lips red, eyes frenzied, and breathing heavy. “Can I—?” His hands tug on the hem of her top, tugging in question.

Y/N lifts her arms in response, letting him pull it off and toss it to the side.  Harry moves back in to kiss her again, but she keeps her arms up, giving him a long look.

“You’re not done.” She says simply.

He understands right away, and his fingers find the band of her bralette again.  This time, however, he removes it slower, almost as if the removal is ritual itself, and his hands are less frantic when they return to your skin.

Harry looks at Y/Nu with wide eyes, and she understands the meaning in them: this is so much more than just touching, and so much more than two friends using each other for mutual pleasure.  With every touch, they further cross a line, and neither of them can stop.  

With this realization, Harry’s movements become more cautious.  His hands come to rest on her sides, his thumbs just brushing the side of her breast.

“You’re fine.” Y/N assures him in a soothing voice. “Keep going.”

“Are you fine?” He counters, his voice an equal mix of concern and need.

“H.” Y/N takes his hands in her own and places them over her breasts. “Like that.  Touch me like that.”

Harry sucks in a short breath as she manipulates his hands, showing him how to rub her and touch her. After a few moments, she lets her hands move to his neck, pulling him in for another kiss.

Y/N begins to grind against him, desperate for a bit of friction.  Their kisses are soon accented with their moans as they each pull the other closer in lust and need.

Still, underneath the physical desires, there’s a current running between them.  Y/N knows it’s been there for the last few weeks, humming quietly in the back of her mind, but being here, now, with Harry touching her, it’s come alive like an electric fence.  She can’t turn it off, and she doesn’t want to.  She doesn’t want to in the slightest.

Harry begins to kiss down her neck like before, but this time his kisses are anything but chaste. When he reaches her breast, he kisses around them before taking one of her nipples into his mouth.

“Oh fuck—” Y/N arches her back, fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer. “Harry…”

He hums against her, and his spare hand rubs her back like he does when they get ready to sleep.  Usually, the motion is calming, but right now, Y/N feels anything but calm.

Harry continues until he’s satisfied with his work, and then he kisses his way to her other breast, wrapping his lips against her other nipple.  He spends just as much time on that one, letting his teeth graze it ever so slightly before soothing the action with his tongue.

When he pulls back, there’s a little line of spit connecting Harry’s mouth to her nipple, and Y/N whimpers at the sight.

“H…” She runs her finger through the line before gripping his chin with her thumb and forefinger.  The need inside her builds, as does her fondness for the man in front of her. “God…”

Harry tweaks her hard nipple with his finger, gentle enough so as not to hurt her, but enough to make a gasp fall from her mouth.  He offers no response in the form of words, but the hungry look in his eyes has only increased.

“Let me…” Y/N climbs off of his lap, gently pushing him to lay back on the bed. “Yeah?”

Harry runs a hand through his messy curls, nodding quickly. “You want that?”

“Yeah.” Y/N nods too, pressing a wet kiss to his swollen lips. “So bad.  Yeah.”

Her hands move to the waistband of his shorts, and Harry lifts his hips off the bed.  Y/N tugs down his boxers in the same movement, and tosses both articles of clothing to the side before looking back at him.

Harry’s cock is just as beautiful as she remembers it being the morning she accidentally walked in on him. Even more so, she thinks, because now he’s hard, and the head is the most appetizing shade of pink, with drops of precum pearling at the top.  When Y/N wraps her hand around his girth, she adores the heat that she feels.  

“So pretty…” She says the words almost to herself, and strokes him lightly to get used to the feeling of him in her hand. “I just want to…”

Y/N leans down and flicks her tongue over his tip, collecting the precum gathered there.  In return, a strangled moan leaves Harry’s throat as his arm moves to cover his eyes for a moment.

Y/N presses a kiss to the head of his cock before she continues licking, reveling in the sounds Harry makes.  She had no doubt, with a voice as angelic as his, that his moans and whines and whimpers would be just as beautiful.

When she wraps her lips around the head and sucks, she feels Harry’s hand move to her hair.  She looks up at him without lifting off of his cock, staring him in the eye as she takes more and more of him into her mouth.

“Fuck—” Another moan leaves Harry’s lips, more strained than the last. “That’s it…” He tugs on her hair, but doesn’t push her down.  Even when lost in pleasure, he’s careful with her.

Y/N loves him for it.

Pacing herself, she takes more and more of him into her mouth until her nose is pressed to the base of his stomach, brushing against his (neatly trimmed) pubic hair.  She stays down for just a moment before pulling up completely to breathe, but keeps her hand on him, stroking him slowly.

“You look so good.” Harry mutters, running his hands over her hair in a soothing motion. “I imagined it, but didn’t think…so much better…”

Y/N moves to push her head back down, but Harry stops her, bringing her up for a kiss instead.

“I want to taste you, now.” He tells her, laying her down on the pillows. “Is that alright?”

Y/N nods desperately, feeling even more heat rush to her core and pool there. “Mhmm.”

Harry kisses his way down her body again, slipping his fingers into the waistband of her shorts. He leaves her panties on as he pulls the shorts down, and lets out a low groan at the sight of her pink Calvin Klein panties, and more specifically, the dark pink spot that’s apparent on them.

“You’re soaked…” He presses a kiss to her sensitive inner thigh before brushing a finger over the wet spot.

Y/N jumps a bit, making a sound in the back of her throat. “Harry!”

“Sorry.” He kisses her thigh again. “I’m sorry.  Just relax, yeah?  It’s just me. I got you.”

Harry continues to kiss along her inner thighs, moving closer and closer to the thin cloth covering her center.  When he presses his first kiss to the fabric, Y/N grasps the sheets in her hands.

“God…” She whispers, fists clenched.

Harry reaches up and takes one of her hands, placing it in his hair wordlessly before kissing over her again, his tongue peaking out just a bit.

The torture continues for what feels like forever, with Harry teasing her over the soaked fabric of her panties.  Finally, Y/N sighs in relief as she feels his hands grip the fabric, and she lifts her hips eagerly as he tugs the article of clothing down.

The first thing she feels is his hot breath hitting her core, which is enough to make her legs reflexively close with pleasure.  Harry’s hand grips her leg, pushing them back open as he takes in the sight of her dripping cunt before him.

“Fuck…” He inhales deeply, committing her scent to memory. “Your pussy is so gorgeous.”

Y/N whimpers at his words and tugs on his curls. “Please, H…I need you.”

“Need me?” Harry asks in a husky voice, his finger touching her outer lips just barely.

“Yes!” Y/N whines, not caring how she sounds. “Never needed anything more…”

Harry runs his finger over her slit, collecting the wetness dripping from her.  YN moans loudly at the contact, not fully relieved but grateful for the light touch.

“So fucking wet.” Harry’s voice sounds not completely his own. “Fuck, Y/N, how are you so wet?”

Y/N feels heat rush to her cheeks, and she mumbles her reply in what’s almost an embarrassed voice. “You know exactly how.”

“Don’t even know what to do first.” Harry ignores her reply, lost in his own world as he continues stroking her slit. “Just want…”

He presses into her without warning, and Y/N arches her back off the bed as Harry’s finger slips into her cunt.  His cold rings touch the top of her entrance as Harry pauses inside her, his eyes heavy with lust.

“And so tight.” He moans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark. “Oh my God…”

He curves his finger inside her, wanting to feel every inch of her that he can.  Y/N continues to whimper above him.

“More.” She begs him, pushing back against his finger. “I can take more, Harry, please.”

Harry easily slips enough finger in, repeating his motion as she pushes back on him.  However, the pressure building inside Y/N disappears abruptly as his fingers do, and she’s just about to get angry at him when she feels his tongue replace his fingers.

“Fuck!” She exclaims loudly, her eyes closing as she throws her head back. “Harry—!”

Harry moves his tongue in and out of her, loving the taste of her juices in his mouth.  He moves further up to her clit, licking and sucking over the sensitive bundle of nerves as Y/N writhes above him.

“Taste so good.” He growls from between her thighs. “Fuck, Y/N…you’re going to cum for me, yeah?” He asks as he reaches up and grips her hands in his, interlocking their fingers. “Tell me you’re going to cum for me.”

Another strangled moan leaves Y/N’s mouth as he speaks. “I-I’m so close, Harry. Keep going, please.”

“Tell me.” He demands, licking over her clit again. “Tell me you’re going to cum for me.”

Y/N grinds against his tongue as she grips his hands tighter. “I’m going—fuck—I’m going to cum for you, H.  I’m going—”

Harry sucks hard on her clit, and Y/N throws her head back as an orgasm hits her harder than ever before.  Her thighs clench shut, trapping Harry’s head between them, but he just continues to lap at the juices flowing from her cunt while making the most obscene sounds Y/N has ever heard.

Harry doesn’t pull back until Y/N unclenches her thighs, and before he does, he presses one last kiss to her clit, making her flinch.  

Y/N is so exhausted she can barely open her eyes.  Once she does, however, and sees Harry, she feels all the exhaustion fade.

Harry’s lips are, somehow, even more red than before, and his whole chin is slick with her wetness.  He keeps licking his lips, like he can’t get enough of the taste, and Y/N feels like her whole body is on fire.

“Harry…” She whispers, squeezing his hand again.  She doesn’t know what else to say.

Harry lifts himself over her body, which is still shaking from her orgasm, and kisses her gently.  She can taste herself on his mouth, and she adores it.

“You taste so fucking good.” He murmurs, pressing his sweaty forehead against hers. “Like candy.”

Y/N swallows hard. “I haven’t—no one’s done that in a long time.”

“I’ll be glad to do it again.” Harry replies, brushing her hair back. “But right now…all I want to do is make love to you.” He looks at her with sincere eyes. “Will you let me?”

The tenderness of him asking almost brings tears to her eyes, and Y/N nods, her hands coming up to cup his rosy cheeks. “Yeah, H.  I’m…” She bites her lip as she realizes the truth of her words. “I’m yours.  Always.”

Harry inhales sharply before kissing her softly, his hands stroking her hair in a comforting fashion again. “How do you want to…?”

“I want you on top.” Y/N replies, touching his swallow tattoos. “I-I want to feel you.  Feel your weight.  Feel you close.”

With a nod, Harry positions himself over her, spreading her legs wide enough that his body can fit between.  He holds himself up with one hand and uses the other to guide his cock to Y/N’s folds, just brushing the head over them.  He’s teasing himself just as much as her.

“Harry…” Y/N leans her head back at the sensation. “Please, H…”

“I don’t—wait—” Harry pauses his movements, and Y/N can see on his face the strength and discipline it takes for him to do so. “I—a condom—”

“I’m clean, and I have an IUD.” Y/N assures him, running her hand along his shoulders. “Are you?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, I am, but—are you sure?”

As Y/N looks into his eyes, the love and concern and want written all over them, she knows she’s never been more sure of anything in her life. “I want to feel you, without anything in between.  I—” She takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to his jaw. “Yeah.  I’m sure.”

Harry presses a kiss to her forehead, and the tender action makes Y/N close her eyes as she revels in the feeling.  A moment later, Harry moves down again and puts his forehead against hers as he pushes into her.

The moment he enters her, Y/N feels a fullness she’s never experienced before.  Not only is Harry stretching her cunt in a way that feels euphoric, but she feels complete.  He’s as close to her as he’s ever been, his breath is mingling with hers, his body weight is held over her carefully, and Y/N thinks she could die in the pleasure of this moment happily.

“Y/N…baby…” The pet name seems to fall easily from Harry’s lips as he bottoms out, holding himself still to adjust to the feeling. “Oh my God…”

Y/N digs her fingernails into Harry’s shoulders, pressing kisses to his lips between gasps for breath. “Move, H, please.”

Harry begins to thrust his hips, setting a slow but deep pace before gradually speeding up.  While part of Y/N wishes he would thrust as fast as he can, a deeper part of her is grateful that Harry is taking his time with her.  This feeling, now that she has it, is better than anything she’d ever felt before, and Y/N doesn’t want it to end anytime soon.

Harry kisses Y/N again as he moves inside her.  Although they’re as close as they’ve ever been, each of them keeps pulling the other closer.  As Harry thrusts deeper, Y/N pulls more of his weight down on her.  As Y/N scratches her nails down his back, Harry kisses her jaw. Neither of them can process exactly what they’re doing, but neither of them can stop.  Each touch is tender, each kiss is passionate, and each moment brings them closer together in so many more ways than just physical.

They don’t speak except for the occasional whisper from Y/N for Harry to move faster, or the occasional moan of Y/N’s name falling from Harry’s lips. The only constant sounds in the room are of the slickness between Y/N’s thighs as Harry moves between them, the sound of his skin meeting hers, both of them panting and moaning, and a few whispers of “please” that are barely audible.  Despite the lack of speech, however, the two are in constant communication.  Kissing, biting, scratching, and squeezing have become the vocabulary of their new language.  When Harry looks into Y/N’s wet eyes, he knows that she feels something running through the very depths of her being.  When Y/N feels Harry tuck his head between her neck and her shoulder as he whimpers, she knows that he trusts her to comfort him and hold him there.

Soon, Y/N feels the waves of pleasure begin to build, and she knows that when they finally break, they’ll pull her under. “H, I—fuck—I—” She can’t manage to form the sentence she needs to.

Harry, however, can tell exactly what she’s going to say. “Please.” He pants, adoring how she buries her head into his shoulder. “Please, love, cum for me…” He kisses over the shell of her ear as he thrusts deeper. “Need you.”

Y/N whimpers, biting down on Harry’s shoulder as her orgasm rolls over her. Harry feels her walls tighten around his cock, but he doesn’t slow down, and he works her through her climax until she whines in his ear.

“So good, H…” Y/N can barely find the strength to whisper the phrase.

Hearing her sound so fucked out, feeling her cunt squeezing him, and seeing the euphoria on her face is enough to bring Harry to the edge.  He slows his thrusts, about to pull out, but Y/N presses on his back to keep him close.

Harry groans as a shiver rolls through his body. “I’m about to cum, Y/N—”

“Stay inside me.” She pleads, pressing the pads of her fingers between his shoulder blades. “I-I’m yours, Harry, I told you.  Yours.”

Y/N looks up at him with such trusting and vulnerable eyes that Harry can’t make himself argue with her.  He nods instead, his thrusts increasing in speed again until he feels himself reach the edge of pleasure.  

As he freefalls into Y/N, his hips stutter, and he presses deep inside her while her name falls from his lips over and over again.  He can’t think of anything else to say.  He can’t think of anything else worth saying.

When Harry finally manages to pull himself together enough to pull out, Y/N instantly feels the emptiness inside her.  She wishes he would stay, but knows that it’s not practical, and instead just relishes in the feeling of his cum dripping from her entrance.  It’s like he’s claimed her as his, left a physical mark of himself, and Y/N doesn’t have the strength to stop herself from loving it.

They lay in silence for a few moments, trying to catch their breath and regain a sense of where they are.  Both Harry and Y/N are sweaty, exhausted, and covered in each other in more ways than one.  The wrap on Harry’s tattoo has slipped from his arm.  Somewhere in their pleasure, Y/N has lost an earring.  And yet, the only thing each of them cares about is looking at the other.

Out of instinct, Harry pulls Y/N’s shivering body into his, wrapping his arms around her tightly.  He can’t imagine she’s cold, and Y/N can’t bring herself to tell him she’s shivering because of the feeling of being so close to him, but neither of them denies the other of the affectionate gesture.

Y/N loses track of how long they lay there until Harry breaks the silence.

“I—” His voice cracks, and he clears it quickly before trying again. “I’ll get you a cloth to—to clean you up.”

Y/N nods, and Harry gently untangles himself from her before going to the bathroom.  Y/N can hear the running of water, and turns her head to see what he’s doing, but when she spots his naked silhouette, she closes her eyes.  Despite what they just did, there’s a shyness in her still when she sees him completely stripped.

Her eyes stay closed, and she only detects his return from feeling his weight return to the bed.  He places a gentle hand on her trembling knee, pulling her open ever so slightly.

“’M just cleaning you up.” Harry says in a quiet tone. “Is that okay?”

Y/N nods again.  She’s not certain she has enough strength to say anything.

Harry wipes between her legs with a gentle touch, watching how she flinches at the slightest of pressure. “I’m sorry.” He says sincerely, kissing her knee tenderly before continuing. “You’re sensitive, I know.  Almost done.”

Once he finishes wiping away the cum dripping out of her (his cum dripping out of her), Harry tosses the cloth onto his pile of clothes on the ground, deciding it can be dealt with later.  His most pressing concern at the moment is Y/N.

He lays back down on his side so he can face her, and pushes a lock of hair away from her closed eyes.

“Y/N.” Harry murmurs, hand resting on her waist carefully. “Talk to me. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is rough when she answers, and Harry can hear the echo of her moans in her words. “I-I’m fine, H.  Just…tired.”

“Do you…” Harry bites his lip. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Y/N gives a slight shake of her head. “Maybe—maybe tomorrow, yeah?” She does her best to open one eye, but quickly shuts it again when she sees how Harry is looking at her. “Can’t right now.”

“Okay.” Harry lays his arm over her side as he moves closer. “Tomorrow.”

Y/N presses her head into his shoulder and commits the scent of his skin to memory.

…

The first thing Y/N registers when she wakes up is the feeling of someone touching her hair.

She doesn’t need to open her eyes to know it’s Harry.  Of course it’s Harry.  It’s always been Harry.  In every way.

Y/N sighs and readjusts her position in bed, moving a bit closer to Harry.  She shivers once from the cold, still naked from last night’s activities, and that’s the only hint Harry needs before he pulls the sheet up around her more.

“Are you awake?” He asks softly, careful in case she’s still lost deep in sleep.

Y/N moves her head in a passable nodding motion, and her voice is thick with sleep when she answers. “Mhmm.  Barely.”

A low chuckle escapes from Harry’s mouth, and the next thing Y/N feels are his warm lips against her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“A little hungover.  A little sore.” Y/N finally opens her eyes as she speaks, and almost wishes she hadn’t.

Harry’s hair is a mess from both sex and sleep, messy and wild and haphazardly pushed out of his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and his neck and chest are covered in marks from both Y/N’s lips and fingers.  She knows that if he turned over, his back would be the same, and it embarrasses her and delights her at the same time.  He looks completely fucked and content, and more relaxed than she’s seen him in ages.

Y/N wonders if she looks the same.  If she looks as pretty.

“Sorry.” Harry says, his tone a bit sheepish.

“It’s not your fault.” Y/N replies, shrugging a bit.

“Well…it is, actually.  I made your drinks.  And I…” He trails off, brushing his fingers down her bare hip to her thigh.

“Yeah.” Y/N feels her face get warm. “I guess it is your fault.”

Harry laughs lightly, but it fades away as he looks into her eyes. “We, uh…we should probably talk about what happened.”

Y/N purses her lips. “Yeah. We should.”

“So…first question, I guess.” Harry props his head up on his arm, but keeps running his fingers over Y/N’s hip gently. “Do you regret it?”

Y/N sits up a bit more in bed, clutching the sheet to her bare chest. “No.  I don’t.  Do you?”

“No.” Harry replies instantly. “I don’t regret it.”

“Okay.” Y/N is so aware of Harry’s eyes on her as she thinks of her question. “Did…did you enjoy it?”

A snort falls from Harry’s mouth, and he shakes his head incredulously. “Christ, Y/N, of course I enjoyed it.  It felt—you felt like heaven.”

Y/N flushes at the comment. “I’ve never…I’ve always made my partners wear condoms.  So that was a first for me.”

Harry’s fingers pause over her hip, but only for a moment.  It looks as though he’s deciding whether or not he should comment on that, but changes his mind at the last moment. “Did you enjoy it?” He asks instead, echoing your question.

“I did.”

“You said you were mine.”

Y/N swallows hard. This conversation is less incriminating than making love to him last night, but it seems infinitely more powerful. Probably because they’re both sober, she thinks.

“That—” She clears her throat. “That’s not a question.”

Harry sighs, but there’s an endeared smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You said you were mine. Did you mean that?”

Y/N can’t look him in the eyes, so she looks down instead.  Harry’s hand lies between them, and she intertwines their fingers, playing with his rings as she carefully formulates her answer. “I’ve—I’ve always been yours, H.  Ever since we were kids, I’ve belonged to you.” She runs a finger over his H ring. “Even when you were gone.”

Harry frowns a bit at the tone of her voice. “I’ve been yours too, Y/N.  I belong to you just as much as you belong to me.”

“You’ve always been further out of reach.” Y/N pulls her hand from his, until their fingertips are just barely touching. “Always just…a little out of reach.”

Harry intertwines their fingers again. “I’m not out of reach.  Not right now.  And I’ve never—if you ever called me and said you needed me, I would’ve been on the first flight back home to you.  I would’ve dropped everything for you, Y/N.  I still would, and I always will.”

Tears prick Y/N’s eyes, and although she hurries to close them, one slips out.  Harry catches it on his finger before it can run off her cheek, and when she looks at him again, there’s a concerned look on his face.

“C’mere.” Harry mumbles, pulling Y/N into a tight hug.  He rubs her back like he always does, and the motion is so comforting that she almost forgets the vulnerable position they’re both in. “You’re my girl.  You’re always going to be my girl.” He murmurs in her ear, voice low and soothing. “Always.  Don’t you know that?”

Y/N nods, not trusting her voice at the moment.

“If this is too much for you…” Harry traces his fingers between her shoulder blades.  Y/N thinks he’s tracing words, like they used to as children, but she can’t tell what words he may be tracing. “I understand. We can just—we can pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I—” Y/N shakes her head, looking up at Harry. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Then what do you want, Y/N?” Harry asks, his tone as pleading as it was last night. “All I’ve ever tried to do is give you what you want, and usually I’m pretty good at telling what that is, but right now, I’m lost.  I don’t want things to go back to how they were, but I don’t—I can’t lose you, so just—if you just tell me what you want, I’ll do it.  I’ll make it work.  I promise that I won’t be mad, or hurt, or anything.”

Y/N sits up as best she can, her fingers combing through Harry’s messy curls on reflex, as she always does it when he gets upset. “I can’t pretend that I don’t want you, H.  I do.  I need you.  I told you that last night.”

“But you’re crying.” Harry cups her wet cheek gently, rubbing his thumb along her cheekbone. “I hate that.”

Y/N leans into his touch. “It just feels…strange.” She says after a moment. “All of this.  I spent so long trying to stop myself from thinking of you like this, and now that I am, I feel like—like it’s wrong.”

Harry tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth. “Does it feel wrong?”

His low voice makes her shiver. “No.  It feels right.  Really right.”

“I feel like…” Harry’s eyes flicker between Y/N’s own eyes and their intertwined hands. “I feel like we’re both dancing around saying it.”

Y/N sucks in a breath. “Saying what?”

“Saying…” Harry leans in and presses a soft kiss to her lips. “Saying that we’re in love with each other.”

Y/N feels breathless at the words coming from his mouth. “You’re in love with me?”

“Are you not in love with me?” He replies, moving so he’s leaning over her more. “We’ve said I love you so many times before.”

“That’s a different kind of love.” Y/N mumbles, touching the chain dangling from Harry’s neck.

“But we were both meaning something different when we were saying it.  At least, I was.” Harry inhales deeply, like he’s centering himself. “I’ve known…for a while, but I’ve felt it for longer than I’ve known it. And I thought that you might…”

“I think I do.” Y/N whispers. “But saying it feels so—so permanent.  Like we can’t go back to being friends if it blows up in our faces.”

Harry traces a finger down Y/N’s cheek, her neck, between her breasts, to her side, touching just below her ribs. “Maybe we can’t.  But I don’t think we’ll want to, Y/N.  I think we’re perfect for each other.”

Y/N’s heart pounds in her chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods. “This last month, it’s been like we’ve been…playing house, or something.  I’ve loved it.  I keep hearing from friends saying that they’re so sick of the person they’re living with, so tired of them, but I’ve never felt that way about you, and I don’t think I ever will.  I’ll never get sick of you.”

Y/N laughs a bit. “That’s romantic.”

“Shut up.” Harry can’t help but smile slightly. “It is romantic.”

“Yeah.  It is.” Y/N says softly, her hand rubbing over Harry’s tattooed arm. “You’re really in love with me?”

Harry nods. “I am.”

“Huh.” Y/N bites her lip. “So I guess we’ve been lying to our moms, haven’t we?”

Harry laughs loudly, collapsing on the bed next to Y/N. “Jesus, can you not mention our mums when we’re naked in bed?”

“I’m just saying!  We’ve been saying for years that you’re not in love with me, and it’s all been a lie.”

“What about when they ask if you’re in love with me?” Harry’s tone is joking, but there’s a hint of nervousness in the back of his voice. “Has that been a lie, too?”

Y/N’s heart pounds as she nods. “Yeah.  We’ll have to get them something really good for Mother’s Day this year to help make up for it.”

A grin spreads over Harry’s face, almost triumphant, as he leans down to kiss her. “Agreed.” He moves to cage himself over Y/N. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“I want to hear you say that you’re in love with me.” Harry’s grin turns into a smirk.

Y/N flushes as she shakes her head. “You say it first.”

“I’ve already admitted it!”

“So have I!”

“Not as well as I have!”

“Oh, so it’s a competition now?” Y/N scoffs. “What a wonderful start to our relationship.”

“I’m just saying, Y/N, admitting it is the first step to—”

“Are you seriously going to say that to get me to say that I love you?”

“Just—”

“You’re so irritating—”

“I’m irritating?  You—”

“You’re the worst!”

“And yet you’re in my bed with no clothes on!”

“Okay.  Nope.  Relationship over.” Y/N pushes Harry off of her and wraps the sheet around herself as she gets out of bed. “You blew it, Styles.”

“Y/N.” Laughter falls from Harry’s lips as he leans over the edge of the bed. “Love.  Come back to bed.”

“I think a minute and thirty-seven seconds may be the record for the world’s shortest relationship.” Y/N searches her bag for some clean clothes.

“Come here!”

“Another world record for Harry Styles.” Y/N calls to him without turning around. “You must be so proud—”

Her words are cut off in a shriek as Harry picks her up, throwing her over his shoulder as he brings her back to his bed.

“Harry!” She yells, hitting his arm. “Put me down!”

Harry tosses her on the bed, gentle enough so as not to hurt her, and cages himself over her sheet-covered body.  He’s still completely bare. “Take it back.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “Fine. We’re still together.  One less record for you.”

“Good.  Now…” Harry brushes a finger over her lips. “Say you’re in love with me.”

Y/N’s laughter fades a bit as the nerves set back in. “I…”

“Please, Y/N?” Harry murmurs, leaning down to kiss her neck. “Please say it.”

“I’m—” Y/N sucks in a quick breath, and all of her protest leaves her body as she exhales. “I’m in love with you, Harry.”

She can feel Harry’s lips forming a grin against her neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Y/N tugs on his hair gently, just enough so she can pull his head back to look in his eyes. “Now you say it.”

“Y/N.” Harry says her name like it’s something precious. “I’m in love with you.”

A flush of pleasure crawls up Y/N’s spine at his words, but she does her best to keep her tone light-hearted. “So are you calling our moms, or am I?”

“I’ll do it.” Harry reaches for his phone on the bedside table. “And I’ll be sure to mention how it took us getting drunk and having sex to realize—”

“Harry!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell your mum we used a condom—”

“I’ll kill you, Styles, and I’ll make it look like an accident.” Y/N shoves his shoulder hard.

Harry grins at her. “Now that’s romantic.”

#feedback is appreciated and use a condom kids #harry styles oneshot #bestfriend!harry #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles preference #one direction imagine #one direction preference #one direction fic #one direction fanfiction #one direction #best friend!harry sty;es #watermelon sugar #watermelon sugar music video #fine line album