Kitty Cat

“thaaat’s it,” you hear a voice hum just behind you, but it is a different kind of hum this time. this one holds your trembling hand in its own scorched one, instead of engraving it against the blistering soil of your forehead. “you’re getting put on timeout.”

“satoru,” your nose scrunches up, but satoru can be very dog eared when he wants to be— in fact, he’s got a phd at being a very inattentive husky high off anaesthesia. constantly ignoring your barely coherent grumbles and feeble attempts to push him away. his hand remain clasped into yours as he pulls you into his arms, the free one brushing ever so slightly against the crown of your head.

“get off.”

“no can do.” your head falls back against his shoulder with a groan— which is born partly out of the sheer exhaustion of keeping up with the missions, partly out of your annoyance towards your boyfriend with very unfortunately timed care, and partly out of the silence that’s beginning to settle amongst the catastrophic cacophony gnawing at your nerves.

(begrudgingly, yes, settling indeed.)

and so, you let your bones sink in a little deeper against satoru’s— half open eyes only partly registering that he’s still got his uniform on. the whirlpool on the button against the dark fabric seems to swallow you whole, but with the scent of mint and something satoru, you manage to glare right back at it with equal ferocity.

“oh, so now you don’t put up a fight,” you hear him huff against your cheekbone. “could’ve made my ambushing a lot more easier, ya know.”

“where’s the fun in that?” you murmur, and satoru rolls his eyes. look at you, still burning like a forgotten lamp amidst a thunderstorm with those slurred out retorts and sleepy eyes. the fire is what makes you feel alive, but that’s only because you don’t know the coolness of water against an open wound feels like. “anyway, the hell’s timeout supposed to mean? you make me sound like some toddler caught watching jeff the killer.”

“timeout is right here,” satoru’s nose nudges against your temple, and you suck in a breath as his arms tighten around you by just a fraction. “i don’t trust a cage made out of any material other than satoru gojo, thank you.”

you wriggle your eyebrows. “even if it’s less reactive towards a kikufuku bait?”

“girl, please. i’m not as much of a depraved diabetic as you make out me to be.”

“the dentist’s appointment said otherwiii—”

“that was a weekly checkup,” he dismisses your jabs with a mere flick of his wrist, “and quit all this prattle, please, you’re going to wear yourself out before that migraine does.” your scandalized gasp is muffled by satoru’s lips landing on yours for merely a second— bastard, he knows how quick that shuts you up— “besides, babe, it’s kind of my job to have the loud head syndrome, alright?” something soft covers your eyes, and you realise that it’s his blindfold. “so you’re kind of doing overtime at the wrong desk.”

goodness.

you can feel his smile pierce through you at the back of your head. catastrophic dimples glimmering, at the go to charm your deathday with an ounce of insufferable fondness to their name.

you swallow, lashes fluttering against the soft fabric. your heart squeezes painfully in your chest.

(and perhaps— a bit of it in his.)

“go on,” satoru says, his blunt edges softening to something that becomes one with the silence in your head. “go to sleep.”

your hand wraps around his finger on instinct, like a frayed red string begging for reassurance even though a piece of him wraps itself so close ’round your gaze. “will you be here when i wake up?”

a chuckle leaves the back of his throat, guising the way his chest burns with something too tender to name.

“i’ll be here when you wake up,” he whispers, “and i’ll be here long after you do.”