MICHAEL KAISER X F!READER ļ½„ sfw, primarily fluff with just a hint of angst, established relationship. i love him in ways that cannot properly be described. but i tried. 1.1k words.
my first ever finished and published piece for him despite his residence in my bones for the past year and a half. i guess it's a little love letter to him because i was feeling some type of way today. decided to take my most prized barbie doll off the shelf for a while. i'm very normal!!! (lying) ļ½„ (dividers by @/cursed-carmine)
Michael's teeth graze across the flesh of your neck in between kisses of determined reverence, languid yet possessive in their nips of endless hunger. You feel the turmoil stirring in his being, rarely subdued even when he has you directly in his grasp, because nothing ever guarantees that you won't suddenly slip from right out of it. So he is voracious in his consumption, a touch over-indulgent as if it might quell the fear that lurks withināthe fear that only you are ever privy to.
You know the essence of him through his lips and his palms, and can read his soul like the stars in the sky. The master navigator of the map of everything that he is. And you know that when his fingers anchor into your hips and his teeth nibble restlessly at your throat, he is clinging to a pointless "what if," and an image of himself that is still tainted with shame. Even if he doesn't realize it, you do.
"Be my sweet boy," you say, carding a hand through his hair with your gentle request. Perched in his lap, you want him to revel in the joy of your closeness to one another, not wage war with himself in the proclivity to conquer.
"There's nothing sweet about me," he says so matter-of-fact, fingers only tightening their grip as he continues to mouth at you, to breathe in your scent. "Unless you count my victories."
You tug just barely at his scalp to pull yourself away an inch in protest. "That's not true," you reply.
He takes offense to this, your words ringing like individual criticismsāa coordinated assault on someone as guarded as he, because that is what he is used to. It's reflexive to perceive your contradiction as an attack, even if what you're saying is supposed to be nice. He still doesn't comprehend the complexities of 'nice.'
So Michael's eyes narrow, too riddled with intensity on the precipice of vulnerability to wave you off like he might anyone else. False pride can't fully man the defenses when your gaze is the one that penetrates. Because, subconsciously, he knows that you will only see right through it.
He doesn't say anything, but your resolute expression doesn't waver either as he studies it, tests it. You are his most infuriating opponent. His most beloved.
"And pray tell, what is it you think is so sweet about me, mein FrƤulein?" he asks with a peeved, challenging grin, already anticipating an answer that will crack underneath his pressure. "Do feel free to share."
You know his games and his goals, both within soccer and outside it. "I've never seen someone look sweeter in their sleep," you reply while smiling and smoothing back more of his hair with your loving hands, though still with just the right amount of roughness to remind him you are not so easily shaken.
He scoffs into a chuckle and shakes his head, looking up at you with a hint of pity. "And you think that counts? Good god, I think your brain has finally fallen out of your pretty little head." It's derogatory, a final attempt at maintaining his pride, at pretending like he is the one who knows better than you. It's accompanied by the wandering of his greedy hands along your sides and back, gripping your body with that same subtle restlessness.
"No," you double down, tender all the while. "You're sweet even when you don't know itāeven when you don't mean to be." Your fingers are soothing in his hair, yet your voice makes his chest tighten a fraction when it mumbles against his forehead in a kiss. "Like when you tread carefully because you think I'm asleep, or when you say I've lost my pretty mind instead of telling me to fuck off like I know you really want to."
You smile down at him knowingly, with an air of absoluteness, but not malevolent in the slightest. It enrages him. It comforts him. Why are you such an impossible thing to conquer?
Michael's jaw flexes and the tension creeps into his brow, dragging his gaze away from yours and back down into your neck. He noses at the skin there, bubbling with frustration as his hands slow and the gears turning in his mind quicken.
He breathes against you, feeling himself losing the battle. But there's a small part of him that's eager to surrender as always.
"You aren't supposed to know so many things," he murmurs through gritted teeth.
Your grin widens and your thumb strokes the clench out of his jaw. "Oh, but I do, meine Liebe," you reassure him, pulling him back to look him in the eye. "I know you are so sweet." You place a kiss to his brow, his cheekāslowly, with care, to ensure he recognizes the sincerity while his face rests like a precious jewel in your palms. "And I know you are so full of love."
Your voice has lowered to nearly a whisper as you gently pull his head to your chest for the warmest of embraces, closing your eyes and hoping with everything in you that the love you have for him can be felt. You hope it radiates outward from your heart and into his skull enough to convince him that you are right, because even if there is nothing else you are certain of in this world, you are certain of this.
His cheek melts into the heat of your sternum as he listens to the steady thrum of your heart against his eardrum like a lullaby. He knows that rhythm and cherishes it more than any other song in the universe, because it slips into his bones and makes it seem as though it were destined to be there from the start. When your blood sings against his flesh, it feels as though there might really be a place for him in this world after allāone he doesn't have to fight for.
Michael deflates and exhales beneath your touch.
'No, you are full of love,' he thinks. 'You are.'
Though...
Perhaps he could be too. Since you will allow it.
He stays in place until his heartbeat syncs with yours, then finally looks back up at you with his devout resignation. "Only for you," he states.
You grin again, relishing in the blue sparkle of his eyes. "No, I think you have more than that," you say, pressing the tip of your nose to his. "But I won't complain about being first in line."
He accepts your lips with a temperance he didn't possess before, breathing you in through a slow, earnest kiss when you give it. He doesn't know how right you are about anything else, but he does know that you are, in fact, the very first in lineāyou will be until he draws his final breath.
And that is a battle he can't be entirely disappointed in himself for losing.
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okay so (warning for some spoilers btw) i was in the shower and the brainworms started eating me with this idea of having known flins ever since you were a child wandering out to play all alone and coming across a very tall, rather strange looking man who, if he werenāt so eerily calm, would perhaps make you flee in fear of being consumed by one of the many monsters you know roam freely over the land. your family had warned you never to stray too far in your eagerness, and yet there you were, standing before a complete and total stranger.
he says hello and inquires about whether or not you are lost and perhaps looking for someone, and when you say no, no one in particular, he politely urges you to be more cautious and seek a place to play much closer to safety. while you know there is truth to his words, you now canāt help but feel somewhat grateful for this odd yet courteous man youāve discovered who intrigues you so, sapping the aimless boredom from your bones simply by existing in these woods. you donāt tell anyone about having met him.
and against most everyoneās wishes but your own, you wander out in hopes youāll find him again so that heāll so softly tell you what a mistake it is, and it takes several weeks or perhaps even months, but you do finally see him once more, and this time you so astutely make a guess as to what he is (āyouāre not a monsterā¦ are you one of the fae?ā) and he confirms, telling you of his nameāa long entanglement of syllables that has trouble settling upon your youthful tongue, until he ponders for a moment and simply insists that, rather than āmr. fae,ā you call him āflins.ā
(you are the first to call him by this name.)
ever your secret, you seek him out all through your youth, only happening upon him once in a blue moon and rejoicing whenever you do. he no longer finds it useful to politely suggest that you err on the side of caution, and since he has no intentions of imposing upon your free will, he simply greets you courteously each time you meet. until there comes a time when you no longer do.
although you were rather unwavering in your quest to find him throughout your childhood, he assumed the day would come when things of greater interest and importance would take precedence in your life. while there was something more heartbreaking about it than what heād originally anticipated, flins must come to terms with the fact that your youthful days of pestering the mysterious fae man have all but come to an end.
what he isnāt prepared for, however, is how your absence leaves him feeling more aimless than the child who stumbled upon him that day long ago, unknowingly making a rather empty existence feel significantly more whole, even if only from short, infrequent encounters.
(much to your dismay, you had gone away for some time, leaving behind the unchanging fae man who filled your life with wonder. you fully intended to return once given the chance, but you assumed he would not miss you either way.)
when the darkness threatens to consume him, he does not expect your hands to be of those that fish him from the icy waters; that your face would be one he opens his eyes to when he thought he might never see it, nor any other, again.
your eyes shine with the same light as they did before, but this time that light shines amongst the ratniki who help keep the darkness at bayāsomething he thinks you are indeed most suited for.
CONTAINS ļ½„ eventual nsfw, minors dni / major manga spoilers + canon divergence / gojo is disabled/disabled-coded with an unspecified condition + requires care / friends to lovers / slow burn / hurt/comfort / minor underlying yandere vibes / appearances from other characters / there are minimal instances of feminine pronouns used for reader (there will likely be fem-specific anatomy descriptors in the future)
individual chapters will be tagged more specifically as necessary + this will be updated as the story continues!
SUMMARY ļ½„ A few determined companions pour their hearts into the restoration of a broken body and soul after the battle of Shinjuku, attempting to achieve what most would call the impossible.
Guided back to vitality with your help, Satoru Gojo rises from the space between life and death to walk the earth once more, but what no one could have predicted was the extent to which his mind seems to have been broken as well. His memories are sparse and incomplete aside from the ones that primarily involve youāhis old friend and the person with whom he now appears to have a deep, unprecedented attachment to.
It's the end of one life and the beginning of another for more than just Gojo himself, because the responsibility for his care in the aftermath falls directly to you. The most obvious question that lingers in the air during this period of adjustment is why do you seem to have so suddenly become the apple of all six of his eyes, and, perhaps more importantly, just who exactly is Satoru Gojo when he isn't the strongest anymore?
(An exploration of love, acceptance, and making the most of second chances.)
SERIES TAG ļ½„ AO3 LINK
CHAPTER 1 ā HUNGER (1.8k words)
CHAPTER 2 ā HANDS (3.3k words)
CHAPTER 3 ā BREATH (5.3k words)
TO BE CONTINUED...
NOTES ļ½„ this is a repost from my old blog since i started the series before moving here, but i've also decided to use this as an opportunity to revisit + revamp a few things! it's been a very slow process getting things together, but despite how long it's taken me to actually continue with this story, it's always had a very special place in my heart. i have never once truly wanted to abandon it.
i cannot promise swift updates nor can i promise that things will make the most sense as this is literally the only multi-chaptered thing i've ever written, but i do promise that i'm trying my best. my original idea going into this was actually quite different from what the story ended up becoming, so i never exactly had very much structure from the get-go. but now that it has started taking this kind of shape, i want to try and make it something meaningful that hopefully some of my fellow gojo lovers out there can enjoy. and thank you so much to those who have actually been waiting around for me to figure out what the hell i'm doing this whole time lmfao
ATSUMU MIYA X F!READER ļ½„ nsfw (18+ only), implied situationship/fwb, unprotected sex, dubcon elements, hair pulling, noncon/accidental creampie, felching/cum eating, reader is agitated and not very nice to him lmao. 1.8k words.
something came inside me over me and i've been spending my day off writing this instead of doing chores like a responsible adult. this bottle blond is causing problems for me.
There's a deep pain that shoots through you when he pushes forward and settles right up against your cervix.
"Ah"āyou wince and hiss, immediately reacting to the sensationā"that's too fucking deep, Atsumu!"
Your voice is strained and muscles tensed, but not enough so that your hand can't reflexively shoot back to pull at his hair in warning. You aren't sure why that was the first action you'd settled upon to try and punish Atsumu Miya for plunging his needy cock far too deep, but it seems that misplaced decision is certainly coming back to bite you in the ass.
The absolutely pornographic moan that slips past his lips at the feeling of your fingers tugging on his bleached locks signals that, rather than serving as a warning, your infliction of pain has shot straight down to his balls and made an already pussy drunk Atsumu slip further into a disheveled state of euphoria.
Your cunt bears down around him, wishing it could push him out and away from your fucking womb, but the laws of the universe are against you with how the pillow beneath your hips gives Atsumu the perfect angle to lose himself to you from behind. If you could properly see his face, the expression on it would tell you that he is nothing less than completely blissed-out, but honestly the sound of his breath alone is enough to let you know.
"Ahhh, fuck," he curses, eyes fallen closed in pleasure. He's been jerking his cock to the thought of having you in prone for what feels like forever, and now that he's finally gotten his wish (after practically begging), he swears he could slip into the sweet embrace of death at any momentābut it wouldn't compare to the sweet embrace of your hot pussy.
The needy, selfish, debauched part of his brain ignores the way your fingers dig into his scalp in an act of punishment, because he's too hooked on how it makes him throb, the glorious pain urging his hips to keep rutting into you like a mindless little puppy lost in the sensation of your wet heatāover and over again regardless of how your cervix keeps giving him a limit.
This lasts for a good 10-20 seconds before the humping stills alongside a lecherous moan and series of grunts, a pool of warmth quickly settling against that deepest spot inside you thereafter. It makes your heart skip a beat in disbelief.
"ā¦Did you just fucking cum?"
Your fingers loosen their grip in his hair and allow your hand to flop onto the bed to try and lift yourself up, but to no avail.
Vision blurred, chest heaving, Atsumu twitches out the last of his orgasm inside you.
"ā¦Hahā¦maybeā¦"
You scoff and try to wriggle yourself out from under him, but the weight of his now still hips is almost too much, so you settle for furiously swatting at his arm instead. "You were supposed to pull out, you dumbass!!!"
Still lost in the haze of pleasure, Atsumu can hardly register his mistakeāif he can even call it that. Right now, despite the way you're berating him, it feels like the best, most holy, right, good, amazing decision he's ever made, and he can hardly bear to lift himself off of you.
"Jesus Christā¦" you say, more irate than perhaps ever, "you beg me for days to let you come over, you show up without a condom, and then just blow an entire load inside me in like, less than 30 secondsā¦ are you just the most ridiculous creature on this entire fucking planet by accident or by choice???"
Atsumu scowls at your harsh words, bleary eyes finally coming back into focus as the euphoria fades. "Well how am I supposed to control myself when yer tiny little pussy is suckin' me in like that, and then ya pull my goddamn hair?" He acts as though it's your fault for being so sexy and enticing that he couldn't manage to get a handle on himself after finally getting what he wanted.
You groan and let your head fall forward in defeat.
"Outāget OUT!!!" Your voice is muffled by the sheets, but there's no mistaking the tired anger in your voice.
He starts to look a little smug and satisfied with himself as he pulls back, but that's quickly derailed by the visual that strikes him when he does:
Your cunt soaked and dripping with the load he just throbbed into you, the angle of your hips not even enough to help gravity keep it inside.
His jaw goes slack. "Hooooollllyyyy fuckā¦" Atsumu breathes, his eyes half-lidded and filled with filthy, lusty amazement. He's never seen such a downright delectable and erotic sight in his entire life, and he swears you could beat, stab, and kill him in cold blood right this very second and he'd die completely fulfilled.
You're waiting impatiently to feel his weight finally shift off the mattress so that you can get back to having some peace and quiet, maybe clean yourself up and reconsider all of your life's choices in solitude, but it never does. Instead, Atsumu's hand spreads you apart for a split second to admire the visual before those fingers are slipping between your folds, coating themselves in fluid and spreading it around and up to your swollen, previously neglected clit.
Your hips twitch and your hole flutters in response, pushing more of his spend out into his palm before you can even stop it, your neck snapping around to try and see just exactly what it is he thinks he's doing. The blond is mesmerized by the sight of your messy pussy on display for him like a prizeālike a treat.
Atsumu's animal brain drives him to once again ignore your wishes and pull the pillow out from under you, quickly replacing it with his head as his spine hits the mattress and he puts his salivating mouth below your dripping cunt.
"Atsumu, what the hell are youā" you're cut off by the hot drag of his tongue through your folds making you gasp, his hands coming up to pull you down onto his face with a groan. He unapologetically licks and sucks the cum out of your pussy, reveling in the taste of his own seed mixing with your slick on his tongue as he laps at you like an eager dog.
"Lemme clean it up," he mumbles against your folds before swallowing what's already in his mouth, and you're so fucking pissed at the incompetent Miya for putting you in this position in the first place, but you can't help but find a little joy in the way he suckles on your clit and eats his own cum out of you after so pathetically pumping it in there hardly a moment ago.
You moan and arch your back, rocking yourself against him ever so slightly to gain some friction and aid in forcing the mess down his throat.
"You're so fucking nasty," you proclaim, and he groans into your pussy, happy to let you insult him and ride his face so long as he can keep getting lost in you for just a little bit longer.
One of his hands moves to push a couple fingers into your cunt, curling precisely to make you shiver and drag more of the hot fluids down into his waiting mouth. He only pulls them out to suck the digits clean between his lips before slipping them back in your hole to set a subtle rhythm, reattaching himself to your clit with the intent of focusing on your pleasure.
His efforts don't go to waste, because between the press of his fingers and the diligent assault on your sensitive bud, your thighs begin to tremble around either side of Atsumu's head, caging him in with your skin, your scent, your taste, and he's already hard again, leaking onto his stomach with shameless desperation. You're of course none the wiser as you simply bury your face in the sheets and grind yourself along his face until you're seeing stars.
Atsumu's arm wraps around your waist and holds you firmly in place as you cum, feeling you spasm around his fingers and bump your clit up against his nose in a flurry of pleasure. He drinks up every last drop of slick he can catch with his tongue until you're twitching with over-stimulation and he releases you for a breath before he suffocatesānot that he would really mind if he did, but he would perhaps like to live long enough to try and see you fall apart like this again some time soon.
Face and hands covered in shine, Atsumu presses a couple of final kisses to your pussy before sliding out from under you and letting you roll onto your side in shivering aftershocks. He wears the mixture of cum like a badge of honor but makes sure to lick it all off his skin before it dries, and you watch closely with heavy breaths as he does so.
Atsumu's head rests only a few inches away from your thighs, and his feet planted on the floor give him enough leverage to buck his hips up into the air as he catches his own breath. You look down to see him hard and leaking, but apparently too tired to touch himself for any relief.
"Are you seriously hard again already?" You ask breathlessly while attempting to wrap your head around everything that's just happened.
You're only met with silence as Atsumu continues to wrangle in his breath and stare up at the ceiling of your bedroom. Then, finally, after a few moments, he has the audacity to ask:
"ā¦Lemme creampie you again?"
Your eyes shoot down to meet his as he looks up at you inquisitivelyāhopefullyābut you offer scorn in return.
"ā¦Huh? No!" You angrily push at his shoulder with your remaining strength to try and urge him away. "LEAVE. Before I murder you."
Atsumu sits up and recoils as you hit him with a pillow, his cock only pulsing harder at your livid attempts to shoo him off.
"At least pull my hair again!" He spits out as a final attempt to push his luck with you.
And to his amazement, it works.
You cease your attacks on him for a brief moment, contemplate, then reach out on impulse to aggressively tug on his blond waves as some display of dominanceāor perhaps pity.
And he cums. Hard. Untouched.
Atsumu's appreciative moan pierces the air and is then followed by silence as you freeze, bewildered at the scene that unfolds: his twitching cock shooting ropes of hot cum all over his abs and thighs the second you yank his head back. It flashes before your eyes and is subsequently a sight you can't even tear your gaze away from, like you can hardly believe it's happening.
"Holy shitā¦" you marvel as you release him and he flops back onto the bed, completely spent and floating on cloud nine. "You really are pathetic."
Atsumu swallows down a breath and feels his mind settling into a state of total satisfaction. This wasn't exactly how he'd picture this entire scenario going down, but he certainly isn't complaining (even if you are). He simply looks up at you with a pleased expression on his face as he says, "Yes ma'am."
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SHOYO HINATA X GN!READER ļ½„ sfw, fluff, meet cute, mentions of food/eating, reader is depicted as a visitor to brazil and not a fluent speaker of portuguese (everything is written in english but the conversation is implied to be in portuguese). 1.2k words.
part of the haikyuu!! x reader summer fic exchange! this is my gift for @haikyu-mp4 and also my first time writing for hinata š§” it was a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy!
āDing!
ā³ Hi! I'm here with your order
Thanks, you can leave it outside. ā²
ā³ Are you sure? There was a pretty shady looking guy out here a minute ago
ā³ People have been known to snatch things up
ā³ It happened to someone last week. Their food was stolen before I even got back on my bike
After a series of messages and sigh of defeat, you reluctantly rise to your feet and make your way towards the door.
A vibrant, red-headed young man with a delivery satchel stands outside your Airbnb for the third time this week, clutching an order of food he's pretty sure is the same as the last.
After a moment of no response buzzing across his phone, he bends at the waist in preparation for leaving the delivery outside as originally requested despite his reservations, but the door swings open before he can place the bag on the ground. It startles you both.
"Ohā¦ here you go!" he says with a smile, shifting to hand the food to you instead. "I was afraid you weren't going to answer, but I was gonna stand and watch for a minute to make sure you got it."
"Ohā¦ thanks," you reply sheepishly, his comment striking you as somewhat creepy in natureāat least from what you were able to gather. Or perhaps you're just a little on edge.
"No problem!" he beams, friendly and chipper. "I would've done it last time too, but I was in kind of a hurry. I hope no one took it."
Already itching to bring the interaction to a close and go back inside, you offer a polite smile and say, "No, it was fine. Thank you!"
Before you can back away, he speaks again. "Their food is pretty good, huh? Though there are a ton of good places around here." Enthused, Shoyo takes a moment to re-situate his bag and hat whilst recalling the satisfactory variety of his culinary experiences.
You notice that he doesn't seem very local, nor does he speak quite as quickly or confidently as some do; it makes it easier for you to pick out what he's saying given your lack of fluency in the language. The whole situation piques your curiosity somewhat, though, mostly, you're just wondering when you'll have to opportunity to shut your door without it being seen as impolite.
"I haven't really tried many places," you admit, although that might seem obvious given how you've ordered the same thing from the same place several times over the last week or so.
"Oh, really? Well you definitely should!" Shoyo's gut tells him you're not from around here either, but he has a little bit of familiarity with the area now, at least enough to know where good food can be found. "Are you just visiting? It helps a lot when you have someone to show you around."
There's a slight sinking feeling in your chest. "Yeah, wellā¦ someone wasĀ supposedĀ to help show me around, butā¦ it didn't really work out," you reply regretfully, unable to keep yourself from divulging a little.
"Ohā¦ did something happen?" Shoyo asks, his ever-curious nature urging him to pose questions that perhaps shouldn't be asked.
Your gaze shifts down to the ground. "It'sā¦ kind of embarrassing."
You aren't sure if you're ready to tell this energetic stranger about how you'd come here on vacation to meet someone from online, only to have a falling out that left you more or less wandering around Rio de Janeiro all on your ownāor, more accurately perhaps, sorrowfully staying pent up in your Airbnb for an undesirable amount of time until you were able to go home.
After realizing his mistake, Shoyo waves his hands apologetically. "Sorry, my bad. You don't have to answer," he reassures. "But, if it makes you feel betterā¦ everyone does embarrassing stuff sometimes!" The boy's bright smile quickly returns, and just the tone of his voice manages to raise your spirits a bit.Ā
He goes on, words tumbling from his lips with little restraint, "The other day, I fell directly on my face in the sand while trying to receive a nasty spike during a volleyball match. And sometimes I still say the wrong word in Portuguese and my roommate thinks I'm really stupid!" He shares this information with you shamelessly, and it's almost comical albeit a little surprising. He certainly has no issue carrying on a conversation or making himself known to a stranger, and you're almost shocked to hear him say, "You see, I'm not from here either."
Brows raised, an amused grin spreads across your lips as this spirited young man babbles on, his presence suddenly adjacent to a ray of sunshine poking through the clouds. It makes you giggle in response.
You assure him with a certain air of kinship after a moment, "I can understand you really well, though!"Ā
He visibly perks upāwell, more so than already, if at all possible. "Really? Great!" he replies excitedly. "My name is Shoyo, by the way. I'm from Japan. It's nice to meet you!" Out of habit, he bows forward as he introduces himself to you. "And, wellā¦ if you need some food recommendations, I'd be happy to help! Though I'm always learning new things myself."
When Shoyo's posture straightens, you meet his radiant gaze with a hopeful smile.Ā
"Thank you. That might be nice," you reply instinctively.
"Yeah!" he muses, grinning before his phone buzzes and he's quickly made aware of the time. "Oh shootāI have to go! Will you be here tomorrow?" he asks while hurriedly climbing back onto his bike.
You nod, already knowing you have nothing in particular planned. "Uh, yeah, I should be."
"Great!" He's all smiles and jubilation, almost unlike anything you've ever seen before. The whirlwind of him has you under a certain kind of spell, the suddenness of his departure causing your heart to beat a little faster. "Can I come see you then? Maybe around lunch time?"
You nod again in approval, unable to even spare a thought towards refusing him.
"Okay, I'll see you then!" Shoyo says, stepping his bicycle back onto the street and throwing a wave in your direction. "Bye!"
And before you know it, he's gone, leaving you to stand there with a head full of thoughts and a heart full of something that certainly wasn't there before he arrived. Your growling stomach is the only thing that snatches you from out of your daze and urges you to go back inside.
You realize you hadn't even told him your name.
Good thing it's written on the bag your food came in, and that he's seen it more than once.
You take a seat and start rummaging through the contents of your order, processing everything that just happened and everything that might, before it suddenly occurs to you to pick up your phone; his previous messages are still there, along with a new prompt from the delivery service:
'How would you rate Shoyo?'
You smile for a beat, point your thumb, and click.
CAT HYBRID!HARUKA SAKURA X GN!READER ļ½„ sfw, fluff, sakura being his tsundere self, i think that's it??? i suppose there are briefly some very midly suggestive themes if you squint. but overall it's just something soft for my kitty boy <3 mwah. 1k words.
"How did you manage to get it even in your ears?!"
A tail thumps between the floor and the bathtub, agitated, restless, filled with shame as you struggle to pull the drying mud from out of a pair of pointed ears. They're almost plastered to the top of his head in a moody slant, and he avoids your gaze with a highly displeased furrow in his brow.
"I swear, sometimes you're more like a dog."
He growls at that.
"I can do it myself!" Haruka bats your arm away and attempts to rise from his seat at the edge of the tub, suddenly fed up with your fussing over his flickering ears.
He's flecked with mud and dampened by rain, smelling like the earth he wears on his fur. His skin had been wiped primarily clean by your dirtied rag but his hair is more of a challengeāthe black and white strands make it easier for filth to cling there, and no matter how gently you try and dip the cloth into those delicate ears, they can't help but twitch at the overwhelming sensation. Every inch of him is buzzing with over-stimulation at this point, and Haruka needs you to stop touching him.
His attempts at yanking the dirt from his own head are hurried and haphazard, surely not sufficient enough to truly get him clean, and you're simply not going to let him get away with it.
"You need to get in the tub," you say, taking the dirty rag back from his hands. It's not a suggestion.
"It's not even that bad; you're bein' dramatiā"
"In the tub," you reiterate. "And don't come out until your hair's white again."
Your tone as you start running the bath water is serious enough to nearly make the fur on his tail bristle. He knows he's not exiting this bathroom until he's been cleansed of all filth.
(Well, the tangible filth.)
You shut the door behind you and leave him there with faith that he'll heed your word. In the meantime, you busy yourself with gathering up a clean towel and a few articles of laundered clothing to set on the counter for when Haruka emerges from the shower, your brief re-entry not failing to catch the attention of his sensitive ears and causing his cheeks to burn brightly at the mere proximity of you while he's bare behind the curtain.
"I'm leaving some clean things out here for when you're done."
Your voice fills the small, steamy space and digs deep beneath his wet skin. You close the door behind you once more.
Taking in a stray cat hybrid has been even more troublesome than you'd anticipated.
You don't have long to reflect on the past couple of weeks before the water's being shut off and a fresh, clean set of ears are strolling out to greet you, the towel draped around Haruka's neck as he fluffs at his bi-colored hair.
"There. 'M clean," he pouts. "No need to be standin' around." He still refuses to meet your gaze even as you smile at him.
"Good," you grin wider, pleased with his tidy appearance. He looks quite cozy in a t-shirt and pair of pajama pants that fit; his first several nights here had been a little more awkward in that regard, until you'd managed to go out and fetch a few things in his size that weren't incredibly ratty and over-worn.
You lift the towel up to the outside of his white ear and dab at a few damp pieces of fur, making his tail whip about in annoyance.
"Quit fussin'," he complains, though he doesn't make much of an attempt to airplane his ears this time.
"You quit bein' a pain in my ass, kitty cat," you reply with a threatening chuckle as you ruffle his hair against the towel.
His cheeks feel even warmer than before.
"Didn't ask ya to let me stayā¦" Haruka grumbles softly, face still twisted in irritation and apprehension.
"Well, I'm not making you, either."
That makes his heart skip a beat.
You wonder if he goes out and comes back covered in scratches and grime in attempt to give you a good reason to put him back out on the streetāto get fed up with his antics and fulfill a prophecy he has decidedly crafted for himself. But regardless of how relentlessly you fuss over his dirty fur and reckless behavior, he still ends up sleeping on a warmer, softer surface than before.
You're not making him stay. He's coming back in a new state of disarray every time, but he's still coming back.
He's letting you dry his ears and tail with a towel softer than any he's ever felt, and he's letting you brush the damp strands of hair from out of his reddened face.
He's letting you cup a cheek in your palm and stroke it with a tender thumb, and he's letting you witness the slow close of his eyes followed by the sound of a faint, barely-there purr emanating from his chest right there in the middle of the hallway.
The unfamiliar sound startles him, and Haruka's eyes blink open in a dazed surprise.
He turns away from you. "I'mā¦ hungry," he says after a moment with a tail that wants to curl around his own body for protectionāfor consolation. The shame welling up inside of him keeps his voice low and spine angled towards you as he's frozen on the spot.
"I'll make us something," you reply gently, deciding not to push any of this a single bit further. The fact that he's so softly admitting to hunger with ears that are tilted at an anxious angle is proof enough you need to move forward with care, so you remove the towel from around his neck and place it somewhere to dry before getting something started for dinner.
After you've left him be and started humming away in the kitchen, he eventually creeps in to take a seat and watch you from afar, diligent eyes appreciating your movement as a drying tail swishes rather relaxed while he does so.
Cheek pressed lazily to the table and torso draped over the surface, Haruka thinks perhaps he likes this human version of purring that fills the spaceāand he most certainly likes the pleasant smell of food that permeates the air after a while.
There are much worse ways to spend one's time.
Maybe he won't go out looking for trouble tomorrow.
MASTERLIST ļ½„ AO3 ļ½„ PREV. CHAPTER ļ½„ NEXT CHAPTER
CONTAINS ļ½„ sfw / shoko pays you a visit / mentions of alcohol + smoking (becauseā¦ shoko) / disabled!gojo / more domestic moments / flashbacks / one instance of fem pronouns for reader / assessing satoru's condition / how tf are you supposed to tag things in a seriesā¦ (<- has never done this before) / 5.3k words
NOTES ļ½„ finally š it's taken me like a year and a half butā¦ we made it to the next chapter. and it's the longest singular thing i've ever written sldfjsofjs (it's not even that much). can you tell that i'm a slow writer.
BUT LISTEN. i've really been wanting to get this right. and who knows if those efforts will pay off; i'm still kinda just playing this by ear. but i have never stopped thinking about this series, and the guilt of being so slow to write it has been eating away at me every single day since i first started it LMFAO. i just hope anyone who's been here since the beginning or is just jumping in now can enjoy regardless <3
(tagging a few friends who i know have been waiting on this for a long time ā @fyodior @paperspirits @hojoslutoru @forest-hashira)
Thick as thieves are your spine and the sofa (albeit a pair of friends with far more consequences than benefits by now), because your options for a suitable mattress have been criminally limited as of late. There are certainly worse surfaces to be slept on, however, so you can't bring yourself to complain about it too terribly when it's all said and done.
Not only is the elegant furniture more comfortable than the hard wooden floor, but its lack of space has its advantagesāit prevents another body from sneaking up against yours in the middle of the night, which is precisely what you know will happen if you make the attempt to sleep anywhere else. Because as sure as the sun will rise to greet the early morning sky, the man with moon-colored hair will stumble forth in his quest to claim your familiar warmth. Just as he always does.
And even now, in the space somewhere between sleep and wake, you feel him before you see him: A presence, warm with life, glowing faintly in the space nearby.
When your eyes finally crack open to investigate, they affirm what part of you already knows to be true:
He is there, tousled white locks strewn about in front of you with a cheek pressed to the edge of expensive upholstery as though it were a pillow in his bed. It's the undeniable evidence of why your back has a near constant kink in it these daysābecause he's intent on getting as close to you as he can every night.
Satoruās head rests mere inches from your belly, his rhythmic breaths floating softly into the air as he lies there in peaceful slumber. You fear for the state of his neck given the angle in which it's bent, but despite the remainder of his body slumping somewhat awkwardly to accommodate the strange position, he looks rather content.
You recall successfully putting him to bed the previous night and sitting with him until he finally drifted off to sleep in his own room, but itās clear that, at some point afterwards, Satoru felt the nagging urge to seek you out once again. Ever since you brought him back home, he has yet to fail in doing so.
Guilt infests your thoughts when you are forced to think about the way you continue to refuse the obvious solution. But sleeping in his bed with himā¦ that seems like a step too far in your opinion. That would only reinforce his attachment to you, making it exceedingly more difficult when it came time for you to eventually partā¦
But would you ever part?
That was the question that lingered in the shadows, the question that frightened you with its possible answers more than youād care to admit. You were taking it one day at a time right now, but still filtering things through your mind as though the outcome was fixed: Satoru stabilizing enough to allow you to walk away, to return to your life as it had been before.
But the thing is, nothing about life is remotely the same as it was before. How do you return to something that no longer exists?
And as for Satoruā¦ he has even less. Aside from the money sitting in his bank account, he has no way to make use of it on his own. He has no voice. No cohesive memories. No way to truly look after himself, at least not yetāmaybe ever.
You suppose someone could be paid to fill in the gaps for him, but what sort of life would that amount to in the end? How would one even find a person with not only the ability to understand how Satoru came to be this way, but to understand Satoru himself? How do you go about placing the world's (former) strongest sorcerer in the palms of an unsuspecting personās hands?
Once again, youāve found yourself swimming in a sea of maddening possibilities, and youāre hardly even awake enough to make sense of them yet. Itās best to subdue your thoughts, put on a pair of blinders, and look only at the day ahead. Baby steps.
You shift your focus to the strands of hair that adorn the fabric, running your fingers through them with a gentleness that is reserved for not much else in this world.
Thereās a peacefulness that blankets his features when he sleeps soundly like this, pacified by your proximity, soul drawn to yours like an ectotherm to the sun. You are a warmth that turns winter into spring, defrosting the remnants of ice in his veins, melting snow thatās as white as the sweep of his eyelashes.
You admire Satoru in silence for a few final moments before tugging him from sleep.
āSatoru,ā you beckon as lightly as possible, winding your fingers more deeply into his hair for a gentle awakening. āItās time to get up.ā
He stirs under the stroke of your hand, eyes fluttering open until he can peer up at you and smile with recognition. The stiffness in his neck and numb sensation in his arm are only secondary to the joy he feels when seeing your face.
Satoruās cheek is red and plastered with the pattern of the sofaās fabric, leaving him with an endearingly disheveled appearance. You would feel a greater sense of frustration were it not for the sweet nature of his mid-morning rising, sleepy blue eyes filled with warm adoration as they look at you, head leaning into the softness of your touch. He is far too satisfied with your generosity for you to be discouraged by his inability to spend the night in his own bed.
āGood morning,ā you say, smiling back at him and removing your hand from his head. The inclination to pout at the lack of your touch simmers just beneath the surface, but Satoru mitigates it by reaching out a hand and touching your hair in return. Itās a way of saying āgood morningā back to you.
Gazes locked, the intimate moment floats in the air, suspended until you cast it down by stretching your body and sitting upright with a groan.
Satoruās eyes follow you as if awaiting a prompt or command of some sort, volition rather limited as usual and placing the decisions for two upon your shoulders. His old self could never have dreamed of such a reliance, though it probably would have done him well to indulge. It seems heāll be making up for it now.
You continue to sit in place for another handful of moments, the gears of your mind still turning as they processes what the day has in store for you.
The most pressing thing on the agenda is an expected visit from Shoko sometime this afternoon, her expertise hopefully offering some insight on the current situation youāve found yourselves in. Now that Satoru has had more time to recover, you hope that more can be unveiled in regards to his condition.
The potential outcomes leave you with an anxious feeling deep in your gut, but you canāt allow it to consume you. All you can do is hope for the best and keep moving forward just as you always have.
Teeth and hair are brushed shortly after you muster the energy to rise from the couch, cracking your spine on your way to the bathroom before having Satoru mirror your basic oral hygiene to the best of his ability. Reaching up to pull a comb through his hair is quick and methodical, his appearance not much of a concern given your homebodied state as of late.Ā
However, it occurs to you that he might be due for a haircut soon. How on earth are you meant to achieve something like that at this point?
Never mind, you thinkāitās something you can mull over in the near future when perhaps you have a few more answers. Satoru himself doesnāt seem particularly bothered by it anyway.
You fear getting your hopes up too high in regards to what the future might entail, though you canāt help but feel impatient to hear what Shoko has to say. As confusing as the situation has been up to this point, sheās at least been a source of information and comfort so that you werenāt shooting completely in the dark. Wellā¦ more than you already were.
Shoko had been instrumental in keeping Satoru from fully crossing over into the beyond. She had always been far more familiar with the intricacies of flesh and bone than most other people you knew, but not even she initially had all the answers to what it was that gave Satoru a second chance, or why it seemed that he returned with the same body but not the same mind. The visceral wounds had mostly mended, but the same could not necessarily be said for neural pathways; at least, thatās what Shokoās original assessment had been.
You wonder if there had been more you couldāve done to aid in the process for a better outcome. Ieiri, Okkotsu, and Iori had all made tangible contributions; it wasnāt clear if your own involvement had even made much of a difference at all. The others certainly seemed to think so, but it hadnāt been so obvious to you at the time. Part of you wonders if your lack of clarity had been the ultimate downfall, but you couldnāt know for sureāit was a different usage of your power than what you were accustomed to, so there wasnāt exactly a precedent to measure against.
You remember it all in stark detail.
āI canāt see him,ā you say, your eyes squeezed shut and peering into a void of darkness. Heart racing, your fingers would be trembling were they not planted on the chest of a body that has already begun to grow cold. āI donāt think heās crossed over yet.ā
Silence encompasses you as you continue your search, cursed energy pulsing out like radio waves between worlds, but you receive none in return. Itās akin to sending messages out into the stars and hoping for an alien lifeform to respond.
Venturing into other spiritual planes isnāt part of your typical repertoire; itās hardly ever necessary. Souls come to youāyou donāt usually go to them. But it seems there is always an exception to the rule.
āIs there anything at all?ā Yuuta asks, channeling his own energy as best as he can. Your technique is being lifted to heights you'd previously never thought possible with he and Utahime working to amplify your cursed energy levels in tandem.
You hone in with your sharpened senses, catching the whispers of a conversation. Muffled; broken.
āI hear voices. I hear people talking.ā
āWhat are they saying?ā Yuuta questions anxiously, flickering with curiosity and hope.
āI donāt know. I can barely understand them,ā you reply, voice laden with frustration and urgency. Sweat lines your forehead, tears prominent upon your lashes. āIāve never done this before.ā
āJust keep trying,ā Shoko encourages coolly, working quickly to mend the broken body before you. It's difficult to mirror her composure when it feels like you're in the middle of an emergency room, the smell of blood filling your nostrils.
You move closer to the sound. Closer, closer. Tuning a radio until youāve found the right frequency.Ā
There is clarity.
Familiar voices land upon your ears; a conversation. Your heart bursts. You gasp.
āI hear him! I can hearāSATORU! Satoru, can you hear me?!ā
Shoko pauses and Yuuta jumps, trembling with the remainder of hope. He shuts his eyes and puts everything he has into increasing your power.
Your voice is a broken cry, your desperation seeping out into the room. Every heart beats as one, the suspense infecting you all, pulling tears from every pair of eyes. None of you are immune to the raw emotion that springs forth from trying to save a life that wasnāt ready to be lost.
You rest your forehead against his still chest; a final plea.
āPlease, Satoru, you can come back now. You have to come back.ā
A voice crackles over the intercom in an airport. A few moments later, he takes the first breath of his new life.
You are jarred from your memory by a chin resting upon your shoulder, Satoruās breath tickling your neck as he peers down at your hands preoccupied with making his breakfast. His eyes capture every motion and every detail, each crevice, knuckle, and fingerprint like an old friend to him. He doesnāt understand why they feel like home, but your hands are the flame to his moth, drawing him in as if they could contain his very heartbeat. If he stares long enough, he can almost feel them pouring life into his chest.
Enamored, Satoru places his large palms over the backs of your hands, stilling their movements as you register the closeness of his body.
"I'm a little busy here, y'know," you say with a quirked brow and a smirk he can hear, though you're hardly as offended by the gesture as perhaps you should be.
He exhales against your flesh again, warm and alive in every way, his breath a laugh only you can know. You can feel his smile like he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat somehow; the familiar drumming soothes parts of his soul with which he isn't even acquainted.
Satoru doesn't talk, yet he speaks. Slender fingers slot into the spaces between yours with a tenderness that says more than a thousand words ever could.
He does it with a natural grace that contradicts the aura of his being: that of a child who has never expressed such a thing before, one who was born to love and be loved and who possesses an affinity for the instinct, but who has never quite had the luxury of refining it.
Your mind swims in thoughts suggesting that Satoru touches you in ways he has never touched anyone before; he looks at you with eyes that are more inviting than they ever could've been with the entire world in their peripheral. But that vision has narrowed as of lateā¦ or rather, his world has.
The moment is severed by an artificial dingāyour phone, vibrating against the counter with a text message that promptly forces your attention away.
"It's Shoko," you state after slipping your hand from beneath his to check the interruption. "She'll be here soon. Better hurry up and eat a little something."
You're grateful for the sudden distraction, the slice through thickened air that still lingers even after Satoru apprehensively pulls away. Moments like these had been few and far between with someone like him who once actively dismantled them, presumably afraid of the seriousness that would ensue, so now you find yourself trudging through uncharted territory with a certain precarious thumping in your heart. Perhaps a script has been flipped.
Getting breakfast into Satoru's stomach proves easier this time with your encouragement, and you wonder why it's already started to feel comfortable like a routine. Rhythmic.
Maybe because you're letting it, just for a moment. And that frightens you; same as it did when he brushed his teeth and let you tidy his hair, or how catching a glimpse of him in his pajamas out of the corner of your eye while you washed the dishes brought you an odd sense of comfort. Maybe you should've had him get dressed for Shoko's visit, but you doubt someone like her would fuss over something so trivial. After all, she was closer to the situation than most.
As if on cue, there's a light rapping at the door that has you quickly drying your hands and making your way over to answer it, but like a dog on alert, Satoru has stood from his spot in the living room and trailed behind you, watching intently from a distance as you greet your guest.
You feel both relieved and nervous upon seeing Shoko's face.
"Hey, sorry, I was cleaning up after a late breakfast. Come in," you apologize and usher the woman inside, and Satoru notes your friendly demeanor towards one another. He processes it with a nervous intensity until he realizes he's seen this face before, especially when she turns her attention to his pointed gaze.
"You don't miss a beat, do you?" Shoko teases, deadpan, as she shrugs out of her coat and looks him over. "Though it's good to see you on your feet."
This voice, this cadenceā¦ it rings with familiarity in the chambers of his heart, and as his old friend moves closer, reaching out with her cursed energy, Satoru's defenses lower a fraction.
There's warmth in Shoko's smile when she peers up at him. "Let's take a look at our Humpty Dumpty."
Millennia seem to pass as you stand in silence with a furrowed brow and watch Shoko give Satoru his checkup, a great deal of it happening through waves of cursed energy you can't fully comprehend. It leaves your mind buzzing with myriad questions, but you dare not open your mouth should it interrupt her concentration, especially after you had finally convinced Satoru to let her in close enough to do it.
"It's just Shoko," you say as bright blue eyes peer at you with worried hesitancy. "She helped you before, remember?"
Even after she finishes, you find it difficult to ask for answers that might be difficult to hear.
She offers them anyway after meeting your anxious and expectant gaze, and it's exactly as you feared.
"I'm not seeing much of a difference from when I last looked him over," Shoko states as her hands fall away from either side of Satoru's head, the glow of cursed energy softly dissipating from around them. "Structurally, he's more or less the same. There are no more physical abnormalities left for me to fix."
While that should feel like more of a relief for you to hear, it's still capable of sending a painful surge of realization straight to your gut. Because it means that whatever has happened to Satoru is more complex than what a round of reverse cursed energy therapy could hope to fix, and that you don't really have any more answers for what to do about it than you did yesterday. Shoko can, and has, mended even some of the worst physical injuries, but ultimately can't turn back the clock on altered neurons and synapses. You suppose there really are only so many laws of nature you can get away with breaking.
After the reality of it all settles in the pit of your stomach, you look to where Satoru sits so seemingly patient in his kitchen chair, eyes casually flitting between you, Shoko, and everything else that catches his attention in the room.
You wonder what he thinks about, wonder if this is all as mundane and inconsequential to him as the look on his face would lead you to believe. Maybe you're the only one bothered by this situation in the slightest. Maybe you're the one whose neurochemistry needs a tweak.
Satoru breathes easiest out of everyone in the room.
You envy the sort of bold manner in which he's always existed; even now after all that has happened, he takes up space so unapologetically, daring to move forward with the life he was given a second chance at living. If there's any apprehension about it in his heart, it isn't apparent to you in this moment.
Shoko walks over to the window above the kitchen sink, cracks it, and rummages through her pockets while asking, "Can I smoke in here?"
You glance at Satoru who, as you suspected, has nothing to say on the matter, then offer Shoko a quiet nod for an answer.
A flame flickers and ignites the end of a cigarette while you escort Satoru back to the living room, sparing his lungs of the smoke and ears from the conversation you'd like to have with an old friend. He seems displeased as you rejoin Shoko in the kitchen, but rather quickly diverts some of his attention back to the television once realizing you're still well within his field of view.
"You want something to drink?" you ask, preemptively reaching for a mug from the cabinet.
Shoko leans back against the counter and blows a puff of smoke out the window before replying, "Got anything with a kick?"
Your brows shoot up a fraction despite your lack of genuine surprise, and there's a hint of a tired chuckle beneath your voice when you say, "Uhhh, sorry. I don't think so."
Shoko flicks a few ashes into the sink and keeps her eyes trained on the man of the hour, melancholy as ever with her pensive stare. "Figures. Wonderboy never really did care for it much."
A glass pot still sits full of freshly brewed coffee from not long before Shoko arrived, still steaming when you lift it to the rim of the mug you're holding. You hope it will do in lieu of a stronger beverage, as you don't have any of her usual poisons of preference.
"Is coffee good?" you ask before pouring, just to be sure.
Shoko replies with a nod. "Yeah, coffee's good."
She eyes the hot liquid as it fills the cup and then takes another gander at your face, making a subtle assessment with tired yet keen eyes.
"How about you?" she asks to break the silence. "Are you good?"
You don't even look up until the coffee pot is back on the countertop and you've had a moment to think about what your answer to that question really is. Because you aren't entirely sure.
"Wellā¦" you start, sliding Shoko's mug over to her, "about as good as I can be, I guess,"
You take the notion to pour a cup for yourself then, all while more ashes flutter into the sink and a frigid breeze blows in from outside.
"It might not be like this forever, y'know," Shoko says. "Sometimes things like this change; they can get better with time."
You peer down into the dark pool of your drink and struggle to cling to a silver lining.
"Yeah. I guess so," you reply, memories pulsing through your mind like they've made a habit of doing recently. As if reliving them could really have any chance of making you feel less lost in the present.
There's a spacey distance in your gaze as you reflect, remember. "I just think about how he was dead. And how I couldn't feel his heart beating anymore." The words nearly have you choking and stumbling over them, the stillness of his chest beneath your palms and fingertips a sensation you won't soon forgetācolder than the coffee in your hands. Though relaying it to someone like Shoko would be like preaching to the choir, you think.
"But I could hear his voice, andā¦ I wanted to stop it from getting too far away." You had never loved the sound of a voice more than in that momentānever wished you could grab onto a sound with your bare fists as much as you wanted to then. "Butā¦ what if we weren't supposed to do what we did?"
Shoko appears unshaken and unconvinced by your rhetoric. "Sometimes patients flatline but a doctor will keep going on the slim chance they might get another heartbeat," she says.
You cock a brow in her direction, wishing it were that simple. "I don't think most doctors have cursed techniques, though."
"No," Shoko takes another drag, a breath of smoke. "But I think you were just trying to save someone's life." Exhale.
Of course you were. Everyone has gotten tired of attending funerals.
"And it worked," Shoko adds, putting her cigarette out in the sink. "Because he's sitting right thereāthe real deal." She takes a sip from her mug and gestures towards Satoru in the other room, sitting pretty in all his revived glory. "And if you ask me, I think he's pretty grateful for it."
You aren't sure what to think about that, because you certainly weren't expecting it. Of course, Satoru clearly had plenty of affection to offer you these days, but you hadn't necessarily thought of it as gratitude up until now; if anything, you'd chalked it up to a lack of memory and cognitive functionāmaybe even overcompensationābecause for all you knew, he could've been convinced you were someone else half the time. But to think of him not only being completely aware of, but also grateful for the actions you took to help him back thenā¦ it was almost more frightening than believing he barely even knew who you were at all.
You turn to look at Shoko with a curious, furrowed brow and inquisitive eyes. "What do you mean? How can you tell?"
She pauses for a moment, gaze trained on her friend in the distance. "It's just a feeling."
She was hardly ever the type to prioritize a gut feeling over an immutable fact, but she did happen to know Satoru better than just about any other living soul on the planetāprobably even you. He always kept most people at a gangly arm's length, and you're sure you had never really been the exception. At least for the most part.
So it only makes you further beg the question of why. Why you? Why was the responsibility primarily on your shoulders for a man whom you used to, at times, not even be entirely sure would care very much whether you lived or died?
You would often indulge in the fantasy that perhaps he did. That perhaps the occasional lingering gaze or bright, dimpled smile he bore was due to the fact he happened to harbor an inkling of fondness for you.
There was a chattering bird of sincerity singing faintly within the cage of Satoru Gojo's chest, and as you'd dare to get close enough to press an ear to his ribs for a listen, the song would fade away until you were met with deafening silence. The canary in his coal mine. Or so you had managed to convince yourself in all your wishful thinking, anyway. That was back then.
It would be easy to pretend now. At least for a little while. But there are already more than enough servings of guilt left sitting on your plate.
"I don'tā¦ really know what to do." You lean your elbows forward onto the counter and shield your face with a pair of defeated hands. "I'm supposed to be a sorcerer, not some sort of caregiver. But I can't justā¦ leave him."
Shoko tosses her cigarette butt out the window and closes it with a firm push. "Yeah, well it's unfortunate that he seems to have taken to becoming your shadow," she says, wracking her brain for a way to convey the empathy she feels. It's never exactly been her strong suit, but she's not quite as removed from the situation as she wishes she could be.
It takes her a moment of watching you wring the exasperation out of your face like a masseuse for her to continue.
"Nobody really meant to put all this responsibility on you," she says, her tone an ounce more delicate than usual. "It's justā¦ I don't think any of us knew exactly what to do either."
You release a sigh of resignation, turning your head to look over in her direction. "Yeahā¦ I know."
You don't blame anyone but perhaps yourself for the current state of things, and for having these lapses in gratitude after getting exactly what you had asked for: Satoru. Alive. And hopefully less encumbered by the burdens of his existence than he was before.
But you're still left to stumble through the aftermath, taking shot after shot in the dark with the hope you don't end up failing him more than you might already have. A divine answer from the heavens would be invaluable right about now, but you're not really in the position to be asking for any more miracles.
"But you're doing alright, y'know?" Shoko adds before finishing the contents of her mug. "He's safe, he's eating, he's sleepingāprobably even better than he was before, honestly."
You can't tell if she's being sincere or just trying to make you feel better, but you suppose there wasn't too much of a reason for her to pacify you. She had never really been the type.
"Hell, he even has that big, stupid smile on his face again," she adds, cracking a hint of one herself. And she's rightāhe grins at the TV with the same dazzling smile as he used to, his propensity for joy not lost even after all that has happened.
"And you're note alone in this. He might be your new personal little duckling, but nobody expects you to deal with this entirely on your own." Shoko places her empty mug in the sink and stands up a little straighter, stretching out her spine. "That sort of thing is what got us into this whole mess in the first place."
There's a glimmer of hope attempting to flicker within your bones, because maybe she's right; maybe, at the very least, Satoru isn't as bad off as you thought he might have been under your care. And maybe it's not as isolating of a situation as it had seemed at first.
Nobody has to be alone anymore.
"Don't forget to give Ijichi a buzz if there's something you need," Shoko says as she moves to collect her coat, "and if anything changes with his condition, you know where to find me."
You trail behind her as she prepares to leave, clinging to the last few moments of company and support.
"I feel kinda bad making Ijichi run around like that."
"Don't," she insists. "I'm pretty sure he's just happy to be of some help."
Whether it'd been food, clothing, or something as simple as a bar of soap, Ijichi had shown up at your doorstep every time without fail, but you've tried your hardest to keep the requests to a bare minimum. It might be worth it to have him bring a few more of your personal items over, though. Maybe even a futon or a cot.
"Thanks, Shoko," you say, finally putting your appreciation into words. She offers a subtle smile in return; nothing exuberant, but something sincere enough to let you know she's in your corner. Shoko might be as jaded as they come and about as hard to get close to as the likes of Gojo or Nanami, but she's never been in a total deficit of kindness.
"Just keep an eye on Humpty," she replies before opening the door to the cold, and Satoru is alerted by the sound from the other room.
"Don't worry," she notices and calls out to him, "I'm not gonna steal your girlfriend."
Those words are like a thousand little butterflies soaring from your ears down to your stomach.
"I'll see you later," Shoko says more quietly to you, then turns back to the ever-vigilant Gojo. "Be good, Satoru. Try not to cause any more problems."
And with that, Ieiri steps outside while you close the door behind her, making the space belong to you and Satoru alone once more. You take a few moments of silence to yourself as he gradually settles down in the distance, fully reassured by how you weren't the one to leave.
But as Shoko's words ring through his ears and echo in his skull over the next several minutes, Satoru finds himself dealing with his own kaleidoscope of butterflies.
And a boyish, satisfied smile starts spreading across his rose-colored face.
