Stiles doesn't understand what's wrong. He's seen werewolf couples and they behave nothing like Derek does with him. Hell, Derek behaves nothing like Derek. Is it because he's trying to overlook the fact that Stiles is a weak human?

personally, i struggle communicating with others. i have speech impediments (a lisp and cluttering), i'm semiverbal, i'm prone to verbal shutdowns, i have both echolalia and vocal stims due to my autism, and i have an accent that some people can find hard to understand. the point that op was making was important and personal to me, someone who'd been misunderstood or told off or told to repeat myself due to the way i talk. obviously, i wanted to reblog it.

unfortunately, op showed their true colours.

it's honestly crushing, as a transmasculine person who struggles to communicate, to get excited about reblogging a post that spreads kindness about your exact issue — only for the op of that post to turn around and be a blatant transphobe. to be happy and seen, only for someone to say that they couldn't give less of a fuck about your suffering and oppression, to actively side with your oppressors.

if you "don't believe in transandrophobia", if you accuse trans men and mascs of perpetuating misogyny because we dared speak up about the oppression we face, congrats! you are doing a transphobes job for them, and you are being grossly transphobic yourself!

⤷ SPARE A TEXT , NAGUMO YOICHI .

summary 𓂃 after a long night of waiting, you confront Nagumo when he returns home from an assassination job. He'd left your texts on read for hours, and the fear of not knowing whether he was alive or dead finally boils over into a heated argument. Nagumo tries to downplay the danger with his usual smiles and jokes, but you refuse to let him deflect. As you press on, the real issue comes to light. Not his job, not the secrecy—but the silence.

tags 𓂃 nagumo yoichi x fem!reader , angst , established relationship , secret relationship , argument and reconciliation , assassin x reader, lightweight angst with a soft ending , canon , post-mission , communication Issues .

⤷ THE APARTMENT was dark when he slipped through the door.

Not that you'd expected him to use the front entrance like a normal person. Nagumo never did. He moved through shadows like they were built for him, quiet as a held breath, and by the time you heard the soft click of the lock, he was already leaning against the hallway wall, shoes off, coat draped over his arm like nothing had happened.

"Did I wake you?" His voice was light. Easy. That ever-present smile already tugging at his lips.

You were sitting on the couch. Still fully dressed. The news had been on, muted, for the last four hours. Your phone was in your lap, screen dark, the last text you'd sent him still hanging there like an accusation.

Let me know you're okay.

Sent at 11:42 PM. Read receipt at 11:43 PM.

No response.

"No," you said flatly. "You didn't wake me."

He tilted his head, dark eyes sweeping over you. Reading you the way he read everyone—quickly, efficiently, like you were a puzzle with an answer he already knew. "You waited up."

It wasn't a question.

You stood. Your legs felt stiff from sitting so long, your neck sore from the way you'd been holding tension for hours. The clock on the wall read 3:17 AM. You'd been sitting in the dark since midnight, phone in hand, watching the minutes crawl past.

"You said it would be simple," you said.

"It was." He hung his coat on the hook by the door—cream-colored, pristine, not a single stain on it. You wondered if he'd changed somewhere between the kill and coming home. You wondered if you wanted to know the answer. "In and out. Barely broke a sweat."

"Then why didn't you answer me?"

The question hung between you. Nagumo's smile didn't waver, but something in his posture shifted—a micro-adjustment, the kind he probably didn't even realize he made. His shoulders squared. His weight settled back onto his heels.

"I was busy," he said.

"Busy." You held up your phone. The screen lit up, showing the thread. Four messages from you. One read receipt. No replies. "You read it. You read it at 11:43 and then nothing. For over three hours, Nagumo."

"Yoichi," he corrected gently, crossing the room toward you. "We talked about this. When we're here, it's Yoichi."

Right. Here—his penthouse, the top floor of a building you still weren't sure he actually owned—was supposed to be safe. A bubble where he wasn't an ex-Order assassin. Where he wasn't a killer. Where he was just… yours.

Except he wasn't. Not really. Not when he left at midnight without a word and came back with the smell of rain and something else clinging to his collar. Something metallic. Something that made your stomach turn even though you'd never admit it.

"Yoichi," you said, and his name tasted bitter on your tongue, "why didn't you answer me?"

He stopped a few feet away. Close enough to touch. Far enough to run.

"There wasn't a good time," he said. "I wasn't going to text you in the middle of a fight. That seemed rude."

"Don't." Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. "Don't make jokes right now."

The smile softened. Just slightly. "I'm not joking. I'm defusing."

"It's not working."

"No," he agreed. "I can see that."

He took another step forward. You took one back. His eyebrows rose—genuine surprise, there and gone in a flash. Nagumo wasn't used to people stepping away from him. You knew that. He was handsome and charming and disarmingly easy to like, and he knew exactly how to use all of it.

But you were tired. You were so tired.

"I was up all night," you said. "Again. Do you know what that's like? Sitting here, in the dark, staring at your ceiling, wondering if this is the night someone finally gets you?"

"I told you—"

"You told me it would be simple. You told me it was just one target. You told me you'd be back by one, maybe two." You laughed, and it came out wrong—sharp and hollow. "It's almost three-thirty, Yoichi. And I didn't know if you were dead or alive or bleeding out in some alley somewhere because you couldn't be bothered to type two letters."

"Two letters?"

"O-K. That's it. Two letters. One second of your time."

He was quiet for a moment. The smile had faded into something unreadable. His dark eyes stayed fixed on your face, cataloging every micro-expression the way he probably cataloged an opponent's tells before a kill.

"You're angry," he said.

"Yes. Thank you for noticing."

"I always notice." He tilted his head again, that familiar, infuriating gesture. "You're not just angry about the text."

"Don't psychoanalyze me."

"I'm not. I'm just saying—"

"I know what you're doing." You crossed your arms over your chest, partly for defense, partly because your hands were shaking and you didn't want him to see. "You're going to stand there with that calm expression and that reasonable tone and you're going to make me feel like I'm overreacting. Like I'm being dramatic. Like this is normal and I should just accept it."

"I never said that."

"You don't have to say it. It's written all over your face."

Nagumo reached up and touched his own cheek, mock-thoughtful. "Is it? I usually have a better poker face than that."

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop smiling."

The smile disappeared. Just like that. Gone, like it had never been there at all. And underneath it was something you rarely saw—not anger, not coldness, but something worse. Exhaustion. Deep and bone-tired, the kind that didn't go away with sleep.

"This is who I am," he said quietly. "You knew that when you started this."

"Did I?" You shook your head. "You told me you were retired. You told me the Order thing was in the past. You said—"

"I said I'd left. I didn't say I'd stopped."

"Same difference."

"It's really not."

He moved then—not fast, but deliberate. He crossed the remaining distance between you, and this time you didn't step back. His hand found your wrist, thumb pressing against your pulse. It was racing. He could probably feel it.

"You knew I was an assassin," he said. "You knew I was in the Order. You knew Sakamoto. You knew all of it, and you stayed anyway."

"Because you said you'd be careful."

"I am careful."

"You're not." Your voice broke again. You hated him for that. Hated yourself more. "You're reckless. You smile and you joke and you pretend nothing's wrong and then you disappear for hours and come back like nothing happened. Do you even realize how terrifying that is? Do you even care?"

His grip on your wrist tightened. Not enough to hurt. Enough to ground you both.

"I care," he said. "That's the problem."

"Then act like it.”

"I am acting like it." His voice dropped, low and serious in a way you almost never heard. "You want to know why I didn't answer your text? Because if I'd looked at my phone for even one second, that guy would've put a knife in my ribs. And then I wouldn't have come back at all. Is that what you want? A last text? A goodbye message you can read at my funeral?"

The words hit like a slap.

"No," you whispered. "Of course not."

"Then stop asking me to be someone I'm not." He released your wrist. Stepped back. Ran a hand through his black hair, messing it up in a way that made him look younger. More vulnerable. "I'm not good at this. The talking. The feelings. The checking in. I'm better at dice tricks and killing people. That's my skillset."

"Romantic."

"It's honest." He sighed, dropping onto the couch. For a moment, he looked like nothing more than a tired man in an expensive apartment. Not an assassin. Not a killer. Just someone who'd had a long night and wanted to sleep. "I like you. More than I've liked anyone in a long time. That's why I'm keeping you here. In this apartment. Away from all of it."

"That's not living."

"No," he agreed, looking up at you. "But it's living longer."

You wanted to stay angry. You wanted to keep yelling, keep fighting, keep demanding answers he didn't know how to give. But the fight was draining out of you, replaced by something heavier. Something that felt a lot like grief.

You sat down next to him. Not touching. Close enough.

"I'm not asking you to change," you said quietly. "I'm just asking you to try. A little. Send me a stupid emoji. A single letter. Anything that tells me you're still breathing."

He turned his head to look at you. His dark eyes were unreadable again, but his hand found yours on the cushion between you. His fingers laced through yours. Warm. Solid. Alive.

"I can try," he said.

"That's all I want."

"I'm not promising I'll always remember. In the middle of a fight, my phone isn't exactly my priority."

"I know."

"But I'll try." He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His lips were cold. He must have been outside longer than he'd let on. "For you. I'll try."

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. His arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. Slow. Calm. Like he hadn't just spent the night ending someone's life.

"Who was it?" you asked. "Really?"

"Someone after Sakamoto. That's all you need to know."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have." He pressed his cheek against the top of your head. "He won't bother anyone anymore. That's what matters."

You closed your eyes. The darkness behind your lids was the same as the darkness in the apartment. Quiet. Heavy. But his arm was around you, and his chest rose and fell with each breath, and for now—for this moment—he was here.

"I hate this," you said.

"I know."

"But I can't hate you."

His laugh was soft. Almost sad. "That's probably for the best. I'm very hard to hate."

"You're really not."

"Liar."

You smiled despite yourself. Despite everything. He felt it against his shoulder—he always noticed everything—and his arm tightened around you.

"Next time," you said, "text me. I don't care if it's in the middle of a fight. Type it with one hand. Send it blind. Just do it."

"I'll put a reminder in my phone."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." He pulled back just enough to look at you. That smile was back, smaller than before but real. Genuine in a way his public smile never was. "I don't want you sitting in the dark worrying about me. That's not why I keep you here."

"Then why do you keep me here?"

He considered the question. Turned it over in his mind like one of his dice, looking for the right answer.

"Because when I come back," he said finally, "I want somewhere to come back to."

You didn't have a response to that. So you just leaned into him again, let him hold you, let the silence stretch out between you until it stopped feeling like a wound and started feeling like a bandage.

Outside, the sky was starting to lighten. You'd be tired tomorrow. So would he. But for now, in the dark of his penthouse, with his arms around you and his heartbeat under your ear, you let yourself believe that this could work.

That he could try.

That maybe, just maybe, two letters wasn't too much to ask.

Second Chance

A story about almost getting used to being second-and the night he chooses you first.

pairings: dennis whittaker x girlfriend!reader

synopsis: It starts with something small. A late arrival. A missed moment. Another quiet "I'm sorry" that doesn't change anything.

Dennis Whitaker never means to let you down. He just keeps expecting you to understand-and you always do.

Until you don't.

Because being patient is easy at first.

It's easy to tell yourself it isn't a big deal, that there's always a reason, that you'll get your time eventually.

But eventually never comes.

And somewhere between waiting and pretending it doesn't hurt, you realize you're not asking for too much-just something he's never had to think about giving.

Consistency.

Presence.

A choice.

So when you finally ask him to stay—really ask, for the first time—

it isn't dramatic.

It isn't loud.

But it changes everything.

Because Dennis has always shown up.

He's just never had to prove he could stay.

CONTENT WARNING: emotional distress, repeated disappointment, feelings of neglect/being second priority, conflict in relationship, arguments, unresolved tension, themes of abandonment (non-physical), imbalance in emotional availability, anxiety from waiting/uncertainty, difficult conversations, boundary-setting, mentions of other "responsibilities" (Amy), mild angst with resolution, fluff ending, reassurance, emotional intimacy

word count: 2.1k

The bell above the diner door rings, sharp and familiar, and your head lifts before you can stop it. It’s instinct at this point, something your body does before your brain has time to catch up, like hope refuses to learn no matter how many times it’s been proven wrong.

It’s not him.

You still hold the look for a second too long, watching the stranger pause to shake rain from their jacket before stepping further inside. Only then do you look away, lowering your gaze back to the table like it doesn’t matter, like you weren’t just waiting for that exact moment.

Your coffee has gone cold, having been left to sit a while ago. You just haven’t done anything about it, because replacing it for the fourth time doesn’t really fix the actual problem sitting in your chest.

“Still waiting?” the waitress asks as she passes, slowing just enough to glance at you properly. There’s nothing judgmental in her tone, but there’s a kind of familiarity there that makes your stomach twist anyway.

You give her a small smile, the kind that’s more polite than genuine. “Yeah. He texted—said he was on his way, so he should be here soon.”

She hums softly, topping off your cup without asking, like she’s heard that exact line before. “You want me to hold off on the menu, or do you wanna order something while you wait?”

“No, it’s okay,” you reply, shaking your head. “We’ll order together.”

The we sits heavier than it should, settling somewhere uncomfortable under your ribs.

She nods and moves on, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the diner and the sound of your own thoughts getting louder the longer you sit there. You wrap your hands around the mug again, even though the heat is barely there it at least it gives you something to focus on.

Your phone is face-up on the table beside it, screen dark except for the message that’s been sitting there for the last half hour.

On my way.

Sent thirty-one minutes ago.

You don’t open it again this time. You’ve already read it enough that the words feel burned into your brain, and there’s nothing underneath it waiting to make it better. No update, no follow-up, no “running late” that at least acknowledges the time passing.

The bell rings again, and your head lifts automatically. You don’t even think about it anymore, just react, eyes flicking toward the door with that same small, stubborn hope.

It’s not him.

You look away quicker this time, jaw tightening slightly as you force yourself to focus on anything else. The flickering light in the corner, the low murmur of conversation from the table behind you, the way your reflection looks faintly distorted in the napkin holder.

It doesn’t help.

Because this isn’t really about tonight, and you know that. If it were just tonight, you could laugh it off or roll your eyes and tease him when he finally showed up frantic and apologizing.

But it’s not just tonight.

It’s the pattern that’s been building slowly, quietly, until you couldn’t ignore it anymore. The way plans shift or disappear the second his phone buzzes, the way “I’m sorry” comes quicker every time but doesn’t actually change anything, the way you’ve started expecting to be the one who waits.

The bell rings again.

“Hey—shit, I’m sorry.”

You look up, and this time it is him.

Dennis stands there for a second like he’s bracing himself, eyes scanning your face quickly, like he’s trying to read your reaction before he even sits down. Then he slides into the booth across from you, movements a little rushed, like he hasn’t quite caught his breath yet.

“I know I’m late,” he says immediately, hands coming up in a half-gesture like he can explain it fast enough to make it better. “Traffic was backed up and—”

He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply as his shoulders drop. “It doesn’t matter. I should’ve texted. I’m sorry.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you just look at him, taking in the details you always notice—the slightly disheveled hair, the tension still sitting in his shoulders, the way his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s trying to gauge how bad this is.

And something in your expression must give you away, because his posture shifts almost immediately, the urgency fading into something more careful.

“…Hey,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you answer automatically, even though it doesn’t sound convincing even to you.

He exhales through his nose, leaning forward slightly. “Don’t do that. You always say that when something’s wrong, and it’s never true.”

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the table as your fingers find the edge of a napkin. You start folding it, more to give your hands something to do than anything else.

“You don’t have to keep saying sorry,” you say after a moment, your voice steady but not soft. “Not if nothing’s actually going to change.”

The words land between you, heavier than you meant them to, but you don’t take them back.

Dennis leans back slightly, like he didn’t expect that response. “I know,” he says, slower this time. “I just—tonight wasn’t—”

“Amy?” you ask, finally looking up at him.

He hesitates for just a second before nodding. “…Yeah.”

Of course.

You nod once in return, because there’s nothing else to do with that answer. “Okay.”

“Something came up,” he adds quickly, like he needs you to understand the context. “She needed—”

“I get it,” you interrupt gently, because you do. That’s what makes this so much harder to untangle. “I do, Dennis. I get it.”

“Then why does it feel like you don’t?” he asks, frustration slipping into his voice. “I’m not doing this on purpose.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you reply, your tone still even but firmer now. “But intent doesn’t really change how it feels on my end.”

That stops him for a second, and you can see it sink in even if he doesn’t respond right away.

You take a breath, slower this time, trying to keep your thoughts from tangling together. “It just… feels like I’m competing with her,” you admit, the words coming out quieter but more honest than anything else you’ve said so far.

He flinches at that, his expression tightening immediately. “I don’t want you to feel like that.”

“I know you don’t,” you say, holding his gaze. “But I still do sometimes, and I don’t really know what to do with that.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasping together like he’s trying to anchor himself. “It’s complicated,” he says. “It’s not just her calling and me dropping everything for no reason. It’s responsibility—things I can’t just ignore.”

“I’m not asking you to ignore it,” you reply, shaking your head slightly.

“Then what are you asking?” he presses, not harsh but strained, like he genuinely doesn’t know how to fix this.

You hesitate, because this is the part you’ve been avoiding saying out loud. “I’m asking to not feel like I come second every time something happens,” you say finally. “I’m asking to not sit here wondering if you’re actually going to show up when you say you will.”

That lands harder than anything else, and you can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, the tension shifting into something heavier.

“I didn’t realize it was like that,” he admits.

“That’s kind of the problem,” you say, not unkindly, just honest.

His phone buzzes.

The sound cuts through everything, sharp and familiar, and you feel your stomach twist before you even think about it. You both know who it is without checking.

He pulls it out anyway, glancing at the screen, and you watch the shift happen again—the way his attention starts to split, the way his posture tightens like he’s already halfway out the door.

“Is it her?” you ask quietly.

“…Yeah.”

You nod, because of course it is. “Go,” you say, the word slipping out automatically. “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t move.

You frown slightly, confused. “Dennis—”

“Or I don’t,” he says, cutting in.

You blink at him. “What?”

“I don’t go,” he repeats, more firmly this time, even as the phone buzzes again in his hand. He looks at the screen, jaw tightening, then back at you.

“You always go,” you point out, because that’s the pattern, the one you’ve both been following without really questioning it.

“Yeah,” he admits, exhaling slowly. “I do.”

Another buzz.

He stares at the phone for a second longer, like he’s weighing something, then presses the button and silences it. The screen goes dark in his hand, and the diner noise fills the space where the buzzing was.

“I can call her later,” he says, more measured now. “Or text. Or figure it out without leaving right now.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, because it feels wrong to ask him to stay when you know what he’s used to doing.

“I know I don’t,” he replies.

He flips the phone face down on the table, like he’s removing the option entirely.

“I’m choosing to.”

You don’t have an immediate response to that. It throws you off in a way you weren’t expecting, because this isn’t how this usually goes.

“…Why?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

He looks at you, and this time there’s no hesitation. “Because you’re sitting here asking me not to leave without actually saying it,” he says. “And I’m done acting like i don’t see it.”

Your throat tightens at that, because he’s not wrong.

You look down at your hands, fingers twisting together, and for a second you consider letting it go again, brushing it off the way you usually do.

But you don’t.

“…Can you just stay?” you ask finally, the words coming out softer but steadier. “Just this once.”

He nods immediately. “Yeah. I can do that.”

And he does.

He stays, and it’s not halfway or distracted or temporary. He doesn’t reach for his phone again, doesn’t check it under the table or glance at it every few minutes. He just… stays, and it feels unfamiliar in a way that almost makes you uneasy at first.

The conversation doesn’t fix itself right away. There are pauses, moments where neither of you quite knows what to say, but it isn’t as heavy as before. It’s quieter, more grounded.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he says after a while, his tone more thoughtful now. “About how it’s been feeling.”

You shrug slightly. “I didn’t want to make it a whole thing.”

“It already was a whole thing,” he replies. “You were just dealing with it by yourself.”

You don’t argue with that, because there’s nothing to argue.

“I’m not trying to make you feel like you’re doing something wrong every time your phone goes off,” you say instead.

“I know,” he says. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

He exhales slowly. “It’s me getting used to reacting to her first and not realizing what that looks like from your side,” he admits. “And not realizing how often I’ve been leaving you to deal with that on your own.”

That lands differently than the explanations from before. It feels less like justification and more like awareness.

You nod slowly, letting that settle.

“Okay.”

The next time you come to the diner, you’re early, and there’s a quiet nervousness sitting in your chest that you don’t quite know what to do with.

You push the door open, the bell ringing overhead, and glance toward your usual booth out of habit.

“Hey.”

You look up, and Dennis is already there, sitting in your booth with two mugs of coffee in front of him. He looks a little unsure, like he’s been there long enough to start second-guessing himself.

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, gesturing to the mugs. “So I just got both.”

You step closer, glancing at the clock on the wall before looking back at him. “How long have you been here?”

He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Not long.”

He’s been there at least fifteen minutes.

Waiting.

For you.

You slide into the booth, wrapping your hands around the mug he nudges toward you, and this time the warmth feels different. It doesn’t feel like something to distract yourself with. It just feels… steady.

“You’re early,” you say, softer now.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “Yeah. I figured I should start showing up like I say I will.”

You look at him for a moment, really look at him, and it’s not a grand gesture or some dramatic fix.

It’s just effort.

Consistent. Intentional.

Real.

“Okay,” you say, and this time when you settle into the booth, it doesn’t feel like waiting.

It just feels like being there.

With him.

a/n: it ended up being more of a slow, quiet kind of angst with amy in the background but still very much there 😭 and i gave it a soft ending because i couldn’t NOT

i really hope you enjoyed it and it was up to your expectations <3

reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated, don’t be afraid to share your thoughts because I love hearing them!! sorry for any typos <3

synopsis: everyone on campus seems to have an opinion about Satoru Gojo. frat president. genius. untouchable. you just think he’s irritating. but between late-night study sessions and quiet moments away from the noise, you start to see a different side of him, one no one else seems to notice.

pairings: frat!gojo x uniterested!reader

wc: 1.7k

a/n: communication skills are actually beating his ass right now 😭, but if i had gojo, sukuna, and higuruma wanting me yall genuinely couldn't tell me shit LMFAOO

also i got the images from pinterest—if anyone knows the artists, pls let me know so i can give them proper credit 🩷

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

chapter 8

the classroom is louder than usual.

not chaotic.

just buzzing.

presentation days always are.

note cards are being flipped through.

laptops open everywhere.

people rehearsing under their breath, checking slides for the thousandth time.

nervous energy thick in the air before the professor even walks in.

gojo barely registers any of it.

his eyes find you instantly.

of course, they do.

you're across the room instead of next to him.

sitting with your roommate by the windows, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through something on your laptop like you've got all the time in the world.

focused.

calm.

like today is nothing special.

his jaw ticks once before he forces himself to look away.

fine.

whatever.

it's not like you have to sit together anymore.

the project's done.

technically.

your presentation got moved to thursday instead of today.

which means there's no reason to talk unless one of you decides to make one.

neither of you do.

he drops into his seat with a dull thud, tossing his bag to the floor.

geto glances over.

then follows his gaze immediately.

"...ah," he says.

gojo doesn't look at him.

"don't."

"i didn't say anything."

"you were about to."

geto smirks, opening his laptop.

"you've been very defensive lately."

"gojo's always defensive," shoko says as she sits beside him.

then she spots you.

her eyebrows rise.

"...oh."

he regrets showing up today.

"you're both insufferable."

"you looked over there before you even sat down," shoko says.

"because i can see."

"mhm."

he ignores her, leaning back as the room shifts around him.

his phone ends up in his hand without him noticing.

blank screen.

no notifactions.

his thumb taps once against the side before he locks it again.

then—

your laugh cuts through the noise.

soft.

quick.

still enough to pull his attention like a magnet.

you're smiling at something your roommate said, head tilted, easy and unguarded.

not the stiff politeness you've been giving him lately.

something twists low in his chest.

he looks away fast.

too late.

geto sees.

shoko sees.

"...wow," shoko mutters.

"gojo," geto says, already entertained, "you're staring again."

"am not."

"you literally froze," shoko says.

"you don't pay this much attention to our chapter meetings, bruh," geto states.

he slouches deeper in his seat.

"you two think everything is romantic."

"normally i'd agree," shoko says. "but this is painful to witness."

he's about to snap back when movement catches his eye.

you.

walking toward him.

his spine straightens before he can stop it.

small.

instinctive.

you stop beside his desk, expression neutral.

distant.

"we present thursday, right?" you ask.

his brain blanks for half a second because you spoke first.

then he recovers.

"...yeah."

you nod.

"okay. i already submitted the final version, but i wanted to make sure you saw the professor's email."

"i saw it."

a pause.

you adjust your bag on your shoulder.

"alright."

that's it.

no teasing.

no warmth.

just business.

you start to turn away.

and before he can think—

"you nervous?"

it slips out too casually.

you pause.

look back at him.

"not really."

"seriously?" he leans back, trying to sound normal. "you're usually a little intense about grades."

your brow lifts.

"and you're usually louder."

shoko chokes on her drink.

geto outright laughs.

gojo just stares at you.

because there it is.

finally.

a reaction.

except it's not playful.

it's sharp.

clean.

deserved.

you don't wait for him to respond.

you just nod once and head back to your seat.

he watches you go before catching himself.

again.

"...oh, you're done for," shoko says.

"gojo has never fumbled this badly," geto adds.

he drags his gaze away from your side of the room.

"can you both shut up forever?"

"no really," shoko says, still laughing, "what did you do?"

"nothing."

too fast.

geto grins.

"which means he definitely did something."

"gojo being emotionally unavailable?" shoko gasps. "shocking."

he flips them off without enthusiasm.

but his eyes drift back toward you anyway.

and somehow—

that feels worse than before.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

gojo used to leave the parties early.

make one appearance.

vanish upstairs halfway through the night without telling anyone where he was going.

no one questioned it.

that was just him.

hard to keep interested.

harder to keep in one place.

people still gravitated toward him anyway.

they always did.

but lately—

he's been staying.

lingering downstairs instead of hiding in his room.

letting himself get pulled into conversations he normally would've ignored.

showing up to parties he would've blown off a month ago.

and if anyone asked why, he'd blame boredom.

easier than admitting the truth.

because the second he steps inside tonight, his eyes automatically search for you.

music shakes the walls.

someone yells from the kitchen.

the living room is already packed, loud, sweaty, half-drunk.

normally, he'd hate it.

tonight, he barely registers any of it.

because then he sees you.

across the room.

curled sideways on a couch, legs tucked under you, drink dangling loosely from your fingers while your friend talks with wild hand gestures.

you look comfortable here now.

the thought hits him strangely.

the first few times you came around, you hated it, you hovered at the edges.

careful.

watching everything before deciding where to stand.

now you laugh openly.

move through the house like you belong in it.

and somehow—

he notices every shift.

"...there he is."

nanami appears beside him, holding a drink he clearly despises.

"thought you said you weren't coming."

gojo tears his gaze away from you.

"i considered it."

"and yet you're here."

"tragic for both of us."

nanami hums, unimpressed.

before he can respond, an arm hooks around his shoulders.

"you finally decided to socialize?" shoko asks.

"using that word generously."

she follows his gaze.

then stops.

"...oh."

he knows that tone.

he sighs.

"don't."

"i didnt say anything."

"you were about to."

"you're becoming disturbingly easy to read," she says.

"shoko..."

she laughs, but lets it go.

for about thirty seconds.

then—

"you know she's here basically every weekend now, right?"

his eyes flick toward you again before he can stop them.

"okay?"

shoko watched him.

"nothing. just interesting."

he ignores her.

or tries to.

but people keep stopping him.

a guy from another frat starts rambling about an internship.

someone asks about their calculus 2 homework

a girl touched his arm while laughing at something he didn't hear.

he responds vaguely.

barely listening.

because every few seconds, his attention drifts back to you anyway.

annoying.

you look happier tonight.

lighter than you did in class.

your head tips back when you laugh.

sukuna drops onto the couch beside you, sprawling like he owns the place.

you don't even react anymore.

just shift to make room.

that shouldn't bother him.

it does.

sukuna leans in to say something near your ear.

you wrinkle your nose and shove his shoulder lightly.

he grins.

you roll your eyes.

easy.

comfortable.

gojo's jaw tightens.

"...wow," shoko mutters.

he doesn't look away.

"what."

"you're glaring."

"i'm literally standing here."

"mhm."

she sips her drink.

"this is getting humiliating for you."

before he can respond, another guy approaches your couch.

gojo recognizes him vaguely.

political science major, hiromi higuruma.

one of those polished, networking- obsessed types.

higuruma says something to you.

you smile politely.

he keeps talking.

too long.

too interested.

gojo watched him lean an arm behind you on the couch.

your roommate looks entertained.

something sharp twists in gojo's chest.

immediate.

"...oh, he's down bad," shoko whispers.

"go away."

she grins.

higuruma says something else.

you laugh softly.

and that's when gojo stops thinking.

one second he's standing there.

the next—

he's moving.

he hears shoko laugh behind him.

doesn't stop.

doesn't slow.

he cuts through the crowd until he reaches the couch.

your eyes lift instantly.

shock flickers across your face before smoothing out.

there it is again.

that careful distance.

he hates it.

"gojo," your roommate says knowingly.

he ignores the tone.

he drops onto the arm of the couch beside you like it's his seat.

close enough that his knee brushes yours.

higuruma notices.

good.

"gojo," higuruma says slowly.

gojo smiles.

all teeth.

"man, do i know you?"

higuruma hesitates.

"... microecon lecture."

"right." he says it like he barely remembers. "you were talking about consulting or something."

your eyes narrow at the blatant interruption.

your eyes narrow at the blatant interruption.

he feels it.

higuruma laughs awkwardly.

"yeah, uh—"

"you bothering her?" gojo asks lightly.

too lightly.

the conversation around the couch goes quiet.

higuruma blinks.

"what?"

"gojo," you say sharply.

warning.

he ignores it.

"seemed real committed over here."

"i was literally just talking to her."

"mhm."

silence stretches.

and suddenly—

he realizes how this looks.

your friends staring.

higuruma confused.

sukuna amused.

from the outside—

it looks possessive.

territorial.

his stomach drops.

you stand before the moment can get worse.

"sorry," you tell higuruma politely. "i'm gonna grab another drink."

then you look at gojo.

steady.

"can i talk to you for a second?"

quiet.

controlled.

worse than anger.

he follows.

the second you're outside, you turn fully.

arms crossed.

"what the fuck was that?"

he opens his mouth.

nothing comes out.

because he genuinely doesn't know.

you stare at him.

then shake your head.

"you don't get to do that."

the words land clean.

sharp.

his brows pull together.

"... do what?"

"act like that."

"i wasn't acting like anything."

you laugh once.

flat.

"satoru."

you sound tired.

tired of trying to figure him out.

and somehow that's worse than if you yelled.

"you don't get to kiss me, tell me it's not a big thing, then act possessive the second someone else talks to me."

possessive.

the word hits too hard.

he wants to deny it.

should deny it.

but he can't.

not convincingly.

your expression shifts.

quieter now.

more disappointed than angry.

"...right." you murmur.

like his silence answered everything.

you step past him.

"wait—"

it slips out.

instinctive.

you pause.

don't turn.

and for one awful second—

he almost says it.

almost tells you the truth.

because the idea of you walking away again feels unbearable.

his chest tightens.

"i just..."

the words stick.

you wait.

the moment stretches.

one sentence away from changing everything.

panic hits.

hard.

his jaw locks.

"...forget it."

silence.

your shoulders tense.

then you nod once.

small. "okay."

and this time—

when you walk away—

he lets you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

He complained about the dusty roads, the lack of cloud coverage, the way the wind was blowing the wrong way. If there was something to be complained about, any mild inconvenience the bard could find, it would be noted.

Verbally.

And sometimes in rhyme.

With instrumental accompaniment.

Needless to say, it took Geralt the same amount of time to decipher Jaskier’s complaints as it did Jaskier to decode the witcher’s, for lack of a better word, noises.

The majority of Jaskier’s complaints could be ignored. For example, if Jaskier was whining about his clothes or the path, he was usually fine. Likewise with complaints about fair weather, although the witcher did need to make sure the bard didn’t burn himself too badly, sticking to shaded paths on the truly scorching days.

Phrases that were slightly more concerning included claims of numb digits and sore feet. With the first, Geralt had learned the hard way that if he didn’t get the bard warm within an hour-ish of said complaint, he’d be dealing with a bard that wouldn’t stop shivering without the aid of a fire and body heat. Thus, it just made more sense to give Jaskier extra clothing or have him ride Roach with Geralt when the complaint was made, rather than waste time they could be traveling to heat Jaskier up.

Unfortunately, Jaskier’s claim of sore feet was a little more difficult. Sometimes it meant the bard had painful blisters, usually in the spring after a winter spent with little walking. Other times it was a code for Jaskier being too tired to keep traveling, that his vision was literally failing him. Or lastly, it could mean Jaskier just wanted a break, some time to rest and occasionally pick flowers to braid into Roach’s mane, much to the witcher’s ire.

Thus, it was practically inevitable that Jaskier had to physically collapse before the witcher realized that the bard’s words, like a knife, were sometimes used interchangeably for vastly varying situations.

(Geralt had tried getting Jaskier to simply speak clearly, especially after the time he’d turned to find the bard collapsed on the side of the road, but it was a work in progress.

That is to say, Geralt continued to lecture Jaskier, and no progress was made.)

But the two complaints the witcher reacted to right away were of hunger and thirst. It took three years for the witcher to learn that Jaskier was convinced that if food was scarce, it ought to go to the witcher, because it was Geralt who needed his strength most to fight monsters and such. It was an embarrassingly long time to realize that Jaskier, who was startlingly honest outside of his compositions, was very willing to lie if it benefitted the witcher in some way. And, that if Jaskier was complaining about being hungry, it was because he was so lightheaded he could hardly walk straight.

(Geralt was still ashamed that he’d thought Jaskier hungover, that he’d assumed the bard had spent his earnings on ale the night prior due to retiring hours after Geralt. It took the witcher feeling the bard’s ribs through two layers of clothing for Geralt to realize just how woefully he’d failed at—at being a witcher. After all, what witcher missed a human in need of help, sitting across the fire from him for weeks, if not months, slowly wasting away?)

And don’t get Geralt started on the bard complaining of thirst. It seemed, that beyond the bard’s need of water to wet his throat for singing, Jaskier could care less about the liquid most of the time. He was fond of ale, and loved a good wine, but just plain old water? The bard found it dreadfully boring. As if Jaskier could care less about the fluid until he’d sung himself hoarse, or into a cough, and suddenly Geralt was facing a panicking bard who didn’t have a drop left in his waterskin.

Needless to say, Geralt found himself reminding the bard to refill his skin when the witcher did his own. Frequently. Practically every time, really.

The system worked well. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing would be, when you threw together a man who talked a lot but said little and another who could hear everything but struggled to truly listen. When put in that light, it was honestly a small miracle that the arrangement worked as well as it did.

The only thing Geralt hadn’t taken into consideration, unfortunately, was that Jaskier knew about the system. That while the bard didn’t abuse it (well, much), he made sure to keep his phrases somewhat similar, so that the witcher would know what Jaskier needed when without having to actually, well, talk about it.

Which was fine, except for when the witcher knew Jaskier didn’t need the things he was complaining about, which was where the problem started.

Because Jaskier should never have been trailing after Geralt when he went to fight the Drowners. The witcher had explicitly told the bard that he needed to stay at the campsite, because this nest was a big one and Geralt couldn’t keep an eye on the bard and the creatures, and didn’t want to risk Jaskier’s safety.

Well. He’d told the bard to stay put with Roach, at least. The rest was…implied.

So when after the fight Jaskier complained of sore feet despite having skipped around last night and sleeping plenty, Geralt felt even more annoyed. When Jaskier said he was hungry, Geralt continued to ignore him, knowing the bard had rations in his bag and had eaten leftover rabbit mere hours ago. And when Jaskier said he was thirsty, the witcher almost growled, well aware the bard hadn’t even touched his waterskin due to it sloshing around on Roach’s haunch.

Thus, when Geralt didn’t respond to the bard’s third lie, and Jaskier fell silent for a moment, the witcher thought Jaskier was done. That the bard had finally, blessedly learned to be quiet when the witcher was royally pissed off.

But then—

“Geralt. I need help.”

It took Geralt a second to process the words, another to realize how weak the bard sounded, and a precious third to finally turn around—

He cursed, practically leaping off of Roach in his bid to catch the swaying bard before he fell. It took him far too long to notice the three long claw marks across Jaskier’s back, still sluggishly bleeding and staining Jaskier’s blue doublet a deep red.

The witcher made quick work of the wounds, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging them, muttering words of comfort every time the bard twitched or whimpered. He narrated his movements the best he could, well aware how terrifying it was to be unable to see what was being done to your own body.

Thankfully, Geralt had enough herbs to brew a rather strong pain relieving tea, one that helped Jaskier stay calm as the witcher tied his skin back together. The marks were deep, and Geralt knew they would scar, if infection didn’t set in after hours of being untreated and—

It was only after Jaskier succumbed to unconsciousness, and the witcher was setting up camp around the injured bard, that he realized Jaskier had been trying to tell him all day that something was wrong. That the bard, before today, had never actually asked the witcher for help.

Geralt couldn’t help but wonder what it said about their…partnership, that Jaskier only felt like he could ask for help when he was actively dying. The thought didn’t help relieve the pit that had been growing in his stomach ever since he’d turned around and seen Jaskier as pale as a ghost.

It took two weeks for the wounds to finally close. Two weeks of Geralt scrounging around the forest for any herbs that could help the bard, painfully aware that Jaskier needed the help of a healer, but that to move Jaskier was dangerous and they didn’t have the money for one. Not after Jaskier and he had spent the last of their coin in the prior village, to stock up on ingredients for the witcher’s potions that did nothing for the bard, that were useless, a waste, that they shouldn’t have—

And even when the bard was out of immediate danger, Jaskier couldn’t stop wincing every time he played his lute. With the injuries where they were, the bard could barely perform, and was unable to practice while traveling because he couldn’t possibly wear the strap that helped him carry the instrument.

(The lute was left tied to a stray bag on Roach’s back most of the time, every step the horse made eliciting a faint twang from the strings that the witcher could just make out. A noise that was a continuous reminder of the witcher’s failure.)

But the last change, perhaps the most unwelcome one, was that Jaskier had stopped complaining. Oh, he made the usual useless ones, the kind that seemed to flow out of the bard’s mouth without him even realizing they were being said. But none that told Geralt anything.

Geralt knew he needed to say something after he caught Jaskier hiding the food he’d made him in his pockets, likely too nauseous for the dried meat the witcher had provided.

He should have spoken up the fourth time the witcher had to physically lift Jaskier up onto Roach after the other man had pushed himself to the point of exhaustion.

And Geralt definitely shouldn’t have stayed silent when the witcher realized it had been hours since he’d seen Jaskier drink from his waterskin. When Geralt wanted to hit himself for not realizing the bard was too weak still to climb down and back up the small hill that led to the stream.

The breaking point, though, was when it took Geralt smelling the other’s blood to realize the bard had partially reopened one of the wounds, enough time having passed for a large smear of red to form on the man’s linen shirt. And…and Jaskier hadn’t said a word. He let himself be manhandled, the injury cared for as he complained about not passing any berry bushes lately. Like Jaskier could care less about the damage to his body, or as if…as if he thought such complaints would go unanswered.

The witcher grabbed Jaskier’s shoulders and told him, voice steady and low, that Jaskier needed to start complaining again. That the witcher was—was sorry, for not understanding before, and that he would listen. He’d not ignore Jaskier again, not when—not on purpose. Never on purpose.

Jaskier bit his lip, nodding. His eyes shined wetly as Geralt pulled him into a quick, gruff hug, the witcher’s hands mindful of the wounds he’d just re-bandaged.

It wasn’t a perfect system. The first time Yennefer and Ciri had traveled with the pair, the two women had a very long conversation (rant) about men and their inability to communicate. But it seemed to work for them, and that was really all that mattered—neither Yennefer nor Ciri were rather keen on trying to understand either men’s strange way of thinking.

But that didn’t stop their looks of confusion when Ciri calmly shouted that she needed Geralt’s help, and the witcher came sprinting through the shrubbery, eyes darting wildly around the clearing. It wasn’t until Jaskier grabbed the witcher’s arm, telling him Ciri just didn’t know how to skin the rabbit the witcher had caught, and that everyone was fine, that Geralt finally started to relax.

Ciri, feeling guilty at causing the witcher such panic, tried to apologize. But the witcher brushed it off gently, grabbing his knife and going to help her, leaving the foraging he was doing for later.

And if the witcher frequently glanced between his child surprise and the bard fiddling with his lute across the fire…well. Jaskier was making a rather catchy ditty about the horrible smell of the mushrooms Geralt had found last night, comparing them to the reek of a sweaty pig.

The song had Ciri laughing, and Yennefer rolling her eyes, and Geralt nodding imperceptibly to Jaskier, a motion the bard returned with a small, painless smile.

So, no. It wasn’t perfect. But it was, much like everything else in their lives, good enough for them.