Kcandy-flosz

the beach had been your idea.

you wanted a relaxing day together— sunshine, fresh air, finally swimming in the cold ocean water. somehow, though, the moment you’d stepped out of the changing room wearing your bikini, the entire plan had fallen apart.

or rather, satoru had.

you barely make it to your spot on the sand you’ve been eyeing before he plants himself directly in front of your beach chair.

at first, you think nothing of it. he’s always clingy, always finding excuses to stay close. but after several minutes pass and he still hasn’t moved, you start narrowing your eyes.

“what are you doing?” you ask.

“hm?”

“why are you standing there?”

he shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. “just hanging out.”

“well, hang out without blocking my view!”

“don’t wanna.”

you look at him expectantly, thinking he’ll finally move, but he just smiles innocently behind his sunglasses.

seems that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

satoru didn’t know what was worse— you, or the problem in his pants.

you and satoru were sitting at a small beachside table, enjoying ice cream under the warm afternoon sun. you licked happily at your strawberry cone, swinging your legs under the table, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him.

a big drop of melted ice cream suddenly slid down and landed right on your chest, slowly dripping toward your bikini top.

“ah, it spilled!” you said, a little embarrassed. without thinking, you scooped the melting cream with your finger, collecting the sticky sweetness from your skin. you brought your finger to your lips and licked it clean, sucking the cream off with a satisfied hum.

satoru’s ice cream completely forgotten in his hand, melting fast and dripping onto the table. his eyes were locked on your mouth, watching the way your tongue swirled around your finger so sweetly, how your lips wrapped around it for a second.

he was losing his fucking mind.

his cock was rock hard, throbbing painfully against his swim trunks under the table. he shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide the very obvious bulge, but it was useless. precum was already leaking into his shorts.

“satoru? you’re not eating yours,” you said, tilting your head with big eyes as you licked the last bit of cream from your finger. “is something wrong?”

he let out a breath. “yeah… big problem,” he said. “i can’t stand up right now, baby.”

you blinked, confused. “why not?”

satoru glanced down at his lap, hidden under the table, then back at you. “because you’ve been licking ice cream off your tits for the last two minutes,” he whispered, almost whining. “and now i’m so fucking hard I almost hurts.”

your eyes widened, cheeks turning warm. satoru groaned quietly, pressing his forehead against his hand, his melting ice cream still dripping onto the sand.

“just… give me a minute,” he muttered. “or ten. unless you want to crawl under the table and help your poor boyfriend out.”

♡ 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐌𝐄.

𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 & 𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾'𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗒. 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗁𝗇𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗅𝗂á𝗇𝗀 𝗅í𝖺𝗇𝗅í 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉. 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾 & 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂á𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗇. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗃𝗎𝗍𝗌𝗎 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽— 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 .

⌗ ROSE ⋅ 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖨 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝖨 𝗃𝗃𝗄 𝗋𝗉 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗅

omg petal this is so good WHATT ( ˶°ㅁ°) .ᐟ.ᐟ

princess treatment w/ choso ! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

choso is a firm believer that pretty girls like you shouldn’t have to do anything.

it’s not something he’s ever said out loud, not in those exact words, but you see it in the way he kneels at your feet when your evening slippers are pinching, in the way his hands steady your ankles as he slides them off. 

you see it in the careful, reverent way he unties the laces of your dress at night, his knuckles brushing your spine, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.

"cho, i can do that myself," you protest for the hundredth time, reaching for the hairbrush on your vanity. you’ve just returned from a work dinner, your face aching from smiling, your scalp tender from the weight of your responsibilities.

"don't be like that," he says softly, taking the brush from your hand. he’s already behind you, his reflection meeting yours in the mirror. he’s wearing a simple black sweater now, his pigtails undone, but he still looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. "let me help you."

"you’re going to spoil me rotten," you murmur, but you’re already sinking back against him, your eyes drifting shut as he starts working the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes. the bristles scrape gently against your scalp and you make a small, involuntary sound of pleasure.

"that’s the point," he says, his voice low. he sets the brush down and reaches for the cloth and cleansing oil. "you're too beautiful to even lift a finger, baby."

he’s wiping the rouge from your cheeks now, the kohl from your eyes. his touch is so gentle, so methodical, like he’s polishing something precious. you let him tilt your chin up, let him clean away the day’s mask. when he’s done, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"cmon, bed." he commands. not harshly—never harshly—but with the quiet authority of a man who knows exactly what you need.

you stand, your hand in his, and let him lead you to the mattress. he undresses you slowly, layer by layer, the silk pooling at your feet. when you’re down to your thin shift, he pulls back the covers and tucks you in like you’re something fragile.

"sleep," he whispers.

but you catch his wrist. you’re not sleepy. not anymore. the tiredness has shifted into something else, something warm and heavy low in your belly.

"stay," you plead.

he hesitates. "you’re tired."

"i want you," you clarify, your thumb stroking the inside of his wrist. "but i’m... i’m exhausted. but— but i want you— but i don't want to do anything—"

something dark flickers in his eyes. understanding. hunger. devotion.

"then don’t," he says. he climbs onto the bed, fully clothed, and crawls up your body until he’s hovering over you. "don’t do anything. don’t even think. just let me make you feel good."

YET YOU OBESSESED minions are stalking her every move to make points and jump at the chance to join the “harassment chain”.

this is weird. this is unnecessary. and frankly CONCERNING??? you’re coming online to HARASS A 19 YEAR OLD GIRL???

and the fact that you are so quick to report back to your mother fucking hen shows a lot. GET A LIFE. and leave her the fuck alone!!!!

you DO NOT know her in real life & to attack a sweet girl on anons on this miserable as page LMFAOOO.

you stand by gojo through his addiction.

(!) warning: drug addiction, substance abuse, physical deterioration.

phase 1

“satoru, are you high?”

satoru’s infinity is down –has been for hours, you suspect– and the way his fingers twitch against the armrest gives him away. you pull him back just enough to focus on your face through shades of black and blue. that familiar worried crease between your brows.

the room smells like stale takeout and unwashed sheets.

he chuckles, low and ragged, like gravel scraping under tires on a deserted highway. his head lolls back, white hair matted and sticking to his forehead with sweat. “i just needed something to relax, i’ve been too stressed lately.” there’s that familiar cockiness underneath, like he’s trying to play it off as no big deal. his words slur at the edges, heavy with the weight of whatever pill he popped earlier –some opioid cocktail he scored off a shady contact in the back alleys of tokyo. it numbs the edges of his cursed energy, quiets the endless buzz in his head.

you lean forward, crossing your arms. the unease churning in your stomach. “i don’t like it. please don’t make it a habit.”

he sits up a little, those piercing blue eyes –red-rimmed now, pupils blown wide– locking onto yours. for a second, he looks almost sober. “okay, okay. i won’t. promise.” he reaches out. his hand is warm against your cheek, his thumb brushes your skin. “just this once, yeah? for the stress.”

you nod, even though doubt lingers like smoke in the room. but you stay, curling up beside him as he rambles about nothing and everything, his laughter echoing off the walls until he drifts off, snoring softly against your shoulder.

“i really wish you’d give this a try.”

phase 2

time frays like old filmstrip. days and weeks smear together in the chemical dusk of his apartment.

he starts small again the next evening –two pale-blue oxycontin tablets crushed between credit card and mirror, into fine white dust arranged in hesitant lines. he rolls a hundred-yen note (creased, stained), leans down, and inhales with the reverence of a man receiving communion. the burn rockets up his sinuses bitter and bright as his eyes water, then glaze. a slow liquid heat pours through every capillary until even the marrow of his bones feels warm.

“you promised it would be just once.” you say from behind, watching him through the mirror.

his place becomes a tomb of half-eaten ramen cups and empty bottles. he tells himself it’s just to cope with the missions –the endless parade of curses gnawing at the world, at him, at you.

“you’re looking rough, satoru.” you stand beside him. your voice is a balm, pulling him from the nausea twisting his insides. your hand rests on his shoulder with affection and worry.

he laughs, but it turns into a cough, phlegm rattling in his chest. “oh, you’re here. missed you. work’s been hell.” he reaches for you, with fingers trembling. you pretend not to notice. “how was your day?”

you avert your gaze, but you press your cheek against his arm, seeking the refuge of his touch. “same old, same old. missed you too.” you sigh, feeling the weight of helplessness crawl up through your loins. “you ate? look at you, wasting away.”

he waves it off, pulling you into a conversation about nothing –latest missions, stupid inside jokes. he talks about how much he misses being assigned together on missions, that your technique has always been way more powerful than you think. “way stronger than you think it is. way stronger than even you let yourself believe. i watch you and think: damn, if she stops holding back, the rest of us would just be background noise.” a tiny, crooked smile tugs at his cracked lips. “you never needed me to protect you, did you? i was the one who felt safer when you were there. i still do.”

for a brief moment, he looks like the old, whole satoru again. the satoru who trusts blindly.

by the end of the night, he’s whispering how much he loves you, but his words are spilling out like vomit. “you’re all i have. you’re all i want. don’t ever leave me.”

you promise you won’t. a bitter smile rises to your lips, tasting like bile, but the rest of your face stays dark, restless. how much longer is this going to go on? or rather, how much longer can you keep taking it?

phase 3

pills aren’t cutting it anymore.

they give way to powder –cocaine, sharp and electric. he lays it out on a mirror where the reflection of his hollowed face stares back, accusatory. with a rolled bill stained from previous sins, he inhales deeply and the burn sears his nostrils while the blood trickles warm and metallic down his lip. he wipes it away, smearing crimson like a warlord’s mark. the rush hits until his heart begins thundering like a caged beast, and his synapses are exploding in euphoria.

you step closer with caution, picking up the makeshift paper tool with clear disgust. “you’re losing control, satoru.” your voice is low, firm –a warning. “we’re getting rid of this. right now. and we’re calling suguru. or shoko. clearly just me isn’t enough anymore.”

“baby, don’t say that.” he breathes. his voice shivers with raw adoration. in this blaze, he worships you. “you’re my compass in this ocean.” his hands loosely wrap around your waist. “i see everything, you know? now better than ever. and do you wanna know what i see?” he sighs, completely infatuated by his own vision. “i see futures in your eyes –lazy mornings tangled in sheets, your laughter echoing through rooms we’ll fill with dreams.” his fingers trace circles in your curves, poetic verses spilling from lips chapped and dry. “we’ll dance under amber waves of sunset, where the world fades to just us, eternal.”

later, the comedown bursts in like a thief, stealing his vitality. his nose bleeds freely now, crusting over with scabs he picks at absentmindedly. the skin around his nostrils is left raw and inflamed.

-

he cooks on the stove now with a bent teaspoon blackened at the bottom and a cotton ball stained rust-brown while the flame licks upward like a lover’s tongue. the powder melts into caramel amber as he draws the solution through the filter into the syringe, tightening the belt around his bicep until the vein rises blue and eager beneath parchment skin that bruises at the slightest pressure.

the vein pulses like a blue river under translucent flesh as he taps it with the needle hovering in a partner’s hesitation before he finally plunges. the prick is sharp and fleeting but soon drowned in the flood that follows with warmth spreading like molten gold to erase the globe’s keen corners. his head falls back and his eyes flutter shut while a sigh escapes as he unties the belt and the rush peaks in waves of ecstasy that mimic the ghost of your touch.

“satoru, can you hear me?” you whisper as you arrive, carefully rolling him onto his side so he won’t choke during the haze. sadness crashing over you as suddenly as his highs ever did. “it’s time to stop. i don’t want this for you. i don’t want this for me.”

his skin itches while track marks bloom like ugly bruises along his forearms. he grows thinner by the day, his cheeks become gaunt. the once-vibrant blue of his eyes is dulled to a stormy gray. the light within him has faded into a permanent murk as his body consumes itself.

he babbles for hours then –voice soft, reverent, cracked open– about the little house he wants to buy you near the coast, about the salt wind in your hair, about the windows open to the sound of waves. about sunday mornings when he’ll make you terrible pancakes and you’ll laugh until tears spill. about how your hand fits perfectly in the small of his back when you sleep, like you were carved to anchor him.

“i love you,” he says again and again, non stop. “i love you i love you i love you–” until the words lose shape and become pure feeling.

you just drop down beside him, staring at his decay. he wouldn’t want your pity, but right now it’s the only thing fresheting over you.

still, you reach over and gently run your fingers through his damp hair. “i love you too, babe. i’m not going anywhere.”

-

months drag on.

satoru’s body betrays him. his hands shake constantly now and his cursed energy flickers erratically like a faulty lightbulb. suguru notices –everyone does–, but satoru brushes it off with that trademark grin that is split and false, saying he is just tired. but his skin is sallow and dotted with sores from picking at imaginary bugs crawling under it.

now he’s lost weight, his ribs are jutting sharp under his shirt, and his muscles are atrophied from days spent nodding off instead of training.

one evening, the dam breaks. he’s curled on the floor, with a fresh needle discarded beside him. the rush is hitting harder than usual. but instead of bliss, it’s tears –hot, ugly sobs wracking his frame. the room spins, bile is rising in his throat, but he can’t stop. “why does it hurt so much?” he chokes out, clutching his chest like his heart might shatter.

and there you are, kneeling beside him. you don’t know whether to call an ambulance and get him in deep trouble, or just let this high pass like all the others have. “satoru… hey, breathe. i’m here.”

he leans in with snot and tears streaking his face.

“it’s all fucked.” he gasps, voice breaking. “the kids, the elders, everything. they all wanna get rid of me. they're gonna kill me, seal me.” his body convulses with another sob, the high amplifying the fret.

you shush him gently, whispering comforts that echo in his skull. “they're not. i'm by your side. you’re strong. the strongest. you– we'll get through this.” but even in the daze, he hears the sadness in your tone, the way it cracks like his resolve.

he clings to you until the sobs ebb, as exhaustion pulls him under. when he wakes, the needle marks stare back like witnesses to his fall.

-

his veins collapse from repeated assault, forcing him to hunt for new ones –between toes, in his neck, each puncture a betrayal of his once-invincible body.

infections bloom, red swells turning to pus-filled abscesses that flutter with fevered heat. he drains them in the sink, wincing as yellow fluid mixes with blood.

"you’ve got to get that checked out," you say, evaluating the state of his arm. "you're gonna lose it."

he shrugs it off, totally unbothered. "i'll heal myself. they'll fix me up."

you wince. "and if they don't? you're just gonna wreck yourself taking for granted that everything’s fixable?" you rub your face with your hands, fed up. "you should treat what you've got like you're not gonna get a second chance at it."

your words seem to cut deep. he looks wounded now, defenseless. "are you leaving me?"

you pause for a beat, but eventually, you shake your head. that’s all it takes to bring back the flickering spark in his eyes.

and once again, he starts planning your future with the fervor of a prophet. “we’ll leave japan,” he tells you after a particularly pure hit, eyes shining like polished sapphires in the gloom. “some nowhere beach. white sand. you in that yellow sundress you love. me learning how to surf like an idiot just to hear you laugh. both married in the forest.”

he traces invisible constellations on your bare stomach. “kids, maybe. two. they’ll have your smile and my eyes –trouble, but the good kind. we’ll teach them there’s more to life than fighting monsters.” his voice falters on that last word. “i'm such a mess, but i want forever with you. not this half-life. not this cage. we're make it away from here.”

you kiss his temple. “we’ll get there.”

-

more nights like that.

some days, he’s euphoric, still babbling about trips to the alpes, a planet where curses don’t exist and it’s just you and him. “i've been picking names for our children.” he says one afternoon, sprawled in bed with the curtains drawn, sunlight filtering in like an intruder meant to judge. his voice is hoarse, throat raw from chain-smoking to chase the high.

"how are we gonna feed them if you keep spending the money on this?" you ask softly, tracing hearts on his collarbone.

“we won't have to worry about money. i have plenty. and you won't have to make any effort. i’ll make you breakfast every day, burn the toast like always.”

you laugh, and it’s always the most beautiful sound, cutting through the fog in his brain. “you and your terrible cooking. but yeah, that sounds perfect.”

he reaches for your hand, fingers closing around your small shape. he won't shut up about how he’ll spoil you rotten, buy you all the sweets you crave. how he’ll never let you go. love pours out of him in torrents, desperate and clinging, like if he says it enough, it’ll make it real. you almost feel sorry for him.

“thanks for sticking around. you're everything.”

but the highs get shorter, and the crashes longer. his body revolts –vomiting blood one morning. it shakes so bad he can’t hold a cup without spilling. he looks in the mirror and sees a stranger: emaciated, eyes sunken like pits, skin stretched tight over bones. he sees a garbage bag in place of his solid, strong casing.

phase 4

withdrawals are symphonies of agony –shivers wracking his frame, bones aching as if splintering from within, stomach churning with endless nausea. he curls fetal on the floor, sobbing your name like a mantra, begging for mercy that never comes.

“make it stop. please, love, make it stop.” the sweat soaks through his clothes, clinging to a body wasted to skeletal; his ribs are a stark cage under the mottled-skin bruises.

he itches more often beneath his epidermis. his nails rake in scarlet furrows down his forearms, already mapped with track marks, old scars –but the fresh punctures weep clear fluid. his teeth are loose, making his gums bleed when he brushes. his breath turns into a sour-metallic draft, the unmistakable perfume of slow systemic rot.

and you rot too, just watching him like this.

phase 5

the doses climb. the intervals shrink.

he no longer waits for the crash to fade; he chases the peak before the last one has fully receded. double shots. triple. the spoon overflows. the belt bites deeper.

his heart races then stutters –arrhythmias he ignores because the silence between beats is worse than death. he vomits bile and blood-tinged foam into the sink most mornings. diarrhea burns through him like acid. sleep is a series of micro-naps interrupted by violent jerks, cold sweats. they left him the animal certainty that something is crawling inside his braincase.

he has been awake three days.

same eyes sunken to same black pits. same lips cracked and peeling. but this time, his fingers are too clumsy to tie the belt properly –so he uses his teeth, fabric cutting into gums.

he triples the usual dose. maybe more. he doesn’t measure anymore; he just pours until the spoon brims, cooks until it hisses, draws until the barrel is full of molten amber.

the vein in his neck jumps. he aims there because the arms are ruined.

the worst part isn’t watching the needle bite or the plunger sink because you already know the wave is biblical –a golden tide sweeping every thought, every pain and every fear into oblivion. the worst part is knowing there isn’t a single word you could’ve said to make it hurt less, and that if you say anything now –right this second–, nothing would change to save him.

it has become a suffocating burden. the trace of the man you fell in love with is fading away, like the streaks of blood and pus under the faucet. little by little, until there’s nothing at all.

"please, satoru," you beg one last time. "stop. let’s find some help. there’re so many people who love you as much as i do. they don’t wanna lose you. i don't wanna lose you."

phase 6

it builds, slow and inevitable.

one night, he’s alone. he’s scored something stronger –fentanyl-laced, because the regular shit doesn’t touch the pain anymore. he ties off, needle piercing skin with a familiar sting, plunger depressing. the rush hits like a freight train. that familiar warmth gushing his limbs, but it’s too much. too fast.

suddenly, you’re there, rushing to his side with a look of pure terror as his vision blurs. you’re pale –your entire body has gone white.

"satoru, what have you done?!" you shriek, trying to shake him, yet careful not to be too rough.

he tries to smile, but his lips won’t move right. “you never looked more beautiful under these lights.” words garble, chest tightening.

the world tilts, darkness creeping in. he reaches for you, but his arm flops useless, heavy as lead. panic spikes through the stupor –heart racing erratic, breaths shallow and ragged. “satoru, please. please, don’t go…”

your face fades as convulsions start, body seizing on the floor, foam bubbling at his lips.

the last thing he hears is your voice, distant and echoing: “satoru!”

phase 7

suguru bursts through the clinic door. satoru’s limp body slungs over his shoulder like a ragdoll. he’s ashen. his lips are blue-tinged, and his pulse threads under suguru’s fingers.

he’s carrying what’s left of his best friend.

“shoko! now!”

she scrambles toward both, helping to lay satoru’s skeletal frame on the table. with a growing dread, she notices his arms are a roadmap of scars and fresh punctures. there’s also vomit stains in his shirt. his eyes are rolled back, unresponsive.

"well?" suguru asks, his heart in his throat. "can you do it?"

she looks up. her eyes are unreadable –and vermilion.

"magic won't work here." her voice uncharacteristically tense as she pushes him aside to reach satoru. "his system is deluged. if i use RCT now, i’ll just be creating more intoxicated cells –or just turn his brain into stew for good. we have to do this the human way."

“then do it.” he growls.

she works in silence at first –NG tube down his throat, activated charcoal slurry pumped in, naloxone pushed in rapid succession, chest compressions when his heart forgets how to beat.

“how it came to this?” she demands, already prepping an IV, hands steady despite the knot in her gut. “how long?”

suguru runs a hand through his hair, voice rough. 

“when she died, ten months ago. grade one curse, routine mission. instant. he saw it happen. watched her body hit the ground. and he just… refused. he couldn't take it. started using to bring her back. talking to empty rooms. planning a life with a ghost. every hit was a reunion.”

“fucking idiot.” she mutters, inserting the tube to pump his stomach. black bile surges out, acrid and foul. 

another push of naloxone. another round of chest compressions. her lips draw a thin line and her face hardens. her eyes betray the grief. she knew something was off. they’ve all known, watching his spiral.

her arms surrender to her sides, dropping the armor she’d kept active for so long. “he’s gonna be fine. barely.” hitches. “but we’ve got most of it out of his stomach. his heart’s stabilizing. he’ll live.”

suguru stares at the shell on the bed –once-perfect face now a poorly glued synthetic mask torn to shreds. “when he wakes up,” he whispers. “she still won’t be there.”

shoko sighs but doesn’t answer, wiping sweat from her brow.

the machines beep on –steady, merciless, counting the seconds until satoru opens his eyes and finds the room empty for the very first time.