hi guys! it's been a long weekend hehe but thank u for all the love recently <3 the takuma p2 will be up soon :) just been working a lot but i finally have a couple free days yay
summary: you aren't particularly good at your job. after one too many freeze-ups mid transaction, you're swapped to night shift to accommodate your... social hangups. ino just happens to stop by one night. and then again. and again. he's patient. easy. somewhere between late-night snacks and small conversations, he becomes something familiar. something safe. and then just when it starts to become something real- the world changes. and he does with it.
contains: canon ino, non-sorc reader. reader has a stammer and social anxiety. heavy reader pov. cute texting sections. fluffy slow burn into eventual angst post shibuya. panic attacks on both ends. ino grieving nana :(
a/n: hello yet another longfic attempt. this one will be two parts! but do not worry, the next part will be up within the next week :) i actually had a terrible stutter growing up and it still does affect me, nervous or not, so i was just feeling a little inspired thinking about how ino would be so patient about it... and then was also feeling a little angsty as per usual. <3 ty for reading!
w/c 14k~ playlist link
you don’t like talking.
it’s not like you can’t- you can, obviously. you present when needed, answer when called on, and order your own food when you really really have to. it just… takes a second.
a second too long, sometimes.
words get stuck somewhere between your brain and your mouth, caught on nerves that fire too fast, until everything tangles and you’re left standing there, blinking, cheeks warm, while someone waits.
and waits.
and then-
“c’mon now, don’t rush the poor girl.”
your manager's voice cuts in halfway through your stutter. eliciting a frustrated sigh from the customer you were failing to help, and a slew of more stuttered apologies as you finished up bagging their goods and handing them off.
“i-i’m sorry, m-ma'am.” you stammer, eyes fixed in the floor.
“that’s alright, just… just breathe next time, yeah? they can wait.” a soft hand tentatively pats your shoulder, offering a little squeeze of reassurance.
the owner was a family friend of a family friend. an older woman with a brisk walk, a smoker’s laugh, and enough patience to see you freeze mid-sentence during the interview and still sigh, wave a hand, and brush it off with a "we can work with this."
so she did. worked with your stammering greetings and your fumbling hands. the way your face burned hot whenever too many customers came in at once and you forgot how to do anything but blink.
it was her decision to switch you to nights.
"less traffic," she'd said, leaning back in her chair as she flipped through cash in the office. "less pressure. you'll do better."
it shouldn't have stung as much as it did. she even offered you a smile and a small, "your drawer is even. good job." before sending you off. still, you couldn't help but feel as if you were letting everyone down. you had a habit of feeling that way.
night shifts were quieter. softer around the edges. most customers came in half-aware or dead-tired, too concerned with their own lives to pay much attention to the girl behind the register quietly fighting for her own.
you’re grateful for that, at least.
it’s easier. she was right, as dissappointing it is to admit that.
less people means less chances to mess up.
less chances to feel your throat close up when someone looks at you expectantly.
less chances to-
ding!
the bell above the door rings. bright and animated as always. even in the dead of night.
in a second, you’re looking up from your phone, pulling your shoulders in, and swallowing your fear like you’re bracing for impact.
“w-welcome in.” you squeak out.
tall. brown, messy-hair peeking out his beanie. black shirt a little rumpled, like he’s been wearing it too long. there’s a faint scuff of something darker along the sleeve you don’t look at too closely. looks young- maybe your age?
and he’s looking back. a small smile worn on his boyish face.
"morning," he hums, glancing over at you with a small smile and a wave.
the strain in your posture eases up the moment he speaks. he didn't glare or grumble. that's comforting. this shouldn't be too bad.
you try not to watch. you do anyway.
he moves around the store without hurry. seems tired, like most who come in at this hour. the kind of tired that makes him drag his feet a second too long with each step and laces his sighs with discomfort. maybe a labor worker? kinda looks like he's been through the wringer tonight.
after a visible internal debate in front of the hot case, he grabs a nikuman to finish off his purchase.
one customer. it's just one customer. and he already seems nice enough. you can handle this.
big deep breath.
"f-find everything okay?"
"sure did," he hums, setting everything down, "never been to this spot before. you guys got the goods."
your mouth opens. shuts.
"oh- um... yes. thank you."
geez. you're really bad at this, huh?
but he doesn't seem to mind. just offers you that sweet smile once more. which does little to quell the shake in your hands as you start to scan his items.
the tea goes fine. the first riceball, fine. the second- no dice.
you turned it. tried again. nothing.
"it's- sorry," you chirped, trying a third time. "i- sorry, one second- i-it just... d-does this..."
so embarrassing. you could hear yourself- thin and flustered. caught in that awful spot where the more nervous you got, the less your body listened.
"hey."
you freeze, eyes flicking up twice before you're able to manage eye contact with him.
"you're good," he says, not a tinge of impatience or annoyance in his voice. "take your time. no biggie."
you nod without meaning to. the words softly wash over your frigid figure, bringing heat back to your fingers so you can turn the ball over and scan it with the handheld scanner.
beep.
you don't realize you've been holding your breath until you let it out. eyes lighting up at the sound and darting back to him like he's the one who did it.
"see?" he adds, nudging the next item closer. "easy."
your face warmed further at how he also seemed somewhat satisfied by the tiny victory.
"r-right." you dip your head in a gentle gratitude- and to also obscure the flush you feel biting at your nose and cheeks.
you finished scanning the rest with renewed concentration- and thankfully, the register seemed to take pity on you. accepted his payment without rebellion. as you bagged everything carefully, separating the hot and cold items into two.
"thank you very much," you hum, bowing as you hand off the bags with care. "h-have a good night."
“no problem.” his eyes landed on your face again- on the nerves you probably still wore plainly enough to read- and his expression shifted, just slightly. softened. “you too.”
"mm." you nod, avoiding the pressure of his gaze. interaction over. you fulfilled your customer service script... enough. better than usual. but still poor. you'll give yourself a C.
halfway through the door's chime, though, he doubles back- just for a second.
"hey, don't be so nervous, okay?"
you go still, the night's draft hitting you as you look back up.
"you're doing fine."
your lips part, again, but no words come out. while he grins- quick, lopsided, like he knows he said something weird and maybe a bit overbearing, but doesn't feel like taking it back.
"see you around."
and then he's gone. bell ringing softly as the door shuts behind him.
you stare at where he once stood longer than you should, hands taut in the fabric of your apron. heart pittering in a rhythm that's more than just social anxiety.
you don't know his name. don't know why his words and smile stick with you the rest of the night. just that, when the next customer comes in, and you fumble the first scan, you hear it anyway.
"you're doing fine."
the second time he comes in, you recognize him before the door even fully shuts.
same messy hair. same easy slouch. same look of someone who’s been awake too long and is pretending that isn’t the case.
"yo."
the little peace sign he throws up sends a dagger right through your chest. your script is fully abandoned now, the words 'welcome in' dying on your tongue.
the most you can manage is a small wave that makes him chuckle and, subsequently, drive the tip deeper into your heart.
he dips into the aisles quickly, picking out some more nutritionally void snacks compared to last time. when he comes back up, he sets everything down with one hand, leaning an elbow against the counter like he’s done it a hundred times before.
"you remember me?" he asks, pointing at himself with a pleased little grin- like he already knows the answer and just wants to hear you say it.
"mhm..." you nod quickly, reaching for his things, letting muscle memory take over as you start scanning.
"nice." he crosses his arms, smiling to himself now as you scan the last item. without a hitch this time around, thankfully.
"d-d-" you start, trying to stick to your usual customer service script. but your tongue feels heavy at the top of your mouth, and the word is snagging in your throat. you swallow. try again.
"d.... d...." heat creeps up your neck. your fingers twitch against the counter as you try to shake it loose, like you can physically dislodge the word if you just-
"i- s-sorry, i just-"
he’s watching you, head tilted just slightly.
"for what?" he asks, brows pulling together like the apology genuinely doesn’t make sense.
you gesture vaguely toward yourself, pointed finger hovering near your chest, "m-my words- i... um..."
he blinks once. then- "...oh."
not a realization like 'something's wrong'. more like, 'that's it?'
he shifts his weight, straightening just a little from the counter. “nah, you’re good,” he says easily, like it’s obvious. "wanna try again?" he adds, lighter this time. not pushing. just… offering
your eyes widen a little, small stars starting to glimmer in them at the warmth. people don't usually grant you such grace, let alone give you more chances.
"ahh... did um..." you inhale, steadying yourself. "did you f-find everything okay?"
it's not perfect. but it's out. and he's grinning, satisfied. like he's stoked for you.
“yeah,” he says with a small nod. “thanks for askin’.”
he taps his card against the reader, then slips it back into his wallet.
“see you next time?"
you nod a little too quickly.
"sweet. have a good night." he hums, looping the bag through his wrists before balling his hands in his pocket.
"y-you too." you murmur, despite him already being halfway out the door.
he's so nice. too nice.
the third time he comes in, it catches you off guard.
mostly because it’s still light outside.
the sun’s already started to sink, drowning the shelves in a warm orange glow. the store feels different like this. less like a box of fluorescent stillness. softer. almost sleepy.
you’re used to seeing him later. tired-eyed but still cheery enough to let them curl up with that boyish smile.
so when the bell rings, and he steps in while the sky is still burning at the edges, your head lifts on instinct- and your chest gives a small, startled thud. you weren't expecting him. not at this time.
he catches you too- face visibly brightening.
"yo-" he starts, but stops in his tracks before his head double backs to you behind the counter. "no way!"
"you're here early." he huffs a quiet laugh, like he can't quite believe it. and if you were a little more delusional- like he's happy about it.
"i- y-yeah," you manage, quickly sorting your cash back into their slots, tucking hair that isn’t even out of place behind your ear.
"that's kinda crazy. thought you were only on graveyard shifts."
you feel the flush coming on already. this time, at his attentiveness. he remembered.
"just t-today. s-someone called out."
"lucky me," he lets it slip without much thought. your heart trips at it.
there’s an easy sort of energy to him tonight. lighter. maybe it’s the hour. maybe it’s the way the sun catches in his hair, softer than the harsh white of the overhead lights ever lets it be. he heads for the aisles with that same familiar slouch, grabbing a couple drinks.
the approach of his footsteps rips you from pretending to pay attention to your phone.
"f-find everything okay?"
"yes ma'am," he hums, dragging the words out just enough to be playful as he sets them down. he scratches the back of his head, shifting his weight.
"could i get a, uhh... pack of cigarettes too?"
your hand pauses mid-reach. cigarettes? you didn't really take him for a smoker.
"oh- umm... w-which kind?" you ask, you ask, already fumbling your keys free from your lanyard.
a leans forward a bit, peering past you.
"uh... those ones." he points vaguely, like that's any help. "the... black and gold ones?"
alright... probably not a smoker.
you nod anyway, stepping back. you unlock the case, easing the acrylic open before lifting onto your toes, nudging the pack forward until it tips into your hand. just your luck he had to pick one from the highest shelf.
there's a small snag of eye contact when you turn back- like he had been watching you the whole time. that's silly though... no?
"i um... i need to s-see your ID," you hum, looking away first as you set the pack down with the rest of his items.
he pauses. then pats at his pockets.
“oh. damn. right.” he mutters, mostly to himself, before looking back up at you with a sheepish little wince. "my bad."
it's so kiddish. horrifyingly endearing, really. if it were any other clerk working right now, they'd have turned him away without even looking at his ID, just for how clueless he's acting.
"here ya go." he pulls the card loose and holds it out to you.
you pull it closer to your eyes as you squint at the information- and then back at him to compare the photo.
ino takuma.
his grin is minimized to a tight-lipped smile that still manages to reach his eyes. no beanie- so his shaggy hair is on full display. along with a scar along his forehead you've not caught before. looks like he's wearing something that's not black for once, too.
still him, though.
still... cute.
ino... like a boar... you think, sounding the kanji out in your head.
"huh?"
your head snaps up.
ah. you said that out loud.
"s-sorry-" you hurry, heat rising fast as you hand it back. "i didn't m-mean to-"
"nah, nah, you're good," he cuts in quickly, waving you off with one hand while taking it with the other, very obviously trying to smother a laugh behind his grin. "what'd ya say?"
"what'd ya say?"
you hesitate. how could you even lie?
"..your n-name," you murmur, quieter now. lips pulling into a small, embarrassed pout. "i just... i w-was reading it."
“oh.” he glances down at the card in his hand, like he forgot what it said.
“yeah. ino,” he says, hooking a thumb toward himself. “takuma.”
"like a boar." he echoes.
you nearly drop the water bottle as it scans. so he did hear you.
but then he laughs- light, easy, warm enough that some of the tension drains from your shoulders as you reach for the next bottle like it might save you.
"you got one too?"
the question stops you cold. your eyes flick up to his- twice. just find him still there. waiting. easy and patient like always. like he has all the time in the world.
that familiar stall creeps up, settling heavy at the back of your tongue. made worse by the butterflies escaping from your diaphragm each time you try to vocalize.
"...i-"
your chest tightens as the air stutters in your windpipe. say it. it's just your name.
"i-i'm-" you swallow. "it-it-it's... y/n."
quiet. but clear. clear enough for his face to light up almost instantly.
he repeats it like he's testing it. like he’s making sure he gets it right.
like he wants to.
"that's cute," he adds, easy.
like that's not enough to send you into a miniature crisis, poorly veiled by finishing scanning his items.
"th-thank you," you manage. barely.
you bag his items up with a tremor in your hold, and read out his total.
he takes the bag in the same motion he pays, slinging it over his shoulder.
“they’re not for me, by the way,” he adds, nodding toward the cigarettes. “just my boss’s little errand boy.”
"r-right." you hum, tearing his receipt free to hand off.
but he doesn't go right away. instead, he huffs a quiet little laugh through his nose, shifting his weight like he’s debating something. like he's a little flustered for once.
"it was nice to meet you, y/n."
your fingers tighten where they were once holding the receipt.
"...y-you too."
he eases back a step, glancing toward the door- then back at you.
"see you around?"
a guarantee. reassurance that he'll be back.
your chest tightens.
"...y-yeah."
he flashes that same little peace sign as he heads out.
"cool. later, then."
the bell rings. door shuts. and you just stand there for a second. both of your names echoing in your ears.
and then bury your face in your hands. giddy noises that have no place in this building- and at this hour- squeak from you as you sway back and forth on your heels. fully aware that you're at too big of an age to fluster like this. and still doing it anyway.
it's not every night he shows up. but it's enough. enough for the bell above the door to not ring in such a dreadful, foreboding way anymore.
sometimes it’s late enough that the windows are black mirrors, throwing the fluorescent lights back at you in harsh white smears. sometimes it’s earlier, the sky bruised purple and orange outside, the shelves washed in sunset instead of convenience store glare.
but no matter what, it's always got that boyish smile and that careless little peace sign. that same loose posture like he's not in a hurry, even when he clearly is.
you try not to react to it. you fail each time.
he speaks to you like you've given him way more than you actually have. like he knows you despite your short words and thick walls. leaning on the counter while you ring him up, chin propped in his palm.
"so tired... work sucks." a pout is smeared across his face as he whines- quite dramatically. dramatic enough for you to have to stifle a small laugh. small and breathy and startled, like your body forgot you're supposed to keep these things neatly tucked away.
before you can start to apologize, he's laughing with you. so very easily.
your stammer doesn’t vanish. your tongue still catches. some nights the words still jam so hard in your throat you have to point instead, or shake your head, or start over three times before anything comes out right.
but it works. because when it’s him, it isn't as dreadful a task to complete. he never looks at you sideways. never clicks his tongue. he just lays out the rug for you to walk on, and smiles idly while you do. offers a hand each time you stumble.
"how'd your exam go?"
the letter 'g' hiccups in your mouth thrice before you sigh, defeatedly.
"good?"
"...mhm."
"niiiice. good job."
"th-thank you."
the two of you learn each other in pieces. he points out the charms on your lanyard. lets you ramble about the little acrylic characters and whatever show they're from. even when his transaction is far past over, he lingers around to talk about your schoolwork, commute, interests. anything, really. always prompted by him.
you do the same.
he buys cigarettes for his boss, never himself. said boss, is quite the icon to him. sometimes, he comes in with a visible glow and gushes about being praised. he gravitates toward the junk food aisle like he's being called home. on rare occasions, he comes in to restock on alcohol halfway through a night of drinking with his friends.
he could hardly make eye contact with you the first time it happened. kicking his feet and staring at the floor like a guilty kid.
"e-everything ok-kay?" you hum, nudging his bag across the counter.
"y-yeah... s' just..." he hiccups, running a hand over his mouth and down to the side of his neck.
"...i'm embarrassed..."
you could melt at the sight of it. you've never been the one with the stronger grasp on their wits.
"how c-come?"
"cuzzz... i feel like a... like a... i dunno..." he drags his hands down his visibly flushed face. "some fuckin'... frat boy... swear m'not..."
it's awfully endearing. just enough to pull a giggle from you, that's got him falling apart even worse. flush shining a bright red at his ears and cheeks. it's the alcohol, surely.
he always looks a little worn around the edges, but some nights more than others- hoodie rumpled, knuckles scraped, shadows clinging beneath his eyes like he forgot to rest properly.
you eventually build up the courage to check in on him without feeling like you're overstepping. it becomes normal to ask how the other's doing.
some nights, both of you shake your heads.
"it's all good. tomorrow will be better."
"...mhm."
you learn the cadence of him too.
the way he says your name like it’s become easy in his mouth. the way he always gives you some kind of goodbye, even if it’s just a lazy little, later, over his shoulder.
the way he notices things you’re sure no one else does.
“new hair clip?”
your hand flies to the side of your head.
he grins.
“it’s cute.”
you hate how much you look for him now.
how your stomach sinks, just a little, on nights the bell rings and it’s only some office worker grabbing canned coffee. how you look for him on the nights he never shows up, glancing around the dim street on your way out and subtly scanning the subway train on the way home. how you stare at your ceiling, replaying conversations.
"b-busy recently?" you murmur once, absentmindedly. he hadn't shown up in nearly a week, which is a new record. the words escape before you realize the implication that you definitely had been keeping score.
then, his mouth curls.
"damn," he says, hand curling into the fabric at his chest. "you missed me?"
your entire nervous system lights on fire.
"n-no- i- i just m-meant-"
"i'm joking," he cuts in quickly, already laughing as he leans away from the counter. "yeah. just a little. came by once, but some older guy was workin' the counter."
you nod wordlessly, too frazzled to even dare utter a word that's sure to crack. just for him to absentmindedly drop, "missed you too," as he pays.
and later, after he leaves, you stand in the same spot for a long time with your face hot and your chest aching with something too soft to defend yourself from.
because that’s the problem, really.
it’s all too soft.
he never crowds you. never makes your shyness feel like a flaw to be fixed. never looks embarrassed for you when your words refuse to come.
instead he waits.
or guesses.
or smiles like the answer can take all night if it has to.
and with every visit, every peace sign, every stupid snack and easy yo, something inside you starts giving way.
you start to wonder more. if he's as tired as you think. wonder where he goes after he leaves. wonder if means to keep coming back the way he does.
ino tells himself it's because the store's convenient. because it's on the way. it's 24 hours, so it makes sense to stop before or after missions. occasionally both. because grabbing some snacks, even if the ones from the past two visits are still untouched at his apartment is normal, actually.
it's bad enough that nanami glances at the plastic bag in his hand one evening, and then at his watch with an unreadable sigh.
"you went out of your way for that?"
ino, halfway through pulling out a sad little sandwich, pauses.
"...what's that supposed to mean?"
"it means there are three other convenience stores between here and the station."
ino's shoulders sag dramatically. he'd never give lip to his mentor, but it's taking everything in him to not hit him with a "okay, and?"
"it's... got good food," ino mutters, ears a little warmer than they should be.
nanami adjusts his goggles once before turning to walk. "i see."
he does not see. or maybe he sees too much. either way, it's not brought up again. but he doesn't stop going.
because every time he thinks maybe he should skip it, maybe he’s being weird, maybe he doesn’t need another bottle of sports drink or a pack of gum he won’t finish, he thinks of you behind the counter.
your careful hands. your shy little wave. how your stutter calms when you're talking about something you like. how it tightens when he gets a little bold. the way your face lights up whenever he steps in.
and then he’s already there.
already pushing through the door.
already smiling before he can help it.
by the time your shift ends, you've already told yourself not to be disappointed. three times. maybe four. it's stupid, anyway. he doesn't come in every night.
you just... you just really hoped he would tonight. because you had spent the entire day prior to clocking in that this would be the day you finally ask him for his number.
a feat initially considered impossible in theory. never to be fulfilled, because it's you, for heaven's sake. it was always silly to think anybody could reciprocate feelings for you when you hardly spoke to them. and when you did, it was met with a sneer or cut short because they had no patience. snuffing out the flame before it grew any brighter. but ino- ino just burns so bright.
he glows when you say his name. looks at you like what you have to say means something. prods you for more, like he wants to learn. like he can't get enough of you, but the responsibilities of both your nights always cuts it short.
you could really see yourself managing to pop the question. mulled it over in your head throughout your lectures. practiced in the mirror. straightened each time you heard the bell ring, with a momentary panic washing over you-
just to dip and sigh the adrenaline out when it wasn't him.
a woman buying a magazine. a tired man in a wrinkled suit. two teenagers loudly debating which energy drink tasted least like battery acid.
people have lives. schedules. better things to do than show up at the same convenience store every other night and smile at the same awkward girl behind the register like she’s the highlight of their day.
still-
when you finish counting out your drawer and trade places with the morning clerk, something in your chest sits a little heavier than usual.
“night,” he says, barely glancing up from his phone as you slip your bag over your shoulder.
“g-goodnight.”
the evening air is colder outside.
halloween’s close enough now that the wind has teeth, biting at the highs of your face as you make your way toward the station. the sky’s gone dark, streetlights humming overhead, staining the sidewalk in dull amber.
you slip your earbuds in with a heavy heart, tapping your phone to play something that drowns out the disappointment.
past the vending machines. past shuttered storefronts. past that same abandoned bike that's sat there for weeks- still chained to the rack with a bent front wheel.
your mind is already half elsewhere by the time the station comes into view. already on the train schedule. the walk home. the assignment waiting half-finished in your bag.
then-
"wait!"
you stop so suddenly your shoe squeaks against the pavement.
you turn-
ino.
half-jogging toward you from down the block, one hand lifted, the other gripping his beanie like a baton. very clearly out of breath. hair disheveled from the cold wind against his face.
your heart lurches so hard it almost hurts.
"i-" he slows as he gets to you- then curls in on himself with his hands braced on his knees while he catches his breath. "damn- huff- okay- pant- hold on."
you stare, fingers tightening around your bag strap in disbelief. he's here. he's actually here.
he looks up- laughing, breathless. the station lights catch on the flush high in his cheeks. he looks a little embarrassed. a little wired. kind of cute. really cute.
“i came by the store and-” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, still breathing a bit hard, “the other guy said you just left, and i was like, no shot, ya'know? i can still catch up-”
he straightens, rubbing the back of his head. suddenly looking a little less confident than he probably wanted to.
"which- i uh... i did. obviously."
your brows contort- and he almost looks afraid at the new expression unlocked. eyes wide, nose bitten pink by the cold. baggy hoodie hanging loose on your figure- not in your apron, for the first time.
"you... r-ran?"
"yeah." his mouth quirks. "just a little."
your blood turns hot- cold air standing no chance.
for a moment, neither of you says anything.
cars pass somewhere behind him. a train announcement crackles faint and garbled from behind you. a group of students laugh from inside.
ino shifts his weight, eyes darting between the pavement and you. it's weird, seeing him nervous. oddly steadying.
"i.. uh..." he starts, then huffs softly through his nose. "okay. this is gonna sound kinda lame."
your lips part, but no sound comes out.
"but i wanted to get your number."
oh.
he came in, realized it wasn't you, and then ran for you the second he got pointed in the right direction. so he could ask you for your number.
all that self-induced nausea you inflicted upon yourself in preparation- the rejection you prepared yourself for- the tears that stung on the walk home- just for him to be the frazzled one asking for your number.
“just ‘cause-” he lifts a shoulder, grin turning a little sheepish. “i dunno. i see you all the time anyway, so it’s not weird, right? and if i didn’t ask now, it was gonna be, like, super over for me all week. cuz i'm gonna be busy tomorrow- and probably after- so... yeah. right?"
his jumbled gestures and scattered speech- still laced with intermittent pants- pulls a tiny sound out of you. something between a laugh at the sight and a breath at the relief.
his face brightens immediately.
encouraged, he adds, "plus, what if i need a professional recommendation on the worst drink in the store when you're out?"
you duck your head, smiling despite yourself.
"you p-picked that one y-yourself..." you murmur.
"damn." he keens. "ya got me."
your fingers fidget with your bag strap. your number. right. he wants your number.
you're suddenly intensely aware of your phone sitting in your pocket like it weighs a thousand pounds.
"ah- only if you... want to." he adds, a touch quicker now, realizing he might've come on too strong. with the whole running after you thing. "no pressure. seriously. i just.."
"i wanted to ask."
he hums, a touch softer. eyes settled gently on yours.
he wanted to. enough to run after you. enough to stand here under bad station lighting with wind in his hair and nerves slipping through his smile.
you nod, sheepishly at first. "y-yeah. o-okay."
his answering grin is immediate. bright. and the way his fist pumps into the air is enough to knock the breath right out of you.
"sick," he bites, holding back the cheery lilt, already reaching for his phone. "okay. sweet sweet sweet. nice."
the both of you fumble a little after that.
you with your cold fingers and rising pulse, him with a screen protector cracked at one corner and thumbs moving a little too fast for someone pretending to be casual.
he hands you his phone, contacts already open.
you type your name in, adding a little '^_^' beside it.
when you give it back, he looks down at the screen and smiles. like he’s trying not to make too much of it. failing a little.
“cool,” he hums, typing something before slipping it into his pocket. your phone buzzes gently in your pocket.
“now you have to text me so i know you didn’t give me a fake number.”
your eyes widen. “i w-wouldn’t-”
he laughs immediately, holding his hands up in defense. “i’m kidding, i’m kidding.”
the pout only makes him grin harder.
he fits his beanie back over his head, sorting some strands out of his eyes and back behind his ears.
an action you can't help but stare at- still, starstruck.
"alright- i'll let ya go before you miss your train."
your chest dips a bit at it. already?
but you nod. because that's how leaving works.
"r-right. okay."
he shoots another grin at you, posture loosening as he resumes his usual slouch. "text me when you get home, yeah?"
"o-okay. i will."
his smile softens.
and his hand comes up- throwing that familiar peace sign. different now- more personal.
"later, y/n."
"l-later," you echo quietly, adjusting your bag before lifting your hand in a lazy wave as you turn to walk off. eyes stuck on him and his own- full arm wave- before he disappears as you take the last descending step.
you don't open your phone until you finally take a seat on your train, hands shaky and heart still thumping happily.
ino :)
this is my official anti-fake number investigation
you laugh right there on the tram. helplessly giddy. thank goodness it's too early for your carriage to be full.
you
it's not fake
you don't make it far before your phone buzzes. once. then again.
you continue down the sidewalk leading home, fingers fumbling slightly as you pull it out. screen lighting up your face in soft white.
ino :)
okay good.
i was about to be devastated fr
your lips press together, trying (and failing) to hide the smile spreading across your face.
you
i wouldn't do that
then, before you can overthink.
i was gonna ask you today too
but you didn't come
you force your eyes away from the screen in shame- turning a street corner. too much? no, right? not if he was gonna ask. but is admitting that kind of pathetic? and then,
ino :)
no fuckin way
i almost fumbled
i would've never forgiven myself
your laughter comes easier when he's not right in front of you.
you
nooo it's okay
i'm glad you did
ino :)
i am too
my legs are gonna hurt tomorrow
you
how hard did you run??
ino :)
it was a light jog at most
you
you were out of breath
his typing bubble stutters for a moment
ino :)
alright u got me.
another message comes in right after.
ino :)
you made me nervous
you stop walking completely- brain stalling. you reread twice before your pulse catches up with the words- heat fluttering in your chest and tummy.
you
i did?
ino :)
yeah
you're kinda...
idk
you hold your breath.
ino :)
you're just you
you release it with a whiny sigh. you don't know how to respond to that. let alone process it. so you just hold it to your chest like it's keeping you warm, taking the steps up to your apartment. unlocking the door and only texting when you shut it behind you- back to the wood.
you
i'm home
his response is immediate.
ino :)
good
you goin to bed?
you
yes
soon
have to shower and do some schoolwork
ino :)
busy lady
don't be up too long
you've not stopped smiling since you got off the train. but it softens a bit at those messages.
you
i will try
are you home yet?
ino :)
not yet
still got stuff to do tonight
your smile fades just a little. that tiredness you notice. how he only really shows up in your life at night.
you
oh oki
work?
ino :)
yeah p much
you
so late :o
be safe
the typing bubble holds longer than usual. but when his message comes though, it's only one line.
ino :)
thanks :)))
your chest flutters at the vision of him smiling at his own screen. for the moment, you click your phone off as you toe your shoes off at the door and shrug your bag off as you reach your bedroom. just for it chime once again on your bed as you're shrugging your hoodie off.
ino :)
you working tomorrow?
you type with one hand, interchanging it halfway as you slip each of your socks off.
you
yes
8 pm to 2am
ino :)
okay bet
i got a busy week
but i'll see if i can stop by
your heart skips just a little. sat on the edge of your bed now, legs swaying idly.
you
you don't have toooo
we can text now anyway
he reads it for a moment before the bubble pops up.
ino :)
i guess
but seeing you makes the night better
even if work sucks balls
you pray that if there is a god, he doesn't bear witness to the way you fall onto your back into your bedsheets and squeal.
you
same for me... (,,>﹏<,,)
ino :)
(image attached)
you really mean it
there is no way. absolutely no way this is the same ino. but it absolutely is. if anything- it makes perfect sense. it's just. jarring, honestly.
you
yes i do
ino :)
i'm blushing
okoki have to go now
i'll see you tomorrow if i can
you
okayyy
have fun with work
ino :)
yes yes
goodnight y/n
sleep well
you
goodnight ino
sleep well whenever you do
the typing bubble appears, lingering long eonugh to make your heart pick up again. no new messages comes, though. screen dimming until you click it off and let it fall against your bed.
your room is still. quiet. still dark. unmoved despite the major revelation that has just bloomed in your life.
and somewhere across the city, ino's phone is tucked into his pocket just in time to rush after a curse he was set to scout for, nearly missing his chance in favor of responding to your texts. you, who is blissfully unaware of the world he lives in.
the next night, despite his warning, you find yourself looking up when the bell rings anyway. just once. just in case. but it's not him. and odlly enough, the disappointment doesn't sink as deep as you expect it to.
he let you know he'd be busy. and eventually makes up for his absent with a text that has wakes you up from your dozing off in your stool.
ino :)
you at work?
your chest warms instantly.
you
yes
ino :)
praying for u
you smile to yourself. fuzziness creeping into your lungs.
the conversation comes in fragments after that. little messages spaced between customers and cleaning on your end and long, work-related stretches of quiet on his.
he asks if it's busy- not really. it never is. asks what song is playing, making a joke about how he swears it's the same thing every time.
you
it's not always the same
there are like
four different ones
ino :)
i'd go crazy
why don't they put you on aux
you
i wish
i would put my earbuds in
but i'm scared i'll get in trouble
ino :)
oh please
don't you get like
5 customers a shift
you
i guess
just still nervous
ino :)
your boss scary or something?
you
nooo no
she's actually really nice
nice enough to hire me
ino :)
what's that supposed to mean
you tilt your face at your phone, pout forming like he can see it.
you
...
(◞‸◟；)
ino :)
shaddap
don't be mean to yourself
you're the best clerk ever
now, you do have a sweet tooth, admittedly. snacking on candies during the lulls of your shifts in favor over the packaged meals. but ino- ino might be too sweet. and with his almost cringe-worthy streak of honesty, you know he really thinks that.
you
but u just told me to shut up...
ino :)
no
NONONO
WAITWAITWAIT
it's easier like this. with a screen between you, there's no rush. no eyes on your mouth waiting for the words to come out right. no heat crawling up your neck when your tongue catches.
you still hesitate before you send things sometimes. still delete entire sentences because they sound strange in your head. but easier, nonetheless. you don't have to fight your own voice to reach him. and somehow, he sounds identical to himself through text anyway. lightly teasing and easygoing, which makes you picture his face without meaning to.
when your break starts, you text him first.
you
what are you up to
his response takes a few minutes.
ino :)
working
you
oh mhm
you probably shouldn't bother then, huh? another few minutes pass by before your phone chimes again.
ino :)
sorry sorrythat sounded shorter than i meant
just a teensy weensy busy
how is work going?
it's like he read your unease through the phone.
you
it's ok!!
i'm sorry about that... your work sounds hard
it is oki
just eating now
ino :)
good good
nahhh
i mean it is hard
but i'll be okay
big strong guy here
you huff a small laugh, swallowing the egg sandwich down with a small cough.
you
yes
very strong
ino :)
you noticed?
didn't think you could under the long sleeves
you you don't always wear long sleeves
it's sent before you can think twice about it. sleep deprivation seemingly fraying your wits. you're halfway through typing an apology before his next message pops up
ino :)
ohhh so you have noticed
i got a little sleeper build don't i
ᕙ(`▽´)ᕗ
you
yes...it is
nice
you clearly have never flirted in your life. but ino's beam at his phone says otherwise.
"ino. please focus."
"r-right- sorry sir."
ino :)
thank you :)
sorry work callin again :/
you
that's okay
you are welcome
don't work too hard
ino :)
ahh haha
i'll try
you too
by the end of your shift, he still hasn't come by. but your mood is lighter than it normally is. the walk home isn't as quiet and long.
the day after, he doesn't show up either. but he texts you before your shift even starts.
ino :)
clocking in?
you pause in the break room, halfway through tying your apron.
you
unfortunately
so sleepy today
ino :)
i'm sorry pretty girl
your coworker quirks an eyebrow at the way you shimmy in place.
"who's got you smilin' like that?"
"j-just a... b-boy..." you murmur, terribly masking the flush on your face with your phone.
later, while you're absentmindedly flicking a display lighter on and off, he sends a blurry photo of a vending machine drink.
ino :)
look
it's pancake flavored
you
woah
is it yummy
ino :)
yes
i drank the whole thing
now my stummy hurts
he texts you all the way through closing. nothing important, really. but that's what makes it feel important.
a three-second video of him flashing a peace sign to the camera, and then turning it to the ground, where you can make out his shoes and the steps of another.
ino :)
my boss has been quitting recently
now i can't offer to grab him more as an excuse to come see u
you
that's a good thing
smoking is bad for you
ino :)
i know lol
i'm glad he is
just sad i probably can't stop by tonight
a random:
ino :)
have you eaten yet?
you
not yet
ino :)
do that
or i'm reporting you to the authorities
i've got connections
you snort softly through your nose.
it's easy to imagine him when he texts. the way he'd probably be leaning against something while he typed that. one hand in his pocket, beanie crooked and eyes half-lidded from being tired and trying to play it off.
you
yes sir(￣ー￣)ゞ
ino :)
thank u
gna be busy the rest of the night
lmk when you get home
call me if any creepers follow u
you do. text him once you're on your train. once you're in your apartment. and as you're settling into bed- all to no response.
there's an undeniable ache. not like you're entitled to his time. just that- whatever's keeping him occupied this late into the night must really be quite burdensome.
by the day before halloween, you've almost gotten used to not seeing him. almost. your shifts feel less empty with him tucked into your phone, with his little texts arriving like clockwork whenever the store goes too still.
but it's not the same.
not the same as his voice. not the same as watching him lean against the counter like he has nowhere better to be.
so when the bell finally rings just after sunset, and you glance up to find that it's him stepping inside, your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts.
he looks... tired. more than usual. not the joking kind of tired he waves off with a smile. something heavier sits on him tonight.
his shoulders are drawn tighter. the skin beneath his eyes is darker. he still smiles when he sees you, but it takes a little longer to reach his face.
"yo," he says, quieter than usual.
your fingers tighten around the pen in your hand. "h-hi."
his mouth curves, just a little, and he comes up to the counter with little wandering. just a drink and something small to eat from the cases closest to the register. like he came more for the store than what it sells.
"w-wasn't expecting you." you hum, already scanning them and bagging them up.
"yeah, sorry. shoulda texted," he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. "been a busy few days."
you nod, though it doesn't feel like enough.
you can feel it. that he’s quieter, that something’s sitting wrong in him, that the usual easy rhythm is there but dimmed.
your hands meet in a wary fold. thumbs fidgeting slightly before you speak.
"...are you... d-doing okay?"
the question comes out small. gentle. for a second, you think he'll brush it off. and he nearly does.
"yeah, i'm-" he goes quiet, hands nestling in his pockets as his shoulders shift. "just tired." it's not a lie. just not the whole truth either.
"w-work?"
his gaze flicks to yours. like he's the one with a streak of struggling with eye contact. a tiny, delicate hesitation.
"i guess. it's.... just a lot. lately."
your chest aches a little at the way he says it. like it's something that has slipped out- not for you to bear witness to.
he huffs a laugh, but there's no real humor in it.
"sorry. that sounds dramatic as hell."
you're quick to shake your head. "n-no," you hand the bag off unceremoniously. "you c-can be tired."
you swallow, trying to push past the little catches in your voice.
"i-it doesn't make you... weak. or anyth-thing. bad."
the way he stares makes you intensely aware of your words, but you keep going anyway.
"you're a-always telling me n-not to be scared- or t-to worry," you say, softly. "s-so don't be af-fuh-fuh-" ahem. "afraid of being tired. you work h-hard."
"it's okay to be t-tired."
the bag crinkles in his grip. your eyes meet his face. fearfully, at first. expecting something that matches the tightness in his hand- but it's unexpectedly soft. the furrow in his brow easing for one fleeting second, your words finding a place to land somewhere he hadn't realized was open.
"damn," he says at last, voice low and a little rough around the edges. "you always this wise? or is today special?" his smile falters- and for a moment, it almost looks like he's gonna cry.
"i-i'm serious."
"i know." his expression settles before anything else bubbles to the surface. "that's why it got me."
you can feel the words sitting behind his teeth. heavy and unfinished and threatening to spill the moment his lips part to speak again.
but then he blinks. looks away. closes the moment with purpose.
"i'll be okay. promise."
you know better than to push. so instead, you type a command into the register and hand his receipt off- despite his lack of payment.
his fingers brush yours when he reaches to take it. neither of you move right away.
the warmth of you- and realization that it's already over without him even taking his card out- makes something flicker in his expression. startled, nearly.
"i didn't-"
you wave it off, pushing the receipt to him.
"d-don't worry about it."
"...you're sure?"
you nod, adjusting part of your hair that doesn't need adjusting.
"j-just get home s-safe."
he's still for a few seconds before his posture finally loosens up with a shake of his head. "alright."
"...i will."
you don’t know why that answer makes your chest hurt.
he shifts his bag over his shoulder, still looking at you in that quiet, strange way. like he’s trying to memorize something. your face. your voice. the look of you under convenience store lights, soft and worried and sweet enough to undo him.
"thanks. i'll text you later." he hums.
you nod.
"see you, y/n."
"bye, ino."
he turns and heads for the door.
the bell rings overhead.
cold air slips in for a second before the door swings shut behind him.
and you stand there, the feeling of his fingers still warm against yours, with the oddest feeling blooming low in your chest.
like something just brushed past you. like the night shifted around its edges.
you wake up to a text from him.
not late.
not early, either.
just early enough that it catches you before you’ve fully settled into your day, phone still dim in your hand and your room washed in that pale, lazy gray that only october mornings seem to have.
ino :)
you alive?
your lips twitch before you can help it.
you roll onto your back, hair in your face, blankets still tangled around your legs as you type back.
you
mhm
slept in
ino :)
you're telling me
it's almost 3
a sleepy smile ghosts your face as you rub at your eyes as you nestle into a pillow on your side.
you
no work today
they took pity on me
it's true. the halloween night rush of drunks can get pretty hectic- so night shift had been entrusted to two higher managers.
you
do you have plans?
there's a small pause.
ino :)
something like that
you?
you
not really
my friends are going to shibuya though
you're halfway through typing a 'they wanted me to go too,' before his answer pops up.
ino :)
don't go
you blink. sit up a little straighter.
you
?
ino :)
crowds gonna be insane
like actually hell on earth
you'd hate it
there's a strange firmness to it. not harsh- just uncharacteristically direct.
you
i wasn't planning to
too many people
ino :)
good
keep it that way
and lowk
your friends shouldn't go either
that gets a small crease between your brows
you
why?
ino :)
just a bad feeling
halloween in shibuya never ends well
you can almost see him on the other end of it- phone in hand, jaw set, choosing his words too carefully for someone who usually doesn’t.
you
i'll stay home
ino :)
good
a second message follows right after.
ino :)
promise?
your chest warms at that, even as the oddness of the interaction lingers.
you
i promise
the bubble appears. stops.
ino :)
thank u
you smile despite yourself.
you carry your phone around with you the rest of the morning, checking it more than you need to. folding laundry. making something small to eat. half-listening to a show you’ve already seen.
his texts come in strange little intervals.
never enough to become a conversation.
just enough to remind you he’s there.
ino :)
you eat yet?
youyes
ino :)
okay good
later.
ino :)
you live in taito right?
you fingers pause over the keyboard.
you
closer to adachi
why
is it gonna be that bad?
there's a longer delay this time. long enough that you resume studying, despite the dread that's starting to pool in your core. immediately shocked straight once your phone dings again.
ino :)
probably not
just being annoying
ignore me
you
you're not annoying
ino :)
damn right
you laugh softly to yourself, shaking your head.
but it doesn’t fully ease the feeling.
by evening, the sky outside your apartment has gone the color of old bruises- blue-black and heavy, city lights glowing faintly in the distance. halloween noise drifts through the streets below in bursts. laughter. traffic. muffled music somewhere too far away to place.
your phone buzzes again as you finish up your studying for the day. there's a special airing tonight you don't wanna miss, and you've already got your snacks laid out on your coffee table and a blanket around your shoulders as you sit down.
ino :)
you home?
you
yes
ino :)
good
another pause.
ino :)
i might be afk til the morning btw
the warmth in your chest dims around the edges as you read it.
you
oh
you don't mean for it to sound disappointed
but it does.
ino :)
don’t worry too hard okay
i’m just gonna be busy tonight
you
party?
time stretches for a moment. bubble hovering longer than usual.
ino :)
nah
work
you bite lightly at the inside of your cheek. there's more there- but there's no point chasing it if he's already decided to keep it to himself.
so instead, you curl yourself a little deeper into blanket and text back:
you
okay
be safe
the typing bubble appears.
stays.
goes away.
comes back.
when his message finally sends, it lands heavier than anything else he’s said all day.
ino :)
if i wasn't busy i would've asked you to do something tonight
your breath catches completely. heart starting to beat harder, uneven and hot enough for you to have to place a hand to your chest in an attempt to soothe its violent thuds.
you
like what?
ino :)
idk
we could've made our own halloween plans
another message follows before you can recover
ino :)
something way less lame than shibuya
like staying at home and handing candy out
you pull the blanket up higher over your mouth- even if there is no one here to see you. you and your trembling fingers and flushed ears.
you
that sounds nice
his response doesn't come immediately. you imagine him reading it. imagining it too, maybe. whatever that would've looked like. small and simple and shared between just the two of you.
ino :)
yeah
next time
your chest tightens around the words.
next time.
something about them should comfort you. instead, a strange little ache opens behind your ribs. you don’t understand why. you type anyway.
you
okay :)
for a while, neither of you says anything. phone left upwards on the cushion beside you as you watch your favorite shows special.
then, your phone buzzes one last time.
ino :)
get some sleep tonight, yeah?
and don't go anywhere weird
you
i won't
are you clocking in?
ino :)
yes ma'am
gonna be a busy bee tonight
you
oki
be safe
after a second, you add:
text me tomorrow
the bubble appears almost immediately.
ino :)
i will
promise
you'll hold onto that. a promise.
you
thank you
goodnight ino
it takes him a few seconds.
ino :)
night y/n
happy halloween
you whisper it back to your screen like he can hear you.
and when the chat goes quiet after that, you set your phone beside you and try not to think too hard about the odd feeling left behind. the one that curls low and uneasy beneath the fuzzy, warm feeling he plagues you with. the one that makes the city outside sound a little more foreboding.
it's nothing.
he said he'd text in the morning. promised he would.
and because it's him- you'll believe it.
you don't mean to fall asleep. it's just for a second, you tell yourself.
your phone is still beside you when you drift off- while you're nestled in the corner of your couch with the tv droning low in the background. the last thing you remember is checking the time. 11:43. after. that, nothing
your phone screams. you jolt awake so hard it makes you cough- and for one disorienting second, all you know is noise.
the blare of an emergency alert. the sharp brightness of the television- suddenly too loud for the size of your apartment. voices overlapping in clipped, urgent bursts that sound nothing like the programming you fell asleep to.
your room is dark except for the flashing light of your phone and the bright red-white glow of the tv.
still half asleep, you fumble for the screen.
EMERGENCY ALERT: SHELTER IN PLACE IMMEDIATELY. AVOID CENTRAL TOKYO. STAY INDOORS. FURTHER INFORMATION TO FOLLOW.
...what?
you blink hard, rubbing one eye with the heel of your hand- refocusing your attention to the tv anchors' voices. trying to bring them to the forefront of your hazed senses.
“…repeat- residents are being instructed to remain indoors as emergency crews attempt to assess the devastation in shibuya-”
“…officials have not yet confirmed the full number of casualties-”
“…sources are now stating that the destruction may be tied to what authorities are calling cursed spirits-”
the image onscreen shifts from the anchor desk to aerial footage, shaky and distant at first, then horrifyingly clear.
shibuya is... gone.
not burning. not damage. gone.
a massive, ugly wound carved into the city where everything should still be standing. whole stretches of it erased into blackened ruin and cratered absence, smoke still curling up into the night sky in ghostlike ribbons. emergency lights flash red and blue around the edges of destruction too large to understand.
the reporter is still talking, voice taut and disbelieving, words clipping over one another as more footage rolls.
“for those just joining us, the japanese government has issued an unprecedented public statement confirming the existence of hostile entities referred to as cursed spirits-”
“multiple eyewitness accounts describe widespread panic, structural collapse, and civilian casualties on a catastrophic scale-”
“we must stress again: do not leave your homes.”
you can't breathe. you can't-
your friends. shibuya. they were going to shibuya.
your hands shake so badly you nearly drop your phone trying to unlock it.
no- no no no-
the first contact does nothing but ring. and then the second. one after another. contact names smearing together as your vision blurs.
“pick up,” you whisper, then louder, voice cracking apart as tears rise without warning. “p-pick up, p-please-”
none of them answer.
a sob catches in your throat, sharp and humiliating and terrified, and then-
ino.
your whole body goes cold. because ino-
ino told you not to go. ino said he was busy tonight. working. somewhere near there, wasn't he?
your thumb slips on the screen once before you manage to his the call button beside his name.
you can hardly hear it over the blood roaring in your ears.
"c-come on," you choke out, tears spilling hot and fast down your face now as you tremble to your feet, falling once before scrambling up again to peer outside your window. “ino, c-come on, p-please-"
nothing.
just ringing. just silence.
there's nothing outside either. dark and terrifyingly unmoving.
you call again.
the television keeps talking. footage keeps changing. the words casualties and evacuation and unprecedented blur together into something monstrous and impossible.
the room feels wrong now- too small, too bright, too hot and too cold all at once. your heartbeat pounds against your ribs in nauseating waves. your skin feels clammy. your lungs won’t fill all the way.
on the screen, another aerial shot sweeps over the wreckage. street grids split open, towers collapsed. smoke and dust and pure absence.
your stomach twists violently at the sight. this is a nightmare. it has to be.
but that bile rising in your throat feels too real for it to be just a dream.
your lurch into your hand- falling to your knees as nothing but a dry, miserable heave tears out of you.
nothing comes up.
just tears dripping off your chin while your phone stays clutched so tightly in your hand it aches.
and then- it buzzes.
your head snaps down so fast it hurts.
not him.
another emergency update.
you swipe it away as if it personally attacked you- just to hit call again with trembling fingers and press the phone so hard to your ear it leaves a mark.
ringing... and ringing... and ringing.
“please,” you whisper this time.
you don't even know who you're trying to get your voice to reach. just anybody, really. you friends. ino. anything to speak back and tell you that you didn't just lose everything.
all the while, the tv keeps blaring. the city keeps ending.
and in the middle of your bedroom floor, curled around your phone and your own terror, all you can do is listen to the silence on the other end and pray it breaks.
morning comes anyway. despite a tragedy so heavy you wondered if the sun would ever rise again.
gray. thin.
you don't think you've slept since the alert. and if you did, it wasn't enough to count.
you spend the rest of the night curled against the side of your bed with your phone in your hand and the television talking at you in fragments from the other room-death tolls, evacuation zones, missing persons, government statements repeated over and over until the words all blur together.
shibuya collapse. mass casualty incident. cursed spirits.
every now and then, you call again. your friends. ino. just to be met by rhythmic ringing and voicemails that you let play just to hear their voices.
by the time the sky outside turns pale, your eyes burn so badly it hurts to blink.
your mother calls first.
"m-mom-"
“oh, thank god,” she breathes immediately, and the sound of her voice-frayed, terrified, real- nearly breaks you all over again. “are you home? are you safe?”
you can’t get the words out at first. just nod- like she can see you.
“y-yeah,” you choke out finally, pressing your fingers hard to your mouth when your voice starts to wobble. “i’m h-home.”
in the background, you can hear your father saying something you can’t make out. pacing, maybe. the television at their place too.
your mother keeps talking, too fast now, asking if you need anything, if your doors are locked, if you’ve eaten, if you’ve heard from your friends.
that last one catches in your chest like glass.
"...n-no."
silence hangs for just a second. softened by that careful tone only your mother could take with you.
"it took us a while to reach you. the lines- i'm sure they're overloaded. give it a little time."
all you really want is someone else in this building with you. your mom to come get you like she would when you'd freeze up and start to cry at school field trips. your friends passed out on your couch and in your bed beside you from their night of partying.
ino.
you promise you'll keep your phone. promise you won't leave your apartment.
you don't even realize you've started crying again until a tear slips off your lips and lands on the screen, back to the blank homescreen as your mother hangs up.
around seven, one of your friends finally texts. your whole body seizes at the text chime.
mika
OH MY GOD IM OKAY
I DIDNT GO
i lost signal and everything was insane and i crashed at rena's place
are you okay??
a pitiful moan leaks out with a warbled sob as you sit on the edge of your bed.
you
yes
holy shit
you guys didn't go?
mika
we were gonna but trains got weird and then we lost signal for hours
bunch of suits started telling us to go away at like
idk 9
none of my calls are going through still
we're okay i swear
another friend checks in after that. then another.
a dead battery. plans changed at the last second. train blocked off.
none of them were there. none of them are missing.
the relief is real.
it just doesn’t reach the place in you that’s still screaming.
because ino still doesn’t answer.
you call him again before noon.
and again an hour later.
and again when the news starts naming neighborhoods still under emergency restriction.
you text him too, because maybe that’s better. maybe he can’t call. maybe his hands are full. maybe he’s asleep.
you
are you okay?
you
i stayed home
you told me to
you
please answer when you can
i'm really scared ino
i don't know what to do
they all sit there, cold.
the hours smear together after that. you don’t eat much. can’t, really.
the television stays on.
you mute it eventually. because hearing the repeated doomsday-like updates provide no real solace to you. but the footage keeps rolling in silence anyway. shibuya- reduced to a hole in the earth.
sometime in the afternoon, you end up in your bed instead of the floor. curled on your side. phone charging beside you. eyes locked on it for any moment it lights up.
you keep his contact open. thumb hovering over the call button. every so often you press it, not really expecting a response. just something to lull the panic in your head, like dialing it is different from just lying in wait.
you whisper his name once the voicemail passes. just once. a weak, tearless sob leaking out of you along with it.
ino wakes to white light and pressure in his skull. for one long, ugly second, he doesn't know where he is.
then the pain in his face pulses hard enough to answer for him.
medical room. the school. safe... enough.
his body feels heavy. not the full-body wreckage of something broken beyond repair- just the bone-deep ache of getting the absolute hell beaten out of him. bruising swelling through the right side of his face, ribs protesting at every breath he takes, exhaustion clinging to him like wet cloth. someone had patched him up- someone told him to rest. but he hadn't listened well enough to remember who.
drowsiness is quickly replaced by a small flicker of panic as his hand can't find his phone on him.
he sits up too fast and regrets it within the second, nausea pitching low in his stomach as his vision swims.
"shit-" his voice comes out rough. dry.
there's a shuffle from nearby.
someone- not ieiri- looks up from wherever she'd been before.
"you're awake," she hums, already moving toward him.
"my phone," his cuts in, voice thin with urgency. "where's my phone?"
"the table- ino- you need to lay down-" her figure fully comes into view. akari, that blonde girl he'd debriefed with before. trying to get him back on his back as he's yanking the charger his phone is attached to free from the wall.
"just- just give me a sec-" he winces, forcing one eye open to focus on the slew of notifications on his phone screen.
so many missed calls texts stacked in notifications. friends. drinking buddies. his parents.
you.
i'm really scared ino. i stayed home. you told me to. please say something. i don't know what to do.
okay- you stayed home. good. that's good. you're safe.
that should be enough to settle him- but it doesn't. he promised- promised he'd let you know he's okay. but morning already came, and he wasn't there for it.
and then it really hits him.
your fear.
the news is saying cursed spirits. i don't know what's happening. nobody is answering me.
"nitta-san," he speaks, suddenly still.
why do you know about cursed spirits?
his thumb flicks to the rest of his notifications.
sweet angel baby boy shinji
yo bro
what the fuck is going on
are you seeing this cursed spirit shit?
yosuke :P
i'm freaking the fuck out yo
my girl still hasn't responded
she went out with her friends in shibuya
junpei (big bro)
are you good?
call me when you can dude
i really hope you're okay
"...what happened in shibuya?"
her brows furrow in a way that only deepens the grout in ino's chest. dread settling into it with ease.
the question hangs heavy in the room. wrong. too late. too obvious.
"...ino," she says, softer now. "you need to lie back down."
he doesn't move.
you know about cursed spirits. the whole country does. that wasn't supposed to happen. never. not in his lifetime.
"...how bad?"
his lip curls at her hesitation. he knows special grades were involved. knows gojo was there. knows things went wrong. but wrong was supposed to mean sorcerer casualties in reports. cleanup. grief buried where it always is. not this.
"they're still assessing," she answers carefully. "a lot of people were trapped."
civilians. trapped inside shibuya. trapped with curses organized enough to build a plan around human bodies. trapped while sorcerers ran themselves ragged trying to keep the whole thing from splitting open.
his stomach drops. the barriers. the coordination.
we failed.
he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face and immediately regretting it when pain flares bright.
"fuck-"
"how bad?" he repeats, facing her fully now.
becauses this isn't about property damage. not anymore. this is about bodies. names. people he knows. people he should've been beside.
"ino," she warns, firmer now. aware of the shape of what he's really asking. "lie. down."
"i'm not- not until you tell me-"
"gojo is sealed."
"i know that-" he jerks, ripping his hand from her grasp as she tries to get him to settle. "that doesn't-"
"sukuna opened his domain."
the room seems to tilt from the sick, impossible enormity of it. his mouth parts. shuts. opens again.
"i don't- i don't fucking care- who-"
because there's only one name clawing at the inside of his throat now. the one that matters. the one that taught him. the one that should be too hard to kill. the one that always felt, somehow, like he’d be there after. after missions. after mistakes. after all of it.
"nanami didn't make it."
that answers it.
everything stops. not gradually. not in pieces. just- gone.
it's like the room has dropped out from under him. pressure building in his ears like he's been shoved underwater too fast.
nanami-
no. no, that doesn't- that doesn't make sense. nanami doesn't... nanami doesn't lose. not like that.
he stares at her. waiting for any sort of correction. for the part where she says he's stable, or critical, or anything but that.
but it doesn't come. she just keeps talking.
words that don't reach his brain. three special grades. protecting others. fighting. transfigured humans. mahito.
that name lands. sticks. but it doesn't sink. because his head is still stuck on something else.
nanami.
nanami?
nanami-
he should've been there. the thought hits sharp- cutting through everything else- and twisting at the settling realization. words keep coming, but they stop meaning anything in order. they crash into him shapelessly, each one only driving the same thing deeper.
he would've- if he wasn't taken out early. if he hadn't gotten knocked out. if he had just- if he was just there.
his body pangs with another echo of agony as he sob tries to force itself out of him. throat tightening around something meaner than tears.
something raw and adolescent and awful that wants to rewind time by force. wants to wake up earlier. wants to go back. wants to be stronger. faster. less stupid. wants one more chance to be useful where it counted.
instead, all he can do is sit there in a medical room that stinks of antiseptic and sweat, bruised half to hell, while the man he followed into adulthood is just... gone
his gaze drops to his phone. to your messages. your fear. your little i stayed home.
the softness of it all nearly finishes him off. because the world kept ending while you were scared, alone, and waiting for him to answer. because nanami is dead and you’re alive and both truths slam into him at once so violently he almost feels sick from the whiplash of it, fighting for space in one already battered body.
"...i need to text her," he mutters, voice small and cracked. more to himself than to akari.
"you need to rest." she counters immediately.
“no, i-” his voice catches, splinters slightly, and humiliation flares hot on top of everything else. “she thinks- " his grip tightens around his phone. "she thinks i'm-"
dead. missing. gone. just like-
he can't say it. his jaw clenches instead, eyes squeezing shut for just a second like he can force everything back into place if he just—
breathes.
just breathes.
"i need to tell her i'm okay," he finishes, meek and crackly. voice pitched up as his throat closes.
akari eases off, wordlessly. she knows that an apology would do nothing for his psyche. he probably knows that too. it's the last thing he wants to hear- because in his mind, it really was his fault.
but your name on his screen is still something he can reach. something he can fix. at least a little. even if everything else is uncertain, you are a constant. you are okay and safe, just alone and scared.
your phone buzzes just after the sun goes back down.
you'd been staring at it anyway. limp and half-curled on your bed. face sticky and dry from the snot and tears smeared across it. breath ragged and interrupted by tiny momentary shudders from your hours of crying.
for one second, you don't move. because if it's another emergency alert, or your mother again, or one of your friends checking in- you don't know if you can take it.
then it buzzes a second time, and there, when you weakly lift yourself up to angle yourself towards the screen- and there-
ino :)
your breath leaves you in a sound that's halfway to a sob
ino :)
i'm okay
i'm really sorry
you're okay right
your vision goes hot and watery all at once, tears spilling before you can wonder how you're managing to muster up any more.
he's alive.
thank god
he's alive.
a broken sound escapes you- half laugh, half cry- and suddenly you're covering your mouth with one hand like that'll keep the rest of it in.
it doesn't.
your whole body folds in on itself with the force of it, shoulders shaking as the panic finally loosens somewhere deep enough to adjust into a vague relief. relief nonetheless.
you reread the message five times, just to make sure it stays the same. it's not a sleep deprivation induced hallucination.
your thumbs tremble over the keyboard, too many things fighting to come out. where are you? what happened? why didn’t you answer? are you hurt?
you delete all of them.
you
i'm home
i'm okay
you ponder it for a second, but your wits are too frayed to do so longer.
you
you scared me
the typing bubble appears almost immediately.
ino :)
i know
i'm sorry
i'm really sorry
your chest aches. his apology, mixed with the fact that he knows. that wherever he might be, despite whatever has been keeping him radio silent, he's still thinking of you- and apologizing for leaving his promise unfulfilled for hours that stretched far too long.
you press your lips together hard, fingers shaking again.
you
it's okay
don't be
what happened?
the next messages flicker long enough to make your stomach knot. small gaps between each of them.
ino :)
i can't really talk about it right now
i just wanted to make sure
you are okay
you stare at the spaces between them more than the messages themselves. it's stil him, yes, but dimmed. pulled tight. like every setnence has been checked over before being allowed out.
you
were you there?
are you hurt?
you can feel him decide in the pause he takes to respond.
ino :)
i was close
but i'm okay
nothing crazy
you don’t believe that. not really. you curl further in with a wipe of your sleeve and type again.
you
can i call you?
the answer takes longer than any of the others.
so long that by the time it comes, your hope has already started folding itself away.
ino :)
not right now
i'm sorry
i just wanted you to know i'm here
another couple tears slip through the border of lashes. because that's sweet. and awful. because it sounds like he reached through something heavy just to put those words in your hands, and now you have to sit with them without understanding any of it.
you
okay
thank you for texting me
i was really scared ino
i still am but
i don't know
still, all you can really crave is having someone with you right now. the tv is too loud. the silence is louder. and the thought of his voice does nothing but pull weak, trembling sniffles that have to be sated by the already damp sleeves of your hoodie.
ino :)
i know
it's okay to be scared
so long as you're safe
ino :)
you listened right?
you stayed home?
even now, that's what he asks. like he's making sure of it.
you
yes
i stayed home the whole night
ino :)
good
just that. simple. firm.
your chest twists around the word.
you
i'm glad you're okay
ino :)
yeah
i'm glad you are too
like really glad
you
will you text me later?
ino :)
i'll try
i'm probably going to knock out
don't freak okay
the laugh slips out before you can stop it. you can almost hear him say it.
you
i already freaked
ino :)
i know
my bad
you can hit me for it
as much as you want
your smile wobbles into something softer. fragile and gentle.
you
i wouldn't
i just really want a hug
admittedly, you thought about that one before sending it. the answer comes too quick for any pathetic self-doubt to sneak in.
ino :)
:(
me too
i'll see you soon
i promise
that nearly undoes you. a soft, crackled whine spills from your chest. you're both scared. even if he's trying to act like he's not.
you
okay
rest
and then-
nothing. the read receipt doesn't change. you don't send anything else. not because you don't want to. if anything, your mind is screaming at you to keep holding on to his presence. but because you can feel the edges of him in every text- frayed, exhausted, giving you only what he can hold up without dropping it.
painfully, selfishly, you set your phone back down and exhale long and shakily. the relief in you is real. it just doesn't settle cleanly. he's alive. he's just... something happened. something bad enough to turn his words into careful little pieces. to strip him of that casualness and reduce him to what he feels is necessary- for you.
the next day passes strangely after that. lighter, because he answered. heavier, because now there's a shape you can't quite make out about him.
your mother calls again and this time you can tell her, truthfully, that one of the people you were worried about is alright.
you don’t say how uncertain the word feels.
you answer your friends’ messages with more steadiness than before.
you eat half a granola bar because he'd want you to.
you keep the television on mute.
you keep your phone beside you.
reread the text thread, even when the tendrils of exhaustion are trying their hardest to pull you into it's hold. your thumb hovers over the chat box more than once.
each time, you lock your phone instead. because if he’s hurt, or tired, or buried under something you can’t see, the kindest thing you can do is let him disappear for a few hours without making him feel guilty for it.
the first few days pass similarly.
not silent. just… thinned out.
his messages come hours apart now, sometimes longer. gone is the easy stream of little comments, the blurry pictures, the half-serious nagging for you to eat something or to leave your studying for after you get some sleep. what’s left are shorter things. functional things. enough to let you know he’s still there.
ino :)
you up?
you
yes
ten minutes turn to twenty.
you
did you eat?
a long stretch of nothing, enough time for your chest to start tightening again.
ino :)
yea
you don't know if that's true. if that matters, so long as the word is there. you start to measure your days in his absences. like every vibration could either soothe you or ruin the next few hours.
the konbini stays closed. first for cleanup. then for "ongoing municipal restrictions." then indefinitely, in a short message sent to sound practical. saying they'll update everyone when things settle. like that's something in reach.
without work, the days lose what little structure they had. you stay in your apartment too much. watch the news too much. sleep badly. text him too carefully. he answers, but never enough to make you stop wondering.
you
how are you feeling?
ino :)
okay
you
that's good
ino :)
yea
you doing okay?
he deflects each time. never lets the topic of his well-being hang around long enough to settle. he sounds tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep now. like everything is being dragged up from somewhere deeper. like even his jokes have to be unearthed.
sometimes he tries.
ino :)
i can't lie
i look pretty beat up right now
you might not think i'm as cute (╥_╥)
you
what?
beat up?
ino :)
lol relax
just bruised
don't hug me too hard
you
is it really that bad?
what happened?
he leaves you on read for seven minutes. you count them without meaning to.
ino :)
i'll tell you about it when i see you
and somehow that hurts more than if he’d kept joking.
your friends notice you’re off. your mother notices too, in the way mothers always do. asks if you’ve heard more from “that boy.” you don’t know how to answer that. because yes. and no.
because he’s still speaking to you. but the distance between each message feels measured now. intentional. like he reaches for you and then catches himself halfway there. because every time you think maybe he’s coming back a little, he disappears again.
one night, you send:
you
i miss talking to you
ino :)
me too
he responds too quickly for the regret to get to you and manifest in you throwing your phone across the room. you type three different responses. delete all of them. settle on:
you
you can talk to me
he doesn't answer that one until the next morning.
ino :)
i know
you read it over breakfast. oatmeal gone cold and hard.
and something about those two words makes your throat ache.
because he does know. you've expressed that sentiment before, plenty of times. and still. there's the feeling that he's holding himself back.
the city keeps moving around the disaster in ugly, limping ways. news coverage shifts from panic to analysis to blame. people online talk about cursed spirits like they’ve always known the word. your friends stop bringing up halloween entirely. and somewhere in the middle of all that, the weather turns colder.
the shift in reality leaves the passage of time untouched. the november chill creeps in underneath your front door and windowsills. you start wearing socks in your apartment. go out for the first time in a week to get groceries, just to immediately step back in to put on another layer of clothing.
you
it's cold today
you attach an image of half of your face. bundled in a parka and wrapped in a scarf. dim cloudy sky behind you.
he reacts with a heart before he texts back.
ino :)
i missed your face
where are you going?
for the first time in a while, you smile.
you
(꩜/////꩜ " )
groceries
one store nearby opened back up the other day
ino :)
oh okay
be safe
text me when you're home
you
i will
he hearts that message too.
for the rest of the day, you cup that small sense of normalcy in his tone with care. don’t prod too much. don’t look too hard at it. your phone stays warm in your palm as you walk, basket bumping against your knee every other step, your scarf pulled high enough to trap the heat blooming across your face.
i missed your face.
and then-
be safe.
he says that a lot now. more than before. more seriously, too.
you’d thought it was just him being sweet. he always told you to get home safe. reminded you to text him when you did.you told yourself he was just shaken too. anyone would be. this new, invisible threat- curses- now spoken about on national television like it had always been there. delivered through the same mouths that once talked about weather patterns and election coverage.
it was impossible for the first few days. now, sickeningly real. old forums resurface. years of posts from people asking if anyone else sees things no one else does- now circulating everywhere. dissected. validated. monetized.
cursed spirits are real. they have been for a while, apparently.
which means someone has to deal with them. someone has been dealing with them.
you hadn’t had space to think about that before.
not through the panic. not through the crater. not through the calls that wouldn’t go through and the names you were too afraid to lose.
but now, there's room for memory. for the shape of things said before the world split open.
all those nights he’d show up exhausted in ways that never quite matched the easy excuses he gave. the scrapes on his knuckles. the strange hours. the cigarettes for his boss. the sense that he was always coming from somewhere, always heading somewhere else.
something like that. work. don't go.
your grip tightens around the can of soup you’ve been turning over in your hands.
that's a stupid. he already told you what he does. some kind of freelance security job. a bodyguard. a bouncer. he never gave details- said he signed an nda. jokingly asked if his mystery gave him aura.
that makes sense.
he can't be.
...right?
your stomach turns anyways.
because how did he know?
he told you not to go. made you a promise. he was working- couldn't talk about it. and when everything happened- he didn't sound surprised. he seemed like somebody who was already familiar with this inconceivable threat. didn't say a single thing about how shocking the revelation was. it had only been you expressing your disbelief.
you set the broth back a little too quickly, a wave of unease rolling through you.
if cursed spirits are real- then what does that make him?
you shake your head once, trying to dislodge the thought. that's ridiculous. isn't it? you don't even know what a sorcerer is supposed to look like. if they even have a name beyond what the television says. if there are rules, uniforms, organizations. if they're government-employed, tucked into society like the yakuza- or something stranger than both of those things.
but you know what you've seen. you know the parts of him he's given you, and are even more intimately familiar with the parts of him he's withheld.
you pause in front of the instant noodles, staring blankly at rows of cups and packets without reading a single label.
if he really was there in shibuya for more than work, for more than some vague errand or bad timing-
then how close did he come? to those... things. to whatever turned the city into what you saw on television.
on the way back, as your bags swing idly at your side and you keep your gaze locked on the passing cracks in pavement, a chill runs through you that has nothing to do with the weather.
his worry. the way he double checked you really stayed home before showing relief. because maybe it wasn't just that. something heavier. something earned at a cost you still can't see.
inside your apartment, you set the groceries down more carefully than you need to and stand there in the kitchen with your scarf still on, mind turning slow and uneasy around the same thought.
ino... what do you do?
and more frighteningly.
what happened to you?
you don't text him that. of course you don't. you wouldn't even know how to start. and if you're wrong- and if you’re wrong, you’d scorch every fragile inch of familiarity the two of you have spent all this time building.
but beneath the uncertainty, something softer aches in your chest.
because if it’s true.
then even from inside that hidden world, whatever shape it takes-
summary: a new tenant moves into the empty suite adjacent from the higuruma law office. another accountant? no. a tax firm? worse. an acclaimed "spiritual medium." he's seen the business model hundreds of times before. predatory. fraudulent. spurred by the instinct to prove her work as illegitimate, he begins to observe her. but the deeper he looks, the more his certainty begins to unravel.
contains: pre-canon higuruma. medium!reader. rivals to lovers. smoking + drinking. light angst. you're both miserable workaholics. eventual smut at the end. reader and higu are both kinda switchy. higuruma is kinda pervy. oral (f!receiving), p in v.
a/n: i can't even lie this entire fic is inspired by this tweet. listened to sade and gloomy jazz the entire time too. depressing mature office romance higuruma save me. first long fic ever guys don't kill me... just a little #Experiment
playlist link - wc: 16k
the office is quiet in the way it always is in the late afternoon.
papers stacked in neat, deliberate piles. fluorescent lights buzzing if you listen close enough. passing hums of cars vibrating the coffee mug on his desk gently.
hiromi higuruma- scratching his pen idly against the paper, reviewing the same document for the third time.
his eyes don’t flinch at the gentle knock on the office’s door.
"come in," he murmurs, too low for whoever is on the other side to hear. he already knows who it is.
shimizu steps in, brighter than the room allows for. awfully chipper, he notes.
"ah- higuruma-san, you're still here."
"i usually am." dry. automatic.
she glides to her cubicle, shrugging off her coat and tossing it over the back of her chair. "i just thought you'd have been out for lunch."
he sighs, low and long, eyes descending to the next frame of text.
"didn't take one."
shimizu's lip tugs upwards as she gawks.
"hahh? are you still on that fraud case?"
"...no... i'm on the hit and run now."
"the hit and run?!" her voice peaks as she repeats it, disbelief loud enough to echo down the hall.
"yes.” he say it’s like it’s obvious. eyes closed in a brace too late for her noise. “miyamoto-san. the nineteen year old from sendai."
“god, i’m not talking about the case,” she groans. “i’m talking about you not leaving that chair for the past six hours.”
a quiet laugh rumbles in higuruma's chest. "it's my job." as if neglecting his well being is a part of that description.
shimizu clicks her tongue at that, scooting her chair in. unbelievable.
their voices are absent for a moment, just typing and scrawling filling the small office. then, shimizu speaks.
"y'know, i found out a little something about myself the other day."
higuruma grunts in acknowledgment, still scanning the page.
"apparently my star sign says i'm argumentative. isn't that funny?" she rocks back in her chair, entirely unconcerned with her actual workload.
he pauses. just for a second.
"...hm."
“but it also said i’m too empathetic,” she continues, undeterred. “like, i take on other people’s problems as my own. so because arguing is basically my job, i get too invested at my own detriment-”
"accurate, right? it's like it was destined!"
her chair squeaks gently as she pushes back on it, arms spreading out fantasically.
met only with silence, and a dissatisfied look on higuruma's face.
she shrinks in on herself with a pout. this guy ruins everything.
"and who told you all this?"
"the... new tenant..." shimizu mumbled, looking down like a guilty dog.
"what new tenant."
"you haven't seen her? the medium- she's in the-"
"suite 203." he interrupts. short.
yes, he'd seen you. well, not you, but your... "business."
his eyes had hitched on the sign as he came and went the past three days. the plaque itself was neat enough. polished. not some handwritten cardboard advertisement taped crookedly to the wall.
the building already housed enough nonsense to irritate him on principle.
a tax consultant with a waiting room no one ever sat in. a chiropactor that burned incense strong enough to give him a headache each time he passed by it. a software startup that consisted of two men and an idea that would never survive contact with reality.
now this.
'spirits and such consultation office'
no credentials. no framework. no accountability.
"oh- so you have!"
"i haven't met her."
“ugh- she’s the sweetest,” shimizu insists, leaning forward in her chair. “she invited me in when i passed by her office. her assistant made me tea- he looked like a high schooler. isn’t that sweet?”
"that doesn't help her case."
shimizu stills and groans, rolling her eyes as she leans back in her chair. "oh, come on."
he says nothing.
shimizu sighs, half amused, half exasperated. "i knew you'd react like this."
"react like what?”
"like she's running an organ trafficking ring out of her suite."
higuruma clicks his pen closed, file long forgotten in favor of this nonsense- which is now apparently plaguing his assistant.
“she is charging people for divination services,” he says. “apparently with an underage employee as well.”
"so?"
"so," he repeats, drawing out his vowel, "that is generally how scams work."
shimizu makes a face, but there’s no real bite to it. she reaches for her coffee, takes a sip- then pauses, remembering something better. like this'll be the statement to get him.
"she was good. she read my natal chart for me."
higuruma blinks once.
"my natal chart. what i was just telling you about."
he looked at her the same way he did defendants when they'd just made a decision against their own interests. still silent.
"don't look at me like that. i know how it sounds."
"do you?"
"yes." she speaks, puffing her cheeks. "i do."
"then explain why you're saying it to me in this office."
"becaauuse-" she twirls in her chair once.
"it was good."
"good.” he echoes dismissively.
"scary good."
that's it. that hook. the line every conman needed- not just believable enough to hold, but unbelievable enough to prompt repeating. he's seen it all before.
"meaning?” he huffs, folding his arms.
"asked me for my birthday- time and everything. then she drew the whole thing out by hand. explained what each bit was as she did it."
"she drew a circle on paper."
"she drew it fast," shimizu corrected, offended on the strangers behalf. "she knew exactly what she was doing. there was no... no filibustering. no upselling."
"people memorize systems."
"higuruma."
she spoke, her tone announcing how impossible he was being. it did not move him.
"you entered a consultation. you provided personal data-" he starts, tone impatient as if he's lecturing a child.
"i gave her my birthday."
"...data."
shimizu crosses her arms. higuruma taps his pen lightly against the desk, continuing his lecture.
"and she charged you for it."
"oh- please- you weren't even there!"
"i don't need to examine every instance of a known pattern to know what this is."
"a known pattern." she repeats, mocking his flat tone.
he sets his pen down, measured. then leans forward, elbows resting on the desk, fingers steepled in front of his mouth.
"individuals in vulnerable states seeking clarity or comfort," he speaks. not louder. just sharper.
"a 'practitioner' presents themselves as uniquely capable of providing it." his tone is dismissive as he gestures air quotes as he speaks. then he nods towards shimizu, as if to wordlessly say, "do you see what i'm getting at and why you're a fool?"
"information is gathered, reframed, and sold back to the client as insight."
case closed. silence.
shimizu stares, flat faced.
“that's a really depressing way to describe her business.”
"i'm describing a scam."
it's not long before he can put a face to the name shimizu told him.
most of his presumed expectations were met.
he'd caught you on his way out one evening-hallway lights dimmed, offices thinning out. escorting a young, shaken-looking woman out of your suite.
"you don't have to decide tonight," you hum, softly. "just don't ignore it."
the girl nods quickly, sniffling.
"good." you nod, petting her shoulder once before you step back to give her space.
"text your sister when you get home."
the girl blinks. sniffles halted for a split second.
"i-i didn't mention-"
"i know." you smile. so very gently.
and her tears well up with double the intensity.
"y-yes ma'am. thank you very much."
she bows once before turning to leave. you don’t move. you just stand there, seeing her off.
he eavesdrops the entire time, veiling his listening with a calculated jumble of his keys as he “finds” the correct one.
soft-voiced, smooth. pretty enough to disarm. clever enough to use it to your advantage.
a conwoman with good posture and a sly smile.
"ah, you must be higuruma-san."
your gaze met his stare from down the hall- drawn, apparently, by nothing more than the soft click of his office door locking.
he clears his throat, slipping his keys into his coat pocket before he straightens and meets your gaze.
"and you're l/n-san."
"i am," you speak, tilting your head with that soft smile still adorning you. pleased.
"shimizu-san spoke highly of you."
"i'm sure she did." he looks at you flatly, dryness crackling in his voice.
and you can't help but laugh at it.
"c'mon, neighbor- you can't even try to be cordial? have you already decided what i am?"
higuruma scoffs under his breath, stepping past you toward the elevators. he’s never been one to beat around the bush. especially when he dislikes someone.
"i know enough of your business model to deduce its fraudulence."
you fall into step beside him without hesitation as he brushes past you. no invitation, just automatically matching your steps with him.
"i wasn't aware attorneys stopped at 'knowing enough' before cementing decisions."
his stride doesn't break- but something shifts. small, precise.
you hit something.
'she's quick.'
"i don't," he replies evenly. "i verify."
"then you're doing a poor job of it."
his eyes flick towards you without a shift in his face. reluctantly acknowledging your bothersome tone.
"am i."
"mm," you nod, smile lingering. "you know, most people at least wait until i've swindled them before calling me a fraud."
the two of you stop at the floor's lobby. higuruma sighs in his own, brooding exasperated way as you stop with him, cocking one hip to the side with your gaze still fixed on his face. he refuses to look at you, pressing the elevator button with one firm thumb.
"i'm sure that performance is very convincing." he speaks to the yet to open entrance to the elevator.
so serious. his skepticism almost makes him immune to being interesting.
almost.
you tilt your head, eyes narrowed with your smile like you're enjoying this. because you definitely are.
"i could show you."
he lets out the softest sound through his nose. not quite disbelief. not quite amusement.
"you're confident."
"i have to be." you hum. "people don't pay for hesitation."
a pause.
"you know that," you purr. soft and velvety.
his jaw ticks. not dramatic. just once. eyes and brows drawing in irritation.
'this is childish.'
"i'm not your client."
"no," you agree. then, just a little sweeter. "not yet."
the doors slide open with a ding.
"with the current evidence provided-" he speaks, stepping in without offering you the courtesy of holding them, "that will remain the case indefinitely."
he turns to you, nose still turned up at your height- but his eyes meet yours.
you tilt your head, smiling sharply enough for a canine to peek through. but not grinning.
"evidence? i didn't realize i was under investigation." your tongue glazes over the front of your teeth once. slow and purposeful.
you’re flirting.
his body tightens at that realization. distrust churning quick in his stomach.
"you're operating a business that invites scrutiny."
"and yet, you haven't come inside."
he can't help the smirk that tugs his lip at that. you're petty- and restless about it. it's charmingly annoying.
he recomposes himself as he tightens his tie with one hand, the other knitted tightly around his briefcase.
"save your breath for someone it will work on," he gruffs.
you don't respond. just stand there, with that bratty posture and foxy smile. eyes narrowed like you know something.
the elevator doors shut- and with them, the string of eye contact snaps loud enough for it to echo inside the mechanical box.
and with its absence, he finds himself letting go of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
in the quiet lull of his workdays, he finds himself (reluctantly) taking notice of the activity next door.
it irritates him how often he notices.
more irritating still is that the visits are steady. your reviews are glowing. and worst of all, you’re not technically breaking any laws. he, shamefully so, looked into it to make sure.
that, more than the gaudy floor mat or the soft scent of candles and herbs drifting beneath your door, is what bothers him.
because charlatans survive on momentum. on repeat desperation. on people wanting certainty badly enough to pay for a performance of it.
and yet- the people leaving your office do not look swindled.
the spectrum ranges from relieved to hollowed. but never angry or dissatisfied.
which only makes it worse.
a man cries in your office one afternoon.
higuruma is halfway through a review of witness statements when it starts- muffled through drywall and distance, but unmistakable.
it's not loud or theatrical. it's the kind of crying someone does after spending too long trying not to.
his pen stills.
'focus.'
he exhales, tense, eyes knitting briefly. reads the same line. again. and again. but the words never settle. don't unblur, even when he narrows his vision.
not because he means to listen. because it's impossible not to.
he can't make out the words you two exchange until you're escorting him out- and the soft echo of your voice in the hall carries just enough for him to hear.
"you can miss him without making a shrine out of your guilt."
“that’s not what he wants.”
silence. then a choked thank you.
higuruma does not look up.
he pretends not to notice.
pretend he does not sit in the quiet afterward, turning that sentence over in his mind. observing every side of it like a rubix cube.
it was precise. no vague or softened to give comfort or closure. to some, it could've been viewed as harsh.
are you simply just that practiced? that adept and apathetic to weaponize one's weaknesses that smoothly? and for them to view it as relief rather than exposure?
or-
his gaze drifts, just briefly, to the wall the seperates you two.
is it this "gift" he's heard whispered amongst the other occupants of the building?
he scoffs at the thought, shaking his head and forcing it to return to his- very important- work. work that is too important to be put second to trying to figure out if a fairy tale holds any truth to it.
there are patterns. there is observation. there is inference.
and there is the human tendency to assign meaning where there is none.
he has built his career on understanding that.
and yet- his pen remains still for just a moment longer than it should.
the first time you cross the the threshold of his office, you do it like you belong there.
no hesitation, just two soft knocks against the old veneer of the office door, a permission hummed by shimizu, and you stepping in- decorated paper bag in one hand.
"ah! y/n-san!" she’s out of her chair immediately, rounding the half-abandoned cubicles that now serve as file storage more than anything else.
"mm." you smile, small and easy. shimizu's always such a delight- even when she's hounding you for a reading she agrees with.
“they gave me an extra custard bun,” you say, lifting the bag slightly. “and, tragically, i’m not in the mood for sweetness.”
your eyes flick toward higuruma once, taking in how he's already looking at you without the lift of his head.
what a dour expression.
“so,” you continue, turning back to shimizu with a soft, sing-song tilt, “i thought of you~”
she lights up, taking it with both hands as she nearly jumps in place. delighted in a way so genuine it borders on embarrassing.
higuruma’s jaw ticks at the sight.
'you're a criminal defense attorney, for christ's sake.' he thinks, as if he can somehow beam the thought straight into her head.
“you’re an angel. thank you,” shimizu clasps her hands together in something dangerously close to worship.
"don't thank me yet," you murmur. "it could be terrible."
she shakes her head immediately. "it's from the good bakery. these are the best."
your head falls to one side as your hands lift to shrug with your shoulders. an airy, comedic motion.
"see? now i look thoughtful."
said, plainly. with no effort to sell the joke. it's undeniably charismatic, pulling a laugh from shimizu.
higuruma watches from behind his desk, text cursor blinking impatiently for the next line he's cast aside writing. eyes heavy on you with judgment.
you speak so easily, he views it as calibrated. not false, necessarily. but a version of you consciously dipped and drizzled in syrup. the sort of social fluency that makes people trust you before they realize so.
then you turn to him-
and that sweetness changes flavor.
still polite. still smiling. just sharper at the edges.
"higuruma-san."
he inclines his head in the barest acknowledgment possible.
"l/n-san."
shimizu's eyes dart between the two of you, already sensing tension and enjoying it far too much.
you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. office quiet enough to carry your voice all the way to his desk.
"still not happy with what you've gathered on me?"
"still charging for vague generalities?"
shimizu muffles the strangled sound that tries to escape her throat with a fist.
"is that what you call it?"
"that's what it is."
"mm."
the little sound. that infuriating, noncommittal little sound.
"you sound very sure," you murmur. "you put a lot of thought into that verdict?"
"as much as required."
"so you do think about me." you lean just a fraction further into the doorframe as you say it, heel crossing over your ankle—posture easy, deliberate.
are you seriously doing this in front of shimizu?
higuruma exhales, slow and controlled, dragging a hand over his eyes before pulling it back to his computer. ceasing his eye contact with you. which is, in itself, an answer.
“if you’re here to be distracting,” he says, voice even, “keep it contained to my assistant.”
"i have work to do."
"and now i'm distracting." you echo, hand lifting to your chest in mock offense. "hear that shimizu-san?"
"i meaaan..." she shrugs slowly, surrendering on higuruma's behalf. he diiiid say that...
her eyes look over you, warm and smirking as you relish in this. and then they flick to higuruma-
'so help me god if you indulge this woman.'
"he- uhh. you... ahem."
“i have the right to…” she clears her throat, turning back to her computer with the stiff panic of a hostage reading from a script, “…remain silent.”
you can't help the laugh that pulls from you. such a party pooper. shimizu tries to bite down her own smirk forming, but you two share a knowing girly glance.
then, just as lightly as you came in, you push off the frame.
"i'll leave you to your work," you hum, gaze softening towards shimizu with a nod. "enjoy that before he makes you cite evidence for liking it."
shimizu giggles despite the oppressive weight of her boss’s presence.
"i don't micromanage pastries."
“no,” you say, pausing halfway into the hall so only your upper body remains in view. “just people.”
and then you're gone. with a sweet little wave. to him. dragging the scent of incense with you.
shimizu rolls back into her desk, silently looking up at her boss's despondent expression every few seconds. him sighing loud enough for it to bounce off the office's walls, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
"...you are so easy to rile."
"finish your work."
shimizu brings you up with increasing regularity.
"she told me i over-prepare for disappointment." then, annoyingly. "she was right."
"she mentioned something about the transit affecting my tenth house... i think she was right..."
"we should move this case up. mercury is gonna be in retrograde."
higuruma does not encourage this.
he does not ask follow-up questions. he does not look up from his work when shimizu mentions you over lunch.
and yet, she persists.
perhaps because she senses resistance and enjoys pressing on it like the traitor she is.
"she's not what you think," she says, shuffling a stack of envelopes on his desk. it was a quiet afternoon, that one. perhaps in buildup of this.
"that assumes i care enough to form a detailed impression."
shimizu gives him a flat look. "you always care enough to form a detailed impression."
he says nothing to that.
she continues anyway, because of course she does.
"she brought up my brother."
that- gets him. his eyes lift.
shimizu shrugs one shoulder, attempting to play it off casually, but her eyes fall somber.
"i didn't tell her about him," she says. "not once."
a pause.
"she just... stopped me on my way in. like she was... handing me something i left behind."
higuruma's brows furrow slightly.
"asked me if there was a date i'd been avoiding."
"and... and i was. it was his birthday. a week ago."
she looks down at her hands. still holding the envelopes.
"i hadn't reached out."
higuruma watches her. the lack of drama and embellishment. simply recalling it.
"she said i was letting the day pass like it didn't matter," shimizu murmurs. "but that i'd already been thinking about it all week."
not many people know about the tension between shimizu and her brother.
months of silence. a disagreement that went further than it should have.
it is not easily inferred. not something for you to know.
higuruma's gaze drops back to the document on his desk- black text turning to scribbles before him.
"she… could have guessed." his words carry distrust and insecurity in saying them- because how could you have?
"you didn't hear how she said it."
"they lead conversations the same way prosecutors do." he replies. "they watch reactions. adjust. she's been doing this for a while-"
"no," shimizu's voice cuts through his. firm.
"she wasn't even looking at me. she was looking past me- like-" she falters. searches for it. "like she was looking at someone else."
he sighs with something akin to pity. like shimizu's digging herself into a hole.
"shimizu-"
shimizu's palms meet his desk, envelopes discarded to the side.
"she said- and i quote-"
"she doesn't like seeing you two fight."
higuruma stills. eyes meeting hers- boring into him with unshakeable resolve.
a year and a half ago, shimizu's mother died. and everything after that- the distance, the arguments, the now, silence- started there. it is not a public fact. it is not something an objective stranger guesses correctly.
he looks back down, turning his pen over between two fingers.
for once, he has nothing to say. no objection. you were vague, but not vague enough. somehow deducing shimizu's family circumstances with little to no leading or compound questions.
and shimizu, despite her previously grim disposition, smiles a bit at the fact that she got higuruma to think about you.
sometimes he catches you in between clients.
he sees you one evening, later than usual. he’s finishing early for once. gathering his things with the quiet efficiency of someone who has reluctantly decided that he can no longer think productively for the day.
you're not.
you're standing with a girl- young, fragile in the way people are when they've said more than they ever have, to a stranger, at that.
higuruma's hand hovers over the knob, staring into the faint gleam of moonlight that catches as he listens.
"don't call him tonight," you say gently, as if finishing the young girl's thought for her.
the girl lets out a weak, watery laugh. "i won't."
"good." you nod once. "go home. drink water. shower. sleep before you decide something brash."
another brittle laugh. "you make it sound so easy."
"it isn't," you hum. "that's why i'm giving you cliffnotes to follow."
that earns a genuine smile.
something about you and the reactions you elicit in others. you manage to speak in a way that portrays a relationship history deeper than client and saleswoman. it’s enticing. he can see why so many may fall.
the girl nods, clutching her bag tighter. she thanks you again, voice quiet and embarrassed, then turns toward the elevator.
higuruma, standing a room down the hall with his briefcase in hand, pushes the door open to step out and immediately lets his eyes catch on your darkened silhouette.
the moment she leaves your line of sight- your posture drops. composure slipping from you like sand between fingers.
no triumphant crossing of arms. no counting of cash at the door. no visible satisfaction.
you turn toward your office- and for a brief second- your eyes flick past him.
eyes half-lidded, your mouth slackened into something absent, something exhausted. a look so unguarded it hits him with an almost indecent intimacy.
and gone with just a quiet closing of the latch.
you knew he was there.
and yet you made no effort to rearrange yourself for his benefit. no sly smile, no teasing tone, no practiced ease. you simply stepped back into your own space with a quiet latch.
he dislikes those moments most. because they complicate you. they make the initial assumption of pompous conwoman becomes obscured by relatability.
the expression strikes him with the ugly force of recognition. something he's seen only in reflective surfaces. the look of a person who has spent the better part of the day absorbing what other people could not bear alone.
he understands the moral architecture of exploitation well enough. has spent years studying the fault lines in people- victims and perpetrators alike- and observing the outcomes of both ends. some burn the last bit of themselves, holding on to the humiliating human need to believe someone might still know how to help. some convert their desperation into dependency. loan sharks. pimps.
he has always found that sort of predation especially contemptible.
the transaction itself is vulgar enough: a person in pain, another person packaging relief. but what makes it unforgivable is the intimacy of it. the soft white underbelly of insecurity bared with hope and cut open with greed.
he had placed you among those people almost immediately.
but that is not what he’s been seeing between you and your customers. that is not what he just saw.
what he saw was fatigue. depletion. perhaps even empathy, though he distrusts the word in cases like these.
as though you do not profit from pain so much as take possession of it.
he exhales, low and controlled. he has frameworks for this. categories. patterns. motives.
and yet none of them account for the evidence in front of him.
none of them explain why the sight of your face- momentarily emptied of performance, replaced with familiar lethargy- lodged itself under his ribs with such embarrassing precision.
he passes your door on his way out, shaking it off.
he tells himself he’s done thinking about it.
done thinking about you.
but the thought lingers long after he’s left the building.
this time around, the building is dead quiet by the time higuruma finally locks up his office.
the kind of stillness that only sets in after midnight—when the fluorescent lights have been shut off in favor of warm wall fixtures spaced too far apart, leaving pockets of shadow between them.
the elevator retains its usual harsh, artificial brightness. much to higurumas dismay.
he'd stayed later than intended. again. a draft to revise, a client call that dragged, paperwork that refused to become less paperwork no matter how many hours he fed it. by the time he locks up, the busy noise of other businesses has been replaced by stale air-conditioning and something fainly metallic in the silence. even the cleaning staff is long gone.
the front door is already shut. the security system armed. he knows that before he even steps off the elevator. he’s no stranger to staying this late.
he takes the narrow corridor toward the rear stairwell that leads to the back parking lot and communal dumpsters. passes the darkened storefronts. a nail salon, a marriage advisor, the shuttered vending machine with its flickering panel.
it creaks open with a metallic groan, shutting behind him with a small beep as it autolocks behind him.
cool night air greets him first. faint city noise bleeding in from somewhere beyond the alley and a draft too weak to carry anything.
aside from the smell of smoke.
you.
leaning against the low metal railing like you've been part of the architecture all along. one heel hooked loosely over the other, long tan coat swaying loosely.
cigarette glowing faint orange between two fingers- the blue night lights of the city catching your profile in pieces. cheekbone, lashes, and a little glint of an earring when you turn your head.
"good evening, higuruma."
your voice is soft. just a tint of performance coloring it. but looser than usual.
your expression is the same variant of melancholy as the last night he saw you. just a faint, tired smile that ghosts across your face before you bring the cigarette back to your lips.
he studies you longer than he means to.
"you look tired." he speaks without thinking.
you exhale slowly, looking back over the railing as you tap ash into the stale night air.
"that makes two of us."
"is it that evident?" he huffs, a bit humored, knowing exactly how he must look. deep bags made deeper by the moonlight and hours of staring at everything and nothing in particular.
he steps closer, close enough you could call it company. standing beneath the awning to look over the railing. it's not exactly a lovely sight. a lot specked with enough cars to count on one hand.
but you're staring like it's worth looking at.
he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been second-guessing his initial assumption of your worldview. but to do it right beside you- taking in the same landscape as you- it feels perverse. like he's the wrong one now. trying to pry into why you do what you do, even if it's something as minimal as smoking alone in the dead, stale quiet of the lot.
"i don't need to host a seance to see your exhaustion."
higuruma glances at you, just to see you looking over at the same time.
"that was a joke." "i'm aware."
and then,
the both of you laugh- a weak, mature kind of laugh that comes out in a puff from higuruma's nose and a quiet breath from you- before you both look back out into the night.
it settles between the two of you delicately. you, already relinquishing any social upper hand, and higuruma, already filing it away to dissect later.
later, though. not now.
"you shouldn't be out here alone this late." he observes, and speaks before he can stop himself.
you hum, making him (almost) immediately regret saying it. "you worried about me, neighbor?"
"i'm being cordial." he speaks, low and ragged. "i've been practicing."
there's the faintest trace of a smirk. his own body betraying him before he can force it down. he doesn't realize it already has long before that.
you breathe another laugh before you take another puff.
"look at that. progress."
your tone is laced with a sarcastic fatalism. dry. amused. but... tired.
there are no clients. no soft office lamp. no careful positioning of chairs or distance to maintain.
he’s noticed that about you. that no matter what, you enforce that distance. constantly deflect praise and shrug off gratitude like it's inconvenient.
like being owed something bothers you.
none of it fits the woman he expected you to be.
all of it fits the woman before him now.
standing here, with tired eyes and a vice. ran dry by your day of work- whatever that entails. but clearly exhausting enough for you to linger around this bleak, tucked-away part of town.
"are you here often?" he asks.
"at this hour?" you tilt your head. "or smoking?
"both." he supposes.
a thin stream of smoke leaves your mouth.
"only when i'm avoiding going home."
that answer is too easy to be accidental. higuruma's eyes harden at it. like being a witness to your humanity is settling with his spirit incorrectly.
"and you? avoiding something? or just overworking yourself on principle?"
he doesn't answer immediately. the truth is exposing and unimpressive. work had run long. his head hurts. he'd rather stand in the cold than go straight home and sit alone with his thoughts and the stale taste of nothing but coffee still sitting under his tongue.
"if i don't do it, no one else will." he sighs, aware of how pernicious that answer must sound.
"quite the burden you bear."
"it's tolerable."
"is it?" you look up at him, leaning forward slightly against the railing, both elbows resting over the cold metal like it takes less effort than standing upright.
he slips a hand into his coat pocket, still looking out over the empty stretch of concrete.
“if someone else did it,” he says, “they’d only do it half as well.” a non-answer. but speaking his true woes is far too vulnerable.
he lowers his gaze to you.
"i believe you." you speak, immediately. no pause to think of something clever or a flirty tilt of your head.
just the both of your heavy eyes meeting.
"do you?" he questions, peering at you through his bottom lashes. not challenging this time. genuinely curious.
"i've seen enough of your work to," you take one last drag, the ember burning down to the filter. "just be careful. don't let the line between allowing misery in and seeking misery be blurred."
you quell the embers against metal before flicking the butt away. movements economical and words careful, even in fatigue.
higuruma wants to sneer at it. but he can't.
that wasn't to tease or taunt. it was... specific. the same precision shimizu had described. and it's... different being on the receiving end of it.
it’s starting to sound like you care.
".... are you going to charge me for that?"
you laugh at that, straightening your posture and slipping your hands into your coat pockets.
"we can work out a payment plan if you can't afford it now."
that dry humor again.
threaded through exhaustion. mixed with the fatigue under your eyes. the way you stand like you belong nowhere and exactly where you are at the same time.
something in his chest tightens in a way he chooses not to examine.
made worse by the glance you offer over your shoulder, and the sentence you murmur before walking off entirely.
"i'll take a drink in exchange."
you turn, already digging for your keys, footsteps soft as you disappear into the night. and just like that, you're gone.
that distance too.
leaving higuruma to do nothing but stare at the space you once took and decide if he should be annoyed, dismissive, or something worse.
left alone with the cold air, the fading smell of your cigarette, and the distinctly irritating feeling of someone withholding key information.
because you know exactly what you are.
he is... no longer sure.
and he wants to figure it out.
his head hangs heavy as a laugh rumbles in his chest, gravely and silent. a noise only he can hear now.
"unbelievable."
the next few days pass without incident.
he works. he leaves. and deliberately avoids thinking about you every waking moment, despite the fact that you are only a wall away.
it's nothing. just good instincts dressed in velvety language. he’s built a career on identifying that sort of fluency. he knows better than to get involved with his flirty supernatural neighbor. he has more important things to contend with.
going down the rabbit hole of you has proven to be distracting enough.
not because you are particularly convincing. after all, he has retained enough pride to not walk into your studio and sit for an assessment of his own.
but because there is something in the very precise way you speak that feels uncomfortably familiar. you do not embellish or overexplain.
he recognizes that technique.
because he uses it.
he finds himself replaying you at your most composed and most drained. finds himself drawing lines between the two of you.
he does not need to revisit it. he does not need to revisit you.
the case collapses on thursday.
it isn’t catastrophic. no dramatic courtroom collapse, no shocking twist worthy of some bitter monologue on the courthouse steps. just the quiet, familiar kind of failure that settles into his bones worse than outrage ever could.
higuruma stands there, jaw tight, listening to the ruling like it’s being read in a language he doesn't understand.
he does. that's the problem.
he understands every word of it. understands that no matter how precisely he constructs his arguments, how carefully he selects what to say and what to dismantle, how much of himself he grinds down into work- he will still lose.
by the time he gets back to the office, the exhaustion has sharpened into something mean.
everything is a decibel louder than usual. his tie is too tight. his collar feels wrong. it's so bright. did the building always make this much noise? and shimizu's typing- god shimizu's fucking typing-
"shimizu-san. go ahead and go home for the day." he speaks. even as usual.
"you sure?"
"yes. go ahead."
she makes a meek noise of acknowledgement before gathering her things and leaving without another question.
he waits exactly ten seconds after the door shuts.
counts each of them as shimizus heel clacks dissipate down the hallway.
calmly collects the files back into their folder. stands up.
takes a breath to that does nothing to quell the fire of anger now fully realized in his diaphragm.
and hurls the collection of evidence into the wall hard enough that the sound cracks through the office- some papers pluming out with it.
and before he can stop himself from reconsidering- before he can rationalize it, suppress, file it away like everything else- he's already moving. the now ache in his shoulder doing nothing to sober him up.
he rounds his desk. out of his office. down the hall three steps.
he stops.
and knocks once.
it takes just a second for your idle "come in," to be heard, and half of one for him to push the door half open.
there’s no client seated across from you. just you. backlit by the warm spill of the sun through your window. appearance matching the gentle scent of incense that wafts into his face as soon as he peeks in.
you blink at him once, taking in the loosened tie, the strain in his posture, the look on his face.
higuruma doesn't let himself pause long enough to reconsider.
"i'm going to need that drink."
which is exactly how hiromi higuruma finds himself sitting in the corner booth of a tucked-away izakaya with the woman he had been blocking out of his mind since the beginning of this week.
low amber lighting. dark wood. somewhere overhead, old jazz crackles faintly through the speakers, just loud enough to blur the conversations happening. there are only a few other customers, all dressed in some variation of the same exhaustion: button-downs with sleeves rolled, suit jackets draped over chair backs, tired eyes behind glasses.
higuruma makes a quiet observation.
'it doesn't stop. of course it doesn't.'
and then, of course, there’s you. scooching into your seat across from him, letting your coat fall into a loose heap beside you.
resting your chin on your hand as you scroll and tap your phone. paying no mind to him.
which he appreciates- as his blood is still cooling from today’s events and he’s still trying to figure out if this is a decision to regret or not.
the server arrives with menus neither of you really need.
"good evening, kenji." you say, already angling toward him, elbow propped lazily against the table.
"it's good to see you, ma'am." he hums, hands folded neatly before him. "how is business?"
"just fine. your father doing better?"
he nods, a quiet relief in it. "yes, very much so. thank you for asking."
you wave it off, dismissive- but your mouth curves anyway. "that's good to hear. i'm glad."
"yes ma'am." he nods, final. "have you decided, sir?"
higuruma takes a moment to look up, realizing that what he was just eavesdropping on now includes him.
"yes- sapporo premium black, please." he nods, handing the menu back as you do.
"yes sir. your usual, ma'am?"
you nod, dismissing him. allowing the quiet to settle back in.
his expression settled into something much more manageable now that he's outside of his office and away from the file he nearly put through a wall.
the whole place glows with that particular kind of end-of-day defeat. private, ritualistic, almost tender.
and for the first time since he knocked on your door, he lets himself look at you properly. not in passing or through a doorway. just you, across from him. contained in the same small space without interruption or distance to mediate the impression.
you look different like this. the same tired version of you he’s only caught in fragments now sits plainly before him, unguarded as you shift the ice in your glass of water.
it is not an expression he expects to find appealing.
but he does not look away from it.
very real. very disarming. he acknowledges it a second too late.
"bad day?" you ask, pulling him cleanly from it.
his gaze lifts from your hand- the slow, absent motion of your fingers tipping the glass back and forth.
he exhales, settling into the leather. "you would know, wouldn't you?"
"of course. my crystal ball told me."
he scoffs, giving a loose shake of his head. you're funny.
the drinks arrive without ceremony.
the cold malt cuts through the lingering static in his chest in a way the office hadn’t managed to all day. he realizes, faintly, that he's grateful for this.
you sip your own, slower. letting him sit in the silence.
that, more than anything, is what gets him to speak.
“for the record,” he says, “i’m not here because i’ve been convinced of anything.”
you don’t even look up.
“relax.”
a small swirl of your drink.
“i’m not here to sell you on anything.” a pause. "i'm here to drink."
now you glance at him- brief, knowing.
“aren't you?"
you purr it like it’s obvious, hitting higuruma square in the chest with the combination of your glance and tone.
“…i am,” he says, leaning forward slightly, one elbow settling against the table. “i just thought i’d clarify that before you began outlining payment structures.”
you huff into the rim of your class.
“still set on me being a conman?”
“you must understand,” he says, tone even, measured, “that from the perspective of someone who deals exclusively in verifiable evidence- your business model is… difficult to accept at face value.”
you sip, and set your drink down as you listen.
“however,” he adds, after a brief pause, “i would be remiss to say that my assessment of you hasn’t… adjusted.”
he clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable with the confession.
“mm,” you hum. “character growth.”
he exhales through his nose. “i’m being serious.”
“i know you are. and i’m grateful for that.”
your smile softens at the edges, soothing his self-consciousness.
"belief can be a fickle thing," you continue, turning the glass once between your fingers "and you don't strike me as someone who lets it form without substantiation."
he hums in agreement, lifting his beer to his lips. "not usually."
"it needs to have structural integrity. something you can stress to see whether it holds or not."
he's quiet now. simply observing you. there's an intelligent clarity in the way you speak that pairs with the fatigue you're no longer bothering to conceal. simultaneously composed and worn-thin.
what one would percieve as pitiful, he- against his better judgement- finds it compelling.
"i admire someone who can interpret what's in front of them and allow it to press into what they believe."
his drink meets the table with a dull chime- and his eyes settle downstream with it in avoidance of your mature allure.
"you admire inconsistency?"
it's not a jab. he wants to know more of your viewpoint.
you shake your head, lifting a finger in quiet correction.
"belief is often confused for ignorance," you start. "there's a reason why. belief can be the first step toward it."
"i'm sure you're familiar with that idea."
his eyes narrow in recall, still focused on his mug as his thumb drags along condensation.
"i'm familiar with people using belief as an excuse to refuse the truth."
"exactly," you nod. assured. "-because it's easy to do that. less thinking to do."
he hums in agreement.
"i think it's harder to believe something and still remain critical of it."
consideration in the form of silence settles between you. higuruma rests his chin atop his fingers, tapping one against his lip in thought. you can practically see gears turn in his head as he mulls over your words.
flushing a bit as he looks up to study you. the words- and how you arrived to them.
"...that's a convenient position to hold."
"you think so?"
"your line of work depends on influencing others' beliefs. it would benefit you to encourage it."
your brow pulls in. even if he hadn't meant it with the same hostility he did when you two first spoke. but his unawareness of what exactly you see and do is prevalent- being a harsh reminder of your reality.
then, a soft breathy laugh slips from your chest.
"we're both going to need another drink."
you’ve already taken yours halfway down by the time the next stretch of quiet settles.
the citrus alcohol bites at your tongue as you swallow, and you smooth it over with a few taps of your lips and your tongue, smoothing over the roof of your mouth.
"this is more than my career, higuruma."
you punctuate your sentence with the flat clink of your thin, clear glass against varnished wood. voice hollowed of all previous warmth.
"it always has been, and it always will be."
he can't categorize this tone- but whatever it is makes him feel more unsettled than ever.
this is the beginning of the testimony he’s been imagining in his head for… longer than he’d like to admit. your first hand accountment of your career.
and he’s starting to realize that he’s afraid of it.
your gaze stays fixed on the slow turn of liquid around ice. like you're deciding how much of this you're willing to give to the man who's, for the most part, only sneered at you.
he realizes, belatedly, he hasn't given you much.
yet, you continue anyway.
"i wasn't raised on stories about momotaro and hanako-san. before i knew what to call it- before anyone explained what it meant- i was already being spoken to."
you continue, without a tremble to be heard in your voice.
but your fingers tighten around your glass. your brows are firmer than usual and your eyes have gone unfocused and glassy.
small. inconceivable to most.
but certainly not to the criminal lawyer before you.
"they don't introduce themselves. you never fully know why they're there."
your gaze starts at his tie, eyes refocusing on reality as the line of his white collar becomes distinguishable.
"no one believes you when you try to explain it. not when you're a child."
an humorless laugh cracks out of your chest, posture loosening with it. as if you're realizing how little this probably means to him.
but higuruma feels it. the isolation. the early understanding that something fundamental about you places you outside of other people.
he's seen this honesty before. sobbed through partitions and crackling phone speakers. confessed in the quiet of his office.
the sarcastic fatalism. the way you're already reestablishing distance. the way you've already accepted disregard for your vaguely worded suffering. already arrived at the conclusion that there is no point,
you close the space from his chin to his eyes, blinking away the blur with it.
"belief was never really optional for me."
you lock eyes, expecting the usual reaction.
but he's, for once, dressed in an expression different from annoyance and apathy.
it echoes how he looked at you the last time you spoke. pensive. thoughtful. he's actually listening to you- and that makes the both of you uncomfortable.
you lean back, the leather of the booth catching you as you pull away from the table.
distance, restored.
"and like you said, you're not here to be convinced.” you gesture loosely. “or because you have been.”
you exhale, shedding the last of your vulnerability with it.
"so i'm not going to try."
"but i'd like to set the record straight that... what i do for people... it doesn't benefit me in the way you think."
the two of you drink in silence for a beat. until higuruma has decided he's digested enough of your vulnerability to speak with care.
"then what does it cost you?"
there is no edge or accusation to it. a genuine, considerate question. coupled with his chosen attention on you, now seemingly smaller across from him.
your reaction is self-deprecating in every way. a weak laugh that trails into a loss for words. a shake of your head like you're trying to deny your misery.
and that's enough of an answer.
"i thought you were a fraud," he interrupts.
your eyes dart toward him as he speaks. low, even voice- made a bit grumbly by alcohol- grounding you.
"i've seen it all before, really. a business model built around vulnerable people hearing what they've already told you, just dressed up and given back as divine."
you nod along, unoffended. waiting. the soft ember in your eyes crackling back alive in expectation.
"and now?"
he leans back, taking his drink back in hand. considers you over the rim of it.
"now," he takes a few gulps in preparation. "i think that explanation is convenient."
"...for?"
a pause. a pause he fights within. the instinct to deflect and stay in control of the narrative, grabbing for his tongue with desperation before the confession comes out.
"... for me."
the jazz overhead goes on humming, warm and grainy through old speakers. someone at the counter laughs at something that isn’t that funny. glass meets glass. the world, indifferent as ever, continues uninterrupted.
meanwhile, in a small booth tucked in a corner of this tired little izakaya, something has shifted. subtle enough that no one else would notice. enormous enough that both of them do.
two of tokyos most emotionally constipated workers have imbibed the forbidden nectar of vulnerability.
the thing neither of them is built for- the thing the two of them swore off years ago.
and in the drowning feeling of dropping performance and strategy in exchange for honesty-
you laugh.
it's not obnoxious- not loud enough to turn heads. not careless enough to spill past the edges of the booth. it stays contained there with the two of you, low, melodic, and intimately shared.
higuruma feels it land somewhere embarrassingly deep.
"that's refreshingly self-aware."
your voice is lighter now, the last of that earlier gravity loosened by the admission. there’s a smile at your mouth he can’t quite stop looking at-small, real, still touched by the aftershocks of what he’d just said.
higuruma lifts his glass, trying and failing to hide the shape of the smile bleeding into his face.
"don't ruin it." he gruffs before the lip, lacking any sort of bite.
your frame shakes with a giggle, supported by the elbows you're leaning into.
"so what? i've broken your little record of scammers?"
higuruma looks at you for a long moment.
at the loosened posture. the fatigue you’re no longer bothering to hide. that charming smile back on your face that suggests strength.
"...i think," he says slowly, voice ragged around the edges from the conceding of his prejudice and faint buzz in his blood. "that you're either the most committed con artist i've ever met-"
you snort softly into your drink.
"or- you’re simply just carrying a weight that the majority of people cannot imagine.”
“including myself.”
your breath hitches in your throat at his seriousness. it’s probably the most empathetic reaction you’ve ever encountered in your entire life of telling people you can see things they can’t. there’s no disgust or dismissal.
and it's from higuruma.
you can't help but let another string of giggles out at the obscureness of it all.
"that," you breathe, "is the closest you've come to flattering me."
he scoffs, his own smile brought to the surface by yours.
"it wasn't meant as a compliment."
"i’m taking it as one anyway." you grin, finishing off your drink in one swig.
he shakes his head once, attempting to shed the smile with it. but he can't.
"you enjoy this too much."
"being scrutinized? i'm used to that. but watching you try to make sense of me?" you keen. "a little."
higuruma lets out another low exhale. refraining from giving you more sentiments to latch onto. for now.
"you're insufferable."
the conversation drift after that. shimizu is brought up- you explaining how only give her astrology readings because she prompts you to. higuruma is able to picture it with irritating clarity. her badgering you for a reading she agrees with.
his own work his brought up aswell. he answers more than he probably should. but he doesn't regret it.
glasses long forgotten eventually, never to be refilled.
higuruma covers the tab without ceremony. you push back immediately.
"owing people ties me here," you frown, genuinely. "you want me to haunt you or something?"
he scoffs, sliding his card back into his wallet anyway.
"this is me fulfilling my end of the debt. don't you recall?"
your mouth quirks at that.
how'd he manage to remember your words better than you did?
the two of you step into the night, coat and suit haphazardly shrugged back on. air colder than when you entered.
"nothing gets past you, huh?" you murmur, folding your arms as you look up to him. breeze broken by his tall frame as he walks alongside you.
"that's my job." he replies, adjusting his tie with a small, amused exhale. "no loose ends. made sure of it when i looked into the legitimacy of your operation."
"that's kind of you." you huff.
the silence between you doesn’t stretch the way it used to.
not tonight.
he knows he’s already indulged more of your attention than he would’ve tolerated from anyone else.
and yet.
the part of him that wants to keep the conversation going, to keep drawing out that dry laugh of yours and matching it with his own, has won for now. the two of you matching pace down the still buzzing street that alternates between neon and lantern light as it stretches ahead of you.
“your business checked out,” he says. “your assistant seems competent. you pay him legally and only allow him to stay a certain amount of hours. abiding by child labor laws.”
"wonderful."
"your client satisfaction and turnover rate is consistent enough to dispel the idea that you run a business based on falsehoods and peddling packages."
"glowing review."
"the building code is questionable, but neither of us can do anything about that." he shrugs.
"and?" you laugh, breathy and loose. "how am i holding up after your thorough investigation?"
he glances down at you briefly. long enough to make it annoying.
"jury's still out."
half of your lip curls up in a sneer, a noise of disbelief falling from your mouth. "hahh?"
a surprising, rough chuckle rumbles deep within his chest.
"i'm just kidding."
"i just wanted to pretend to be a shitty judge for a change."
you grumble, shoulders hunching up as you try to bury yourself in your coat. heels clicking against pavement to brush past his steady pace.
hoping the warmth stinging across your face dissipates by the time the next crosswalk comes.
"you're telling me i spilled my guts just to get my sentence deferred?"
"that's a favorable outcome. you've no jail time. just probation."
you click your tongue at him, the sound soft, playful. "lenient, are we?" sarcastically muttered under your breath.
he almost smiles at that.
the conversation tapers off after. not awkward, just settled and peaceful enough to allow the night to fill in. city nightlife fading out the more streets you turn. stumbling office workers and lively youth thinning out until it's just the two of you.
the crosswalk light turns red just as you reach it- the both of you stilling in unison.
traffic hums past in slow, steady streams. headlights streaking briefly across your faces before disappearing down the street.
one heel taps against pavement as you shift your weight- hand slipping into your coat pocket with it.
higuruma notices before you even pull the pack out.
"do you mind?" you ask, already halfway through the motion.
"not if you share."
you huff a quiet laugh at that, shaking your head as you slide a cigarette free and slot it between your lips. "i wasn't aware you partook." you murmur, flicking the lighter until it blooms to life.
you take a long drag, then offer him one without ceremony- already holding the flame out for him.
"i try not to." he hums, voice gravely as he dips just enough to meet it.
"cigarette smoke isn’t a particularly reassuring scent when someone’s seeking legal counsel.”
the wind shifts as he speaks- and your hand lifts in instinct to cup around the flame. the warmth of your fingertips barely brushes the line of his hollowed cheeks as you shield the light.
barely there.
but enough.
the light catches between you, small and warm, illuminating only what's closest. the both of your faces, seperated only by a few breaths and a thing line of smoke beginning to curl.
he lingers, even as the tip begins to kindle. long enough to register the touch and realize how little distance there actually is.
he's slinks back upwards, sucking in the slow-burning tobacco in search of respite from the effect of you.
the light chimes as it flips green, presumably ripping you both from the moment.
but the tension doesn't fade into unacknowledgement. you both know that. so it follows, threaded into the space between your next words.
"one on occassion isn't so bad. especially when you're drunk."
"and do you abide by this 'one on occasion' rule?" his eyes narrow in faux suspicion, dark gaze cutting through the thin veil of smoke.
"...you already know the answer to that." you grumble, a small, sheepish smirk tugging at your mouth.
higuruma hums a noise that can only be interpreted as 'i thought so'.
your movements are economical. rhythmic with each inhale and exhale. like you’re following the preset outline of something your body knows too well to think about anymore.
it's not a smoke here and there.
it's habit.
"...still avoiding something?"
smoke leaves your mouth in a slow stream.
"you psychoanalyzing me now?" the words leave with it, permeating the air with something acrid and warm.
"just cross-referencing."
you, hovering around the building after hours, nursing a cigarette the same way you are now. your quiet admission that whatever waited for you after work wasn’t particularly worth returning to.
"you've already said once that home isn't particularly compelling."
you flick ash off the end, watching it scatter and die halfway into the dark.
"and if i am?"
his gaze drags over you once in the moonlight. slow. deliberate. not crude- just thorough enough to make your skin warm beneath your coat.
when it returns to your face, it stays there.
"then i'd say you're waiting for a reason not to go back alone tonight."
your eyes meet his.
a car passes, throwing white across the edge of his face.
"...i wouldn't object to being one."
you lead him down corridors with little flourish. stilling at your door, keys already in hand.
hesitation slipping as soon as it came.
the door opens with a quiet click.
"try not to overanalyze everything," you murmur, slipping in first. "you'll ruin it."
you two had spent the entire night intellectually and morally dancing around the other- it was foreplay enough.
in the time you spend settling- setting your keys in a bowl and disappearing down a hall to your bedroom- higuruma takes your apartment in.
the lights remain off, but the interior is still illuminated by the large window in your living room.
crystals decorate most corners. a geode on your coffee table. placed beside and on books like paperweights.
dreamy art accents the plain walls. one stands out in particular. drawn herbs and flowers with their benefits and connotations beside them.
tastefully you.
"judging my decor?" you hum, reappearing from the unlit hall.
his head snaps to you, your coat now discarded, revealing your standing figure fully. "not at all. it's nice. better than mine."
his gaze softens down at you as you bring your hands to his sides, outlining his waist gently before you begin. as if you're testing the waters.
"let me guess," you purr, sliding your hands into the space between suit and dress shirt. "plain."
your touch settles against him without protest- just a drawn-out exhale once your warm hands meet his sides. he shifts and lifts his hands half into the air to allow you to strip him.
"you'd be right." he hums, low and gravely. an octave lower than what it was outside.
you're meticulous as you take his suit off. feeling the shape of his frame through his undershirt. biting your lip when you graze over his chest.
no.
his pecs.
he is surprisingly firm beneath the dry-cleaned fabrics, much to your surprise.
you press into his chest, then round and run up his lats, hook your hands around his shoulders before running them down his toned arms- desleeving him.
all the while he looks down at you, jaw hanging slightly as his breath trembles into nothing. nearly hissing each time you find a new muscle to feel up and memorize.
you are groping him.
he shudders, fingers loosely covering his mouth.
"y/n-"
"have you thought about this?"
your voice seeps into the silence like blood soaking cotton.
higuruma turns frigid.
"ah. you have." you purr, taking his wrists and guiding them to your own, still clothed, figure.
"somewhat," he grits, gathering as much effort as humanly possible to keep his voice even- just for it to fall apart in a barely audible groan when you push his hand up to one of your breasts.
"yeah?" you keen up at his disheveled expression, releasing his wrists at your hip and bust so you can start unbuttoning your blouse from the top.
two buttons pop free and higuruma immediately forces his eyes shut as your red push-up bra starts to peek through. cleavage now on full display.
just to be betrayed by the hand that's been doctored and fixed there as his thumb grazes where textured lace meets smooth, plush flesh.
"fuck."
"look at me, higuruma."
"you know you wanna."
his grip instinctively tightens at your tone. that godforsaken teasing lilt.
now fully caressing one boob while his other begins to leave finger indents into your waist.
then he jolts- both of your hands meeting his face in a tender, cupping motion.
"open your eyes."
the pads of your thumbs drag beneath his eyes and press gently at the apples of his cheeks.
higuruma obeys- releasing the breath he'd been holding this entire time with another shake as he takes in all of you at once. delicate blue moonlight illuminates half of you- just enough for him to clearly see the line of your breasts down to the sliver of your tummy- blouse unbuttoned and now hanging loose.
and your eyes. good god, your eyes.
lifted by that foxed smile. wet with want. something darker curling just beneath it.
"you're gorgeous."
the pressure of your fingers falters.
then presses in. holding his face tighter. not hard enough for your fingernails to dig in- but hard enough to leave marks of your fingerprints on the clay of his skin.
it empties your lungs of the siren song you were in the middle of chanting.
and you hate- hate- the way warmth blooms low and fast beneath your skin at the sound of it. the way your chest pulls taut around a feeling you don’t want to name. like some careful part of you, honed on wit and appetite and always being one step ahead, has just been nudged off balance by a single whisper.
his jaw tightens after the words have already left him, like restraint arrived too late to be useful. there’s no taking them back now. not with the way you’re looking at him- fox-smile dimmed into something almost stunned, eyes still dark but suddenly far too open. and it's not like he wants to. because he meant them.
without words- solely based on what you find in the others eyes- higuruma tugs you closer by the small of your back, and you pull him down by his face.
simultaneous force, almost ending with the clash of teeth.
his lips meet yours, and the kiss immediately deepens as your palms crawl hungrily to the back of his head.
he groans into your mouth as soon as your soft muscle meets his- immediately exploring each crevice between your teeth now that he's been granted the mercy.
you part like you're fighting against violent waves, gasping halfway before it begins again.
"you're gorgeous."
"you're gorgeous."
"you're so fucking gorgeous."
he's practically growling, ending each phrase with another passionate dive back into you.
you're too caught up in the feeling of his hands grasping at every bit of you he can reach. molding up your back. tightening around your wrists. sliding along the line of your jaw- prompting you to open further for him.
too caught up to realize they're now notched where your thighs meet your butt, and you're in the air. legs instinctively wrapping around his waist- all the while you're still joined at the mouth.
his hand cups the back of your neck, thumb anchoring just beneath your ear- steadying you, steadying himself.
the room shifts around you in a blur of dim light and shadow-
and then your back meets something soft. your bed dips beneath you as you're lowered down, and your fingers catch in his clothes on instinct, gripping, wrinkling fabric at his chest.
but he never drops you. he waits. lowers you down with care until your head meets the sheets. waits for you to settle. waits like he won’t allow this to turn into something careless.
only then does it break.
a thin string of spit stretches between your mouths before snapping, your lips chasing his for half a second longer than you mean to. lashes fluttering when you look up at him.
his tongue drags slow across his swollen bottom lip as he takes you in- searching your face.
your own jaw still slack as your brain catches up with the absence.
you two pant into one another for a moment- both of you scanning the other's face with glassy eyes.
his arms cage you in, braced on either side of your head. pupils blown and lips bruised.
"are you okay?" he breathes, swallowing once before he continues attempting to catch his breath. "i didn't-"
a weak laugh crackles out of you- the sound and sight visibly relieving the tension in his body.
"i'm okay." you murmur, voice airy as it spills out of your delicate smile. "are you?"
he huffs, amused. head dropping as he shakes it at himself.
"...i've been worse."
"i can't imagine how you look at 'worse'." you hum, hands running from his chest back to his face- guiding him until he's look at you again.
"do i look that bad?" he smirks, tilting his head slightly in your hold.
your thumbs press lightly into his cheeks, studying him like you’re weighing something.
"a little," your lips curve, and you catch your bottom one in between teeth. "but i think it suits you."
higuruma rolls his eyes at it, breathing a laugh as you giggle at your own cheekiness.
it fades into his mouth as you pull him back in, thumbs caressing his face as you prod into his mouth. tongues meeting gentler this time. slower. more space given. space you use to prop yourself up on your elbows to finally shed the blouse that's now suffocating you.
fabric is quickly replaced by his slightly calloused hands, long fingers winding around your torso, feeling up to the underwire of your bra before tracing back down your stomach, rotating so his fingers can slide into the waistband of your skirt.
"how long have you known?" his voice is low, rumbling even in a whisper.
“ahh- huh?” you writhe beneath his mouth, huffing against his lips.
"how bad i want you.”
“f-fuck-“ you keen. his hot breath against your ear only has your blood temperature spiking when it’s already at its boiling point. “you never- ah- never stopped me- fuck…”
sharp teeth nip at your neck before you wraps his whole mouth around sections of skin- sucking deep, soon-to-be purple marks into your flesh.
“always entertained me- ngh-“ you bite your lip at his increasing aggression, holding back a weak laugh.
“always looked at me like you wanted to figure me out,”
he’s lowered all the way down to your stomach- skirt now loose around your ankles- matching red lace panties on full display now. he's quick to fill the now-empty space of his mouth with the skin of your thighs. licking, kissing, nipping. coating every inch down to your knees with his saliva.
"fuck- higuruma-" you speak- before feeling a sharp symmetrical pain on the inside of your thighs that caused you to yip.
he bit you.
just for a second, angry marks immediately being soothed in massaging circles by his tongue- and a gentle kiss that contrasts his tone.
"i can't fucking stand it."
"i was dead set in my assumption being correct."
his eyes meet yours through downcast lashes, and you swear you can see a flash of red that brightens his brown eyes to a glowing deep maroon.
his hands dont let up. squeezing imprints into the plush of your thighs, cascading up your lower back, and wringing your waist on the way back down.
"and everytime i saw you- everytime you spoke-"
his words come out in a smog that catches in your throat. he sounds so different in this position. calculated even tone turned gravelly and nearly trembling.
his fingers catch around the string hugging your hips- immediately prompting quick nods from you.
"it made me realize i was wrong."
hooked thumbs pull. fabric is discarded in a second. the pressure of panty strings is replaced by his firm, slightly calloused grip. tugging your hips closer to him in hunger.
his breath ghosts over your clit- sending a shock through your system that has you whining and bucking into nothing.
"and i- fuck- i didn't know why."
he grunts, now fully on his knees and draping your legs over his shoulders- situating your body for you, whilst you can do nothing but look down at him and try not to buck up into the resonance of his words.
"i fucking hate being wrong."
his tongue parts your folds swiftly, met with no resistance from the gummy flesh. his path predestined with your slick. once, twice.
before the tense string of restraint snaps.
he unhinges his jaw and dives in for you. like a predator launching itself from the shadows to sink teeth into its prey- being rewarded by blood filling its mouth. lapping and swallowing every bit he can manage. muffled moan vibrating all the way to your core as he relishes in it.
your jaw pops as it opens fully with a moan, chest rising unevenly as you look down at his debauchery. such a composed suit so brought down by you.
the noises that fill the room are vile, slurps and sputtered groans that only make you arch further into his mouth at the vibration. pulling off with lewd breathy groans and even some laughs. his entire hand comes up to swipe at your clit, just to be met with absolutely zero friction.
the fast 'shlick-shlick's that flutter from your pussy have him entranced, eyes blown each time he separates to gawk at you. so fucking wet.
the sound has got you bothered too. it feels like you're touching a hot stove once your hands meet your face- muffling your moans, pulling at your hair, and desperately trying to get a handle of yourself. but it's useless. each quick drag against your clit has you arching off the mattress and squealing out at the ecstasy that builds up in seconds. just before he lets off and goes back to slurping up whatever dripped out of you in that time.
"pleasepleaseplease-"
"it's my turn." kiss, kiss, slurp, pop! "hahh... my turn to figure you out."
he licks another long strip up you before he dives back in, hands squeezing around your thighs to press them harder against his head. flat tongue pressing against your clit a few times before his lips travel down- down far enough the tip of his nose catches on your clit and drags. that lovely hook pressing against the nub in the perfect point.
it's like he's taking a breath before going underwater. the way he inhales long and deep and exhales with a low, trembling, 'goddd.'
he hitches your butt up once, making you yip a little- before his face is flush between your folds and then unfurls his tongue inside- hot velvet flooding your insides and massaging around until he finds your sweet spot.
"higuruma! f-fuck!"
your hands shoot to his head, knitting in loose brown strands as you're sent into a daze at the feeling- too starstruck to figure out if you wanna pull him off or deeper.
you opt for the second, tugging him forward by the hair and evoking a drawn-out moan right into your pussy.
he nods fervently, hooked nose bumping your clit as he relishes in your anatomy.
"mm-mhm-" he groans into you, vibrations shooting right into your stomach. it's dizzying- this feeling- something other than a firm appendage fucking into you, and his firm nose nudging your clit in rhythm with it.
he seperates with an obscene suck, panting right against you as he licks you off lips to his chin.
"you sound s'perfect like this," he rasps, slurring far more than he was when he was actively drinking.
your cunt clenches around nothing at the praise as you grit a noise back, now that you're made aware of how attentive he's actually being.
"sh-shut the fuck u-ahh-" you start to bite, just to be interrupted by the prod of two cold fingertips swirling at your entrance- collecting your arousal before they pass the threshold.
he keens at it, keeping his gaze set on your face even when you throw your head back in pleasure.
"i'm sorry, can i help you?" his voice is husky and laced with a smirk you don't even have to look at to know is there. rolling his bottom lip between teeth as he breaches your hole, his dick twitching against his slacks as he watches your chest rise and fall. your hands grasping for anything to ground you.
they're not too thick. there is no painful burn, even with two.
but fuck are they long.
long enough that he's gotta fuck them inside of you so you don't clamp down and reject the intrusion. admiring how you grip them each time they retreat to the last taken digit. long enough you're seeing stars without him even grazing your g-spot.
“look at that. you don’t w'nna let go of me.” he hums, licking the front of his teeth.
you gasp once they settle to the knuckle, inhale cut short by the daze the curl of them sends you into. bucking your clit back into his tongue in response as your hand shoots to your mouth a second too late- high-pitched cry already echoing off the walls and mixing with the sound of wet squelches as he hooks your spot again and again.
a chill shoots up his spine and exits with a shuddery groan at the indecency of it all. the sound of you, the feel of you fluttering around his fingers, the smell.
he buries his face back into you, sniffing as he licks up the mess that has painted the entirety of your inner thighs at this point. licking everywhere but the aching bud at the top of your cunt.
your hands shoot back to his hair, knitting more aggressively this time in an attempt to bring him to what you need.
"fuck- pull harder- go ahead-" he grunts, whining into you as you abide and almost rip his hair out by the follicles with how quick you tug him into you.
"hahh-fuck- if it gets you to shut the fuck up," you grit, hooking your ankles around one another at his back- anchoring yourself so you can hump into his mouth. his head kept in place by the tight hold you have on his scalp.
"you would like that shit, huh?"
higuruma has died and gone to heaven, it seems.
the woman who's been goading him for the past month.
the woman who has spent the past month needling her way into his routines. the one who would step into his office uninvited, lean against his doorway like she owned the space, and pick him apart with that soft, knowing smile. the one who treated conversation like a sexually-charged sparring match and him like a particularly interesting opponent.
is now, essentially, fucking his face.
his free arm travels from up your thigh to press on your lower stomach as his other fucks up into you, angled to thrust directly into your spot each time he buries them to his knuckles.
he takes a moment, pressing his thumb to the front of your tummy like he's seeking something- and then he finds it.
alerted by the wail that rips out of your chest and way you jerk your hips into an arch- his mouth and fingers following and accounting for the shift in position like a magnet.
your blood feels unbearably hot against the a/c of your bedroom, and it gets more intense each time the pads of his fingers press against your sweet spot. each press sending shocks through your body and sends you teetering over the edge as you feel something building up low in your core.
"m'gonna cum if you don't- fuck- stop-"
"please," he breathes between laps, "cum for me,"
he sucks once against your clit before you pops off of it, eyes half-lidded with lust as he speeds the pace of his fingers up, droplets of your arousal spurting out at the force of it.
"cum on my mouth- please."
the sound his already rough voice, made harsher with desire, whining out pleas is what sends you over the edge- a pained, drawn-out sob wracking your entire body as you go taut.
and he doesn't fucking stop.
tongue lazily rounding your clit as he keeps fucking into you, letting you soak the entirety of his chin down to the collar of his shirt. curling them especially harshly, like he's trying to squeeze every last bit out.
"fuck- stopstopstop- holy shit-"
you gasp, finally releasing your white-knuckle grip on his hair and using the legs you can hardly feel to kick him off.
your nerves, now fried, translate the action into weak twitches that hardly meet him- but he withdraws anyway. pressing chaste kisses against your puffy cunt and inside of your thighs, bringing you down from your high with patience.
he lifts himself up with a hardly audible groan, silently cursing his knees and back. your legs fall and dangle weightlessly off the edge of your bed as you lay flat- catching your breath with airy whines that decorate each exhale.
you don't think you've ever finished that hard in your life.
you're rustled back to reality by the grip around your waist that shifts you higher up the bed, eyes refocusing on higuruma. who's occupied with pushing your legs up till your feet meet the mattress. touch turning gentle as he smooths his palms over your knees.
also noticing that he's now shirtless. white linen tossed without a care somewhere on the floor. you definitely ruined that shirt.
"hey, you." he murmurs. voice still raw and loose.
"hey yourself," you rasp out.
you look beautiful in your afterglow. arms gently splayed out beside your head, fucked-out face smirking up at him with the attitude that manages to resurface in every conversation the two of you have.
"you look good like this." the sentiment comes out ragged. flirty- but genuine.
you laugh, all crackly and airy. a sound that gives him goosebumps with how lovely it is.
"shut up." you giggle, forearms coming to x-out your face from his sight.
each genuine praise he murmurs settles in your stomach wrong. like your subconscious is fighting to reject it. overpowered by the flush in your face and flutter in your core.
but still present. present enough for him to notice.
his hands tighten around your knees once before they trace down to your ankles, grabbing the both of them with a single hand to unfold your legs upward. the back of them in line with his tall figure, heels settled on his shoulder.
bulge now pressed flush against your ass.
one hand keeps them in place, while the other soothes circles at your thighs. travelling to the round of your butt to give a few squeezes and a sensual rut.
"f-fuck, higu..." you breathe, knees falling weak at the sensation- but kept upwards with gentle force.
"do you not like it?"
"ngh-huh?" you breathe, eyes meeting his face in a millisecond.
"when i look at you like this."
"when i... touch you like this." his hands stroke over the length of your legs- almost bringing them into a hug.
"when i talk to you like this?"
"i'm... i dunno- ngh- i, i'm just not used t' it." you murmur, another rut weakly rekindling the heat in your cunt as you speak. the isolated attention making it far worse.
"...i'm not either." he hums, thoughtfully.
"but i'm asking..."
"if you like it."
his hips still- like he's holding it over your head until you answer the question with full commitment.
you hate it. you fucking hate it, honestly.
you hate the attention. you hate him calling you gorgeous. you hate him praising your figure, your noises. you hate how good he made- and is actively making- you feel.
you hate that the affections pierce through every barrier around your heart and pierce it, lodging halfway through. you hate that you love it.
you hate that you started this fight, and now you're shying away from his advances. so weak. what's even weaker is that you're letting him close the purposeful distance you placed.
"fuck- i like it, higuruma. i like it a lot."
the last of your clothes have been shed. found a home on your desk chair. tediously folded and set by the ever so kind higuruma. even though you're sure he was just buying time and courage before turning to you.
you're not sure why, considering what greeted you was- without a doubt- the prettiest cock you've ever seen.
thoughtfully trimmed. a mole specking near the pale base. tone deepening with an attractive gradient effect.
and... tall. standing proud.
in the lulls of intimacy, you've noticed higuruma regresses into an almost shy disposition.
funny how quickly his restraint and embarrassment leaves him once you murmur a few words and touch him the right way.
you're splayed on your array of pillows, falling deeper into them with each hungry thrust of his tongue. his fingers cradle the nape of your neck while his thumbs coax your jaw wider for him to have more space to coat with his spit.
the taste of seven stars and liquor has been fully erased by the amount of saliva that's been cycled between the two of you tonight. just a tinge of sweetness remaining from your orgasm earlier.
your fingers drag along the flare of his shoulder blades in search of something to keep afloat on. leading up his spine and nape of his neck.
you've also noticed that higuruma has a detrimental oral fixation.
you part with an airy 'phuah', head slightly lolling to the side atop a satin pillow. lewd blush painting your entire face and every corner of your body. so warm.
and he just doesn't. stop. it's like he isn't sure how to.
kisses smear across your cheek down to your neck- little lovebites and hickies beginning to decorate it as you squirm beneath the feeling of his agile tongue. twirling around flesh as it's being sucked and nipped.
you're granted a brief respite once he reaches your collarbone and gets stuck huffing your skin like it's a line of powder.
"smell so good- fuck-" he grits, and you can feel his hips jolt forward- making you arch up in craving. sexes hardly missing one another.
"mgh- n'you still smell like cigarettes," you huff, biting your bottom lip with a smile.
it's like you live to taunt him.
even if it's not true. even if the scent of his hair gel and sweat mingling into a lovely mix of pine and musk has you huffing the top of his head, and threading your fingers through his strands to rustle the smell back alive.
he shivers at the feeling, elbows buckling slightly as he nuzzles into your skin. only prompting your smile to widen.
"you really do like that, huh?"
"it... feels nice. yes."
a pleased noise echoes in your chest as you gently rake your fingernails against his scalp- and his entire body creaks at it. soft noises spilling from his mouth into the surface of your skin. cocking twitching harsh enough to jolt up and slap against his stomach, precum spotting beneath his belly button.
"ff- hahh- y/n,"
all his noises die halfway through being moaned. the structural integrity of his body starts to falter as your legs entangle with his, pulling him closer into you- gentle hands caressing his head from the long strands at the top to the low shave at his nape.
all to get him to lean forward just enough for his leaking tip to prod against your tummy.
"there you are."
you purr, directly into his ear.
his laugh comes out in breathy puffs, in an attempt to obscure the hiss beneath them.
one hand falls from his jaw to dance between both of your bodies, seeking his neglected cock that. firm and dripping with arousal. instinctively rocking forward once your touch finds and wraps around it.
a guttural groan exits right into your ear and reverbs around in your skull, filling you with desire- only spurring your advances further as you twist your hand in slow, drawn out strokes.
his head shakes loosely, body tensing as he forces his nerves to obey his brain for a split second and lift himself back up.
"can't- won't last-" he huffs, pulling back to give him the space to grasp at your wrist.
"may i-?"
"please."
you're not one to beg. but there truly is nothing more either of you wants or needs right now.
words don't even have to be said to display that fact. not when your sexes are speaking for you. crying out into the bare air with arousal.
arousal that echoes a filthy slap of wet against wet when he guides his tip down to your heat.
he swirls his cockhead at your entrance- mixing your fluids with loud shlicks that permeate the air like a toxin. it's dizzying. made worse as he starts to lean forward and sink the fat head in- pulling a hiss from him and a soft whimper from you.
"i can't- fuck- you're heaven."
he gruffs, leaning onto his heels to find the back of your knees and press in as he starts to fold you at the hip, cock following the motion to sink in another inch.
you're desperately trying to measure your breaths and not float away from the moment, but the soft whines spilling from the man above you- and the agonizingly slow sink of his cock into you, occasionally interrupted by a stutter of his hips he can't control- is making it so very difficult.
you clench especially hard around the halfway point, starting to writhe beneath the cage of him you're stuck in.
"don't stop- please don't stop-"
"m'not stopping, fuck, couldn't even if i tried,"
he's as taut as a bow, words coming out narrow and rushed as your pussy pulls the air from his lungs, and he's grinding his teeth at the tension in his stomach he's trying so hard to keep from snapping.
"taking me so well. my god. you're gonna kill me."
his vision swirls as he opens his eyes, momentarily blurred from how hard he was knitting them together. darting from your unfocused face- mirroring the same tension his is- to your hands squeezing at your breasts. beautiful body splayed out beneath him. gently squirming and intermittently jolting at the slow, blissful stretch of his cock.
"you asked if i thought about this."
he murmurs, plunging the last couple of inches inside until your pelvises are flush against one another.
it knocks the moan out of your lungs, head craning further back into your pillows.
"fuck- i'm so fucking gross-" he laughs, pulling out halfway to sink back into you. setting the rhythm of out halfway, slowly back in, and then harshly closing the last inch of distance.
"higuruma-"
"couldn't have imagined this. doesn't even come close."
you can hardly breathe. he's so long it's winding you each time he bottoms out, made worse by the fact your lungs are being compressed with how he's got you folded in on yourself. pointed tip catching on your enlarged sweet spot each time he fucks back into you.
"feel so good- hahh- smell so good- i just can't."
"i can't take it. i can't take you."
he's hardly started, and you're already clamping down without rhythm. the distance of time between each pulse is drawing shorter and shorter with each brush against your gspot.
"fuck- m' already close, gotta slow down," you whine, voice crackling with overstimulation.
even with the condom on, the heat of your insides seeps up his entire body. this is the most drunk he's felt all night, and it's off you.
"go ahead. do whatever you want." he huffs, your words doing nothing but provoking him to speed up his space. the room around you isn't granted a moment of silence between your shared moans and loud, wet plaps.
"i just- fuck- i just wanna see it."
his chest drops, folding you further in on yourself until he's positioning you into a near mating press. your hands fly to his back, nails hooking in at the first contact of skin into a dreadfully erotic drag that's got him groaning.
"i wanna see all of you. please- ngh- please let me- fuck-"
the desperation in his voice - the out-of-character confessions, begging, and whimpers - all of it has you so flustered you wonder if you're about to get a nosebleed.
the new angle turns what was just idle gspot stimulation into purposeful, filling thrusts that make it so his shaft drags against it with each slam into you. completely under his thumb.
"y'r so big- fuck- m'gonna squirt again i think-"
you wheeze out, immediately starting to go lightheaded from expending your precious, limited air on a warning.
"yeah? let me feel it- fuck- need to feel you finish around me. let it go for me, gorgeous."
it crashes into you like wave- starting at your feet and rolling throughout your entire body until it hits your head- sending it flying back as your vision goes white.
he can't tell if it's blood or sweat collecting at his back, but either way, it's hiking the rush of his climax closer in combination with the gush of squirt that hits his lower stomach as you finish. the near painful-squeeze of your walls around his dick. the panicked hands that grasp at him like he's the only thing present to keep you tied to this world.
"somuchsomuch-ican't-fuck-please"
the drive of his cock slows with intent, turning into restrained slow pulls and harsh split-second pounds that make the bed creak beneath you.
once. twice. three times, and he's emptying his balls into the condom with a strangled groan. your body is already limp beneath him, no other choice but to take the overstimulation that's got you seeing stars.
trembles wrack his bones and muscles as he pulls out, sitting back on the balls of his feet so he can tie off the condom and toss it into your bedside can. aftershocks hitting him in slow waves, sending chills down his spine and trembling recooperating breaths to sound.
he feels like he's about to pass out.
he closes your knees for you, what a gentleman, and shifts to collapse face-first into pillows beside you. one arm draped beneath your bust to keep the two of you connected.
no words exchanged. no gentle, coaxing touches. no inkling of another round in sight for either of you.
just uneven breaths and heads heavy with relief - and every word adjacent to it.
the lines of moonlight cast through your shutters become clear as you blink towards the ceiling. slowly, you refamiliarize yourself with your senses.
heavy warmth seeps into your chest, and you quickly realize it's him. still here. still close to you.
just... unmoving and face down.
"...higuruma?"
silence. just for a beat.
"mm."
"...are you asleep?"
he shakes his head quick enough for that to be the truth.
"...are you... okay...?"
...he shakes his head again. with enough reluctance for that to also be the truth.
you start to shift your side, sighing at the way his arm instinctively tightens. like he thinks you're going to leave.
"m'not going anywhere." you hum, one hand coming to soothe into his back. "just making sure you're not dead."
you can feel the laugh beneath your palm- snuffed out by the pillows he's currently face-first in.
he lifts his head, just to look to you and let it plot down. the both of you just breaths away from the other. steaming with pleasure and now bathing in fatigue.
"still alive. no seance has to be held to bring me back." he grumbles, eyes already half lidded with sleep.
"bold of you to assume i'd want to bring you back."
"mm... you don't mean that."
you're quiet for a beat, looking over his exhausted, fully relaxed figure. small smile sprawling on your face instinctually. it's sweet. he looks different when he's doesn't have a stick up his ass.
"...caught me."
it's weak. telling.
he responds with a firm tug as he rolls onto his own side- pulling you flush to his chest in one, lazy movement. a sweet kiss pressed to the crown of your head.
you lay like that for a while. breaths eventually settling in sync with the other. skin to skin. no rush to get back home before sunrise or allow regret to set in.
you're both just tired. always have been.
"stay the night?" you whisper, small. voice dying out as it leaves your mouth like you're afraid to ask it. doubtful he's even awake to hear it.
just for them to be immediately soothed with a solid, soft palm running up and down your back.
"mhm."
gentle. aware. not a trace of regret or prejudice found in his words - and you can't help but curl deeper into his warmth.
thank u for reading! i am publishing this at 5 am after tweaks so not rlly proofread so. but ty anyway for reading my little first longfic prototype. <3
OH MY GOD YOU ARE BACK ???? I WAITED FOR YOU TO POST SOMETHING SINCE LAST YEAR 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 ARE YOU OKAY I MISSED YOU GIRL 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
yes hello omg 😭💗 i’m okay i’ve just been dealing with a lot of life stuff namely my breakup last spring, school, work, and then… Other boy issues. LMFAO but im oki i rlly missed writing and my jjk and naruto boys 🥲 we r so back
summary: reader has chronic depression (written with mdd in mind), you have an episode with nanami. angst hurt comfort. misunderstanding at first but nanami luvs u. college au. one shot drabble (mostly a vent post lol), div creds @pixopix
you're not sure why you're like this. you wish- pray even- for anything to change. it’s not sadness in the way people expect. it’s heavier than that. like your body is moving through syrup, every step a conscious decision. like your bones are tired. like even breathing takes more effort than it should. some days, you sit on your bed longer than you mean to, staring at nothing, waiting for something inside you to start.
you tell yourself it'll pass. it always does. and when it doesn't, you just get better at pretending it has.
it feels useless to bring it up to your partners. "hey, i have this thing where i'm tired all the time for no reason." "hey, everything feels wrong and each day grates against my soul in a way i can't explain."
so when another bout settles in, quiet and familiar, you decide you'll handle it the way you always do. alone.
it was one of the reasons your last relationship ended. he just didn't get it. didn't understand why you slept in until 5 pm on days you didn't have classes. maybe didn't believe the excuse of you being "just really tired".
so, when kento nanami entered your life, bright and shining in his own silent way with eyebags that carried weight similar to yours, you thought- maybe he would. or at the very least grant you a little more grace than your ex.
the first few months were good. great even. hell, part of you began to think that with nanami- you couldn't feel that way again. like being with him was just so fulfilling and made you so happy that the tendrils of depression couldn't reach you here. of course, the static of dissociation would follow you everywhere still, but it became livable with nanami by your side.
the two of you are sitting on the campus bus, sharing an earbud as your head hangs heavy from the day of studying and socializing at the engineering building. eyes half lidded and staring into your knees, nudged slightly together by nanami's larger frame beside you. not squishing. just big.
his hand meets your thigh softly, giving it a couple little squishes. like he does with your hand when he's holding it to get your attention.
the contact doesn't jolt your awareness immediately. you have to put the effort in to come back into your body. blinking a couple of times and taking a breath before you turn your head to him.
"falling asleep?" he hums, hand still firm on your thigh. head tilting to the side.
yeah. falling asleep.
you nod weakly, leaning into him. offering him physical closeness as if it's a dog treat to pacify his worry.
"mhm. tired." you let your head fall onto his shoulder, closing your eyes. his warmth seeps into you, but doesn't penetrate deeper than the surface of your skin.
"i know. our stops soon." the sentence hurts more than it should, even when it's uttered in that gentle voice he takes only with you. he doesn't know. but you resign yourself to the hope that he takes your word for it.
nanami just assumes your social battery has been run dry from the group studying session today- if you can even call it that. he's pretty tired too from having to redirect haibara to do his own homework and being tugged into a crude conversation between gojo, geto, and shoko.
atleast, that's the conclusion he comes to on the bus ride. the one he comes to after walking you from the bus stop to your townhome's door is a different one- as your complete silence strikes him as out of character. you two are walking aside each other- but he can't help but feel like he's not even here. like he could just stop in place and you'd continue walking the sidewalk until you got to your front door.
you fumble in your tote absentmindedly- not even looking into it for your keys- just waiting for your fingers to graze them and then grab them. like doing anything else would be just too much effort.
"you gave them to me." nanami hums, holding them up with a jingle.
your reaction is still slow, like you're processing where you are.
"oh. right. sorry." you realize, readjusting your totes strap over your shoulder.
"sorry for what, baby?" nanami huffs, a small chuckle leaking through his words as he leans over you to unlock the door. you're not sure. words like that sort of come out on default. "i know they're tiring. next time, it can be just us." he murmurs, clicking your door lock once and pushing it open for you. his other hand meeting your back gently. always so gentle.
a weak smile bubbles up to the surface of your face, brows knitting in something he can't quite read. something's off, he just can't decipher it.
"yeah. that sounds nice." you hum, voice small in a way that makes his chest tight. did he do something wrong? did one of them say something to you that he didn't catch? he'd been with you the whole day, and everything seemed fine. you catch this internal monologue, offering a vague reconciliation.
"dunno what it is, m' just not feeling well right now."
"you should've told me, love. we didn't have to go out today."
"i know, kento." is all you say. weak, and small. grim almost. and then you take a step, foot leaving your front door mat and meeting the hardwood of the inside of your apartment once. then twice.
nanami is still where he stood, holding the door open for you even though you're already inside, turned to him and leaning against the door frame.
"i just need some sleep i think. s-sorry." you say it again. like it'll fix your behavior from the day. your distance from him that is undoubtedly leaving him feeling cold and maybe even a little ignored. like your behavior is something to be fixed.
nanami swallows the confused feeling in his throat, nodding once and letting his hand fall. "alright baby. do you need anything? medicine?"
"m' okay, kento. thank you."
"you'll text me if you do?"
"i will." you giggle softly, putting conscious effort into making it sound right. light. like nothing's wrong. and he wants to be relieved at the sound, but he can't help but feel like you're brushing off how both of you are feeling right now. like it's no big deal.
a beat of silence passes, and he nods once more. "alright, love. goodnight." "goodnight, kento. love you." "i love you too."
nanami hangs his keys up with more care than necessary. straightens them so the keys all hang aligned. takes his shoes off and aligns them on the rack- taking the time to straighten gojos sneakers beside them aswell. routine. he's always been good with routine.
until the sound of your "love you" bleeds into his head like a migraine. he stills for half of a second in the middle of taking his coat off. you say it all the time. you always do. but- it sounded... lighter. like it was simply an automatic dialogue option that didn't come from anywhere in particular.
he recalls a passionate discussion between shoko and gojo- something about how "love you" is wayyy different than "i love you." and you agreed.
you agreed that it's non-commital. that it's weaker than the whole thing. and in that moment, he silently vowed to quit saying it even in those dull in-between moments. the ones where he's dropping you off at the bar district with your girlfriends or tucking your hair behind your ear while you're asleep in his bed.
and you said it.
nanami frowns slightly, thumb brushing the lapel of his coat now hung on a hanger in his closet. he's overthinking. he must be.
overthinking how you hardly looked up from your laptop during the four hours you guys were studying, even when you weren't really looking at anything. even when shoko called on you to take her side in a nothing burger argument.
overthinking how anytime you did call onto him, you called him kento. not baby, not lover, not sweetheart. just kento.
overthinking how you said sorry. twice. his jaw tightens just slightly. you apologize when you think you've done something wrong. when you think you've inconvenienced someone. but he hadn't given you a reason to think that, had he?
had he?
this isn't a spiral. he isn't calling it one. it's just... observation. very meticulous, maybe overstepping observation.
he goes back farther as he showers and tries to settle into bed. head spinning with the day before too.
not spiraling. not at all. just staring at the ceiling and periodically unlocking his phone to recheck your texts and stories. not a spiral.
the way this feeling settles in like always can only be described as violating. it was supposed to be different with kento. not in a reliant way, but in the- things are going really good way. you have no reason to feel like this. you've been doing well in all your classes, you finally have a steady friend group that you don't have to soften your edges around, and you have him. your perfect, handsome, stellar boyfriend. a man who brings you flowers without asking. a man who is unapologetically publicly yours, holding your hand around campus, posting every minute outing you two take on his story, walking into parties with an arm around your waist and hand settled on the plump of your hip. the same man you've been leaving on delivered for hours at a time, just like you have been everyone else.
it's intrusive. unwanted. agonizing. there is absolutely nothing to warrant the weight sitting on your chest and laundry piling up on your floor. and it feels like there is absolutely nothing to fix it either. you are just like this.
why me? why does it have to be me? why can everybody make it through this season and be completely unaffected by the fact that the sun is setting at 5 pm? why can't i? why can't i just... be fucking normal?
you curl in on yourself, bringing the three blankets atop you in on you. it's dark, friday, 9pm. you had a lab at 4 that ran late, and you didn't even bother texting yuki to let her know that you won't make it to pregame for the party that night. the party that's happening right now. that you're not at. because something about just the idea of changing outfits and doing your makeup to go out is exhausting.
it's pathetic, you think. how pathetic that you're back in bed for the night after a day of what? sleeping until 3, brushing your hair and getting dressed for your lab, and getting home to shower and lie back in bed? you'd probably taken a combined 200 steps going from your bus to your building and back.
all you can do is pity yourself- and in some weird part of your brain, hope that others may one day understand how exactly this feels and pity you too.
you croak a weak laugh at the realization, hands coming up to your face in pure shame. but you don't shove it down.
please, just see me. just see- just understand that this is so fucking difficult for me. don't laugh. don't feel bad. just understand.
yuki's phone finally buzzes back for the first time that night, eyes lighting up as she bolts for it on the counter- abandoning whatever conversation she was in to pick up your call-
nanami's call.
she mouths a 'sorry, hold on a sec' to the boy she was talking to, taking a few steps from the kitchen to the bathroom- thankfully unoccupied. by the grace of whatever god is out there.
"yo, nana. what's up?" she speaks, still having to raise her voice a bit to account for the noise outside the door. this is as quiet as it'll get.
"is y/n there? she's not responding to my texts- i think her phone's off." nanami's voice cuts through, serious as ever.
"uhh nah- i checked her location though. said she was at home. i saw yorozu- that biochem girl?- i dunno- but she said their lab ran late, so she might've just been tired."
"she's been saying she's tired all week. she cancelled on shoko a couple days ago, and didn't even respond to me this morning."
"well- i dunno. does she have classes in the morning?" yuki shrugs, putting her back to the door as someone pounds on the other side. if they need to puke, they can do it in the backyard.
"her labs the only class she has today. at 4. i texted her at 11."
"okay geez- well if you know so much about her schedule why don't you know where she's at?"
"if i knew why i would i be calling you, tsukumo." nanami punctuates his words with venom. oh, is he pissed? the golden couple getting into marital troubles?
"well iiiii don't know, nanami." she mocks, rolling her eyes at his attitude. "i've been calling her all night- i just thought she was getting ready or fell asleep or something-" click.
nanami is already in his car, pulling out of his apartment's parking garage with a calculated fervor. he can't tell if he's pissed, worried, or both. probably both with how he's gripping his leather steering wheel.
the distance to your apartment is a short ways away, but of course, with his luck, he manages to get nothing but red lights and herds of dressed-up students already tipsy ahead of their friday night plans in his way. the lack of music, the lack of any communication from you, tsukumo's brash attitude. all of it is forming in an undeniable tension in his jaw that has his teeth audibly squeaking against one another.
he doesn't want to be mad at you. he isn't really. he's just upset. he loves you, and the absence of even just a good morning text from you today- when that's been your relationship's normal from the beginning- has him realizing that yeah, he wasn't overthinking your interaction from the week prior. something is genuinely wrong, and you're not telling him.
by the third knock, he's about ready to kick the door down- until one of your roommates opens it.
"oh- nanami?" she speaks, genuinely curious.
he quickly deflates, as if he's been caught doing something illegal, and not just checking on his girlfriend, who's been absent from everybody aside from her 4pms classmates since last night.
"is y/n home?" he speaks after a measured breath.
"uh- yeah, her keys n' stuff are here..." she speaks, looking over to the bowl on the counter- your lanyard spilling out of it. "are you two... like..."
"she's not been responding to anyone. i just wanted to check."
she eyes him suspiciously. she knows how college guys can be. overbearing, entitled. i mean, nanami never gave that impression, but she wouldn't feel right just letting him in if you two were fighting or something.
"i'll go check if she's in her room."
"please."
the door shuts, and the only sounds he hears are his blood in his ears and heartbeat thudding against his chest so violently it's making his breath stutter.
a few minutes pass before the door opens again, your roommate now long gone up the stairs.
you're there, wrapped in a hoodie that's a size too big, hair slightly out of place, eyes weighed down with something heavier than sleep. it's 10 pm, and you look like you've just woken up.
"...hey." you murmur, voice rough around the edges. and nanami- even though he should still be upset- softens automatically just at the sight of you.
"hello." a beat. "did i wake you?"
you break eye contact, head tilting downwards slightly. like a guilty dog.
"y-yeah."
he sighs. a disappointed, parental kind of sigh. and god does that hurt like a knife.
"i'm sorry, lovely." it's measured as ever- but something trembles beneath it. like those were the words he selfishly wanted to hear. and he's telling them to you with full sincerity. "may i come in? please? i think we should talk."
you bite down on your lip and fully shift your gaze from his this time, hair coming down to curtain your profile.
you step aside without answering.
you move slowly, back turned towards him as you make your way to the bedroom. like you wanna draw out the quiet before this "talk" happens. because you know what you're gonna hear. you've heard it all before.
"it's messy, sorry- give me a sec." your voice trembles weakly, pushing the door open like there's an immeasurable weight on the other side.
you don't close it all the way behind you, just hoping the darkness obscures you shoving laundry under the bed and grabbing fistfuls of snack wrappers from your nightstand to toss in your nearly overflowing trashcan. god- this is fucking humiliating.
but he stands outside, giving you the time you need to collect yourself. so polite. even when he's about to break up with you.
you come back after flicking a few lamps on, opening the door all the way for him to let him inside the prison cell you've been falling victim to every day for the past week.
he walks in, discarding his shoes as you click the door behind you and shift to your bed. you can't even look at him as you sit, already curling in on yourself as you pull your sleeves over your hands.
the silence is palpable. for both of you.
"you haven't responded to me all day." he hums, biting back any anger that still remains- the majority of it dissipating after realizing you truly have been at home- asleep. which is absolutely not normal or good for you.
"i'm sorry."
he sighs again, slowly stepping to sit beside you- mattress gently dipping with his added weight. close, but not touching. he doesn't rush. nanami has never rushed anything with you.
"i'm not mad. i'm... i am upset. admittedly."
"i know." you quake weakly. because you do. you're perfectly aware of how this habit of reclusing affects the people around you- you just honestly can't bring yourself to care or delude yourself into believing that nobody else will either.
"do you, y/n?" he murmurs, almost pleading. his own posture bending to try and meet your eyes that have been stuck to the floor since you sat.
"i'm just tired, kento-" you start, voice shaking with this knowing that you fucked up but the weakness of not feeling capable of doing anything about it.
"you said that last week." the interruption is gentle, but it still lands.
but you are. you're so fucking tired. and you can't describe it any other way.
"i just... i don't know."
"you don't know? or you don't want to tell me?"
it's quiet. controlled. but it hurts.
"because i need more than that. you've been cancelling all week- pulling back almost completely. i'm just kento now." he speaks, his own voice trembling too. "do you know how much that hurts? and please, if i did something, please tell me, because i've mulled it over for days and can't figure it out-"
you've never heard nanami like this. nanami doesn't ramble. nanami doesn't rush, and for him to admit to you that he's been spiraling on his own this time- it hurts your heart. the first real feeling you've had this past week of numbness. tangible. evident. right in front of you once you've lifted your head to make eye contact with him.
oh, how sad he looks. he really has been worried. he really does care.
he's not here to break up with you. he's here to figure out what he did.
"it's not you, kento." you squeak, throat suddenly tight at the revelation.
"then what is it?" he huffs, exasperated.
you open your mouth to speak. you could say it. you could try.
i feel wrong. everything feels heavy. i can't get up sometimes.
you lips press together, gaze dropping once again to his hands tensed in his lap.
"...i don't know how to say it." you admit instead, quieter now. smaller. "it's not-" you shake your head weakly, hands tightening in your sleeves. "it's not like i'm just tired, i just... that's the only word i have for it."
your voice wavers as you feel his eyes bore into you from above. silent. listening. god, he's always been so good at that.
"everything feels heavier than it should. like- like getting up, or answering texts, or even just talking-" your voice cracks slightly. "it all feels like too much, even when i want to. i wanted to go to that party, i knew it'd help me feel better- but i just. i don't know." you swallow, but there's nothing to digest. it's all coming out now in a dreadful vomit of words.
"i know it doesn't make sense. because nothing's wrong. i'm fine. i should be fine." your fingers curl tight into the fabric of your sleeves, warm tears beginning to patter into them. you hadn't even realized you started crying. the next phrase comes out through a broken sob.
"but i'm not."
you laugh once- humorless and dampened by your crackling voice.
"and i know how that sounds. i know it just looks like i'm ignoring people or being lazy or- something." you cut yourself off, hands gesturing loosely as they come up to smear your tears away. "i know it hurts you. i just... i don't know how to fix it. i don't... i don't know what's wrong with me."
the last words come out with a dreadful pitch up of your voice as your throat tightens at the admission.
nanami doesn't speak right away.
he's heard of things like this before. his brows are drawn, but not in frustration this time. in a soft, attempted understanding.
he doesn't want to categorize you or solve you. with how you just spilled your guts to him, that feels far too apathetic. he just needs to be here with you right now.
he exhales slowly.
"you said you want to." he repeats, quieter. careful with his words.
"i do. i want to answer, i want to go out, i want to see you, i just-" your voice breaks again, shaking your head weakly as you look up at him. "i can't."
nanami feels it. it's not avoidance or purposeful neglect. inability.
"and this happens often?" he asks. still calm. still him. gentle, stripped of that earlier edge.
"y-yeah, i guess. just- it sounds dumb, i dunno- but winter makes it worse. the suns hardly out- and it makes it so easy to just... sleep. rot in my room." you laugh again, a lackluster attempt to dig yourself out of the hole you're currently several feet deep in.
"i see." he hums. quiet and thoughtful, not a glimpse of dismissal present. "it's not dumb. i don't think it's dumb."
he shifts closer to you, knee slightly tapping yours. the hand closest to you comes up to cup your cheek- stilling right before it meets you completely to give you a choice to close the gap yourself.
you do, taking it like a pitiful dog. nuzzling into it and chastising yourself in your head- you don't deserve this. not after how you left him high and dry.
and he gives it anyway, looking at you as soft as ever.
"i thought you were pulling away. like you were making the conscious choice to do so." he hums, soft thumb swiping the now drying path carved by your tears from before.
"it probably feels like that, i'm sure." you mumble, shamefully.
"it does." he admits. not taunting you with it, just being honest. because he can't lie and pretend this hasn't been impacting him as severely as it has been.
"but that doesn't mean it's true, lovely," and he smiles. weak, warm. but there and real. "you should have told me," he says, almost doting.
"it's just hard- to put into words. words good enough to get what i mean across." you shift slightly into his palm, one of your soft hands coming up to keep his wrist there.
"then don't use them." you blink, irises narrowing in a flicker of confusion. "you don't have to explain it perfectly for me to take it seriously. or to stay."
who let him be this perfect? you want to shove it away- you want to feel repulsed by this. and part of you is. but a bigger part of you feels like it's being submerged in the warm water of a hot spring. long cold limbs prickling at the feeling of his acceptance washing over them.
you can't help but lean into him, forehead thudding against his chest gently in surrender.
"i'm really sorry, kento. i'm really really sorry- i didn't- i don't know-" you cry, voice breaking with each word until you're full on sobbing into him. shoulders trembling more once his arms come up to envelop you fully and rub soothing circles into your back.
"i know. it's okay. i promise." he whispers into the crown of your head.
"s' not- i didn't even- sniff- say good morning back- that's so fucked- i'm so fucked-" you whimper, now fully rambling apologies into the fabric of his shirt. off handed comments about how stupid or useless you are- how terrible it was of you to neglect him like that.
he wants to laugh at it. because yes, the lack of a good morning sent him spiraling more than he wants to admit. but the fact that you're acknowledging it and berating yourself for it makes him understand that this is truly something you fight with and loathe about yourself.
"i know you didn't baby. that's okay. you're not fucked. c'mere." he sighs, scooping you up. heart panging slightly at the realization that you're noticeably lighter since the last time he lifted you up like this.
he stands to scoop you up fully, and crawls into bed with you steady in his grasp the entire time. pulling blankets over the two of you as your sniffles die down in his shoulder.
"how about i order us some food, okay? and maybe we can watch something, or talk more. whatever you'd like. i just want you to eat something for me. think you can do that?" he hums, still caressing your back rhythmically. you nod weakly into the nape of his neck. you can't remember the last time you ate something of actual substance and not just small nutritionally void snacks. "okay. thank you, baby." he sighs, smiling into you.
"i really really love you, ken. i'm sorry for doing that to you." you hiccup, separating your face from his now soaked shirt to tilt your head against the pillow and look up at him.
"it's not your fault, my love. just... just know i'm here, okay?" he speaks, brushing hair from your face to tuck it behind your ear sweetly. "let me be here. that's all i ask." his eyes search yours with uncertainty. like he just demanded the most from you.
and they soften upwards as soon as you nod. "i will. thank you. for staying." you squeak. "m'sorry again."
"hush with that." he murmurs, planting a kiss on your forehead to pacify your worries. "what do you want to eat, baby?"
you frown slightly. pity leaking in at how even this is a monumental task.
nanami sighs a small laugh, leaning in to kiss your forehead once more. "right, right, sorry, i'll pick. don't worry, lovely." he hums, letting you nestle into him further with a muffled 'thank you.'
ty for reading, not proofread just a little ramble to get back into the swing of things.
summary: helping your lover through a panic attack
feat. obito uchiha, kakashi hatake (art cred)
cw: jonin!obito, panic attack description, blood, reader accidentally nicks themself, ptsd, my sweet traumatized boys... i just want them to CRY. not proofread im just emo and need to get this out
obito uchiha
obito rouses from his sleep, wincing at the agony starting to seep through his veins like poison replacing blood. the startup is slow, but the realization of what’s happening snaps obito completely out of his groggy state.
he hates this. he hates being so powerless as the hand of panic grasps firmly at his heart. he wants to roll his eyes and scoff, he knows he’s fine- but he’s not going to be once his chest starts to hurt and breaths start to burn. once white-hot pain sears the entirety of his right side. once images flash in his eyes against his consent. it’s so frustrating not being okay.
your warmth makes itself known as you stir in response to his rousing and he apologizes in his head for waking you- verbally saying it is unfortunately not an option with how taut his jaw and throat are. he can’t move to grasp for you and ground himself at all. you’re right next to him, your back to his right, and somehow he’s still alone in this- and there’s that image of his friend going cold in his arms. alone as he held her body.
out comes the first wheeze, a full body tremble following it. it’s getting bad. fast.
“‘bito?” you rasp, sleep coating your voice. you’d fallen asleep in his embrace with his chest against your back, but his heat is missing now and you’re needy for it back. you push yourself up to lay on your other side, assuming he’d just shifted and ended up rolling over in his sleep. out comes a second wheeze and your eyes finally open, catching his rigid body- frozen in place and slightly quivering like you’d just found him beneath the snow.
oh, your obito. your heart shatters at the sight. your kind worried eyes find his, one shut and the other staring into nothing. you know what this is.
“obito, honey.” you hum, trying to bury the shaky concern that still manages to make it’s way through your words. “breathe.” your free palm settles on his chest, the other propping yourself up as you sit mermaid style beside him. another wheeze and a shudder, this time followed by a weak whimper as he finds your tender gaze and locks his eye with yours. “there you are. just breathe, my love.” your face softens, masking how sick you are with worry. “need you to breathe.”
it’s hard. it’s so hard. he swallows and chokes on nothing before he takes in a gasp of air and sobs it out. it’s so hard, but he’s doing it for you. “oh good job angel, that’s my boy. so proud of you.” you release the breath you had been (accidentally) holding with him, sighing in relief as you praise him and dip to give him a small kiss on his forehead. your hand soothes the entirety of his chest, side to side as you try to ground him with the stimulation. he’s breathing- like metal has pierced his lungs and blood begins to drown him from the inside- but breathing, nonetheless.
you lift yourself to kneel, freeing your other hand so you can wipe the tears building up before they get the chance to spill while still providing that gentle stimulation. it breaks your heart, seeing your strong, cheerful boy fight something so overwhelming. all you can do is hum praises and assurances and offer delicate touches like you’re trying to coax out a wounded puppy.
his head shakily leans into your touch, still holding your gaze as his eyebrows furrow into a sorrowful expression. his mouth moved to try and choke something out, but all that comes is a sob that wracked his entire body. he lifts his arms, heavy as water, and weakly grasps at the sleeves and fabric of your nightgown.
"hey, you're okay. i got you, sweetheart. you got me."
it’s awkward, but you manage to position yourself and lean down to pull him into an embrace, snaking your arms beneath his upper back and letting him squeeze you closer to him.
his cries are uneven, mixing with periods of hyperventilating and repeated sobs and sniffles, apologies, and unintelligible babbles eventually making their way into the mix.
"i-i'm- fuck- s-sorry," he chokes through tears and strained breaths, fingers knitting into the fabric of your back and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. it was terrifying, being so far away from you. even when you were right there.
"you're okay, obito. don't be sorry, sweet boy. you're okay." you hum, swallowing your own tears down. you wanna say sorry. you want to take all his pain away. you want to take all of his burdens on yourself.
"s-s-sorry- i'm s-s-so- hahh- sorry-" he weeps between convulsive gasps, and you're not sure if he's apologizing to you or just sorry. guilt, shame, and regret coiled around his heart like razorwire and tightened- he's yet to exit the woods of this episode.
slowly, you lift him up, whispering encouragements so this new position can hopefully ease the anguish weighing him down. he's upright now, still in your arms. both of your palms settle upon his face, pads wiping tears away as you hold his head- so heavy with grief. his hands are settled around your hips and thighs as you sit crossed between his legs, loosely squeezing and soothing his own pads on the fabric barring him from your skin. the two of you settled into a slow sway from side to side as you hummed a tune, embracing him and soothing your hands up and down his back as he sniffled into your shoulder.
you were so understanding, so loving, part of him wanted to reject it. he would if it were anyone other than you. you made it too hard. you made it too difficult to reject the fact that he is cherished.
"m'sorry." he hums, moving his hands to wrap around the small of your back. "hush, angel. you're okay." you whispered, still gently swaying with him. "thank you. i love you." the phrase slipped from his lips so naturally. he sounded wounded. he sounded like a kid. it was so sweet, so tender, so vulnerable.
"i love you too, obito. always."
kakashi hatake
kakashi ignores the feeling creeping up his limbs like it’ll go away. like it won’t sense the fear in his heart as his eyes blur and static fills his ears. like the panic isn’t a predator, lurking until he least expects it. the panic won’t smell his anxiety worsening as the first signs hit him.
you’d cut yourself quite badly while preparing dinner, misjudging where your fingers were before you pushed with all your might through a vegetable.
you were a medical ninja, you saw blood all the time, but something about it being your own- it always got you. like a nurse with a fear of needles or a surgeon with a fear of knives. your entire body was hot and prickly and you could only call to kakashi once before you fell to your knees, breathing as stable as you could. how embarrassing, you thought.
kakashi was quick to your side, bringing you back to reality and hoisting you up to wash the blood off so you could heal yourself. you were being a bit of a baby, you admit, at some point, the real weakness in your knees mixed with the exaggerated bat of your eyelashes as you asked him to ‘hold me uppp’.
it was a quick fix, but it was deep enough to scar and leave you a bit woozy for the rest of the night. you parted from kakashi to discard the bloodied vegetables and find something else to fix up for the two of you. kakashi was left in front of the running water of the sink, staring at his blood-stained hands.
fog starts to cloud around him and he’s cursing under his breath, knitting his eyes together and bracing like it’ll pass over him. why now? so stupid. blood on his hands, the sound of water, and the now absence of your presence. all keys to the lock that hid his vulnerabilities, now open as it’s scent trail is being tracked by his past.
blood is in the water and sharks of guilt and fear are hot on kakashi’s tail. there is no hiding, no matter how still and silent he is.
“‘kashi?” you hum after the first call of his name went unanswered. you pushed the fridge doors closed and looked back at the sink on the other side of the kitchen island, his back still facing yours and water still running. no answer, again.
“kakashiii, you there?” your eyes tracked his still figure as you rounded the island, slowing the closer you got to him. he is really still. another call, and another. you’re a foot to his side and he’s still yet to even move his eyes towards you.
you scan his rigid figure, noticing how tight his eyes are shut and the quickening of his breath. “kakashi, talk to me.” you realize what’s going on, shutting the water off. his hands were long clean, but they still shook beneath the water like they were stained with your blood.
his breathing becomes audible as it turns to panting and mixes with the crackle of his vocal cords. his frame stays stable as his arms tremble like twigs, eyes opening and darting to both of his palms- back and forth.
“kakashi.” you call, grasping his wrists and turning him to face you. “kakashi, baby, breathe.”
he doesn’t realize what’s happening until he’s on the floor with you and his own cry- the agonized groan that crawls it’s way out of his throat- is bringing him back to reality. his hands are in yours and you’re both on your knees in front of the other.
the freeze response has passed and now he’s stuck between fight and flight- but as emotions come crashing down on him like waves without a break between, all he can choose is give up.
the fragile thread holding him together has snapped and he’s sobbing, leaning into you as you pull him into an embrace. his arms are heavy hanging over his legs like sandbags, too weak to reciprocate. the nuzzle into your neck is symbolic of a grasp to keep you to him, and you hear it loud and clear.
“you’re okay, kakashi. you’re okay.”
“n-not- fuck- bad.”
“i know, angel. i’m so sorry. you’re gonna be okay, i'm right here with you, kakashi.”
your heart pangs at his rejection of your comfort. the way he hiccups his words out between gasps, the admission that this is a bad one.
kakashi had panic attacks around you before, but it was only ever dissociation coupled with hyperventilating, never outright sobbing.
something about it being your real blood and that situation flashing in his mind at the same time- it was just too much. he promised your closest friends and family that he’d protect you- what if- fuck.
he's completely in his own mind. this isn't real, he knows that. he knows you're right here, holding him, but he can't control it. he can't control the tears spilling and can't control the pace at which he breathes- and it's only making him panic more.
what if this was real? what if you were wounded and he had to deal with your blood on his hands? what if you were gone? and it happened under his watch? would he react this same way? would he freeze and fail? more voices join the already peaking chorus and he's never felt more pathetic.
one of your hands settles in his hair and slightly scratch in an attempt to bring him back to you, soft whispers and hums of reassurance still spilling from you as you gently squeeze and run your nails over the exposed skin of his arms and nape of his neck. for the most part it's just heaving and weak whimpers, but every time a choked cry wrestles its way out of his chest you coo and offer a chaste kiss to his shoulder, cheek, or scalp. "i know, honey. it's okay, it'll be okay, just breathe with me."
it's heartbreaking, such a reserved man so broken before you. this is him.
his breathing evens out with yours after you coach him through it, and finally, his hands are able to move and grasp at the thighs they were resting on. "there you are, my sweet boy." you sigh, cupping his cheek to pull into a kiss and create space between the two of you so you can get a good look at his face. his eyes are raw, eyebags more pronounced and pigmented than usual, but they still open and look up at you with that same loving- yet so frail- gaze.
you can't help the smile that graces your face- can't help the sadness in it. "hi, sweetheart." you hum, soothing your thumbs over his tired eyes and flushed cheeks.
he looks scared. eyes darting around, still looking into yours, just trembling. "you're okay, baby. promise. i'm right here. just stay with me."
the two of you sync, taking ten-second long breaths you led him through. he's tired, you can tell. still, he forces his arms to rise and embraces you this time.
relief washes over you as his large frame fully takes you in, a small giggle coming from you as your hands settle on the small of his back.
"thank you." he murmurs into your shoulder, taking another deep breath. you smile. "don't thank me."
"still gonna." he huskily chuckles, pressing a small kiss atop your shoulder. "don't like doing this alone. you..." he breathes again, trying to regain some composure as his voice starts to tremble, "you make it easier. don't know what i'd do without you."
he can't see the ways your eyes gloss at his shaky confession, but he can feel the way your grip tightens and the sniffle that echoes in the silence.
"i'll always be here, kakashi. promise."
kakashi's never been good at saying 'i love you'. it always got stuck behind his teeth, some mental block barring him from reciprocating the words. very rarely would he say it first, so the hushed whisper of, "i love you," into your neck means the most to you.
sry if this is uncomfy but would u ever write for trans reader or trans chara? love your work btw <3
omg nooo not uncomfy at all!! i actually do have a few trans chara hcs and sometimes do wanna write for maybe ftm reader.. Since idk. Not to have another gender crisis but i mayhe sort of identify with them in some way. like yes i crave being a boyActually. But. nevermind. No crisis tonight.:3
ANYWHO id totally write for honestly ftm/mtf chara or reader. only thing is iwsort of like … woild stick with descriptive words like cunt and cock respectively so idk if that’s a no-no but Idk. LOL maybe id need some pointers but it is 100% on the table
cw: sub!kakashi, femdom!reader (reader is a cloud ninja and somewhat equal to kakashi's strength), p in v, cowgirl, accidental half-creampie, implied cum eating, not proofread (probably terrible)
sub!kakashi who’s only sexual encounters consist of half-assed one night stands that leave the girl asleep and him unsatisfied- a feeling of emptiness plaguing him the entirety of the night. sub!kakashi who craves being manhandled and fucked rather than having a pretty thing beg for him to hold her down and use her. sub!kakashi who just wants to be a boytoy. sub!kakashi who's been palming himself thinking about the cloud ninja he had been sparring with- her sweet yet aloof attitude, flirty wits, and strength. sub!kakashi who's spilling thinking the look she had on her face after knocking him flat on his back. the way her pupils were blown as she straddled his waist and held the kunai to his throat.
sub!kakashi who’s caught off guard by you murmuring orders like nothing during your first time together. ‘put your arms up’ you’d say in a husky whisper, his body reacting quicker than his brain is. obeying your every command. he’s only known you for a week but he’d do anything for you so long as you asked him in that sultry voice of yours.
you lead him like a dog on a leash, stripping him and dancing your body against his. he doesn’t fight any of your advances, in fact craves more- silent impatient whines mouthed out each time you exert any sort of caution before you make another move.
“more, please.” he huffs. he’s so pretty, desperation decorating his pink-dusted face. sweat beginning to bead and his jaw going increasingly slack- tongue peeking started to spill over his bottom teeth.
such an aloof and confident man cracking beneath you. pitiful is the only word to truly describe the sight.
his body is unreasonably hot. the cold air against his full bobbing cock brings him back to reality for a moment- lost in the picturesque scene of you slipping your panties off each leg just to be dunked back into that lust-drunk state. you’re paying no mind to him, but the firm hand placed upon his chest you’re using to hold yourself up on is an order that he is to stay here, right beneath you.
each touch and word shows your intent. the intent to control- a gentle, considerate, slow control. both of your hands find his pecs as you brace yourself over him, eyes meeting his and softening upwards in a silent, sweet question. no matter how many times kakashi eagerly nodded and hummed in approval, you kept making sure this was a step he wanted to take before you tugged his figurative leash forward. that control beneath all the gentle nudges and whispered commands, that's what got him seeing stars.
“what do you want?” you hummed, tilting your head. your voice was so sweet, like your heat wasn’t inches away from the bell end of his cock. “you.” is all he can say, hands sliding up your forearms and settling back down around your wrists. “me?” your syrupy voice mixed with a savory, dark tone. “how do you want me, kakashi?” the question was stupid, one might think. you were a moment away from taking him if you just sat, but you wanted to hear him say it.
“i… want to feel you. i want…” he pondered. he wanted to fuck you- to be enveloped by your wet heat- but that’s not right.
“want you to fuck me.”
with a smile and whispered praise, your folds part around his tip and you’re swiftly settling around his cock. it’s jarring- the pace at which you take him is stark compared to how slow and teasing you were before. in just a few seconds you're bottomed out and delicately arching at how well he fills you up, and he's keening like you just sunk a knife between his ribs.
"hoh- f-fuckkkk." his hands wring around your wrists, squeezing them as he breathes through the shock like he's been dunked in cold water. the lewd squelch that echoed throughout the room spoke for itself; you were soaked and the poor man beneath you was being drowned.
"oh i'll fuck you, pretty boy."
your pace is grueling- not fast, but so fucking violent. nails rake into his pecs deeper and deeper each time you rise to the tip and let gravity pull your cunt to his pelvis. each forced drive of your g-spot to his tip has you howling, giggles mixing with loud moans. like the way he's subtly trembling and alternating between holding his breath and panting as he holds his seed back is entertainment for you. spoiler, it really is.
the metal in his stomach burns orange as you take him. arousal pulses through his veins each time your flesh meets his. he is wrecked at this point, losing his fight against the pressure building at the base of his cock. silver strands stuck to his forehead as he peers at you from below, onyx half-moons finding you through his pretty white eyelashes.
"has anyone ever told you- hahh- how pretty you are, kakashi?" you cooed between bounces. you're not sure what he's moaning out loud at- your voice, you presume- but your tongue smooths over the front of your teeth as you savor the taste of his noises with a smile. you lean forward and give his cheek a soft experimental pap after shaking his grasp loose from your wrist. "asked you a question, pretty boy."
despite it being so gentle against his skin it's inaudible, kakashi's hips are stuttering upwards and his hands are scrambling to your hips to push you off of him. "g'nna cum- fuck- m' sorry- hoohh, fuck," he mewls, legs flailing like he's trying to run from you. "g'nnacum g'nnacum 'gnnacum-"
the moan that bellows from him vibrates the air around you- so bassy and loud. he's free from your pussy with a pop, but not soon enough, half of his load is dripping out of you and the other half is being milked onto his stomach- strings of cum lining his stomach every other pump. your soft palm and thumb send him way over the line, moans breaking off into pathetic high-pitched whines as he's overstimulated by the pad of your thumb against his tip.
'"my my, kakashi. look at youuu," you teased and pulled a hiss from the man. "s-sorry- fuck- m' sorry," he panted, twitching every other pump as pleasure turned to buzzing pain. you knew not to push your luck, you’ve already got him hooked. no need to keep on toying with him. give him something to crave later.
your palm parts from his spent cock and he releases a breath he’d been holding at the overstimulation, the prickly feeling fading from his tummy. “you like that, huh kakashi?” you chastised him, giving his cheek a couple more light paps and a pinch. “f-fuck- i guess so,” he breathed a laugh, still catching his breath. “i think i’d like anything if it was you doing it.” he confessed. you can’t deny the flutter that starts from your clit and goes all the way up into your chest. “that’s a bold statement, kakashi. watch what you’re getting yourself into.”
“i’m watching, alright. i don’t wanna get out of it.” veeery suave, kakashi. you sighed a laugh and pushed yourself upright, standing on your knees. “are you sure about that?” a hand came down and spread your flaps apart and you dripped.
“oh fuck.” his breath faltered at the realization and you swear his dick twitched too. “you gotta do something about this, you know. gotta make it up to me.” you murmured, getting back on your hands and crawling forwards up the bed as he sighed a ‘uh-huh’. “gotta clean me up, kakashi.” you smirked, scooching until your pussy was hanging over his face. you’re vertical again as you get ready to plop on him, his hands beating you to it as he pulls your hips to his tongue. “yes ma’am.”
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