#angst with feels

[medusapelagia]

Eddie's Month: day 4

written for @eddiemonth 

Prompt: Rejection | Arsonist’s Lullaby - Hozier | Lost

Rating: Mature Character: Eddie Munson WT: murder, violence, threats of violence, drugs, angst with feels, ambiguous ending WC: 1505

The first time the social worker comes into the squalid apartment in Indianapolis, Eddie is not surprised. 

He might be five years old, but he sees the other families from the windows: they go to the park together, they have clean clothes and, the most important thing, they don’t walk on the streets at night as he and his mother do.

His mum works strange hours, she works by night and sleeps by day, and when she wakes she always searches for Johnny, or Uncle Johnny as he asked Eddie to call him more than once.

Uncle Johnny is the one who gives the medicine to his mum, so she can sleep quietly and doesn’t scream all day.

Sometimes Uncle Johnny can’t give her the medicine she needs, and those days are hard. She can’t work, so they don’t have any money for groceries, and until she gets a little better, it is Eddie who must take care of her. 

But that’s normal, right? She is his mum. He loves her and he takes care of her.

That’s why he learns quickly how to steal bread and fruits to feed both of them until she gets better and goes back to work, and then back to Uncle Johnny.

Eddie doesn’t like Uncle Johnny. He smells bad and is always too tactile with him. But Eddie has a knife. A pocket knife. His mum taught him how to use it. How to open it quickly and use it to stab someone in the stomach “It’s the softer part.” she has explained to him.

Eddie knows that his normality is not really normal, and knows that the social worker that has taken the cup of coffee from his mother’s hands but doesn't dare to drink it, is studying both of them.

“Do you go to school, Eddie?”

Eddie doesn’t even know if he is old enough to go to school but he lies easily, he tells her about schools, friends, and lunch breaks. All things that he learned from television.

The social worker doesn’t take notes but seems somehow satisfied with his answers.

His mum is so proud of him that she takes him to eat burgers and milkshakes in a seedy place next to their home, and it’s not even his birthday!

Eddie is the only kid, so he entertains himself by looking at the water leaking from the ceiling and counting the drops while his mum goes to the bathroom.

One.

Two.

Three.

He can’t really count after twenty so he starts again. And again. And again.

Someone screams and he keeps counting.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

One.

Two.

There is more screaming, his mum's burger is getting cold and a police car is parked outside of the diner.

He doesn’t like the police. They took away his dad and he has never seen him since.

One of the policemen gets closer to him.

“Hey, kid.”

He doesn’t respond. He is not supposed to talk to strangers, is he?

“Can you tell me your name?”

Fuck. He lost count. Now he has to start again.

One.

Two.

Three.

“His name is Eddie.” someone says from behind him “It’s Moira’s son.”

“Moira?” the policeman asks.

“The woman in the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

Eddie lifts his eyes, that’s not a good oh.

“Son. I’m sorry. Your mum… she is not feeling well. Why don't you come with me?”

No! They are not going to take him away as they did with his father.

He runs toward the bathroom, screaming “MUM!” he is so small that he easily avoids the adults who are trying to stop him, and gets into the bathroom.

His mum is on the floor, her eyes open and unfocused toward the door, red signs around her neck, and a syringe on the floor.

He will find out, years later, that Uncle Johnny gave her a dose and she didn’t have enough money to pay for it because they just had burgers and milkshakes, so he killed her in that lurid bathroom, but for the moment the only thing he knows is that his mum is gone.

He doesn’t know where, or how, but she is definitely not there.

***

Everything after that feels like a blur: one moment he is in the lurid bathroom and the next a man he has never seen before is taking him inside a trailer in a town he doesn’t know.

He said he is his uncle, but Eddie doesn’t like uncles, the last one he had killed his mother.

Thank god the little voices in his head arealways with him, whispering that everything will be alright, that he has his pocket knife hidden in his shoes, that if this strange man tries anything at all he will stab him in the stomach and run through the woods.

But the strange man never tries to touch him. 

He offers Eddie his room, he buys a Garfield’s mug just for him and some new clothes, and slowly the voice starts to fade in the back of his mind.

For the first time, he attends school. For real. 

He learns how to write his name and starts to write it everywhere, sometimes even on the trees with his pocket knife.

Wayne, that’s the name of the man he refuses to call uncle, doesn’t know that he has a knife. Adults don’t want kids to have them, Eddie doesn’t know why, so it’s a secret that he shares only with a kid he met at school.

His name is Garreth and he has a twin sister, a little miss-perfect with blond hair and blue eyes that easily capture everyone’s attention.

One time Eddie proposes to poke her with his knife, just a little. Just enough to make her cry.

Garreth thinks about it for a long moment but in the end, they decide that it’s not worth it. This is their secret and they don’t want to share it.

One afternoon, when Wayne is at work and they are playing in the woods, they cut their palm and shake hands, becoming blood brothers.

That’s the first real friendship that Eddie has ever had and it will last for years.

***

Garreth is the only one that gets him.

Everyone else avoids Eddie like he has the plague.

He tries to make friends with other kids, he even shares his secret showing his knife at recess to be cool, but the only effect is that the school calls Wayne who has to come to pick him up and scolds him for having such a dangerous tool. 

He will never see it again. 

The only thing that his mother left him, is gone.

The demons that live in his head, because now he knows that they are demons, not simple voices, are never satisfied. 

He smokes more and more, trying to shut them up.

He decides that if he has to be an outcast, he will be the fucking king of the outcast.

The goblin’s king.

He is not a freak. He is the freak.

Eddie the Freak Munson.

He is in a band, he is the DM for his little nerd group, and he doesn’t care if everyone at school despises him.

He is different from them.

He has demons, like all of them, but he knows their names.

His demons are fear, rejection, and loneliness, and he knows them well enough to give them just the right amount of leash.

People who don’t know their demons end up like his mum.

That’s why he is not too surprised when a blond cheerleader, the queen of Hawkins High, comes to his place to buy something stronger than weed.

He knows he should offer her friendship, it’s cheaper and it’s nicer.

He will, maybe not today.

He invites her to his place, and when they get there he starts to look around, searching for his little bag, when he notices that his demons are quieter than ever, like dogs scared of a bigger dog.

He turns.

Chrissy Cunningham is on the ceiling.

He screams her name, trying to bring her back from wherever she has gone, but deep inside he knows it’s too late. Her eyes are empty, like his mother’s. 

All he can do is run away from an invisible monster that’s hunting him.

He hears him call his name, as killing Chrissy was not enough for him, but Eddie is faster, he has lived on the streets, and he knows how to avoid problems and demons.

He runs toward the house of his dealer, hiding where he thinks no one will ever find him.

But he is wrong. There are voices. And people.

He tightens his grip on the broken bottle and gets ready to jump.

He has never felt so lost before.

He jumps, pushing the bottle at the neck of the intruder, a chestnut boy with wide eyes full of fear.

He sees the boy's demon in his eyes and lowers his makeshift weapon.

Eddie Munson may be a freak, but he is no murderer.

[justminawrites]

Where The Stars Collide - Chapter 2: Cana

AO3

Summary: Cana makes a bet. tw: Implied/referenced alcohol abuse; also general creepy drunk man behaviour (nothing that didn't happen in the anime)

prologue | 1 | 2 | TBC

Cana Alberona needed a drink. 

Something much much stronger than mead, and enough to really get her hammered. Cana had been drinking since noon– no she didn’t have a problem and it was just the lighter stuff really; that was until her dead friend returned and nearly sent her into the underworld with a bone-crushing embrace. 

“Cana!” Lisanna had squealed before jumping her, “It’s been so long!”

Cana had never been closer to quitting alcohol in her whole life. 

Visions were one thing but the friend she hadn’t seen in five years nearly choking her in a hug in front of the whole guild? Nope. She was never drinking mead, no— ale, rum, water– she was never drinking anything ever again. 

Cana sighed and absentmindedly twirled the empty goblet in her hand round and round. She should be happy. 

Natsu and the others rescued Lisanna from someplace called Edolas where magic was apparently non-existent, or something, Cana hadn’t been listening. She’d only managed to stomach about 3% of the reunion before putting aside her empty mead barrel, and hightailing it out of Fairy Tail. 

The rain accompanied her as she aimlessly wandered from bar-to-bar, only to have the door shut in her face each time; although Cana had garnered a fearsome reputation as a Fairy Tail member, nearly every bartender within a five mile radius had other reasons to be distrustful of the dark-haired wizard – namely her alcohol not-problem.

She’d finally sought refuge in a homely inn just on the outskirts of the city– the old innkeeper took pity when she’d seen the wizard slicked with rain, shivering in cobblestone alleyway – and forked over whatever jewels she had on her for a bed and another unsatisfying drink, but Cana’s monstrous thirst was particularly unquenchable tonight.

Motioning for another refill, she stared into her sad reflection as the mead slowly rippled into the goblet; finally reaching the conclusion that her sour mood probably had more to do with what Gramps said that very morning. 

The old man had pulled her aside to hand her a notice with the guild’s sigil stamped in the far right corner, and the unmistakable scrawl of Fairy Tail’s strongest wizard detailing his intent to return. Cana had dropped the paper in surprise. 

Gildarts Clive was coming.

“I wanted you to be the first to know,” Makarov had said, giving the top of her head a kind pat as she’d scrambled to pick up the paper with one hand and hide her tears with the other. After seven long years, her father was coming home. 

Cana spent the rest of the day in a daze, unable to read even her cards properly (though not for lack of trying) until she reverted to alcohol to take the edge off. But then Lisanna showed up and all the alcohol in the world couldn’t keep Cana’s world from falling apart around her.

Cana always thought she was good under pressure. Sure, she had her vices but who didn’t, right? She’d kept her worry for her guild mates during the Oracieon Seis debacle at bay, and even strong-armed her way through everything that happened with Laxus and the Thunder Palace. The only time she lost her cool was when– 

“Wake up! Why don’t you admire your handiwork ya traitor! You’re patheti–“

Cana sucked her teeth guiltily, recalling Gray’s drooping shoulders, the hardness on his face as Daphne and her Dragonoid terrorised the city. 

She should’ve trusted him, the boy she’d grown up with would never have betrayed his guild for any reason, but Magnolia had only just recovered from a certain lightning dragonslayer’s reckless threats weeks prior and Cana had been looking for someone, anyone, to blame. They’d never expected– she’d never expected to fight Laxus; Laxus was as much her family as Natsu and Erza. As Gray.

It was though the universe had quite literally flipped on its head; her family were becoming enemies at the drop of a hat, while their enemies were being treated like family – and though she would forever be indebted to Juvia for her willingness to fight with Fairy tail, Cana wondered what Gramps was thinking when he let Gajeel in– after all he did to Lucy, to Levy. 

Suffice to say she’d been looking for an emotional punching bag to relieve her of all that betrayal, and Gray’s unwarranted alliance with Daphne was the icing on the whipped cream of crap that’d become her life. She’d tried to apologise, in her own way, but Gray just waved it off – somehow that hurt more than if he’d never forgiven her at all.

He had a right to be angry. After all, if anyone should’ve known better, if anyone should’ve trusted him irrationally, it should’ve been her. Especially after everything they’d been through.

Cana blinked to see her tumbler once again painfully empty, and the sour taste of mead coating the back of her throat. She sighed; dredging up the past wouldn’t do either of them any good now. And it certainly wouldn’t stop her father from returning. 

“Why hello there, pretty lady.”

Ugh. Cana’s lips curled distastefully as a man pulled up a barstool beside her and the sickly sweet croon of flirting trickled into her ear. Normally, she would jump at the opportunity to stuff down her emotions with drunk sex but she was hardly drunk and with the sloppy smile her neighbour was giving her, she doubted he was any good at the latter.

“No thanks,” she grunted, shifting away from him imperceptibly, the creak of her wooden chain echoing into the empty bar. 

“Now, hold on a minute,” He scooted closer, the sweaty musk of some undoubtedly cheap perfume-oil pinching at her nose, “Don’t tell me you intend to keep all that lovely mead to yourself.”

“Why not?” She retorted, clutching the barrel protectively, “I paid for it.”

“Haven’t you heard of the saying that a drink has never tasted sweeter than the one you share it with?”

Cana rolled her eyes and turned to face him. This was her first proper look at the intruding man, and if she were in any better mood she’d have to admit she’d have slept with him without a second thought. Broad-shouldered, well-muscled, dark-hair, significantly older than her; it was like checking off a list. 

“I’m Bacchus,” he gave her another saccharine smile when he noticed her sizing him up, “Often compared to the god of wine in my hometown.”

Cana snorted. 

“Is that right?” 

“I assure you,” he moved closer and motioned to her mead barrel, “–no one’s been able to beat me at a drinking contest yet.”

Cana found that hard to believe- despite his reservations, the man looked like a lightweight if she’d ever seen one. All brawn and no brains; they were usually the quickest to fall.

“I’m a member of Quatro Cerberus,” Bacchus continued, “I take it you’ve heard of us.”

“Nope,” She retorted, shifting away again in the hopes that he would get the hint and just leaver her the hell alone.

“We seem to have got off on the wrong foot,” he refused to tale the hint, “–why don’t we make a bet?”

Cana had a pretty good idea where this was going.

“You want to try and out-drink me?” 

The idea was so ludicrous she might’ve laughed in his face if she were any less wary. 

Now there weren’t many things Cana was proud of, but her wild teenage years had blessed her with an ironclad liver and a tolerance so high she’d have to toe the line between alcohol poisoning and death to really have a good night out. She was the reason there was a law in Magnolia stating bartenders were required to cut-off Fairy Tail wizards after their fifth barrel. 

“No,” Bacchus held out his hand for her to shake, “I want you to try to out-drink me.”

If it were any other night, she would’ve got up and left by now. Normally she had no patience for arrogant asses who seemed determined to make fools of themselves but the thought of going back to the guild hall and facing everyone, facing Lisanna – Lisanna who hadn’t been there for the last five years; who hadn’t seen just how much of her grief Cana had chosen to drink away; Lisanna who’d stayed the exact same, bright-eyed and beautiful while her own heart shrunk unto itself – seemed even more unbearable. 

“Fine,” she held out her hand hesitantly, seeing the dark glint in Bacchus’ eyes, “–what’re we betting on?”

“Just each other’s company,” He grinned, squeezing it, “But there’s a catch.”

She raised an eyebrow as Bacchus reached into the folds of his shiny purple, beetle-esque armour to pull out two metal flasks of liquid and held one out to her. Cana looked at him quizzically.

“Lotus-wine,” He explained, uncorking one with the flick of his finger, “A specialty where I’m from. I find mead to be too light for my stomach.”

Cana knew her alarm bells should be going off right now but the smell of the lotus-wine was strangely intoxicating in its newness, and the restlessness she’d been feeling all night was momentarily satiated by the unfamiliarity.

“I hope you’re ready to lose.” 

Bacchus only nodded, watching her hungrily. Fingers closing around the flask, Cana tipped her head back and swallowed. 

She was floating.

The wine had a vaguely sweet, berry-like flavour but everytime she tried to narrow down the offending fruit, it slipped off the tip of her tongue and sent her careening into a memory she’d desperately been trying to avoid. 

She scrabbled at her lucidity for purchase as her vision blurred and tilted, the amber glow of the bar lights and poignant purple of her partner’s armour bleeding into one another to create the reddish-brown hue of her father’s hair.

And suddenly, Cana was in a memory.

It was the winter of X778; she remembers it well because it was the day she’d decided to tell Gildarts the truth. 

She was his daughter. 

It was Cana’s most well-kept secret, something she hadn’t dared to say out loud even to herself (in case she might bring about a stray jinx), and not a soul at Fairy Tail suspected as much. The only two people who knew were the ones it was impossible to hide anything from, namely Gramps, and the one friend she’d chosen to tell in confidence, Gray Fullbuster. 

(Natsu found out by accident but Cana managed to convince him that the reason she and Gildarts smelled alike was because they’d both been cursed by a pixie and he could at no point bring it up with his mentor or the curse would become permanent.)

Cana wore her best dress, and rehearsed her lines over and over: “Cornelia Alberona was my mother. She fell sick and told me to find you before she died. I came to Fairy Tail to find you, Dad.”

She’d even consulted the cards, and they guaranteed that today would be the most auspicious day to receive news about long-lost family. Nothing could possibly go wrong. 

Cana woke up bright and early, and waited in the guild hall at a quarter-past-ten: that was when Gildarts and Natsu usually returned from their training. (In hindsight, she was far more jealous of Natsu than she’d let on, after all, Gildarts may have been a great mentor but he was her father first). 

Sure enough, the two burst in through a random wall, arm-in-arm, faces mirroring a devious grin, despite Natsu’s sporting a purple bruise that would disappear by lunchtime. 

“Hello, there!” Gildarts greeted her the way he always did, one arm on her head to ruffle her hair, and a gentle smile. No more, no less. She often wondered wether it was wrong for her to ask for more. 

“Uhm– I–“ Cana stumbled over her words, her mind suddenly blank as the most powerful wizard in  Fairy Tail paused and looked back expectantly, waiting for to continue. The words Cornelia.. sick.. find.. Dad.. all tangled up in her throat and what came out instead was,

“I’m Dad– don’t become sick, you might find Cornelia too!”

Gildarts looked at her bemusedly, but before could open his mouth to ask what the heck she’d meant by that, Natsu tugged at his cape so hard, he ripped a piece right off and went flying into a wooden bench. 

“Ow!” The pink-haired boy whined, rubbing his head before earning a sharp smack from Erza on the exact same spot and rushing to hide from the “Monster" behind his mentor. Gildarts picked him up, momentarily forgetting her blunder (forgetting her), and hoisted the little dragonslayer onto his shoulders, who for his part, spent the next ten minutes crowing about his newfound vantage point by taunting his redheaded adversary.

Cana sighed. Guess today wasn’t the right day after all. 

“What’re you moping about,” a dark-haired boy interrupted her wistful mumbling, “I can see your sappiness from all they way over there.”

Cana felt her mood lighten as she looked up into equally dark eyes, now flickering with concern.

“And I can see your underwear,” She snickered, having the pleasure of seeing is face go from stoic to horrified in a matter of seconds. Once Gray had located his pants, and Cana had set up her impromptu fortune-telling booth on one of the bar tables, he joined her in keeping watch over the rest of the guild’s shenanigans.

The two of them had drifted together, against all odds, by being excluded from the rest of their guild since they were still children. They wouldn’t be invited to missions or after-parties and hence ended up around the guild-hall with nothing much to do. Cana hadn’t wanted to be friends at first,  the clothes-stripping weirdo was the last person she’d seek out voluntarily, but over the years, found that she hadn’t minded his company. And it seemed to be mutual.

“So, did you tell him?” Gray asked, crossing his arms over his shiny, new guild-mark. Envy shone in Cana’s eyes but she tried her level best not to stare.

“How did you get Gramps to approve the guild-mark,” Cana said instead, “I thought you need to be at least 17 to be a licensed wizard in Magnolia.”

“Ah, this?” He puffed up his chest, pride shining out of every 12-year-old cell in his body, “He said I was ready to have mine.”

“You begged him didn’t you,” She suppressed a smile as Gray’s shoulders went taught.

“Did not,” He sniped, but watched quietly as she laid out the blue deck of oracle cards in front of her in neat lines. 

“Did you steal the guild-stamp then?” Cana was only joking but when she saw Gray absentmindedly rubbing the silver cross necklace around his neck (a tell), she gasped, sending a few cards scattering over the wooden floorboards.

“You did!”

“Not on purpose! Natsu dared me to do it!”

“That IS on purpose, you idiot!” Cana groaned and put her head in her hands; when Gramps heard about this they’d all be in trouble. Natsu, Erza, even Lisanna! When one of them was in trouble, all of them were: Fairy Tail motto through and through. And Laxus would give ‘em all hell for it.

“Yeah, yeah, they’ll never know,” Gray shrugged off her nagging and bent over to pick up the fallen cards.

"Sure,” She rolled her eyes, “I bet you can’t keep your clothes on for more than 10 minutes!”

“My clothes ARE on!”

“For NOW!”

“What’s all this about clothes now?” 

Cana only just kept herself from gasping out loud as Gildarts’ rumbling voice interrupted their tiff; the wizard then bent over to pick up the final card and lay it on top of the wooden bar table: The Emperor .

Even Gray fell quiet at the sight of the man, awestruck by the raw magical energy that seemed to fill the room with his presence even before he arrived. Gildarts knelt to be eye-level with the children and smiled.

“Now, I remember you trying to tell me something little-miss,” he said kindly, looking at Cana. 

“Are you sure you have to leave so soon?” Master Makarov interrupted scurrying at Gildarts’ heels, before she could open her mouth. 

“I’m afraid so, Master,” he replied, his face taking on a hardened edge Cana hadn’t seen before, “The beast is too cunning to be slain by normal means; only brute force will work.”

Master Makarov gave a deep sigh and squeezed his guild member’s shoulder.

“Remember what I said to you earlier,” Makarov’s voice took on an almost threatening tone, “–you will always have family here.”

Cana watched their back an forth in confusion, suddenly clapping her hands together as an idea came to her.

“I can read your fortune!” She said excitedly, reshuffling The Emperor card into the blue deck in front of her. 

Makarov and Gildarts exchanged a look. 

“I haven’t heard those words in a long time,” Gildarts said finally, turning back to her, “– tell me, little girl, was your mother a fortune-teller too?”

“Yes! Corn– uh– cornfields! She used to work in the cornfields in the countryside which is where she learned to read..”

Gray shook his head as if to say ‘smooth.’

“I- uh- I see,” Gildarts nodded awkwardly like what she’d said made perfect sense.

“Anyway,” Cana tried to move on from the hiccup, “Just give me a second.” 

She closed her eyes and focused on the small, paper panels of the cards, the runes inscribed onto them and breathe in, breathe out, breath in...

Cana held in a grin as she heard Gray catching his breath at the new party trick she’d learnt specially to impress her father. The cards had begun to glow a faint blue, and float around her in gentle circular patterns with three main ones flipping over to tell the fortune. 

She opened her eyes, pleased to find both Gildarts and Gramps clapping obediently, while Gray’s expression had already soured.

“What does it say?” Gildarts prompted.

“You’ll finish the mission very quickly and be back home in a jiffy!” Cana affirmed. The S-class wizard laughed then, gently ruffling her hair again, before taking his leave. A spark of what felt like panic seized her chest, all of a sudden.

“Let’s hope you’re right little–“

“Cana.”

“Hm?” He turned in confusion.

“My name’s Cana. Cana Alberona.” She said matter-of-factly, waiting to see a glimpse of recognition in Gildarts’s impenetrable gaze.

“Well, then,” He smiled knowingly, “Let’s hope you’re right Little Cana Alberona.”

And then her father was gone. 

Cana felt herself drift back into the present reluctantly; that hadn’t been the entire memory, there was still more that happened after Gildarts left, but she found herself dipping in and out of the current like a leaf, until it completely swept her back onto shore, back into the ochre glow of the inn on the outskirts of Magnolia.

Cana found that though she’d regained consciousness, the lotus-wine had quite literally swept her off her feet; she was lying on the wooden floorboard, at the foot of her barstool, objectively and inexcusably drunk. 

Her pride was more wounded than she was. This is what the great Cana Alberona had been reduced to? For shame.

The memory had left her feeling light-headed, so much so that she didn’t notice Bacchus leaning over her curled up frame in triumph, holding what looked like a turquoise-blue flag. 

“Looks like I win,” he crooned, waving the flag in front of her eyes, “Guess I’ll be taking this as a trophy, pretty lady.”

Cana didn’t think much of it, the aftermath of the wine and memories demanded she sleep it off, even here, on the inn’s wooden floorboards; until she turned to fold unto herself and made the shocking revelation that her bra was missing. 

Her.. Bra.. Was.. 

Oh that wasn’t a turquoise flag he was waving in her face, it was her– 

Cana’s eyes flashed open, arms protectively clutching at her naked chest; just in time to see the door swing open and Bacchus’s big, broad-shouldered frame fly backwards and hit the wall with a sickening crack of broken bone.

Gray Fullbuster stood at the entrance, his dark eyes flashing with unbridled rage. 

Next Chapter ->

[hinamie]

mentor

[hellishattempt]

gojo's undercut this, gojo's undercut that

why is nobody talking about nanami's undercut

PLEASE SIR I JUST NEED FIVE MINUTES

[rapidhighway]

more.

[illiaccrest]

Based on what the subtle dialog in his backstory implies about what the slave masters used him for...I can't bring myself to imagine Aventurine as being totally normal about intimacy...😩

[chloesimaginationthings]

Guilt will follow Michael in every FNAF universe..

[gremnda]

Hello Ethubs nation :]

no text version

[bebx]

[zosanbrainrot]

part 2 of Zoro in WCI

01 02 03 04 05 06

I tried to write something to sum up my thoughts on this, but then it got longer and longer and tbh I'm itching to write a fic set in this AU djjdkf I think I could develop on their inner feelings more than in the comic form

Before posting the first part I didn't realize people had such strong opinions on how this would play out lmaooo

imo, of course Zoro wants to fight Sanji, not with actual intent to harm (they threaten each other on the daily, come on), but because that's how they are together, how they communicate. He respects Luffy's decisions and their goal here, which is to learn what's really going on with Sanji, but he's gonna be pissy about it all he wants. They both have so many intense and conflicted feelings about this and neither has any idea how to resolve them. So they fight.

ofc yall are free to headcanon this interaction any other way you want <333

[hoonatic]

emergency contact | park sunghoon x reader

prompt: weeks after your breakup, sunghoon finds out that he’s still your emergency contact. pairing: non-idol sunghoon x implied female reader genre: angst with hopeful/happy? ending; second chance romance??; exes to lovers??? word count: 2800 note: i’ve had a cute fic idea that i wanted to write forever…but this is not it. the sad demons have visited me once again. hope y’all enjoy nevertheless and any feedback is much appreciated <3

sunghoon was miserable. 

it had been three weeks, five days, two hours, and thirty-two minutes since the two of you had gone no contact.

he wished he could say he was happy to be single, that he was no longer “locked down” and “whipped” as his friends had always called him. but the so-called “freedom” felt like hell since it meant losing you.

at first, he kept telling himself that time would heal the pain. “it’s natural,” he had repeated like a mantra, “she was your best friend and lover for years.” but no, this heartbreak was inhumane. his desire to see you, apologize endlessly, and spend days holding you until you could feel every ounce of his love was gnawing at his soul. if anything, it got worse by the minute.

he had tried so hard to balance work and the rest of his life, using the excuse several times that he was securing this future for your shared life with him. that one day, you’d be able to reap the rewards of his efforts and live comfortably together without stress.

but what was the use of all of that now? the future he had worked so hard to create was ripped out from his hands by no one other than himself. 

you had accused him of being too busy for you. dates canceled at the last minute, a birthday forgotten, and all the texts left on read had built up to the argument that ended it all. he was always good at fighting, a little too good. he had retorted that you weren’t being supportive, and he was never one to sugarcoat his words. his tongue was sharp, and he did nothing to dull its blade.

but there wasn’t too much yelling on your part, and he thought that that hurt more. he wanted you to fight back, to stand your ground because he knew deep down that he was being the asshole. his toxic thought was that by you fighting back, this meant that you were still fighting for your relationship. but instead, you just stared with silent tears and a blank expression. seeing the indifference in eyes that had previously held so much love was a sight that would stay with him forever. so, in fear of you leaving, he ran instead.

he was a coward, leaving your shared home to run back to the apartment he had still technically owned but hadn’t lived in for more than a year. he locked himself away for a few days, but the realization that you hadn’t attempted to contact him burned more than he could put into words. you were done with him. he had hurt you, had the audacity to be the one to run, and now he had lost you.

he had even run from his job. he couldn’t stand to walk into the same building he stayed in when he forgot dates with you. his coworkers wouldn’t stop asking what happened to him, why he looked so rough. he even found an empty container that had once held lunch you made for him. but his final straw was getting promoted. his first instinct was to call you, but he remembered the sad truth before he could dial. any ounce of pride was washed away with shame in that moment. that same day, he quit without notice.

so there he was: miserable, alone, and unemployed with nothing left to run from but memories. he had spent the last week going through his phone and saving your pictures together in a locked album. he wouldn’t dare delete them, but he couldn’t stomach looking at you either.

he wished he could get drunk and sleep away the pain. he had tried, he definitely did - but that night, he dreamt of you. you were smiling at first, eyes ever full of love. you were speaking, yet he couldn’t hear you. but he could see how your words started to gradually look sadder, and slowly, tears started to fall as your grin dropped. he woke up that next morning crying with the conclusion that he would have to face this heartbreak sober.

but another day of scrolling through albums had stopped abruptly when he saw the notification that changed everything.

SOS i called emergency services from this approximate location after my watch detected a hard fall. you are receiving this message because i have you listed as my emergency contact.

sunghoon had to remind himself to breathe.

he had purchased that watch for you as a “just because” present months ago. you had complained of bad sleep and he wanted you to use it as a way to track your slumber. he hated seeing you tired. he knew that the watch had a fall detection function, but it had never been used before.

his heart was in his stomach as he went to his favorite contacts page and selected your name for the first time in weeks.

“please,” he begged, all notion of running away from you leaving his brain, “pick up please.”

but you just weren’t answering. so he tried again and again and again.

for a moment while the line attempted to connect, he wondered if this was how he had made you feel for months - desperate for a sliver of attention from him. but instead, he was desperate for a sign of life.

finally, after about two minutes of trying to reach you, his body moved of its own accord. before he knew it, his car keys were in his hands and he was out the door.

the car ride there might have been the worst part. the speed at which he drove at almost defied the laws of physics. other drivers were cursing at him but he wasn’t registering anything except the thought of your safety. he just needed to get to you.

why did he run? why didn’t he try to talk it out? if he was so afraid of losing you, why did he do the one thing that would guarantee that? he should have been there like he promised to be from the beginning. you would have been safe with him.

when he pulled up to the house you had shared for so long, he suddenly felt the world slow down. why were emergency services there? you should’ve canceled them by now.

he had to double park as the ambulance was blocking the driveway. why were they here?

the emts and police had arrived at the same time as him, which both increased his anxiety and soothed him. for one, that meant he had been quick enough. but why did you need them?

“sir, do you know–” an officer had approached him as he stumbled to the front door. all he could understand was your name. why were they asking if he knew you? of course he knew you. you, the love of his life. you, his soulmate by every meaning of the word. you were you. and you were safe.

as if sensing his distress, he felt an emt worker pull him to the side as the same officer prepared to break down the door. seeing this, sunghoon finally returned to his senses.

“w-wait! sorry, i have a key.” sunghoon’s hands were shaking. the only way that door had unlocked was by pure muscle memory because he didn’t understand what he was doing at all.

as soon as the door opened, sunghoon tried to step in. finally, he was close to you. 

the officer, however, pulled him back.

“sir, you should wait here. we need to make an initial search before you can go in.”

“what, why? if she’s in there, i want to see–”

“sir, it’s just in case we find something we wouldn’t want you to see.”

all of sunghoon’s hesitation and fear went out the window at those words. his body flew automatically as he ran inside.

he screamed your name as he rushed in, ignoring the yells of the police officers who followed him in. as it had been for almost four weeks, his only thought was you. he just needed you.

he checked the ground floor first, eyes scanning the open space in less than a second as his body avoided an officer trying to grab him. sunghoon then moved to the staircase, long legs prepared to skip steps to reach you. then suddenly, he heard the voice his ears had been longing for,

“sunghoon?!”

his head shot up. there you were, finally. he saw the sadness, confusion, and fear all flash your face as you registered the emergency workers behind him. you looked exhausted and unruly, but he had never felt more in love.

he didn’t even remember climbing the steps, but suddenly he was at the top of the staircase and you were in his arms. 

you could feel him trembling as he held you. you took his face into your hands to look at him, “sunghoon? what’s wrong? why are you here? is it my parents? is someone hurt?” you watched as his mouth opened but no words came out. after a few seconds, one of the officers spoke from the bottom of the steps,

“ma’am, we received an alert from your device that a hard fall had occurred.”

suddenly, you understood everything. taking sunghoon’s hand gently, you led him down the stairs, afraid he’d fall from shock. he followed you silently, but his grip tightened seemingly with every step.

that’s when you noticed your shattered watch on the third step.

you let sunghoon go and you could hear his deep breath when you did. you picked up the watch and offered it up to the officer as an explanation, “i’m sorry officer, it looks like there’s been a misunderstanding…”

the officer nodded in understanding, and dismissed the emts, “got it, ma’am. we will still need a formal report for our records since this was registered as an emergency call.” he motioned to your couch as he took out a pen and paper.

you reached for sunghoon’s hand once more and led him to sit with you. in the moment, you knew he needed you more than you would ever understand. so, as you explained to the officer, you held his trembling hand, rubbing soothing circles with your thumb.

“i was doing laundry here downstairs and had taken off my watch to prevent it from getting wet,” you recounted, “i put it on top of the basket of clothes that i took upstairs. i remember tripping a little going up the stairs - i didn’t fall, but that must’ve been when the watch fell."

"what about your phone, where is it? i'm sure your boyfriend must've tried to call you."

sunghoon slowly nodded at that, turning to look at you. you smiled sheepishly, "i left it upstairs and it was on silent while i folded the clothes. i’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

after finishing up your statement, the remaining officer prepared to leave. as he walked out the door, he gave a soft smile to the both of you,

“glad to see it was a false alarm, ma’am. you had this gentleman quite worried - ran so fast i couldn’t even grab him!” the officer laughed, “you two have a nice day now! sorry about your watch, though!”

after he shut your door, the silence enveloped your home. you closed your eyes and breathed deeply to prepare to speak to your ex-boyfriend. but as soon as you opened them, sunghoon started to cry softly.

he hugged you tighter than he ever had, and soon enough, his face was buried in your neck. his cries were silent, but you could feel his body shaking as his tears soaked your shirt.

“sunghoon…” you started, stroking his back, “i’m sorry i worried you, honey.”

you knew you shouldn’t be calling your ex pet names, especially an ex that had run from you without properly ending the relationship. but your heart still held so much love for him that it flowed out naturally. and you knew he was crying from more than just worry, so you doubt he minded at all in the moment.

his crying slowed down as his arms took to loosely wrapping around your waist instead. he pulled away from your neck to rest his forehead on yours. from this angle, you could see his swollen eyes and red nose - a sight so rare in all the years you had dated. he was never a crier after all.

but memories of several late-night conversations rushed your mind. he always said his number one fear was your death, and now you could see he had never lied about that.

he could see your mind go elsewhere so he called your name softly, “don’t say you’re sorry. i’m so happy, these are relieved tears. and i just really, really missed you.” he croaked out. you knew he had more to say, so you just nodded, letting him go on.

“and i’m sorry, baby. for everything. i shouldn’t have run, i shouldn’t have tried to egg you on to fight me back. i shouldn’t have even fought anything you said that night. you were right. i didn’t prioritize you. in my attempt to secure you for life, i let you go instead. i’m so sorry, i never wanted to break up.” he was rambling in earnest now, afraid that no words would make you take him back.

you listened quietly as he went on for a few minutes after that, hand continuing to rub his back, “i know honey, i know.”

“baby, you need to understand that i almost died thinking you almost died today,” you could’ve laughed at how dramatically he spoke, “i couldn’t breathe right thinking that our last conversation could’ve been an argument. that you wouldn't have ever known just how deeply i love you and need you. i have so much regret for how i treated you, but if you’d give me the chance, i have all the time in the world to make it up to you…let’s go on that vacation i promised you. we can leave tomorrow if you’d like.” he smiled hopefully at you.

“hoon,” his heart soared at the use of his beloved nickname, “what do you mean? don’t you have work? can you really leave with such short notice?”

“i quit my job.”

“excuse me?”

“no job that made me work that much is worth it. i’ll find one with better work-life balance…after our vacation. if that’s what you still want of course…” he spoke more quietly, as if afraid of rejection.

you sighed. you really should be realistic with this - you two had been broken up for a few weeks at that point. you knew the love was still there, but was this a good decision?

while there was still some hesitation on your part, you couldn't help but notice how gingerly he held you. his arms were still around your waist loosely, yet there was something desperate about their hold. you knew he was holding back from hurting you - you could tell how tightly he wanted to hug you.

he was so shaken up at the idea of you being hurt that he rushed over there despite the two of you not being on speaking terms. for someone who had trouble communicating how he felt sometimes, you knew his actions spoke louder than words. he always acted brave, but there was so much he feared. and you knew losing you was always at the top of this list.

you could also feel how he was simply soaking in the sight of your face. his eyes were shy, yet determined. he wasn't going to risk missing another second of staring at you. a part of you grew conscious, but you knew he was just taking in what he had missed for weeks.

“what about…” you started and almost giggled at how he perked up, “we take it slow - another two weeks or so to talk everything out and relax? to get us to a good place again before you hold me hostage in some foreign country?”

sunghoon smiled softly, kissing your forehead. you leaned in naturally to his warmth, to his touch that you missed so much. “that sounds like a great idea, love.” he spoke, “we’ll get you a new watch too. and i’ll do all the itinerary planning and packing whenever you’re ready, okay? i love you.”

“okay. and i love you too. can’t wait to enjoy your unemployment with you for now!”

one smile and nod from you had him taking you into his arms once more, relishing in your being. he was back where he belonged. he had experienced the scariest reminder ever that he needed you, and sunghoon was never letting you go now.

[bluegiragi]

human.

early access + nsfw on patreon

more backstory that i wrote up for patreon heh:

Simon and Tommy had a complicated relationship as brothers. 

At a young age, Simon basically wrote himself off as a lost cause, and did the best he could to make sure at least Tommy had a chance to be a functioning human being. After all, Tommy was the gentler brother, the dreamer, the one who looked like their mother (who'd walked out on them years ago to escape their father). But Tommy got bitter, got sick of the one always being protected, being babied. He lost respect for Simon, for the way he wouldn't fight back, and in a twisted way, grew closer to his father as a way to learn how to be powerful, strong. It backfired, and Tommy got wrapped up in some bad business.

Simon's kid brother died while he was deployed. He got the news in the letter, and it broke him in a big way. In the story timeline, it was years and years ago but it still hurts like hell whenever Simon thinks about him. 

[satoruxx]

you fiddle with your nails as you walk home at tooru's side, the sounds of mattsun, makki, and iwa bickering further up ahead cutting through the empty streets. you’re uncharacteristically nervous, because god knows you’ve never done something like this before—but you steel yourself because it’s worth it for him.

your feelings for oikawa tooru are all consuming—strong and deep and intense. they’ve been brewing for well over two years now, nourished by the increased amount of time you’ve spent with him. they overwhelm you, washing over your being with an intensity you’ve never felt before, and they drive you to stick by his side for as long as you can—desperate and aching for the boy who puts the stars in your sky.

you know that timing is important because tooru is nothing if not driven—singularly focused on the sport that gives him the air he needs to breathe. so you wait until well after his match with karasuno, giving your all to support him and the rest of the team because volleyball has become important to you after spending so much time with them. you give it time, wait until after the team has taken the time to lament over their missed chance, and after all the third years are ready to move on to the next phase of their lives, before you finally decide to spill your guts to him.

tooru stares ahead as he’s walking, pensive and unsmiling, and you’re dying to know what’s going on in his head. his eyes are bright, a contrast to his expression, and there’s a resolute glint in his irises that has you feeling oddly shaken. when you reach his house, the rest of the group waves back at him before continuing on, and you realize this is your chance.

so, dangerously, you put your heart on the line.

you tell him everything you've ever thought about him—how you admire his drive and his passion, how you have looked up to him for years and years. how you have never felt so deeply for someone before knowing him. it comes out in a rushed ramble of words, all those nights of practicing in the mirror doing nothing for you in the actual moment. you stumble a few times, your face getting warmer with every word, and yet as each sentence falls forth you feel a weight lift from your shoulders—the flesh of your lungs clatter against your ribs, anxious and eager.

tooru inhales, gaze darting between your eyes and then flitting downwards. even in the dark of the night, you can see the pinkish hue crawling up his neck, can see the way he fidgets with his own fingers. he stares at you, lips parted as a wide array of emotions flit over his handsome features—they finally settle into a strange combination of apologetic and resigned.

and then he tells you no.

he tells you that volleyball will always take precedence, that he has already mapped out his future, which is too far away from you. he tells you about argentina and how his mind is made up. he tells you that he's flattered, that he's glad you're friends but that's all he can do right now.

“i'm sorry,” he says with a grimace. he studiously avoids looking at you, but you can't stop staring at him—your stomach sinks as he turns to head inside.

it takes you months to muster up the courage to tell him. it takes him two minutes to say no to you.

the rejection stings in a way that is unfamiliar, and you take a shaky breath as you walk down the street to catch up with the others.

the humiliation makes itself known in the form of a painful lump in your throat—unmoving and heavy. when you glance up you see that the third years have hung back, waiting for you. makki is wearing a knowing grin, but it falters when he sees your expression. mattsun, ever observant, seems to immediately understand, and he wordlessly slings an arm over your shoulder.

all you can do is awkwardly chuckle, knowing that it sounds weak and throaty as you shake your head. “i feel stupid,” you admit, voice wobbling as heat burns through your skin—unpleasant and unwelcome.

“you're not stupid,” makki mutters, hands shoved deep in his pockets as his lips slant regretfully. you stare at the ground, nodding slowly under the weight of mattsun's arm. your lungs ache, and you know that if you open your mouth, you will lose it entirely. so all you can manage to do is look up at iwa with glassy eyes and trembling lips and a rueful smile that probably makes you look as pathetic as you feel.

you don't notice the way his fists are clenched at his sides, nails digging indents into his palms. he grits his teeth, gaze flitting to oikawa's house in the background, but he doesn't say anything.

none of them speak as they walk you home, and you try your best to keep the sniffles to a minimum, too embarrassed to look at them.

you've never felt pain like this before, and it's hard to get over it because everything reminds you of tooru. it's like someone has taken a knife and carved into your ribcage, grasping your heart before taking it out crushing it between bloodied fingers. but even despite the gaping hole in your chest you know that there are expectations to be met, things to be done.

that's the strange thing about your silly unrequited love—it hurts and hurts and hurts some more until it stops one day before you can realize it. even though your chest is still bleeding you go on with life—you go to university, you get a job, you pay bills. you get up in the morning and brush your hair and drink water and tie your shoes until the wound closes itself up. you start smiling a little wider and laughing a little freer until oikawa tooru is nothing more than an old name.

and of course there are instances where you are reminded of him and what could've been, whether it's seeing milk bread in a supermarket or passing by children hitting a volleyball over a net out in the sun. you know very well that your friends are occasionally still in contact with their old captain, not that this bothers you. after all, mattsun, makki, and iwa were very careful not to bring him up around you, which you're grateful for. so even hearing the name in passing becomes easier.

it is difficult until it isn't anymore.

you've all but forgotten him now, after years and years and years—nothing more than a distant memory.

so imagine the sinking feeling of dread pooling in your stomach when you walk into the restaurant on makki's birthday and see oikawa tooru sitting at the bar, drink in hand. his eyes are alight as he laughs at whatever conversation he's joined, dark hair falling into his eyes messily.

one step forward, ten steps back.

for a second you can't help but stare, breath stolen from your lungs because it feels like the knife is back and twisting itself into your flesh all over again. there is a panic rising in your throat, suffocating and overwhelming and jarring.

tooru lifts his glass to his lips, hiding his grin as his gaze lazily travels over the expanse of the room.

another surge of panic. the familiar sting of humiliation.

he pauses as he's about to take a sip, brown eyes widening when they land on you, and you see the sharp inhale he takes. his stare doesn't waver, too consumed by shock to look away.

and yet that's all you can do—tear your eyes away because you're different now and it's long gone and you know there is no point in going down that rabbit hole again.

it was a lifetime ago—it's done now.

but you will never know how long tooru thought of you after that night back in high school. you will never know that he felt sick to his stomach when he saw the way your face fell at his rejection. you will never know that he bit his tongue so hard it bled as he watched you walk away from him. you will never know that he spent countless nights in argentina wondering what you were up to and how you were. you will never know that sacrificing you for his beloved sport was the hardest thing he's ever done.

so imagine the sinking feeling of dread tooru feels when he sees the way your eyes light up as you find your way over to iwa's side.

@teddybeartoji this is for you mickey ily hehehehehe

[hinamie]

to moving forward

[allykatsart]

The Fall of Joy

Masterpost

An idea that I pray does not happen. I stg Emily better be safe and happy these next two episodes-

Hypothetical Fallen Angel Emily! Because this angst would not leave my brain. It hurts to leave heaven, but she won't be alone. If Emily was cast from heaven, I think the hotel would welcome her with open arms...

Commission me

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot angst [18+]

title. let me be free of you

He would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you.

ᰔ pairing. friends to strangers au - best friend!gojo x reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru, your love of a lifetime, tells you he’s engaged to another woman. inspired by the novel & netflix series “one day” created by david nicholls

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, angst, mentions of sex/explicit content, coming of age themes, reader & gojo are in their 30s, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of alcohol, cheating, lots of mutual pining & longing, bittersweet ending

ᰔ word count. 4.8k

a/n. hellooo! i've had this finished in my wips folder for a long time but never got around to posting it sooo just wanted to let it see the light of day haha. hope you enjoyyy <33

➸ masterlist

“I’m engaged.”

The words leave Gojo’s lips as much less of a confession and more like a blabber, like a toddler desperate to keep conversation going in the face of a disinterested adult. Wasn’t how he expected to share the news of a lifetime to the love of his lifetime, but he hopes it breaks your heart to hear it. 

He watches your eyebrows flatten from the crease that was bothering them before, and then slowly raise into soft arches above your eyes–those damn beautiful eyes that, even when they twinkle with hurt, still make his heart skip a beat in his chest.

He recalls for a moment the night the two of you met, drunk and dizzy from drinking out of a shared bottle of Prosecco, which only had half of the liquor left in it to start when he had first found it bleeding out to dry on the grassy lawn at the front of your university. It was graduation night, the last day to celebrate finishing four years of hell, and he had nothing to his name other than a rolled up diploma shoved in the pocket of his suit pants and the charm left in the youth of his smile. He wanted to spend the night with Aiko Rei, which was not a unique desire as most men on campus did, and he had a fair shot of getting into bed with her just like all those times before. But instead he was sitting at the top of a staircase inside the campus’s English literature building, making history in the crisp year of 1986 by being the first man of the robust age of twenty-three to pass up sex with the school’s lady heartthrob for–well, conversation with a sort of ditsy girl that he just met a half hour ago.

“What do you plan to do with your life?” he heard you ask him, a hard enough question to stomach when one is sober, and an impossible question to stomach when one is already trying not to puke flat Prosecco.

“Pardon?” he asked, in hopes to dissuade you from the question. In hopes that you’d get the hint. But you don’t. And he’d soon learn throughout the years of your friendship to come that you never did.

“Your life!” you exclaim, “we’re graduates now! What do you want to do with it?” You pat harshly at his thigh, closer to his groin than to his pocket, most likely because you’re tipsy too, but he realizes you’re referring to the rolled up paper protruding at the pocket. 

Truthfully, Gojo had never thought much about what he wanted to do after graduation. Hell, he didn’t even think he’d make it this far. Not once since he got here, not once since he flunked out of first-year history, not once since his father passed away during his third-year final examinations, and most certainly not after he got caught having “unethical affairs” with his communications professor just two months ago. And yet the esteemed board of scholars decided he was fit for a diploma anyway, and now he’s answering to, effectively, a stranger what he plans to do with said piece of paper.

“I don’t know,” he says to you, “I’ll do whatever.” 

Gojo Satoru could get by with doing whatever. He was good at everything he did. But his teachers and mentors and his own father would always warn him– son, it’s better to be an expert at one than a half-assed show-off in all. Well, they wouldn’t use the expletives, but that’s what it had sounded like in his head.

His dad would’ve liked you. He was always telling him to find a girl that challenges him, asks him the right questions, and pushes him to become a better man, the kind of woman his mother was to his father. Much opposed to the airheaded girls of Gojo’s college campus he would sneak into the house and forget to shoo off before sunrise, an occurrence that happened enough times for the respect in his father’s eyes to dwindle with each woman he’d watch his son dispel from their residence. Until eventually, Gojo started paying rent as punishment.

So, twenty-three year old Gojo, what do you plan to do with your life? Or do you have no idea of anything that extends beyond where you are right now, sitting across this strange girl you’ve just met on the death of your educational youth, at the top of a stairwell lined with passed out, drunk newly grads at nearly 4 in the morning? Right now, he’s eyeing the hem of your dress, the way it’s ridden up slightly but the mesh overskirt still tickles the skin of your thigh. He’s certainly able to picture what’s beyond that fabric, and maybe imagine the color of your panties, but what’s to come for his life? No. As previously mentioned, he never thought he’d get this far.

Gojo is thirty-four now, eleven years since that night the two of you met. And he sits next to you on a garden bench under a pitch black sky with stars speckled across, but only dimly visible. 

It’s been years since he’s seen you. You two had a “falling out” at the cusp of thirty, almost a decade of friendship fizzled away, because of his selfish actions. He couldn’t let you go, but he couldn’t want you the way you wanted him either. He didn’t feel like he deserved to have you. You were too good for him, and he knew it. So he wasted a decade chasing after other women, and in return, he lost the one he knew he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with.

It’s the night of your college roommate‘s wedding, all gathered here today to celebrate their love, and he knew he’d run into you here. You were the bride’s maiden of honor, and you looked beautiful. With your hair half tied up, a pretty clip twinkling with every movement of your head, and with strands falling down over the smooth curve of your neck, bare skin of your chest tightly covered by the nude fabric of your dress. He was fully lusting after you, and he has been all night, the picture of beauty and grace, and it was wrong. Because, again, he’s–

“You’re engaged?” you finally break through his thoughts, break through the trance that he was lost in by the sea of your eyes. Forever pulling him in like you were a wicked siren for his soul, when all you’ve ever wanted from him was his love.

He shifts a little, the thick fabric of his navy blue suit stretching with the movement as he fidgets with his hands in his lap. He’s sitting close to you, his shoulder brushing against yours, the contrast of his broad masculinity so evident against the feminine curve of your bare arm, the thin strap holding up your dress threatening to fall down the hill. His thumb twitches, because he wants to pull it back up into place for you like a gentleman, but he’s not sure if that’s what his hand would actually do. Because all he really wants to do is peel the dress off of you. 

“Yes,” he says, still tantalized by the glow of your skin under pale moonlight, “engaged.”

“To be married?”

“Well, what other kind of engaged is there?”

“You’re not allowed to get married.”

He snorts. “Says who?”

“Says me!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter, "I turn my back for one moment, and you've gone an got engaged? You're awful!" The strap of your dress falls down over your shoulder, his eyes immediately darting to it. He sees you pull the strap up back into place, and a flit of his eyes to your face reveals to him the slight dusting of an embarrassed pink to your cheeks. 

There’s a silence that settles between the two of you. Distant commotion is heard, likely from the wedding venue as people engage in reception activities and dances and cheers, while the two of you remain in this garden escape, the wall of primly trimmed bushes sheltering you two from having to pretend to be people you’re not amongst a crowd.

“Aiko…” he hears you say beside him, and although the name of the woman that has rolled off your tongue is the name of the woman he’s supposed to love, it only makes him feel sick to his stomach to hear you say her name. “She seems lovely.”

“She is,” is all he can manage to say. And he also knows this seemingly lovely woman is probably drunk off her face back at the reception hall, giggling at all the men that approach her from the sight of her flushed face, and he should feel some sort of jealousy or possessiveness over that, but he can’t seem to muster any. Unlike the grit he had to his jaw an hour ago when he saw you dancing with a man he heard you introduce to your friends as just an “old friend” of yours from college. He felt more anger in that moment than he’d ever felt watching his soon-to-be-wife getting talked up to by the sleazy men twice her age. 

“She must be very rich,” you say. “She looks it.”

“Oh. Yeah. Her family’s very well off,” Gojo says.

“So will you become rich too?” you ask him, “when you marry her.”

His eyes flit to the sky briefly. “Doubt it.”

“How come?”

“The old man doesn’t like me very much. I imagine he’ll cut ties after the wedding.”

“Her father?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?”

“Well. I guess it’s not every father’s dream to find out his prim and proper daughter’s been knocked up by the good-for-nothing boyfriend he’s been threatening her to say good riddance to for months now.”

The silence finds the two of you again, but this time haunting and gutting. That was a blabber, if anything. So nonchalantly said, with no emotion or spirit, to the one person in this world who he’s always felt like he can be himself around.

“She’s pregnant?” you say beside him, voice breaking slightly at the end, and he can’t bear to look at you for some reason. Some sort of admission of guilt, but what for? What exactly was he repenting for?

He lets out a small laugh, like the absurdity of the situation finds him all the same. “Yeah.” 

“That–” you start, stiff next to him, before he feels the tension relax but only rigidly, “that’s wonderful, Satoru. I’m–...I’m really happy for you.” You turn your torso to wrap your arms around him, and his lips brush the sweet skin on your forehead as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He wraps one arm around you, a sort of friendly hug as he rubs the skin of your arm soothingly, and his heart aches from the emptiness when you release him. 

“Wow…” you say, looking up at him with pretty eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you blink rapidly to process the information, and he wonders if you really are happy for him. He doesn’t want you to be. He wants you to be furious, to tell him off for getting another woman pregnant after leading you on for so many years, maybe he wants you to slap him, or grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake him until all he sees is a million of you through dizzy vision like some paradise. He wants you to be mad, because it’d mean that you still care. It’d mean that you still think there’s something here to salvage between the two of you. 

But he’s engaged. And he’s having a baby. What was more final than that?

“So…are you marrying her because of–”

“The wedding is in four weeks,” he cuts you off, but he knows the statement answers your question regardless.

“Satoru…”

He leans off to the side a little to reach into the pocket of his suit pants, and he pulls out what is now a slightly bent envelope and he hands it to you. You take it from him gently, holding it weakly like it was something beyond you. Like something distant and foreign and strange. When all it was, is a wedding invitation. 

“Listen…” he starts.

He sees your eyes dazed as you stare at the lettering on the outside of the envelope.

“We’ve been friends for a long time, y/n. And I know the last time we saw each other was–” Hostile. Angry. Disappointing. Ended with you cussing him out on the street and then saying you never want to see him again. “...not ideal, but I still care a lot about you, and, uh, so, it would mean a lot to me if you came to the wedding.” For fucks sake, even on the brink of losing you forever, he still can’t find the right words to say. “Aiko, she–” He tastes bitter in his mouth, “well, I’ve told her a lot about you, and she’d really love it if you came as well.”

You’re silent as you gently peel back the opening of the letter and then pull out the small card stock invitation. The gold printed letters shine as you inspect it, fingers tracing the patterns of words that profess the Rei family’s intent to wed their daughter to Gojo Satoru. Your Gojo Satoru. Your best friend in this whole wide world. He watches your eyes carefully, but he can’t discern what he finds in them.

“Gojo Satoru…” you drone off, “to be wed. And to be a father.” Years of late night talks of the future, of kids and Christmas and love, with reality seemingly sly on the horizon only to have crept up so abruptly. It was pinched between your fingers right now. That reality.

His shoulders sulk slightly. And when you look up at him again, there’s a sheen of tears in your eyes.

“I can’t come to this,” you whisper, “and you know that, Satoru.”

His heart breaks. A physical pain that twists in his chest so tight at just the sight of seeing you sad. Sad again over the actions of his own. They say you always hurt the one you love, and he had always wondered what sort of evil person would do such a thing, only to find out he’s only ever hurt you this entire time. 

He should’ve kissed you that night the two of you met at graduation. Should’ve shut you up and all your existential questions by pinning you to a wall and pressing his lips against yours. He should’ve taken you to bed and fucked you, and then held you in his arms until you woke up in the morning. Should’ve listened to you talk his ear off about how he’s just like all the other guys, who pretend to care, but only want to have sex and then never to speak to the girl ever again. And he should’ve laid there in bed, nose nuzzled in your hair, taking all the scolding despite having no intent to ever leave you.

Instead, he wasted so much time. Sure, he had your friendship. His best friend for years, but the two of you could’ve been something more. Could’ve spent the years together, instead of writing stained letters or leaving messages on answering machines while the two of you were miles away. He could’ve been waking up with you every morning with the scent of your shampoo on his sheets, instead of clinging to pillows in foreign motel rooms. He could’ve been engaged to you, and he could be whispering sweet nothings in your ear of how much he wishes the baby will have your eyes. 

But his thoughts are lost in fantasy. He is what he’s done, nothing more and nothing less. His eyes fall to your lap, the invitation still held loosely in your hand, and then a droplet of water falls onto it.

“I–” you stutter, wiping at the tears spilling down your cheeks with a hesitant swipe of your hand, “I need to go.”

You stand up off the bench and he quickly stands up with you, grabbing your wrist to keep you here with him, and you halt but only with you facing away from him. He yanks at your wrist harshly, pulling you into him so his chest is flush to your back, his arms wrapping strongly around you and his nose nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in greedily like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance.

“Satoru–” you gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at his forearms that are tightly crossed across your collarbone. “What are you doing–” 

“Say it,” he whispers, gruff and impatient, “tell me to do it, and I will.”

“T-Tell you to do what?” you stutter, struggling a little in his hold but he only holds you tighter.

“Tell me to leave her, and I will,” he says, his lips brushing at your ear now, the scent of your perfume maddening to his senses, and one of his hands slowly trails down and the knuckle of his thumb presses into the softness of your breast.

You squirm, a small and soft moan leaving your lips.

“T–” you breathe in harshly, “this is wrong.” 

“I don’t care,” he growls, arms sliding lower to hold you under your breasts, so tightly that your heels lift off the ground. “Just say the word, and I’ll leave everything behind for you. I promise,” he breathes in deep, the desperation making his head hazy, “that I’ll do things right this time. Just you and me–” 

“You’re going to be a father,” you remind him, and he shuts his eyes closed tightly, the responsibility of the word bearing on his shoulders but his desire for you overshadows every shred of sense or dignity or integrity he has left in him, because he felt like he was losing his mind after wanting you for years just to never have you. 

He turns you around in his hold so that you face him, and he crashes his lips to yours, muffling the surprised mmf! that dies in your throat in surprise as his hands hold your waist, relishing in the feeling of satin fabric pulled taut over your curves.

Forbidden, yet a taste that he’ll risk because there was no curse that was worse than the fate of having to pine after you for years.

Ah.

But.

But it was all fantasy, this moment in his head, where he takes you on the freshly cut grass of this garden. 

Something that only briefly flashes through his mind as his warm hand wraps around your wrist, from where he was still seated on the stone bench, and not on his feet holding you like he dreamed for. Like he longed for.

He feels the weight of his arm so heavily, as if it weren’t his own, and he slowly lets go of your wrist.

When he looks up at you, there’s longing in your eyes. A hurt that he didn’t even know he was capable of causing, just for him to realize that you’ve always looked at him that way, and he’s never been keen enough to know it until now. He grew up too late. He took too long.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he reaches in for it, then flips it open and sees his soon-to-be-wife’s name on it. He feels nothing at the sight.

“Hello?” he speaks into the device when he holds it to his ear, and he sees you take a couple steps away, rubbing anxiously at your elbow as you pretend to busy yourself with the study of the lamp. “Yes, I’ll be there soon. I, uh, I’m just with a friend. A couple of friends, actually. We’re having drinks by the pond. Mhm. Yes. I will. Okay, see you soon. I—…I love you too. Bye.” And then he snaps the phone shut. 

“Heading back?” he hears you ask.

He stands. “I’ve got to.”

“Okay.” 

You two walk down the shrubbery of the garden that was arranged like a maze, him a few paces behind you, and he watches the delicate line of your posture as your hand brushes against the green walls of foliage that encase the two of you, the feeling of wanting to touch you and hold you almost suffocating. 

“Hey,” he calls out to you, and he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. You turn around immediately to face him, like his voice was permission to do so.

“Yes?” you ask.

He blinks up at the starry sky, and then looks at you again. The soft cast of distant warm lighting falls over your face, making you appear like a renaissance painting, similar to those that you would point out to him at museums when you two would see each other on holiday back in your early twenties. He could never understand the charm of those paintings, no matter how many times you tried to explain it to him, but seeing you in this light right now, he finally understands the beauty that you saw. 

“I’m, uh,” he rubs at the back of his neck, and then scoffs out a small laugh, “I’m a little drunk right now, but–” He stops himself. What was he trying to say? And was it of conscious mind? “I just need to tell you that…I really regret…not speaking to you. I mean, for letting the silence drag on for years. You’re my–...my best friend. We’re a pair, you know? The two of us. For years, people would ask me where you were. And why they haven’t seen us together at all recently. And it was hard to admit that we hadn’t spoken in years.”

You take the smallest of steps towards him, and look up at him with empty eyes. 

“What I’m trying to say is, is that, well,” he finds himself tripping over his words, “I miss you. And I miss our friendship. And–...I miss having you around.” He glances down at his shoes, polished and reflecting off the moonlight directly above him. He rocks back and forth on his heels ever so slightly. “I know you said that I piss you off to lengths unimaginable to my tiny pea-sized brain, but I can’t help myself, y/n,” he admits, “I think you and I, we’re just meant to always be. In some how, or some way…”

You purse your lips together, gaze shifting lower to eye at the silk of his tie. 

“Can we be friends again?” he asks, the words feeling juvenile on his tongue. Like whispered apologies between children on a playground after shoving one another onto wooden chips, except the wounds he’s left on you run much deeper than a superficial scrape. 

You blink slowly, tilting your head up at him. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

You wipe your palm off on the satin of your dress. “I missed you too, you know.”

His eyes widened slightly.

Your hand finds its way up your arm, until you weakly cup your elbow with your palm and look off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him. “There were so many years where I thought that there was something between us. And maybe I was foolish for thinking that way, that you would ever see me that way–”

“y/n,” he tries to interrupt you. 

“But…the pain of not having you the way I wanted to was much less worse than the pain of not having you at all,” you say, your gaze finally shifting towards him. “But, the thing is, I needed to feel that pain to get over you. I had to.”

His heart stills at those words.

You glance down at the ground now. “I missed being able to tell you things. To laugh, and cry, and argue. I miss humbling your stupid ego. I miss being able to call you at any time, knowing you’d pick up when I needed you.”

His heart aches so much he wants to reach into his chest and hold it.

“The thing is,” you continue, “you would’ve been the first person I would’ve run to to tell them that I lost my best friend.” There were tears shining in your eyes. “But what could I do when you were the one that I had lost? Who could I have turned to then?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and in a swift motion, his arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you to him in an embrace.

You’re stiff in his hold, mechanical and rigid, so contrary to the soft tears you leave behind on the fabric of his sleeve, but slowly and surely, you warm and thaw. Your hands slide up past his shoulders, linking behind his neck. And his head drops to the curve of your neck, swaying you with him slowly as if it were a first dance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “for hurting you.”

You breathe out slowly. “Just let me go, Satoru. Let me be free. Let me be free of you.”

He feels the air knock out of his lungs, and the two of you slowly pull your heads away from the embrace to look at one another, although your hands still find a place on his shoulders, and he still holds you close to him by a delicate hold of your waist. 

He wonders if in another life, you two were happy. He wonders if he could ever take back all the decisions he made, and start all over again. On that day the two of you met on that staircase in the west wing of the literature building, he would make a different choice. If he could, he would live in this lifetime of hell over and over again if it meant that in some other one, there exists a world where he never hurts you. 

“It’s time for me to go,” you whisper, eyes darting across the features of his face, studying them but with a familiarity that only you know, because you held his entire life in your palm. Your gaze meets his again, faces just inches apart, and the sweet curl of your eyelashes makes him weak in the knees. “It’s time.”

He nods slowly, his own eyes studying your face as well, except it looks foreign to him now. 

It’s all been said and done. There was nothing he could do to right the wrongs, or undo all the pain. He was to be a father now, and his duties were now towards his wife and unborn child. And no longer to the woman he holds in his arms, one he’s sure he will never stop loving for as long as he lives. 

It’s a sweet moment, the two of you gazing at one another. You look so pretty from this angle, looking up at him with the smallest tilt to your head and round searching eyes. His head subconsciously dips down towards yours in the second that he glances at your lips, but he stops himself. And when you make no move to create distance, he finds himself closing it again, until his lips brush against yours ever so softly. And then he captures them in a kiss, firm and unmistaken, finding solace in the way your lips move against his too, unsure yet passionately at the same time. Your fingers ever so slightly dig into his shoulders while his thumbs soothe at the skin of your waist, the two of you savoring the last moments of a kiss that’ll be the sweetest one you’ll ever know.

You pull away first, a small puff of air leaving your lips as you glance downwards. He rests his forehead against yours, never once looking away from your face. And you both breathe slowly, the soul of the chaste kiss entirely vanishing into the air along with all the hope that the two of you had left to make anything of the way you feel about one another. It was a kiss that almost disqualified any level of sin or guilt or wrong, because it was like one you two owed each other, after years of familiarity and longing. It was the goodbye that the two of you deserved.

His hands slowly let go of your waist, and he takes a step back away from you, softly clearing his throat. The distance feels like a galaxy away, and he briefly runs his thumb along his bottom lip, because the ghostly feeling of your lips on his still remains. 

“Shall we head back?” you ask him, prim and proper in posture and eyes widened in a formal gaze.

His lips are parted, and he finds that he’s panting slightly. And then he slowly nods his head. “Yes.”

.

.

.

[the end] 

a/n. i am sooooo freaking obsessed w "one day" by david nicholls and really wanted to write something inspired by it!! the book literally ripped my heart out and stomped on it like there were so many scenes where i just longingly stared out the window because of how shattering it was but dear god i really enjoyed it, and the show was also so dfkjhsfkhs i had sm feels watching it. so yea this was fun to write!! i hope you enjoyedd n thanks so much for reading :)

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