#*rips a phonebook in half*

[christakisbang]

[garfieldsbones]

YOU SAID YOUD KEEP ME HONEST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BUT I WONT CALL YOU ON IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[finalrestingplace]

dude……… no. this is violence

[cinnabargirl]

My Spotify wrapped isnt workingggg 😤😤😤😤😤

[mortalityplays]

dwarf fortress fucks so hard. my current fort has an occasional patron who is an 86 year old owl lady named 'the frozen one' who spent the first couple of years just perching in trees and watching my dwarves. a two headed fire breathing ettin came to lay siege to the place before I had a proper military established, and while I was freaking out trying to lock doors she just. floated down and tore him in half. when I checked her inventory, all she had was a plain brown dress, socks, shoes, and a pair of gloves. she just ripped him down the middle like a phonebook with her bare talons.

later while checking out other visitors I discovered that almost every bard in the fortress had been her apprentice at some point. eventually she came inside to check out the taverns, and now she just sits around watching performances and getting into arguments about them, feeling nothing. I love her so much.

[seoafin]

how to be a human being

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru / shoko x fem!reader warnings/tags: child neglect. toji is a deadbeat father. angst with a happy ending. repressed childhood trauma. dubious ideas about consent. unhealthy toxic relationship dynamics you definitely shouldn't replicate. mandatory gojo warning. gojo and geto enable one another. toji is a teacher au. one jealous gojo satoru. one jealous geto suguru. word count: ~19.7k read on ao3

You are wide-eyed and breathless and your chest hurts and you don’t remember ever crying, not like this. Not even when they had forced you to remove your cursed technique on your father’s corpse. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. Let him rest now. You angrily swipe a hand over your face, over your blurred vision. He won’t. He won’t fight for his child and you are reeling at the injustice of it, at how much you feel like a helpless child all over again. You might be sick.

It’s late at night when Satoru finds you holed up in the library, underneath the lamp light angled at the desk you are seated at. There is a look of great annoyance on his face, shadowed in by the sharp lines of the pitch dark library outside the glow of your lamp. 

Satoru takes one look at you.

“What,” he says flatly, narrowing his eyes at the phonebook in front of you, “are you doing.”

There is a stack of books right next to you, and he wouldn’t be surprised to hear you managed to get through them in the hours you’ve been shut in here.

You don’t reply. Instead, concentrating on your efforts to make your way down the list of names and the home numbers paired next to them.

His eye twitches. You don’t even need to look. He’ll get a permanent tick if he keeps that up.

Fushiguro, Fushiguro, Fushiguro, Fushiguro—

Your finger stills on a particular combination of kanji next to a woman’s name. The kanji matches. After three and a half books, your eyes are going blurry from the small font. Of course, you’d find your closest lead the second Satoru walked in. You don’t get your hopes up, but you do memorize the number and address.

A hand slams down on the book in front of you, covering it. You startle, looking up at the perpetrator.

“Oi, don’t ignore me.”

“Sorry.” You attempt to pull the book from underneath Satoru’s hand. It doesn’t budge.

His fingers take your chin, nearly yanking your gaze upwards. There’s a discerning glint in his eyes as he closes the distance until his nose brushes yours and his breath is light on your lips. If he was sleepy before, mysteriously roused by your absence, he’s wide awake now.

You stare back at him, unblinking.

“Well,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes as he pulls back, fingers fidgeting with a certain charged energy. “At least you aren’t drinking.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“That’s what all alcoholics say,” he deadpans. “Suguru hid all of Shoko’s liquor by the way.”

You refuse to answer him, and your throat burns.

“Now,” Satoru says, glancing down. “What do we have here?”

You try to slam the book shut, fingers tightening around the top edges, but Satoru easily pries it from your grip and rips it away as he turns out of your reach, holding the book to his face. His searching eyes plunder the information from the page. It doesn’t even take a full second, because the book immediately slams shut in his palm.

You sense the shift in atmosphere as his face darkens, displeasure quickly taking root.

You make an annoyed noise in your throat. “Satoru—”

“Gotta crush or something?” The words feel sharp, processed through gritted teeth. Your eyes nearly sting from Satoru’s gaze, alight with an irritation that looks accusatory in the surrounding darkness. “Get all buddy buddy from your night out in the city together?”

You’re bewildered, even more so at the sudden animosity that is not directed towards you. You haven’t heard Satoru sound like that since the two of you were first years. It shows when you blankly stare at him, unable to respond. 

There’s a silence.

“Yeah, right.” He exhales, and the tension leaves his shoulders. Somewhat. There’s a rough, barely decipherable mutter of something that sounds apologetic. Somewhat.

It’s as close to an apology as you’ll get from him right now.

The frown doesn’t leave your face. “I’m going to sleep.”

Without another word, you flick the light off and turn on your heels, catching the unhappy downturn of his lips in the process. To your great annoyance, Satoru keeps up with you slowly, legs moving almost languidly next to your faster pace in an attempt to outpace him.

You can tell he’s deep in thought as the two of you walk towards the dormitories. Though you can sense him staring at you. As of now, you’re sure you are the only one who knows Fushiguro-sensei has children. Children he has not visited in months. As of now, you have no intention of sharing the knowledge with Satoru or Suguru or even Shoko.

There are two children out there somewhere, living alone. You shouldn’t feel as passionate about this as you do, but something tugs at you every time you try to wipe the indistinct image of Fushiguro-sensei’s children from your mind.

There is a memory, from the unwelcome depths of your childhood that is suddenly drawn to the surface of your thoughts. It is hazy and grainy and not real, but it is.

You are eating alone at the dining table in your childhood home, but all you can taste is the smokiness and sandalwood of the incense lit right next to you. The food, you realize, as you swallow it down, does not taste like anything. The pantry is thinning and you are running out of your cup ramen rations and the one thing there is an over abundance of in your home is incense and bottles of your mother’s favorite homebrewed amazuke in lieu of food.

After your mother’s death, you had gotten used to the neverending tendrils of smoke rising from her altar. And your father, who glided through the house like a ghost and tended to your mother’s altar daily with a devotion bordering on religious zeal, had forgotten all else.

In the days before your father took his last breath, he had been praying. He looked too small hunched over in front of the altar, bones oddly jutting out against the back of his shirt, looking like a starving animal in the throes of death.

You stop in front of your room. Your head feels light, and you feel unanchored, as if you might float away if you don’t regain any sense of feeling. Your toes curl against the wooden floorboards, and you reign in all thoughts of a childhood you had lost in order to survive.

“Satoru,” you have his attention, and you moored to the floorboards, 

Suddenly, you are slightly ashamed at your behavior. “I don’t…mean to make light of your feelings. Thank you.” You stare at the darkness surrounding your feet. “For worrying about me.”

He peers at you through his sunglasses in silence, chin tilted down. 

“If that’s the case,” he starts lowly, and he’s close enough that you are knocked back, elbow clumsily hitting the door. When Satoru’s hands slap down on both sides of your shoulder to crowd you in, you stare. He scowls.

“No. More.”

You blink.

“No more gallivanting off into the night with weird, strange men who take you to hostess clubs . Keep your phone on you at all times—”

You meekly nod as Satoru proceeds to list all of your wrongs over the past months. You have a feeling you are only getting the surface of Satoru’s bottled up criticisms of your so-called reckless behavior, and a part of you might be honestly surprised he’s held it in for so long.

He’s never really been good at holding his tongue. But all this criticism seems specifically directed towards…

“— Stop following weird strange men who tell you they’ll give you alc—”

“You said that twice.”

His lips thin, the exasperation plain. “Had to make sure you were actually listening.”

It wasn't as bad as he’s making it out to be, you want to say. It wasn’t as if Fushiguro-sensei had taken you to an empty dark alley and finished off what he hadn’t all those months back. Though, you don’t think Satoru would be quite receptive to you pointing that out.

You had met a nice woman by the name of Marie who also happened to be a hostess, gotten pleasantly drunk, learned Fushiguro-sensei had two kids, and then had been dropped off at the school. Fushiguro-sensei had taken one look at the three figures standing at the Torii gates, quickly snatched the bottle of alcohol from your hands at an impressive speed, and flung it to the ground in a bad attempt to erase all evidence.

Nobody was amused.

Satoru squints at you, observing you with a look on his face you don’t like.

“Good night!” he huffs, arms falling away to allow you your freedom.

You don’t want to see him turning your back towards you.

You reach out before he can step away, fingers brushing his wrist. He stops. You don’t want to go to sleep. You do not want to dream that dream where you sit next to a corpse in the same bed you used to spend happy Sunday mornings in, and play pretend.

“Do you…” your voice is impossibly small, and all of sudden you are a child. The child whose voice had disappeared from disuse, the child whose pleas and cries and whimpers had dried up in their throat when the man that used to be their father began to look straight past them. “Want to play some…cards?”

Satoru does not enjoy being subtle. Finds it a waste of time. It’s a fact that he’s made known to everyone again and again. But you think he’s being unusually considerate as he takes your wrist and pulls you to his room without another word.

—

Somehow, as Satoru plucks a card from the pack in your hands, turns it over, glares at it, and throws it in the mess of a pile in between the two of you, you think things may be alright.

—————

You stare at the number on your phone, eyes tracing over every single number on the call screen. Thumbs hovering above the call button, you deliberate.

Fushiguro-sensei hadn’t said anything about a wife or even a caretaker which led you to wonder who was taking care of his children. If they were even being taken care of.

It’d be difficult to survive without a source of income for long. Maybe they could spread out the food for a while, but then there were bills to pay. Gas. Water. Electricity. It wasn’t cold yet, but heating in the winter would add up quickly. If utilities were shut off, it would be possible to last a couple of weeks making do with candles and occasional trips to the nearest bath house by scrounging every last coin. 

And after that…

Then there were all the questions. A concerned neighbor. Teachers who stared too long at a uniform that hadn’t been cleaned in too long. An inquiring police officer wondering what a child was doing out at 1 in the morning to go to the convenience store, where there would be less prying eyes.

You wouldn’t pry like those well intentioned yet harmful adults. Wouldn’t ask more questions than necessary. 

You press call before you lose your nerve.

Someone picks up on the third ring.

You clear your throat, and hesitantly venture into the unknown. “Hello?”

“This is the Fushiguro household!” There’s a girl too. Seven.  The daughter. She sounds pleasant. Polite. “Do you have any business with us?”

“Ah…” you’re suddenly at a loss. What exactly are you supposed to say here? That you wanted to check up on two most likely neglected children? That their philandering father has yet to muster up enough courage to face the kids he had semi-abandoned? “That’s…Is your mother home?”

The answer is perfectly practiced, bold enough that most people would not recognize it for the lie that it is. “She’s out at work right now, but she’ll be back later. Can I take a message?”

It becomes a bit difficult to breathe as your suspicions are confirmed. “And your father?”

“Oh, he’s o—”

There’s a loud shuffle. The sound of a chair scraping against wood.

“Wah—! Meg—”

“Fushiguro Toji is dead,” a boy says into the phone curtly. There is an overt sense of irritation that permeates from the other end. “Whatever business you have, take it somewhere else.”  

The line goes dead.

—————

There’s a neighborhood in the outskirts of Tokyo where the gleam and perfect infrastructure of the inner city give away to weathered, dust stained buildings. 

You approach the dilapidated two story apartment building. It’s all familiar to you now; the faded stop sign, the slightly uneven layered pavement, the worn white paint of the street, the peeling streetlamp flickering on and off and the gathering of moths and flies that surround the light at night. The location is also isolated enough that you don’t feel your stomach turn at the amount of people surrounding you. A couple passerby here and there, but nothing that would prompt rushing to the nearest empty alleyway, sinking down and clutching your knees in panic.

It had taken multiple phone calls, various internet searches, and the help of an auxiliary manager who had accepted your promise to secrecy on the condition that you handle his increasingly distressing communications with Satoru, but you had finally gotten your hands on an address.

Since then, it’s been three weeks, and the only thing you’ve accomplished is not-so successfully convincing Satoru that you had no interest whatsoever in Fushiguro-sensei’s business.

Fushiguro-sensei had called out of his classes for the time being, according to a disgruntled Yaga-sensei. From the look on your sensei’s face, you had an inkling that instead of a notified leave, Fushiguro-sensei had simply ignored all communication and his obligations as a teacher. You wonder what he’s off doing, if not seeing his kids, but something tells you that there’s really only one thing he could be doing.

Tsumiki, whose name you had found out when Megumi had called it earlier in the week, is about seven years old. Megumi, on the other hand, looks to be six. Every morning they leave for school around eight in the morning and come back around three in the afternoon. You’d occasionally see Tsumiki leaving the apartment and coming back with groceries. Sometimes, they go together. You’re glad to know that money is coming in from somewhere, that if anything, they can at least put food on the table and keep the lights on.

You think that’s enough. You should go back to the school, now that a majority of your worries and fears have been put to rest, and keep out of business that isn’t yours. Yet you keep on coming back on the basis of trivial things. Megumi is old enough that his cursed technique must be on the verge of manifesting if it hasn’t already. Cursed energy strong enough that you had to exorcize several curses that had been attracted to the strength of his residuals. 

There was only so much children could do, a limit on what children should have to do.

“Are you looking for something?” Someone asks.

You look down.

The girl’s hair is styled into a high ponytail, long bangs framing the sides of her face. There’s a well worn, battered, dark red randoseru on her back.

Fushiguro Tsumiki smiles at you, and all possible answers wilt on your tongue.

You hadn’t expected to be seen. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I was just in the neighborhood and decided to drop in.” Your gaze flicks to a small sign tacked into the front of the apartment advertising empty units. “I’m looking for…” you gesture towards the sign.

If there’s anything wrong with a high schooler apartment hunting, it doesn’t show on her face as it brightens. “Ah,” she says knowingly. “The Kimuras just moved out a couple of days ago!”

You smile and introduce yourself.

“I’m Fushiguro Tsumiki,” she replies. “It’s nice to meet you!”

You’re overcome with relief when Tsumiki doesn’t question how your apartment hunting is coming along because you aren’t sure you could come up with an adequate response. “Same here.”

You almost don’t notice the approaching figure. Megumi stops next to Tsumiki, gazing at you with a hard suspicion that doesn’t look out of place on his face. It makes you a bit sad. 

“Stop talking to strangers,” he says, voice toneless with a steel edge.

The smile turns into a pout. “You’re always—”

“You,” Megumi turns his attention upwards. You still. 

You?

There’s a sharpness to his eyes, a flinty edge to his gaze that looks more like Fushiguro-sensei’s the more you look at him. Up close, the resemblance is extremely uncanny.

He…he kinda reminds you of Satoru.

It’s an odd thought to have. You suppose it’s because you haven’t been on the receiving end of anything so antagonistic since you were a first year and Satoru had deemed you a nuisance at first sight.

“Are you stalking us?”

The words are laid out plainly. The boy’s face doesn’t reveal anything like fear, but his body is clearly positioned between you and Tsumiki, blocking her from your view. In response, you imperceptibly shift your own body, hiding the katana slung across your back against the lines of your body.

Stalking…the definition of stalking…

to harass or persecute (someone) with unwanted and obsessive attention.

Oh.

“Yes.” You hesitate. “I don’t…M-maybe.” 

Megumi stares at you. Tsumiki owlishly blinks.

Damage control. You shake your head, excuses rapidly flying up in your head as an unusual fluster slams into your full force, embarrassment crawling over your skin like spiders. “I’m not—a bad stalker!”

“There are good stalkers?”

You and Megumi both say: “No.”

You wince. Straighten, and decide to go for the truth. Because you can remember how it felt to be six and utterly alone in the world, faced with the cold reality that adults lied, and that their lies hurt.

“I’m an…acquaintance of your father’s. Fushiguro-sen— san .”

Tsumiki looks surprised. “Toji-san’s?”

“You’re a high schooler,” Megumi says flatly. He doesn’t look convinced. You are reminded of your phone conversation. Fushiguro Toji is dead.

You sigh, sagging. “It’s a bit complicated…” You fall quiet, awkward on your feet.

“Then why don’t you come inside?” Tsumiki tilts her head towards the apartment building. 

“No way,” Megumi refuses curtly. “She’s a stranger.”

“That’s right,” you agree and Megumi eyes you as if you’ve grown two horns and sprouted a tail. “You shouldn’t invite strangers into your home so easily.”

“It’s fine, Megumi!” Tsumiki must have decided on your innocence, because she giggles. Then to you: “Because I can tell you’re a good person!”

You’re taken aback.

Megumi is peeved, fingers tightening on his own backpack. “Don’t go around just deciding things yourself—”

Tsumiki is already up the stairs to their apartment, as if deciding to rush up before meeting any more of Megumi’s resistance. “C’mon! I bought some nice tea from the supermarket yesterday!”

You and Megumi are left on the ground. You look at each other.

Without another comment, he begins to make his way up the railing up to the second floor, but not before casting you a final look with narrowed eyes.

You suppose that it’s your signal to follow.

You murmur a quick greeting as you enter, and seat yourself at the small table that takes up a quarter of the living space, on a pillow placed on top of the tatami flooring. You are a little awed at how smoothly Tsumiki moves through the small kitchen as the kettle boils emitting steam and high pitched whistle. You were nowhere near as efficient at seven. You had struggled with making cup ramen.

Megumi is across from you, but his eyes are directed towards the katana you had unconsciously laid against the table before sitting down.

The two of you sit in silence.

Luckily, Tsumiki comes in with two steaming cups of tea, placing the cup in front of you as you accept it graciously.

“I’ve always wanted to serve guests tea,” she says cheerily, taking a seat next to you. “But we rarely have visitors, so…”

“What’s your deal?” Megumi asks, straight to the point.

You take a deep breath. “It’s true that I’ve been…” you fluster, “W-watching you.” Two pairs of eyes look at you. “Your father’s alive.”

Megumi’s expression doesn’t change, but Tsumiki’s eyes go wide.

“Megumi!” The girl whirls around to her brother, indignant. “Are you going around telling people Toji-san is dead?”

You blink.

…What?

The frown becomes pronounced on her face. “That’s wrong! We’d be out on the streets if it weren’t for Toji-san’s checks every month!”

Megumi refuses to respond, lips going flat. But you think he sinks into a chair too large for his body.

The girl turns back to you. “Toji-san sends us checks,” she explains, a tinge apologetic, at your surprise splayed open on your face.

“I-I see…”

Tsumiki is still unhappy. “How could you say that Megumi?”

“Say what?” Megumi suddenly says, voice a lash of a whip. His shoulders become rigid as his eyes narrow. “He was here one day, then he never came back. He’s gone.”

The two of them hold a stare; Tsumiki’s lips holding an unhappy arch while Megumi looks unrepentant.

Unrepentant, to any outsider. But you can see the hurt in his eyes.

“If he cared,” Megumi says coolly, before turning his entire face away, “he’d be here.”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, your father sobs. Why is he apologizing? I can’t stay here anymore. 

You are buffeted by a sudden rush of emotion, and blink it away.

Tsumiki softens. Then as if remembering your presence, effortlessly brightens once more out of reflex.

“Then in that case,” you say gently, continuing, saving her from having to pretend anymore. Megumi wrenches his gaze towards the floor. “When I heard Fushiguro-san had children, I was a bit worried about how the two of you were faring…” You swallow, and realize there is a lump in your throat, and you are a bit embarrassed at letting yourself unravel in front of two children. “Regardless of whether or not you get money, I think there are some things that children shouldn’t have to worry about.” You suddenly remember the weight of Riko’s face pressed to your lap, shoulders heaving with tears. Then you remember her beaming in the picture she had sent the other day in front of a statue of Nobunaga Oda in Aichi for a class trip. “In the end, these are just my feelings. Obviously as a stranger, I don’t want to intrude anymore than I already have.”

You take out a slip of paper from your pocket with your number scrawled across it. “But if the two of you need anything…”

————————

Rikoooooooo

Kuro tried to make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tonight ٩(＾◡＾)۶                                                                              [sent, 15:33]

Tomorrow it’ll be my turn to cook! Any ideas?                                                                              [sent, 15:34]

————————

In the grand scheme of things, you believed yourself to be an easily forgettable person. You didn’t have as grand a presence as Suguru and Satoru nor were you as powerful. You weren’t as important as Shoko. From a logical viewpoint, it was obvious that you were the replaceable variable, as succinctly pointed out by many of the opposing members of the Kyoto team during last year’s goodwill event.

In light of these cold, hard, facts, you believed your outings every other week to be nothing more than a passing thought in the minds of others. Barely noticeable.

That is your first mistake.

It is your first Saturday off since the beginning of the month, and you promised to take Tsumiki and Megumi to Seibu Ikebukuro. You have barely crossed the boundary of the Torii gates before a voice stops you, calling out your name.

You turn in recognition at the figure walking towards you and brighten. “Suguru!”

Jogging towards him, you meet him halfway, underneath the large trees that line the entrance, their sprawling branches ripe with leaves that flit to the ground.

“Yo.”

“Welcome back,” you greet eagerly. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, and you scan his face for any hints of additional strain. The summer and its influx of curses have begun to wind down, and you know that this particular summer’s seen him overextend himself to take in as many curses as possible. You worry about him and the nights he’s alone at the school, hunched over the toilet, choking on the bile burning his throat that contends with the concentration of malice in his gut. You worry no matter how many times he tells you with a barely trembling voice that he’s fine.

Numerous sleepless nights spent in the bathroom; Satoru rambling about the latest shonen jump issue as Shoko would play with an unlit cigarette, eyeing the smoke detector attached to the ceiling. From the floor, you would stare up into the humming fluorescent light of the bathroom that washed everything in a harsh sterile white that seemed especially in place as the three of you tried to play at normalcy amidst Suguru’s heaving breaths.

“Something on my face?” A gentle prod, rewiring your thoughts back to reality. “You’ll make me self conscious.”

“Are you alright?” You ask suddenly, fraught with worry. “You haven’t been pushing yourself too hard have you?” You don’t take your eyes off his face, intent on catching the slightest indication of a lie.

“Now that you mention it…” He closes his eyes, as if pained. When your eyes go wide in worry, he breaks into a snicker.

You narrow your eyes. “Not funny.”

“Sorry, sorry,” his voice catches on the remnants of his laughter. “I like seeing you worry about me.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Suguru winces. Then he glances behind you, down the cement steps. “Heading out?”

Oh, you think as you involuntarily freeze in place. This is bad. I’m in trouble.

“That’s right,” you say, trying to keep your voice light in the midst of Suguru’s trusting smile. “I thought I’d go into the city for some shopping.”

It’s a believable lie you tell yourself. It’s not technically a lie either. You are going shopping. Guilt churns in your stomach. You don’t like lying to people; never saw the point in it when you were younger, which probably speaks to your lack of finesse in the art.

Satoru would catch onto your indecision with the nose of a bloodhound: would demand an actual answer immediately. Suguru only patiently waits you out, watching yourself dig yourself deeper into a lie until you eventually let something slip. At this moment, you are being especially cautious of your words.

You aren’t sure if he buys your lie because the smile stays firmly in place. Sometimes, you just don’t know. “Mind if I come with?”

Your mind scrambles to find another adequate excuse, one that will firmly impede Suguru’s weirdly determined efforts to ensure you don’t leave the premises without him while also thinking back to all the other times you had slipped away from the school on a free day. Missions have been winding down, and soon Shoko’s questioning probes about your disappearances will become unbearable.

You don’t like keeping secrets from Satoru and Suguru, and especially Shoko.

“You should be resting, I couldn’t possibly ask you to follow me around all day—”

“I was actually thinking I’d make a trip down to the city. Satoru’s been pressing me to try some bakery’s special Yuzu custard tart” —and buy him some in return even though he’s loaded are the unspoken words — “he promises it’s the best thing he’s eaten in years.”

When you open your mouth and nothing comes out, he’s grinning.

“The truth is,” you hold his gaze, looking as serious as possible. “I’m going shopping for a bathing suit.”

There is an ugly jagged scar cut in the shape of an uneven blade that travels up the length of your abdomen. It’s a scar that wouldn’t look out of place on a corpse in Shoko’s morgue. It’s a wound that invites stares and more importantly, questions. So. You doubt you’ll ever be wearing a revealing two piece swimsuit ever again in public, but you aren’t bothered by the idea.

You’re alive. Riko is a breathing, happy junior high student, entering her senior year, and to you, that’s all that matters.

However, you watch, fully invested, as the flush starts from the base of his neck and rises until his face and ears are engulfed with a particularly vibrant shade of scarlet. There might even be some steam coming out of his ears.

Soft laughter rushes from your lips. He really is a teenage boy at heart.

“That’s why,” you say quickly, taking advantage of the momentum. “I think it’d be better for me to go alone. I’d hate to make you sit through something like that.”

You’re already halfway down the steps, pushing forward despite the arrows of more guilt stabbing into you. You throw a glance behind you at Suguru’s frozen stature. “I’ll be back for dinner though,” you call out, and smile. “Satoru’s coming home tonight, so let’s all get something together, okay?”

If you leave quickly enough, maybe you’ll have enough time before Suguru catches onto the fact that you were shopping for the beach at the start of Fall.

—————

“It’s pretty late, y’know.”

You nearly drop your shopping bag in surprise when the light to the dormitory entrance flicks on, revealing Shoko with a cigarette in hand, leaning against the door to your room. She’s still in her white coat that tells you she must have just finished a late shift in the morgue. But it’s late enough that the trains had stopped running, forcing you to call a taxi to get back to jujutsu tech.

“S-Shoko?” You blink, eyes wide, clutching the bag to your chest Tsumiki had insisted you take. “Shouldn’t you be—”

“Asleep?” She shrugs, eyeing your bag. “Probably. Well, enough about me. Let’s talk about you.” She pushes off the wall and you shrink, unable to meet her gaze.

She stops in front of you, and raises an eyebrow. Her arms are crossed. “You’ve been gone these last couple of weeks.”

“Yeah…I…that…” your words fall to a mumble. “I’ve been…out.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

She leans in. Your stomach is nervously set aflutter as your back hits the wall. Even after a 12 hour shift in the morgue she smells good.

She masks the scrutiny in her gaze well enough. “Are you hiding something from me?”

“No! No.” You shake your head furiously, and a rush of blood floods your ears. You had gone over this scenario multiple times; resolved to stay strong in the face of Shoko’s questioning, but theoretically, going over how you’d evade Shoko’s blunt questions is different from the reality of disappointing and lying to your best friend.

It’s not your place to say anything about Megumi and Tsumiki. It was wrong to break their trust in you like this.

You close your eyes. But a hint of cypress tickles your noise and you jolt yourself back to the tangible present. 

You’re sweating, as Shoko stares into your eyes. “I w-wouldn’t… c-can’t—”

“Job?”

You shake your head.

“Gift shopping?”

You shake your head.

“Extra errands you couldn’t turn down?”

You shake your head.

“Boyfriend?”

You blink, baffled. “No…”

“Hm. This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Fushiguro-sensei, would it?”

Your split second of hesitation has her sighing and (regretfully) drawing away from you. “I trust you,” she says finally, “If you believe what you’re doing is right, then I won’t pry.”

You’re touched. “Shoko…”

“But,” she says firmly, looking at you. “Promise me you won’t get carried away. Don’t get caught in his business. Or else…”

“Or else…?”

She smirks. “I’ll tell on you.” She kisses you on the cheek (peach chapstick) and then she’s off, turning on her heels and walking towards her room. Your face warms, despite the confusion running through your mind.

“To Yaga-sensei…?”

—————

Rikoooooooo

My classmates and I went on a school trip to Hokkaido but it was rained for three days straight (╯•ᗣ•╰)

                                                                            [sent, 13:58]

I know you're busy, but Kuro says that you can visit soon! ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)σ" you'll come, won't you?                                                                              [sent, 14:01]

————————

Satoru watches your figure at the base of the Torii steps all the way down to where the mountain evens out as you pass through the final barriers of jujutsu tech to the outside world. This is the sixth time this month you’ve weasled your way out of meals and agreed on plans when you thought nobody was watching.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed, not by him, not by Suguru, not by Shoko, despite all of their varying schedules.

You’re going somewhere, a place you don’t want anyone— him —to know about if you’re going to such lengths and he’s itching to know where.

Irritation is hot in his blood as his fingers curl into air, twitching to slide right into place of a technique that brings catastrophe and destruction. You hadn’t even been able to stomach the train during rush hour, and you still can’t without devolving into a mess of sweat and tremors, even with his infinity wrapped around you.

(Nothing is going to touch you, not when he’s around.)

You’re pushing yourself. Again. No matter if you had nearly died in his arms not even a couple months ago.

You had been looking up Fushiguro Toji’s address. Looking for him.

That single thought is enough to make Satoru grit his teeth in annoyance, and a feeling he’s long identified as jealousy. He’s not as naive as to think your sudden interest in the man’s personal affairs and your sudden disappearances aren’t connected, especially not when they specifically aligned.

He could make you tell him, and you would. Probably. If he pushed all the right buttons relentlessly, you’d fold faster than a house of cards in the way you have a tendency to do when it comes from him, Suguru, and especially Shoko. You don’t like keeping secrets from them, and Satoru and Suguru don’t like you keeping secrets from them.

Satoru hears his own words: Gotta crush or something?

Your wide eyes had stared back at him blankly, and he wondered if you even recognized the symptoms of a crush in yourself. Your midnight bender with the very man who had left you but a sliver of survival had infuriated and boggled him. Your complete disregard for your own safety even more so.

There had been so much blood, all over his hands. He had never been more terrified in his life than the day you had almost died, and he was no stranger to shed blood.

Satoru thinks there’s only so much he can take, and his already thin patience is waning, but Suguru had insisted thatyou’d be better left alone for now.

Our girl needs space.

He snorts. Words Suguru himself didn’t even believe from the way his knuckles had tightened around the brush in his hand. Restraint is something Satoru has never had to practice; at least not until he had met an infuriatingly thick headed girl who slept too much and could be absolutely incomprehensible at times. Satoru hates when Suguru denies himself the most, hates all his carefully crafted words and thin lipped smiles. And Suguru has never denied himself more than when it comes to you.

It’s never as simple to Suguru as it is (as it’s always been) to him. Satoru has always needed all of Suguru as much as he needs all of you.

And he plans on it. 

He contemplates following you when he feels Shoko approaching.

She makes a face at his empty hands. “The drinks?”

“Suguru,” is his only reply, gaze still on where he had last seen you. 

Shoko mutters something that sounds like ‘useless’ and then follows his own line of sight down. She gives him a knowing look. Satoru turns to her, and throws all pretense out the window.

“Where’s she going?”

Shoko shrugs, eyes glued to the phone in her hand as she texts away. “Who knows~”

She’s not going to make this easy, is she?

“And last week? When she was out on Sunday?” You had uncharacteristically woken up early to slip out before the dawn broke, and Satoru knows this because he had come back from his mission a little after, and while trudging his way straight to Suguru’s room, had stopped by yours to find your bed made and nothing else.

“With me, duh.” Shoko answers lazily without missing a beat and Satoru narrows his eyes. He knows for a fact Shoko had been cozy in her own room, was just as usually recalcitrant to early mornings as you.

Shoko eyes him and his hard expression, and then sighs. “Fine. She was picking up a book in Jinbocho. Y’know, the one with the…'' her index finger sweeps up and down in the air, “talking animals? The one she was talking about with Suguru?”

No way in hell is he going to fall for that lie. Satoru knows you had already picked up that particular title because Suguru had been reading it in bed last night, one hand holding the book open, his other hand pressed to Satoru’s bare back.

Shoko blinks innocently at his unconvinced expression. “What?”

“Cut the bullshit,” he says sharply, a frown digging into his face. “‘fess up.”

The guiltless expression drops from her face as she scrutinizes him. She straightens, hands slipping into the pocket of her jacket for her box of Seven Stars. “Must be her boyfriend.”

That draws a scoff from him. A boyfriend? Laughable. He doesn’t believe it for a second. The world of jujustu sorcery tests the limits of sanity and insanity every day, but the sky would fall before you get a boyfriend.

“ Right,” he says dryly. If Shoko’s joking about you having a boyfriend, it can’t be that serious after all. The tension leaves his body. “You could’ve at least tried for something believable,” he exhales with a laugh.

Shoko only shakes her head, lit cigarette in hand. He thinks he catches a glimpse of an eyeroll. “I’m serious, you know.”

The two of them look at each other.

Satoru blinks. Seriously asks, “Are you fucking with me?”

“Think about it.” She begins to tick her fingers off. “The excuses, the secrecy, the civilian clothing, the stuffed plush—”

“The—” he sputters out, shock tangling his tongue in knots, “—Whah?”

Shoko tilts her head to the side. “You didn’t see the Rilakkuma on her shelf?” Slowly, Shoko begins to grin, so widely it reaches her ears. He’s too busy processing the information to call her out on her sadistic enjoyment at his expense. His head is spinning. The world screeches to a halt. “I heard it was a claw machine. How romantic.”

Satoru stares at the shorter girl.

Something dully hits the ground and rolls. From behind Shoko, Satoru meets Suguru’s stunned gaze, his outstretched, empty, hand curled in the shape of a can.

—————

It’s one in the morning when you re-enter the school. You had spent the day with Megumi and Tsumiki: taking them to one of your favorite used bookstores in Jinbocho, a cafe, and then back to their apartment. You had then spent the night helping them with their homework before taking the last train back to the station nearest to Jujutsu Tech.

Today has been an exceptionally good day.

You are in a great mood, the lightest you’ve been in days, and the bag holding your new books swing at your side as you enter the dorms and make your way to your room in the darkness.

That’s weird.

Your lights are on. You were sure you turned them off when you left this morning.

You open the door, step inside, and then take a step back.

Satoru is lazing on your bed while Suguru is seated on your chair, pulled out to face the bed. 

They must have been mid conversation because they turn to you immediately.

Your gaze falls on Suguru’s lap where your Rilakkuma plush sits. Its black eyes stare at you, as if pleading for help.

You take another step back.

You could spend the night in Shoko’s ro—

Satoru is in front of you, body trapping you against the wall and it is all too reminiscent of the night he found you holed up in the library. His hand snaps out to encircle your wrist before you can pull the door back open.

“We need to talk.”

Everything feels like a blur. You remember Satoru’s hand reaching out to close the door from behind you. You remember how it clicked as it locked. You remember Satoru’s hands on your shoulders leading you forward.

Now you sit on your bed, hands on your lap, becoming increasingly antsy as Suguru and Satoru stare you down as if you’ve

You lick your dry lips and force yourself to look up from your lap. The two of them are waiting for you to speak, to incriminate yourself. They paint an especially intimidating picture, arms crossed, expressions unreadable.

“Did something…happen?”

“I wonder,” Satoru answers flatly, glare especially condemning with his sunglasses removed from his face.

You sweat.

Suguru clears his throat. “What Satoru means to say,” he says, a bit more gently, a touch consolingly, “is there something you aren’t telling us?”

You see Fushiguro-sensei’s somber face. I saw his face. It made me remember something important.

It’s not your secret to tell. It’s not your secret to tell. It’s not your secret to tell. It’s not your secret—

“I…” you swallow tightly, unable to meet their gazes. 

“Friends,” Satoru emphasizes pointedly as the guilt twists your insides, “don’t keep things from one another.”

Friends. Friends. Friends.

You aren’t alone anymore. You have friends now. Sometimes, you forget that there are people who care about you. That your days of navigating the world alone are over. Your high school days are filled with bright memories you’ll remember fondly and cling to tightly. It’s more than you could’ve ever asked for. It’s more than you deserve.

Suguru kneels down in front of you, and he gently takes your hands. You stare at them. “We’re just worried about…” his hands momentarily tightens around yours, “this guy letting you walk home alone this late at night,” he finishes. And the disapproval is clear on his face. 

Your gaze snaps to his face. “Wha—”

“Don’t play dumb,” Satoru says testily, arms crossed, finger tapping his arm impatiently. “Your boyfriend.”  

Then he lightly flings the Rilakkuma plush at you. You let it hit you in the face, falling to the bed as you dazedly blink. “Boyfriend?” You hear yourself saying.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?” Satoru retorts, plopping down next to you so there’s no space to move, body nearly pressing into your own. “This guy makin’ you space out even more than usual?”

He sounds offended.

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t sure what to say to Satoru and Suguru who are mistakenly under the assumption that you have been sneaking out to see a boy. There’s not much you would give up for the precious time you spent with Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko and you treasure every second of it. The three of them are the most important people in your life. You aren’t sure you’d give it up for some faceless figure who would…who would…

You open your mouth to clear up the misunderstanding. You freeze. And tell them what instead? About Megumi and Tsumiki?

You can’t. Not yet!

If anything, letting them believe you had a boyfriend was much more harmless. A more convenient excuse than whatever other excuse you had been trying to make up. 

You close your mouth, and then your gaze is downcast at your lap. Suguru is still holding your hands.

“You look…good,” Suguru finally says, a light prod, entertaining the silence he is mistakenly interpreting as sullen. You slightly perk at the compliment, stomach warming. When Suguru compliments you, he isn’t joking around or poking fun. You hope anyway.

Satoru is staring at you, as if grasping your unusual change of clothes. It seemed odd to wear your school uniform on a weekend, especially in the company of two younger children, so Shoko had lent you a skirt and a sweater. 

His eyes linger on your bare legs. “He could be some pervert for all we know,” he huffs. “Only you would pull some otaku NEET who—”

“Satoru,” Suguru says. “We talked about this.”

They talked about this? Interrogating you? Your face burns in embarrassment.

Satoru’s lips reluctantly purse straight, face stormy.

You aren’t sure how to feel about Satoru boldly proclaiming your non-existent boyfriend to be a pervert. You wonder if you are so unlikeable that it is impossible to think that your potential partner could be anything but a degenerate. You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat.

“We have a few questions about him,” Suguru tries for a smile, but it falls flat and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You note it worriedly. “We just want to make sure he’s treating you well.”

You straighten, “He treats me just fine," you say tightly. "Great actually." You ignore Satoru’s increasingly irritated look. You squeeze your eyes tight so you don’t have to look at Suguru. “He makes me unbelievably happy! We’re very happy together!”

It comes out a touch defensive, but you think that your non-existent boyfriend deserves at least that much after Satoru has condemned him as an otaku NEET pervert on the basis of being your boyfriend. 

From the greatly aggrieved look on Satoru’s face, you’ve done it now. It’s do or die; all or nothing. You don’t want to think of what you’ll be subjected to if Satoru finds out you lied. About a boyfriend no less. He’ll be relentless. But still much less disagreeable than if he finds out that you were spending the days with Fushiguro-sensei’s children. A cold chill runs down your spine at the thought.

You’d much rather that than the other.

Besides, this is nothing but compulsory talk. They’re just worried. You’ll be completely free after pacifying them. This is a one time thing. The other day you had been watching a drama with Shoko on her bed. The heroine had hidden her relationship with a popular boy at her school from her parents precisely because of the scrutiny that would follow from her overbearing parents.

You figure if you still had parents, it’d be something like this.

You set your shoulders and nod. “What do you wanna know?”

Suguru’s lips press thin and it looks like a grimace. He looks as if he’s marching towards his death. Maybe you really are beyond help if Suguru is assuming that any prospect of you being in a relationship involves some shady character.

You can’t dispute that it feels…nice to be worried over, even though you hate to make them worry. 

You’d like to think if you were in a relationship it’d be with someone…nice. Normal. Someone who’d treat you well. You didn’t need anyone beautiful or wealthy or powerful more than…kind. Ideally, you’d like to think Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru would approve. 

A quiet, content life. Assured in the promise of another’s love.

That is, if you were even someone worth loving in the first place.

You’re thinking too highly of yourself. It’s not as if you’ve ever had much to offer in terms of personality or looks. Not even a full life. Love was never in the cards for you.

“Well, for starters, his name and age,” Suguru says. “How the two of you met. The highschool he goes to, his grades—”

Fairly normal questions. You’re relieved.

“—hobbies, address, friends, political affiliations—”

Eh? You blink. Wait this is getting a little—

“Blood type,” Satoru cuts in. A pause. “Height.”

Height!?

“—any records or arrests—”

Satoru scoffs. “We can get those, easy. Hospital records too.”

Your head is spinning. You are also greatly alarmed at the increasing severity of the questions and the dispassionate invasion of your (non-existent) boyfriend’s privacy. “He, he’s a private person so I don’t think—”

“ You’re the one that asked us what we wanted to know.” At your panic, Satoru turns slightly smug. The slight curl of his lips tells you he’s enjoying this.

“But I thought you meant things like—” You break off helplessly.

Normal things. Easy things. Your mind is racing, trying to cobble together a makeshift profile of your supposed boyfriend, a person you’ve never even met before.

You push down your panic and clear your thoughts.

Name, first and foremost. You need a name.

Two gazes bear into you.

“His name is [———],” you say slowly, hoping you don’t sound too nervous. You wonder how you should look. What face you should be making. This is someone you are (supposedly) in love with.

You can’t imagine it. You are drawing a blank in every field imaginable.

Someone who loves you.

Someone, who’d never leave you. 

“He goes to Tsubame-Nishi and he’s a senior…We met at the p-park about two months ago…” The more you speak the more you feel yourself shrinking and sweating at Satoru’s glower. Suguru gently squeezes your hand, offering you a modicum of comfort even though his brow is furrowed, thinking.

“You were alone? Where was I? Suguru? Shoko?”  

You gape at him. He’s making it sound like you need a babysitter. You close your mouth. “It was when I came back early from that mission in Hokkaido…You and Suguru went up to Kyoto for that meeting with the elders, remember?” You inwardly wince. You hate lying to them.

You hate lying to them.

“And Shoko was in the morgue. Some new bodies came in so I went by myself,” you mumble.

Satoru’s begrudging silence tells you to continue.

You, however, do not have anything more to say. In fact, you don’t know what else to say without giving your precarious position away. Say too much, and you’ll trap yourself in a lie too twisted to get yourself out of. Say too little, and you’ll raise even more suspicions. You doubt they’ll go to the lengths they previously described just to catch you in your lie.

You should have more than enough time to find Fushiguro-sensei before this lie spins out of control.

“Have you kissed him?” Satoru asks sharply.

Suguru chokes. Your head snaps towards Satoru, eyes wide, mouth parted. “H-ah—?”

You wordlessly open your mouth, and then close it. Open it. You focus your gaze at something that isn’t Satoru or Suguru, all too cognizant of the rush of heat spreading over your face. “That’s—I—um—” You clear your throat, still refusing to look anywhere else but the wall behind Satoru. “No.”

Never have you wished Fushiguro-sensei had finished that job of killing you so much.

Satoru is burning a hole into you. 

Your face is feverish. Just more teasing fodder for him to add to his folder. You try to push down your mortification, but you can’t, so you bring your gaze to your lap, to Suguru’s hands, and focus hard on anything but. Suguru’s hands are large and, you think, nice to look at and focus on. Callused from years of weapons training and martial arts. You trace the veins from his knuckles that stop short of his wrist. You’ve never seen Suguru with a katana. Not his style. Too long, more difficult to control than a weapon with a smaller range of—

“Ya in there?” Satoru throws out coarsely, interrupting your thoughts. You’re surprised he hasn’t physically knocked on your head yet, knuckles lightly rapping into the side of your head.

You blink, looking up at him, mortification forgotten for a few seconds of bliss. “Sorry. I was admiring Suguru’s hands.”

Suguru chokes again, and it dissolves into a cough.

You see a flash of amusement in those blue eyes; a wearily resigned look of endearment. “You’ve sure got some nerve…”

“It’s late,” Suguru says, rising. He smiles, and this time even though it looks more genuine, it’s still a bit strained. “We’ll talk about this more tomorrow.”

You inwardly shudder. You’ll sneak out tomorrow. Early in the morning. 

Suguru leaves first. Satoru is caught between your doorway when he stops. He hovers, and you know at once your interrogation isn’t over.

He looks at you silently. Then: “Does he know?”

You stare at him.

“About all this,” Satoru gestures to the room that encapsulates your life.  

You are a jujutsu sorcerer. In the end you are beholden to the duties that a life like this begets. There’s no room for your personal feelings. For a lover.

You’ll never leave a lover behind.

You wordlessly shake your head. It’s the only thing you can do.

Satoru’s jaw works.

“It’ll never work out,” he says quietly. Not unsympathetically, but also not consolingly. In the way that’s always been characteristically frank of him. “Not with a guy like him.”

There is a ragged hole in your chest, freshly healed before being torn open by his words. You’re unsure of why you feel so much. It’s the truth, after all. Any relationship started with you is doomed. Your happiness in that specific capacity is something out of reach.

Those are the words he leaves you with. 

—————

“What’s this about a fight?” You ask softly, silently appraising the boy in front of you for injuries.

Megumi is sitting on a bench just outside his school when you find him. Bent down, you run your thumb along the flimsy tan bandage placed at the height of Megumi’s cheek, right below his eye, and frown. He twists away, and your hand falls back.

“Nothing,” Megumi says as he gets up. His knuckles are scraped, and he eyes you like a grumpy cat unwillingly roused from its slumber. Fingers curl around the strap of his backpack. “It’s over.”

“Did someone disinfect your cut?”

He stays silent.

“Someone should’ve looked at it,” you say, glancing at the school, disapproving. “Why are you alone out here? Didn’t anyone call the house?”

 “They don't,” he says in a way that tells you he’d rather be saying nothing. “Not anymore.”

Oh.

“C’mon let’s get you home. I’ll look at it.” You smile morosely as he starts to walk away in the direction of the apartment.

You catch up with him a few strides, and take his hand. He lets you.

His hand is small, curled in yours, so small. It’s hard to believe that once upon a time, you had been that small. Small enough that your father could have engulfed your hand with his own. You wonder if you still carry the warmth of your father’s gentle hand, even if you don’t remember it. Even if you don’t remember anything but the hand that had rejected you and left you all alone.

You don’t. You know you don’t. It’s meaningless to attempt to console yourself with meaningless thoughts.

“Megumi, do you miss your father?”

The two of you walk side by side along the dimly lit streets. One hand tightened around another’s. One arm wrapped around a brown bag of groceries you had bought prior to getting a call from Megumi’s elementary school.

Megumi doesn’t respond as he stares straight ahead, one step ahead of another. You don’t wonder if he heard your question, but the silence has you faltering. Suddenly the question strikes you as impudent, and you are embarrassed.

“Ah…” you trail off, glancing down at the boy. “I’m sorry—”

“There’s nothing to miss,” he says lamely. “He was barely home even when he was around.”

You look down at him, then fix your gaze straight ahead. “I see.” You hold the paper bag around you a bit tighter. “My father’s dead. My mother too.” And nowadays, you have been missing them more and more, until you’ve become a festering mess of a gaping wound being pried open with unrelenting fingers and brutalized, over and over again. As if you’re a child all over again, pressing the behinds of your swollen eyelids into your knees until they ache, wondering if you remembered how it felt to be loved, if you had ever been loved in the first place.

You hadn’t meant to ask. You don’t know why you did. You also don’t know why it hurts so much. Shallow breaths. It didn’t hurt this much when you repeated it a thousand times before. No, they’re dead. No, nobody’s coming. No, I’m alone. I was young. I don’t remember them much. Not anymore. People always asked questions. Satoru asked questions your first year. Called you an orphan too, while Suguru had been utterly chagrined at the carelessness of his words. It didn’t hurt back then, because the truth had ceased to hurt.

You feel as if your chest might cave in. It hurts more than it did when you were dying.

“It’s okay if you miss him.” You hold his hand tighter. You expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t.

Megumi doesn’t look at you.

“Sometimes I hate him.”

—————

You get a text message from an anonymous number.

There’s no identification, no context, no explanation. Just an address. 

Fushiguro-sensei has been missing for nearly three months when you walk into the stadium and horse racing venue. The scent of damp grass and manure rises into your nose as you navigate the empty rows of the stadium to find your truant teacher.

It doesn’t take you long. Slumped over in his seat, feet kicked on top of the railing overlooking the large grassy field, he stares at the empty field. There are no horses though, and only a few people are milling around the stadium, some cleaning, others smoking. You get a few curious glances as you make your way over.

“Fushiguro-sensei,” you greet as you approach. “Have you gone to see your children yet?”

He snorts. “Y’know, I like that about you. Straight to the point. Some people talk too much.”

He hasn’t answered your question, but you already know the answer. You take a seat, and out of the corner of your eyes, look at him. He looks fine, you suppose. Normal. Though, you can’t exactly speak to normal when it comes to Fushiguro-sensei. Sometimes, your opinions on him wildly oscillate. Sometimes you forget that this man almost killed you in a cruel manner, and all you can think is that this man has been hurt before.  

“Yaga-sensei said you were on a sabbatical.” You think the stress of thinking anything else would have caused your other sensei to lose even more hair than he had over Fushiguro-sensei's sudden absence. 

“Somethin’ like that.”

Below you, the field has cleared out, leaving you the only two in the stadium. It’s an odd feeling, and you’re all too conscious of how small you are.

“...Are you planning on seeing your kids? It’s not safe for two children to be living alone.”

Fushiguro-sensei doesn’t look surprised. “You stalkin’ my kids?”

You can’t even deny it. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t ask you any questions. Nothing about how you acquired the address, how much you know, whether or not they’re fine. He only laughs. 

“They’re better off without me,” he says, sporting a superficial grin. “Whaddya call it, hands-off parenting?”

“You shouldn’t assume that,” you say quietly. “It’s not fair to them both.”

There’s a silence that weighs heavy on you.

“Fushiguro,” your sensei suddenly says, voice taking on a lazy drawl you haven’t heard in a while. “Some name, ain’t it?”

You assume he’s referring to the meaning embedded in the kanji of the name.

“When I got hitched, anything was better than Zenin. Zenin Toji…” a harsh bark of laughter, lips twisting, stretching the scar on his lips into an expression resembling the one on his face when you first encountered the sorcerer killer. Ruthless. “When I first heard the name Fushiguro, I thought, what a perfect name for a Zenin failure like me. I was treated lower than trash in the Zenin compound where I grew up. The failure Toji, without a shred of cursed energy or talent. I would have spent my life a servant, apologizing for my sorry existence. There was nothing for me there, and in the end I became exactly what they thought I’d become, a lowly killer. The sorcerer assassin.”

The words are spoken with varying degrees of detachment. You find that you recognize the tone. You keep your gaze straight. It was well known that the Zenin’s valued cursed techniques and power, but it’s different to experience the reality firsthand than to simply hear about it.

“Megumi…Megumi’s not like me.”

“No,” you say. “He’s not.”

You aren’t referring to the development of Megumi’s cursed energy, or the cursed technique that he had inherited. You think of his small hand, curling against yours, and the warmth of his hand.

“Fushiguro is a flower,” you start. “They blossom in the wild during the summer, especially around Shimane. My father liked to visit Shimane a lot,” you swallow the growing knot in your throat. “We’d walk through the mountain trails together and he’d point out these small white flowers…” You briefly squeeze your eyes shut tightly. You had forgotten about it. Those trips, borne out of your father’s passionate interest in botany. You remember it now, with almost frightening clarity. Your father, seated on the ground, sketching away in the small notebook he had brought on trails while you sat on his lap and peered down. 

“Satoru called you Zenin-sensei, but you said that…that your name was Fushiguro now. Fu-shi-gu-ro. Even though the flower is spelled with katakana…that’s what I thought of. The flower.”

Flowers that survive. That small white flower. The long stalks of the flower, gently swaying in the wind, and the warm breeze of summer.

Fushiguro-sensei doesn’t speak for a long time.

When he does, his voice is rough. “They’re taking him.”

You look at him, the tense silhouette of his figure, and understand. “You gave him up.” You feel sick to your stomach. So that’s what he had been doing in these months he had been gone. Selling his son. “How much are they paying you?”

“Millions.”

“You can’t.” You think of Megumi, of Tsumiki, both too old for their ages. You think once again, of bruised knuckles and distrustful eyes, and of how small Megumi’s hand had been in yours. Despite it all, you knew he was holding out hope that his father would be back. Maybe it would be months, maybe even years, but he’d be back.

You want to protect that hand, no matter what it takes.

He turns to face you, dark eyes threatening to overtake you. There’s a wounded feral animal in the surface of his eyes. An animal that has given up on pacing in its cage, an animal that is waiting to die. Fushiguro-sensei exhales, running a hand over his face. “This is the most I’ll ever be able to do for him.” He laughs mirthlessly. “They’ll treat him better than they ever did me. It’s the best place he could be. They’ll make him heir. He’s probably manifested it by now, hasn’t he? Not any of those second rate techniques, the inherited technique. The one they’ve been waiting for.”

Which means the Zenin clan will be coming for Megumi soon. You frown. “You don’t know that. You don’t even know what Megumi wants in the first place. He’ll never leave Tsumiki.” The Zenins would never take Tsumiki in. The Zenin compound was not a place for non-sorcerers.

“It’s too late,” he says, faraway, more to himself than you. “It’s too late.”

You straighten, stand, and square your shoulders. “No. It’s not.” Your fists squeeze shut. “When you can look Megumi in the eyes and tell him that you’ve sold him to the Zenins, that’s when you can say that’s the most you’ll ever be able to do for him. But don’t presume to know what’s best for your child when you’ve been avoiding him for over a year.” Especially when that child is still waiting for you.

You don’t know how your words will be taken, because the more you speak the more you realize that Fushiguro-sensei has already given up. Resigned himself to losing his son to the clan and people that had damaged him past repair. They can’t. They can’t take Megumi away. You know in your heart Megumi will never recover from the betrayal.

“He’ll never forgive you. If you do this, he will never forgive you.” You don’t know who you’re speaking about or who you’re speaking for. All you know is that this is the unmitigated truth. Hurt children grow into hurt adults. 

Fushiguro-sensei stills.

“Did you love her,” your voice hitches in your throat. “Megumi’s mother?”

That stirs his attention, and his dead gaze slides to yours.

He doesn’t need to say anything.

“Then you can’t give up,” you say resolutely, though your words are choked. “Not like this. You have to…you have to…fight…”

You are wide-eyed and breathless and your chest hurts and you don’t remember ever crying, not like this. Not even when they had forced you to remove your cursed technique on your father’s corpse. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. Let him rest now. You angrily swipe a hand over your face and over your blurry vision. He won’t. He won’t fight for his child and you are reeling at the injustice of it, at how much you feel like a helpless child all over again. You might be sick.

He loved her and she left him and the same thing always seems to happen.

You think Fushiguro-sensei looks remorseful. 

—————

You’ve found yourself out in the lake more days than not. In the summer, the lake seems to be alive, glittering under the bright sun as birds swoop up and down and the wildlife graze, but in the winter, the lake has frozen over and there is only quiet.

You don’t mind. The silence lets you think. At this time, the lake is isolated. There isn’t a single soul in the immediate vicinity, and you can finally feel yourself relax. Away from the crowds, away from the pressure of constantly being aware. You sit on the dock, and instead of swaying with the water, everything is still. The cold pricks at your exposed face and neck because you hadn’t dressed for the weather. After being dropped off at the school fresh from an assignment, you had just walked. 

Megumi has been sold to the Zenin clan, and you know there’s little time before they come to collect. Megumi will be forced into the role of the Zenin heir, forcibly separated from Tsumiki, and it will destroy him. There’s little you can do. You hold little weight or sway in the jujutsu world, and it’s never bothered you. But now you are powerless, forced to watch Megumi be ripped from all he knows all for a future he had never asked to be born into.

The Zenin clans have been even more furtive than usual, obstructing all and any attempts at contact with someone of your station. Your options are dwindling, and it is seeming more and more likely that only one course of action is available to you at the moment. Fushiguro-sensei hasn’t responded to any of your texts, unlikely to surface. You wonder if he might even chance a glimpse at Megumi before condemning him forever. 

You have to tell him. It’s too much for a child. It’s news that should be delivered carefully. You don’t want to hurt him more than he’s already been hurt. You don’t want him to be blindsided. You’re scared you won’t be able to help him. Resolve hardens in your veins. No, you have to help him. You’ll do anything. 

Your pulse rapidly paces against your temples, throbbing. You take an unsteady breath and exhale shakily, feeling all too small for the grandeur of your issues. A prospect that must seem so much more daunting, so much more terrifying to an eight year old child.

When you turn around, it’s just in time to see Suguru.

Your lips tug into a small smile as he approaches; pants, black shirt, hair down, and when you see the bundle he carries in his arm, you light up.

“Yoru!” You exclaim, reaching for the yowling cat in Suguru’s arms. There are three, thin red lines across Suguru’s cheek. He carefully handles the cat. The slinky black cat immediately settles in your arms as he quiets, and you feel him rearrange himself to get more comfortable, face nuzzling against your upper arm with a purr. It had been a brief comment a couple weeks ago while the four of you had been walking to dinner in the city. To your great distress, you hadn’t seen Yoru around the temple or in the multiple shrines on campus lately. But now he is in your arms, green eyes blinking up at you as if he had never left.

You softly coo at him, fingers crooking to scratch at the cat’s neck.

“Suguru…” you breathe out, “You found him?”

Suguru sits down next to you with a half grimace half smile as he watches you. “With difficulty. I figured you could use a little happiness.” He looks happy and smug. “You’re not the only one who remembers things,” he says in response to your unspoken question. He had heard you back then, remembered that fleeting, passing comment. “Although I am a bit jealous.” At your inquiring gaze, he simply smiles. “You called his name before mine.”

You stare at him, Yoru nosing underneath your arm in an attempt to wrest your attention back, and he chuckles. “Just kidding.”

His head slightly tilts, studying you, and you cast your gaze away, nervous to meet his eyes. You’re only glad Satoru isn’t here. You don’t know if you could handle the combined scrutiny of both your friends. You’d think you’d fall back apart into pieces.

“Is everything alright?” He asks softly. 

You take the time to look at him. He looks better, much more well adjusted, happy even. There’s a warmth to his eyes and the curve of his lips. It suits him. A small part of you hopes that maybe, a small part of that happiness could be attributed to you. Things have calmed back down into a normalcy rivaled by the days before Riko, and you revel in it. The clouds have passed, revealing sunlight. You still worry, about Suguru and Satoru and the days when tension had been thick, the two at odds. Shoko had only laughed, fixing you with a lazy smile. Couple fight.  

Days go by, and Suguru and Satoru only grow in strength. It doesn’t go unnoticed. People have been more than enthusiastic to voice their concerns about the strength that had protected Amanai Riko from the merger while also overloading their schedules with missions with no chance to breathe. Tasks dutifully undertaken by Suguru while Satoru had threatened permanent leave. Sometimes the two of them are gone together, not for a mission, but to attend meetings in which the attendance of Special Grades are requested. You figure the elders and higher-ups have long figured out to rely on Suguru’s presence to guarantee Satoru’s. 

You recall a loose comment (a grumble from Satoru’s end) about Suguru being too politically inclined for his own good.

Shoko is in and out, buried in bodies in the morgue or shipped away to some distant prefecture for a VIP. Sometimes, if your schedules align, she slips into your bed and you fall asleep to her breathing.  

Part of you wishes that the days where you were all together so often had been longer, but that would be selfish. 

You’ve lied so much these past few months that one more lie shouldn’t hurt. But he’s worried about you, and it feels wrong to reciprocate his sincerity with lies. So you stay quiet, and stare at Yoru, who playfully bats a paw in the direction of your face.

Your path to becoming a jujutsu sorcerer was less a path, less a choice, more than a natural course of action. Your life had ceased when your mother died, and when your father had joined her a year later, there had been nothing else. You admire Suguru and Shoko, and even Satoru. You even envy them.

If anything, you suppose it’s comforting. To know that there would be people who would remember you in death. Suguru would remember you. Suguru, Satoru, Shoko. 

You don’t realize Suguru has been calling your name until you look up.

“Just wondering where you slipped off to,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “In that head of yours.”

There is a square shaped padded bandage attached to your face. A semi-deep cut by a whipping appendage of a curse you had been sent to exorcize just a few hours prior. A slice that would have taken off your head had you been a second too late to dodge. You are suddenly all too aware of the bandage when Suguru’s hand cups the side of your face, hand easily taking up the length of your neck too.

You can feel the heat of his hand against your neck, thumb running down the exterior of the bandage, feeling out the cut. It seems these days that you are the only one coming back with limbs awkwardly wrapped in bandages, or (luckily not as often), carried back in an iced carrier. If anything, Satoru and Suguru come back more tired than anything; Satoru proclaiming his burning desire to sleep to anyone who will listen before knocking out on the nearest surface whether that be your lap or Suguru’s shoulder or one of the beds in the infirmary.

At night you run your fingers over the scars your body has accumulated and wonder about the smooth unblemished skin of Satoru’s neck. You know any remnants of his encounter with Fushiguro-sensei has faded to the untrained eye. But you know exactly where on his body he had sustained injuries. Could identify the areas by touch alone. It’s different now though. Satoru doesn’t get hurt easily, not anymore.

You wonder if he bruises easily. His neck especially.

Suguru has scars from Fushiguro-sensei too. But others, some on his hands, his arms, his chest, his back. You wonder about them all; the ones that have healed and the ones that haven’t.

It makes you feel bad, so you don’t think about it often, but it brings you comfort to know that in some way you are all connected. Inextricably bound together by shared marks on your flesh. Permanent. 

Your fingers involuntarily flex, as if your body is keen to remind yourself that all your bodily functions are in working order, even the fingers that Shoko had reattached after a lengthy bone chilling glare a few weeks prior.

“You should get Shoko to look at that,” Suguru says, drawing you out of your thoughts, voice tinged with worry, as if he can see through the bandage, at the blood that the wound had drawn. “It might scar.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and you lean into his hand. “It’s fine, I don’t mind. Besides,” your smile turns wry, “it’s not as if there’s anyone who particularly likes looking at my face.”

Fushiguro-sensei’s words resound in your head. A remnant from a drunk night months ago so absurd it still feels like a fever dream: What’s your type?

The absurdity and timing of it draws a huff of laughter from your lips. You say teasingly: “You don’t like girls with scars?”

Well, if you have an abundance of anything, it’s scars.

There’s an odd look on his face. You straighten away from his hand. His lips part. Then purse, in a way you’ve seen when Satoru does something to warrant his disapproval. Your heart sinks, wondering if you’ve let him down or made him uncomfortable in some way.

“If I were your boyfriend,” he finally says, “I’d tell you that you look beautiful everyday.”

You blink, wondering if this is another joke. Suguru evenly meets your gaze with no trace of amusement on his face, and you stare, long and hard.

There’s an odd sensation in your chest. As if someone is wringing your heart dry. You almost raise your hand to your chest to make sure your heart is still beating. It must be the guilt. You had forgotten about your imaginary boyfriend. And now you are guilty of both the crime of lying to Suguru, but making your (fake) boyfriend out to be a neglectful lover. Now Suguru is forced to attempt to cheer you up with compliments that he assumes your boyfriend is not giving you. These things come naturally to Suguru because Suguru is a good person, with much more experience in the romance department than you. So natural that you almost, for a second, believed it. 

You briefly wonder what it would be like to have an actual boyfriend. But then realize it’s a completely irrelevant thought.

Suguru coughs, clearing his throat and the remains of his flustered state. “I meant, is he giving you trouble? He isn’t—” he looks pained, “— pressuring you or anything?”

That has you tilting your head. “Pressuring me? Into what?”

“...”

“...?”

“...”

Ah. You get it. Yoru lightly nips at your fingers. “Into things like sex?” The thought has you amused. 

You’ve never seen Suguru as taken aback as you do now.

“If my boyfriend wanted sex, I’d give it to him. I don’t think I’d feel pressured or anything.” You are touched by his concern. Your smile is reassuring. Suguru stares at you. “It’s just sex. Is it necessarily something I have to want too?”

Maybe you’ve said something wrong. Maybe you just don’t understand it. It really is just sex. A reaction to a bodily response. You could further dissect the action in scientific terms. Logically, you understand it. You think you’d be happy with your faceless lover deriving pleasure from your body. Though whether or not there would be someone able to stomach the almost revolting scar on your side is another question altogether. The thought makes you unexpectedly sad, even though you’d like to think that you aren’t that vain.

Suguru’s blank expression gives away to something deadly and silent. It’s the look he gets when he’s focusing hard on something, or stewing in hard anger.

“It is,” he says quietly. “Something both parties have to want.”

You’ve never quite thought of it like that. You’d be content with less than that, you know you would. Content to give, instead of take. You look down at a sleeping Yoru in your arms. Longing. Desire. Love. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted anything that badly in your life, but then you think of Suguru, of Shoko and Satoru, and know that you have. 

“Have the two of you—” his face darkens like a stormcloud, framed by his long, loose hair “—has he ever—”

It’s as if he can see right through you and all of your internal panic. “No,” you say quickly. Then you smile. Now the guilt is back, twisting your insides. You’ve lied to Suguru and you’ve said all the wrong things and made a fool of yourself. Suguru is upset, and it’s your fault. You said something you shouldn’t have, and you are six years old all over again, begging for forgiveness on your knees. Your face falls and Suguru falters. You squeeze Yoru to your chest.

Megumi comes first. You’d think about everything else later. You unsteadily rise.

“I just remember I promised Haibara that I’d look at the plant in his room.” Apparently, upon being inspired by the sight of Suguru helping you with the flowerbeds outside the dorm, he had bought the first large potted plant that had caught his eye. The plant is dying. Wilting away by the second.

It’s not a lie. You did promise him.

Suguru’s gaze follows you as you walk away.

—————

“He sold me.”

You try not to wince. “He…sold you.”

Megumi stares at you, face betraying no obvious other emotion but annoyance in the hard lines of his lips and eyes. The two of them sit by the kotatsu in the living area, you across from them. 

Tsumiki’s eyes dart from Megumi to you, confused. “What…does that mean?” Her hands are wrung together nervously. “Toji-san…sold Megumi?”

You don’t look away. It’s the least you can do while you deliver the news. Tsumiki’s eyes are wide with hurt. “The clan Fushiguro-san belonged to, the Zenin’s, are…influential. Especially in the jujutsu world. They want Megumi because of—”

“This,” Megumi says tonelessly. You watch as the shadows on the table begin to move as if alive, breathing, before everything stills. You hadn’t talked at length about cursed techniques and what the jujutsu world entailed, believing that to be a job for someone else, but now you realize that ignorance here could be deadly.

“It’s an inherited cursed technique. A powerful one. Something that hasn’t been in the family for a long time now. Now that you’ve shown signs of it, they’ll want to make you heir.” You search Megumi’s face, effortlessly blank, and think about Satoru. It had been decided at birth to make Satoru heir, evidence of his power already recorded for the historical archives; the birth of the first six eyes user in hundreds of years.

“You’ll be provided for Tsumiki. But the Zenins don’t like non-jujutsu sorcerers so Megumi will be taken alone,” you swallow at Tsumiki’s crestfallen face, Megumi’s unreadable expression. “You’ll go to the compound to live, and that’s where you’ll be for training and your studies.” You look at him sadly. “It wouldn’t be a bad life. You’ll be taken care of in luxury. They’ll cater to your every whim and give you whatever you want.” You know you shouldn’t compare Satoru and Megumi’s circumstances, but if anything was assured, you suppose it would be material comforts.

“I haven’t given up. I’m going to do whatever I can do to stop this.” You don’t want to see Megumi in the clutches of the Zenin’s. You don’t want to see him made heir, powerless to do anything but accept it. These are responsibilities too large to rest on his shoulders. 

The room is silent.

Megumi speaks. “When I go—”

“No!” Tsumiki’s outburst is uncharacteristic, her face red. You’ve only ever seen her smiling. Her fingers are fisted shut as she stands. She looks seconds away from tears. “I don’t want this! I don’t want Megumi to leave!”

She runs to her room, slamming the door shut. You close your eyes.

Megumi’s gaze is set upon the table. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Nothing is final yet. Not until they come.” You don’t have to tell him that it seems more and more likely with every passing day. But you won’t let it come to that. You’d do anything.

You call his name. “Megumi—”

“He told you.” It’s not an accusation more than it’s a statement. “When did you see him?”

“Roughly two weeks ago.” It feels futile to say anything else. Like how Fushiguro-sensei had looked like a man on death row. 

“My mother died last week." The words hold little emotion. You’ve never seen him look so sad. “It’s her anniversary.”

Your father, bowing at the altar, weeping. Always weeping. I can’t do this without you.  

He had been frantic in the days leading up to his death. One day you were a stranger. One day you didn’t exist.

Why did it have to be you?

You forcibly pull yourself out of your thoughts, blinking harshly to readjust to the light. 

“I see,” you say with a dry mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Megumi doesn’t respond.

—————

The door to your room swings open so harshly that you’re caught off guard, blearily blinking awake in wild alarm from your nap. Shoko slams the door shut and strides over to you, seating herself on your bed.

She scans your face. “Repeat after me.”

You can’t do anything but nod.

“No means no.”

You stare at her. “No… means no?”

“No means no!”

“No means no!”

You are very confused.

She leans in. “If a guy ever, and I mean ever tries something you don’t want, that’s when you kick him in the balls. Even if it’s Satoru or Suguru, alright?”

You look horrified. “That’s—”

“ Even Satoru or Suguru.”

You meekly nod.

“Shoko.” You bow your head, avoiding her gaze. “I was lying. I don’t actually have a boyfriend.”

Shoko gives you a short, amused look. “I know.”

Oh. Of course she knew. Suddenly, it all makes sense.

She flops onto your bed. “Satoru and Suguru don’t though. But I’d save that conversation for until after you finish what you have to do.”

That’s all she has to say to tell you that she knows. With that she slips underneath your covers and yawns, and you join her without another word.

—————

It’s…surprisingly difficult to leave the campus of Jujutsu Tech. 

You turn a corner and Suguru is there, greeting you with a smile, and for the rest of the day he is glued to your side. You can’t help but wonder if Shoko texted him to keep you company while she was in Fukuoka for the weekend.

You can’t help but wish it could be like this all the time. Selfishly. You are selfishly luxuriating in Suguru’s attention and affection for as long as it lasts. There’s no hint of the stormy expression that had been present on his face during your prior conversation. In fact, Suguru had greeted you normally, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.

It feels foreboding. But, you neither mention it nor do you make any move to. 

You had been lucky though, the other day when you had dropped in to relay the news to Megumi and Tsumiki, everyone had been called out. But Suguru is gone now for the weekend, leaving you alone with your kouhais. You had taken the chance to catch up to Nanami and Haibara.

You are in the middle of a pleasant conversation with Ijichi about the possibility of a curse user’s involvement in a missing person’s case when Ijichi stops talking mid sentence and turns pale.

You follow your kouhai’s line of sight to find Satoru storming towards you, looking not at all happy. You blink, wondering if you might be imagining it. You didn’t know he was set to come back from Nagano almost one week early. He had only left four days ago. Somehow, you feel unprepared for the daunting task you face. 

When you turn back to face Ijichi, there is no trace of your kouhai. Just air.

“Satoru—”

Without even so much as a greeting, he takes you by the arm, and in the next second you are transported to a secluded classroom. You take a few seconds to reorient yourself, realizing Satoru’s grip is still secured around your wrist.

“Hi,” you say. You knew he could transport short distances, but you didn’t know he could take others too. Another skill gained. “Is everything alright?”

You’re backed into the wall, Satoru towering over you, and you are taken back to that night he had found you in the library. 

His eyes gleam down at you. “Strip.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...”

He’s serious. You slowly go to unbutton your dress shirt. Satoru scowls and slaps your hands away. 

Now you are severely confused.

He grits his teeth, irritation spreading over his features like flashfire. “Just gonna strip for any man that tells you to?”

When you open your mouth, he shoots you a glare.

Chastised, you close your mouth. Satoru pulls your arm straight and tugs the sleeves of your shirt back to your forearm, inspecting your bare arm with narrowed eyes. Then he does the same to your other arm. Nothing but scars long faded, both invisible and not. He briefly looks you over, from your face down to your shoes in a restless fashion. You don’t think he’s satisfied by the results of his impromptu check up because he looks even more agitated, still holding onto your arms.

“What’s this about?” You finally ask, when he’s done.

Satoru ignores you. There is anger written in the fine lines of his face, in a way you’ve scarcely ever seen. “If he’s pushing you around, I’ll kill him.”

You pull your arms down. He’s not joking. If you were less bewildered, you’d be even more confused than you are. “Nobody’s pushing me around.” You don’t understand why Satoru seems to believe your imaginary boyfriend is abusing you, but you figure something must have gone very wrong in your attempt to cobble together a semi-believable story about obtaining a boyfriend that has led both Satoru and Suguru to believe the worst. This is everything you wanted to avoid.

His gaze is flinty as he stares you down coolly, picking you apart. Maybe he doesn’t believe you, but he also knows you’ve never been a good liar. Not to him. 

You stand there, across from him, blankly blinking at him. His face goes pinched with something sullen, jaw working.

“I’m not done.” You are left utterly unprepared when he asks, “What business do you have with the Zenins?”

You still. “Who told you?”

Satoru’s lips curl into a derisive frown. “Did you really think I wouldn’t hear about you going over to that lot? There are eyes everywhere, especially with those old school paranoid—”

“Satoru.” All you can think of is how you had never seen Megumi sad. And then you think of Fushiguro-sensei’s empty gaze. It’s not right. Someone has closed a fist in your chest, wringing out all the air from your breath.

His eyes narrow, voice hard. “If this is about Fushiguro—”

“It’s not.” Well. You hesitate, and that’s all that it takes for Satoru to ascertain the majority.

“Tell me everything,” he demands, tone snappish, stepping closer, forcing your gaze to his with a magnetic intensity. “No more lies.”

You close your eyes, throat thick. “I have a favor to ask you.”

His eyebrows furrow, the confusion evident.

“Next week the Zenin Clan is going to take custody of Fushiguro Megumi. Megumi is Fushiguro-sensei’s son. He inherited it.” You dimly realize with a questionable clarity your hands are shaking. “Ten Shadows. He’s only eight years old. They’ll take him from Tsumiki and he’ll be miserable and he’ll grow up thinking he was thrown away, sold to the Zenin’s. He’ll never—”

He’ll never forgive his father.

The hurt only grows. The words never leave your throat. You realize it’s because you’re biting your tongue, and that your teeth have drawn blood. You swallow the copper. “Please,” you say hoarsely. “You need to help him. They won’t listen to me…”

But they’ll listen to you.

Satoru doesn’t say anything. When you bring yourself to look at him, you don’t know what to expect. Anger, maybe. Annoyance. Even a curt No . Instead, he observes you.

It’s a disquieting feeling. You think you would prefer an immediate no to this.

“I don’t,” your fingers curl, nails digging into flesh, “I don’t want to beg. Because we’re friends, and I don’t want to beg for a favor from a friend.” You finish tightly. It’s true. The two of you are friends. Satoru is one of your best friends, and your relationship with him, although rocky at first, is one of the most important things in your life. You don’t want to beg, but you would. If your friendship meant anything to him…

It briefly enters your thinking that you are betting your entire relationship on this, but Megumi deserves the help Satoru can give him. The help you know could potentially change the course of Megumi and Tsumiki’s lives. This is the only thing you can do.

You’re terrified, but your resolve refuses to weaken.

“Please Satoru,” you say. “Help me.”

Satoru simply looks at you. His lips shift, as if there’s something unpleasant in his mouth trying to pry its way out. Nothing comes out. Then he closes his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his temples, hiking his sunglasses up.

He exhales.

When he looks at you again, he distinctly looks worn, as if you’ve shaved years off his life. He also looks greatly exasperated. He runs a hand through his mussed hair.

You unknowingly relax.

His lips peel into a scowl. “If you needed something in the first place, you should’ve come to me. Not the Zenin’s!” He’s not done. “Of course the first thing you would ever ask me for wouldn’t even be for you. You’re infuriating, you know that? It’s never just nothing with you! I thought you were dying—” 

A slow smile spreads over your face. You can’t stop it. You’re positively beaming.

“—it couldn’t even be something normal—”

Satoru has taken out his phone. His thumb dances over the keyboard, texting away while he complains. The phone snaps shut and he slides it into his pocket.

He opens his mouth, but you rush forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest. You don’t know if he knows how much it means to you and your arms tighten around him. He returns the hug silently, oddly silent.

The tremors return, enveloping your body. The relief of it has your body weightless. You don’t realize you’re crying into Satoru’s shirt until he unceremoniously yanks your head up with both hands cupping your face. Your tears run into his thumbs that he brushes away.

“If you have any problems…Suguru and I will take care of it for you. Always.” His throat bobs, as if he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.

You might be laughing. You don’t deserve him. Him, Suguru and Shoko. You don’t know what you did to deserve them. “Satoru, Thank you.” Your smile is wobbly and crooked. “I love you.”

He’s red-faced, glasses askew on his nose. “A guy’ll get the wrong idea.”

You mean it though. You throw your head back and laugh, and one of Satoru’s hands lightly cups the back of your head.

“It’s my turn,” Satoru says, blush slightly dying down. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

You’d do anything. You try to pull away from him, but his arms are still locked around you. You settle on resting your arms on his chest as you look up at him.

“Anything.”

Satoru smiles as if you’ve handed him a million dollar lottery ticket. He smiles as if you were the one doing him a favor. He smiles as if you’ve already done him the favor. It’s a pleased, cat-like thing, leaving you feeling as if maybe you should’ve hesitated.

—————

“I should be in there.”

You smile. “Then I’d be out here all by myself. You’d leave me here alone?”

Megumi closes his mouth. A morose look settles upon him. “I didn’t say goodbye to Tsumiki.”

The younger girl had been trying not to cry, but you heard her sniffling. You had kneeled down, briefly taken her hands in yours, and then hugged her, her small body trembling in yours. Everything would be fine.

“Have faith. Satoru won’t let us down.”

Megumi doesn’t look convinced.

You bump his shoulder with yours. 

“If you don’t trust him, trust me.”

Megumi’s silence says everything he doesn’t. The two of you resume staring at the large building in front of you. Naobito, Satoru,and countless others inhabit the grand meeting room, located in one of the many complexes in the Zenin compound. Inside, Megumi’s fate is to be decided.

Three hours ago, you had texted an unknown number.

It’s been over an hour, and though you and Megumi had come late, the anticipation unnerves your stomach. Whatever you feel though, you know it must be worse for Megumi. So the two of you sit on a bench located a couple of yards from the entrance of the building located right in front of one of the many zen gardens, staring in silence. Servants robed in non-decorative yukatas steal furtive glances at you and then at Megumi. Not a second too long though, before they duck, heads bowed, and press forward.

“Sorry,” a voice calls. “We’re a bit late.”

You rise from the bench and make your way towards the two people walking over to you, breaking into a smile. “No worries. Everyone’s still inside.”

There’s a plastic bag in Suguru’s hand. “I got drinks.” He hands it to you. There’s an energy drink and a chocolate milk for Megumi. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh out. You glance at Megumi, staring blankly at rocks. “I’m just worried about Megumi.”

Suguru’s smile is sympathetic. “We’ll just have to put our faith in Satoru for now.”

Shoko looks over your shoulder at Megumi. “He sure looks like Fushiguro-sensei.”

The fact has ceased to surprise you. Suguru nods, silently appraising the younger boy.

Shoko huffs, a hand on her hip, another fiddling with an unlit cigarette. “I hate this place. Gives me the creeps.” A smile inches at her lips. “Hey, hear this. Guess what the servants were calling this guy.” She elbows Suguru.

“Shoko—”

“All the maids were fawning all over him! Practically fighting to serve him. Geto-sama this, Geto-sama that!”

That has you goodnaturedly laughing while Suguru lights up red.

“We’ve got a real lady killer here. Surprised you didn’t get any proposals or whatever they do around—” Shoko’s mouth drops open. “You didn’t.”

Suguru chokes. “No—”

“Liar!”

Suguru sighs, briefly closing his eyes. His face is still red. When he opens his eyes, he’s looking at you, although the words are directed at Shoko. “I’m a little too young to get married, don’t you think?”

You wonder which Zenin daughter has been offered to Suguru, or maybe you should wonder how many. As long as Suguru is happy. And Suguru is happy with Satoru.

Shoko snorts, giving you a side glance. “Yeah, right.” She shakes her head. “Well at least you have options,” she chuckles. “Satoru on the other hand…he’s a hopeless case. A charity case, more specifically.”

“I’d like to see it,” you say suddenly, drawing their attention. You’ve never paid too much attention to what the future might hold. You’ve never thought about it. It hurt too much. But you realize that you want to see what the future holds, not for you, but for the people dearest to your heart, more than anything you’ve wanted in your life. “Your wedding,” you complete to Suguru. You want to see the three of them happy and fulfilled and then you’d be ready. “You’d make a wonderful husband. Anyone would be lucky to have you, Suguru.”

Suguru blinks, off guard. He swallows. “Is…is that right.” Then he’s blushing all over again.

You turn to Shoko, grabbing her by the shoulders. “But you can’t get married too soon.” Even the thought of it has you spiraling. You feel your face warm. “You have to be mine for a little longer, okay?”

Shoko grins. “I’m yours.”

Relief.

“But I’m not the one you should be worrying about.” Her grin is marked by something mischievous even as you gape at her. “Out of all of us, you might get married first.”

Suguru stiffens.

You clear your throat, rubbing your suddenly sweaty hands on your skirt, when you feel Megumi’s gaze on you. “I’ll be right back.”

Megumi hasn’t moved a muscle since you left. With every passing minute he grows more tense. You kneel down in front of him, fishing the chocolate milk out of the plastic bag and handing it to him.

“Here. Or do you want the Pocari Sweat?”

“It’s fine.” He stares at the can. “They aren’t done yet.”

“It’s just procedure,” comes Suguru’s voice from above you.

The words are reassuring, yet Megumi stares at him like he’s a cockroach. The two of them size each other up.

“Shouldn’t be long though,” Shoko angles her head towards the building. “I think they’re coming out.”

True to her words, someone is shuffling towards you, shoulders hunched as if to minimize his presence. Satoru follows right behind him, hands stuffed into his pockets casually with a wide grin slapped on his face.

You straighten. And stare. Next to you Megumi stiffens.

“Wow,” Shoko gapes. “You look just like a certain deadbeat teacher who went MIA on us a couple months ago. Turns out he’s a deadbeat father too, ha! Know him?”

“Shaddup,” Fushiguro-sensei says without heat. He doesn’t meet Megumi’s gaze.

Satoru catches up. “Deal’s canceled!” Jazz hands. “Brat’s been returned for a refund! Instead of living his years out as a hostage in this miserable place, he’ll get to go home. How sweet. Now, I’m starved—”

You lightly squeeze the hand attached to the arm wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you away. You don’t need to say anything for Satoru to understand. He scowls, throwing Fushiguro-sensei an annoyed look.

Suguru grabs one arm, Shoko the other. As Satoru is dragged away, you hear Shoko say: “Suguru’s been propositioned.”

Satoru splutters out a what!? It’s been four hours!

Fushiguro-sensei exhales, looking around the compound with a guarded expression. “I never thought I’d be back here.”

Megumi grips your hand tightly. “What do you want?” His usual toneless style of speaking sounds tighter.

Fushiguro-sensei stares at his son, as if seeing him with new eyes. “You’re bigger,” he says hoarsely. “Taller.”

Megumi glares at the ground.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming.” You hadn’t expected it, to say the least. Fushiguro-sensei looks…tired. The rough edges of his usual expression have lessened, replaced with a bone deep weariness. There are nothing but bad memories here, and you can see it in his eyes. He loathes this place.

“Someone said I should fight for my kids.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. “‘Sides, it’s impossible for me to lose any more face around here. Might as well burn any final bridges.”

“Did Naobito-sama give you any trouble?”

That earns a snort. “‘Course he did. Raised a ruckus about a Gojo intervening in Zenin affairs. Loverboy sure didn’t do himself any favors with the Zenin’s, that’s for sure.”

You aren’t worried. “Satoru will be fine.” You’ll thank him long and hard later.

The two of you fall into silence. You gently squeeze Megumi’s hand in your as he stares intently at the ground.

Fushiguro-sensei inhales, exhales, and then drops down. His jaw works, looking for the words.

“I’m sorry, Megumi.” The words are rough in a way that tells you that I’m sorry are words that had long been discarded from his vocabulary.

“...You didn’t come back. You never came back. You abandoned us.” Megumi squeezes your hand.

“I did,” Fushiguro-sensei accepts. “I’m not going to give you excuses. You don’t have to forgive me.” A wry, self-deprecating smile. “I’m sure my word means nothing to you by now either.”

“It doesn’t.” Megumi sniffles. You try not to look.

“Yeah,” Fushiguro-sense sighs, rubbing his neck. “I bet.”

The three of you start towards leaving the sprawling compound, and as you navigate through corridors and doors and rooms that all look alike, the estate is surprisingly empty. The Zenin estate is beautiful, but it’s a cruel beauty, hiding secrets and whispers of bloodshed. If it bothers your sensei, then he doesn’t show it. He moves with purpose, light, quiet steps guided by muscle memory.

You hope this is the last Megumi ever sees of the Zenin compound, even though you know it’s unlikely. In the end Megumi is inextricably linked to the future of the Zenin clan. A hard truth to digest.

“Do you want to go home with your dad?” You ask with a small smile when you reach outside at last, standing in the street. The sun is already setting, streaking the sky in orange and indigo. “Tsumiki’s at home waiting for you.”

Megumi nods. You give his hand one final squeeze before he slips away.

The boy reluctantly goes to stand next to his father. When you move to turn towards the direction of the bus stop, Fushiguro-sensei stops you.

“Hey kid. Thanks.”

“It wasn’t for you.” You hold his gaze and smile. To Megumi, you say: “I’ll drop by tomorrow, okay?”

He makes a noise of affirmation. As the two start to walk away, you think of walking home from school with your father, back to your mother, hands entwined. You hadn’t known what it meant to be alone, back then. Back then, you had been loved.

You don’t know if you can relearn what it means. You don’t know if you know how.

Fushiguro-sensei had come back though, hadn’t he? In the end he had fought the best he could.

Your father had…given up.

“About time!” Satoru exclaims from behind you.

When you look up to see Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko, you’re crying. Satoru gapes while Suguru pales. Shoko wraps her arms around you. You lean into her, burying your face into her neck as you sob. Your chest cracks open, aching in the wake of memories you had never wanted to remember. 

“I wish,” you choke out, “I wish he had fought for me too.” Your words are incomprehensible, barely coherent. Your heart is in shambles, and now, only the truth remains.

You wish…you wish your father had fought for you too. You wish he had thought you important enough to fight for. That he had loved you enough to do it. You had seen the devastation loving your mother had wrought in her death, and you were terrified of inflicting that on anyone else.

It had always hurt too much to think about it. But now, surrounded by the people you love the most, it hurts a little less. You think you are crying for the child you had once been.

Shoko pats your head and rubs your back. To Satoru and Suguru she mutters, “stop hovering.”

When you quiet down, your eyes are red and sore.

“Everything alright?”

You make a noise, nodding. You’re embarrassed as you pull away, face warm. “I’m sorry.” You don’t remember crying so much in your life. It feels as if the events of the past months have taken their toll. You’re exhausted. Now that Megumi is safe, you feel like you can finally breathe.

You stand back a little unsteadily, swaying.

“I—”

You black out.

—————

Two Weeks Later:

“A refill?”

“Please.”

Fushiguro-sensei eyes the special glass pitcher reserved just for you in Marie’s hands like it’s a bomb. “Maybe slow it down a bit,” he chortles. “You’ll kill the girl with that shit you call booze.”

You down the remainder of the mug in a single swig and push it forward. “Please!”

“Who am I to refuse my best customer?” Marie says, red lips curving into a grin. Today she’s wearing a silk emerald dress that shimmers in the light and moves like smooth liquid on her figure. “You’ve been replaced, Toji.”

He shakes his head. “You can deal with the two lovesick fools who’ll turn me into minced meat if she gets drunk off her ass again.”

“Oh?” Marie looks intrigued as she refills your mug. “It’s like that?”

He nods. “It’s like that.”

She throws back her head and laughs, circling around the bar counter to greet a drunk customer at the entrance. She pats your shoulder and Fushiguro-sensei’s in a quick goodbye.

When she leaves, you frown. “I’m no lightweight.” It’s true. While you couldn’t outdrink Shoko (nobody could), you think you could outdrink Suguru if you really tried. Satoru on the other hand… “Satoru’s the lightweight.”

That piques Fushiguro-sensei’s interest. “Who would’ve thought. The Six Eyes brat can’t hold his liquor.”

Satoru prefers soda. Juice. Sweet things. He’s never been one for alcohol. When Satoru is drunk, he gets touchy and stubborn, insistent on all the things that have never been denied to him. Like the spoiled rotten child he had claimed himself to have been. He’ll demand your attention, talk your ear off, and fall asleep in your bed. Even if you move him to his own bed, you’ll be woken up by Satoru clambering into yours like it’s his own.

“Speaking of,” Fushiguro-sensei says, “where are your guard dogs? They finally letting you out of their sight?”

The day after Megumi had returned home, Fushiguro-sensei had been reinstated as a teacher on the campus. You had missed class for a week because Shoko had declared you unfit to do anything but laze around and sleep.

“Guard dogs…” you repeat. You guess that’s what it had been like. You had fainted that day, and woke up three days later, feeling better than you ever have in the eighteen years of your existence. “They’re just worried.”

Besides, it wasn’t as if you needed Satoru or Suguru’s permission to leave the premises. It wasn’t as if they would’ve stopped you had they been at the campus instead of in Chiba. 

Fushiguro-sensei acutely eyes you. “They don’t know you’re here, do they?”

You lift the mug to your lips, averting your gaze. “I told them I was going to the apartment,” you mumble. It wasn’t a lie. You did stop by the apartment earlier with dinner for Megumi and Tsumiki and Fushiguro-sensei. After Megumi and Tsumiki had gone to sleep, you had decided to drop by the host club with Fushiguro-sensei to see Marie. Then one drink had turned into two and then three and then there had been a large pitcher and you had lost count.

Which brought you to the reason you had needed a drink in the first place. You take a long drink. 

“I’m in trouble Fushiguro-sensei.”

He raises an eyebrow. 

You feel miserable just thinking about it. “I lied. To Satoru and Suguru.” You deflate, gripping the glass tightly. “Satoru asked me to break up with my boyfriend. But I don’t have a boyfriend.” You blurt out.

Fushiguro-sensei stares at you. “Start from the beginning.”

It spills out before you can help it. You tell him about meeting Megumi and Tsumiki in secret, the misunderstandings, Satoru and Suguru’s overreactions, telling Shoko the truth, Satoru's favor. When you’re done, you heave a breath and close your eyes.

“The truth is…” you say gravely. “I’m so embarrassed I could die.” You bury your face in your hands.

The utter disbelief on Fushiguro-sensei’s face transforms until he’s laughing so hard he nearly falls off his seat.

“It’s not funny,” you’re completely serious. “I’m terrified of telling them the truth.”

“You shouldn’t,” Fushiguro-sensei replies, fixing himself upright and wiping away a tear. “They’ll probably be a lot of things, but mad won’t be one of them.”

You eye him suspiciously. “How do you know?”

He shoots you a lazy smile. “Gotta say kid, didn’t think ya had it in you.”

“...I didn’t think…they’d take it so seriously…” At times you envy Satoru and Suguru’s decisiveness. You wish you could have a little of their courage.

You might’ve said something out loud, because Fushiguro-sensei looks thoroughly amused.

“Courage, huh.”

“When they put their minds to it, I don’t think there’s anything they can’t do.” You mean it.

Fushiguro-sensei looks seconds away from breaking into laughter all over again. You take a little offense to that.

He only brushes off the look on your face with a slant of his lips and a chuckle on his breath as he says, “I can name something.”

“What’s tha—”

“Never mind that,” he takes the pitcher and refills your cup. “Drink up.”

Comfortable silence reigns, background noise taking control of the conversation. You stare down at the pale liquid, swirling it around in your mug.

“Suguru was proposed to.” You’re just making conversation.

“Interesting.”

“Shoko said the Zenin’s want him to join the clan.” Through marriage.

“There’s very little the Zenin’s value over bloodline,” he drawls. “Cursed techniques happen to be one of them.”

And Suguru happened to have a very valuable one. Would Shoko get marriage requests too? There were only so many reverse cursed technique users. You knew Satoru had been asked to various omiai’s, set up by various clans and his own—all of which he dutifully avoided like the plague.

Fushiguro-sensei leans back in his chair. “Bothered?”

You snap back to reality, blinking.

There’s a smirk on his face that you don’t understand.

“I am,” you say slowly, sincerely. “I don’t want Shoko to get married yet.” You fiddle with the condensation of the glass. “But that’s just me being selfish.”

The idea of marriage is something you’ve never really had to contend with. You can’t imagine getting married. You had forgotten that for many others your age, for normal people, marriage is just the next step in life. A natural progression.

Shoko is one thing. Satoru and Suguru are another. People would expect Satoru to get married, to settle down, to have kids. What Satoru actually wants is another thing altogether. Suguru would be a good father. You can imagine Suguru with children.

Deep in your thoughts, you don’t notice Fushiguro-sensei waving someone over.

Arms wrap around your neck, soft lilac hitting your nose along with the scent of a freshly smoked cigarette. You squeeze Shoko’s wrist, looking up at her.

“I didn’t know you finished your shift early today,” you say, delighted.

She’s still in her lab coat, drawing curious gazes from businessmen as she slides into the unoccupied seat to the other side of you.

“There’s only so much work I can do,” she replies dryly, finishing off the rest of your drink. She makes a face. “Soon, I’ll be the corpse.” She regards the man next to you. “So, Fushiguro-sensei, what’s up with you bringing underage girls to hostess clubs?”

He snorts. “There’s a host club next door if that’s more your style.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Dry amusement. “What do the two of you talk about?”

You think. “Horse racing.”

“The weather.”

“Megumi and Tsumiki.”

“My annoying students.”

“My love life.”

“Her love life.”

Shoko says plainly: “You haven’t told Satoru and Suguru yet, have you.”

You choke on your spit. “No.”

“Thought so.” She eyes you, discerning. “What was Satoru’s favor?”

You almost fall off your chair, although that may just be the alcohol. You hadn’t told her about what Satoru had asked of you in return, or that he had even asked one of you in the first place, and the embarrassment comes flooding back. “I— How did you—”

She waves you off. “He’s not that altruistic. Let me guess. Something like: break it off with your boyfriend?”

You close your mouth, feeling your face warm. You nod.

“Christ.” And then Fushiguro-sensei is laughing all over again.

—————

You’ve gone to the washroom to sober up when Fushiguro-sensei turns his gaze to her. 

“If you had to choose…”

“Neither,” Shoko says immediately. 

Fushiguro-sensei doesn’t believe her. “Everyone has favorites. Just like every mother has a favorite child and the one she wishes was never born.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He simply smiles.

“ Truthfully,” she stresses. “Neither.”

Neither Satoru nor Suguru deserve you, she thinks. You deserve someone nice, gentle, and understanding. Maybe even a little timid. Someone who matches your temperament. Someone that would love you with patience, in a way that would heal the scars on your battered heart. 

Satoru is too rough and too demanding in a way that only you and Suguru would indulge. Suguru can pretend to play as a gentleman all he wants, but in the end he can be just as selfish as Satoru, with the potential to be even more unreasonable. Unfaltering in some justifiable way he’s cooked up in his head.

It’s all made even worse by your inability to say no. You would do anything to make them happy, and it only feeds their entitlement.

You are the kind of person that thinks that Satoru asking you to break up with your boyfriend (imaginary or not) is a reasonable favor to be asked, and Satoru is all too cognizant of it.

You aren’t gullible. Just extremely shortsighted when it comes to certain people. An implacable faith in the people you love. It often works to your detriment. You deserve a peaceful life, out by the country, where you can live out your years unbothered and surrounded by all the things that have caught your fascination. 

“There was a boy,” she starts. “Our Kyoto Goodwill event last year.” 

He had been some heir to a minor clan who had, like everyone else in the team battle, balked at Satoru’s and Suguru’s strength. Shoko doesn’t even remember his name, but she does remember that he liked you in a blushing, tongue-tied way. She watched the two of you from the rooftop of the school building, a cigarette in hand, when he had worked up the nerve to approach you. She had been smiling at your own endearingly awkward attempt to make conversation.

She wanted that for you, to meet new people. It was good for you to expand your tiny, insular circle.

Fushiguro-sensei is quick to understand. “Scared him off, did they?”

He hadn’t lasted a day.

Shoko only sighs. She needs a smoke.

When you come out, you’re sober enough. You wave goodbye to Marie and Fushiguro-sensei and tell him you’ll be around the apartment on the weekend. 

It’s dark out when the two of you depart. Late enough that the main crowd has thinned and you can comfortably walk. You’re smiling brightly, the two of you shoulder to shoulder as you walk. 

“Shoko,” you say, breath misting over with frost. Your eyes are bright with the strung lights and flashing billboards of the night. “You know I love you, right?”

When you say it so sincerely, so genuinely, it makes it hard to doubt you. One doesn’t have to wonder twice about why Satoru and Suguru are both lost causes when it comes to you.

It's a disaster in the making. Because truthfully the two of them are not fit to be in relationships with anybody but each other.

“Mhm. Of course.” She leans into you. “As long as you don’t forget me in favor of those two knuckleheads.”

You are distraught. “I’d never forget you.” You stare ahead, eyes almost unfocused. “Satoru and Suguru have each other. Just like we do,” you say plainly. After a few seconds, you bite your lip, looking embarrassed. “I plan on being by your side forever…if…if you’ll have me.”

“Is that a marriage proposal?” She teases.

You fluster, and Shoko laughs. She winds her fingers through yours, and squeezes tight. 

A/N:

-this is literally 19k words of rip!mc working through her daddy issues by projecting onto megumi and HIS daddy issues, crying every other day, and dissociating through traumatic repressed memories all while toji plays the deadbeat father. it was ORIGINALLY supposed to be lighthearted with riko playing a much bigger role but then i went fuck it let's bring out all the daddy issues and it spiraled. are the daddy issues completely resolved? no way. but it's a step in the right direction. that's really all you can hope for.

-gojo: it will NEVER work out. (implied: with a civilian. But it WILL work out with me and suguru.)

-shoko ending because i say so <3

[teekays]

lowkey they wasted the name owen power on him that's a name for a MUCH cooler guy. don't get me wrong i enjoy him but that's a name for a guy who does motorcycle tricks or performs stage shows with a boa constrictor or rips phonebooks in half at elementary schools

[manias-wordcount]

Boring (Yor Forger)

Kinktober 2022 Day Eleven: Knifeplay

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

You don’t know what came over you, rushing in like that. 

You were no hero. You just weren’t. You were merely a lowly assistant. Hired help that only got to where you were because your father knew some people and your mother had a way with words. And the fact that you could remember details and knew your way around a calendar and a phonebook- those were the reasons why you’re still here. But that doesn’t make you a hero. You never thought it did. You never pretended it did. You were boring. And nothing would change that. 

 So why did you come rushing to the sound of a group of grown men screaming? And why did you come unarmed?

 This wasn’t your fight. This wasn’t even your home to defend. You were in the home of one of your boss’s associates, working in their kitchen like you were usually ordered to do whenever your boss had a hankering for something after dinner. But you had only left them mere minutes ago. Just a ten-second walk to the kitchen where you were sent to boil a kettle of water and to collect the tea bags and the biscuits as they all winded down to talk business. Over their joyous laughter about who knows what back in the sitting room, you were just counting down the minutes until the water was warm enough for their cups. Counting down the seconds until he’d lose his patience and call for you to hurry up with their refreshments. 

 Counting down the hours until you could close your eyes and forget about this boring job for a few, dream-filled hours. 

 But then the sudden sound of shouting nearly had you ripping a biscuit in half as you opened its packaging. This wasn’t the jolly shouts of slimy bastards you were working used to hearing. There was no calling each other names because they were all so proud of whatever awful thing they all did this morning. There was no laughter because someone just quipped something that would have had their mother bending them over the bathroom sink with soap in their mouth. But there were sounds of struggle. Sounds of struggle that were soon followed by the all too human sound of something hitting the floor. The sound of a grown man’s body hitting the floor. And after that can a final shout. A desperate plea. One that came too late. One would have been better wasted on prayers. 

 Your name. 

 And yet, you still came. You threw everything in your hands down to the ground, and you pushed open the door like your life depended on it. A ten-second walk to the sitting room turned into a two-second sprint. But ten seconds or two. They wouldn’t have made a difference. Because the final shout being your name- it would have been better spent on repenting and apologies and whatever bastards thought about saying right before they kicked the bucket. But ten seconds or two- it just doesn’t matter. It never mattered. 

 Because he was dead on the ground by the time you got there. 

And suddenly, your life was so boring anymore. And you can’t pretend that it isn’t. Because if your life was still boring, the men you were just about to serve after-dinner snacks to would still be laughing about whatever fucked up story they were about to tell. If your life was still boring, you’d be attending to the kettle you left still burning on the stovetop, making sure your tray of cups was neat and polite. No, if your life was still boring you wouldn’t be looking at bodies staining the fancy rugs as they lay limply on the floor. You wouldn’t be searching for any signs of life in your boss as he slumps over from his spot on the couch- hating the fact that you wanted so badly for him to be alive even though the amount of blood pouring from his mouth is obvious that he’s no. 

 And you wouldn’t be backing up into a wall. As the woman with the bloodied weapons in her hand stalks closer and closer and closer-

 Thud.

 It’s so sudden. The way she reaches out for the lapel of your collared shirt and grabs a fist full to slam you on the wall behind you. It’s just so sudden. Perhaps more sudden than the way she killed your boss and all his friends just know, but you don’t think about that right now. You can’t think about that right now. Your head is just spinning from the impact and your eyes aren’t focusing in the way you need them to right now. In seconds, you lost your boring life, and you lost it all to her. Now, in a couple more seconds, you’ll lose your own life to her. Her and that long, shiny golden knife she has pressing and pressing and pressing against your throat. 

 “You’re not on the list.” 

 An absent murmur comes from her lips as if she was just waking up from a dream. As if she was just realizing her mistake. It’s the first sound that you’ve heard since the chaos started that you could have dared call comforting. And only slightly does it cause you to regain some of the control that you lost. A reminder that you’re still alive. Still kicking just a little longer at least. And while the grip she has on your shirt is evident that you won’t get away, you know that you have one power. The power to look her deep into red eyes and never look away. So you could hope. So you could pray that she would recall this moment that she mercilessly killed someone defenseless. Someone who did nothing wrong. Someone who would haunt her forever. But…

 “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

 It never came. 

 Instead, the knife pushes deeper into your throat to the point where you don’t think you’re dying, but you can swear it is the most pain you have ever felt in your life. It draws blood slowly, and if you could look at yourself, you’d be sure to find one slow trail making its way down your neck and onto your shirt. Oh, but you don’t focus on the mess you’re making as she makes you feel oh so close to life and death at the same time. Instead, you’re thinking of the face she’s wearing- it’s not the same one you could only vaguely register from a distance as you surveyed your dead boss. It’s not the cold and calculating gaze you’d expect from a killer. It’s confused and dazed. It’s like your presence messed everything up and turned things on their head. Like for once, you were the wild card. Like you were done and over with your days as a personal assistant. That you were the someone important who just walked into the room. Someone powerful. Someone who wasn’t dying. Just looking at death straight in her eyes, waiting for her to make the choice in your life. 

 And perhaps that’s why you’re smiling. Because live or die, you won’t end up like the suits on the floor. Live or die, you’ll get to memorize every inch of her face as she stands in front of you. Live or die, you get to feel the slow press of that knife of hers into your adam’s apple. Taking you inch by inch, closer to the end of your life. And perhaps that’s why you’re beginning to smile despite her growing confusion. Perhaps that’s why you’re beginning to enjoy this moment. The moment that just might be your last. Because live to see tomorrow or die in just ten- in just two seconds. One thing is for certain:

 Your life will never be boring again. 

[b0bbybalushi]

we tryna rip phonebooks in half at the end of it all 💥

[beliscary]

[rips a phonebook in half] DION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[voidmoon]

in the mood to rip a phonebook in half

[theothervonkarmagirl]

“Oh, my god it is so fucking hot.”

The A/C had stopped working at the Prosecutor’s Office. “This is bad, really bad. I know I don’t look it, but I sweat like a pig! I’ve been stuffing tissues in places they don’t belong.”

“Not to mention, everyone is on edge. I saw Detective Gumshoe rip a phonebook in half. It isn’t pretty at all.”

[wolfontheloose]

Almost forty-eight hours and counting since Ryden had left his apartment in Descray for the Founders’ Day Faire. Almost forty-eight hours, passing by in a blink. It all felt like he just took one long breath and didn’t let it go until he was standing in the dark little hallway of his place, grey ombre walls closing in around him, finally stepping into a silence that was just his own. He tossed his keys into a bowl of miscellaneous items he kept atop of his shoe cabinet, knowing that he would need it again very soon. He would not linger for long. A loud, croaky meow broke the silence as a dull thud of a small body landing on its paws against wooden floor announced that Ugly had been hanging around the always ajar window in Ryden’s living room, the one that lead out onto the landing of the fire escape stairs between his floor and the next.

The cat trotted over to rub its slightly overweight body against Ryden’s combat boots where the man stood in the hallway, the feline demanding food rather than affection. Ryden sighed, the inhale not at all cleansing or relaxing. Not minding the cat because he would follow him like a shadow far too small to be his own anyway until he got what he wanted, Ryden stepped further into his living room, grabbing a bottle of electrolyte-rich water from the fridge in the tiny kitchenette he had along the way. His body fell heavy against the leather cushions of his couch but didn’t slouch or relax against it, the water bottle cooling a spot against his lap while his fingers worked on fishing his phone out of a back pocket of his jeans.

He took more than half an hour to go through what felt like his entire phonebook. Many did not respond, many lines were busy. But those who did, pack, friends, family or loved ones, would hear from Ryden, either get a phone call or a voicemail and a text message waiting for when they have time to get back to him, tell him they are alright. The pack group chat and messaging system they’ve had was still blowing up, so much so that Ryden had to mute those channels and only accept direct tag alerts. He’d already told them everything he knew, answered all questions as best as he could. Now it was up to everyone to regroup on their own and keep up with any plans made to collectively meet at the Den whenever possible to discuss, provide comfort and support as a community within a community. He was aware that the meetup at the Den right after the Founders’ Day faire wouldn’t be enough. So he planned to keep the Den open 24\7 from here on, with someone always present, in shifts of course, so everyone who decided to walk in for more info would find at least one person from the pack able to be there for them.

Ryden wouldn’t be the one always there for sure, but he will try to be, as much as he could physically achieve it. Almost forty-five minutes later, the phone felt like a hot potato in Ryden’s hands, slick with the sweat of his palms, so he tossed it away on the couch cushion next to him, sick of the device. Ugly jumped up from a spot on the floor he took a nap at, curiously sniffing at the device soaked in Ryden’s scent. It wasn’t food so he lost interest quick.

Ryden had lost too much time and now there was none left for a shower. He’d have to postpone that for another free moment he’d have who knew when. But the T-shirt he had to change, so he ripped the one he had on off, tossing it to land wherever on the floor. On his way to the bedroom, he stopped by the dining space, which never had a proper dining table ever since he’d moved in. Instead, pieces of workout equipment occupied the space by the window, a large, sand-filled punching bag hanging off the ceiling. The weight rack was laden with insane poundage, even Ryden sometimes wondering how it hadn’t gone down to say hi to the downstairs neighbor yet, his floor surprisingly withstanding the weight of freakishly heavy dumbbells. This is why he had two weight racks, just in case, to at least distribute weight evenly.

Expressionless, he watched the items he so easily worked with before, cogs turning in his head although it seemed like no one might be home to produce thought in this complex space called Ryden’s mind. He had to check himself, so he would know how to proceed from here on. So he reached for the heaviest weight, something he knew he was always able to lift even one-handed. He made it budge only enough to make it roll off the rack, Ryden narrowly missing it fall on his foot and thus crippling him. He stared at the stupid thing, useless on the floor where it would stay until he was able to move it again. If he was ever able to move it again. He always thought he’d be happy if all of this supernatural-ness was suddenly taken away from him, if he ever reverted to being human again, just the way he’d been born as. But instead, he got mixed feelings.

An indignant sniff flared his nostrils and he gave the equipment a disgusted look before he turned on his heels and went to the bedroom to put a new shirt on and pack a bag he’d dump at Mars’ place, just to have some extra stuff available there when needed. He did not have time for this shit. He had to get a move on. Shit to do, problems to fix. We’ll cry about it later. Later, that would never come, because though boys like him didn’t whine.

[fleurmatisse]

god it even extends to my cat. “it’s probably just anxiety come back if it gets worse” im going to rip a phonebook in half.

[diegodog2002]

Picture Frame Incident

It was around half past one in the afternoon and Mark was late.  Not unusual for him, busy as he always kept himself in the real estate business.  I don't think I've even stopped by his office, when he wasn't on the telephone talking with someone, while others waited on-hold, lined up like aircraft in a holding pattern waiting to land.  It wouldn't have surprised me to get a call from him, apologizing up and down, wanting to re-schedule for lunch, as he has so many times in the past.  He knows me well enough to know that I never mind it, that’s the hazards of being successful.  This time he called and said he would be late.  I figured I could put the time to good use while I waited, and pulled a painting down off the wall that I had been meaning to work on for a while. The frame needed a good cleaning, and after removing the artwork from it, I polished the frame edges.  I heard a knock at the door.  I stood up and looked out the window.  I could see it was Marks car in the driveway.

I yelled out, "Its open!"

He quickly entered, looking a little flustered but sharp as ever.  The guy knew how to dress.  His taste in suits, choice of ties always impressed me.  Today was no different, one of his nicer summer suits, a navy single-breasted suit, impeccably tailored, a tightly knotted red silk tie with gold fleck design, over his trademark crisp white cotton shirt. The shirt contrasted so nicely with his deep tan.  One thing about Mark, it could be 90 degrees outside but he always looked like he just stepped outside of an air-conditioned showroom.  Except for that flush look on his face today.    

"What’s the matter, you look a little frazzled today."  I jokingly asked him.  

He hurried past me into the den, dropping his briefcase on the desk with a thud.

"Oh, this cell-phone is acting up again!"  He shot off.  "I need to use your phone, fast.  I was in the middle of closing a deal and was cut off in mid-sentence!"  

Before I had even finished saying the words of course, Mark had eyed the phone on my desk, and made a leap for it.  What he didn't notice in his haste, was the picture frame I had been working on, laying on the desktop.  One nail that hadn't been properly secured to the frame.  It caught the leg of his slacks when he was leaning over it.  I yelled out, but it was too late.  Mark reeled back and looked down at his pants.

"Oh great, look at this!"  He barked. "I just tore a hole in my pants! This day is going downhill fast!"     Sure enough, halfway up his thigh, there was a clean cut in the material, running for about 3 inches. I was quite upset, my first concern was that the nail cut him.

"Are you ok? Did you get cut?"  I asked, looking alarmingly at the tear.

He used his thumb to press against the rip, opening it up slightly, exposing his leg.

"No, I'm not cut."  He stated without much concern.  “Whatever that was didn't touch me, just my pants."

He shrugged and went about his business like it was nothing, opening his briefcase up to retrieve his phonebook.  He took a seat in the chair to the side of desk.  I moved quickly to get rid of the frame, picking it up out of his way and off the desktop.

"I am so sorry Mark, it’s my fault.  I should have moved that frame somewhere else", I said.  

As I dropped the frame down against the wall. I made an offer to have them replaced.

"Don't be silly!"  He laughed while dialing.  "It’s only a pair of slacks, look."

With that, he slipped his fingers inside the tear, ripped the material back even further, another inch.

"See?" He stated with a devilish smile.  “It's not like a rip is the worst thing that can happen to a guy’s suit.”        My feelings immediately changed from one of concern, to an excited interest.  He sat back in the chair, moving his legs slightly forward.  I looked at the rip in his slacks.  The opening exposed the skin on his leg.  I could see how tanned his legs were, and his patterned dark hair on them. It made me want to see more.  

His hesitation in dialing gave me the courage to say to him, "In that case, hang up the phone. Let's see where that rip leads."  

He gave me the biggest grin, and hung up the receiver.  I moved to his side, leaned down and placed my hand against his leg, rubbing along his inner thigh until my hand was just over the tear.  I slipped my fingers inside of it, brushing the backs of them against his leg.

"Your leg feels nice."  I half-whispered to him.  “But I don't think this rip is big enough, what do you think?"  I looked into his cool-blue eyes, waiting for his response.

"I don't think so either, but a word of warning", he said.  

A hint of a smile was on his face while he eyed my white button down shirt, his gaze running down the legs of my tan slacks and back up again,

"I give as good as I take!”  He said.

 With the knowledge that all was fair game at this point, I decided to hold off on his slacks for the moment.  I walked behind the chair that Mark was sitting in.  I looked down at him, with his perfectly groomed jet black hair, and the spread of his shoulders. I laid my hands on his shoulders, offering a short massage.  The movement gained strength gradually, pushing the collar of his jacket back, stretching it tighter and tighter.  Then sliding my hands over to the seams in the shoulders.  His jacket was finely stitched, it would take a little work from this angle, unless I had a little help.

"Mark!" I said. "Open the top drawer of the desk, and hand me the scissors."  

He took hold of the pair, passing them back to me.  I made two very small cuts in the fabric, just along the shoulder seams.  I leaned over, and laid the scissors on the desk. I stood back up, now able to slip the tips of my fingers under the openings I had just created, rolling the fabric over them in small circles, until they started to give way.  I was listening to the sound of shredding cotton fiber.  Once I had all my fingers inside, rubbing against the lining, I pulled downward towards on Mark’s arms.  The sleeves of his jacket broke free.  I pushed the loosened sleeves down to his elbows.  A few dark threads scattered along his white shirt. He turned and looked at each arm as if he approved of the changes.  He flexed his arms watching the torn fabric gather. He spun the chair around and faced me.  He leaning forward just far enough to get one of his hands around the back of my leg. I stood perfectly still, while he slid his hand up and down my pant leg, finally stopping over the top of one back pocket.  I could feel his grip.  With one sharp tug, my back pocket ripped.  He pulled down on it, past the pocket depth, he continued ripping my pants halfway down the back of my leg.  While I couldn't see it, I could feel the air against my skin, followed by his warm hand, rubbing where once the pants had been rubbing against me.  I was hot now, so hot I had to pull him to his feet in front of me.  We stepped very close, and I ran my hands over one of the lapels, then over to the pocket top on his jacket.  With one swift motion, I returned the job he did to the pocket on the back of my slacks. I ripped the pocket down, pulling the white lining with it, and letting it hang there.  Mark had started on my shirt, ripping one sleeve off, and tearing it down to the cuff.  He took hold of the front of my shirt with both hands, splitting it halfway down. The buttons on it breaking free, one of them bouncing off the desktop before landing on the carpet.  I tore more into his jacket, the lapels, the side vents, anything and everything I could rip, until there wasn't enough left to stay on his frame.  It just fell away.  

My shirt was now in shreds.  I could feel the collar still trying to hang on, and the cuffs were intact, but the rest was in several pieces hanging down over my pants.  The tail of my shirt was the only thing keeping that much on.  His shirt came off easily.  I reached around the back collar and ripped it downwards, pulling it forwards into two equal pieces on each side of him.  It was caught at the wrists.  The cuffs had finally broken free.  One half of his shirt I tore off, and the other I left hanging, dangling from his wrist.

I could see his nipples under his t-shirt, on two perfectly proportioned pecs. I ran my hands down the center of them, down over his tight stomach, looking down at his slacks. I dropped to one knee.  He laid his hands on my shoulders, looking down, watching.  I found the original rip, and after slipping my fingers inside, tore the material down to the cuff, then ripped the opposite direction high enough to make shorts out of one leg of them.  The pocket lining was now showing.  Mark had on a pair of white cotton boxers with a light blue pinstripe.  The dark hair on his upper leg showed.  It seemed to have a pattern before disappearing up the leg vent on his boxers.  I moved around him and ripped the seat out of his slacks.  I came back around the front, and shredded the reaming pant leg into several long strands, so when he moved his leg, they would slide around it. Mark pulled me up, and I leaned back against the desk.  He tore into my slacks, ripping them to shreds in no time.  All that was left was just the belted material under the waistband, and a thin line of material on each side of the zipper, that run under me and up the back of my pants that was still intact.  I could feel the bulge in my white Y-fronts pressing against that zipper. His hands tore away the last of my shirt.  He even ripped my socks down to my shoes.  I grabbed the front of his t-shirt and split it.  His hairy chest exposed was to me.  The material falling over what was left of his shirt. I ran my hand down his chest, over the front of his slacks which were somewhat still intact. I grabbed hold of the side of them along the rip and pulled with such force, the belt loops gave way, sending what was left of his pants sliding down his legs to his knees.  He fell back against the chair, all that was left intact were his boxers, and silk tie.  Everything else was in many pieces.  Some was laying on the carpet, while others pieces were still trying to hang on to him. I slowly loosened up his tie, before sliding it off him.  

I moved my hand over the front of his boxers.  I could feel the heat and the size and hardness of what was under them.  I slid my fingers inside the loose fly.  I brushed my fingers through his thick pubes, along the side of his hard shaft.  Then I tugged, one last time. I was looking into his eyes, but I could feel his boxers in my hand.  They ripped off on one piece, tearing down the inseams, and ripping the waistband. When I looked down, sure enough they were gone.  His long thick cock was rising upwards towards me, pulsing and throbbing.   How he made it this far without touching himself, I'll never know.  I know how hard it was for me, but it was his touch I was waiting for.  I longed for his hands to rip the back of my briefs open.  To tear the front half of the fly, letting the material hang free. Then ripping the sides forward, until there nothing but the ‘Jockey’ waistband left.  I felt Mark slip his hands under the band, stretching the elastic outwards.  He took hold of my cock, slid it up under it, so it was held tightly upwards against me. He picked up a piece of his shirt, and put it under my nose.  I could smell his scent on it.  It was mix of clean and musty.  It was his scent.  He moved the dangling material down over my hard cock, lightly grinding his palm over it. I remember his lips were close to mine, but not much else.  I was too hot and turned on.  When I regained my senses, I knew my load had already exploded, in his palm and upwards against my chest.  It seemed to be everywhere.  He fell back into the chair, throwing one leg over the arm, studying my body, slowly stroking his cock.  I moved in close to him, leaning down and completing the job for him.  One hand tightly under his balls, rubbing, the other cranking his cock until he spewed straight up to his neck. Exhausted, we took stock of each other.  Shredded fabric was everywhere.  We laughed. I got up and went to retrieve a couple pair of briefs for us.  When I returned, there was Mark, on the phone already, looking better than ever.

[kitsune-kaos]

Being gay like: I hate men (affectionate)