[ SYNOPSIS ] — You try to be the "perfect" partner to Megumi by hiding your own needs and pain so you wouldn’t be a nuisance. This habit becomes dangerous when you get badly hurt on a mission and lie about it, leading to a tearful confrontation when he finds you bleeding in secret. w.c: 4.8k
[ PAIRING ] — megumi fushiguro x people pleaser!reader
[ TAGS ] — gn!reader, established relationship, canon compliant (?), hidden injury, blood, reassurance, hurt/comfort, use of [Name] once, megumi is a sweetheart as usual. Lmk if I missed anything!
"You wouldn't mind taking care of these mission reports for me, would you? You're a lifesaver!"
Satoru Gojo didn't even pause to wait for an answer, dropping a stack of heavily redacted, coffee-stained files onto your already cluttered desk. His iconic blindfold was pushed up, a devastatingly charming smile plastered across his face—the kind of smile that made it entirely impossible for anyone to refuse him.
Your head was pounding. A dull, rhythmic thud echoed right behind your eyes, a souvenir from a consecutive string of sleepless nights. You had your own reports to file, a history exam to help Yuji study for, and Nobara had explicitly told you to be ready in twenty minutes to carry her bags through Shibuya. Your throat tightened, the word no forming perfectly on your tongue.
It was right there. All you had to do was push it past your teeth.
"Of course, Sensei," you heard yourself say, the voice sounding entirely detached from your own body. "I'll have them on Principal Yaga's desk by three."
"Knew I could count on you!" He gave you a cheerful salute and vanished in a blur of limitless space, leaving you staring at the mountain of paperwork. You swallowed the sigh building in your chest, picked up your pen, and started writing.
This was simply how you survived. You made yourself a skeleton key, filing down your own edges, your own needs, and your own exhaustion until you perfectly fit the lock of whatever anyone else required. If you were useful, if you were accommodating, if you smoothed out the friction in the lives of the people around you, they would never look at you and decide you were too much trouble to keep around, that's how it should be, right?
But nowhere was this exhausting performance more prevalent than in your relationship with Megumi Fushiguro.
Megumi with his quiet nature, Megumi with his storm-clouded eyes, Megumi who shouldered so much— with Tsumiki's curse, with the expectations of having a powerful cursed technique, Megumi who you were so so so afraid of losing.
You still have a hard time believing you two are dating. The way it happened was so casual it almost felt unreal.
It wasn’t a grand confession, just a quiet surrender to everything that made you fall for him. The hallway was still buzzing with leftover energy from Yuji’s and Nobara’s laughter, but at your door, the silence felt heavy. Megumi lingered, hands shoved in his pockets, before his fingers grazed your wrist as you were about open the door. When he leaned in, it was with the soft gentleness of someone who had finally found a place to let his guard down. The kiss was brief, but you both knew exactly where you stood in each other's lives.
Yet, being his partner did not cure your affliction; it magnified it even further. You treated your relationship like fragile glass sculpture you had to constantly balance on your fingertips. You altered your entire existence to fit the mold of what you assumed was his ideal, low-maintenance partner.
You drank your tea unsweetened because he preferred bitter things, forcing the astringent liquid down your throat every morning while secretly craving sugar. You slept rigidly on the absolute edge of his mattress, your muscles cramping by dawn, just to ensure he had the lion’s share of the blankets. When he was exhausted from a mission, you swallowed your own awful, lingering trauma from the day, hiding your bruises beneath long sleeves and painting a bright, serene smile on your face so you wouldn’t add to his mental load.
And Megumi knew.
He was incredibly perceptive, and the forced perfection of your behavior was beginning to wear on him like coarse grit against his skin. He saw the way your hands shook when you agreed to take a double patrol shift. He noticed the barely perceptible flinch when he absentmindedly turned the television to a channel you secretly hated, only for you to vehemently agree that it was a great program to watch. It frustrated him.
Megumi loved you, he loved you so much it pained him, but he felt like he was dating a shadow, only moving when he did. And he did not know how to bring it up without fearing for what you would do.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The mission was supposed to be a standard Grade 2 curse eradication in an abandoned subway terminal. It was a joint assignment for the two of you, a rare opportunity to work together. But the intelligence from the auxiliary managers was flawed, as it so often was. The curse was a Grade 1, a massive, grotesque amalgamation of rusted metal and rotting flesh that moved with terrifying speed.
The battle was chaotic in the claustrophobic underground tunnels. Dust choked the air, illuminated only by the flickering, dying fluorescent lights overhead. Megumi had summoned Nue to provide aerial attacks, the electrical discharge illuminating the grim determination on his face. You were covering his blind spots, your own cursed energy manifesting in sharp and precise strikes.
It happened in a fraction of a second. The curse, recognizing Megumi as the greater threat, lunged toward him with a massive, scythe-like appendage. Megumi was mid-incantation, his hands clasped together, momentarily vulnerable.
Your body moved before your conscious mind could register the decision. The ingrained instinct to protect, to serve, to sacrifice, propelled you forward. You shoved Megumi hard, knocking him out of the trajectory of the blade.
The impact was deafening. The rusted metal sliced through the air and tore into your left side, ripping through your uniform and biting deep into the flesh of your waist. The agony was instantaneous, a blinding flare of white-hot pain that stole the oxygen from your lungs. You hit the concrete floor hard, the taste of copper flooding your mouth.
"Nue!" Megumi roared, his voice cracking with a rare, raw panic. The shikigami descended in a blinding flash of lightning, obliterating the curse in a concussive shockwave of cursed energy.
The dust settled, heavy and silent.
Megumi was beside you in an instant, his breathing ragged, his hands hovering over you as if afraid that touching you would shatter you completely. "Are you alright? Where did it hit you?" His eyes were wide, the usual cold indifference entirely stripped away, revealing the terrified boy underneath.
The pain in your side was excruciating, a throbbing, burning sensation that suggested the curse’s rusted blade had been laced with some kind of venomous energy. Blood was already soaking the fabric of your shirt, hot and sticky against your skin. You needed Shoko. You needed a stretcher.
But as you looked up into Megumi’s panic-stricken eyes, the old, familiar terror clawed at your throat. You caused this panic. You are making him worry. You ruined the mission. You are a burden.
The people pleaser within you seized the reins of your vocal cords.
You forced the agony down, burying it beneath a mountain of sheer, desperate willpower. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, twisting your torso to hide the worst of the bleeding from his line of sight. You plastered on a smile that felt like it might crack your face in two.
"I'm fine," you lied, your voice painfully steady. "It just grazed me. I knocked the wind out of myself when I fell."
Megumi frowned, his dark brows knitting together in suspicion. He reached out to inspect your side, but you swiftly shifted away, standing up on shaking legs. The world tilted dangerously, black spots dancing in your peripheral vision, but you dug your nails into your palms to ground yourself.
"I swear, Megumi. I'm okay. Let's just report and go home. I'm exhausted." You kept your tone light, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry I got in your way. I should have been more careful."
The apology tasted vile. You had saved his life, yet you were apologizing for being in the way.
Megumi stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The tension radiating from him was evident, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He knew you were hiding something. He could smell the blood. But your adamant refusal to acknowledge the danger built a wall between you that he didn't know how to breach, yet he trusted your judgment, he trusted that you would tell him if the injury was serious.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with frustration and repressed anxiety. He recalled his shikigami, the shadows swallowing Nue whole. "Let's go."
The car ride back to the college was nothing less than silent torture. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your arms wrapped tightly around your waist, secretly applying pressure to the wound that was continuously oozing blood. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of agony up your spine, but you bit the inside of your cheek until it bled rather than make a single sound. Ijichi drove in stony silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, every now and then apologising for the mistake in the mission logs, and then expressing his relief at your well-being.
By the time you reached the dormitories, you were running purely on adrenaline and the need to lock yourself in your bathroom before you collapsed.
"I'm going to take a shower!" you announced the moment you stepped into his room, your voice breathy and strained. You didn't wait for a response, practically fleeing into the adjoining bathroom and closing the door behind you.
The moment it was locked, the facade crumbled. Your knees gave out, and you slumped against the cold tile door, an agonizing gasp escaping your lips. You peeled off your ruined jacket and the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. The wound was horrific. An angry tear across your oblique, the edges blackened with residual cursed energy. It was deep, bleeding sluggishly but persistently.
Tears of pain and exhaustion finally spilled over your eyelashes, tracing hot paths down your dust-streaked cheeks. You had to clean it. You had to wrap it. You couldn't bother Shoko this late; she had been pulling all-nighters all week. You couldn't bother Megumi; he was already mad at you.
You dragged yourself to the sink, turning on the faucet. You grabbed a washcloth, soaked it in hot water, and pressed it against the wound.
A choked, pathetic sob tore from your throat. The pain was blinding, a sickening wave of nausea crashing over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body trembling violently as you tried to scrub away the blackened, infected tissue.
Click.
You froze. The sound of the lock turning from the outside. You had forgotten Megumi kept a spare key on the upper frame of the door for emergencies.
The door swung open, revealing Megumi standing in the threshold. He had changed out of his uniform, wearing only a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked exhausted.
But whatever exhaustion he felt vanished the instant his eyes landed on you.
He took in the scene in a fraction of a second: your pale, shivering form hunched over the sink, the blood-soaked washcloth in your trembling hand, and the gruesome, gaping wound on your side that was currently dripping crimson onto the pristine white tiles.
The air in the bathroom seemed to drop ten degrees. The shadows in the corners of the room physically writhed, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his cursed energy.
"What," Megumi breathed, his voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with the force of an earthquake, "is that."
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You scrambled to cover the wound with your arm, backing away from him like a cornered animal, your eyes wide and terrified.
"It's nothing!" you stammered, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a desperate rush. "I was just cleaning it. It looks worse than it is, Megumi, I promise. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess. I'll clean the floor, just—"
"Stop."
The command cracked through the air like a whip. Megumi stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. His face was a mask of cold fury, but his eyes—his deep, beautiful, stormy eyes—were wide with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like devastation.
He crossed the small space in two strides, grabbing your wrists. His grip was firm, inescapable, but agonizingly gentle as he pulled your hands away from your side. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he finally got a clear look at the injury.
"You call this a graze?" he demanded, his voice shaking with a terrifying, suppressed rage. "It's entirely infected with cursed energy. You need reverse cursed technique, immediately. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say anything in the tunnel?"
Your chest heaved as you struggled to pull oxygen into your lungs. The panic was taking over, suffocating you. You were trapped. You had failed. You had made him angry. You had become the burden you fought so hard not to be.
"I—I didn't want to worry you," you choked out, fresh tears welling in your eyes. "You were already stressed about the mission being a Grade 1. I didn't want to slow us down. I'm sorry, Megumi. I'm so, so sorry. Please don't be mad. I can fix it, I'll go to Shoko right now, you don't have to deal with this—"
"Stop apologizing!" Megumi yelled.
You flinched violently, your shoulders instantly hiking up to your ears, your head bowing in an automatic posture of submission. The silence that followed his shout was deafening, broken only by your ragged, hyperventilating breaths and the steady drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the floor.
Megumi stared at your cowering form, the anger draining out of him in a rush, leaving behind a profound, hollow ache in his chest. He realized, with a horrifying clarity, that you were not flinching because of the pain of your wound. You were flinching because of him.
He dropped your wrists as if they burned him, taking a step back, his hands taking place behind his neck.
"Why do you do this?" he asked, his voice cracking, the anger replaced by a desperate, agonizing confusion. "Why do you lie to me? Why do you let yourself bleed out in a bathroom rather than ask me for help? Am I that unapproachable? Am I that terrible of a boyfriend that you think I would be annoyed by you almost dying?"
"No!" you cried, your voice breaking, the absolute terror of him thinking he was at fault tearing at your heart. "No, Megumi, you're perfect. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. It's not you, it's me. I'm just… I'm just trying to be good. I'm trying to be easy. I don't want to be difficult."
"Easy?" Megumi repeated, the word sounding foreign and ugly in his mouth. He stepped forward again, crowding you against the edge of the sink, his hands gripping the porcelain on either side of your waist, trapping you in. He didn't touch you, but his presence was demanding your full attention.
"You think I want you to be 'easy'?" he pressed, his eyes searching yours frantically, demanding an honesty you didn't know how to give. "I want you to be honest! I want you to tell me when you are hurt so I can take care of you!"
You shook your head furiously, the tears flowing freely now, hot and unrelenting. Your entire body was trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break. You were breaking apart, the foundation of your entire coping mechanism crumbling beneath his gaze.
"You say that now," you sobbed, the ugly, deeply buried truth finally clawing its way up your throat, bitter and raw. "You say that now, but you don't know. You already have so much on your plate, I don't want to make it worse. If I don't do it, you will hate me, I don't want you to hate me."
The confession hung in the humid air of the bathroom, heavy and devastating.
You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the agreement. Waiting for him to step back, to look at you with cold realization, and walk out the door. You had finally revealed the ugly, pathetic core of your soul. You were a coward, terrified of abandonment, buying love with servitude.
But the silence stretched. And then, you felt it.
The gentle, hesitant brush of his knuckles against your tear-soaked cheek.
Your eyes flew open. Megumi was looking at you with an expression that shattered your heart into a million irreparable pieces. It wasn't pity. It wasn't disgust, but heartbreak. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted as he struggled to find words that could possibly combat the magnitude of your self-hatred.
Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild, frightened animal, Megumi reached out. He didn't grab your wrists this time. He slid his arms around your waist, mindful of the gaping wound on your side, and pulled you flush against his chest.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.
"You are so stupid," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin, devoid of any malice, dripping only with a desperate, heavy sorrow. "You are an incredible person, so beautiful, so incredible, but stupid."
You stiffened, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch him, terrified to ruin this moment. But Megumi just held you tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you like a shield against the very demons inside your own head.
"Listen to me," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. He pulled back just enough to force you to look him in the eye. The intensity of his gaze pinned you in place."Stop acting like your existence doesn't matter, it matters to me. You don't get to decide that you're expendable."
You let out a choked gasp, your hands finally, tentatively coming to rest against his chest, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like your life depended on it.
"I care about you, so much," Megumi continued, his voice dropping into that serious, unwavering tone he used when making vows. "I care about protecting the people who matter to me. And you… you are at the very top of that list. If you are hurt, my world stops. If you are in pain, I am in pain. Hiding your suffering from me doesn't protect me; it destroys me."
He raised a hand, his thumb gently wiping away the steady stream of tears falling from your eyes. His touch was warm, grounding.
"You are not a burden," he said, enunciating each word with fierce, desperate clarity. "And I am begging you, please… let me take care of you. Let me be the one who carries the weight for a while. You don't have to earn your place beside me by bleeding in silence. In fact, you don't have to do anything but be here."
The dam broke.
You collapsed against him, your legs finally giving out, and he caught you effortlessly, sinking to the bathroom floor with you held securely in his arms.
You wept. You wailed. It was an ugly, guttural, heart-wrenching sound that tore from the very depths of your soul. You buried your face in his chest, clutching at him desperately, crying for the pain in your side, crying for the exhaustion in your bones, crying for the terrified little child inside you who had spent their whole life terrified of being left behind.
Megumi didn't shush you. He didn't tell you to calm down. He sat on the cold tile floor amidst the blood and the discarded bandages, holding you. He rocked you slowly, one hand gently stroking your hair, the other resting firmly against your back. He let you fall apart completely, creating a safe, impenetrable fortress within his arms where you were finally allowed to be shattered, loud, and inconvenient.
Hours seemed to pass before the sobs finally subsided into heavy, exhausted hiccups. Your throat was raw, your eyes swollen and burning. The adrenaline had completely left your system, leaving you weak and painfully aware of the throbbing agony in your side.
You shifted slightly in his lap, sniffing pathetically. Megumi immediately loosened his grip, looking down at you with a softness that made your chest ache.
"Are you done?" he asked quietly, a tiny, sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
You nodded numbly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I ruined your shirt," you rasped, noticing the dark stains of your tears and blood on the grey fabric.
"I don't care about the shirt," Megumi said softly. He gently shifted you off his lap, standing up and reaching down to help you to your feet. You swayed dangerously, the blood loss finally catching up to you. He caught you around the waist, easily supporting your weight.
"Come on," he murmured, his voice gentle but brook-no-argument firm. "We are going to Shoko. Right now."
The instinct to protest flared up instantly. It's 3 AM. She's sleeping. I can just bandage it tight. But as you looked up at Megumi, at the deep circles under his eyes and the lingering terror in his posture, the words died in your throat.
You swallowed hard, the word feeling foreign and incredibly heavy on your tongue.
"Okay."
Megumi let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. He didn't say anything, but the relief in his eyes was blinding. He practically carried you down the silent, moonlit hallways to the infirmary.
Shoko was awake, smoking a cigarette out the window when Megumi kicked the infirmary door open. She took one look at Megumi’s pale face and the blood soaking your side and immediately crushed the cigarette, immediately tending to you.
The process of healing was agonizing. Shoko’s reverse cursed technique was a miracle, but extracting the foreign cursed energy from the wound before healing the flesh was a torturous sensation. You lay on the sterile white cot, your teeth gritted, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.
Through it all, Megumi sat beside the bed. He held your hand in both of his, his grip tight enough to bruise, grounding you in reality while the pain threatened to pull you under. He didn't look away, even when the wound looked its most gruesome. He stayed exactly where he promised he would be.
When it was finally over, and the flesh was knit cleanly together leaving only an angry pink scar, exhaustion hit you like a physical blow. Shoko handed you a clean t-shirt and kicked you both out, muttering something about needing sleep.
The walk back to Megumi’s dorm was slow. You leaned heavily against him, your body utterly drained. You felt hollowed out, incredibly fragile, like a glass blown too thin.
When you reached his room, he didn't turn on the overhead lights. He guided you gently to the bed, pulling back the heavy comforter. You crawled in automatically, immediately scooting to the absolute edge of the mattress, curling into a tight ball. It was muscle memory at this point.
Megumi stood at the edge of the bed, watching you in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. He sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound. He kicked off his shoes, discarded his ruined shirt, and climbed into the bed.
But he didn't lie down on his side.
Instead, he moved to the center of the mattress. He reached out, grabbing you gently by the hips, and physically dragged you away from the edge, pulling you across the sheets until you were flush against him in the very middle of the bed.
You gasped softly in surprise, stiffening. "Megumi—"
"Stop," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. He tangled his legs with yours, pinning you to him, ensuring there was no physical way for you to retreat to the cold periphery. "You are exactly where you belong. Take up the whole bed if you want. Kick me out if you want. But stop going all the way there."
You lay rigid in his arms for a long moment, your brain struggling to process the sensation of being held so securely, of being allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. The warmth of his body seeped into your cold skin. His heartbeat thudded steadily against your back, a rhythmic, grounding lullaby.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, you forced your muscles to uncoil. You let out a long, shaky breath, letting your weight sink fully into his embrace. You closed your eyes, his scent surrounding you, pulling you down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of brewing coffee and the sound of birds chirping outside the window. The sunlight streaming into the room felt unnervingly bright.
You sat up slowly, testing the newly healed skin on your side. It twinged slightly, a dull ache, but the agonizing burn was gone. You looked around the room. You were alone in the bed, the covers tangled around your waist. You were dead center in the mattress.
The door to the small kitchenette opened, and Megumi stepped in, carrying two mugs. He looked rested, his dark hair a chaotic mess, his eyes softer than you had seen them in months.
He walked over to the bed and handed you a mug.
"Morning," he mumbled quietly, sitting on the edge of the mattress near your feet.
"Morning," you replied softly, your voice still gravelly from crying the night before. You wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic mug, seeking comfort in the heat. You brought it to your lips, taking a tentative sip.
You immediately paused, your brow furrowing in confusion.
It wasn't black coffee. It wasn't the bitter, acidic brew he drank every morning. It was warm milk, steeped heavily with a sweet, floral chamomile tea, and generously laced with honey. It was incredibly sweet. It was exactly what you actually liked.
You lowered the mug, staring at the golden liquid, a sudden lump forming in your throat. You looked up at Megumi. He was watching you carefully, his dark eyes analyzing your reaction.
"You didn't make coffee," you whispered, stating the obvious.
Megumi looked down at his own mug, taking a sip of the black sludge he preferred. "I know you hate it," he said simply, not meeting your eyes. A faint, barely perceptible pink dusted the tips of his ears. "I noticed a while ago. You always grimace when you take the first sip. And you always buy that sweet stuff when we go to the convenience store, but you never drink it around me."
Your breath hitched. He had noticed. He had known, and he had been waiting for you to say something.
He reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around your ankle over the blankets.
"I'm not asking you to change everything in one day," Megumi continued, his voice quiet, steady, and infinitely patient. "I know it's a habit. I know you're terrified. But I am asking you to try. With me. Just with me."
He paused, a tiny, teasing glint momentarily breaking through his stoic demeanor. "For example. I was thinking of making eggs for breakfast. But I know you like pancakes, even though you always say eggs are fine. So. What do you want for breakfast?"
It was a test. A small, seemingly insignificant question, but between the two of you, it carried the weight of the world.
The instinct rose up instantly. Eggs are easier for him to make. He likes eggs. Tell him eggs. The familiar panic fluttered in your chest, the fear of demanding too much, of being an inconvenience.
You opened your mouth, the word 'eggs' forming on your lips.
But you stopped. You looked down at the sweet, warm tea in your hands, the tea he had made specifically for you, acknowledging your preferences, honoring your comfort. You looked at the hand resting gently on your ankle, grounding you, keeping you safe. You remembered the desperate way he had held you on the bloody bathroom floor, demanding that you exist loudly.
You closed your mouth. You took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in your voice. You forced yourself to meet his gaze directly.
"I…" you started, your voice barely above a whisper. You cleared your throat, trying again. "I would really like pancakes, Megumi. If that's okay?"
The silence in the room stretched for a single, terrifying second. You braced yourself for a sigh, a roll of the eyes, a sign of annoyance that you had requested the more difficult option.
Instead, Megumi’s face broke into a smile. It wasn't his usual smirk, or a polite curve of the lips. It was a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile that reached his eyes, illuminating his features and making your heart stutter in your chest.
He stood up, taking his mug of bitter coffee with him.
"Pancakes it is," he said softly, turning back toward the kitchen. He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes filled with a certain amount of serenity that was so rare for megumi.
"And [Name]?"
You looked up, your hands gripping the mug tightly. "Yeah?"
high school volleyball star gojo satoru had never worked a day in his life. of course it's not because he was lazy (though he’d die before admitting he loved sleeping in) but more like his family the gojo clan made sure he never needed to.
but today, he was standing in front of a glass door with a “now hiring: part-time” sign, gripping the strap of his backpack like he was about to walk into the championship game. all because of you, his beloved ballerina girlfriend.
your pointe shoes were fraying now. he'd seen it for himself when he'd come by to watch you dance. you had been flinching and you were trying not to make it obvious to him when you start your practice.
yet it was obvious in the physical features too. ribbons dulled, toe box softening, satin peeling from hours of rehearsal in the studio. you got a part time job to make sure you could afford your needs. ballet is expensive after all.
yet even when he had the capital to buy you anything and everything in this world, you never asked him for anything. you were content with his love and the chocolate buns you ask him to get at your favorite cafe.
but he saw the way you pressed your lips together when your teacher mentioned you might need a new pair soon. ballet shoes were expensive, but you shrugged it off. you mutter that you'll get the shoes as soon as you get your pay.
he'd offered so many times to buy it for you, but you'd say that you didn't want him to do that. and he'd feel guilt about it. and just as much, he'd feel like he didn't actually give it to you. his family's money did.
every single time he went on a run, he went to play at his practices, he wanted to be able to say, “i got this for you. me. not my family. i did, with the money i earned.”
so here he was: gojo satoru, strongest spiker on the court, heir to ridiculous amounts of money…applying to be a part-time ice cream scooper at this mall complex.
inside, the manager blinked at him like she was seeing a mirage. “you… want to work here?”
“yes!” he declared. too enthusiastically. “i’m great with people. kids love me. old ladies love me. my girlfriend loves me the most—”
“okay, okay uh.....” she cut in before he could brag for ten more minutes, “can you start saturday?”
“absolutely!”
(saturday was also his only free day…but who cares? it’s for you.)
later that night, he sends you a text:
satoru <3: guess who’s an employed, hardworking, responsible man now
my rosy <3: oh no what did you do
satoru <3: i got a job
satoru <3: prepare ur feet
my rosy <3: ??
satoru <3: for new ballet shoes duh. the prettiest ones. the sparkliest ones. ur future-husband-funded ones.
my rosy <3: …satoru, babe....please don’t buy the sparkly ones
satoru <3: too late i already imagined it
he rolls onto his back in bed, kicking his feet like he’s the one in ballet, grinning like he just won volleyball championships all over again. “i’m insane.” he whispers to nobody, flopping an arm over his face. “i’m actually insane for her.”
his feet keep kicking, his long legs bouncing the mattress. he grabs a pillow, hugging it to his chest like it’s some stand-in for you. he presses his cheek against the fabric and sighs dramatically.
“i did it!” he tells the pillow. “gojo satoru.... employee. worker. provider. responsible young man. lover boy extraordinaire. hahhhh....i should get a medal.”
then he snorts at himself. “no… i should get a kiss!” he corrects, nodding like he’s making an official decree. “many kisses. like…ten. maybe twenty. but i’ll settle for one if she looks really cute when she gives it.”
he went to bed that night on the thursday and let himself wake up that saturday and put himself to work. he didn't know what to expect but there was a lot of things that he was sure that would forever be ingrained in him.
the first day was supposed to be the hardest, at least that’s what his manager said. but honestly, every day after that felt like a new kind of exhausting experienced.
he’d go from morning classes, to volleyball practice, to sprinting across town just so he wouldn’t be late for his shift and then pick you up from your ballet studio later that night. and he never missed a day. not once.
not even when his legs were sore from drills, not even when he’d barely slept because of homework, not even when his friends tried to drag him out after practice.
“nah, sorry guys.” he’d laugh, waving them off, pretending he wasn’t dead tired. “duty calls.”
just so you wouldn't notice. just so you wouldn't worry. but he was exhausted all day, everyday. bone-deep, brain-foggy, body-heavy exhausted.
he’d lean against the ice cream freezer during slow hours, letting the cold seep into his overheated skin, breathing through the fatigue like it was just another training drill.
still, he showed up every day. because he kept thinking about your frayed ribbons, the way you tied them tighter to make them last, your quiet sigh when you thought no one was listening.
because he wanted to prove, to himself more than anyone, that he could give you something without leaning on his name, on his family's wealth. just because he wanted to let you know how much he loved you.
and he tried so hard not to let you see any of it. on the phone with you at night, his voice always stayed bright.
“practice was fun, rosy.” he’d say, even if his arm ached from scooping ice cream.
“i’m not tired, don't worry.” he’d insist, even when he could barely keep his eyes open. "now do your solo again and lemme get a look, rosy."
“no, i’m not busy, don't worry.” he’d add casually, even though he was late on his math homework and had work in twenty minutes. "tell me when you need me to pick you up."
he’d show up to your studio after shifts with a smile so big you never questioned it. you’d talk about rehearsal, and he’d nod along, hiding the fact that his hands were still sticky with melted sugar and his back hurt from leaning over the counter all day.
sometimes, when you weren’t looking, he’d rub at his cerulean eyes, fighting off exhaustion that felt heavier than any weighted volleyball drill he would get to experience.
but the moment you glanced his way, he’d straighten up, grin, and say, “what? why’re you staring at me like that? i look amazing.”
because he didn’t want you to worry.
because he didn’t want you to think he was overworking himself for you.
because he wanted the surprise, your surprise, to be pure.
and maybe, just a little, because he didn’t want you to see him struggle. he wanted you to see him succeed. he wanted to show you that he could carry things, even the hard things, on his own.
and so he did.
every shift.
every practice.
every late night.
until the day that paycheck finally arrived, warm in his hand, proof of every minute he’d poured into making something real for you.and that was the moment he realized.
he’d do it all again. every exhausting shift, every sore muscle, every late-night assignment quickly done, for the look on your face when he handed you that box.
you’re at the studio, stretching on the floor after rehearsal, sweat beading at your hairline. your pointe shoes sit beside you, battered and soft, their ribbons barely holding on.
you don’t hear the door at first, not until someone knocks dramatically against the frame. you were surprised to see him here this early.
"babe, what are you doing here this early?" you said to him with a raised brow. "don't you have practice right now?"
“i know, i know! but i had to be here!"
you turn to him and kissed his cheek. "you sure you can be here right now?"
"absolutely positive, rosy." he whispered to you, kissing your temple with a bright eyed smile. "your hard working, underpaid boyfriend will not miss this for the world."
you scoffed. "you're ridiculous."
"by the way, i have something for you, rosy." satoru declares, stepping in with a paper bag held triumphantly above his head.
you sit up, baffled. “babe? what’s with the…bag?”
he tries to be casual. hand in pocket. chin tilted up. but he looks like someone plugged him into an electrical outlet, still all jittery excitement and shaky breathing.
“just open it, rosy.” he says, voice cracking so hard he winces. “please. like…now.”
you take the bag, confused, and lift out the box. the second you open it, your breath catches. new pointe shoes. your brand. your size. the exact pair you’d been avoiding buying because they were too expensive.
your eyes widen. “gojo satoru…....you didn’t.”
he shoves both hands deeper into his pockets as if trying to hide how much he’s trembling. “i did!” he says, failing miserably at sounding cool. “with my first paycheck.”
he pauses, then adds, “and don’t ask how much arm strength it takes to scoop frozen rocky road. my right bicep is now, like, 70% stronger than my left. i’m lopsided.”
you blink. “you…really worked there? like, really?”
“worked?” he scoffs. “i suffered. do you know how many kids drop their cones? do you know how many parents complain about—" he lowers his voice dramatically— “sprinkles distribution?”
you burst into laughter, and he brightens immediately. "that's mad."
“oh, and on day one? i slipped.” he holds up a finger. “on melted ice cream. in front of my manager. and two toddlers. one of them pointed at me and said ‘he’s silly’ loudly. then laughed out loud!”
you cover your mouth, trying not to laugh harder. “babe, please—”
“and!” he raises another finger. “someone asked if i could reach the top shelf. like it was a question. i’m literally the top shelf.”
you’re giggling uncontrollably now, and he’s watching you like it’s his actual paycheck. but then your gaze returns to the shoes, softening into something quiet, tender, overwhelming.
“they’re perfect, babe.” you whisper. “you’re ridiculous. but they’re perfect. thank you so much."
he swallows hard. “yeah, well…the manager said i have ‘a good customer service smile’ which is weird, because i definitely grimaced at least twice.”
you set the box aside and walk over to him, fingers tugging at his shirt. “come here, babe.” you murmur. “i want to hug you.”
his entire body softens. he bends down immediately, arms wrapping around you with a gentleness you swear you feel in your ribs. your voice is small when you say it but it hits him harder than any spike he’s ever landed.
“thank you." you whispered to him. "i'll treasure them, even when i don't wear them anymore."
he rests his chin on your head, pretending he’s composed even as his heart tries to sprint out of his chest. “it’s nothing, rosy.” he lies. “just…wanted to buy something for you. with money i earned.”
you break the hug and smiled at him. then after a moment of looking at him, you kissed him, which stunned him to bits. he gives in and kisses you back, his arms around you. you don’t see the way his ears turn pink.
later that night, back in his room, he collapses onto his bed, tossing an arm over his eyes, face burning. “i’m so whipped for her.” he groans to the ceiling. "ah....i love her so much."
he knew that the ballet shoes wouldn't last. and he knew that he'd have to replace them once in a while. yet, he saw no greater honor than to be the person to give them to you over and over again. to show you how much he loves you, over and over again.
🍷☂️Synopsis: you're the lighthouse they anchor to.
🍷☂️ content: slight angst, emotional, fluff.
🍷☂️ A/N: ....hello. I have written a lot during my impromptu hiatus, so I'll edit and upload them here, yay!
✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧
You aren’t exactly an Emanator, part of the Trailblaze, or a part of the Genius Society. You’re mundane, born into a lackluster planet, the kind of person who folds grocery bags into neat triangles and leaves a bowl of food for stray cats to eat.
You were never chosen by a Path; nor did you ever want to be. A plain being, and you were content with that. You just wanted all your days to be simple and fulfilling, no stress, no drama.
Which is exactly why the two most dangerous people you’ve ever met keep ending up in your kitchen.
Blade arrives like rain over rust coloured blood, silent, too tall for the doorframe, hair in disarray but still decent, coat colour deep as night. He doesn’t speak at first. He never does. He stands there with blood in the grooves of his knuckles of his gloved hands and the faraway look of someone who's haunted, who has suppressed his emotions so that the disease wouldn't spread. You fetched the clean towel from the oven handle and held it out. He takes it from you like clockwork.
Then, a few minutes later, there’s a chime from the hall. The door unlocks without your hand, and she steps in on heels that make a crisp sound. Perfume like lilacs. Smile like a blade hidden underneath silk. Kafka never falters. She simply exists, immaculate, and the space seemed to rearrange itself around her.
“Sweetheart,” Kafka purrs, “Is there tea?”
“There will be,” you say, already lighting the burner.
She leans her hip against the counter and watches you measure the perfect amount of tea leaves. Then sat at the dining table, gesturing Blade to sit in front of you.
Blade sits, and the chair creaks under the weight. He says nothing while you patch his hands. You’ve learned the route of his scars; you know which ones to avoid. You know he flinches at sudden touch, that he's not used to your gentle healing. He does not thank you out loud. He places his wrists palm-up and allows himself the grace of being tended to.
It is enough.
Kafka talks for both of them: anecdotes light as a feather, disarming questions that pluck truth by accident. She never mentions the Stellaron Hunters like it’s a title. It’s like a weather pattern—unsurprising, inevitable. You stir honey into her cup and nothing into Blade’s, then sit between them at your cramped table with its wobbling leg, your knees knocking Kafka’s. Blade’s left shoulder nearly touches yours. The three of you drink, and you tell them about Mrs. Ko, your neighbor, who grows strawberries out of a bucket of soil on the fire escape, and the kid upstairs who practices the same four bars on a violin repeatedly until even your dreams hum with it.
Kafka props her chin on her hand and listens like you’re telling her how the stars taste. Blade’s fingers curl around his mug. He meets your eyes only once; it’s enough to feel a tide pull.
“Why us?” Kafka asks, lazy and pointed at once. She always knows when to tug on the thread.
You shrug. “You kept coming.”
She laughs, softly. Blade’s mouth tilts slightly, a ghost of a smile.
✧✧✧✧✧
You don’t know when the three of you became a we. It happens slowly, with the ordinary magic of repetition. They leave their weapons on your nightstand and shoes by your mat. You keep bandages in the second drawer now, and a jar of jasmine candies Kafka pretends she doesn’t eat, and a stack of spare shirts for Blade that you’ve mended so many times the stitches are a new map across old fabric.
Top up the water, please? A note you left for them as they left you in the morning.
They know that you're a late riser, so as thanks for the reprieve you gave them, they always did.
They do not ask you to follow. You don’t ask them to stay. But they do, sometimes, like a storm deciding to hover over one town for a little longer.
When the Stellaron Hunters work, they vanish for days or months, and your phone goes dark. You pretend not to notice the ache. You sweep crumbs from the counter; you water Mrs. Ko’s strawberries while she visits her sister planet side; you hum along with the upstairs violinist and make soup that simmers for hours. You remind yourself that loving is not the same as owning. Loving is the heat you save for someone’s return.
On a night when the moon doesn’t belong in your sky, they come back; it was like they never left. Kafka kissed you on both sides of your cheeks and left an expensive gift on the wobbly table.
“Stay,” you say, not pleading. A practical instruction. You place your palm on Blade’s sternum and feel nothing of a heartbeat, and everything of the man who still drinks his tea too hot because he likes the burn in his mouth. You take Kafka’s hand, thumb a smear of gunpowder from her knuckles, and she exhales, eyes closing, as if the door you open is the only one that isn’t trapped.
You make up the futon and draw the curtains. Kafka slides in with a sigh, her magenta hair drapes over her like a silk curtain, and her face is bare from her carefully applied makeup. Her night gown was long, yet it had the ghost of her curves underneath.
And Blade? After a hesitation that feels like crossing a ravine, laid stiffly. You sleep between them that night, you and your soft mortal lungs. Blade doesn’t sleep much. You feel when he sits up, when he paces, when he returns, and watch the rising horizon like it owes him an apology. Kafka sleeps like a cat with one ear always listening; in the four a.m. hush, she reaches blindly to find your wrist and counts your pulse. You dream of a life that could've been.
✧✧✧✧✧
The first time you quarrel, it isn’t about blood or danger. It’s about a casserole dish.
“Don’t,” Blade says, catching your hand when you try to lift it out of the oven. “It’ll burn.”
“That’s what the mittens are for,” you say, amused, but his grip tightens, alarm threading through his voice like a crack through glass. Kafka looks up from her messages with a frown so elegant it could be framed.
“Bladie,” she says, a slight warning, then at you, “sweetheart.”
“It will burn you.” His eyes are sharp, desperate. “You are—” He stops, makes his mouth into a thin line, as if he can trap the word before it escapes. “Breakable.”
You set the dish down with your mitts, slowly. You turn and slide your hands up his arms, not to soothe, but to anchor. “Yes,” you tell him. “I’m breakable. That’s inevitable. It’s also okay.”
The room listens. The ticking of the wall clock seems obscenely loud.
You lean your forehead against Blade’s collarbone. He smells like petrichor again, and rusted metal, and... jasmine. “I know. I’m normal. I’m human. I’m here momentarily anyway.”
Kafka comes to your other side, slides an arm around your waist, and kisses your hair. “Then we’ll just have to be very careful with our most precious mortal,” she murmurs, playful coat over sincere bone.
Blade doesn’t laugh, but he loosens. He always does when you say something he couldn't argue with
Later, the three of you eat casserole on the floor because the table wobbles too much when you’re all tense. Kafka steals the best crust corner. Blade pretends not to notice and pushes his portion toward your plate.
✧✧✧✧✧
You did not become a fighter. You did not learn to shoot. You did not ask to be taught the ways a body becomes a lockpick for fate. They made sure you stayed soft. You keep yourself ordinary like a lamp that’s always lit.
To them, ordinary is rare.
When Kafka returns with the smell of danger still pressed into her hair, you rub shampoo into her scalp, and she leans her head against your belly in the bath until her shoulders loosen. She tells you lies with such affection you repeat them like lullabies, and she thanks you for believing even when belief is the least important part. You brush a strand of hair off her face, with a raised eyebrow and say, “What did you really do?” and she laughs, eyes bright, and revises her story into something truer that still manages to avoid the gore.
When Blade’s hands trembled after a fight, you take him to your tiny balcony. He doesn’t like walls when the world in his head is closing in. He stands there with the city reflected in his pupils, and you press your palm between his shoulder blades, count your own breaths out loud until he matches them. Kafka brings the blanket you keep on the couch, drapes it over both of you, and sets a cup of tea on the railing within reach. None of this is magic. All of this is was raw, gritty and real.
“I thought immortals never needed blankets,” you tease.
“I don’t,” Blade mutters.
Kafka folds the edge over his elbow anyway. “Shh. Warmth is a human superstition. We’re humoring our beloved dove.”
“I’m humoring myself,” you say, and Blade huffs—almost a laugh, almost a scoff.
Enough for you and Kafka to share a giggle.
✧✧✧✧✧
You go to the market on a morning filled with thin gold light. Kafka takes your arm and points at a fruit you’ve never seen; you buy it, and it turns out to taste like sunshine. Blade carries the bags. He pretends to be annoyed when two aunties call him handsome and try to feed him coconut pandan cakes; he eats one. You wipe sugar from his lower lip with your thumb; he goes still and looks at you like the market and people around him had vanished and he decided not to care.
“Don’t,” Kafka murmurs, amused, to no one in particular.
“What?” you ask, smiling.
“Steal my heart~,” she says, and kisses you in the middle of the aisle, unabashed. Blade doesn’t kiss you there. He waits until the three of you are in the stairwell, where the concrete smells like rain memories and the graffiti is old declarations of love no one bothered to scrub. He braces one hand above your head and leans in like gravity is a promise. His mouth is careful, then not careful at all. You make a small sound, and he swallows it. Kafka watches, fondly, a hand at your waist to keep you from falling through the gap where the rail should be.
But are already falling all the time they're near. The trick is learning to enjoy the moment.
✧✧✧✧✧
There are nights you lie awake and wonder if you are selfish. If keeping them here, however briefly, gives them something they shouldn’t want: an illusion of home. You do not want to be an illusion.
On one such night, Blade is awake too, staring at the ceiling like he’s reading a prophecy he’s memorized and still can’t change. In the near dark, you whisper, “Do I make it harder?”
He turns his head. The expression he makes isn’t one you’ve seen before. It softens the most frightening parts of him until he looks like what he might have been, once, in a distant land.
“Yes,” he says, blunt and honest.
Kafka’s hand slides, sleep-heavy, across your stomach. “Darling,” she mumbles, not opening her eyes, “don’t make me get up to soothe either of you. Come here.” She tucks herself against your back, legs tangling, breath warm.
You press your face to Blade’s chest and listen—not for a heartbeat, but for the sound of his breathing.
You are not just a safe house to them. You are an anchor. A being that's constant, with a crooked table and a kettle that whistles too eagerly, and a balcony that collects rain. You are a comforting footnote in a story full of conflict, and somehow that makes you the star in it: the one that reminds even monsters and myths where to lay their heads.
Tomorrow, they will be gone. Tomorrow, they will go somewhere you can't follow. You set the kettle on the side of the sink before you sleep. You leave a note on it, a habit you can’t break: "top up the water, please."
When you open your eyes late in the morning, there’s a second note beneath it, written in looping violet:
We did. —K
Under that, a narrower, impatient hand has added:
And I tightened the table screws. —B
You smile so hard it hurts. Being ordinary was...hard, but with them? You wouldn't trade it for anything.
🍷☂️Synopsis: you're the lighthouse they anchor to.
🍷☂️ content: slight angst, emotional, fluff.
🍷☂️ A/N: ....hello. I have written a lot during my impromptu hiatus, so I'll edit and upload them here, yay!
✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧
You aren’t exactly an Emanator, part of the Trailblaze, or a part of the Genius Society. You’re mundane, born into a lackluster planet, the kind of person who folds grocery bags into neat triangles and leaves a bowl of food for stray cats to eat.
You were never chosen by a Path; nor did you ever want to be. A plain being, and you were content with that. You just wanted all your days to be simple and fulfilling, no stress, no drama.
Which is exactly why the two most dangerous people you’ve ever met keep ending up in your kitchen.
Blade arrives like rain over rust coloured blood, silent, too tall for the doorframe, hair in disarray but still decent, coat colour deep as night. He doesn’t speak at first. He never does. He stands there with blood in the grooves of his knuckles of his gloved hands and the faraway look of someone who's haunted, who has suppressed his emotions so that the disease wouldn't spread. You fetched the clean towel from the oven handle and held it out. He takes it from you like clockwork.
Then, a few minutes later, there’s a chime from the hall. The door unlocks without your hand, and she steps in on heels that make a crisp sound. Perfume like lilacs. Smile like a blade hidden underneath silk. Kafka never falters. She simply exists, immaculate, and the space seemed to rearrange itself around her.
“Sweetheart,” Kafka purrs, “Is there tea?”
“There will be,” you say, already lighting the burner.
She leans her hip against the counter and watches you measure the perfect amount of tea leaves. Then sat at the dining table, gesturing Blade to sit in front of you.
Blade sits, and the chair creaks under the weight. He says nothing while you patch his hands. You’ve learned the route of his scars; you know which ones to avoid. You know he flinches at sudden touch, that he's not used to your gentle healing. He does not thank you out loud. He places his wrists palm-up and allows himself the grace of being tended to.
It is enough.
Kafka talks for both of them: anecdotes light as a feather, disarming questions that pluck truth by accident. She never mentions the Stellaron Hunters like it’s a title. It’s like a weather pattern—unsurprising, inevitable. You stir honey into her cup and nothing into Blade’s, then sit between them at your cramped table with its wobbling leg, your knees knocking Kafka’s. Blade’s left shoulder nearly touches yours. The three of you drink, and you tell them about Mrs. Ko, your neighbor, who grows strawberries out of a bucket of soil on the fire escape, and the kid upstairs who practices the same four bars on a violin repeatedly until even your dreams hum with it.
Kafka props her chin on her hand and listens like you’re telling her how the stars taste. Blade’s fingers curl around his mug. He meets your eyes only once; it’s enough to feel a tide pull.
“Why us?” Kafka asks, lazy and pointed at once. She always knows when to tug on the thread.
You shrug. “You kept coming.”
She laughs, softly. Blade’s mouth tilts slightly, a ghost of a smile.
✧✧✧✧✧
You don’t know when the three of you became a we. It happens slowly, with the ordinary magic of repetition. They leave their weapons on your nightstand and shoes by your mat. You keep bandages in the second drawer now, and a jar of jasmine candies Kafka pretends she doesn’t eat, and a stack of spare shirts for Blade that you’ve mended so many times the stitches are a new map across old fabric.
Top up the water, please? A note you left for them as they left you in the morning.
They know that you're a late riser, so as thanks for the reprieve you gave them, they always did.
They do not ask you to follow. You don’t ask them to stay. But they do, sometimes, like a storm deciding to hover over one town for a little longer.
When the Stellaron Hunters work, they vanish for days or months, and your phone goes dark. You pretend not to notice the ache. You sweep crumbs from the counter; you water Mrs. Ko’s strawberries while she visits her sister planet side; you hum along with the upstairs violinist and make soup that simmers for hours. You remind yourself that loving is not the same as owning. Loving is the heat you save for someone’s return.
On a night when the moon doesn’t belong in your sky, they come back; it was like they never left. Kafka kissed you on both sides of your cheeks and left an expensive gift on the wobbly table.
“Stay,” you say, not pleading. A practical instruction. You place your palm on Blade’s sternum and feel nothing of a heartbeat, and everything of the man who still drinks his tea too hot because he likes the burn in his mouth. You take Kafka’s hand, thumb a smear of gunpowder from her knuckles, and she exhales, eyes closing, as if the door you open is the only one that isn’t trapped.
You make up the futon and draw the curtains. Kafka slides in with a sigh, her magenta hair drapes over her like a silk curtain, and her face is bare from her carefully applied makeup. Her night gown was long, yet it had the ghost of her curves underneath.
And Blade? After a hesitation that feels like crossing a ravine, laid stiffly. You sleep between them that night, you and your soft mortal lungs. Blade doesn’t sleep much. You feel when he sits up, when he paces, when he returns, and watch the rising horizon like it owes him an apology. Kafka sleeps like a cat with one ear always listening; in the four a.m. hush, she reaches blindly to find your wrist and counts your pulse. You dream of a life that could've been.
✧✧✧✧✧
The first time you quarrel, it isn’t about blood or danger. It’s about a casserole dish.
“Don’t,” Blade says, catching your hand when you try to lift it out of the oven. “It’ll burn.”
“That’s what the mittens are for,” you say, amused, but his grip tightens, alarm threading through his voice like a crack through glass. Kafka looks up from her messages with a frown so elegant it could be framed.
“Bladie,” she says, a slight warning, then at you, “sweetheart.”
“It will burn you.” His eyes are sharp, desperate. “You are—” He stops, makes his mouth into a thin line, as if he can trap the word before it escapes. “Breakable.”
You set the dish down with your mitts, slowly. You turn and slide your hands up his arms, not to soothe, but to anchor. “Yes,” you tell him. “I’m breakable. That’s inevitable. It’s also okay.”
The room listens. The ticking of the wall clock seems obscenely loud.
You lean your forehead against Blade’s collarbone. He smells like petrichor again, and rusted metal, and... jasmine. “I know. I’m normal. I’m human. I’m here momentarily anyway.”
Kafka comes to your other side, slides an arm around your waist, and kisses your hair. “Then we’ll just have to be very careful with our most precious mortal,” she murmurs, playful coat over sincere bone.
Blade doesn’t laugh, but he loosens. He always does when you say something he couldn't argue with
Later, the three of you eat casserole on the floor because the table wobbles too much when you’re all tense. Kafka steals the best crust corner. Blade pretends not to notice and pushes his portion toward your plate.
✧✧✧✧✧
You did not become a fighter. You did not learn to shoot. You did not ask to be taught the ways a body becomes a lockpick for fate. They made sure you stayed soft. You keep yourself ordinary like a lamp that’s always lit.
To them, ordinary is rare.
When Kafka returns with the smell of danger still pressed into her hair, you rub shampoo into her scalp, and she leans her head against your belly in the bath until her shoulders loosen. She tells you lies with such affection you repeat them like lullabies, and she thanks you for believing even when belief is the least important part. You brush a strand of hair off her face, with a raised eyebrow and say, “What did you really do?” and she laughs, eyes bright, and revises her story into something truer that still manages to avoid the gore.
When Blade’s hands trembled after a fight, you take him to your tiny balcony. He doesn’t like walls when the world in his head is closing in. He stands there with the city reflected in his pupils, and you press your palm between his shoulder blades, count your own breaths out loud until he matches them. Kafka brings the blanket you keep on the couch, drapes it over both of you, and sets a cup of tea on the railing within reach. None of this is magic. All of this is was raw, gritty and real.
“I thought immortals never needed blankets,” you tease.
“I don’t,” Blade mutters.
Kafka folds the edge over his elbow anyway. “Shh. Warmth is a human superstition. We’re humoring our beloved dove.”
“I’m humoring myself,” you say, and Blade huffs—almost a laugh, almost a scoff.
Enough for you and Kafka to share a giggle.
✧✧✧✧✧
You go to the market on a morning filled with thin gold light. Kafka takes your arm and points at a fruit you’ve never seen; you buy it, and it turns out to taste like sunshine. Blade carries the bags. He pretends to be annoyed when two aunties call him handsome and try to feed him coconut pandan cakes; he eats one. You wipe sugar from his lower lip with your thumb; he goes still and looks at you like the market and people around him had vanished and he decided not to care.
“Don’t,” Kafka murmurs, amused, to no one in particular.
“What?” you ask, smiling.
“Steal my heart~,” she says, and kisses you in the middle of the aisle, unabashed. Blade doesn’t kiss you there. He waits until the three of you are in the stairwell, where the concrete smells like rain memories and the graffiti is old declarations of love no one bothered to scrub. He braces one hand above your head and leans in like gravity is a promise. His mouth is careful, then not careful at all. You make a small sound, and he swallows it. Kafka watches, fondly, a hand at your waist to keep you from falling through the gap where the rail should be.
But are already falling all the time they're near. The trick is learning to enjoy the moment.
✧✧✧✧✧
There are nights you lie awake and wonder if you are selfish. If keeping them here, however briefly, gives them something they shouldn’t want: an illusion of home. You do not want to be an illusion.
On one such night, Blade is awake too, staring at the ceiling like he’s reading a prophecy he’s memorized and still can’t change. In the near dark, you whisper, “Do I make it harder?”
He turns his head. The expression he makes isn’t one you’ve seen before. It softens the most frightening parts of him until he looks like what he might have been, once, in a distant land.
“Yes,” he says, blunt and honest.
Kafka’s hand slides, sleep-heavy, across your stomach. “Darling,” she mumbles, not opening her eyes, “don’t make me get up to soothe either of you. Come here.” She tucks herself against your back, legs tangling, breath warm.
You press your face to Blade’s chest and listen—not for a heartbeat, but for the sound of his breathing.
You are not just a safe house to them. You are an anchor. A being that's constant, with a crooked table and a kettle that whistles too eagerly, and a balcony that collects rain. You are a comforting footnote in a story full of conflict, and somehow that makes you the star in it: the one that reminds even monsters and myths where to lay their heads.
Tomorrow, they will be gone. Tomorrow, they will go somewhere you can't follow. You set the kettle on the side of the sink before you sleep. You leave a note on it, a habit you can’t break: "top up the water, please."
When you open your eyes late in the morning, there’s a second note beneath it, written in looping violet:
We did. —K
Under that, a narrower, impatient hand has added:
And I tightened the table screws. —B
You smile so hard it hurts. Being ordinary was...hard, but with them? You wouldn't trade it for anything.
we're here for you! - (tighnari x gn! reader x cyno)
bloodsucker ! - (vamp! wriothesley x fem! vampire hunter! reader)
everything i know about love ! - (married neuvillette x fem! reader)
SERIES !
hips don't lie ! (alhaitham x fem! reader)
Synopsis: You are a well-known dancer in Sumeru City, a friend of Nilou's. You captivate people with your enchanting and slightly sensual dances. You left the Akademiya due to discrimination because of your family's financial status.
one
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𐔌 . ⋮ HONKAI STAR RAIL .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
ONESHOTS !
top up the water, please ? (kafblade x gn! reader)
SERIES !
her highness, my divine ! (jing yuan x fem! reader/ royal au!)
Synopsis: You are the oldest heir to the throne of the Xianzhou Luofu, and as per tradition, you need to find a spouse to rule the kingdom with, for diplomatic reasons. Jing Yuan seemed to oppose that.
No one wants to leave the country they grew up in, but news like this shows how difficult it is to live in Gaza with homes, schools and hospitals destroyed.
So I hope you can help me evacuate my family from Gaza so that my father can get treatment abroad. I beg everyone who sees this to either donate or participate so that we can get out of this nightmare.
I am Ahmed Mahmoud, currently living in the completely destroyed city of Gaza🍉. Since the war on Gaza began on 10/7/2023, my family and I have been living in constant fear, crying and suffering because of shrapnel, shells and bullets. We have no food, no electricity, no cooking gas, no schools, no home, no cleaning supplies, no clothes. Our house was completely destroyed.
My children’s school was bombed, which deprived my children of education. The war forced us to live in displacement centers, which are just tents that are not suitable for living, especially in winter. Every day we live death, terror and panic a thousand times because of the continuous bombing of my city. Imagine: we have escaped imminent death more than 20 times, and we have been displaced between shelters more than 13 times. My family and I have suffered from many diseases due to malnutrition, and we need medication constantly. If we stay in Gaza, we might lose our lives. Recently, we were seriously thinking about leaving Gaza to a safe place. However, the travel costs are very high. We need over $50,000 to leave Gaza. With the skyrocketing prices, rampant unemployment, insecurity, ongoing blockade, and constant bombing, we have lost all our money. How can we live in such insecurity, with constant bombing and shrapnel flying over us? My dear compassionate friends around the world, with your generous donations, even small ones, you can save 6 people from imminent death, allowing us to start a life outside Gaza filled with love, peace, and hope. Best wishes from Gaza City,❤️🩹🇵🇸
I am Ahmed Mahmoud,34 years old, from Gaza, married with four childr… Ahmad Mahmoud needs your support for Help me save my children from dea
"Please, do not ignore my story. Your donation and sharing this message is a part of your humanity and support for us. Every help, no matter how small, makes a huge difference in my life and my children's lives. Be our voice, be the hope for those who have lost everything." 🇵🇸🍉🙏🏼
I am Ahmed Mahmoud,34 years old, from Gaza, married with four childr… Ahmad Mahmoud needs your support for Help me save my children from dea
Share, donate, help us survive. 🕊️❤️
In a corner of Gaza, my family and I are drowning in destruction, with the echoes of suffering surrounding us. I sat beside my modest tent, hastily erected after losing my home in the latest bombing. The faces of my family tell stories of patience and resilience, with lines of time etched upon them, as if they were records of unforgettable events. 🇵🇸⏳🍉
I once lived in a small home, filled with the laughter and voices of my children. Today, I have become a witness to the agony of displacement. The bombing forced me to flee with my children after a shell struck our home, leaving behind years of memories and simple belongings I never imagined would become unreachable. 🏚️💨
Every morning, I leave my tent and go to work, using a clay oven to provide food for my children. Meanwhile, my youngest son heads to the charity kitchens that offer aid, waiting for long hours under Gaza’s scorching sun. Despite the exhaustion that weighs down his frail body, he carries the food mixed with his tears and returns with a fake smile, hiding behind it the burdens of his struggles. 🍞🥀
At night, when everyone else is asleep, I remain seated at the entrance of my tent, gazing at the dark sky, reminiscing about days gone by… about my home that was once filled with warmth. Yet, I still find remnants of hope in my heart—a hope that one day peace will return, and my children and I will live in a new home, filled with joy. 🌙🏡✨
In moments of solitude, I find peace in prayer and supplication. I plead to God to protect Gaza and its people, to wipe away the dust of sorrow from our hearts. I always repeat🇵🇸🍉🌿
"We are here to remind the world that we are stronger than war, and we will rebuild our lives anew, no matter the cost!" 🙏
I am Falestine, Jad Al-Haq, I am 37 years old, married, and I have a eight-month-old child named Youssef. I gave birth to him during the war during very harsh conditions that no human being can bear. I moved from the hospital immediately after giving birth to the tent in which we were staying after we were displaced to it after the Israeli bulldozers completely bulldozed my house. and my suffering did not start from here. Rather, it began since the beginning of the war, and I am still suffering. I cannot provide enough milk for my baby or diapers. Even medicines and vitamins are not available.
I ask you for your urgent help in disseminating the link to my family and communicating it to people interested and able to help us. I didn't want to do it, but the tragic situation we are living in is what pushed me to do it. I feel sad and helpless, after we had everything, we are now homeless on the streets, living in a tent next to a dilapidated public toilet and there is sewage, dirt and waste everywhere, we sleep on it! We suffer from terrible heat, insects, scorpions, the danger of death, bombs and missiles, in addition to hunger of course, the danger of pollution and terrible diseases, especially the digestive, respiratory and reproductive systems!
. My father and mother could not bear it any longer. My father had a stroke after losing his home and his place of work, and my mother suffers from chronic diseases and needs treatment.
Do you have the right to imagine that when you spend your life building for yourself and your children to live a decent life, all of this disappears in the blink of an eye, and now when you reach the age where you should rest, you are forced to start again!!? But the most important thing now is to try to survive and protect your children from all the factors of death that surround us! I ask everyone who has humanity or conscience to feel our situation and put themselves in our place. How can someone who has lived with dignity all his life accept this? We are slowly dying every day.
Your donation, no matter how small, can have a big impact. It can provide a meal for my little one, a clean bottle of water, or a moment of safety under these difficult circumstances. Every donation brings with it a ray of hope, alleviating our suffering and giving us the strength to face a new day.
I ask you to donate and support the steadfastness of the Gazan people, and share this campaign with your friends and families. Together, we can make a difference and help my family get through this ordeal.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generosity and support.
well 🧍♀️ as a reminder this blog is NOT a safe space for trump supporters but it IS a safe place for women, queers, trans ppl, people of color, undocumented people, and any marginalized group.
I am Amina from Gaza🇵🇸, a mother of three children.Nase💚Adam💚and Braa💜 I come to you with a heart exhausted by war and injustice, with the heart of a mother who is in pain for the condition of her children🥺. They live in extremely poor conditions because of the war. No food, no medicine. We live in a tent under the scorching sun.🤒😪 Have mercy on our condition and donate even something simple for my children.🙏 The simplest thing makes us happy, or help me publish through the pinned post on my account💬. I hope you will not let me down, because I can no longer bear it. You are my last hope. Thank you to everyone who contributed and helped me🫂. Amina Yasser❤️🩹
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https://gofund.me/79676057
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Please help and support as much as you can guys !! Idk how many pages can this post reach but please share and reblog and support as much as you can !!
I have nothing against Argenti's new VA, but some of his deliveries don't have the same confidence as the old one's.
I was just fighting him in MoC and "Put forth all your might" is probably the worst offence of this. Like... Where's the enthusiasm. It's... It's gone...
