Uhhhhhhhh a little scared to post this! Bearing my heart and soul! I pledge my allegiance to monster girl OC!!!! Hehe her name will be revealed…. IN TIME….
Thinking abt the fact that I did these months ago with no plan and very little actual knowledge and they turned out so good!!!! I’m much more of a “have a plan and execute it within a reasonable timeframe” person now when it comes to drawings instead of obsessing over teeny details. But still love these!
I present a tired sad puppy looking Ino. Quite like this little picrew guy. Been too tired to draw lately but have been #writing like a #maniac which is very satisfying.
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-
Ino x curse!reader ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა
18+, minors dni
p1 | p2
cw: use of Japanese, angst, injured!reader, docile!reader, power imbalances, descriptions of various injuries, reader has a limp, needle, blood, incorrect/fictional medical concepts, medical examination, invasion of privacy, mention of OCD, anxiety and sh, humiliation, flawed!Gojo, body horror, talks of exorcising reader, crying
note: this concept is similar to Yuji x sick!senpai and I imagine the two readers having the same condition but it presents slightly differently and is much more progressed in this fic. Please read with caution.
Ino’s face is mushed together on one side as he rests it on the pillow, lips puffed out into a little pout, and his big, brown eyes are fixed on your bare legs.
Pale skin with bruises that will never heal. One of your knees is angled unnaturally but covered up by a DIY joint protector, which is just a cut-up and resewn sock.
The sheets fold this way and that way as you squirm around on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position.
You’re focused on homework, and Ino should be too. But all Ino can think about is your presence and the time.
Saturday, 14:56.
Soon, it will be time for your visit at Ieri’s, and he fucking hates that. It’s never a normal health check. The principal is there, and sometimes other faculty members, and they poke and prod at you to “keep you in check,” as Gojo once so sensibly put it. Ino is dumb but not that dumb. He knows it’s just an assessment of your state to decide if you need to be exorcised.
You’ve passed the examination 16 times now. That’s something. Proof that you’re a nice curse. But still, Ino finds it humiliating.
And you just let it happen, like it doesn’t matter at all. Not only that, you agree with everything those old geezers say. It’s all voluntary on your part.
That’s fine, Ino tries to convince himself, it’s your choice. You’re the one who turned into a curse. You know better.
“Takuma…?”
Your classmate tears his gaze from your knees to your face. There you are, looking at him with raised eyebrows but an otherwise neutral expression.
You haven’t changed much in terms of personality since it happened. Even before, you were a calm and resigned girl. It was like you knew it would happen and accepted it. Or even waited for it.
“I…” Ino trails off. He can’t remember you speaking, but obviously you must have been, and he just got lost in thought. “Did you say something? Sorry.”
“Yeah, no. You’ve just been staring. A lot.”
You got him there. Ino gets like that on Saturday afternoons. To him, each time is a mini-goodbye, so he memorizes everything, though you’ve shown each time that you’re a very nice curse who doesn’t need to be exorcised. A part of Ino is getting used to it, while the other part is terrified. So, he floats in a weird space of nothingness and uncertainty. He gives you a sheepish smile and forces himself to look down at his own homework. Organic chemistry. Yuck.
“Sumimasen,” Ino mumbles. Then, another glance at his phone.
Saturday, 14:58.
Once his phone goes blank, your reflection appears on the black screen. You’re still just immersed in your books, but the subtle chewing of your lower lip gives it away. You’re nervous too, though not as nervous as Ino.
That heart-sinking knock on the door could come now at any moment.
Ino’s frown deepens.
“Don’t pity me.” Figures.
“I don’t,” Ino replies quickly. He always has some excuse up his sleeve and quickly points to the equations he wrote down. “This is just really stressful.”
You glance at his opened workbook and, with an amused groan, you pull yourself closer to Ino, dragging your injured leg behind you like a stray cat.
“If you’d just learn the functional groups…”
“There are so many,” Ino retorts and sinks his face further into the sheets, his messy hair spilling all over the pale grey fabric. The diagram of the groups, indeed a lot of them, takes up a whole page, in a mocking way. Like the authors know they’re spelling it all out for Ino, and he still can’t get it through his head. Fine, the first three make sense. One, two, three bonds. The one with the alcohol is easy too, just because of the name. The rest?
“Yeah, but there’s a system, and if you get that—“
Two powerful knocks interrupt, and Ino immediately perks up while repressing the urge to grab you by the waist and pull you back.
“Coming in, so you two better not be making out.”
Of course. It can only be Gojo-sensei. Neither of you grace his little comment with a reply. That teacher has a special talent for making each interaction as awkward as possible. Although, ever since you’re different, you don’t really seem to care that much anymore.
The door slides open a second later, and Satoru Gojo leans against the frame like he owns the building. It would be fair to assume he does.
Tall, relaxed, blindfold in place, hands tucked into his pockets. His gaze, somehow still very clearly directed at you despite the blindfold, sweeps across the room once.
“Ino.”
“Sensei.”
Then Gojo tilts his head toward you. “And our star of the afternoon. Thought I’d find you here.”
With a little huff, you push yourself up and climb down from the bed. Your feet barely touch the ground, keeping you floating so your injured leg doesn’t have to carry more weight.
Ino doesn’t bother asking to come with you because you always tell him not to. He gets that. It’s a tense experience, and you probably don’t want even more witnesses.
“Jaa ne,” you mumble and wave.
“Jaa, mata.”
Gojo walks ahead of you, leading you down the hallway. He can sense one of the first years wanting to exit their room in that moment, but they stop when you appear in their line of sight.
“Heh, senpai!” Thank god it’s the more sensible one. Big, wide eyes, a horrible bowl cut, and braces.
You slow down to greet them but don’t actually stop, to the younger sorcerer’s disappointment.
“Be good, Kirara,” you drawl, ruffling their hair as you pass them by, but your voice isn’t quite lively. They don’t know where you’re going or why, and it’s best to keep it that way.
Inside the infirmary, there is the usual little audience, though not every single faculty member is present, just those required and those with strong opinions, in favor and against… well, letting you exist.
Ieri, whose presence is obviously essential to lead the examination.
Yaga, who is always involved due to his position as the principal. More against an exorcism, but he rarely lets that show.
Kusakabe, who is very vocal about being in favor of an exorcism. He likes to take safe routes if he can.
Ijichi, who probably does not want you to be exorcised but doesn’t voice his opinion because he has to be objective for his job. He’s just there for administrative stuff and usually never even looks up from his binders.
And Gojo, who makes you feel like he absolutely does not give a shit whether you live or die, who seems to be amused by your predicament and fascinated by your rare condition, who has you prove your humanity to him through very invasive and kind of humiliating questions, truly making you feel like a curse.
Gojo, who secretly has to rely on Ieri for extra reverse cursed energy because his own can’t keep up with all the ulcers wanting to form in his stomach from worrying and hating himself so much.
He slumps down on one of the chairs, hips tilted forward, legs spread, his upper body leaning back. Practically the image of someone waiting to enjoy a good movie at the cinema.
What goes on internally, well, that’s a different story. But no one needs to know that.
You’ve stopped floating the moment you stepped into the room and opted to limp on your leg, though everyone knows you only do that to make a less curse-like impression. That, coupled with your lifeless obedience, gives you a kind of lamb-to-the-slaughter vibe. Gojo hates it.
Don’t look so fucking resigned.
You let Ieri do her thing, she removes your eye patch, then positions you to her liking, commenting occasionally on any change or the lack thereof. Your shirt is removed, she pokes at your ribs and sternum, and you just let it happen like you’re a ragdoll.
People could consider your docile nature manipulation, like you’re just trying to seem like a good curse, but a witty little response from you every now and then proves you’re not quite okay with how things are and want to resist.
And then come the questions. Not as bad as Gojo’s private ones but still.
“Do you have any violent or homicidal urges?” Ieri asks, not mincing her words in the slightest. She lets your shirt fall back into place and moves on to your legs, nudging your knees apart.
“No,” you mumble with a flat tone, eyes averted to the sterile white floor. Your legs dangle from the table, and you suppress a small wince as the transformed socks are removed from your injured knee.
“Any cannibalistic urges?”
“It’s not cannibalism if I’m not human anymore.”
Gojo snickers, but he’s probably the only one in the room who appreciates that little jab.
The stretchy fabric of Ieri’s glove makes contact with your forehead when she flicks it.
“No,” you correct yourself, “No cannibalistic urges.”
“Still in your soup phase?”
“I guess.”
Yeah, you’ve been weirdly fixated on soup the past week.
Kusakabe’s lollipop cracks a little in his mouth, he probably wants this thing to keep going without any personal questions slowing the process. In a way, he’s right. The faster it’s done, the better.
“How do you feel about Sukuna?”
Right. That guy. The higher-ups’ big concern, though he’s supposed to be dormant now. There are some parallels between you and him. It would be a mistake to act like you don’t care or think about him, a very obvious lie.
“Don’t see the point in his approach to things,” you reply. You don’t say you don’t agree with what he represents because, in all honesty, you’re humble enough to know you don’t understand him. So you can’t agree nor disagree. You just don’t understand the resentment. Who cares if he hates humans because of mistreatment? It doesn’t matter.
“I’m not angry,” you add. You’ve said that so many times, and Gojo can see how much it annoys you when someone can’t accept that. Mostly the higher-ups, who would have it way easier if you were angry and vengeful; it would give them an excuse to get rid of you.
Two fingers are pressed into the soft tissue around your knee and rotate the joint slightly. There’s a faint, wet clicking sound that shouldn’t exist in a normal human body.
“Pain?”
“Three.”
Ieri hums, then carefully wraps your purple socks back around. She can have respect for a student’s ingenuity, so she doesn’t offer actual bandages. It’s a small way to give you authority.
Then your fingers catch her eye. She inhales, too sharply, knowing exactly that she can’t hide that in front of so many people. Had Gojo told her about it beforehand, she would’ve been able to breeze past it in a way that doesn’t raise questions, but her reaction was too noticeable.
Multiple chairs are already creaking to lean in closer and see what she found.
Wordlessly, she lifts your hands a little, exposing the red, irritated fingertips and the nails that most definitely have blood under them.
A small breath leaves Gojo’s lips.
Goddamnit.
“Explain this?”
“Scratched at my desk.”
“Why?”
“Dunno.”
Stupid girl, this isn’t the time to be tight-lipped. For a few moments, no one speaks, like they’re all waiting for Ieri to come up with an excuse that will put their minds at ease. Kusakabe could easily use this as a “got you” moment, but he doesn’t.
“…it could be OCD. Anxiety. Self-harm. Talk to us.” Her voice has become a little softer now, the closest thing you’ll get to her pleading. You should just give them something, and she’ll talk your way out of it.
“Yeah,” you shrug, “Guess I was nervous. We have a test tomorrow, in Japanese. I was studying and…”
“Right.” Ieri glances back to the other faculty members in the room, checking to see their reaction.
“Have you done it before?” Gojo suddenly asks. That’s rare. He usually never interrupts with anything productive. You pull your hands back to fidget with the hem of your t-shirt.
“Uh…haven’t scratched before, but I sometimes do other stuff… like nail biting.”
Gojo hates how much you’re shrinking into yourself as you talk. Partially his own fault for being so… him.
Luckily, your explanation is enough to make Yaga wave his hand dismissively, allowing Ieri to continue. Though he crosses his arms with discomfort and glances at Kusakabe. The other rubs his neck with frustration. The image of a little curse girl scratching at wood until her fingers bleed isn’t encouraging.
“Well, we’ll have to find an alternative. You know you can’t regenerate yet, and my magic doesn’t work for you,” Ieri chides and gently pushes you to lie back.
The most uncomfortable part, physically, is the thing with the eye. Purple blood fills your anterior chamber, obstructing your view partially. It is drained during each examination, but your body works differently now, and it just keeps refilling.
The sight of the needle coming closer and closer to your eye is one that makes you want to thrash around and scramble away, but you want to be a good curse for everyone. You don’t want to cause trouble, much less to be exorcised, so you lie still as Ieri leans over you and everyone else watches like it’s a sick public experiment.
“Good job, don’t move now,” Ieri tells you after inserting the little device.
As if you’d dare. Your muscles tense. You have to keep your eye open even though every instinct is telling you to push Ieri away and run. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you’re forced to wait until the procedure is finished.
The whole examination is a pain on its own, but this, the being a cornered animal under powerful sorcerers’ scrutiny, feels especially scary. Your fingers fist the hem of your shirt now. Blinking is not allowed. The drying up of your eyes burns.
“Thoughts on Ino?”
…What?
…Ino?
One of those questions. Right when there’s a needle in your eye, when you’re helpless and can’t move without potentially blinding yourself, when you’re the most vulnerable.
It must be on purpose.
“H-huh?”
“Thoughts on Ino?”
The fact that Gojo is bringing Ino into this feels like betrayal, though Gojo has made it known he isn’t necessarily on your side. You were doing well. You thought you were.
“Thoughts? I—“ You cut yourself off with a little gasp. What are you even supposed to say? What’s even relevant here? More importantly, what is the meaning of it? Ino shouldn’t have anything to do with this. He’s supposed to be a safe space, a safe topic.
The needle is removed from your eye in the meantime, the vision in your right eye returns, and you think you can let out a breath of relief, when Gojo raises his hand.
Ieri stops. She furrows her brows, scowls with confusion and something akin to brief denial, but obliges, keeping the sharp thing right above your eye. Huh?
“Sensei—“ you gasp again in panic. The scene has become more hostile, like a sort of interrogation.
“It’s okay, just answer the question,” the doctor above you tells you. This is a lot of pressure and new territory, with not a lot of time to think about what makes a good impression and what doesn’t.
“Okay, okay, just—“ you swallow back a lump, trying to collect yourself. Your voice wavers. You know you’re going to cry, but you keep going. “Ino is nice. He’s nice and, and, he can’t remember functional groups, but—“
You pause to sniffle a little. You can’t even look around for an escape route because of the damn needle threatening to sink back into your eye. So, you just stare up at Ieri with blurring vision. Everyone has become an enemy in the matter of a few seconds.
“But,” you continue somehow, “I like that because then he asks me for help, and I like helping him, and it gives me an excuse to—“
“That’s enough, Gojo, you’ve made your point,” Yaga speaks up suddenly.
Point? What point? It doesn’t matter because the moment the needle retreats, you curl up into yourself, sobbing ungracefully.
“You pass.”
You rub your eyes, then slowly sit up with a hunch, then hop down onto the floor with way too much force, and there’s a sharp ache in your knee for a moment.
Gojo watches your knees buckle, still leaning back lazily. Ijichi immediately tries to offer his arm for support, but you decline by shaking your head and limp out of the room, mumbling the polite version of a goodbye.
You hope to god you won’t run into little Kirara like that. Or Ino. Not Ino. Do they want you to stay away from him? Was that the point? He’s so genuine and nice, and you’re all rotten. Maybe they think you’ll do something bad to him.
The best thing now would be hiding in the library. No student ever enters that place. But if you don’t immediately go back to Ino’s room, he’ll start to worry. Inhaling deeply, you start limping back through the hallways, still sniffling but desperately trying to stop.
Long after you’re gone, when it’s just Gojo and Ieri in the room, the atmosphere drops the act.
It’s quiet for a long time. Ieri sits back on the exam table. Gojo can tell she’s itching to reach for a cigarette.
“Well. Did you have fun? Did you get it out of your system?” she asks with the usual hint of lazy detachment, though the phrasing suggests a little scolding.
Gojo’s head tips back, he groans, a long and bored sound.
“You get it, right?”
Ieri hums in response. Her eyes glaze over the now-empty chairs, then she glances at the door, where you had left the room.
“I get it. But you’re a little paranoid to think that was necessary. Wasn’t that a little dramatic? Besides, Nanami won’t appreciate you dragging his student into this.”
Gojo puffs out his cheeks and blows out some air between his pursed lips, almost like blowing raspberries. “Hah? That guy has no right to complain. He’s the one always saying he’s not even a teacher.”
Ieri shrugs, dismissing the thought. She crosses her legs, her high heels peel off her heels a little as she moves her ankle around in the air.
“Satoru.”
Gojo straightens his back, then looks at the little yellow bin on one of the desks, where all used and sharp things are disposed of. It’s where that needle was thrown into.
“I think this little stunt earned her at least another month of peace. And maybe less frequent evaluations. I mean… jeez, it was just a schoolgirl crying over some boy. That’s what we want.”
“What about you?”
Gojo pouts in a childish, petulant way, like a child. He mumbles something along the lines of “this isn’t about me,” while averting his gaze.
“It must hurt. You’re always the bad guy, while all you do is save everyone.”
There’s a pause. Gojo is not in the mood to be vulnerable.
“You know, Satoru, sometimes I wonder how far you’d go to prove her humanity.”
“I wonder that too.”
“Not very reassuring.”
૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱აall rights reserved. no translations, plagiarism, modifications, reposts, or ai feeding. disturbing comments will be deleted. english is not my native language.
PLSSSS write more about ino and curse! Reader, I rly loved that fic and I really wanna know more bout their relationship ^_^
Ino x curse!reader ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა
p2 | p1 | p3
cw: mild angst, fluff, banter, emotional distress, physical injury, reference to trauma, intimacy, both characters are dumbasses
note: hi!! yes, glad you liked it!
Ino’s thumb grazes your cheek, feeling around in the dark for any tears that would be dampening your skin. After you come back to his room, he always makes sure to turn off the lights. Your permanently injured eye is sensitive after the procedure, used to only seeing purple darkness.
His finger pauses at the corner of your eye and comes away wet. Figures. You’re still sniffling too.
It’s been a while since you’ve cried. He remembers when it happened after the first evaluation, then the third and fourth. Then the sixth. After that, you must have gotten used to it. Or maybe it’s always something different and you get overwhelmed randomly. Ino has never asked about specifics.
First, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know; he might even lose respect for the people in charge. And second, you don’t need to relive it. His room is supposed to be a safe space, where nothing bad happens. He’s very determined to keep it that way.
The pain ends at his doorstep.
“Hey…” Ino greets you quietly, as if approaching a cornered animal. The pad of his thumb brushes the moisture away in a soothing motion.
You tear your gaze from the ceiling to look at your classmate, only the moon’s reflected light shifts in your eyes with the movement. The rest of your body stays eerily still. You must not be a very pretty sight right now.
“There she is,” Ino smiles when he finally gets to see both of your eyes after so long. The injured one will start clouding in about two days.
“Hi,” you croak out, like you’re noticing Ino’s presence only now. He’s staring down at you with big, brown puppy eyes, brows furrowed in concern.
“You’re back.” His eyes roam your face as he leans closer over you subconsciously. “It looks like it was worse this time.”
You look up at Ino silently for a few moments, then shake your head. “Dunno… maybe. Or maybe I’m just getting weaker.”
Ino’s lips press into a disbelieving grin.
“Well, that’s impossible,” he states, lips curling upwards. The curve is a bit bitter but a smile all the same. “You are the strongest person I know.”
You mirror Ino’s forced smile, focused on the little light dancing in his dilated pupils. “Then you don’t know very strong people.”
“Hey, actually—“
“Takuma…” you mumble, reaching up to fiddle with the stray lock that has fallen across his face. “Do you think that… that it’s bad for you to hang out with me?”
His expression softens momentarily as you fiddle with his hair, eyes fluttering shut for a moment to bask in the feeling. Your question, however, makes his eyes open.
He takes your hand from his hair, holding it gently between his own bigger one. His brow furrows slightly, pondering how to answer your question.
“Me hanging out with you?” he echoes, gaze searching your face. “Why would that be bad?”
“They brought you up today. I was wondering if they think I’m bad for you. Or if they think I’ll hurt you. I also don’t want to get in the way of your future promotions.”
Ino’s lips pull into a frown progressively with each of your words.
“I’m not even going to address the first half,” he chuckles quietly. “You’re not that smart if you think you could be bad for me.”
His voice grows quieter. “And if promotions are dictated by who I keep in my company, then I don’t value them.”
A quiet, exasperated breath leaves your lips at Ino’s relentless optimism. Your fingers splay further apart in the air as your palm and the back of your hand are squeezed tighter.
“You’re too nice.”
Ino lets out a huff of amusement.
“Nah, I just have good taste,” he quips. “Choosing to spend time with you is just common sense.”
He leans down, the tip of his nose grazing your damp cheek. “Talk to me now. Does it hurt anywhere?”
You shake your head, still sniffling a bit.
“No… just… I was just scared.”
“Yeah?” The light sensation on your cheek stops as Ino pulls back. “I can imagine. But it’s over now. And I’ve Gojo-proofed the room.”
At that, you raise your eyebrows.
“I accidentally—totally not on purpose—forgot some sweets out in the kitchen.”
“So the only thing standing between Gojo-sensei and my peace is some candy?”
“Kikufuku.”
“Ah…” you trail off. You glance around in the dark briefly, reassuring yourself that you’re indeed in Ino’s room, with no one else to bother you. There are a bunch of unopened snacks on his desk, and upon further inspection, his pillows are deliberately arranged around you like a protective barrier. These details went unnoticed when you first came in, too dazed and overwhelmed by the previous experience to register them.
Your classmate really is thoughtful.
Glancing back at him, you can finally pay attention to his scent too. Something with moringa. Not a particularly masculine scent, but he probably noticed how much you love that stuff.
“You’re really sweet. Thank you,” you speak with a tired voice, now raspy from crying.
Thank god the lights are off. Thank god. Otherwise, you’d see how Ino’s cheeks redden at your compliment, and then even more when he suddenly thinks about the situation as a whole. He’s practically on top of you, nuzzling against you like a touch-starved dog.
The mattress dips towards him as he shifts to kneel next to you instead of hovering.
It’s stupid to have a crush. More so to be flustered while you’re suffering. You have enough going on in your life. Surely his pathetic feelings for you would just be the cherry on top of the ugly cake that has your pre-curse trauma as the sponge and the current pain as the filling.
To be fair, you are being less reserved than usual. You’re rather quiet and aloof in Ino’s eyes. The way you’re acting now, obviously a result of whatever happened, is still making his idiot heart beat faster.
He can’t resist nudging your nose with his. For good measure.
“Don’t think you’re supposed to be this close to a curse,” you mutter but make no move to stop Ino. “What if I take a chunk out of your cheek?”
Ino snorts lightly. His free hand comes up, the pad of his thumb brushing against your upper lip until it scrunches up on its own, revealing your little fangs.
“Lucky for you, I’ve been told my meat is quite tender,” Ino mumbles absentmindedly, not paying much attention to what he’s saying. You just look too cute with your fangs. He secretly likes it when you’re annoyed because then you expose them subconsciously.
Your eyes widen a bit at his words.
“Told by whom?” you laugh quietly.
“Uh… what?”
“Who told you your meat was tender? Who’s taking bites out of you?”
“I actually have no idea why I said that.”
Your laughter gets louder, Ino’s red face heats up even more, and he cringes internally from embarrassment. That was such a random thing to say.
Your shoulders shake as you keep laughing, the sound now more of a choking one from how hard you’re trying to suppress it.
“Gonna start calling you tender cheeks. Or chicken tenders.”
Ino’s lips press into a thin line, resisting the urge to hide his face in a pillow.
“That’s not necessary…”
You don’t even hear his words. “And you said it in such a husky tone too… oh my…”
“Hey now—“
Ino wants to protest or say something that could regain his coolness, but you suddenly reach for the collar of his shirt and pull him down. Sharp teeth sink gently into the soft flesh of his cheek, and he yelps in surprise.
“Woah—“
“Mhm,” you hum against him, nibbling at the skin without breaking it. “Indeed tender.”
Ino squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to process the feeling of your lips (and teeth) on him. You’re like a cat.
Usually cold and hard to win over, but you have your playful moments. He loves cats.
“You’re really milking it,” he mutters with defeat and doesn’t even notice how his hand, which has been squeezing yours, is now pinning it down to the mattress.
Your teeth linger before you let up. In the dark, the little indents left behind aren’t visible, but the thin, cool saliva coating Ino’s cheek is still evidence of what you just did.
His gaze softens. At least he could make you laugh, even if it was at his own expense.
“What’s your favourite animal?” your classmate asks suddenly. You pause, visibly confused by the sudden change in topic. You get a weird look on your face, all thoughtful while your eyes seem to trail over invisible lines on Ino’s face and messy hair. It’s a mystery how he manages to have such shiny, luscious hair when most of the time, he’s hiding it under that overused beanie.
“Uh… I like dogs.”
“What breed?” Ino even tilts his head, focused on your answer.
“I guess… something big and stupid.”
“Stupid?”
“Yeah.”
Ino decides not to dig for an explanation.
“…What is your favourite animal?” you return the question, probably out of politeness.
“Cat.”
“…What breed?”
“Stray.”
“That’s not a breed.”
Ino shrugs, then finally moves to lie down beside you. Your tears have dried and you’re not sniffling anymore.
The automatic lights outside turn on, signaling that someone is either leaving, arriving, or passing by the dorms. Instinctively, Ino’s hand moves to cover your sensitive eye without a second thought.
“You didn’t answer with a breed either.”
“Fair enough.”
Silence settles in the room, and after a while, the lights go out outside. Ino removes his hand from over your eye and places it back on the sheets, feeling a bit awkward.
“Why strays?” Your tone doesn’t come out all too friendly, but that’s likely from your discomfort at the soft conversation.
It takes him a moment to reply. Why strays? First, all the times he’s fed cats on the street go through his head, a string of fond memories. Then, he glances at your body, relaxed despite having been so close to someone else.
“I think I like earning their trust. And it feels good to know that they learn to trust someone.”
“I just hope you wash your hands after interacting with them.”
‘Interacting.’ The word sounds a bit cold. Ino wishes you’d like cats too. But in a way, it makes sense. You’re a cat. You don’t like yourself. So you don’t like cats. And you talk about them with such a detached tone. A psychologist would have a field day with this conversation.
“I do,” Ino grumbles and pokes your side. “Will you explain the big and stupid part?”
“Big and stupid things are entertaining.”
“That’s it?” Ino asks, a small pout forming. In response, you sigh in that familiar way, when you’re about to give in and say something real.
“I don’t know. The world sucks, and those dogs are happy and do dumb shit nevertheless. The funny dog videos make me laugh. They make me feel better.”
Ino hums in acknowledgment, but the sound stops when he feels you move closer to him. He doesn’t dare comment on it. You’re being affectionate, and he’s not about to ruin that.
Your warm breath grazes his biceps as you cuddle Ino’s side.
“Can I stay for the night?”
“You better. Who do you think I bought all these snacks for? We’re watching that show you like all night and stuff our faces.”
“Okay…”
Ino pushes himself up with his elbows first, then with his wrists too, breaking away from you—or at least attempting to.
To his surprise, your arms curl around his, and you cling to his limb, not letting him move away.
“Don’t go…”
Ino’s arm twists a bit as he turns towards you. You look more tired now, a little defeated.
“Well, the snacks are over there, and—” Ino cuts himself off when he sees you bury your face in his biceps. Your forehead, the bridge of your nose, and the tips of your lips press into the muscle as you rub your face against him.
For a dumb second, he debates saying something cheesy like “and one is also right here,” but the angel on his shoulder tells him that would make things weird, and there are only so many blows his ego can take.
So instead, he lies back down.
The feeling of you glued to his arm like that is a good one. Not even in the exciting, oh my gosh, my crush is cuddling me way. It’s just nice to know that Ino can give you peace like that.
He stays still, even when his shoulder starts to go a little numb under the weight of your head. It’s fine. He’ll deal with it.
“Can I say something?” he asks cautiously.
“Mhm…”
“I think that… you’re more human than the higher-ups. And the faculty. So joke’s on them.”
“I don’t want you to hate the teachers because of me,” you reply, not thinking too deeply about Ino’s words at first. “They’re just doing their job.”
“And yet, Nanami stays out of it.”
“He’s not—“
“A teacher, yeah, yeah,” Ino finishes the sentence for you with a quiet huff.
“But thanks. Sometimes, though… I wonder if being called human is a compliment at all.”
“Don’t say that in front of the committee.”
“Mh.”
Ino shifts a little, turning his head towards you, expecting your face to be… less close than it actually is. If the mere proximity wasn’t enough to once again fluster him, the way you’re looking at him through your lashes, with half-lidded eyes and that tiny frown, is doing things to him. It’s unfair how pretty you look, even when you’re miserable.
Finally, Ino forces himself to focus on something other than your face. He needs to get his thoughts under control.
“I think they will stop at some point. They’ll see that you’re still just you. And it will be a waste of time for them to keep bothering you.”
“See,” you chuckle softly, “you think that, and that’s why I’m the brains here and not you.”
Ino laughs too, and your next question even sours his mood a little.
“Speaking of which, how are those functional groups coming along?”
He groans immediately, the sound low and drawn out as he lets his head fall back against the pillow.
“Don’t ruin the moment. You were just being nice to me.”
“I am nice,” you reply, “This is me caring about your academic success.”
“That’s not caring, that’s harassment.”
You huff softly against his arm, the warmth of your breath seeping through the fabric of his sleeve. “Tell me.”
“…I can’t really focus when you’re gone, I mean—“ His tongue stumbles in his mouth when he realizes how those words might sound. “I mean… when you’re gone and you’re… there. Not like… in general. I can focus when you’re at the, uh, mall. Or the dentist. You know…” God, he’s overexplaining it.
“I get it,” you interject before he embarasses himself any further. “You’re saying you didn’t get any work done while I was being evaluated.”
“If you put it like that, it sounds a bit bad. Like I was being lazy.”
You snicker into Ino’s arm. Of course he doesn’t want to come off like that. You were having the worst time of your life, meanwhile Ino was just rolling around in bed? Where’s the solidarity?
“I know it wasn’t like that. You were preparing the room, huh. You’d make a fine housewife.”
“Now that hurts my fragile masculinity,” Ino mutters. “I’ll have to do some push-ups to balance out the damage.”
Unfortunately, he doesn’t see you bite into the inside of your cheek at the image he accidentally painted in your head. What a sight that could be.
And this why Nanami sometimes dreads having both of you on his team. There’s the banter and flirting, some of it subconsciously on purpose, some accidental. It kind of drives him up the wall how you two are obviously into each other but keep dancing around, both of you thinking the other is just being very friendly.
Who the hell even casually cuddles their classmate like that? Who nibbles on their cheek?
“A few physical exercises cannot fix this, I’m afraid,” you reply after coming to your senses.
“What if I mow the lawn? Or fix something in the dorm? With the screwdrivers and wrenches. That would be manly. Or changing a—“
“It’s fine, you can stop talking,” you interrupt him before you start imagining him doing all those things.
Ino quiets down, not at all offended at your sudden command.
“Can we eat now?”
“Yeah.”
૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱აall rights reserved. no translations, plagiarism, modifications, reposts, or ai feeding. disturbing comments will be deleted. english is not my native language.
Ino x curse!reader ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა
p3 | p2
cw: angst, reference to an existing tv series, non-canon jujutsu science, unreliable adults, depression, trauma, low self-worth, hopelessness, implied past abuse, reference to flashback, minor injury/body horror
note: oh, Takuma, we’re really in it now
“Back in the nineties, I was in a very famous TV show…”
One of your arms hangs out of the car’s window as you hum random song intros to yourself. It’s only the start of the school year, so it’s still warm enough for you to have the window down without anyone complaining about the temperature. You press your nose into your shoulder, watching the world with half your face covered. It almost looks like you’re sulking.
“I’m Bojack, the Horseman, Bojack the…”
It’s a miracle Nanami hasn’t said anything yet. Glancing to your left, you can see the blond man immersed in paperwork, even during a break.
He’s wearing the usual shirt and funky tie combo, hair slicked back, and somehow, the strands don’t have that dry shine you dislike so much.
“How was your weekend?”
Your quiet, melodic mumbling is interrupted by Nanami’s question. It’s a loaded one, and yet, the man’s voice is completely calm, as if the answer were something as normal as “I took time to relax” or “I went out for ice cream.”
It’s not. More like “I cried in front of five adults as I was interrogated with a needle held to my eye.” More like “Every weekend is a small trauma that dehumanizes me further into a curse.” More like “My weekend was horrible.”
You rub your forehead against the inside of your arm.
“Good. Watched some interesting movies,” you make sure to keep your tone even and conveniently leave out the part that you were with Ino. With Nanami, it’s hard to know where you stand, and you don’t want to cause trouble. “How was yours?”
Nanami doesn’t look up from his paperwork immediately. The steady scratch of pen on paper fills the brief silence between you, almost like he’s giving your answer time to settle, testing it for cracks.
“Uneventful,” he replies at last. “Which is preferable.”
There’s a pause.
“What did you watch?”
It’s too casual of a question for Nanami. Small talk is never his thing unless it’s strategic. He thinks you’re lying and is digging for details that would make you slip up. Unfortunately for him, you weren’t lying about the movie.
“…Wasabi,” you admit shamefully and turn your gaze back toward the parking lot. There aren’t many cars around, but every now and then, someone arrives. A group of waiters sit around near the backside of the mall. Thin smoke curls around their fingers as they talk to each other.
Nanami looks up. “Did you choose that one?”
Shit.
“Uhh…” The truth is, Wasabi is not something you’d watch voluntarily. Ino wanted to let you pick something but quickly realized you’d go for something depressing or hard to digest, so he insisted on light entertainment. “…Ino. Ino did.”
Nanami hums before turning a page in his neat little binder. His hums can be unnerving. He doesn’t speak much, but the little sounds can say a lot about his mood. There are the bored hums, the quick ones that suggest his piqued interest, or, like in this instance, the skeptical ones.
“He’s a good kid.”
Nanami doesn’t need to tell you that twice. You know that. Half the time, that’s all you can think about: that he’s good and you’re bad. You have always been a curse, in your opinion, even before the transformation the potential was always there.
Looking down at the puddle beside the car, you can make out your distorted reflection. Your face is barely visible; that’s supposed to stay that way. You don’t really go out into public anymore. The reason why you stayed with Nanami in the car is that the mall is full of people. The sight of you might disturb them.
Weird limbs, a cloudy eye, a creepy posture, plus some parts of you aren’t even visible to non-sorcerers.
What an unlovable thing you have become.
With you looking like that, Ino is basically an angel in contrast. He deserves better friends. No need to rub that under your nose.
“I know that.”
Everyone knows Nanami cares about Ino and vice versa. Whereas you, you’re all on your own. Well, you used to be more of Gojo’s girl student, but ever since the evaluations started, he’s become pretty fucking terrifying. That’s a thought worth exploring another time, though. (That time will never come; you don’t question sensei. You accept his hostility. But keep telling yourself that you’ll eventually stand up for yourself.)
Anyways, Nanami is right to be protective of Ino.
“We just watched movies,” you add after a beat. Little waves appear on the water’s surface as the wind picks up. It carries over the faint smell of cigarette smoke from the group of waiters, so you quickly pull your arm in and close the window.
“Wasn’t implying otherwise.” Nanami continues scribbling down things without looking up. He doesn’t seem to be in a straightforward mood.
You wonder if he’s heard of the incident. On one hand, mentioning it to him could earn you some of his trust, on the other, you’d be telling on Gojo. Kind of betraying him, even though he certainly isn’t even on your side. And still, it would feel wrong.
You’re thinking too hard.
“Bojack, the Horseman…”
You stare down at your lap, where your hands rest now. Fingernails clean and taken care of with little band-aids. Ino’s efforts. Cute Hello Kitty-themed pieces of sticky plasters wrapped around your fingertips each morning until the skin and fingerbeds heal. He took his time with it. Now you really can’t scratch any type of hard surface, lest you ruin your classmate’s hard work.
“Bojack the Horseman, don’t act like you don’t know…”
The last words turn into incoherent hums. For a while, your quiet voice fills the car.
The front is empty, Ino and Ijichi have gone to the mall’s food court to get drinks. Three coffees, one boba. It has been fifteen minutes.
“May I speak freely?”
Uh-oh. That question is usually followed by something rude or uncomfortable, or it’s just a straight-up call-out. You tilt your head slightly toward Nanami but remain mostly hunched against the car’s door.
“Okay.”
The pen stills, and the man turns toward you politely. Having all his attention is a little off-putting, not to mention you don’t have anywhere to escape in the backseat of Ijichi’s car.
“It would be healthier if you were angry.”
Well, that’s a little random. You lift your head from your shoulder with furrowed brows.
“…angry at what? Why?”
The blond doesn’t reply. He just keeps looking at you meaningfully, like he knows you know what he means or you’ll at least get it if he keeps giving you that look. It’s peculiar how he appears to be getting more sleep than Gojo now. His sunken cheeks are still very much there, but the faint circles under his eyes are nothing compared to the Strongest’s. You’ve never seen Nanami better rested than Gojo.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what exactly Nanami is referring to, because you aren’t angry at anything, ever. That could be what he means, although you don’t see how that would make you healthier.
“I don’t have such an urge,” you reply.
“Why not?”
Now that is more like the efficient Nanami.
“I don’t take things personally.” Because I am not a person, you’d add if you were up for a little bickering. “I suppose.”
“What do you feel then?”
You bite your lip as you think about the question. It depends, really. Situations that should make you angry vary. They can range from that one first-year brat talking back to you to being hurt by people. Hakari just tires you out with the way he runs his mouth, and the other thing mostly makes you feel fear and… well, satisfaction. When you’re mistreated, you can reassure yourself that you really are below humans, and so no real damage is being done.
It’s like being a sponge that soaks up the dirt. Then someone wrings it out, and the process can be repeated. And the sponge isn’t hurt, it doesn’t feel bad because it’s just a piece of fabric with holes in it.
Being a sponge is safer at this point.
“I don’t feel much. I just think about the fact that it will pass. Besides—“ you cut yourself off when you suddenly hear footsteps approach. Soon, the two car doors open, one in the front and one at your side.
“They were out of raspberry,” Ino declares immediately, holding up a paper tray of drinks. Three brown cups and a colorful one, with a wide straw. Taking the tray from him, you scoot over into the middle, dragging your faulty leg after you. Sitting in the middle is uncomfortable for multiple reasons, but Ino already got you boba, so you’re not going to ask to sit on the side.
You hand Nanami his brown cup of coffee while Ijichi and Ino settle in their seats. “What did you choose then?”
“Dragonfruit,” Ino replies. “Was that a good choice?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah, it’s fine.”
As everyone drinks their beverage of choice, Ijichi starts explaining more details about the current mission. You nurse the dragonfruit ‘tea’ in silence, eyes fixed on the diagrams that were prepared in advance, a boba pearl popping between your lips every now and then.
You’re mainly backup now, due to your inability to move freely. Cover for Ino. Don’t be a burden.
Nevertheless, Ino tries to involve you, asks your opinion about certain things, but you feel a little awkward answering them in front of Nanami. It’s become all white noise, or like the muffled music at a party you’re not invited to. Nanami must have triggered something with his initial question. You really aren’t angry. You feel neutral toward humans and villains and Gojo. Huh. Dragonfruit was a good choice though, it’s not even that soapy.
Your gaze lingers on the condensation gathering along the plastic cup, a droplet sliding down slowly until it disappears beneath your fingers. You press your thumb into it absentmindedly, smearing the cool moisture across your skin.
Ijichi shows you a point on the map, it’s where you’re going to be keeping an eye on the situation from. You nod along, already trying to visualize the area’s position in relation to yours.
It’s one of those long fucking days. Secure the location. Exorcise. Write a report. Take a break. Try not to drown. Next.
You take a slow sip of the dragonfruit drink, letting the sweetness wash over your tongue while the chewy boba sits heavy in your stomach. Nanami watches you quietly, his gaze unreadable, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s still sifting through your words from earlier, weighing them. You resist the urge to meet his eyes.
There’s another low coming, you can feel it. Typical Monday.
In the end, you survive daytime, like always. Classes continue, you do those exercises Ieri always tells you to do, you hang out with Kirara, an energetic ball of cuteness and fierce will. The first years are getting introduced to some self-defense techniques and you help the kid find correct postures.
The hallways can be tense, Gojo could bump into you any time. You don’t feel so safe with him anymore, though you try to ignore that thought. Besides, you can’t show weakness in front of Kirara-chan, at least. They think you’re “like the coolest, most badass looking person ever”. If only they knew.
Where’s Ino during all of this? Hopefully, hopefully, doing something useful.
Well, anyways. You’re fucking drained. Time to hit the shower. The shower is safe. You can stand around in the hot water and even have an excuse to be doing nothing. It’s okay to fall apart there becaue there is no visible difference between your tears and the water from above.
What Takuma Ino really struggles to understand is that no one is asking questions.
In a manner analogous to the accumulation of cursed energy by non-sorcerers leading to the manifestation of cursed spirits in specific environments—such as hospitals and schools—an exceptionally high concentration of cursed energy may also exert a profound influence on living sorcerers.
When a sorcerer in their formative years is exposed to such an overwhelming quantity of cursed energy, the consequence may be a transformation of both body and soul, culminating in their conversion into a cursed spirit.
This phenomenon may occur as a result of negative emotions being directed toward the sorcerer, whether inadvertently or with deliberate intent.
The precise mechanisms of this process, including its stages and associated symptoms, remain largely undocumented due to the scarcity of recorded cases.
“Well, that’s spectacularly unhelpful.”
There’s a big pile of printed reports around Ino, half of it spread out all over the place, half of it still neatly stacked, waiting to be read.
It frustrates him that there isn’t much research on the topic, and most of all, that no one seems to care about the root of the problem.
This phenomenon may occur as a result of negative emotions being directed toward the sorcerer, whether inadvertently or with deliberate intent.
He knows what that part is implying.
So why is no real adult stuck on this detail that Ino himself just cannot get past?
You’d probably say it’s childish to be so fixated on the past. You probably like that no one cares, it proves this not-so-secret belief you have about yourself that you don’t matter that much.
Scratching his head, Ino groans out loud and faceplants into his bed. The pillow doesn’t have your scent anymore. It’s been a few days since you’ve hung out with Ino one-on-one.
He rolls onto his back, crumpling some papers under his body and decides to just bother you instead. You didn’t seem very present today. To be fair, Mondays are hard.
Before he knows it, his feet are already carrying him toward your room.
What is Ino even going to say? He doesn’t know what he wants. You opening up in general would be good, but does he deserve that?
It doesn’t matter, he’s already knocking.
No sound comes from the inside of your dorm, and usually, you’re not able to be stealthy before opening the door. Ino politely knocks again and waits, with no answer. The door doesn’t move.
“Hello? Are you in there?”
…
“I’m coming in,” your classmate warns and twists the doorknob. Or he would, if it were open. True to the instincts of a young man with too much strength and too little brain, Ino rattles the door just to make sure it really is locked. It is.
Right, maybe you’re having a late second dinner in the kitchen.
Ino wanders around in the students’ dorm, exploring the premises, with no luck. Every room is dark, no light is on anymore. Finally, he arrives at the one place he hasn’t checked yet.
It’s an area that he, as a guy, is supposed to avoid, but Ino is getting gradually worried. It’s not the best sign that the lights of the girls’ bathroom seem to be out too, and there isn’t any water running either. With any luck (or misfortune, depends on how one wants to look at it), that place is empty too, and he can start actually calling you on your phone instead of looking for you like a maniac.
“Seriously…” Ino mutters to himself. This little game isn’t good for his nerves. “I’m going to come in, it’s an emergency, anyone inside better not be naked!”
The echo of those words in the hallway is louder than anticipated, and a low, quiet curse follows immediately.
Whatever, Ino is trespassing in the ladies’ territory now.
The door opens, and when he steps in, faint steam hits him in the face. Someone has showered a little while ago, then. Water drips in one of the stalls, but it’s hard to make out anything concrete in the dim light, which passes through the narrow windows placed at the top of the wall.
Not having any idea where the light switch is and not wanting to start feeling around on the surfaces, he decides to just use his phone as a source of light instead.
The moment light shines from around him, he jumps at the sight of someone curled up against one of the lockers.
“Fuck—“
The phone almost flies out of his hand, and he debates activating his cursed energy out of instinct.
You don’t move. You don’t even react.
“Jesus, you scared the living shit out of me,” Ino breathes out a huff of air. “What are you doing here?”
You stay still and quiet, which prompts Ino to approach you. The flashlight-turned phone allows him to make out some things about you: you’re breathing (although Ino isn’t sure why he was worried about that), you’re wearing clothes (thank God), and your hair hangs into your face, obstructing the view.
“Hey…”
Slowly, Ino lowers himself to the ground. He kneels at your side and reaches out to tuck your hair aside.
Your eyes are open, and judging by the way your pupils shrink at the light and roll to have eye contact, you must be aware of your surroundings. It’s just that you’re weirdly passive.
The phone is tilted away from your face a little, dimming the light with his thumb so it won’t stab at your eye. Ino’s brows knit together the longer you don’t say anything.
Finally, your gaze unfocuses and then focuses again.
“‘Kuma…” you choke out quietly, your voice still loud like that in the tense silence.
“Yeah, it’s me. What’s going on?” Ino tries not to hang up on the fact that you’ve used a nickname for him. In any other situation, he’d be flustered, but something tells him that your sudden vulnerability isn’t a good thing. “How long have you been in here?”
The clothes you wear are soft: a t-shirt with short sleeves and sweatpants. So, you’ve already showered and put on your sleeping set.
“‘Kuma… you’re so nice to me…”
You mewl those words so softly, your speech almost slurred. Then your body starts leaning forward more and more until Ino realizes you’re slumping, and he has to shift closer so you can lean against him.
“Are you on something? You gotta tell me if you are,” Ino says, barely able to keep the panic out of his voice.
You only shake your head in response, the movement turns into your rubbing your face against Ino’s arm, and then gradually, you end up nuzzling your face in his chest. “M’sorry… ’m corrupting you.”
Your silly statement makes Ino let out a breath of relief. If you can still insist on these nonsense beliefs of yours, then whatever is happening isn’t that bad.
“No, we’ve talked about that.” One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, the other settles on your back, avoiding your hips. “Please just tell me what’s going on.”
You shake your head again. “Dunno. I was just thinking and… I don’t wanna move. Wanna stay in the dark forever.”
“We can stay for a bit, but not forever.”
Ino can feel how you’re trying to curl up into yourself further. Every tense muscle of yours wants to reject that proposal, and your friend can only try to massage that rejection out of your flesh.
“Did you remember something?” he asks quietly as his hands start working out the tension of your back. He mostly touches your sides and near the length of your spine. It’s the first time he dares to address your past so openly. It feels exactly like trying to feed a hostile but hungry stray kitten. Only that instead of food, Ino is giving you what, affection or just his non-judgmental attention.
Your body jerks ever so slightly into his lap, and a little sound that sounds a lot like a sniffle escapes you.
Did he mess up…?
“Oh…I, yeah, that…that might be it…” you reply, nodding your head slightly. You’re opening up a bit, so maybe your sniffling is a good sign. You feel safe enough to fall apart right in front of him. It’s not like when the emotions are forced out of you and you have no choice but to let it happen. It’s not an interrogation. “I didn’t like it.”
That’s all the comment you have on the matter. Obviously, there is more to it than you simply not liking what had happened, but it’s easier to just say you didn’t like it. It’s not a lie anyway. Just a very basic way of describing all the negative emotions you must have felt.
“I didn’t like it at all. Didn’t like it.”
“You didn’t like it,” Ino repeats firmly, like the more emphasis those words have, the easier it will be for you to carry the weight.
“So tired of everything…”
Your body goes completely limp against Ino’s as he works out the tension of your neck next.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. One of his hands trails lower between your shoulder blades, encouraging you to completely let go.
“You’re still the strongest person I know,” he says finally.
“…don’t wanna be strong. Want a break. I wish…”
“Mh?”
You fall silent. Ino’s hand comes up to your jawline and rubs at the sharp bone, as if coaxing you to keep your mouth moving, to keep you talking. “C’mon, you can tell me.”
It works. Your jaw relaxes, though the words come out too quietly and slowly now. “I… wish I was important even if I was useless…”
Ino’s thumb stops working right under your ear, where your jaw merges with your skull. “What else?”
“Wish… everyone would just… let me be. I don’t need to be loved. Or tolerated even. Just wanna exist without being hurt. I won’t bother anyone.”
“What you’re saying right now is hard to hear.”
“Oh, so—“
“No, no.” Ino cuts you off before you can apologize. The pad of his thumb travels lower and then higher again, stroking your cheek gently. “It just sounds so lonely.”
His forehead presses against yours, but he makes sure to keep a respectful distance from your lips. “I don’t like thinking about you like that.”
Your chest rises and falls against his in small, uneven breaths. The dim light from his phone flickers across your face, highlighting the faint redness around your eyes, the wet strands of hair clinging to your forehead.
“But it’s okay,” you reply with a breaking voice. “It’s okay, I really just want peace. Nothing else.”
Ino’s chest puffs out a bit when a strong huff leaves his lips. “Sorry, but… I want more for you.”
“It’s a lost cause. I’m already,” you sniffle again and lift your injured leg slightly. “This.”
Ino doesn’t know how to reply to that. Obviously, he doesn’t agree with your thought process at all. As long as you’re breathing, you can’t be a lost cause. It’s hard for him to understand that you don’t seem to have or want to have basic desires or needs, even though it makes some sense.
Your proximity doesn’t register the same way for him. What you’re saying makes him too sad to think about how easily he could just lean in. And it wouldn’t be the right time, not when you’re struggling.
Will there ever be a right time?
“…I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”
A wet laugh escapes your lips at that. “I might fall in love with myself.”
As soon as you speak those words, Ino’s heart skips two beats, and he holds his breath back for several seconds. It’s dark, but the bathroom somehow still manages to spin and fold over upside down. Is he that obvious? Did you mean that the way Ino understood it? You can’t just acknowledge it like that. But you did. It’s totally out in the open now. All those lingering touches and that overprotectiveness and how he hangs onto every word you say when you explain something.
Time to open that can of worms.
“I—“
“I’m joking.”
Ino’s breath catches a second time, sharper now, and he has to cough a few times. Fuck. It’s like suddenly pulling the brakes, every brake, in a very fast car, which somehow is full of brakes everywhere.
“Hah,” he exhales, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand for a moment. “Yeah. Joking. Heh, funny.”
You sit there for a moment, pressed into Ino’s chest, letting the silence settle over both of you. The faint dripping from the shower stall continues somewhere in the background, a steady rhythm against the tension that’s been building all weekend.
“You’re not a lost cause,” he mutters finally, voice soft. His heart is still stuttering like the car that suddenly was forced to a stop stumbles over the potholes. Cold sweat runs down his spine.
He almost fucked up.
But you’re still there in his lap and you still need him, so Ino keeps it together.
“I’m going to continue being ‘so nice’ to you. Is that okay? I need that to be okay.”
The way the pressure changes on Ino’s chest just a little feels like you’re squeezing your eyes shut tightly, wanting to reject his wish. And then slowly, you nod, hesitantly.
“Okay.”
Ino knows, deep down, that you’re not entirely okay with his kindness, for several reasons. However, that’s just a non-negotiable part of being his friend. You’ll just have to get used to it.
૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱აall rights reserved. no translations, plagiarism, modifications, reposts, or ai feeding. disturbing comments will be deleted. english is not my native language.
summary: takuma lays lifeless on the ruined streets of shibuya, remembering the night you and him fell in love at a cozy izakaya after a late night mission.
content: lots of angst, death, blood, mentions of drinking, kissing, small smut scene, gn!reader, reader struggles with emotions/past unresolved trauma.
a/n: i know ino is canonically alive but i love angst.
word count: 2.3k
it’s late. takuma cant recall what time it is anymore, or how long he’s been sitting under the soft glow of the lanterns outside the small izakaya with you.
the mission earlier in the day had been successful. it was not uncommon that you and him were often paired to go on missions together. especially with the fact that the two of you graduated jujutsu tech the same year, and now worked under nanami’s mentorship. so when you both returned from the mission relatively unscathed, nanami insisted on treating his two young mentees to a few drinks in a tucked away corner of tokyo.
he’s not sure how he got this lucky. sitting with you, thighs barely touching in the tiny space of the bar, creating an intimate atmosphere between the two of you. nanami had left about half an hour ago and now takuma definitely feels it. being alone with you, the taste of sake on his lips, and god, your eyes. he blames the way you’re looking at him and he swears he could drown himself in them.
if takuma wasn’t the slightest bit sober, he thinks he’d just confess right then and there. ever since he first saw you walk into that classroom when you were both fifteen, he’s been completely smitten by you. always stealing glances during training, packing an extra onigiri to give you during lunch in case you forgot yours, and just happening to be there when you walked past the dorms to get to your classes early in the morning. anyone would be able to tell how hopelessly in love he is with you if they caught a glimpse at the way he looks at you. like you’re the only person worth looking at.
and to him, you are.
he’s never had the courage to make a move, say anything about his feelings towards you. he’s always figured it’d come out wrong, that he’d mess it up. he never considered himself to be the brightest, numbing his thoughts with alcohol and focusing on becoming the best he can be especially in dirty work like jujutsu. and so the idea of you even remotely liking him back was something he’d never thought would be possible. until now.
you’re looking at him with those wide, wondering eyes, golden light dancing in your irises. he’s sober, he knows he is, but the effects of the sake is slowly working its way into his system and before he knows it, he’s blurting out the words that have been stuck in his throat the whole night. “you look beautiful.”
a shy smile appears on your downturned lips, eyelashes fluttering, cheeks flushed a subtle pink although he’s not sure if it’s from the sake or from his words. he hopes it’s the latter.
“i don’t know about that… it’s been a long day, i’m sure i look a mess.” you reply, voice so gentle, so hesitant. takuma wants to shout out at how you could think like that. i mean how could you think like that? you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“long day.” he echoes, as if it were an understatement. missions were never easy. his eyes linger on you, watching as you avert your gaze almost as if you were trying to hide yourself under your eyelashes. “don’t think it’s possible for you to look like a mess.” takuma leans a little closer, just enough to feel the warmth of his breath graze your already heated skin.
a scoff is heard from your pouty lips and the giggle that you let out sends takuma’s heart into overdrive. it’s like music to his ears and if it were the last thing he heard, he’d be completely at peace.
“you’re funny, ‘kuma.”
that nickname. you only ever use it when it’s just the two of you, reserved for him and only him. it’s his favourite thing you say. the insistent beating of his heart only confirms his feelings for you.
“funny? i’m being serious.” he says, looking surprised but the corner of his lips betrays him as it tugs into a smirk. trying to hide it, he takes a sip from the cup in front of him, his gaze not leaving you for a second. “you couldn’t look a mess to me even if you tried.”
the way you blush only makes things more real. takuma is sure it’s not the effects of the sake anymore, you’re blushing. and it’s because of him. a sudden surge of confidence floods takuma’s body and his hand covers yours, fingers gently tracing your knuckles. your mind goes blank, unable to think rationally with the way his hand feels against your own but your body responds before your brain has a chance to, and then you’re threading your fingers with his.
the feel of your fingers intertwining with his sends a shiver up his spine. he lets you play with them, gaze fixed entirely on you. his heart is racing and the buzz of the alcohol only intensifies it. he knows he’s not completely sober anymore because this feels different, something he’s never felt before. takuma has had his fair share of crushes and dates with other girls in the past, but you… you were different.
“we should do this more often.” you speak, gaze drifting to where your hands are joined. it takes a moment for his mind to catch up to your comment, still trying to process how perfect you look in this moment. he raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk returning to his lips. “drinking?”
“i don’t like drinking much but when it’s with you, i don’t seem to mind.”
your voice, barely above a whisper makes his heart race faster, a hopeful flutter that gives him enough courage to lean closer. “you’d do this again?”
“well…only if you want to. with me?” you chuckle sheepishly, eyes moving back up from your intertwined fingers to his eyes. when they meet again, takuma feels like he’s stopped breathing. his expression softens at the way you seem almost nervous, your response coming out as a question. of course. the answer was yes, always yes.
takuma’s thumb brushes the knuckles of your hand, slightly scratched up from fighting cursed spirits earlier in the evening. “definitely.” he manages to murmur, catching the floral scent of your perfume. “with you…i’d do anything with you.”
“anything?” you echo, the alcohol finally doing its work. “so if i said we should go fight some curses right now, you’d agree?”
he nods, a laugh exiting his mouth as he takes another sip of his drink. “i’d agree to fight sukuna, right now if you asked me to.”
you’re laughing again, that angelic laugh that has him forgetting how to breathe completely. but you’re trying to mask the nervousness that can be heard through your voice. “i think you’re drunk, takuma.”
“drunk?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. “maybe.” he pulls your hand to his chest—right over where his heart is, so you can feel just how fast it's racing. "but i don’t think it's the alcohol, pretty.”
butterflies erupt within your stomach. it feels dizzy and hot, but in a good way. words fail to come out of your mouth and you only manage to utter out his name in a careful whisper. “takuma…”
your hand on his chest feels like a jolt of electricity, coursing through his veins. his smirk fades, replaced by something almost reverential. god. he wants to touch you, really touch you. feel your soft skin under his fingers, bury his face into your neck, hold you until you forgot your own name. instead, he takes in the sight of you, memorising it. “yeah?” he says, low and husky.
he can see it in your eyes, the way the words catch in your throat. the flush on your cheeks, the way you're looking at him. he'd be an absolute fool if he didn't recognize that look. you're feeling the same thing he is.
heart hammering against his chest at the thought, his grip on your hand tightens almost reflexively. he's close, closer than he really needs to be, but not close enough. “what're you thinking?” he asks, his voice low, nearly a whisper.
“i’m thinking…that i’ll regret this in the morning.”
when you pull your hand away hesitantly. takuma’s heart sinks. the loss of your touch like the feeling of cold ice. he knows what you mean, and he wants to say something, anything as he watches the conflict in your eyes. “regret this..?”
“i don’t…deserve this.” your gaze drops down to your hands that rest on your lap. you can feel the inner turmoil raging inside your heavy heart. the pain of growing up feeling lonely and not receiving the affection you so badly craved from every relationship—be that from family, friends, or even past lovers. but sitting in front of a man like takuma ino, it’s different. he’s different.
swallowing the lump in his throat from hearing your pained words, his hands search yours and he stares back at you intently before the gentleness of his voice filters in through your ears. “you think you don’t deserve it because nobody ever told you, you did.” he murmurs. “but you do. you deserve to be happy.”
those simple words, it’s like a reassurance that soothes the lingering doubt that clouds your mind. how you wanted to hear something like that from someone for so long and the fact that takuma had uttered them like it was the most natural thing makes you feel valued. cared for. loved.
then, with a quiet sort of reverence, he lifts a hand up, towards your face, fingertips ghosting along your cheek with a tenderness so careful as if scared that he’d somehow hurt you. can he get any more perfect? you wonder, instinctively leaning into his touch. an exhale leaves your parted pink lips, eyes slightly glazed over from the sake as they flicker up to meet his. your faces are so close now. the proximity is intoxicating.
“takuma…kiss me.”
the words leaving your lips are like a match to a fuse, igniting a fire deep within him. all he can feel is how his heart skips a beat—maybe two—and then he's leaning in. his mind goes blank. all he can focus on is you, you, you. all that remains is the feel of your lips against his, the way they fit together like pieces of a puzzle, it's everything he could have ever dreamed of and more. his touch is gentle but firm, like he can't get enough. it's like he needs you just as badly as he needs air and he's desperate to feel you, taste you, know you.
and in the warm evening atmosphere of the quiet izakaya, you and takuma share your first kiss. the traces of alcohol in your system is long gone, replaced by the dizzying sensation of his lips moulding perfectly against yours.
you don’t know how the two of you made it back to his apartment. but you’re lying down on his bedsheets, hair fanned out across the creased white pillows. the honeyed sound of his name falling from your glossy lips, makes his head spin. he can barely think straight, his entire being consumed by the taste of your kisses, the scent of your skin. “takuma…”
takuma.
he loves the way you say his name. soft and sweet, just like you. and you're touching him. holding onto him, your hands on his chest, travelling up his toned stomach. it sets his nerves aflame, mouth going dry.
a shaky exhale is heard as you pull away, and his gaze is fixed on your face, then drifts lower to the rise and fall of your exposed chest. he feels like he's completely drunk, on a high, and not from the alcohol. your lips glisten with his saliva. he's sure his looks the same. and it's so tempting to kiss you again. you’re breathless. so is he.
“fuck.” he breathes, mostly to himself. he leans down to kiss you again, lips hungrily capturing yours and tongue sliding over yours, tasting you like he'll never get enough. the makeshift beanie he wears as a mask for his cursed technique slips off, revealing tousled brunette hair that tickle the side of your neck when he trails feather-light kisses from your jaw to your neck.
his hands settle on your hips and he’s lined up, eyes searching yours, ready. and he knows you both want this, but he has to ask anyway. “tell me you want this, pretty.”
when the confirmation leaves your tongue, takuma doesn’t hesitate. he’s already moving. slow, affectionate. it goes beyond just lust. melodic moans slip into the darkness, yours and his, like a rhythm only the two of you understand. the tokyo skyline and the bright moon from the window are the only sources of light, casting a luminosity over your faces.
that night is spent tangled in the sheets and in each other. every second a quiet confession, every kiss a promise he doesn’t know how to speak aloud. but what takuma doesn’t yet realise is that six months from now, as his vision begins to blur and his chest rises for one final breath, it will be this moment he returns to. the memory replaying over and over, until the last beat of his heart fades away, quietly, into stillness.
as he lays on the cold concrete, warm blood seeping from the large wound on his stomach, he can almost taste the sake from that night. your laughter, the way your fingers found his under the table. everything hurts, but nothing more than the thought that this might be it.
takuma blinks, vision hazy. a dull ringing fills his ears but he’s not here. he’s back under the lanterns of that tiny izakaya, the air heavy with the smell of grilled mackerel and the faint conversations of the strangers sitting around you. your thigh brushes against his in the cramped space, and you’re looking at him.
“we should do this more often…” you had said to him.
he exhales, the words shaky, slipping past his bloodied lips.
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