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futureplayboibunnie · 2 years ago

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let them bleed for all I care

Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

being fuckbuddies with Miguel O’Hara wasn’t easy when you were both intensely yearning

another angsty so damn wrapped up in romance brainrot blurb piece of this man because i’m still insane. this is definitely a self serve fic but idc i’m sharing anyway. ALSO THERES A PART 2!

warnings: angsty sweet nothings and confessions, mutual INTENSE pining, sensuallll (tehehe), waking up in bed, lil fluffy

A dim glow coated your room and in turn, clutched at your heart. The rows of streetlights outside beaming against the deep dark horizon and peeping through the unsheathed window offered the perfect fuzzy gleam to make Miguel's face look even more perfect. Being twisted and disheveled in bedsheets with a man that struggled with letting anyone in would be a shocking revelation two months beforehand.

Miguel was...untrusting and cold, everyone seemed to come to that conclusion with him. He was a force of nature, something that you once thought was inhuman and unfeeling, that harsh and abrasive exterior being a tremendous cover for the lack of constructive outlets he had. At least he knew where he stood with everyone, living with himself in isolation was a form of self-preservation- and he was fine with it, but he wasn't happy with it. He had a tendency to lose himself in his rage or his panic, his body bore the brunt of it all. He would practically work his fingers to the bone in order to not talk to anyone, it was definitely a highlighted page of his own personal book of dramatic effects. You didn't want to just see the picture of himself he's painted- you wanted to fucking admire it like a lovesick fool. There were so many failed attempts to get closer to him, he was so dedicated to proving himself to be this leader that didn't need the weakness of having anyone, and that in turn only made him spiral into his own misery. Miguel tried so hard to not let you in, it was almost admirable if it wasn't so damn saddening. Every time you thought you were getting closer to him, he dismissed you and bit a clippy ‘’I'm fine. Leave.’’ It wasn't until you took advantage of the fact he doesn't have spidey senses and just swung onto his platform and just hugged him everything just went blank. Ever since then, he's called your name in the dark and contemplated on the zeal in which he would destroy those who would harm you. He had denied every single impulse he's ever had for you out of some misbegotten respect to his own personal impending doom to which he was still so attached.

Being fuck buddies had its benefits, no strings attached. You just had to tamper down your own feelings for him. It was easy enough for a while. You'd fuck, clean up and then leave in different directions. The routine changed though. You'd lay in bed a lot longer, you'd just hold each other and feel each other's skin. Neither of you would talk about it after. Miguel was lonely. He didn't like to admit it but he was. These clandestine moments with you were the only opportunity he had to breathe and let out everything inside of him.

Your head was on his chest, naked bodies tangled with each other as his arms held you steady and embraced you, your leg curled up and rested on his thighs, one hand buried in your hair and the other one resting on the dip of your waist feeling the curve of your skin. You were so warm, so soft, so good. Miguel liked it when you touched him like this, his body just constantly craved your contact.

Romance was never on the table for a man like him so obviously his body acted like it, he hadn't had the time for it until you came into his life and left your everlasting and distinctive mark. You fucked like a pornstar. Miguel's fingers stroked through your hair, breathing in the pretty scent committing it to memory. The atmosphere between you both was heavy and dense like you needed to talk about something but neither of you was committing to budge your will, you gazed at the marks on vour arms. The son of a bitch was so rough... just how you liked it, the punctures in your skin that his claws made only showcased such a thing. Your brows furrowed as you hummed at the sight of it.

‘’Too rough?’’ Miguel raised his eyebrow at your purpose, his voice gritty and not sympathetic in the slightest.

‘’No...perfect.’’ You replied under your breath, slightly saddened that this is all you'll ever be to each other. Just a fuck. The way you said it made his heart cave and a sense of confusion transferred onto his face. Is that what you thought of him? Or just the way he could fuck you. He turned his face to the side to gape at you with burning eyes, you looked so hazy and angelic, he grabbed your face in both of his hands and cradled it whilst using his thumb to smooth out the skin of your cheeks. Your eyes widened at his unexpected action of tenderness, his thumb traveled to your supple lips conveying a desperate and willing look on your face. Miguel's brows wilted sincerely and his mouth unhinged open as if he was going to say something.

“'What is it?”You murmured wantonly, a strange flame of desire burning into your chest, he has the ability to make or break you. He's always had the power to do that, you just weren't sure if he was willing to see it.

“'I've been...having bad dreams.'” Miguel's eyes diverted from yours as if he was embarrassed to say it, to admit that he was afraid. He wanted to ask something from you, he was sure it was going over the boundary of fuck buddies but he needed to ease his straining mind.

“'About?'” You implored but he just gave you a hard scowl filled with hubris. You sighed at his silence and just grabbed the hand that was on your face and kissed his palm. Miguel felt every single hair on his body stands to attention, litter of goosebumps trailed at his back at your ministrations and he felt it echo through his very soul. Both of you were going too far, breaching the terms of your agreement but you were two sad and lonely people trying to fill the void with the warmth of another person's body. “For God's sake, when will you stop being so noble?”

Miguel drank in your question and he uttered the words he knew would get him kicked out. “Can I stay tonight?”

“Miguel-“

“Please.”

Your hands raked through his hair, needy eyes searching his flitting from perfect feature to feature trying to understand if any of this was real. Did he feel what you felt for him? Or was he just too tired to go home? You didn't want to ponder the latter, you captured your lips with his gently as a confirmation. Your head rested against his chest, tracing your fingers against his skin like an odd form of tenderness. You didn't like what you were feeling: you were starting to fall in love with him.

Miguel awoke in a daze, his vision blurring into shapes and stars as the nightfall outside seeped into your room. He felt your warmth beside him and it soothed the wits about him, your steady breathing offered an equilibrium that he never had. A wave of protectiveness washed over him- his sentiments have always stayed the same when it came to you. What besides love inspires such pain and yearning?

Miguel leaned in and kissed behind your ear as you mumbled into nothing and your hands slid beneath the pillow as you stretched. Your hair fell with such ease and grace, a hazed-out mess on the bedsheets as your frame indented into the mattress, slivers of skin peeking out as you tangled and breathed. If anyone laid a finger on you it would be his undoing. He'd send them screaming back to hell, the dark thought sliced through his brain and he glanced at you to nullify it. He leaned up and sat on the edge of his side of the bed, Miguel glanced at you again to make sure you were sleeping. He clenched his jaw and a hand ran down his naked back and rested on his neck- as if he were trying to find the words to start a confession. A bubbling of words started to build up within him, he felt a need to just verbally say this out loud to you but without you actually knowing of it consciously. Miguel elbows dug into his legs as he gazed at his intertwined fingertips and let out a breath, finally finding the words he's always wanted to say to you.

“I don't know what's happening to me,” He began “I don't know why I've let it get this far. I shouldn't have given into my own selfish demands. Hell, I've done it once before and a whole fuckin’ universe collapsed...dios mio.” He raked an exasperated hand through his hair at the painful memory that was seared into his mind. “You just had to ruin everything for me, you just had to fuckin’ touch me and I was yours, now what kind of pathetic does that make me? What do I do with all this? What do I do with you?” Miguel paused to regain his self control and calm his frustrations but a sliver of sadness dropped into his chest instead.

“It's funny... You're so easy to hate. You're so easy to love. What the hell do I do with this hermosa? Just tell me what to do and I'll do it, just tell me what you want...tell me what you want from me...cause it feels like you're just taking it at this point. You're taking from me and now I'm fuckin’ broken down and hungry for you like a dog waiting for scraps hermosa. The rational part of me hates it but the other rabid part is just begging at your feet. I'm like a fuckin’ mutt for you...I'm in love with you mi vida.” Those words fit perfectly in his mouth: I'm in love with you. It tasted fucking glorious, it tasted sweet and sad at the same time, it was revolutionary. It was like those words were destined to come out of his mouth, just for you to hear. “It's ironic because you'd probably kick me in the teeth for saying such a 'formidable’ thing but I'm not blind, I can't deny what's in front of me and I don't want to keep ignoring it.’

A soft inhale of your breath ended his confession, you twisted your body to the side as your cheek was planted in the pillow facing him. You stretched out your arm onto his side of th bed as if you were reaching out for him, wanting to find his warmth. Miguel couldn't help but admire you in a trance like state while you were like this, at your most natural, at your most beautiful. He'd seen your face contorted in pleasure when he fucked into you, your body arch into his touch when his face was buried between the sweet valley of your thighs but he had never seen you look like this. Like an angel from the clouds as the white sheet barely covered you- you looked like a painting. Your long lashes were fanned out against your cheek and your lips were parted for your gentle breathing, the swell of your chest rising and falling in a synchronised rhythm. You looked perfect. He hated it.

Miguel slipped back into bed and under the sheets, finding your warmth once again. He held onto you, his palm clutching at your waist as your head eased onto his chest. His brows tensed before he kissed your temple, a thought occured to him. Every day he was with you and had you were the days he would go home and sleep soundly and didn't dream, he hadn't thought there was a correlation, now he connected the dots and the picture became all the more clearer. There was nothing he could do. He just had to suppress his needs and desires and put everything else in front of him.

Your eyes seeped in the tiredness the beginning of the morning offered, and the chirping of the birds outside of your window echoed through your ears, serving as a gentle reminder of the night before. A heavy feeling set in your chest as you turned your gaze to Miguel's broad and bare back, worry glazed over your eyes as you remembered the words he uttered last night when he thought you were asleep. You couldn't believe it...you wouldn't believe that all this time you weren't alone in your yearning. You couldn't quite grasp that you had Miguel O’Hara on his knees, begging to love you.

You wanted to take it from him so bad but a pang of guilt started eating at you. Your arms immediately embraced his frame as you nuzzled his neck and inhaled the deep cadence of the lingering notes of cologne from last night. Miguel's soft copper hair was messy and disrupted, without thinking you raked your fingers through his hair. Miguel was already awake, he felt it and he grumbled into it, melting against your blessed touch. Your other hand traced down his broad shoulders and his back, feeling his skin, tracing the pads of your fingers down his warm, golden flesh.

"Hmm." Miguel breathed raggedly at the sensation. “Morning.” you kissed his shoulder as you nuzzled your face into his neck, inhaling deeply. Miguel's eyes widened at your action, unsure as to why you were showering him with affection- it's never been like this before. You've never woken up with each other before. Miguel struggled to leave and get out of your hold and it seemed like you were doing it on purpose.

“Don't leave...”You whispered woefully in his ear, planting a kiss on the base of his neck. “Don't leave me...” Miguel was stunned and it was obvious by the way his brows furrowed, he wasn't sure if it was the fact he just woke up or if it was his half-crazed manic mind playing tricks on him.

He twisted his body to face you, his cheek buried in the pillow and the look you shared was that of pure longing, your hands went to his hair again, tracing the outlines of his face with your thumb. “I heard you...” Your sad eyes were lit by the liquid gold of the sun, Miguel would have been entranced if any other words fell out of those pretty lips of yours. He wasn't so lucky. He heard the exact thing that his very soul was dreading.

“I'm sorry you had to.” Miguel's eyes shot open and glared a hole into your face when he said it, feeling genuinely sorry for you. Instead of saying anything you moved your body and clambered onto his lap and bent down to kiss him tenderly. His calloused palms felt at your thighs and the outskirts of them, your hair fell to the side as your bodies slid over each other. Miguel was confused at what you felt, what you wanted and what you were doing- you were just so damn hard to read sometimes. You nuzzled your head into his neck and breathed him in deeply, his massive arms wrapping around you tightly like he would die if he let go.

"You know, I was never scared of you and I thought that made me stupid. Naive. You name it. You were so good at scaring people off, it was admirable, I couldn't help but be in fucking awe of you when you were being so…dangerous.” You spoke gently as your fingers went to trace something undistinct on his chest. “The others warned me that you'd probably rip my tongue out of my gaping mouth if I ever tried anything at all with you and I was half expecting you to break me in half like a toothpick when I just...held you....for the first time. Even if you did break me in half I would've relished every second of it, I think I've spent so much time practically begging you to just…break me.” Your voice faltered slightly and a smattering of whirlwind emotions started to rise within you. Miguel was hooked on your every word like a dog with a bird at your door. “When you told me you wanted me to touch you and that you wanted to touch me, I felt like... a teenager being asked out by an allstar jock. It was pathetic but I didn't care. It was you...and bit by bit, minute by minute I started to fall in love with you. I thought I was being a fucking idiot because who the hell was I to fall in love with Miguel O'Hara?” Miguel's silence was gruelling and heavy, he didn't want to answer your question becuase if he started he wouldn't be able to stop. His lips pressed against your temple and as always you melted into him.

“Don't think that little of yourself. I don't like it.” He murmured.

“It's not fair to you at all...all of this, I know that. All of these secrets bleeding into each other when you already have the weight of the whole fucking multiverse on those broad and tired shoulders.”

“Let them bleed for all I care.”

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara angst #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman x y/n #across the spiderverse

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theressaicon · 5 months ago

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m!Alien x gn!reader part 1

Made out story about gn!reader living with an extraterrestrial after it's not safe anymore to live on Earth. Gradually, they get to know each other's races and become closer...Make time to read the whole story, it is quite long.

It's interesting to realize that you're an endangered specie. It's incredible how 8.2 billion people have become four thousand individuals.

It lasted 2 years. There was an electric charge in the air with radioactive radiation that shook the atmosphere so intensely that it caused the worst diseases in most people, leading to deaths.

The government had already admitted the existence of aliens a few years ago, it wasn't a new topic. Although as a civilian you didn't have enough information... So you were quite confused when they took you to a constructed platform with inhuman machines.

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„What happens to the animals?" A little elementary school boy asked you while holding your hand. „The animals from Earth are already loaded onto the big ships that will be taking off." you explained, trying to stay as calm as possible.

The machines around you were silent, the only noise being the human voices of the group you stood in. „And when will we take off?" he questioned again. „When they tell us, they'll take us to one of those ships too. I don't know when that will be."

Tall figures in armor marched from station to station, chattering in a language you didn't know. You couldn't see a bit of their skin, they looked more like androids. Their protective suits were white with black parts. They reminded you a bit of Ironman's suit in terms of design.

A huge flying disc, emitting purple light, flew over the group of people you were standing in. It was once again silent, but its majestic appearance left everyone speechless.

You were sitting on the ground, some were having a conversation, others were quiet. The little boy played with your fingers while telling you about his interests, which helped you think about anything other than the fear of leaving the planet.

„...but the Mosasaurus is the biggest, that's why I like it the most! I have a lot of toys at home and I have about three mosasauruses. I got one for Christmas and my mom and dad bought me the other two." „Wow, you have good knowledge!" You praised him.

You were never drawn to children, but when they put you in this group and he was the only little child there, you wanted to keep an eye on him.

"I wonder where they are now. I haven't seen them in a long time." Your face turned a little sad because you knew the truth, but you didn't have the heart to tell him. "But I'm sure they're okay! Dad always protected mom and me, he'll take care of her." he said optimistically and you had to hide the tear that started to flow down your face.

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„Group twelve, the ship is ready, I ask you to follow me." A robotic voice, sounding similar to Google Translate, came from the helmet of a tall, armored extraterrestrial. The conversations fell silent and everyone followed him (?).

The large gate led into a massive extraterrestrial spacecraft that must have been at least half a mile squared. „I beg for your attention, humans." the translatoric voice began.

„You are one of the last humans in the universe, we cannot afford any losses." Another figure pointed to a device they were holding in their hand. „You will be marked with this device before you board." The group began to chatter in disbelief again, before they were silenced. „It's painless, it works similarly to a human barcode."

They shone the device on the back of our necks and a tattoo with strange symbols appeared there. They weren't lying when they said it was painless. You looked back at the landscape of your home planet for the last time. You tried to soak up the image of green trees in the distance that you might never see again in your life.

When the gate closed, a wave of mixed emotions swept over you. You suddenly realized how lost everything was and how afraid you were of the unknown. You didn't know what was waiting for you. All you knew was that the extraterrestrial community was evacuating the few people left, including you.

After you boarded the ship, they planned to put you in individual pods for who knows how long. Before leaving, the little boy waved goodbye to you. That was the last time you saw him.

The last thing you remember is being given a small capsule that you swallowed. And then emptiness. Nothing, just a blank mind. At least for the moment, those unbearable emotions left you.

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'Is that light?' you asked yourself. A gentle voice spoke to you in an unknown language. Their tone was reminiscent of a person greeting their cat after returning from work.

When your eyes started to function properly, you saw a tall being in a white uniform and a light in her hand, that had three long fingers. You assumed it was a woman. She must have been examining your condition after you woke up. She had dark blue skin with white dots around her ear area, however she didn't have any earlobes.

She played a recording from a player in her other hand announcing that you had arrived at the location. „Before disembarking, I will ask you to consume this." it continued as the woman handed you a plate with a funny looking white puree. It didn't look appealing.

But for some reason you were terribly hungry, so you ate the food, even though it didn't taste nicely.

Without further explanation, she led you to a small, colorless room with only a strange chair. When the automatic door closed behind you, you felt the room move with you, it seemed like it was used for transportation.

You sat there for a long time, your only companions being your thoughts. You had so many questions that you didn't know the answers to, maybe you didn't even want to know them.

It seemed like an hour, you were bored and anxious. You explored the entire room, hoping to find a button, something, anything, even just a discarded hair tie, to keep yourself busy and distracted. However, you ended up huddled in the corner of the room, where your eyelids started to droop again.

Before you could fall asleep, the automatic door across from you opened. It signaled you to go outside of it, but something inside you prevented you from doing so, the room was safe after all.

You stayed in that corner for a moment before you gathered your courage and stood up. The path led to a white hall, where there was nothing. You finally got to the end of it and waited to see what would happen next.

Sensors appeared from the ceiling and walls, scanning you with red light. It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Another door opened in front of you, leading to a room with a high ceiling.

The room was no longer lacking colors. The space reminded you of a dining room thanks to the square table in the middle that looked like it was made of acrylic or a similar material to a bathtub.

A tall extraterrestrial walked in from another room. Very tall. Taller than the figures who helped you board. No wonder the place had such high ceilings.

Their size scared you a little and you took a step back. They squatted down and smiled as they showed you two small devices. They had placed one of them where their earlobe would probably be, but instead they only had a hole like a reptile.

The second one was handed to you. You understood that you were supposed to put it on too. When you placed it behind your ear, it gently installed itself. You silently looked back at the 'person' who had given it to you.

„Greetings." He said invitingly in a male voice that sounded more human and not like a cheap translator. You stood there in front of him with your eyes wide open. „Heh, could I ask you to say something? I need to see if the translators are working." With a swallow you answered him. „Uh yeah, sorry."

„Wonderful! I'm glad that there won't be any language problems in communication." What a cheerful alien. Even though the alien here was you. You didn't know what to call his race, so you stuck with that term. He stood up and placed his hand on your back to guide you.

„Come on, let's sit in the living room, it'll be more comfortable there. I'm sure you have a lot of questions, you can ask me anything without shame." He sounded so excited.

The next room truly looked like a living room, just in a modern style. What caught your attention the most was the huge stylish couch that was the same color as his skin. The color was a pale blue to grayish, and somehow it had a calming effect on you.

It took you a little while to climb onto the couch next to him, after all, it was made for his size. „Well? You can ask ahead now." hr reminded you. „What now?" The smile on his face dropped a little as you continued. „What will happen with me now?"

When he finally understood your question, he started smiling widely again. „Of course, so... We cannot have your species in one place, each individual will be distributed across half of this planet individually to different homes, where we will take care of you until your reservation is complete."

Gulping, you stared at him like he was talking without a translator. „Reservation?" „Mhm, a place where we'll let you evolve for a few more hundred years so you can finally join our community."

„Um.. That sounds like you're treating us like rabbits." Ah, forgive me, but my translator doesn't know the word 'rabbit' because it has nothing to associate it with, in other words, this term doesn't exist in our language." Don't they know rabbits? Well, you should have expected that they wouldn't have the same animals here as on Earth.

„However... You can compare it to children treating. We just have to let you grow up, let you take your first steps. We can only interfere with that slightly. But the disaster on Earth spoiled our plans a little." His comparison didn't sound so bad anymore, you accepted it.

„So I'm going to live here with you now?" you guessed out loud. „Temporarily, until they relocate you" he replied. You were swaying in place with nervousness. Despite the explanation, you were still feeling uneasy by the whole situation.

„Hey, don't worry, I've read a few books about humans, I know the necessary things, I'll take a good care of you, you can trust me." You licked your dry lips and mumbled. „I think I need some peace and quiet now, I feel.. overwhelmed." „I understand. Can I perhaps show you your room?" he offered and you simply nodded.

It was a spacious apartment, you noticed a lot of differences from a apartment you considered normal. Besides the high ceilings and strange furniture, you noticed that none of the rooms were separated by doors. You wondered why, so you asked him.

"And why do YOU have doors?" he asked you back. "Well, for privacy and... security." "You're not in any danger here, and as far as privacy goes, I'll give you as much space as you need." His kindness relaxed you more and more.

You reached the room where there was a huge round bed with a blanket and a large pillow with interesting patterns on it. Spiral decorative formations resembling plants hung from the ceiling, and on one side was something like a wardrobe you assumed. Although it was still unfamiliar, it was the least alien room you had been in all day.

„It's all yours here, if you want to add anything, just say so. I want you to feel comfortable here." You took a deep breath and exhaled. "Thank you... for being considerate." „Of course, don't mention it. I'll leave you alone here, you can even fall asleep. If you need anything, you can find me in the room opposite yours, it's my room. Also, feel free to wander around if you'd feel like it. You're not here as a visitor, we're more like roommates now."

He was about to leave before you asked him the last question. „How should I call you?" „My name is Lissinlaciss, but you can call me by a shorter nickname... Like Lissin or Laciss, it's up to you, I'll answer on both."

Nodding, you told him your name in return. Before he left, he reminded you to take off the translator so it doesn't bother you in your sleep. Then he gently tapped twice on the wall and the light in your room went out. After you took off your translator you lay under the blanket, which was unexpectedly heavy, but pleasant to the touch. The pillow was fluffy and the mattress soft. Your whole body relaxed and even though you were afraid of the future, you really felt safe.

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Despite your constant efforts, you couldn't fall asleep. Was it the new environment? Was it the light coming from the hallway and the room opposite? But that would be absurd, you couldn't fall asleep in your own home without a night light.

Your goal was to get some rest and organize your thoughts, which you did. So you decided to climb out of the bed and check your surroundings.

You went to look in the room at the end of the hall. It was dark, so you tried tapping on the wall like... he did. Damn, you forgot his name. The tapping worked, the lights actually came on. You assumed it was the bathroom.

It was a little unusual, but the toilet looked... like a toilet. At least something. There was no toilet paper in sight, you'll have to ask him about that.

On your way back, you peeked into the room where your tall pale blue roommate was supposed to be. And there he was. He was sitting in something designly similar to a dentist's chair. He was looking at some hologram and making strange gestures with his hands, maybe that was how he controlled it. You didn't need anything yet, so you continued exploring.

You walked through the living room to the dinning room, where you first appeared. Those were all the rooms that were here. Where was a kitchen in that case? Is it possible that he has his meals imported? You wanted to test if tapping on the wall worked for all the lights. And yes, the lights did indeed turn off and after another tapping you turned them back on.

'Interesting', you thought. What if you tapped somewhere else? Maybe on the floor? You knelt down and did it. A lot of things started to emerge from the walls, including kitchen utensils... Knives, spoons, weird shaped frying pans, probably a teapot and so on.

It startled you a bit, you started tapping on the floor again to make it all hide again. It stressed you out when a lot more things started to appear. You stood up in panic and grabbed your head. „No, no, no, no!!.."

You turned around with the plan to tell the alien, but instead you saw him standing where the door would normally be. Giggling, he observed you with amusement.

You flinched when you heard his suddenly deep voice in another language. You touched your translator in confusion, thinking it wasn't working... But it wasn't there! You forgot to put it back to your ear when you got out of bed. You glanced up at him only to see him handing it to you. Damn that's a bit embarrassing.

When you finally put it on, he repeated what he said, this time in that sweet human voice. „Is there anything I can help you with, Y/N?~" his tone teasing. You stammered as you described to him what you were doing.

„Nothing's wrong, don't worry. Come on, I'll show you how to hide it." You two walked over to the kitchen counter and he ran one finger over its surface twice. Then it all got into it's original place. „I assume you have it a little different on Earth, am I right?" Lissinlaciss asked.

„We have to control it manually... Do all apartments have this type of controling? Like the tapping and... you know." „Everyone has it set up a little differently, but almost everyone use the same technology."

You stood there in silence for a moment until he decided to speak. "I need to finish something, if you wait a moment, I'll get to you right away." You didn't want to be a burden, so you protested that you would just go back to your room. "No, no, we'll have to buy you some clothes anyway, what you're wearing might attract too much attention. You can come with me, I'll show you my room."

After the incident in the kitchen/dinning room, you preferred to avoid touching anything, including walls, not wanting to accidentally trigger something again. Lissinlaciss sat you down on his bed with the same blanket and pillow as yours.

You scanned him as he sat in that strange chair again, gesticulating with his hands. On the hologram in front of his face, it looked like he was writing, only it was in a slightly irregular style; not left to right, not right to left, not bottom to top, or vice versa. You couldn't understand the system.

After a moment, he sighed and turned off the device by tapping it twice again. "I was sending an administrative message saying you arrived safely." he explained to you. „I see." „..." „..."

„..Okay, let's go pick out some clothes for you." And with that you reached a wall, which he placed the back of his hand against, and the wall disappeared pixel by pixel. You couldn't help but be surprised yet amazed. When you went out into the hallway, the wall appeared again behind you.

You stepped onto a platform that took you three floors down. You passed through a gate and saw a street where various creatures were moving. Some were similar to Lissinlaciss, others were completely different in shape and color.

Your translator was able to translate everything you heard. The speech didn't match the movements of their mouths, but you understood their conversations. The path was made out of the same material as the floor in Lissin's apartment. That is, Lissin's and yours. You couldn't avoid the looks from the other people, but they didn't look at you with disgust, just interest. Despite their curiosity, they quickly minded their own businesses.

„There is no need to be nervous, Y/N. I read that your race is very judgmental, you won't find much of that here." He told you, noticing your stiffness. With that, your anxiousness faded away.

Lissin walked slowly so you'd keep up with him, considering that you were half his size. The street you were walking on didn't have the racket you were used to in your city. It was a pleasant change.

After a few minutes of walking he says; „They make custom clothes here, there are more shops, but I doubt they'd have anything in your size." Without your response, you walked inside and were immediately greeted by a woman of the same species as him. Slightly shorter, her skin with a darker blue yet stile pale to grayish. „Lissin, greetings! What can I do for you?" 'Right, his name is Lissin- something.' you said to yourself hoping to remember his name this time.

„Hello, Misxi'de, I'm here today with a new being who needs something to wear, I thought you would be the best choice." Lissin announced back, pointing at your small form. Waving, she smiled at you, squealing with joy.

„Would it be inappropriate to say you are adorable???" It was hard for her to hold back screams. „Um.." You've somehow lost your words. „Come on, I'll measure you." She stated as she stood up and motioned for you to follow her. Lissin walked beside you for your comfort.

She stood you on a line etched into the floor. You expected her to pull out a tape measure, but instead, a light began to flicker from the line below you. "Done, you can go sit down." She said calmly and went into the next room.

Lissin watched you try to climb onto a chair in the waiting room. Although it was comical, he held back his laughter and, with your permission, picked you up to help you sit on it. „Thanks." You mumbled ashamed.

"I'll get you some stools for our apartment so you don't have these problems at home." He smiled at you and put on a bracelet with strings attached to the pads of his fingers.

You were very inattentive today and only now did you realize that Lissin has seven fingers. Light shone from the strings, forming a hologram above his open palm. With gentle movements of his fingers, he controlled what was displayed on it.

A white stool in 3D began to be projected, which he gradually rotated. „What about this one? It doesn't look bad." Then he showed another one, a dark one with various ornaments. „This one is also stylish." He glanced at your shocked face. "You probably don't know this device either, do you..." You looked away from the hologram and answered. "I only know touch devices, we call them phones. Or we use computers..." You chatted while Lissin projected different stools on the hologram. "I know the term 'computer', it's used in travel devices like flying discs."

You liked a pale blue stool that was shown after a while. "I like this one." you admitted, pointing at it. "It would go well with your apartment in terms of color." "You're right, it would go well with OUR apartment." He corrected you. "Right..."

At that moment, the tall woman, Misxi'de, came back and told you to go see her again. Misxi'de pushed back the collar of your shirt a little and placed a small round button on your chest. You had no idea how it stuck to you, almost like a magnet on a fridge, but you almost didn't feel it, it didn't hurt.

„I ask you to go to the cabin and take off your clothes." Your cheeks turned red. „A-all of my clothes?" you asked, unsure. „Of course, when you're naked, you'll press the button on your chest and it will starts to project on your body how new clothes would fit you.

You crawled into the cabin and did everything as instructed. The hologram on you was not even recognizable, you just didn't feel any substance on you. You slowly showed up with clenched fists, still feeling uncomfortable without the feel of your clothes. It showed how you would look like wearing something similar to a tent dress.

They observed you curiously and nodded their heads. "Yeah, it suits them, it doesn't even need any adjustments." She said and Lissin agreed with her opinion. "Please press the button again so we can see another." She continued and you obeyed.

There was no glitch between the projection changes, you breathed a sigh of relief. Now it was showing a sleeveless chest covering with pants that looked like they were made of plastic. You looked at yourself in disgust and Lissin commented. „Looks like you don't like this one.." Misxi'de turned to him. „And you do!? Boy, I thought you had a little bit of sense of style!" „Heyy..." „Next one!" You pressed the button again.

This time it looked identical to the type of clothes Lissin was wearing; a collar over the shoulders covering the chest and a long loincloth reaching down to the floor. You felt a little too exposed for your taste, but it suited you.

„Ooo now that's what I'm talking about!" Cheered Misx'de at the sight of you. Lissin on the other hand wasn't saying a thing. He just stared at you, lips slightly parted, mesmerized. She snapped her fingers in front of his eyes to get a reaction. „Ah, yes... This one is good." He stated and scratched the back of his neck.

„Good?? They look stunning!" She corrected him and turned her attention back to you. „What about you, how do you like this style, dear?" You swallowed and looked at yourself again. „Well, it's a bit revealing, however I saw a few people in it on the way here, so I have nothing to be ashamed of. I like it."

„I'm SO glad you like our cultural clothing!" Misx'de blurted out. So that was the reason why this clothing was so common... It's quite possible that you'll fit in better because of it. You chose more different outfits together and then Misx'de... went to make them for you? You didn't know if a machine 'sewed' them or she did, but that didn't matter.

You two thanked her for her services and she wished you a pleasant stay on their planet. 'What a kind extraterrestrial.' you thought for yourself as you walked out of the store with the identical clothing Lissin had.

The looks from passersby were smiling, and even though you were showing more skin than you were used to, you weren't worried at all.

You walked back to the building you had your apartment in. Inside, you met a gentleman of a different race than Lissin. „Good afternoon, Lissinlaciss, where are you coming from?" the red skinned alien with white dots all over his body asked. Lissin exclaimed an answer.

„We were just at Misx'de's, choosing new clothes for Y/N." The red one, as tall as Lissin, lowered his gaze and looked at you. „Ahh, you must be the human Laciss wouldn't shut up about! I wondered how you'd look like." You glanced at Lissin for a moment and noticed him looking away.

„Anyway, my name's Bah'rah, nice to meet you, lil human." He put the back of his hand to you. It was a strange action, you didn't know what to do or how to react, so you gently squeezed his four-fingered hand and shook it.

The two of them looked at you in silence for a moment, and then Bah'rah burst out laughing. You felt a little embarrassed, but then Lissin placed his hand on your shoulder. „Sorry, I probably should have taught you some basics, but don't worry, we'll catch up to that together."

When Bah'rah finally stopped laughing, he wiped his tear and grabbed your hand. „Look, like this;" He placed the backs of your hands together. „Ah, I see... apologies I didn't know." you admitted and laughed nervously. „Naah, you had no way to find out, that's totally fine!"

After the boys did the same, you said your goodbyes. When the platform took you to the third floor and you came to the wall with a strange mark on it, Lissin drew a cross on the wall with one finger and finally placed the back of his hand on the wall. The wall disappeared pixel by pixel and you walked inside before it reappeared once again.

Lissin handed you the bag with your new clothes and went with you to your room where he showed you how the wardrobe works.

„Nothing complicated, you just draw a tiny circle onto the surface. Go ahead and try." You walked closer and made that little circle on the wardrobe with your index finger. A short high-pitched sound was heard and the wardrobe opened in the same way as an automatic doors in supermarkets would. After tiding up your clothes, all you had to do was press the display inside it at your face level to close the wardrobe again.

He awkwardly asked you if you were hungry, to which you admitted that you were a little. It was almost dinner time, so he suggested that he'll prepare the food while you clean yourself up.

The shower in the bathroom worked differently than you were used to. He stood you in the middle and showed you how to control everything. Instead of water, your body would be covered in mist, which would then evaporate.

„Then you walk over here and place your palm on this touchpad. Warm air will blow on you, which will dry you. But don't worry, it won't be too hot. It will stop by itself when you're dry, and then you can put on the clothes you have over there." „I think I understand."

„Okay, I'll make dinner. If you need anything, shout, I'm sure I'll hear you since there's no door. But fear not, I won't come here unless you call." You smiled in confidence and he then walked away, leaving you to the mercy of the bathroom.

You undressed and placed both palms on the wall next to you. A mist began to appear, clinging only to one part reserved for the shower. The mist was getting into your mouth and eyes, which bothered you a bit, Lissin probably didn't have a problem with this considering he was twice your size.

After about two minutes, the mist returned to where it came from and you touched the touchpad for it to dry you. The warm air felt so nice on your body, you almost didn't want to leave. But then it stopped and you were forced to go get dressed.

The dining room turned into the kitchen, where Lissin was preparing the promised meal. He wrapped a mixture of various plants, probably vegetables, into a transparent dough, which was then pressed out by an automatic machine. In the end, it looked like a fresh spring roll that was half a meter long.

„It looks delicious." you announced, startling him slightly. „O-oh... Thank you, I hope you'll like the taste as well." You noticed two soft balloons that were part of the floor placed by the table.

„You can sit on one of the damig'hen" He said the strange word in a deeper voice. Your translator probably didn't have a suitable translation for it. It sounded slightly creepy in his own voice, but you shrugged it off snd sat on one of the balloons and tried to repeat its name.

„Damn..ing.. han.?" you repeated in a low whisper. „Ah, did it not translate?" „...No." „I was talking about those white things, although you understood well." Lissin cut the roll in half and put each on the table for the both of you. Without plates. Without cutlery.

„Ahh, I'm not sure I'll eat it all, there's a lot of it." you confessed at the sight of the portion. „That's fine, eat as much as you want, no need to overeat yourself."

You both waited for the other to start eating. You sacrificed yourself and started. Grabbed the roll in both hands you bit into its edge. Your eyes lit up at the delicious taste. „Oh my gosh- I have no idea what it is but this is the most delicious food I have ever tried! Fuck..."

Lissin was shocked and silent for a moment. „F-fuck??" he repeated in question. „OH- I'm sorry, forgive me, I shouldn't have cursed..." guild and shame washed over you. „No! No, no, Y/N, that is absolutely okay, I curse as well! It's just... that I have never heard someone use coitus as a curse word before."

Was he serious?

„Oh crumbs... Still, it was inappropriate. I apologize." „Worry not." Then you started to eat again. The thing troubling you was that Lissin was still having his eyes glued on you. 'A bit disturbing' you thought. „Are you not going to eat?" you decided to ask. „...I am." Chewing another piece, you stared back at him.

Lissin shifted in his seat petitely. His body language showed discomfort. It was strange to think so, but it seemed like he didn't want to eat his food in front of you. You put your roll back on the table. "Are you done eating? Already? Won't you be hungry?" Lissin asked worriedly. "I'll start eating when you start."

Now his eyes were fixed on the portion in front of him. "My race doesn't eat like yours." He mumbled. "I just don't want you to feel... well... I don't want you to lose your appetite." He admitted defeatedly. You didn't understand his concerns.

„Are you really that uncomfortable eating in front of me? ...Would it help if I went to eat somewhere else?" „WAIT NO! That would be SO rude from my side- No. No please don't." He raised his voice in fear of you leaving. „Well unless it's you who wishes to do so." Lissin added.

„Enlighten me then." you told him confidently. After gulping, he started looking in your direction again. „Humans use... their mouths for various activities." You gave him a side eye for starting a sentence like that. „...By that I mean breathing, previously used as self-defense, taking in water and.. food." „Mhm.. right." „Did I miss something?" „Nahh..." you lied.

„Meanwhile innyli'sez, my race, uses upper mouth just for breathing." „Okay, I understand that so far." You tried to keep your attention on Lissin, despite the urge to dig into that delicious roll again.

„I guess it would be better.. and easier- if I just showed you..." He straightened his back and knelt on the pillow balloon beneath him to raise himself a little higher. The edge of the table was at the level of his lower abdomen.

The straight line that was carved horizontally into his stomach began to open up. You had noticed the line before, but you didn’t want to mention it for fear it would be a sensitive subject for him. „..I thought it was a scar?" His stomach opened up completely and teeth started to protrude.

„Didn't you notice when we were outside that all of my race had this?" He asked confused. „You see, I was just looking at the ground out of nervousness. Not at people around." You were fascinated by his open toothy organ and leaned in to get a better look.

„Aren't you disgusted? Aren't you afraid?" Lissin carried mixed feelings. „Actually, no... I find it cool." Relaxation crept over him at your positive words. You sat back down in your seat and continued eating your dinner.

„Okaaay, now we can eat together, so bon appetite." you stated. With a warm smile he moved the roll to his lower mouth and started eating too.

With a giant mouth like his, it was clear that he would finish it first, even though he started eating after you. And when you said you probably wouldn't eat it all, you were right. You had a lot left, but you were full and satisfied. He had the rest of the roll preserved with another kitchen gadget that you also didn't know how it's being used.

✣⊻⋋≬⊑⊱✣⊻⋋≬⊑⊱✣⊻⋋≬⊑⊱✣⊻⋋≬⊑⊱✣⊻⋋

Lissin also used the shower and showed up in a cloth that was white, like most of his clothes. He noticed before you did, how you started to yawn. „Let's go to sleep, what do you say?" He offered. „Is it dark outside already?" you asked. „Well, here the planet is never completely turned away from the star, and there is almost never light on the opposite sides of the planet."

„So there are no windows in the apartments here so you can sleep well at night?" „That may be one of the reasons." He walked you to your room and instead of tapping the wall twice to turn on the lights, he began to gently drum on it repeatedly with all seven fingers, resembling raindrops. Your room began to glow with a faint orange light. "That's nice..." you faintly said. "I figured the warm light would be more bearable for your eyes."

You crawled under the covers and yawned again. „I hope I can sleep this time, I couldn't this afternoon." Lissin knelt by your bed and leaned on one hand for support. „I'm not surprised you didn't fall asleep, as you slept the entire way here, which took 13 kar'jevics." The translator couldn't find a suitable translation again and his original voice rang in your ears again. „Umm... how much is 13.. kar- that thing?" „Let me calculate... Hmm, yeah.. Something around two months."

„WHAT!??!" „...What?"

„I thought I slept for like... a day! How could I sleep for two whole months!?" You didn't expect this information before going to bed. „Well, it wasn't two whole months... More like 55 days or so." „That's not any better!" you argued.

„You know what? I have an idea." Lissin stood up and came to the center of the room. He stomped his foot on the floor four times and a strange sound began to echo from all corners of the room. It scratched your brain so well- It was way better than a white noise.

Your body completely shut down and you closed your eyes due to the heavy eyelids. Lissin gently and carefully removed your translator from your ear and turned off the light. Before he left, you heard him say something in his own language in a weak voice. With the last of your strength, you opened your mouth and whispered "Good night to you too." He chuckled because you were perfectly right with your answer, because he indeed wished you 'good night.'

Illustration of your first meeting :3

part 2!

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shentheauthor · 5 months ago

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Shuffled Jiequan and Lady Ethereal are HERE!!!! (With a surprise guest)

It took me so dang long to draw jiequan lmao, he’s the sole reason this reference took this long. Also lady ethereal and jiequan are not to scale.

“Xiaoyi” is a soulscape construct and AI modeled after Yi. His personality is a lot like canon!Yi, except instead of telling Jiequan “no,” it’s “later.”

Since Lady Ethereal is in the physical world, we don’t have that insane platforming section for her. Jiequan doesn’t have platforming, but he does have minibosses! Fun!!!

You’d have to go through 2 minibosses to even reach Jiequan. One is Xingtian (to get into the soulscape in the first place), and the next is Xiaoyi.

Reminder: the protagonist of Shuffled Sols is Nuwa. Lady Ethereal jumps at the opportunity to punish someone who is, in her eyes, equally responsible for the death of her friends and family. Nuwa insists that it’s nobody’s fault, but Lady Ethereal is a major driving force to get her to take responsibility.

Yes, Nuwa’s eyes were turned away from what was going on, but she could have looked harder. She could have tried harder.

Meanwhile Jiequan still wants that glory! He’s holed up in his soulscape, both planning and living out his fantasy of restoring the Jie kingdom. He’s not about to give up his Sol Seal easily, of course! It would be dishonorable!

So he fights Nuwa. He really doesn’t like her lmao. She didn’t actually do anything before the launch, so she wasn’t interesting to Jiequan. Now that she’s on a quest for revenge, though, he gets to force her to improve. He gets to forge her in agony!!

Nuwa killing Jiequan in the soulscape causes his vital sanctum to shut down, allowing his body to succumb to Tianhuo.

Lady Ethereal is Nuwa’s first kill. At least, it’s the first kill that Nuwa can’t brush off as not her fault. Here, she has to kill Ethereal with her own two hands. Here, she has to take responsibility. This is where the bubble of shelter around her finally completely pops.

This’ll be a turning point for Nuwa, along with her relationships with the home base gang.

Nuwa, Yi, and Heng’s designs are here!

#nine sols #nine sols au #shuffled sols au #nine sols jiequan #nine sols yi #nine sols lady ethereal #Shen’s art #I DIDNT FORGET THIS AU

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fanauthorworkshop · 5 months ago

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Applications now open!

The Spring 2025 Fanauthor Workshop is a 7-week writing course led by Betts (@bettsfic). The workshop lends a supportive space to writers who identify as fans to receive constructive feedback on fanfiction, original fiction, or creative nonfiction.

Art by @emimayooo 💖

Where & When

We meet weekly over Zoom. You can apply for one of two sessions:

Group A: Wednesdays from Apr 9 - May 21, 12-2pm ET [See what time that is in your time zone]

Group B: Mondays from Apr 7 - May 19, 6-8pm ET [See what time that is in your time zone]

What

FAW is a feedback-oriented workshop with the occasional generative session. This means that each week we read 2 pieces submitted by participants, offer written feedback, and discuss them over Zoom. You'll be able to sign up for the week you would like to workshop your own piece, which can be anything under 6k words.

There may be weeks where, in lieu of workshopping, I present external readings and writing exercises. These sessions will be dependent on the number of participants. For example, if we have 10 participants and 6 workshop weeks, that means one week will be devoted to a reading discussion and generative activity.

I developed a workshop model that focuses mostly on affirmations and positivity, as well as descriptive over prescriptive feedback, which is to say, describing one's experience of reading rather than prescribing solutions to perceived problems. We also present improvement-oriented feedback, but avoid negativity, judgment, and pedantry. Week 1 is spent going over the workshop model and how to give feedback.

About FAW

The first FAW was held in 2017 as an independent study in my MFA. I restarted it in 2022 and since then have led 11 sessions with a total of over 55 participants, about half of whom have participated in the workshop more than once.

Participation in the workshop includes entrance into the FAW community, an active Discord server where we host:

Ongoing accountability meetings during which we chat over Zoom about our projects and set goals for ourselves every other week

A monthly longform writing workshop, where writers can workshop any story between 6k and 100k words

A short story club, where we read and discuss original short form works

Birthday movie nights! We also have weekly TV show streaming and a few co-op games running

Scheduled write-ins and impromptu writing sprints

A group quarterly progress tracking sheet that accidentally turned into a micro social media platform

And there are always other things going on, like international snack exchanges, craft exchanges, support during the looming deadlines of fic exchanges, and so on

We also chat about writing and craft, offer resources, and share many, many pet photos. Or as emi likes to say, "Pay the pet tax."

In addition, participants of the workshop receive:

A one-hour consultation with me to go over your workshop feedback, come up with a plan for revision and/or publication, or anything else you’d like to discuss regarding your writing

Open enrollment in future workshops

Priority sign-ups for other generative workshops

Eligibility

Anyone over the age of 18 who considers themselves a participant of fandom and who is familiar with fanfiction may apply. A stable internet connection is also required.

Cost

The cost of the workshop is "pay what you can" with the recommended amount of $300. To be as inclusive as possible, I don't want money to be a deterrent for anyone interested in participating.

At least partial payment (or notification of nonpayment) will be requested prior to the start of workshop via PayPal, Venmo, or Wise.

Application requirements

To apply, you will need:

An informal cover letter discussing your fan history and goals as a (fan)writer (more specific instructions on submittable)

A short sample of your writing, either original work or fanfiction. This may be previously published/posted

You can apply via submittable. Applications close March 9th.

FAQ under the cut

FAQ

Are there any content restrictions to what I can workshop?

The only restriction is word count (max 6k), with the following caveats:

If you workshop a piece in a form other than prose (for example, a script), your peers may not be able to offer constructive feedback on that aspect of the work. Participants are asked only to have a familiarity with prose.

Content warnings are required for each piece (if applicable), and participants who are uncomfortable reading certain subject matter may abstain from your workshop.

What is the time commitment of the workshop?

As a participant of the workshop, you'll be asked to:

Workshop any piece of your own prose up to 6k words, which will need to be uploaded to the group folder one week before your workshop.

Read 2 pieces per week, write out your individual crit, and attend the workshop itself.

What is the timeline of the workshop?

In week 1, we go over the syllabus and do a writing exercise. Weeks 2 through 7 will be a workshop, a discussion of an external reading, or a writing activity. Prior to the start of workshop, you'll be able to sign up for the week you would like to workshop your piece.

Structure of the sessions:

Question of the day

First workshop

Short break

Second workshop

We'll go over my workshop model and the syllabus in week 1.

Do I have to participate in the Zoom meetings (camera and mic on)?

Attending the workshop itself is required, and everyone is asked to offer at least one note of positive feedback on each piece, so mics are necessary. Cameras are preferred but not required.

You can't asynchronously participate, i.e. read the pieces and offer written feedback without attending the sessions. For those who don't want to attend Zoom sessions, I plan to run an asynchronous session in summer.

Can workshop participants submit to OFIC Magazine?

Yes! Part of the reason I run the workshop is to inspire and promote the original work of fanwriters. You can follow us on tumblr @oficmag.

Who is running the workshop?

@bettsfic! In short, I lived a dreary cubicle life as a banker until I found fanfiction at 24. I loved it so much that I quit my job to get an MFA in creative writing. I loved the MFA so much that I became a writing teacher. I have some publications, awards, an agent, and 2 million words of fic on ao3. I don't have a book out yet but I'm getting there.

Currently I'm a writing coach and freelance editor. I also have a lowkey writing-related newsletter. And I've been answering writing advice asks on my blog for 10 years.

If you want an idea of the kind of writing activities I create, last summer I worked with @books on a workshop series which includes craft essays and some fun prompts.

If you're interested in my original work, my short story "Not If, When" is a good representation of my writing. For something darker, check out "Shut Up and Kill Me."

What is the workshop like?

Check out G's experience of attending the workshop. And here's some feedback from previous participants.

One final note: I'm working on updating the copy about the workshop on my website and move it over to OFIC's website. This post and Submittable has the most updated information on the workshop. If you have questions about discrepancies (or anything at all), you can shoot me an ask, DM me, or add me on Discord (I'm bettsfic there too).

#fanauthor workshop #faw sp25

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inkedtension · 21 days ago

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Something like a pulse

Note:

went with a different approach than usual

probably more into plot but please get it

new writing style?? [Implied: gojo x reader]

errors [if found] with the main plot is intentional [they're none, but just in case]

constructive critisism is welcome

please dont be rude

long? very long, but i didnt count the words

enjoy!!

dividers by: @sisterlucifergraphics

for: @ghostykitty00, @scarsandmoons, @minminminswreckingmalife, @krispyloverlady

I'm bad at connecting two scenes so there are cuts often, and my network suggests I write small fics but this one's long, also there will absolutely be a part 2, I already wrote it too, but it will be posted later on, dont judge, and enjoy!

Got carried away. Sorry. these might seem more like snippets of a story written separately, i just got out of writers block

The city is a different beast at night.

It doesn’t breathe, not really. It holds its breath, like something is waiting. Watching.

By 11:03 PM, you’re past the school gates with your coat collar up, your cursed pen tucked into your inner lining, and your phone flipped to silent. Again.

You sneak in through the south wing to avoid Gojo.

Except he’s waiting.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, voice not bright, not smug—just awake.

You stop.

He’s leaning against the hallway wall, still wearing his uniform from the day before. No blindfold tonight—just dark glasses pushed up in his hair. Pale eyes sharp in the low light.

You exhale. “Go ask Nanami.”

“I’m asking you.”

You say nothing.

He pushes off the wall slowly, hands in pockets, posture too casual to be unintentional. He stops a few feet in front of you, eyes searching your face.

“You didn’t sleep.”

You shrug.

“You come back with blood on your cuffs and bite marks on your wrist. You haven’t filed a patrol report in three days.”

“It’s handled.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

You snort. “Since when do you care if something’s okay?”

There’s a flicker in his face—just the slightest crack. You’ve learned how to read them.

“Since always,” he says, too quiet.

You move to brush past him.

He snatches your cigarette pack from your pocket as you pass.

You freeze.

“Hey.”

He tosses it in the trash. “Go chew gum.”

“You are insufferable.”

He grins now—real grin, lopsided and shitty and boyish. “That’s what you like about me.”

You shove his shoulder. Not hard. He lets it move him.

“Go to bed, Satoru,” you mutter.

He blinks.

You don’t say his name often.

You both notice it at once.

Something in him goes quiet. That grin slips off like a mask dropped in a hurry. You don’t look at him as you keep walking. But he watches you go.

The streets are cold. Not in temperature—but in feeling. You step past sleeping convenience stores, under flickering signs, by alleys that hiss and whisper with low-grade curses.

You clean up. Quietly.

You don’t come back until 6:27 AM. Your fingers are numb, and your coat smells like the city.

The sky is orange by the time you step off the train.

You don’t remember boarding it. You barely recall climbing onto the platform, coated in the stink of hollow, half-cleansed air. The city glows dim, just past sunrise, all orange and dying pinks like an old bruise stretching over high-rise buildings.

Another night gone. Another set of curses erased. Three low-grade, one semi-grade two, and something in the shadows you didn't bother engaging. You made a report about that one. Let the higher-ups deal with it. You aren't paid enough to lose a limb over curiosity.

Your coat’s collar is flipped up, not from style but habit. You roll your neck until it cracks.

By the time you pass the school gates, your hands are shoved in your pockets. A glint of silver reflects against the faint morning light—your cursed pen, swings from a chain inside your jacket.

You’re two steps from the main building when a blur of movement rushes your left side.

“Morning, sensei!” comes the too-bright voice.

You instinctively move aside.

Yuji’s fist punches through empty air and he nearly eats pavement.

"HEY!" he yells, skidding across the courtyard.

You reappear behind him with the flick of your cursed technique—soft distortion, shimmer, and then solid.

"Try harder," you mutter, your voice gravel from sleeplessness and street smoke.

Yuji beams at you, the way only a kid high on sunshine and sugar could.

"You saw that, right? That spin—I just learned that move!" He throws a quick, animated reenactment of the motion, eyes wide with excitement.

"It’s supposed to be this clean, but you—you actually blocked it!" He laughs, half in awe, jogging a few steps to catch up beside you.

"Okay, now I have to figure out how to break through that. Maybe— ooh, what if I go low next time?"

You grunt.

You head inside without another word, past students who are just arriving, past the smell of breakfast rice from the cafeteria. It’s early, but not for you. Never for you.

Nanami's already in the staff room, sleeves rolled, mug steaming, eyes quiet.

You drop into the seat next to him without removing your coat. You don’t need to speak. He glances at you once, notes the dried blood on your cuff, then slides a thermos your way.

Chamomile tea.

You murmur a thanks.

“Long night?” he asks, without looking.

You nod. “Shinjuku again. Something’s nesting under the rail yard.”

He exhales. “You sent the report?”

“Tagged the coordinates. Left a marker.” You lean back in your chair. “Didn’t engage.”

“Smart.”

You stare at the steam curling up from the thermos. “Didn’t feel smart. Felt like running.”

Nanami tilts his head, just slightly. “Running is only cowardice when it costs lives. It’s called strategy when you come back breathing.”

You don’t respond. Just sip the tea.

It burns, but you welcome the pain. It’s sharp. Real.

You don’t notice Gojo until his shadow falls across your table.

He’s always sudden. Even when he’s not trying.

“Look who made it back in one piece,” he says, grinning like he didn’t just appear out of thin air. “And in the same wrinkled suit. Impressive.”

You don’t lift your head. “I have three.”

“Oh, I know. I just think it’s cute that you rotate them like a cartoon character.”

“Bite me.”

“Tempting.”

You finally look up. He’s still grinning. Always grinning. That smug, radiant thing that shouldn’t feel as safe as it does.

“Tell me,” Gojo says, crouching down beside your chair, voice lowering. “You didn’t check that curse near the railyard, did you?”

Your jaw twitches, Nanami sighs.

Gojo hums. “You’re supposed to call us if it smells like a Special Grade.”

“It didn’t feel like a Special Grade,” you snap.

“But it made you walk away. What if it followed you?” His voice is soft now.

You hate when he’s like this. Kind through a knife's edge.

You turn away. “I left a marker. Do what you want.”

“Already dispatched a team,” he says. “But next time, you wait. You call. Or I’m stapling a tracker to your back.”

Gojo stands, ruffling your hair—your carefully flattened, barely combed hair. Then goes to ruffle Nanami’s too, he ducks.

Later, after Nanami leaves for a mission and Yuji is dragged off by Nobara for training, you find yourself alone in the shade behind the school. The city stretches beyond the fence.

Endless. Pulsing. You crouch there, smoke in your hand.

You don’t sleep because when you do, the dark things follow. But out here, in the sun, maybe you can rest your eyes. Just for a second.

You feel the presence before you see him. A subtle shift in the air. A footstep with too much weight behind it to be ignored.

snatch.

Your cigarette is plucked clean from your fingers.

You sit up fast. “What the—”

Gojo flicks the smoke to the dirt and crushes it under his heel. “Wow. So this is what thirty hours of no sleep and government-issue self-loathing looks like.”

You glare. “I was using that.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He wrinkles his nose exaggeratedly, waving his hand through the faint curl of leftover smoke. “Smells like old men. Very sexy.”

“I will break your nose.”

He grins. “Kinky.”

You lunge for him, but he’s already dancing backwards, long limbs loose, laughing like this is his favorite game. Which it is. You know it is.

“You’re unbelievable,” you snap, standing now, brushing your hands off like you didn’t just fall asleep in the dirt.

“And you’re adorable when you’re homicidal.”

“Go away.”

“Make me.”

You step forward, ready to try, but he just keeps walking in a slow circle around you, hands behind his head like he’s on vacation.

“You know, most people smoke after something good happens. Not before they collapse like a cursed ragdoll under a sakura tree.”

“Maybe I like doing things backwards.”

“Maybe you like attention.”

Your stare is sharp. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Gojo spins, walking backwards now, his sunglasses glinting. “I’m not the one brooding dramatically behind the school like a tragic anti-hero. What’s next? Monologues about the weight of power?”

“Go choke on your own ego.”

He gasps, mock-wounded. “You wound me, senpai. And after I graciously saved your lungs.”

You march past him, done with the scene, done with the sun, done with him—but his voice follows.

“You owe me one,” he calls.

“For what?” you snap over your shoulder.

“For the cig! I saved your life! That’s worth, like—coffee. Or dinner. Or naming your firstborn after me!”

You don’t answer.

You just raise your middle finger without looking back.

He’s still laughing when you vanish into the building.

You make it exactly fifteen minutes into breakfast before Yuji starts poking you with chopsticks.

“Are you gonna eat?” he asks, voice too loud, energy too raw for six-something in the morning.

“No,” you deadpan.

“You should! Rice is life!”

“I hope you choke on it.”

“Wow,” he says, chewing anyway. “So mean before 7 a.m.”

Across the table, Megumi watches you like a suspicious housecat. Arms crossed, head tilted, judging in silence. Nobara is eating, avoiding your eyes. You ignore them.

Your tray is untouched. You’re not sure why you got one. Habit, probably. Something about pretending you’re normal.

Yuji goes to poke you again—and then Gojo drops into the seat beside you like he’s been summoned by chaos itself.

He props his chin in his hand and smiles.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You sigh without looking at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Be delighted to see you alive?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Aw, c’mon. Would you prefer... sweet cheeks? My little gremlin? killer cutie?”

“I will put a pen through your eye socket.”

He grins. “Still not a no.”

Nanami sits down across from you, sipping from a thermos, and you actually relax a little.

He doesn’t comment. Just murmurs, “You’re late,” to Gojo.

Gojo shrugs. “Had to stop someone from setting themselves on fire behind the school.”

“I was fine,” you mutter.

“Oh, you were smoldering, alright,” he grins, elbow nudging yours. “In a hot mess kind of way.”

You finally turn to him, fully, and say—quietly, evenly

“Satoru.”

His smile flickers.

Just for a second. Like something short-circuits behind his blindfold.

Like you just dropped a match into his mouth and told him not to flinch.

“Die.”

He smirks.

You shove your tray toward Yuji without a word. He blinks at it.

“Wait, really?”

“Eat it before I change my mind.”

Yuji fist-pumps. “BEST SENSEI EVER! I’LL MAKE A SHRINE FOR YOU.”

Megumi suddenly looked horrified, you think you saw Nobara choke.

Gojo, beside you, clasps a hand to his chest in betrayal. “You fed the child and not me?”

“You’ll survive.”

“But will I, emotionally?”

You stand, grabbing your coat from the back of the chair. Nanami looks up at you.

“You leaving?”

“Bathroom,” you say.

He nods. Doesn’t press.

You leave the cafeteria. Step into a quiet hallway. No footsteps behind you—until there are.

You don’t turn. “You’re following.”

“Obviously,” Satoru says, less smug now. “Didn’t even try to lose me. You’re slipping.”

You pause by the window at the end of the hall, sunlight slicing through glass and dust. Below, the courtyard shimmers with the morning heat.

He leans against the wall beside you, sunglasses pushed up onto his head now, hair sticking up like it always does.

You don’t say anything. Just turn and start walking to the shower rooms.

The water takes too long to get warm.

You stand under it anyway.

Let it hit cold, like punishment. Like proof. The tiles are cracked at your feet, and the soap smells too clean, like a hospital pretending to be a spa.

You don’t wash your hair. You don’t even undress all the way—just peel the top half of your clothes off, let it slump down over your hips, the soaked sleeves dragging along your elbows like dead weight.

Steam rises eventually. Not enough.

You lean a hand against the wall, breathing like it’s a task. You hear a sound.

A click. A familiar one. Lighter flint.

“You smell like blood,” Shoko says through the thin stall divider.

You grunt. “Takes one to know one.”

A drag. A pause.

You stare at the chipped tile.

“I wasn’t going to light up in here.” she says.

You inhale. You hear the scratch of her back against the tile.

There’s something comforting about the quiet that follows. Not peaceful but familiar. Like the moment before a fuse burns out.

You shut the water off and let it drip from your eyelashes.

“Gojo’s looking for you,” Shoko says after a moment.

“He found me already.”

“Did he annoy you to death?”

“Almost.”

“Rookie numbers. You look half-dead anyway.”

You wring the water from your sleeves. “Don’t care.”

“Clearly.”

You wrap a towel over your shoulders and slump against the stall wall, mirroring her position—two backs to the same half-inch divider. You both stand there, for a while.

There’s a beat. You can hear the cigarette sizzle faintly in her hand. She knocks ash into the drain.

“You’re not sleeping again.”

You don’t answer.

She doesn’t push. “Nanami’s worried.”

You close your eyes. “He doesn’t say anything.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

You breathe. Let the silence sit. Water dripping down your back. Steam clinging to your skin.

“He said I should’ve called,” you mumble.

Shoko hums. “Satoru?”

You nod, even though she can’t see it.

“He’s not wrong.”

You turn your head. “Would you have called?”

She flicks ash again. “Nope.”

“Thought so.”

“But” she adds, “I also wouldn’t have walked into a rail yard alone with a bleeding suit and a hunger-activated cursed pen in my jacket. So.”

You sigh. “Touche.”

“Next time,” she says, tapping the wall once between you, “maybe don’t wait until you want to disappear.”

You stare at the grout line.

Then whisper, so faint she might not hear it:

I already do. You thought.

No answer. Just a flick of the lighter again. Flame, smoke, breath.

You walk out still damp.

Didn’t bother with a hairdryer. Didn’t pack spare clothes. The sleeves of your shirt cling to your arms, the collar wet and dark where it hugs your throat. Your jacket hangs off one shoulder. Steam is still caught in your skin. You look like something dragged from the ocean and left out to dry.

Gojo is exactly where you expect him not to be—leaning against the wall just beyond the turn, pretending to scroll through his phone.

His head lifts, very casually, half a beat too late. “Oh,” he says, like he just noticed you. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You don’t break stride. “Stalker.”

“Rude,” he hums, falling into step beside you. “I happen to haunt this hallway daily. This is my corner.”

You adjust the towel at your shoulders and keep walking. “Like mold.”

“I’m versatile,” he says. “You’re wet.”

You throw him a glare.

He shrugs. “Statement of fact. Didn’t think you owned a drowned rat aesthetic, but—”

“Bite me.”

“You keep offering. One day I’ll say yes.”

You pause. You do pause. Just long enough to make him stop walking, too.

“Satoru,” you say.

His mouth opens. But you’re already walking again.

He stares after you for a moment. Then jogs to catch up.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, quieter now.

“No.”

That shuts him up.

For two whole seconds.

Then, softer, trying too hard to sound casual, “Did you dream?”

You look at him.

Not like you hate him. Not like you want to kiss him. Just—like he asked a question that split you open.

And still you answer.

“Yeah.”

You’re already rounding the next corner when you say it, but he hears.

“Was it Haibara again?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Because he was there. He knows.

He remembers the three of you—back then. When Nanami still smiled sometimes, when Haibara lit up every room with something bright and stupid. You were younger. Meaner. Alive in a different way. Haibara used to call you by a nickname no one else was allowed to use. He was annoying and gentle and so, so good.

Too much like Yuji.

Too open. Too earnest. Always asking if you were okay, like he didn’t know you were capable of lying.

You breathe.

Gojo’s voice breaks the silence. “Yuji’s not him.”

“Yuji?”

He nods. “You know that, right?”

“Don’t say it like that,” you snap. “Like I hate him. I don’t.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“I don’t.”

“I know, I know.”

You stop again.

This time, Gojo doesn’t pretend to be doing anything else. He’s just there.

Waiting.

You speak into the quiet.

“I dreamt about the last time we had lunch. Haibara and I. He brought that stupid plastic bento box. The one with the broken latch and the cartoon rabbit on it.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches. “You threw it at Nanami once.”

“He called it lucky.”

he tilts his head. “It wasn’t.”

“No” you say. “It really wasn’t.”

The air hangs heavy between you, grief caught in the walls, in your soaked collar, in the creases under your eyes that never really go away.

“I miss him,” you say. “And every time Yuji smiles like that, I think—what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of training these kids if all they do is die with their eyes still open?”

“I don’t know the answer,” he says.

You blink at him.

“You’re not supposed to,” you say.

His hand drops. He smiles again. Weaker. Realer.

Nanami rounds the corner just then, eyebrows lifting at the two of you. “You’ve been gone for thirty minutes.”

You blink. “I showered.”

“You’re still wet.”

“She’s going for a drenched aesthetic” Gojo chirps.

Nanami eyes your soaked collar, your towel-draped shoulders. “Very convincing.”

You roll your eyes and push past both of them.

“Breakfast is cold,” Nanami says mildly, falling in beside you.

“So is the grave,” you mutter.

Gojo snorts behind you. “Wow. Inspiring.”

The gravel crunches under your soles as you sit on the low ledge behind the training yard. It’s always quiet back here—except today, when Megumi shows up and ruins the silence without even speaking.

He just sits. Maybe two feet away.

You don't tell him to leave. He wouldn’t.

Instead, you stare ahead, both of you looking at nothing, like the ghosts hanging off your shoulders have names you’re too tired to whisper.

Yuji’s laughter echoes in the distance, high and bright—fighting with Nobara again, probably. He sounds so alive.

You don’t move.

“He’s loud” Megumi mutters after a while.

Your lips twitch. “He is.”

Silence again.

But it’s thick now. Not awkward—just too familiar. Heaviness is a language, and you both speak it.

The wind shifts. Megumi’s hair stirs across his forehead. For a second, you look at him—not for who he is, but who he reminds you of.

That brooding quiet. That reluctant kindness.

Suguru.

Then Yuji again, loud and laughing in the sun, and it’s like time folds in on itself. You see Satoru, years ago, with his unbearable smile, chasing after Suguru down the hall after stealing his drink.

You look away before your throat tightens.

One of them will die, or both.

You don’t know when. You don’t know how. But you’ve felt it since the first day Satoru dragged these kids into your world with too much faith and not enough fear.

you ask softly, “You sleeping okay?”

He shrugs. “Enough.”

You nod once and let the silence bloom again.

The sun filters through the clouds, weak and pale. There’s warmth in it, but not enough.

And for a moment, in the stillness, you remember the tile walls of the old dormitory showers. The steam. The quiet. Suguru. The beach.

You didn’t talk about it with anyone, honestly.

But it counted.

Back then, everything counted. Because it was before.

Before the split. Before the blood. Before Nanami found you in a stairwell with a bottle in your hand and told you “Don’t you dare.”

He’d meant it.

So you’d stayed.

Even when you didn’t want to.

Even now. You stand.

Megumi glances up but doesn’t follow.

“You should head in” you say.

He doesn’t argue.

Yuji barrels around the corner a few minutes later, cheeks red from running, hair damp with sweat. He’s too breathless to speak, too alive to hold.

You hesitate.

Then, without thinking, you lift your hand and pat his head once, gently. It’s not playful. It’s not sisterly.

It’s mourning.

Yuji stills under your hand.

Then smiles, eyes wide and simple and open.

You pull away and walk off before your hands can shake.

Nanami finds you in the corridor between classrooms later, where the light through the glass is watery and cruel. He doesn’t speak at first—just stands next to you.

“You were somewhere else today.”

You shrug.

He’s quiet a beat too long.

“Do I need to worry?” he asks. It’s not casual. Not rhetorical.

You look at him. Nanami, with his rolled sleeves and calm voice and the scar down his back you stitched up once in a storage closet with trembling hands. Nanami, who dragged you out of a freezing river two winters ago when you were sure you’d done enough living.

You say, “No.”

And it’s mostly true.

He eyes your posture. The way your hands are stuffed deep into your coat pockets. The way you’ve started wearing your collar higher again, like back then.

“You saw something” he says.

You nod.

“About the boys?”

You close your eyes and dont answer. Because he knows.

Because he saw what losing one did to Satoru.

And what nearly losing you did to him.

He doesn’t reach for you. He never has. But his presence leans warm against yours, the way walls don’t move when you collapse against them.

Somewhere down the hall, Yuji shouts something about donuts. A desk crashes. Nobara yells.

It’s so alive.

You want it to last.

Even though you know it won’t.

You’ve been avoiding this conversation since last week. Maybe longer.

The knock is half-hearted.

Yaga grunts from inside. “Come in.”

You step in, still wearing the suit from last night’s patrol. It’s stained—not from blood, but from the sweat and dust of another mission run solo. Your hands are in your pockets. Your face is unreadable.

Yaga doesn't look up at first. He’s hunched over a rectangular planter on his desk, two vine-like plants growing in a tight, impossible twist. He adjusts the soil, prunes a stem with careful fingers.

“I heard you didn’t return till after 7.”

You shift your weight. “Time slipped.”

He grunts again. That non-committal sound he makes when he knows you’re lying but doesn’t care enough to press. “You were supposed to check in. Gojo was pacing the hall like a cat in a thunderstorm.”

“He does that anyway.”

A faint smirk flickers over Yaga’s face, quickly gone. “He wanted to go looking. I told him you’d show up. You always do.”

You glance at the plants. “Barely.”

He looks at you this time. “Are you eating?”

You don’t answer.

Yaga sighs. It’s that deep, weary exhale only a man who's raised too many broken kids can make. “You keep doing this. Working yourself into the ground. One of these days, even Gojo won’t be fast enough to drag you out of it.”

You look away. His words cut in the way soft things do—quiet and clean, but deep.

Then he switches gears.

“Yuji came by earlier.”

Your eyes narrow.

“He asked—no, requested—on being assigned to train with you. Said your cursed technique was ‘cool as hell’ and he wanted to learn stealth and ‘mysterious girl fighting.’”

You blink slowly. “I’m not fine with it.”

“He seemed fine with that.” Yaga’s smile returns, subtle and fond. “Said he’d die ‘invisibly’ and it would be poetic.”

You roll your eyes. “Tell him to stick with Kento.”

“I tried. He called Nanami ‘too structured’ and said ‘you’d understand his artistic chaos.’”

You stare at Yaga, deadpan. “…He doesn’t know me.”

“No,” Yaga says, leaning back in his chair, “but he’s trying to.”

There’s a beat of silence. You want to dissolve, go back to patrol, disappear into the hollow between buildings where thoughts don’t follow. But you stay.

Yaga reaches out, fingers brushing the twisted vines in the planter. You watch them curl slightly in reaction—alive, maybe too alive.

“I’ve had these since before you joined. Same seeds. Planted in the same soil. Look at them now.”

You do. The vines are impossibly entwined, their stems so knotted they almost look like one plant.

“Tried moving one,” Yaga continues. “Thought they’d do better on their own. Thought the roots were fighting each other. But once I split them, they stopped growing. Like they didn’t know how to live without the other.”

You don’t speak.

He plucks a single dead leaf. Drops it in the trash. “So I put them back together. And they started again. Twisting, adapting. Never separate. No matter what pot I place them in.”

You shift—barely—but something flickers in your expression. Your eyes remain on the vines.

“Do you think they like each other? the answer is no. they' are each other, they just dont know it yet” he asks softly.

You say nothing.

Yaga doesn’t expect you to. he says after a moment. “Maybe it’s obsession. Maybe it’s survival. Maybe it’s just something they were born with—coded into their roots. But it’s... something.”

Silence again. Then, your voice, so faint it barely stirs the air.

“Is that a curse?”

Yaga looks at you. Really looks.

“If it is” he says gently, “it’s an old one.”

You nod once, more to yourself than him. The words crawl under your skin.

The vines are still twisting.

And Gojo’s face flashes uninvited in your mind—laughing, bleeding, tired-eyed, soft-voiced when he thought you weren’t listening. His words echo again.

You think I don’t know?

A thought suddenly flashes through your mind.

You don’t like that thought. But you don’t pull away from it either.

Yaga returns to his task, brushing soil over the roots, like covering something sacred.

You turn to leave.

“Don’t kill Yuji” he calls after you. “He’s just curious.”

You pause in the doorway.

And you’re gone.

But that question lingers in your head long after:

“Do you think they like each other? the answer is no. they' are each other, they just dont know it yet”

You never said it out loud.

But something in your chest curled in recognition.

Two winters ago.

You walked into the river like it wasn’t a decision.

No thought. No panic. Just one foot after another.

Boots left behind in the snow, socks soaked through. The water welcomed you without question—silent, freezing, black under the skin of ice.

The cold was crushing. It clung to your skin like teeth. And still, you didn’t stop.

You stared ahead—eyes dry, breath slowing—until the world narrowed to numbness.

You felt the coldness seep into your clothes, hair, ears and when you opened your mouth due to lack of breath, your lungs.

Then again, you felt nothing.

Not the wet fabric pulling at your shoulders. Not the bite of the wind cutting through your soaked clothes. Not even the trembling that began to climb your spine.

It was peace.

And then—it wasn’t.

Hands under your arms.

A jerk backward. Ice cracking beneath shifting weight.

“No—” you started, weak and hoarse, but the river swallowed the word.

“Get the fuck out,” a voice growled behind you—familiar and furious.

You thrashed, limp at first, then full-body jerks, kicking at the snow and ice, coughing out water as Nanami’s arms locked beneath your shoulders, dragging you up the bank like a corpse. You tried to twist free, elbow him, spit, scream. It didn’t matter. He was stronger. He was relentless.

“Let me go—Kento, let me go!”

“Shut up,” he snapped.

You clawed at his wrists, shoved at his chest, but he moved without hesitation—grabbed you fully, hoisted your soaked body up and threw you over his shoulder like dead weight.

You screamed. Hit at his back, fists weak. Legs kicking. Your nose started bleeding.

“PUT ME DOWN!”

He didn’t.

He didn’t speak.

He just walked—steady, powerful strides through the snow-covered path, through wind and silence and nothing but your fists pounding at his spine.

And then—gravel underfoot. The road. Streetlights in the distance. Some old van parked crooked in the snow. He dropped to one knee, and set you down on the roadside, your body folding in on itself.

You pushed yourself up to swing again—and he slapped you.

Just once. Sharp. A clean sting across your cheek. Not hard enough to bruise. But it landed.

You froze.

Eyes wide.

Mouth open—but no sound came out.

His face was twisted—jaw tight, red eyes wild with grief and panic and something unspoken. His breath steamed in the air between you.

“You don’t get to do that,” he said. Not shouted. Said.

You stared. And then you broke.

You collapsed forward, arms wrapping around him so fast it was clumsy, trembling fingers clawing at the fabric of his soaked shirt, blood seeping into his shirt from your nose.

“Don’t,” you sobbed. “Don’t yell at me—don’t leave me—don’t—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, hands wrapping around you, voice low. “You hear me?”

You were shaking, your chest heaving with a sob that wouldn’t stop.

“Everyone keeps leaving,” you cried, nose pressed to his collarbone, teeth chattering.

“Kento—everyone keeps leaving!—”

“I know,” he whispered, folding his arms around your back.

“everyone’s fucking gone!”

He held you tighter.

You clawed at his shirt, screamed into his chest until your voice cracked.

He said nothing for a while.

Just wrapped his coat over your shoulders, rubbing warmth into your frozen arms, kneeling in the snow with you.

“I’m here,” he finally said. Quiet. So quiet it barely registered through your sobs. “You’re not alone.”

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can.” His hand slid to your face, fingers brushing the hair from your cheek. “You already did.”

You looked up at him through tears, lips trembling, face blotched red from cold and crying and blood. His expression was exhausted. His own eyes were red, rimmed with disbelief and grief, jaw working to hold in his own pain.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered. His thumb brushed just beneath your eye. “You should’ve called me.”

You leaned into his touch like a dying thing starved of light.

“Don’t leave me,” you said again, barely audible.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. Not this time.

You stayed there for what felt like hours—kneeling in the slush, in the quiet aftermath of almost dying, clinging to the only person still standing in the crater your life had become.

And he also ate ice cream with you as he walked you home the same night, blue lips and numb legs.

For the first time in a long time you felt warm.

That was before he left,

You just added his name to the growing list of people who’d left.

Suguru. Nanami. The Class of 2007.

And eventually—you stopped reaching for anyone at all.

The villiage massacre.

You were used to the aftermath of curses. Used to blood. Screams. Silence.

But nothing prepared you for what you saw that night.

The village was hollow. Burnt out. The kind where people don't even realize they’re dying until they're dust. Suguru’s work.

You and Ichiji had arrived shortly after the incident was reported — a routine check. You expected another Level 2, maybe a rogue curse.

"I'll report it" Ichiji had said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t just a cleanup job.”

You nodded. "Tell them everything."

But you didn’t go back.

Instead, you turned toward the one place that hadn't yet been mentioned in the reports.

Suguru's family home.

You'd never met them before. His parents. You barely knew what they looked like. But you'd heard him mention them in passing — his mother cooked seaweed soup in winter, his father worked too much. Casual remarks. Nothing special.

And now they were dead.

Bodies limp. There were no signs of forced entry. Nothing stolen. Just tea cooling in ceramic cups, and two lives cut quietly at the root.

You knew right away that he’d done it.

Your knees gave out first. Then the sob caught in your throat, and you didn’t stop it. Not this time. You didn’t know these people. You had no memories to cry over, and yet you cried anyway. For whatever piece of his soul had died before he made the choice to do this.

You cremated the bodies, standing in silence. You watched the smoke carry their lives away.

You held a small funeral. you lit the incense with your lighter. You knelt before their ashes. Your hands trembled as you bowed, tears streaking down your cheeks.

"May you find peace" you whispered. "Even if your son couldn’t."

Telling the elders was worse.

Worse than the fire, the ashes, the way your voice gave out every time you tried to explain what had happened.

You became that person. The one who brought bad news. Who always returned alone, with blood or silence on her tongue. Some said you had bad luck. Some said you were cursed.

You believed it.

After that, you stopped going on joint missions. You stopped reporting directly to anyone. You took over the patrolling job.

You never quite came back from that house.

Eighteen and two months, the party.

The dress code was strange. White shirt, black pants. A marker in your pocket.

You hadn't questioned it — not out loud. Yaga had said it with a straight face, and no one dared poke the bear when he was in one of his "building camaraderie" moods.

But this was different. This wasn’t a mission or a funeral or blood-soaked silence. This was a… party?

If you squinted.

Suguru was the first to greet you, hair in his usual half-up style, a ridiculous party hat already askew on his head. “Hey, you made it,” he said, genuine and easy. “I had five bucks that you’d ghost this.”

You only blinked at him.

Behind him, Nanami nodded toward you, then shifted to open a pack of those tiny plastic forks with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb. Haibara was bouncing, literal sparkle in his eyes, waving you toward the table like you’d won some prize. “You came! Ah, Kento, she actually came!”

“I’m not blind,” Nanami muttered.

You sat without a word.

Gojo took the seat beside you before anyone else could. His hair was tied up loosely, his shirt already creased and messy, like he’d put it on last minute, possibly while wrestling a raccoon. He smelled like sugar. Why did he smell like sugar?

“You brought your marker?” he asked, mouth too close to your ear.

You gave a small nod.

He grinned wide and leaned back dramatically. “She speaks!”

“I didn’t speak.”

“She denies!” He clutched his chest. “God, I’m so into you.”

You turned your head, slowly, to stare at him.

He winked.

You ignored it.

Yaga gave a speech that lasted exactly three minutes too long and then mysteriously disappeared. The moment the door shut behind him, Geto clapped his hands.

“Alright! You heard the man. Mark each other up. Memories, insults, love letters. Whatever.”

You watched silently as chaos bloomed around the table. Suguru wrote something very questionable on Shoko’s shirt, laughing when she threw a grape at him. Haibara’s shirt was already covered in stars, hearts, and the phrase “I’m a sunshine disaster” in at least three different handwritings.

Nanami's said “Sleep is for the weak.”

Yours remained untouched.

Gojo watched it all.

Sprawled sideways, legs long and unruly under the table. Shirt already covered in chaos. Someone had written “dumbest genius in the room” across his ribs, and he wore it like a badge. He kept laughing, loud and easy, but his eyes never left you for long.

“s’my turn” Gojo announced, somehow behind you now.

You should’ve noticed. You usually did. Your brain, your… unwelcome noise, usually warned you when he was too close. But this time, there was nothing — just the heat of his presence and the pressure of the marker as it pressed against your back.

“Don’t move” he whispered.

Suguru watched him with tired eyes.

“What are you writing?” Suguru asked.

“Compliments. Vulnerable truths. My social security number.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t even flinch. You let him write whatever he wanted.

He placed a hand flat against your spine to keep you steady. His palm was warm. Fingers a little too long.

He dragged it out. Literally.

Big loops. Careful slants. Words that didn’t need to take up half your back but did, just so his hand could trail after each one. You didn’t flinch. It was strangely comforting.

He paused once.

Then kept writing.

It ended just above your lower back.

The others kept talking. Laughing. You focused on the hum, on Haibara’s dumb giggle, on Nanami trying to slap Geto’s hand away when he drew a cat on his neck.

When he finished, he didn’t say anything.

He just passed you the marker.

You turned.

“Satoru” you said.

He blinked, suddenly serious. “Yeah?”

You handed him the marker. “Your turn.”

His grin returned, lazy and lopsided. “You’re gonna write something sweet?”

You shrugged. Then uncapped the marker.

And across his back, in clean, blocky letters, you wrote:

“You’re exhausting. And maybe I’d miss it if you stopped.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he tilted his head at you and whispered, “That’s basically a confession.”

“Keep dreaming.”

“Oh, I am. Every night. Want details?”

You leaned slightly closer, voice low. “huh? no”

“…whatever you want, pwincess”

Later, when the food was just crumbs and soda cans, and Haibara was passed out on Shoko’s lap, you felt a tug on your sleeve.

Nanami leaned in and said, “Do you want to know what he wrote?”

You frowned.

He nodded toward Gojo, who was now drawing stick figures on Geto’s pants while humming.

You shook your head. “No.”

“You should.”

You didn’t see what anyone wrote. You just know those who read out aloud as they wrote. Like Haibara, Suguru, Shoko.

There were flashes of the real.

Like Haibara, crawling across the bench to get to you, nearly knocking over the soda can you hadn’t touched. He scribbled “Eat more fooooood” on your shoulder blade in giant bubble letters, rambling on about how he wants to write more, then added a small smiley with fangs.

He leaned close after and whispered, “If anyone bullies you, I’ll beat them up. Even if it’s Kento.”

Nanami sighed, long-suffering. “You are the one who keeps jumping out from behind doors to scare her.”

“That’s bonding!”

You let Haibara hug your arm and left it at that.

Utahime was already yelling, “Group photo! Everyone, let’s go, before someone falls asleep or explodes.”

Shoko had set up a disposable camera on timer, already blinking red.

You all crowded together in front of the old mission board. Half the room still wore party hats. Nanami looked faintly betrayed. Haibara squeezed between you and Geto, dragging your arm up for a crooked peace sign.

Satoru’s hand settled heavy on your shoulder. His thumb tapped once against your collarbone. Light. Unnoticed.

Click.

The camera flashed.

And for a second, there were no voices. Just a silence that felt like belonging.

You didn’t see the photo until weeks later.

After a shared mission with Nanami, your house.

The key creaks in the lock.

You hate that sound.

It meant you were here. Home. Back in this... place. A place that, even by accident, refused to feel like anything but a dark hollow shell. A mattress on the floor. No fridge. No electricity. No trace of softness. You didn’t need it. You were never here long enough to justify having anything. Nights were for patrols. Mornings were for school. Evenings? Brief flashes of a quiet bed and clean suit before heading out again.

And you liked it that way.

You and Nanami step into the darkness, the door groaning as it opens. Your eyes adjust automatically, though Nanami, who’s already sighing, flicks on the lights—

Click.

Wait.

Light?

Your eyes narrow, trained on the glow bathing the hallway in soft yellow. You take another step in, the soles of your boots no longer touching dusty floorboards but… clean laminate?

Nanami halts beside you. “...You have curtains.”

You don’t respond, just phase forward—silent, a flicker of motion.

The living room is...

Furnished.

There’s a couch. A coffee table. The floor is swept. Clean throw pillows like little marshmallow lies sit primly on the corners of the couch. There’s a TV mounted on the wall. The windows are dressed in blackout curtains, elegant and thick.

You phase again, into the kitchen.

The fridge hums—alive. The door opens and reveals fresh vegetables, cuts of meat, bottled water, beer—your favorite brand.

You slam it shut.

Nanami enters behind you, just as you teleport to the bedroom—your sanctuary of nothingness—and find—

Drawers. A wardrobe.

other clothes. Not just suits.

Just… soft things. Cotton. Sweaters. Even fucking pajamas. With clouds on them.

“Who broke into my house” you say flatly, appearing back in the kitchen with a thud of boots.

Nanami raises a brow. “I don’t think this qualifies as a break-in, exactly.”

You stare at him.

“Kento,” you say, voice low.

“Yes?”

“Tell me this wasn’t you.”

“You know I wouldn’t dare.”

You close your eyes and let out a sharp breath through your nose. “Then who—”

“I’ll make tea,” he interrupts, placing his coat over a new kitchen chair. A new chair. There was a stove. A dish set. “While you process the fact that your home no longer resembles a condemned shrine.”

You grunt but don’t stop him.

He moves with familiar ease, finding utensils like it’s instinct. You lean back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes flicking to him. His presence is steadying. Like always.

He opens a cabinet, finds mugs. “You remember the first place we rented in Sapporo?”

“Collapsed roof. No heat.”

“You dissolved the floor into a sinkhole because it was rotting.”

“...I warned the landlord,” you mutter.

Nanami huffs a quiet laugh.

You let him cook. Tea turns to dinner. You don’t even ask where he found rice, eggs. It just appears. And for a second, you forget to be mad.

You sit, both of you with plates, sipping, chewing, saying little—until the heat of old times loosens your tongue.

“You were always the one with taste,” you say, glancing at the apartment. “Guess I infected you.”

“You did,” he says, and his lips twitch. “You and your tragic sense of denial.”

You click your tongue.

The kitchen light buzzes softly above. Still too bright for your liking.

You stand near the counter, arms crossed, eyes cold as they scan your too-new kitchen like it’s a crime scene. Nanami’s beside you, calm as ever, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, wristwatch removed and placed neatly on the windowsill like he always did before cooking.

He’s already got water boiling. Something aromatic simmers in a pan—probably pork belly. Of course he remembered your favorites.

You lean against the fridge, silent. The hum of it is still unnatural.

Nanami turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder at you. “You’re quiet.”

You scoff. “Processing.”

He smirks faintly. “Processing that you now own a functioning stove?”

You roll your eyes. “And curtains. Don’t forget those.”

Nanami shakes his head. “They match the walls. You should be grateful.”

“I don’t want to be grateful. I want my pit back.”

Nanami doesn’t bother replying. He just stirs the pot gently. The aroma deepens.

A beat passes. You shift.

“...Need help?”

His brows lift—mildly surprised. “Since when do you offer?”

“I didn’t offer,” you say flatly, moving toward the counter. “I just asked if you needed it.”

He pauses, then steps aside slightly. “Prove you still remember how.”

You snort and pull the cot aside with your foot, dropping it against the wall. The coat comes off next, heavy and long, tossed unceremoniously over a chair. Beneath it, a black turtleneck hugs your form—simple, worn. You roll your sleeves up, the movement fluid, practiced.

“Please,” you mutter, cracking your knuckles. “My skills haven’t lagged.”

Nanami hands you a cutting board and knife with a quiet look. “I’ll believe that when I survive your seasoning again.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, already slicing green onions with neat, aggressive speed.

“You almost poisoned Ino once.”

“He’s dramatic.”

“You mistook salt for sugar.”

“That was one time.”

“And you didn’t taste the difference?”

“I don’t taste while cooking,” you say, straightening. “I just know.”

He sighs deeply, as though the weight of knowing you has aged him ten years.

You begin working in sync. The oil sizzles, the kitchen fills with scent and steam. There’s a strange comfort to it—a rhythm older than either of you want to admit.

You flick oil from your knuckle. “This reminds you of something.”

Nanami glances at you sideways. “The apartment in Kyoto.”

You nod. “With the cracked ceiling.”

“And a mouse infestation.”

“You cooked every night.”

“You refused to shop for vegetables.”

“You refused to eat instant ramen.”

He shrugs. “I have standards.”

You smirk, just slightly. “You liked my miso soup.”

“...It was edible.”

“Bullshit.”

Nanami finally exhales a laugh, soft and deep. The smell of the past lingers between you—soy, broth, burnt onions, and time.

“You know,” he says slowly, as you wipe your hands, “you were reckless back then.”

Your brow twitches. “Don’t start.”

“You teleport mid-fight too often. You never rest. You haven’t reported half your injuries this month. If I have to remind you again—”

You slam the knife down gently.

“I survived, didn’t I?”

“That’s not enough,” he says, tone sharp now. His gaze pins you in place, no longer soft with nostalgia. “You’re not a student anymore. You’re not alone anymore. There are people who—”

“I know,” you cut in, flat.

But something in your voice slips.

He watches you for a beat longer, then returns to stirring.

You both work in silence after that. The meal finishes. Rice fluffs. The soup simmers low. You set out the bowls, the motion automatic. Almost... normal.

As you serve his plate, you mutter, “I didn’t forget how to cook.”

Nanami takes it with quiet reverence. “No. You didn’t.”

“Shut up and eat.”

He does.

The table is small, plain wood. Still new. Too clean for your liking. The chairs don’t creak like they should.

But the food’s hot. The scent of soy and garlic hangs in the air.

You both eat without speaking for a while. It's quiet—save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of chopsticks against ceramic.

Nanami finishes his rice and sets his bowl down, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin that absolutely didn’t belong to you before yesterday. “Not bad.”

You raise a brow. “Not bad?”

He exhales slowly. “Fine. It’s better than I expected.”

“Hah.”

You sip from your bowl. Heat settles in your chest—probably the broth. Not the warmth from shared routine. Definitely not that.

Your eyes flick to him, thoughtful.

“…Kento.”

He glances up.

You hesitate. “Did you know?”

He frowns. “Know what?”

“That he… did all this.”

A pause. Then:

“No” he says. “But I suspected it the moment I saw the fridge.”

You sigh, pushing rice around your bowl. “So stupid.”

He leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. “You’ll never admit it, but you needed this.”

“I didn’t need anything. Especially not a renovation from a walking god complex.”

A faint smile plays at his lips. “He means well. You know that.”

You grunt. “Satoru’s… relentless.”

Nanami watches you carefully. You don’t meet his gaze.

“He’s been bothering you again?”

You don’t answer immediately. You stir your soup.

“Not bothering,” you mutter. “He just… talks too much. Touches too much. Shows up when he’s not wanted.”

Nanami raises his eyebrows, like he knows you've said something you didn't want to, and that you'd hit anyone else who'd say the same thing. “And yet, you never go away from him.”

Your eyes snap up, sharp. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He nods. “Of course not.”

You hate that he says it like that. Like he knows.

Your voice drops. “He doesn’t get it.”

“What doesn’t he get?”

“That not everyone wants things. That not everyone needs to be surrounded all the time. That maybe I like being alone.”

Nanami raises a brow. “Do you?”

The question hangs there, heavy and precise like everything he says.

You look away.

“I don’t want to need him.”

Nanami nods slowly. “That’s different.”

You tense.

He sets his cup down gently, folding his hands in his lap. “You’ve never been good at needing anyone. Even back then, you only let people close when they were bleeding out or trying to leave.”

“Don’t psychologize me” you mutter.

“I’m not,” he says simply. “Just stating facts.”

Silence falls again. You chew slowly, jaw tight.

After a long moment, you speak.

“I don’t know what he wants from me.”

Nanami stares down into his tea. “Maybe nothing.”

Your brow furrows.

“Maybe,” he says, voice lower now, gentler, “he just wants to be where you are.”

You go still.

Your fingers tighten around your spoon.

Nanami, sensing the weight of your quiet, doesn’t push.

Eventually, you rise without a word and collect the plates. He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t speak again until the sink water’s running and your back is to him.

“He makes things messy.”

Nanami exhales a soft breath through his nose. “Yes. But so do you.”

“Shut up.”

His smirk is audible.

“I’m just saying,” he says mildly. “You let him in.”

You glance back at him, eyes half-lidded. “Barely.”

“Still counts.”

You flick a droplet of water in his direction. “Keep talking and you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“He installed the couch,” he reminds.

“I’ll dissolve the couch.”

Nanami chuckles, slow and full in his chest.

You let the moment hang, let it fade into the clatter of dishes and the distant noise of your city—the one you patrol, protect, disappear into.

And even though Gojo isn’t here, it still feels like he’s in the room.

After sleepless nights and overthinking.

You weren’t ever really part of them.

Not in the stories they told around tables with cheap beer and broken bones. You were somewhere else. Always somewhere else. Just randomly close to Nanami and Haibara, until one died and one left, and came back again.

And that was by design.

It’s not like you were invisible—not yet—but you might as well have been. Some people are made to be seen, like Gojo Satoru. Others are made to be followed, like Suguru Geto. You? You were made to disappear. You liked it that way.

Most of the time.

The name they gave your technique is a mouthful— Phase Dissolution. Not very poetic. Not like Limitless. Not like Cursed Spirit Manipulation. Yours just made you unseeable. Forgettable. You learned to twist the technique until you could manipulate your own presence—erase your voice, your scent, your weight in the world. The closer someone got to you emotionally, the harder it was to disappear.

Which meant, mercifully, you were invisible almost always.

You never took normal missions. They stopped trying to assign you any after that third year, when Gojo and Geto started leveling small mountains and you just started wandering. When Haibara died, and Nanami left.

You loved Yu Haibara.

Not in the way girls write in journals about. Not in the way people expect—sweet and soft and glowing with crushes. You loved him like a little brother you didn’t deserve. Like a bright lantern in a dark temple.

He called you senpai, for fun, because you let him.

“Y/N senpai” he’d beam. “Did you eat yet? You look like a withering flower! Rice is life!”

You punched him for that. Lightly.

You remember his laugh. You remember how he glowed with sincerity, how he was one of the only ones who didn’t mind how quiet you were. He told you once, “I think your silence is peaceful, not scary.”

And then he died.

You stopped speaking for three weeks.

Kento Nanami was different. Not warm like Haibara, but dependable. Steady.

He used to train with you after class, not talking much. You both preferred it that way. Grunts. Nods. Sweating in silence.

After Haibara’s death, the school changed for you both.

You remember the day Nanami walked out. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Except you.

You’d been leaning against the back steps, pretending not to wait for him. He stood beside you for a few long seconds before muttering, “It’s not worth it anymore.”

You didn’t argue.

You just watched him go, your throat too dry to speak.

And you stayed.

Like a fool.

Years later, when Nanami walks back through the halls of Jujutsu Tech, it feels like seeing a ghost wearing a new suit.

You’re in the training yard when you spot him.

He pauses when he sees you—just a flicker of recognition—and gives you a nod.

It’s not a reunion. You don’t hug. You don’t speak for another week.

But when you sit beside him on a bench during a break in missions, you say, “I was angry at you.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“Still am,” you mutter.

“I know,” he says.

And that was enough.

That was your job: to roam. Tokyo, Osaka, wherever. You found curses before they found others. If they were weak, you killed them. If they were stronger than you, you tagged the location and passed it off to the higher-ups.

They turned it into a real mission. Your name never ended up on the reports. You were just the invisible smoke before the fire.

You haven’t slept in days. Again.

There’s a burning behind your eyes, the kind that presses behind the sockets and drips down your spine like rot. You’ve forgotten how to taste food. How to feel temperature. You move through the city like something in between — not alive, not dead, just moving.

Your abdomen hurts.

You’re walking home when you hear it.

It’s not the usual cursed energy flicker that makes you pause. It’s a voice. A quiet, ugly grunt. A breath that doesn’t belong on a child’s neck.

You round the alley’s edge and see it. Small body. Pants half-off. A man’s hand on the back of the boy’s neck. His other hand working at his zipper. The kid was crying.

“Please stop, please—please don’t—I didn’t say anything, I—!”

The man towers over him. Smiling.

“It’s not the first time,” he mutters, voice low and casual, like he's talking about the weather. “Stop whining. You know what to do.”

You’re too tired to think.

Too tired to breathe.

Too tired to speak, or scream, or question what’s happening, or why you’re here.

Your fingers are already inside your coat pocket.

A cursed object. A cheap black fountain pen used by a murderer in a high school hostage crisis. It killed six. Now it only kills when you want it to.

You’ve been walking among curses long enough to recognize when the ugliest one is human.

You just take it out the way you’d take out a cigarette or a key, walking over.

Your forearm hits his throat, and he stumbles back, crashing into the opposite wall with a winded grunt. The boy falls to his side with a whimper, scrambling back, and before you know it, you're standing between them.

The man coughs, glares at you, and spits. “What the fuck—?”

The boy looks up at you like you’re some kind of hallucination. That’s fine. You're used to being a waking dream for people like him.

You crouch and touch the top of his head gently. “Close your eyes.”

You the man down to the ground with force.

He crashes to the ground with a grunt, but not before his nails dig deep into your shoulders — dragging, tearing through fabric and skin as he resists, snarling like an animal cornered.

You take out your pen. He sees it too late.

“No—hey, don’t—wait—”

You plunge it into his eye.

Just a sound—a soft, wet crack, like a rotten peach under a boot.

He thrashes, nails tearing into your back again as his body convulses beneath you.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t scream. You don’t shake. You don’t cry.

You stab again. And again. And again.

Until his body stops twitching. Until you can’t hear anything but the sound of your own breath. Until blood coats your hands like gloves and the pen sticks, cracked halfway down the shaft, lodged in bone.

Your arms are heavy.

Your vision pulses dark at the edges.

You barely feel the blood running from your shoulder where his nails tore skin open. It drips down your side and soaks into your pants.

You stay there a second longer, kneeling on a corpse.

Just breathing.

The boy is behind you now.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. He’s shaking — arms wrapped around his knees, head ducked down.

You turn, slowly, and peel your blazer off your shoulders — sticky with sweat, ripped at the seam, spotted with blood.

You crouch low. Hold it out.

He flinches.

But he reaches for it.

You wrap it around him carefully. Gently. A little like you're bandaging a wound.

Your hand finds your phone.

You dial without looking. You don’t trust your voice. You don’t trust your knees, either.

The call picks up fast.

“Hello?”

“...Nanami” you rasp. Your voice sounds like it’s underwater. “Pick up a kid. Alleyway by the old bookstore on 3rd and West. Don’t ask.”

A pause.

Then a simple, steady: “I’m on my way.”

You let the phone fall from your hand.

The boy’s little fingers are still clinging to the back of your shirt.

Your knees give first.

Then your chest.

You feel yourself fold, slowly, to the side. Like paper. Like cloth.

You hit the concrete with a soft thud.

And then everything goes black.

Nanami’s car screeches to a halt.

The alley’s empty.

At least, that’s how it looks.

The kid is there, huddled in your blazer, silent, still half-exposed, shoes soaked from standing in the runoff water. His face is pale and rigid. Frozen like stone.

And you?

You’re nowhere.

Nanami frowns and exhales through his nose. He asks the kid slowly, about a woman and the kid points to nothingness on the wall.

There.

A disturbance in the current. An outline, faint but real, half-sunken against the wall.

She’s here.

She never turned it off, Nanami thinks grimly.

No wonder the kid’s confused. He’s not a sorcerer. He saw a woman kill a man and vanish into nothing. Even now, his eyes dart toward the dead body — the pen still buried in the man’s eye socket like a signature left behind.

“Don’t be afraid,” Nanami says, slowly.

The kid flinches.

He doesn't move.

Nanami approaches the body first. The man’s eye is split open around the cursed pen like spoiled fruit.

With a steady hand, Nanami wraps his fingers around the blood-slick pen, and with one clean pull, removes it.

Nanami slides it into a cloth-wrap and stows it carefully.

Your technique drops.

Not on purpose.

Your body simply can’t hold it anymore.

You re-materialize like a ghost coming back from fog, limbs limp, blood soaking your side and inner thighs, head tilted to the shoulder like a broken doll.

Nanami’s hands move fast, catching your body before it slumps completely.

She’s burning up, he realizes. Fever. Blood loss. Something else?

He lifts you — slow, careful. You’re light, all things considered. Lean muscle over bone. You’ve always been heavier than you look.

The boy clings to your side the whole way to the car, refusing to sit anywhere but next to you in the backseat.

Nanami drives one-handed as he calls Shoko.

You’re unconscious when Shoko starts.

“Jesus, she’s bleeding like hell—” she mutters, snapping on gloves. “Shoulder’s ripped open, bruising at the ribs, hand trauma…she’s got injuries and she never got treated, wait—"

She checks again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

She yanks open a drawer and pulls out extra gauze.

You’re menstruating. Heavy. Severe cramps, coupled with blood loss from the fight and god knows how many days without sleep. Your body’s on the edge of total shutdown.

And then—

You sit up.

No drama. No groan. You just lift your upper body like someone getting out of a cheap motel bed.

Shoko’s eyes narrow. “You're joking.”

You blink, sluggish, then look down at the blood on the sheet beneath you.

“…Guess that explains the stomach cramps,” you mutter hoarsely.

“You’re an idiot,” Shoko says flatly.

You don’t argue.

Instead, you glance toward the side and swipe the curtains to the side and your eyes dart to where the boy’s sitting with a juice box. His knees are hugged to his chest. His hair is still damp from sweat.

He sees you.

His face lights up.

And then — he rushes in.

Shoko opens her mouth to stop him, but you raise a hand. Just one.

The boy wraps his arms around you as best he can.

He doesn’t cry.

He just presses his forehead into your side.

“…Thank you” he whispers.

You rest your hand on his hair. You don’t smile. But you don’t pull away either.

Look, Suguru, this boy here is just as innocent as those girls.

Nanami stands in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I’ll take him” he says simply. The kid doesn’t want to leave.

But he glances at you — your torn shirt, the thick bandages around your ribs, the dried blood on your thigh where Shoko couldn’t quite clean everything — and he seems to realize he shouldn’t be here.

He nods.

Nanami lays a steady hand on the boy’s shoulder and guides him down the hall, slow and careful like he’s leading someone blind.

The door shuts softly, Shoko leaves as well, murmuring about how much of a jackass you are (again).

Then you fall asleep again.

You wake up to the click of a lighter.

Your eyes snap open—only halfway, the kind of wakefulness that comes after too many nights on the edge. But the figure isn’t a threat. He’s too tall, too loud even when silent, sitting on the edge of your bed, with your lighter in hand, playing with it.

“Didn’t expect you to fall asleep,” he says, voice low.

There’s a rare bite in his voice.

He rarely raises it. He’s always fun and games with you, until it’s about you.

You hadn't spoken to Gojo Satoru properly in your life, at least until eight years ago. He did enough talking for both of you.

"You’re like a fridge," he told you once, years ago, chewing on a rice cracker. "Big, cold, and probably full of old stuff no one wants to touch."

You had stared at him. He waited. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.

Later, you’d realize that was the only thing he remembered about you for months.

He used to look through you, not past you — through you, like you were a pane of glass that hadn’t shattered yet.

Until Geto died.

Until his blood painted the pavement like a cracked koi pond, and the air went still for months afterward.

That changed the day he cornered you outside the morgue. The white hallway lights flickered. You'd just signed your name off on mission clearance and were trying to make it to the vending machine before throwing up.

“Did you know?” he asked, voice hoarse and drunk on loss.

You blinked. “Know what?”

“That he was going to do it.”

Your jaw tightened. “Do I look like I mattered enough to be told?”

He looked at you. You realized, maybe grief has its own kind of vision. Maybe it strips you naked.

He didn’t reply. Just stood there. His sunglasses hung low on his nose, and the bags under his eyes had turned him ghost-white. That scared you more than anything.

Now, you’ve all gotten so much closer like plants would get when stuffed into the same space.

You look at him properly now, — and what you see isn’t anger.

“I didn’t sleep,” you murmur.

“Right. Just… rested your eyes. Like an old man on a park bench.”

“Why are you here?”

He shrugs. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. But okay.”

“You’ve been working too much,” he says after a long silence. “Even Nanami’s starting to get worried. That means the world is probably ending.”

“Don’t dramatize.”

“Oh, I live for the drama. But this isn’t that.” He shifts, finally looking at you. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough to show his eyes. Too blue. Too much. “This is me… asking.”

You blink. “Asking what?”

“If you ever stop running long enough to sleep—do you dream?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He shifts a bit closer.

Like he’s asking permission without saying it.

The silence between you stretches. You don’t say what you’re thinking. You don’t say that maybe, if he had asked you, you would’ve probably followed him.

Not out of agreement. But out of not knowing where else to go.

Instead, you shift your weight and wince again. Gojo notices, eyes trailing down to the cloth shoko put in between your legs near your knees.

“I talked to the higher-ups,” he says suddenly, like he’s trying to change the subject. “They’re not happy.”

You scoff.

“When are they ever.”

“They want a report. They think your actions were… impulsive. Undignified.”

Your jaw clenches. “He was raping that kid.”

“I know” he says sharply.

You both freeze.

His hand is clenched.

His voice, when he speaks again, is lower.

“I know” he repeats. “But they only see paperwork. Protocol. Headlines.”

You don’t need to ask what happens next. You already know how these things go.

Slaps on the wrist. Private lectures. Eyes that never look at the bloodstains.

“I’ll cover it,” Gojo says.

You blink. “…What?”

“I’ll file it. Under my name.”

You stare at him.

“Just so you know, I wouldn’t do it for anyone else” He says again.

“Why me?” you ask. “Why not someone else?”

“Because you don’t ask me if I’m okay,” he says.

You look at the ceiling. “Are you okay?”

“Bitch” he says, “what did I just say?”

You laugh. He laughs too. It was unexpected, for you too.

You want to live again. Not for long. But long enough to hear him make that sound again.

But his voice is serious.

“Because it’s the first time you’ve done something like this. And I’m sure it won’t be the last. And if someone’s gonna take the fallout for your so-called recklessness…” he looks at you, dead-on, “…it might as well be me.”

The words land like a drop in water.

You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t.

You look at him, this man you barely spoke to in your school days — this man who was always loud, always shining, always orbiting around someone else.

And now here he is.

“Call me next time,” He says, jaws clenched, and leaves the room. You sigh and try to move, before Shoko bursts in again, making you flinch.

Shoko lets you go back after that evening.

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