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Hey I know this is a sensitive topic please ignore if it makes you uncomfortable. Could you possibly do JJK men react to drinking/addiction. Thank you so much I love your work and can see how much effort you put into everything! 💝

jjk men reacting to your addictions... ⸝⸝⸝

headcanons | ...so i have to make this two parts because the wc was too long to fit into one post oml. thank ya'll sm for your patience. i hope did these justice. addiction is a deadly disease and my heart goes out to anyone struggling through it or watching loved ones battle it as well. stay strong, sending all my love!

cw, severely traumatic themes, reader has a seizure in hiromi's, mentions of addiction, depression / anxiety, heavy angst, difficult topics, childhood / sexual abuse, mentions of substances & drugs

gojo, higuruma, choso, toji

𓂃 part ii here

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

satoru gojo: opioid addiction!

it started with surgery.

a mission gone wrong. you'd overestimated your ability to take down such an immense spirit all on your own, with no back up and no hidden support. just you, your stubborn resolve, and a chance to prove yourself good enough to be compared with the very likes of the man you love.

satoru never understood your persistent need to challenge yourself with the most unnecessary foes and missions. he understands that you've long aimed to be special grade like him, having fought against your class as a grade one sorcerer for more years than he can count, but he can't grasp your full motivations.

sure, he gets wanting to be stronger. strength is all sorcerers have in this world, all they can cling to in order to survive, but the issue is that you act as though you are lacking so. in reality, you are one of the strongest people he has ever known in his life. mentally. physically.

yet somehow, you've never seen that strength within yourself. and the silent truth of the matter lies in your relationship with gojo satoru, how you excessively compare yourself to the likes of him and all the other special grades that hardly even begin to align with his level.

you would never say it out loud, how you long for what he has. you would never burden him with the insecurities that you bear, but satoru would have preferred you do so than harbor every inadequate feeling you have about yourself deep inside. he's seen how it has festered, how it has consumed you since high school. watching the people you love surpass you, leave you, fly above you to somewhere unreachable, or to some plane of existence far away from yours due to the tragedy of mania or unexpected weakness.

in a world where such devastation exists, you have no choice but to aim toward perfection, but to push yourself to the limits so that those limits are not weaponized against you in battle.

consequently, you seek danger willingly. you train until your legs give out, and you fight with every fiber of your being. you're too hard on yourself. satoru has told you time and time again, but your headstrong will is far too impenetrable for him to sway your mind, to convince you that you are perfect the way you are, that you don't need to do this to yourself in order to get better.

how can the strongest sorcerer of the modern age begin to assure you of such things? after all, he does not harbor the same concerns as you. he does not have to be weary of the same things. he does not operate at the same pace. satoru is in a league of his own, therefore, it is difficult for him to meet your eye, to ease your worries in a way that will keep you grounded - will make you feel okay.

the ivory haired man is useless in that aspect, and it tears him apart from the inside out every day, knowing that when push comes to shove, he can't help you in the way you need to be helped. not truly. even if you smile at him appreciatively, even if you wrap your arms tightly around him graciously, letting the silence swarm you as you ruminate on all the unsaid thoughts, the ones you dispel from speech for the sake of your boyfriend's nerves.

that day you went on that mission changed your life.

it had not even been yours to begin with. it was yuki's. she had mentioned it to you in passing one day, during a particularly grueling week for you at the school. your last mission hadn't gone so well, for nanami had to be called in on your behalf to take care of a particular curse that just would not die no matter what you threw its way. you managed to get away with a sprained ankle and a few scratches.

while satoru was both relieved that you were okay and horrified that you'd been hurt, you reveled in shame, for you had to be assisted by another sorcerer who is the same grade as you in order to walk away - and not even unscathed. how could you have managed to become so useless? after all the work you've done to be better, to make satoru proud?

desperate for a chance to redeem yourself, you took it up with the higher ups after having discussed it with the blonde special grade, and begged to be assigned to her slot instead. the first question gakuganji had asked you was: "does satoru gojo know about this?"

the question had soured you, for satoru's name is now all that you have as leverage in any case scenario. you're the love of his life, the woman he plans to marry, and curses either seek to manipulate, eradicate, or stay out of your way completely as a result. the only reputation you have, in your mind, is attached to satoru's name. and you want to be known and seen as more.

knowing that satoru practically has the higher ups wrapped around his finger, as, despite their power, there is not much they can do to surpass or sway the sapphire eyed sorcerer's emotions and strength if he ever decides to turn against them. consequently, you lie.

"yes," you nod. "and he supports it."

without further question, and with the illusion of independent choice, the higher ups allow it, for they agree that you need to be further challenged. you silently pray that word does not get back to yaga or gojo before you're able to return.

but you don't return.

instead, you are left to die on the roof of a mental facility, hand clutching your side as blood gurgles from a gaping wound freely, seeping through your clothes, pooling around you. you breathe laboriously as you stare up into the sky, drops of rain drizzling down around you. your leg is broken. your ankle swollen. an arm dislocated. and you think you're going to die there as that enormous curse chatters below, circling about the building with large claws sinking into the infrastructure, clambering its way back up to get to you, to finish the job.

tears dribble down the side of your face from the corner of your eye as you focus on your breath, into remaining conscious, into stopping the blood. you're alone, cold, drenched, and your state is no one's fault but your own. your muscles are sore, body aching, and pain shoots from every single point of movement as you try to twitch your fingers and wiggle your toes to keep some part of you alive and warm.

and while you try to concentrate solely on staying alive, the voice in your head repeats the same mantra. the same dreadful reminder.

you couldn't do it.

you could not take on a special grade job. you could not surpass your own strength, or yuki's, or even yuta's, the boy half your damn age. you could not press forward. you could not prove yourself worthy of a promotion, because you are not worthy of one.

you're plain, ordinary, and weak, everything that your boyfriend is not. and instead of serving as a pillar for his strength, instead of mirroring it, you shrink in his expanding shadow. adding nothing to his life but pity and worry.

you should just die here. perhaps he'd be better off. perhaps the whole of jujutsu society would.

instead, however, like the worldly savior your boyfriend is, he teleports to your very location the moment he learns that you've run off and taken on a job unfit for you all on your own. the twenty eight year old was ready to chew out yuki and eradicate the higher ups alike, despite them having been unaware of your secrecy with your significant other. he doesn't care. what he cares about is the sight of you, limp on the roof in the rain, losing blood, losing life.

alone.

while shoko could have been able to assist you with your injuries using her technique, the woman was abroad during the time of your incident, leading you to be treated in a hospital. like some throwaway patient. like an unremarkable human being.

satoru is there at your side every step of the way, from the moment you go into surgery until the moment you are settled into a sterile bed post op, with bandages and braces keeping you intact...

and an obscene amount of opiates to numb the pain.

oxycodone is what you're prescribed. fifteen milligrams.

in the tornado of shame that swallows you whole from the pit in your chest as satoru holds your hands tight over your lap, stroking your hair and kissing every open patch of skin graciously, thanking whatever being who stepped in on his behalf for keeping you alive when he was not around, it is not satoru who keeps you from sinking, but the buzzing, blurring effect of painkillers nipping away at your emotions. breaking down your ability to think, to feel. physically. emotionally.

your self hatred shrinks into a small dot in the back of your mind and your senses go quiet. you can hardly keep your eyes open as the world mellows and your head ducks underwater. for the first time, there is nothing nagging at you, clawing away as a reminder that you have never felt more miserable in your entire life, that you have never wanted to rid this world of your plague upon sorcery existence more than in the aftermath of your stupid, insatiable appetite for strength.

instead, the warmth of satoru's touch seeps into your skin, then spreads about your body like some internal fluid. your damp lashes brush against your cheek as you blink, attempting to seek some kind of grip on reality. you find, however, that when you allow the sensation to take over you, you don't have to worry about anything anymore. not how weak you are. not how you still shamefully cling to human life despite being undeserving. not how you wish satoru would stop pretending like he loves you, like he is not embarrassed by you.

no. here, under the blanket of hourly drug intake and the gentle, enhanced kiss of satoru's presence, you are finally at temporary peace.

and you cling to that blanket like it's your lifeline.

months down the line, after shoko has returned and managed to nurse you back to full health with rct, satoru keeps an impeccably sharp eye on you. mainly because he's worried. ever since that mission you foolishly took without telling him, you've been off. more reserved. hesitant to speak, to ask for things, to even touch.

he had been angry with you at first for going behind his back to take on a mission that was never meant for you to take. satoru doesn’t like lies or secrets, especially if they come from you, and he was honestly shocked that you had jumped through so many hoops to keep him in the dark.

but satoru learns everything when it comes to you. there's nothing you can keep from him without him first suspecting it beforehand or discovering it within a short amount of time. these revelations are always first founded by a suspicion, an inkling in satoru's mind that has yet to fail him.

his anger quickly subsided, however, as your wellbeing took precedence. it always does. satoru's greatest fear is losing you, letting you slip through his fingers, and that day, he almost did. he does not intend to let something like that happen again. ever.

he does not mean to, but in the following months, he suffocates you like a parent would their child. he doesn't let you go on missions alone after he's finally agreed to let you back in the field, having forced you on the bench for a good while as your body recovered.

you've never seen him reign upon you so strictly before.

he knew you were angry with him. angry at the world. angry at yourself. he took your anger without complaint, for it needed to go somewhere. after all, you'd lost a part of yourself that day to your wrecklessness, to the brutal smack of reality to the face. he does not blame you for the array of emotions you feel, nor how they target those who weren't even involved.

but anger, he expected. sadness, he expected. he's held you as you cried yourself to sleep, stood firm as you pushed hard against his chest, begging for an answer, for someone to tell you why you just aren't good enough. kissed affirmations and praises into ears unwilling to listen. he's been there with you. he's anticipated the negative, the influx of so before you got better mentally after healing physically.

it's the... other behaviors he's noticed in you that he hasn't expected. behaviors that are starting to scare him as more time goes by.

you don't show up to work anymore. you claim that it's the pain keeping you away, but it is clear that you don't want to be seen in the school environment. you don't want to be associated with the reminders of what you can not do or bring to the table, to the kids in need of proper mentorship. work brings about too many negative memories, too many thoughts of hopelessness and inferiority. you claim to be resting, but you disappear for hours while satoru is at work.

he covers for you, passionately arguing in favor of your health, but he can only protect you from the responsibilities of your occupation for so long.

after all, you're (y/n) (l/n). a grade one, well esteemed sorcerer of the jujutsu world, against your own opinions. after some time, satoru's words are not enough to substitute your frequent absences from work.

you swiftly become flaky outside of jujutsu high as well. you dodge satoru's calls, picking up later to tell him that you were too busy sleeping, that you hadn't seen his texts or heard his multiple calls.

satoru knows you're lying. but he doesn't know why.

still, he smiles through the phone and tells you not to worry as though everything is alright. as though you aren't unraveling before his eyes.

the ivory haired man would have first suspected cheating if he didn't know you so damn well. while your absences and dodginess is strange, satoru watches your every move like a damn hawk. close enough to know that you exhibit no signs of an unfaithful partner. no late nights out. no strange texts or calls from unknown numbers. no secret giddiness. just a woman attempting to piece herself back together after a traumatic experience.

after all, you don't possess the energy needed to juggle two lives. in fact, you've become sluggish. muddled. slow.

your speech is soft and mumbly when you talk to him. you often space out, forgetting where your train of jumbled thought was leading you.

and those eyes of yours, once hard with grit and passion, have gone dull and grey. you blink slowly, looking around and up at him like you are in some permanent daze. like you're constantly mere minutes away from falling asleep.

you're back on your feet by the time satoru notices these symptoms persist. you have long surpassed the amount of time needed to recover and heal. in other words, your body should be operating as normal. but it's not.

you've dropped a few pounds. your lips are always stretching to release long, drawled yawns that seem to never cease. you're jumpy, your anxiety heightened. satoru can no longer teleport within a few meters of you, for you will jolt with a fear and shock that should be reserved for more dangerous situations.

satoru can see it on you, can smell that something within you has chemically shifted, that something other than your trauma from your near death experience is wrong.

he feels at some point that he is living with a stranger, a shell of his love, and he does not understand the reason behind it. he’s begun to actively mourn you as he watches you swallow yourself in self inflicted darkness, letting some deep depression drag you further into your mind. satoru will watch you when he thinks you aren't looking - when you're taking your third nap of the day by noon or staring off into space from where you sit wobbly on the couch. a frown etches into his lips, his heart aching at the melancholy sight of you.

he feels guilty somehow, like he is responsible for this. for the vanish of your smile, the awkwardness of your bodily function - how you tend to sway and almost lose balance when you go to stand up. the emptiness in your gaze, your flatness, your loss of motivation to do anything.

where is his happy girl? the woman who always woke up before sunrise to get a head start on the day? the woman who wouldn't have dared to miss a single day at work, prioritizing the kids' safety and education above all else? the woman who always greeted satoru with a big hug and a loving kiss, the woman who never left the house or parted ways with her boyfriend without telling him that she loves him? the woman full of life, full of hope, bold and brave and impossibly headstrong?

he does not know the woman that stands in your place, idle and dim. and it kills him to know that something is wrong, but not what.

his six eyes capture the slowing pace of your heartbeat. when he asks you if you're okay, if you're feeling well, you roll your eyes or snap at him, telling him to stop asking the same question over and over.

it does not even feel like you love him anymore, unless you are asking him for money. and usually, he's so willing. showering you with his riches like it's nothing, as you are entitled to his worldly possessions as the woman he loves.

but now, it feels wrong. like you're using him. like you'll be taking his money and putting it toward something detrimental.

nevertheless, he still gives in. how can he not? he's never denied you before, so how could he begin to deny you now?

it isn't until one day, when he decides to trail you after you vaguely told him that you were going on a walk and did not want any company, that he decides to snoop around more than he already has. keeping his distance upon rooftops, he follows you from above, watching as you make your way into a part of town that he's explicitly told you to stay out of - a part of town that you, as well as the whole of the city, knows to steer clear from.

he surveys with lips pressed tightly together, steely eyes, angled brows, and a heart in his throat. his tripled vision catches the way you duck into an alley where a figure emerges from a barred side door to drop a bag into your hand as you exchange a good chunk of satoru's money in cash.

on your way out, hurriedly, you discard the bag to reveal what looks to be an orange prescription bottle.

satoru's blood runs cold. his body freezes, and his heart drops from his throat to his gut within a few seconds.

you twist the bottle open to pop a few pills into your mouth, eyes wildly surveying the area to ensure no one sees you, before twisting the cap back on and shoving the bottle into your pocket.

it all pieces together.

your fatigue, your quickness to irritation, your suspension from your role as a teacher, your faint pulse, your glossy, spacey eyes. though you healed months prior, you never stopped taking your pain medication.

the oxycodone, one of the most addictive substances on this planet, prescribed to you for pain.

it looks as though you have been abusing it beyond your prescription. when yours ran out, you sought more.

satoru gojo pales with the realization. he has been watching his girlfriend suffer the consequences of a rather severe blooming addiction.

this isn't a curse. this isn't demonic possession, the energy of the damned manifested into physical form. the work of a greater, supernatural power.

this is a disease. a tragic human condition. a phenomena that the greatest sorcerer of the modern age is, unfortunately, unfit to treat. in the face of addiction, his title wilts and falls flat, for there is nothing that satoru gojo can do to combat this.

a hollow purple can not eradicate this. infinite void can not trap this. infinity can not protect you from it.

it has already taken you, and satoru fears the worst. that he won't be able to stop it. that you're too far gone. that he's lost you to something he should have picked up on when it first started.

satoru teleports home and waits for you on the couch, legs sprawled with his elbows resting against them, his heart pounding and his mind running restlessly.

how could he have been so blind? how could he have allowed this to happen? how could he, the strongest, have been so useless regarding the one person he can not live without, can not breathe without?

what should he say? how is he meant to help you? he needs to monitor the situation, to see just how bad it's gotten. he needs to look you in the eye, press you close, feel you and analyze you properly. you probably need to be seen by someone... and go to rehab, right? but, hell, satoru doesn't even know where to begin. he's horrified, that he'll offend you, that he'll hurt you, that you'll hurt him and tell him things you don't mean when he confronts you. you've already been snippy. he can only imagine how you'll react when he reveals to you that he knows.

the blue eyed man realizes he is out of time when the front door to your apartment opens, his ears ringing upon detecting the sound.

satoru immediately rises to his feet as you emerge from the door, palming your sweats as if you have been sweating or just recently discovered a smudge on your palm.

you blink lethargically, and jump slightly when you see satoru standing in the living room, expression blank, posture rigid.

you look around, closing the door slowly behind you. "...hey," you drawl, tone already somewhat skeptical.

you step in cautiously, and as you get closer, you see the red rims of your boyfriend's eyes. his bright hues are glassy, and a dent creases the skin between his brows as he looks at you, shed of his blindfold, gaze open and intense.

you swallow hard, for something deep in your gut tells you that nothing good can come from this look. the air feels tense and almost suffocating, and you pick up on what this is likely about to happen rather quickly, your nerves spiking.

the pills are still in your pocket. your eyes dart past satoru and to your room. you need to hide them.

"i'm gonna go pee," you murmur. you hurry to brush past him, rounding the counter through the living space, but satoru moves with you and steps in your way. you pause, stumbling back slightly as you look up at him. he can see the defensiveness bubbling in your heavy eyes, and he takes a moment to look at you - really look at you.

your eyes flicker about anxiously, but his gaze does not relent. he watches you carefully, detailing the fidgets of your fingers, your inability to look him in the eye though you were never one to shy away from eye contact before your accident.

"what?" you snap, already growing irritated.

satoru's frown deepens, watery eyes scanning over you. he presses pink lips together before parting them, taking in a breath that he does not intend to sound shaky. he holds out a hand between you, palm open. "give them to me."

your nose scrunches, your heart plummeting. "give what?"

"please, baby," his voice is hardly above a whisper, as though he is afraid that it will crack if he raises it any higher. "just give them to me. i don't want to fight with you."

you blink at him, refusing to look down at his offering hand. your brows pull together and your mind jumps through its drug induced haze to come up with an excuse, to fight back, to escape this situation by any means possible. "i don't know what you're talking about. i have to pee."

"(y/n)," satoru stops you again when you try to move around him. the muscles in your face tighten as you exhale with annoyance. "why are you lying?"

"i'm not."

"you've been lying to me for months."

"what could i have possibly been lying to you about, satoru? honestly, y-you're not making any sense. i told you a million times i have to pee, so i'm going to pee."

"i see you. i know you don't have to pee right now," he emphasizes, subtly alluding to his six eyes. "and i know you're hiding pills in your pocket."

the color drains from your body. in this moment, you don't see the man you love. you don't see the man who wailed upon finding your body, who clung to you so tight that it felt as though he was attempting to pour his own force of life into you through his chest. you don't see the snowy lashes that blink prettily at you past love dazed eyes, or the man who always rubs your back when you don't feel well, who always showers you with the assurances and affections that you never bestow upon yourself. you don't see the man you've been completely enamoured with since high school, who tugged you out of your dorm late at night to take you on walks around the campus, shoulders brushing and teases fluttering from his lips to poorly cover for the way his heart pounded in your presence.

no, instead, you see an obstacle. you see an enemy attempting to take away your only source of solace. an accusor. a reminder of all the things you want to forget.

you click your tongue and shake your head, a cynical laugh escaping you. "what pills," you scoff. "i don't take pills, satoru. not since i almost died, remember?"

"don't do this," he pleads softly, combating your bubbling aggression with meekness. "i'm begging you, pretty. work with me. talk to me. stop lying and just - just tell me why you've been doing this to yourself."

"i'm not doing anything to myself!" your voice goes high pitched.

"i can see the bottle, (y/n). i saw you."

"you saw-" you pause. "were you following me?"

"i-"

"wow," you drawl. "i shouldn't be surprised, should i? what, you think i'm some kind of fuck up that needs to be watched all the time?"

"no - stop saying stuff like that," gojo urges, stepping closer to you to brace our shoulders with his hands, those warm hands - the same hands that kept you alive in the rain. you grimace, stepping back and brushing him off, leaving him reaching for you, desperate. "you know that's not true. i'd never think of you that way. those are all things you think about yourself, and you're throwing them back at me."

"oh, please.

"you know i'm right."

"you're not. you had no right to follow me."

"what else was i supposed to do, (y/n)?" he stresses, craning his neck, eyes wincing. "you haven't been the same since that day, and i'm so fucking worried. when i touch you, you don't react. when i talk to you, it's like you're not there. you don't look me in the eye anymore, you don't go to work anymore, you disappear randomly throughout the day while i'm at work thinking that i won't know or notice, but i do. i notice everything. that's how i know something isn't right. that you aren't okay, and a part of it is because of that incident, but i know now that the real reason behind it is what you're keeping from me!"

he gestures to the lump in your pocket, and you are swift to turn and pace about the living room, head proceeding to shake as though satoru's words are so absurd. as if he couldn't possibly be anywhere near the truth.

satoru's nose flares and cheeks warm as he regards you, sadness swallowing him whole. "baby, you're sick."

you laugh out, whipping your head back to face him now as the coffee table before the couch separates the two of you. "sick? really? i'm sick?"

"why are you still taking those pills?" his voice mellows out.

"i'm not fucking sick, and i'm not taking pills, satoru! what pills are you even talking about?" you throw your arms up, pacing frantically back and forth. "you're just making up shit-"

"you're six months post-op. your prescription was supposed to run out indefinitely four and a half months ago. why are you still taking them?"

"i'm fucking not."

"who the hell is giving them to you?"

"no one!"

"then what's in your pocket?"

"nothing!"

"show me."

you laugh again, eyes widening. "what?"

"you heard me," he says flatly, eyes hard. "empty your pockets and show me. if there's nothing there. if you aren't lying."

silence swallows you as you struggle to process his words, to come up with a counter argument, to find a way out of this. but how can you? your boyfriend sees everything, and now that he's discovered the truth, he's not going to let you run away from it.

still, you try. you'd rather die than face this reality, this grief, what you've been doing to satoru subconsciously through your heavy opioid dependence.

"fuck you, satoru."

he ignores the sting, the way your words penetrate his heart like a knife sheathing through flesh. "show me what's in your pocket," he repeats.

"no," you hiss. "if you can't trust me and my word, then we need to be having a completely different conversation about our relationship."

"i don't trust you," he confesses. "how can i when you're still blatantly lying?"

"great. after ten years, you don't trust your girlfriend. real nice, satoru. perfect. you might as well just tell me you don't want to be with me."

"do you hear yourself? do you hear the way you're talking? in those ten years, (y/n), never once have you acted like this. why do you think i don't trust you now? i know you. i know that this isn't you."

"if you really knew me you'd know that i can't fucking stand it here anymore. and it's not because of fake fucking pills, it's because of this entire place - because of you."

his breath stutters. "you don't mean that."

"oh, i do mean it," you smile widely, almost manically. you inch back toward him with an accusing finger pointed, and he stands and watches. taking it. "you ever wonder why i always put myself in reckless situations when i was a sorcerer?"

"you are a sorcerer-"

"it's because i couldn't stand the thought of living another second with the fucking strongest sorcerer of the modern age. because i hate waking up every morning next to a daily reminder of everything i could never be - i'd have much rather died and put myself in harm's way than see your stupid, perfect fucking face taunting me every minute of every day. telling me i'm weak. telling me i'm a fucking joke."

transparent pearls glimmer in satoru's icy eyes. he fights the urge to blink, to let weakness reveal itself in the trail of a tear down his cheek, for you'd only use those tears as leverage in this state.

he knows what you're doing. satoru may not know much about addiction, but he understands enough to determine that you are trying to hurt him in order to turn attention away from yourself, from the lifeline you latch onto.

he can see it in your eyes. you're not there. not really. you're scared, you're grieving, you're protecting yourself in the only way the drugs in your system know how to. there's a chemical imbalance within you, pinning you against satoru, painting him as the villain when he just wants to help you.

it hurts. it hurts more than hell to see you like this, to hear your pretty voice antagonize him so.

"i should have died that day," you stretch out your arms, laughter bubbling in your voice. "i fucking wish i died that day."

"don't say that," satoru murmurs. "please."

"but i do! and you kept that from happening. you pulled me back into this permanent fucking reminder that i'm not shit. that i can't do shit. that i will never be shit. if you really knew me, if you really loved me, you would have left me to die there," you chuckle. "but you didn't. you selfishly clung to me. again. just like you always do."

satoru gazes down at you as you approach him, now inches away with heat radiating from your body. your breathing is heavier, as if you are out of breath, and your pupils are blown.

his pretty girl. what have these pills done to you? what has this life - your mind - done to you?

through the blurry haze of tears, satoru stands tall before you, serving as the strength that you so clearly need to the very best of his ability. your words hurt, but what hurts more is to listen to how you've longed for death, seeing how these pills have enhanced the bad thoughts.

he understands now.

they were the only thing numbing your depression. what you don't realize, however, is that the pills are only making it worse.

completely out of his element, satoru resorts to the only thing he knows.

"i love you," he breathes.

he sees the brief twitch, the flicker of emotion that bleeds through your cruelty as you roll your eyes. "sure you do."

"i love you more than anything, (y/n)."

"stop fucking lying to me."

"i'd never lie to you," he says softly, voice thick with sadness. "i know you're hurting. i know that you've been beating yourself up since that day. you were always hard on yourself before, but that incident made it so much worse. i know."

"you don't know shit, satoru."

"i know that you're the most incredible woman i've ever met. i know that you challenge yourself to get better, even though you're already damn good. i know that's the real reason why you put yourself in dangerous situations. you hate yourself, but you want to prove yourself-"

"-could you just shut up please? -"

"i know that you're the kind of woman who would do whatever it takes to help the people she loves. i know that you love me because i've seen and felt your love for years. i know i don't make everything you feel easier, and i'm sorry, but i know that past that, you care. you're mine and i'm yours and not even this will change that."

"you're wrong. i hate you."

"i know you're saying that because you don't want to face the truth. because you don't want me to see this part of you. you wanna push me away, but i won't let you," he urges. "yell at me. fight. hit. scream. i don't care. i will always be here to tell you who you are, and to bring you back from whatever darkness is taking over you. because i love you. because you'd do the same for me."

"i mean it, satoru. stop fucking talking."

"be mad at me all you want. i'm not moving an inch or letting you go anywhere until i see what's in your pocket. until you can tell me. until you let me help you. there's nowhere you can run. nowhere you can hide. not from me. i see it now. i'm sorry i didn't before, but i see it, and i won't let you slip away. i'm gonna help you. i'm going to be there for you through every single moment. i won't let you go. not over this. not over anything. i know who you are, baby. you may have forgotten, but i'm here to remind you."

overwhelmed, you go to push past him again, but it's no use. satoru is a formidable wall with expert reflexes and unbridled power that he still subdues for your sake.

god, you can't stand it. you can't stand how he won't turn the other way and let you go.

"get the fuck off me," you push against him as his arms graze your middle to kept you in front of him, to keep you from running away. he doesn't move, and you grow panicked. "get off!"

"i don't want to take them from you by force. please, just work with me. please."

"i don't have anything - get off, get off!"

"you're breaking my heart, (y/n), please. i love you."

the situation escalates. your light pushes transition into firm punches to his abdomen as you writhe around in his hold, thrashing to get away though he keeps you steady and still by your hips. you grunt and pant, pushing and pushing, and satoru can not take it anymore.

he ducks down and wraps you up tight, clinging to your body firmly with his nose tucked into your neck. his embrace is desperate, his body trembling against you as you continue to struggle. his eyes scrunch tightly, tears finally rushing past his lashes, and he presses you closer.

"i love you," he whimpers into your skin, a broken plea for you to return to him, to stop fighting. "i love you, please let me help you. please."

as you fight against him, the longer satoru holds you to him, you are further forced to face the reality of your circumstances. how long has it been since you last hugged satoru like this? you honestly can't remember.

the only source of comfort you recall derives from those pills, and this contrasting, authentic contact disrupts your flow of dopamine. face pressed against his chest, you can smell his clean scent. the whisps of his white hair tickle your nose. his muscles flex around your body, tightening and tightening in that snug, secure way satoru always holds you.

you don't feel the tears that sting your eyes as satoru murmurs his affections like a mantra, over and over again into your ear so that he is sure you can hear. "i hate you," you croak repeatedly in an attempt to overpower his love and honesty, but you can't. his voice is louder. his hold is stronger.

his love seeks to ground you while you continue to try to fly away.

"i don't want you to die, baby," he huffs into you. "i don't want to come that close to losing you. not again. i can't do it again. i need you. i need you to be okay. i'll do anything. just please. please, please, please."

"toru, let go of me," you huff, lips wrinkling into a trembling frown. you don't want to feel this. your hand itches to reach for the bottle - the bottle you're not supposed to have, but satoru just holds you tighter, hoping, praying. "please, just let go," you snivel.

"i never will," he grits into your skin. "never. i love you."

you cringe. "i-"

"i love you."

you don't like this discomfort, this pain that bleeds through your high. you want it all to go away. you want it to stop. you can't think about how much you love satoru. you can't think about how you've abandoned your life purpose.

not about how worthless you feel.

not about how you yearn for eternal quiet. for those voices to go away.

these pills are the only things that substitute death, that keep you alive.

satoru could never understand that, but against your best wishes, he won't stop until he does.

so he holds onto you as your body goes limp in his embrace. tears dribble down your skin as you stare off emptily past his shoulder. you let him cling to you, let his hand inch toward your pocket, for you know that when this is all over, you'll just go back. you'll just buy more.

satoru knows you will. but he doesn't care how much it takes, if you have to hate him in order to get better, if he has to chase you down to the very ends of the earth to save you.

you will not succumb to this addiction. he just won't let you.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

hiromi higuruma: caffeine addiction!

hiromi does not remember the last time he's seen you without a damn can of redbull in your hand, or propped up on your desk, or crushed in a little pile on the floor at your bedside.

the dark haired attorney surely is not one to judge, for he has no room to. he starts every day with a cup of pitch black coffee, the only thing that revives him from a sleepless night and keeps him running throughout the day.

even so, he drinks it out of necessity. he is not a particular fan of the bitter taste, nor the way it lingers on his tongue, but it's a small price to pay for a long shift of alertness, in which he is expected to balance a million and one tasks simultaneously.

he does so with ease, by the way. that aspect of his job has never posed an issue to the efficient thirty something year old.

still, on his off days, which are few, or days where he is able to rise just a few hours later from bed after a rather successful trial, he doesn't touch coffee. in fact, the very sight and smell of it reminds him of the misery that the earlier part of the week has dragged him through. the computer screen that blares in his eyes through darkness. the twitch in his brow as his eyes cross over the same photographic evidence for the umpteenth time in the row, sweeping over the photos to ensure that he has not left a trace unaddressed, unseen, unnoted. it reminds him of long shifts spent away from you, out of your reach, deprived of your warmth, your touch, your scent.

it reminds him of how he'd daydream of you just to get through the day, returning home to you set as the seemingly impossible goal to be achieved only when he has finished all of his tasks.

oh, and coming home to you truly is a reward.

hiromi shuffles in at some ungodly hour, shoulders tense with the weight of the day's burdens, eyes heavy and neck stuff. he tugs angrily at his tie for encircling his neck so tightly, as if he hadn't asked you to adjust it as so that very morning.

his only saving grace is the sound of excited steps that grow louder. despite the late hour, you always carry such a pep in your step when hiromi returns home. and at first, your chocolate eyed boyfriend would brush aside your energy at such a strange hour and drop his briefcase to the floor to open his arms lethargically to you.

clad in cotton pajamas, you skip over to him and jump, throwing your arms tightly around his neck as he catches you by your waist, unfazed but content.

he turns his nose into your hair and lets his eyes fall closed as all the stress from the day melts away, dissipates into thin air the very moment your bodies touch. he breathes you in, veiny hands firm to the small of your back, and a low hum floats into his exhale.

he savors these moments of calm, where his mind can fall quiet for just a second as the love of his life pulls back press eager kisses over his face. the corner of his mouth pulls upward lazily, and he finally manages to catch you gently by your chin to guide your lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss.

and that's when he tastes the remnants of artificial peach on your mouth. when you part, his mind activates once more to look over you. you're beaming with bright eyes, bouncing on the balls of your feet in that jittery way that always results in your excessive consumption of caffeine.

he pulls away from you with that knowing, chastising look on his face as you feign obliviousness. you elect instead to start helping him out of his jacket, jumping to move behind him and shed the stiff fabric from his shoulders. his eyes, against your poor attempts to escape, follow you. his trained mind details the signs again: the frequent twitch of your fingers, the buzzing air about you, the quickness with which you move as if you are in a hurry.

you don't even notice it anymore yourself, the way caffeine has been affecting you as of late.

it's not as though your job demands the same things that hiromi's does of him, as he is expected to be ready to jump to his office at all times of the day, rain or shine, dawn or dusk. that is the responsibility he knowingly signed up for, amongst a hundred others he can not begin to name without getting a headache.

he swears he loves what he does. he really swears it, but that passion does not negate the explicit hardships of his labor, the frustrations that come with the ebbs and flows of what should be guaranteed justice.

nevertheless, you know that his job's expectations surpass yours by a landslide. after all, you're dating hiromi higuruma, one of the top most well-esteemed defense attorneys in the country. you know what he sacrifices just to show up at work every day, and you are always there to support him and catch him when he damn near collapses through your front door.

even so, hiromi's world does not overshadow yours. you have your own individual motivations, your own responsibilities, your own occupation, your own money that hiromi absolutely abhors you using. and in truth, while you may not need to be up before the sun or remain at work long after it has gone down, caffeine has truthfully always been a prominent part of your diet.

solely because around fifteen years ago, you discovered that it gives you the boost of energy needed to accomplish as many tasks as you possibly can within a very short period of time.

hiromi found, long ago, that you are an over achiever just like him. that trait of yours is one of the many, many reasons why his heart dragged him back to you, longed for you, cast him under a spell of love that he can not and will not break free from.

on top of work, you nurture your hobbies routinely. paintings you commission for the joy of it, constructed in that spare room in the basement hiromi helped you turn into a small studio. you keep a strict exercising routine, keeping up with your physical health at least four times a week. you cook almost every meal that you share with your boyfriend, seeking to experiment with new recipes whenever you can. you have a blog, you occasionally watch the neighbors dogs, you challenge yourself to read a new book every other week and -

you have so many goals and interests that have been a part of your life for so long, for the sake of bettering yourself and keeping up with your creativity, that you need something to keep you motivated and alert so that you don't fall behind on your own deadlines.

you're a bit manic in that way, much like hiromi. he figures that is why you make such a perfect pair, why he's already got the ring you want picked out for the day he inevitably proposes.

and with those similarities come the shared bad habits. the excessive ambition, the perfectionism, the lacking sleep.

while hiromi copes with so through practice and familiarity, you do with caffeine. you always have. and though hiromi could accept it to an extent, he's beginning to worry for your health.

in a day, you drink at least five cans. five. over 500 milligrams of caffeine a day.

what's worse is the fact that hiromi isn't around enough to monitor your caffeine intake. he can give you a warning in the morning before he leaves, text you reminders throughout the day to take it easy, interrogate you when he gets back home - for you should not still be awake, and so lively, in the middle of the damn night, but none of those things are enough.

he can't see you. he can't watch you. he can't physically restrict you. you would have to do so yourself, and you're so deep into your addiction, that self realization is not going to occur any time soon.

which means it is, undeniably, hiromi's responsibility to put his foot down.

"sweetness," he starts slowly. you know that tone, and you swallow nervously.

"hm?" you hum innocently, freeing hiromi of his sleeves and folding his jacket over your arm. he turns to face you, hand reaching for yours. you extend it, and he clasps it softly, stabilizing the soft tremble in your limb.

"you're shaking again," he says under his breath, an observation he makes to both you and himself. tired eyes wander you, catching the way you try to suppress your body's habitual, hyper movement. you manage to focus your attention into stilling your arms, but you quickly swift to shifting back and forth on your feet, completely unable to keep still.

hiromi sighs, meeting your eyes knowingly. you flash him a bashful smile, only registering that he is waiting for your body to calm down a few seconds into his staring. you look down at your own feet, then back up at him. "oh, sorry. didn't realize," you breathe out, a giggle slipping into your words.

"(y/n)," he starts.

"yes?" you squeak.

he squeezes your hand gently. "how many did you drink today?"

"how many what?' you raise your brows. it only takes one look from those sharp chocolate eyes to make you yield. "okay, okay. sorry. um - " you shrug awkwardly, looking to the ceiling with a squint. "not that many."

"i'm asking for a number."

"just one."

"try again."

"fine. three."

"one more time."

you groan. hiromi can not help but to smile lightly at your, knowingly, very poor attempts to deceive him. he's a lawyer after all, and he's madly in love with you. it's cute of you to think that he, of all people, would let you off the hook so easily.

but that's what makes it funny. you don't think you can get away at all. so why you even tried it, he's not entirely sure.

after a bit more shifting, hiromi's other hand moving to hold your waist, you yield bashfully. "...don't get mad."

"i won't get mad," he says, earnestly. "frustrated, yes. but never mad. not at you."

you whine. "hiro..."

"go on. tell me. it's okay."

"it's not okay, you're gonna be upset."

"honey, you're stalling. just tell me so we can both go to sleep, alright? you shouldn't be up at this hour anyway."

you frown, and with a long exhale, you finally give in. "i had... six."

the pale skinned man isn't surprised. instead, he just sighs something exasperated, closing his eyes momentarily to bow his head in thought. your leg bounces with anticipation, arm anxiously clutching his suit jacket as he releases your hand.

"i'm sorry," you say hastily.

"i'm not sure why you're apologizing to me," he frowns, lifting his gaze again. "it's your health that's of concern, here. not mine."

"i mean... i'm sorry for not listening," you say softly. "i know you tell me all the time to slow down, and i usually do, but i couldn't help it today. i really really needed to get this one piece done for a client."

"and that had to be done in a rush?"

"well, i wanted it done on time."

"on time, to you, means something entirely different from anyone else's understanding of it," he lectures. "that's too much, (y/n). i've told you this."

"but, hiromi, i promise you i'm okay. seriously, my body is used to it."

he lifts a brow, then proceeds to grab your wrist and lift it back into the air, beholding your shaky fingers. "just because your body is used to it does not mean it isn't reacting to or fighting it. i've told you over and over this isn't healthy."

"i know, but-"

he brings the back of his hands to your face, feeling over your forehead. "and you're warm."

"it's just warm in here."

"you're warmer," he argues. you slump as he proceeds to feel over your neck, searching for your pulse as if he's a doctor and not a damn lawyer. "high blood pressure - hypertension, which leads to stroke and heart attack-"

"that stuff isn't gonna happen to me, baby," you try to console, gently brushing his hands away. they only round back, finding your cheeks as his palms hold your face.

"you don't know that," he urges, sternly, eyes staring directly into yours. "you don't know what could happen. underestimating the risks is what always leads to some kind of danger."

"i've made it this far," you tell him. "it's been, like, fifteen years since i started drinking energy drinks, and i'm fine."

"you're not fine. you're shaking and talking a mile a minute in the middle of the night. i've found you like this almost every day when i've come home this past month. it's gotten worse. you need to slow it down with the caffeine, if not cut it all out completely."

you chuckle as if this is a joke, taking this all far too lightly for his taste. "hiromi, i wouldn't get anything done."

"maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing for you for a little while."

"okay," you laugh softly again, stepping out of your boyfriend's hold. his hands drop to his sides as he kicks off his shoes, eyes glued to you through every moment of motion. "really funny. that's rich coming from you - mr. do-it-all himself."

"that's different."

"different how?" you quirk a brow, propping a hand up on your hip. hiromi bends over to arrange his shoes against the door, next to your work heels, before rising to turn back to you. "i know i'm not a big time lawyer or anything, but we work just the same."

"yes, but you shouldn't have to," he sighs, rubbing the space between his brows. "it's different because you have a choice. i don't."

"you chose this occupation just like i chose mine."

"and yours allows you time to breathe. time for yourself, which you should have."

"then why don't you?"

"this-" he pauses, reaching to unbutton his shirt with a sigh. "this isn't about me. i'm concerned about you. i think you need a break."

"from what? the caffeine or my personal stuff?"

"if you say you can't accomplish anything without the former, then perhaps you should step away from all of it for a bit."

your smile fades. "hiromi, i love everything i do outside of work."

"i know you do. but if you love it all so much, you shouldn't treat it all like a competition against yourself. you can do the things you love without rushing through it all. and you should learn to enjoy it without having to drink six hundred milligrams of caffeine."

"well when you put it like that, it sounds crazy."

"...it is a bit crazy, (y/n)."

"i'm not gonna have a stroke, okay? i don't even have hypertension."

"have you been to the doctor as of late?"

"no... but-"

"then how would you know?" you can hear hiromi growing more concerned, his mind actively discovering more possible consequences of excessive caffeine intake the longer he looks at you. "maybe we should schedule you an appointment."

"hiromi," you lift your hand to his shoulder, brows lifted. "i'm fine. i promise."

"you're still shaking. you're not fine."

"i'm done with the redbulls for the day. i swear."

"of course you are. it's two in the morning."

"hiro, look," your hand lifts to the side of his face. he looks down at you, frustration and worry swarming in his dark eyes, a firm pinch between his brows and a curve in his bowed lips. "i'm sorry i've made you worry. i know you've had a long day, and this is something extra on top of everything you already have on your mind."

"you're the only thing that matters when it comes to all of those things.”

guilt nips at you in that moment as you take in his expression, and you sigh. "i'm sorry," you say again, more earnestly this time. "i'll give it a break. i won't drink any more for a week. how's that?"

he turns to kiss the inside of your palm, blinking slowly. "a week isn't long enough. you've been drinking those things every day since you were in high school."

"two weeks then." he throws an exasperated look at you. "and i will take it slow with all my other work."

"(y/n), you've said this before."

"but this time i mean it," you pout. "i don't like stressing you out more than work already does. really, for your sake, i'll work on it."

and that's where hiromi knows that you're already going about this incorrectly. that you're choosing him as a motivation, and not yourself. not your health.

"come on, honey," your hand traces down his arm to grab his hand and lead him to your staircase. "let's head to bed."

hiromi wants to argue about this matter more, for he knows that you're taking advantage of his exhaustion, but he is ashamed to admit that his sock-padded feet shuffle across the floor along with you, allowing you to lead him to the comfort and sanctuary of your bedroom.

he swears, this is how you always get him. with gentle kisses and limbs entangled beneath your sheets, soft fingers massaging his temples, lulling him to sleep with his face to yours and head sunken into your pillows.

"i'm scheduling a doctor's appointment for you at the end of the week," you hear him murmur in the midst of your fingers threading through his hair. you stiffen momentarily, and hiromi notices despite the lies you tell yourself.

"i don't need to go to the doctor," you whisper.

"you do," he responds plainly after a long moment of silence, his eyes closed as he drifts between consciousness and dreaming. "you're going."

that is the last thing your boyfriend says before he succumbs to slumber, leaving you to reel in your anxiety.

you don't want to go to the doctor. you've purposefully avoided the doctor for years, fearing the worst. refusing to bear witness to the potential dangers you've been pushing your body into.

you don’t want to think about it.

but you know hiromi. he does not play about about two things in his life: his work and you.

and you always come first, no matter how many hours he spends in his office. no matter how busy he gets. you’re his main priority.

therefore, you know he won’t let you get out of this easily. hell, he won't let you get out of this at all.

the following morning, hiromi rises before you as usual. in the haze of light sleep, as you've been significantly struggling to get a good night's rest lately, you hear him approach from behind, the stiff shuffle of his suit resonating throughout the otherwise silent space.

he cranes down over you, pressing his lips soundly to your temple, his hand resting on your thigh. "i love you. be good," he mutters.

your eyes shoot open the second he loves, and you sigh as the restlessness to accomplish something immediately takes over.

when you open the door to your pantry about half an hour later, having traveled down to the kitchen, your heart drops when you find that your stash of redbulls and celsiuses, every single flavor you'd managed to get your hands on, any further remnants of coffee that you don't even drink, have mysteriously vanished.

you groan, knocking your head against the doorframe.

you should have known that he'd get rid of it all. but so quickly? hell, it hasn't even been a full five hours since the previous night's conversation.

you thrum your fingers against the door frame and blow air loudly through your lips, contemplating. you know what you told hiromi. you said you'd reel it in, but what you really meant was that you'd reduce five to six redbulls a day to one to three.

how are you meant to just stop after caffeine has been a part of your daily routine for half of your life? how are you supposed to just go to work without that pick-me-up to get you through the first half of the day?

your heart jolts with the anxiety, the weight of your horrible sleep already sagging over your body like sacks of sand upon your back.

you can't possibly be expected to go through the day like this, right? let alone two weeks.

you don't think about the way hiromi looked at you and pleaded with you to prioritize your health as you rummage through other cabinets and drawers, searching for the remnants of something - anything. just one drink to wake you up, to make you feel less like a damn zombie rising from the dead.

you suddenly recall that you have a mini fridge in the basement, stocked in the corner of your studio. you rush down the stairs and around the corner with hope fluttering in your chest, only to find a bottle of water with a post-it note stuck to it instead of your extra stash of redbulls.

you slump back, shakily reaching through your tremors to clasp the bottle and bring the note closer to read.

stay hydrated <3

"motherfucker," you grumble.

your morning is horrible. you develop a rather bad headache that you feel straining in your eyes and in the back of your neck. you're lethargic, weak and void of any energy, trudging about your office with a permanent scowl over your face. in contrast to your ordinarily bubbly presence, a cloud follows in your wake, dampening your aura, leading others to steer clear from your path.

by noon, you feel sick. chills wrack your body, sweat beads your forehead, your stomach turns with the urge to throw up, but nothing is on your stomach. you haven't had an appetite for breakfast, and now that lunch has come around, the thought of consuming anything other than a crisp watermelon redbull makes you want to hurl over the toilet.

water isn't helping. nor is gatorade. you feel like you want to curl up into a ball and let emptiness sweep over you, for you're convinced that any gust of wind would be strong enough to blow you away in this state. you're a trembling, chattering, irritated mess, and you realize that if you feel like this going into only twelve hours without caffeine, you wouldn't last another day. certainly not seven.

perhaps this is a problem. perhaps your body has become too dependent. perhaps hiromi is right.

hell, do you have hypertension? is that way your head pounds every second your eyes meet bright lights? why your neck is so stiff when you sit upon your stool before a blank canvas, a phenomena you've continuously blamed on your posture? is that why you have to press your non-dominant palm flat to a surface while you're writing, to keep your calligraphy stable through the tremors of your hands?

you groan to yourself, burrowing your head in your hands at your desk as your coworkers disperse for lunch.

the scent of coffee stains the stale air and you sincerely consider getting up and grabbing yourself a cup, but coffee isn’t what you want. it isn’t what your body is wrongfully telling you that you need.

your knee bounces restlessly under your desk as you lift your head to glare at the clock. twenty five minutes for lunch left.

you swipe up your keys, forgetting your phone on your desk the very moment it lights up with hiromi’s contact as he calls, his lunch break having just started.

you’re already in your car, driving across the street to the nearest drug store to get your fix. you brush through the automatic doors and stomp straight to the drink fridge in the back.

you almost weep with relief when your hand clutches that cool, tall can. you don’t even wait to pay before your popping the can open, tossing your head back, and chugging the sugary energy drink.

immediately, you think you feel your brain rewire. your shoulders sag and you hum, downing half off the can before you decide to go pay - not before grabbing just one more can for emergencies.

with a newfound spring in your step, you strut out of the store with chest puffed and a soft smile gracing your features, renewed.

it isn’t until you’re driving back to work, entering the parking lot when you feel something… wrong.

your foot slams into the break just before the parking space you are about to back into, your body startled by the sudden clench of your heart. your face scrunches together in discomfort, your hand sliding to palm over your chest where it feels as though your primary organ is straining to pump blood, tightening your chest and leading you to gasp awkwardly. the inhale itself even brings pain.

the headache that you had believed to momentarily subside comes back with a vengeance, pounding angrily like a fist punching concrete. discombobulated, you duck your head over the steering wheel with a series of groans, your vision slowly blurring over and your skin growing excessively hot.

your hand flies to turn on the air conditioning, blasting it at the highest setting. the air roars loudly into your face, but it doesn't help. nothing helps. your heartbeat stutters over itself as if trying to remain in function, and your fingers dig into your blouse over your heart, your breaths suddenly hasty and pitched.

your head tosses back, whimpers of pain flooding from parted lips. in the haze of this strange reaction, your foot slips from the brake, and your car idles back down the slight slant it rests upon, swerving its rear almost carefully into the headlight of another van. you feel yourself jolt with the sudden, startling contact, the other car's alarm triggered on impact.

you hastily fumble to shift into park, but you can not think to do anything else as dark spots pepper into your vision. laborious breathing wheezes over the air conditioning, and you feel the breath dissipate from your lungs as you sink into a strange sleep.

little did you know, your dear boyfriend had taken the sliver of free time he had in his day to visit you during the remainder of your break, bearing gifts of more electrolytes and take out from your favorite place. he had called to check in on you as he made his way over, but your silence had sparked another concern within his mind.

his gut told him that something was off.

you're not there when he arrives, but he finds your phone carelessly left beside the mess of papers littering your work space. his brows draw together as he studies your desk, noting the clutter and the sloppy angle of your chair as if you threw yourself out of it.

then, comes the sound of a car alarm just outside.

hiromi tries to tell himself that he's only being paranoid when he rushes back out the double doors, that the sound is in no way correlated with you.

his fears, however, are unfortunately proven right as he rounds the corner to the back of your car kissing the front of another's, the alarm having been set off by you.

he drops the plastic back he's been carrying in his hand and sprints over to the scene, rushing to the driver's side with shrunken eyes and your name falling terrified from his lips.

his eyes go wide in horror when he discovers the vision of you convulsing behind the steering wheel. your eyes roll into the back of your head, lashes fluttering frantically over white glassiness. choked, strangled breaths crumple in your throat as you twitch, your jaw dangerously tight.

chills coat the entirety of the dark haired attorney's body, sheer terror striking him upon discovering such a sight.

you're seizing.

"(y/n)!" he bangs on the window, the only barrier keeping him from getting to you.

hiromi rips his jacket from his body and tosses it onto the pavement before pulling hysterically at the car door. it won't budge.

"fuck," he spits, instantly retorting to punching his fist into the glass. ignoring the strike of pain that greets his knuckles, he punches again, over and over as the window slowly begins to give way under the pressure of his merciless fist. first, a crack, then it spreads, and after the seventh punch, it finally shatters in a shower of shards at his feet and over your twitching limbs.

he works fast, reaching in to unlock and throw the door open. he brushes the glass from your body and unbuckles you. his eyes flicker to catch the sight of redbull in your cup holder, and his jaw clenches with a series of unidentifiable emotions.

but that redbull doesn't matter now. you matter.

he lifts you carefully out of the seat, supporting your head with the inside of his arm, tucking his other arm under your knees. your seizing progresses, and with trembling lips and shaken eyes, he eases you down before your car, resting your head atop of his suit jacket. he lies you flat first, then quickly remembers to manuever you to your side as you writhe and twitch rhythmically.

hiromi's eyes redden as he kneels beside you, resting a hand over your head as he fishes blindly for his phone from his pocket to call medical officials.

he hears his heart thrumming wildly in his throat and feels it clenching as he watches you with tormented, teary eyes. he swipes his other hand over his face, phone set beside him, as he tries his best to give you air, but stays close to murmur to you, speaking you softly through it all as he tells you that he's there. that you aren't alone.

he's not sure if you can even hear him or not, but he doesn't care. he keeps talking. to console you through unconsciousness, and himself through his panic.

the sound of distant sirens grows closer in proximity after a minute or two. hiromi gazes at you sorrowfully, stroking your hair as your seizing gradually slows down. your body transitions from violent twitching to stability, your limbs dropping to the ground limply, your jaw subtly relaxing.

your eyes blink open as an ambulance turns into your work parking lot, and the first thing that you see when your vision finally refocuses is the face of your boyfriend outlined by the glow of the sun behind him. it takes a moment for you to make out the features of his face, for your vision to fully capture the details.

hiromi breathes out shortly, heavily when he sees you wake up, an indescribable kind of relief taking over. a kind that he's never quite experienced until this moment. the kind that doesn't compare to the relief that floods him when he wins a particularly gruesome case, but the kind that brings his quivering soul back to life.

you're okay. you're alive. you made it through.

your mind is muddled. the invasion of a whooping siren just behind you, the blare of a car alarm, and the soft touch of your boyfriend's warm hands over your forehead work together to further discombobulate you. you don't know where you are. you can't seem to quite grasp the meaning of consciousness next, of what just happened.

muffled strangers' voices surround you, bleeding into the sound of your boyfriend's just above you. the direct clarity of his tone slowly opens your earshot, your hearing returning to you after a few moments of ringing.

but he's not talking to the first responders. he's talking to you. "my heart," you register his soft voice, the way he shudders through speech. you blink, staring up at him blankly. "a-are you alright? can you hear me?"

you don't answer verbally. you just look at him silently, unable to find the words. unable to think anything. he breathes out, ducking to kiss your forehead. "that's okay. just rest."

you hum a faint sound, one of approval or confusion, neither of you are sure. a blur of paramedics with stethoscopes, water, and blankets sweep around you, and before you can think, you're in the back of an ambulance on the way to the hospital, hiromi at your side clutching your hand in both of his tight, the notion of time completely meaningless.

hiromi doesn't even realize that his hand has been bleeding until he is approached with gauze and disinfectant, his knuckles raw, trailing blood down his veins.

when you arrive at the hospital, tests are run. hiromi makes sure of it, that nothing is skipped or brushed over. blood is sampled. you're poked and prodded and given liquids and iv. hiromi gets up and comes back frequently, calling to tell clients and coworkers that he's had an emergency, and for the foreseeable future, his assistant will oversee his responsibilities.

hours go by, and the diagnoses come. severely high blood pressure. 210/122. hypertension. a resulting seizure at just thirty two years old.

you've had far too much caffeine intake. enough for your life to have potentially been stolen.

you’re lucky it didn’t last any longer than three and a half minutes.

you can’t look at hiromi when the doctors speak to you. your trembling hand dampens in his hold, tears welling in your vision from the scare.

that was the very first seizure you'd ever had in your entire life, and it had felt like you were dying. you thought you were going to die. and all because you couldn't go a single day without a damn redbull.

hiromi watches nurses depart from your room after quite some time passes. his tired eyes turn back to you, expecting to find you asleep, but instead he's greeted with eyes sparkling with tears and a reddening nose. your head sinks into the plush pillows of your hospital bed, palms lying flat beside you as hiromi still holds your right hand. you stare ahead with knitted brows as your eyes silently glass over, and soon the sound of your sniffling comes.

the dark haired attorney melts with anguish, for you finally appear coherent enough to register the events of the day. he scoots his chair closer to your side, cups your hand with his other one and kisses it gently. he ducks next to kiss your cheek, resting his forehead against yours as you stifle whimpers and cries, shaking with emotion.

"i'm s-so sorry," you hiccup between his gentle, forgiving caresses. you shudder. "i'm sorry, hiromi. y-you did everything to - to prevent this, a-and i still just- just-"

"shh," he hushes you. "none of that now. we'll talk about that all later," he says soothingly.

you shake your head against his, squeezing your eyes tight as tears flow freely from your lashes. hiromi lifts himself to kiss the bridge of your nose, then pulls back to look at you up close, bringing one hand around your head to stroke your hair with his thumb, caging you in the comfort of his scent.

"you were right. i'm sorry," you blubber. "i just f-felt like shit, this morning, hiro. i couldn't do it."

"that was withdrawal, sweetness," he says. "you were going through withdrawal."

"fuck," you whimper through a breath, nose flaring. "i thought-"

"i know. it's alright. don't talk about that now," he interjects gently.

"i scared you," you look down at his bandaged hand over yours. "look at what i did to your hand..."

"you didn't do this. i did," he looks you in the eye.

"but if i wasn't in the car... if i hadn't gone, you wouldn't have had to do that."

"i would do a hundred times worse to make sure you're okay, (y/n). i would give my life for you."

"no. you shouldn't have to. i've been so fucking stupid."

"(y/n)," he says your name again. "i don't care about any of it."

"h-how are you not mad?"

"how could i be mad at you in this state? in any state?" he exhales. "i'm so happy you're okay. i'm happy you didn't have to go through that alone. i know it was scary, my love. i'm so sorry."

your nose wrinkles as you look at him, wrecked, confused. "why are you...? what are you a-apologizing to me for?"

"you shouldn't have had to go through that," the chocolate eyed man whispers. "i don't care what caused it. you should never have to suffer like that. i'm sorry."

you stare at him for a second more before bursting into tears. your shoulders jerk as you sob, and hiromi swiftly wraps you up, bringing you consciously into him to cry in his chest. your fingers cling to his shirt as he presses you into him, resting his lips against your head and closing his eyes as you cry away the shock, the horror that pairs with reality and humiliation.

"th-thought i was dead," he hears your muffled voice quiver into him. his heart cracks, and he holds you tighter. "i-i didn't know if i'd- i'd see you again."

"of course you would," he urges into you, eyes beginning to sting all over again. "i'll always be with you. i'll always be the first face you see when you're in any trouble. i'm here."

you cling to him tighter, a shaky mess. "i won't drink any more ever again," you wail. "i swear. i won't. i won't do it again."

for the first time, hiromi believes you.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

choso kamo: weed addiction!

you were high when you met choso.

high when you went on your first date together, high when you shared your first kiss, high when you had sex for the first time, high when he officially asks you to be his.

no one truly bats an eye at it anymore, the foggy redness of your eyes when you walk into work with a dopey smile gracing your features. you've managed to master powering through the haze, functioning at a rather exceptional level despite being inebriated practically every second of every day.

perhaps that's why your coworkers don't bat an eye, why they willingly cover for you if the higher ups or yaga suspect that you are under some kind of influence. you accomplish your tasks so efficiently, so perfectly that it almost doesn't matter that you choose to do so after you've taken an edible or hit a pen or smoked just half of a blunt that you shower away before exiting your building.

you swear it doesn't negatively impact you in any way. you swear it makes you better, more grounded, more calm, more happy.

choso can vouch for you, technically. you have this pleasant air about you that is elevated whenever you get high. it took some explaining for choso to first understand what exactly marijuana is, as well as how and why you use it so often, but he believes you when you tell him that it's nothing crazy. that he shouldn't worry about something as harmless as weed.

at first, he believes you.

nevertheless, you are more bubbly when you're high. you're always grinning, wishing everyone you see a wonderful day, looking to the sky like it's some kind of miracle to be given the gift of sight to gaze upon that sheet of blue above you. you take interest in little, miniscule things, like the shower of sunlight through trees' leaves, how they shimmer and shade one another within the calm sway of the summer breeze.

you always remark about how beautiful the world is. even when you're mid battle, manipulating your cursed technique to eradicate the curses before you without so much as sparing a second glance, your eyes heavy and lidded and red, your cheeks rosy, your smile content.

you're sweet when you're high. you're a sweet person as is, but that quality is amplified tenfold. you become more affectionate, wrapping your arms tight around your brunette boyfriend's middle from behind, pressing your cheek to the curve of his spine and humming happily, nuzzling into him.

you'll kiss his cheek more casually throughout the day like it's nothing, hands bracing his arm or sliding around him to press your lips to his skin over and over. his face will flush, and he'll pull you in closer, never one to shy away from your touch, always too eager to embrace it, to give into it.

you're clingy, but not just with him.

with the students, for example, you become more emotional. you'll ruffle megumi's hair, pinch at yuji's cheek, wrap nobara up in a tight hug and coo about just how proud you are of all of them, how desperately you want them all to stay safe.

the students don't bat an eye or suspect a thing. you've always been like this.

but when you let gojo knuckle his fist to your hair with an arm thrown around you, or you eagerly share the remainders of your lunch with nanami having noticed that he had eaten very little, choso begins to find your friendliness only the slightest bit perturbing - as long as its displayed to others and not isolated solely for himself.

regardless, you're not a lazy high. you're not a rude high. hell, being high has become your true personality, as you're seen fried more often than you are sober, but because you don't cause trouble, because you're so kind, because of your true nature and how the fogginess of weed enhances so rather than dampens it, no one expresses concern to you. no one suggests that you should slow it down. no one even really notices it anymore, just how much you get high a day. especially when you use eye drops to clear away the redness and any possibility of suspicion.

but choso does notice it.

in the beginning stages of your relationship, the only true source he had regarding the effects of marijuana was you, and you swore up and down to him that you were fine, that despite weed being a drug, you weren't addicted or dependent on it in any way. how could you be? it's weed.

choso trusted you because he had no reason not to, for you seemed okay and coherent enough to function, therefore, he had no problem with it.

until he noticed just how often you got high.

and you get high every single day.

he'd asked you once if it was really okay to go and on without a break for sobriety, to breathe, to exist just as you are for at least a moment. you'd shaken your head at him with that bright smile that always shrinks your slim eyes, and told him that it didn't matter either way, that getting high every day didn't make any difference, didn't contrast in any way from getting high occasionally.

and that may be what you believe, but choso isn't entirely sure he buys it.

his instinct to believe all that you say dwindles a bit as time goes on, and as his rose-colored vision flickers to reality for just a moment. he decides, one day, to ask his brother if he knew anything about marijuana and its impacts.

"uh, no," yuji rushes out instantly, staring anxiously up at his brother with tight lips and wide eyes. choso sees a bead of sweet dot on the salmon haired boy's forehead, and he frowns. "okay, okay, one time! i tried it once,” he gives in without pressure.

"you're too young, yuji," the violet eyed half-curse begins to lecture, crossing his arms as though this whole ordeal had been a trap, an elaborate scheme to get yuji to confess to inappropriate drug use.

"i swear, i only tried it one time. it's like drinking a can of beer for the first time or sneaking into a casino to play..." the fifteen year old trails off, clearing his throat awkwardly under his brother's hard gaze. "a-anyway, why are you asking, bro? i swear i haven't gotten high since that one time. promise! besides, it's too distracting. i didn't really like feeling so foggy."

this catches choso's attention. "so it does make you feel foggy."

"well, yeah, that's the main thing it’s used for," the hazel eyed boy blinks, hand rising to his chin in thought as something dawns upon him. "oh yeah, you've never been high before, have you choso? you're not able to, right?"

"my genetic makeup doesn't allow it. i can't get drunk either," he explains distractedly. "going back to that foggy part... what is that like?"

"hmmm, how do i explain it," yuji slims his eyes. "it's kinda like, if you had a curse deployed against you that numbs your senses but heightens them at the same time. everything feels all slow and the world looks like whoaaaaa!"

choso tilts his head, furrowing his brows. "it makes you... slow?"

"no - well - it can. it more so just feels that way. and you get really hungry, and everything makes you laugh, and your mouth gets dry, and you pass out on the ground on the way back to your house and wake up at sunrise really confused," yuji trails off, clearly reminiscing a traumatic, weed-related moment that he shudders to remember. "it's not for me," he concludes with a nervous chuckle.

"it makes you pass out?"

"let me, heh, rephrase that," yuji chuckles. "if you have way too much of it in one sitting, it can."

"i see... is that what happened to you?"

"...i... can't remember," he lies horribly.

choso lets it slide. for now. "do you think you'd be able to fight curses like that?"

"like what? high?"

"mhm."

"hell no! maybe, i could technically, but i would never want to. even if i have gotten good at this, i don't like the idea of my focus being blurred by some buzz. i'd feel pretty paranoid that something bad would happen and i wouldn't react in time or even remember what to do."

"then, you don't suggest it?"

"maybe i would if we weren't sorcerers and worked at a mcdonald's or something," yuji shrugs. "but i definitely wouldn't suggest it in this occupation. that's like asking for something to go wrong."

yuji says so matter-of-factly, as if this is obvious, and choso sighs. "okay. i have one more question."

"shoot."

"why do you think... people get high?"

the tan skinned boy laughs at this as if the question is a hilarious joke. "sometimes it's to be social and hang out."

"but what if it's not social? what if you're doing it alone?"

"thennn... to forget? to not think. to just not be... i dunno, sober," yuji ponders. "i used to know some people who used it to feel better after bad days, or for anxiety, or to not feel sad. to chill. it all really depends."

choso contemplates. "to not be sober," he echoes under his breath.

yuji lowers his hands to his pockets, shifting on his feet. "you okay, bro? what's with all the weed questions?"

"i..." choso stops himself from being completely honest with yuji, though he ordinarily does not hide anything from him. but the brunette feels that this is a special occasion, that matters regarding you and a growing concern for your mental health aren't anything that his little brother needs to know about. especially since you work at the very school he attends. "...was just curious."

"that’s fair. who told you about weed?"

"um... yuki."

"oh. weird."

choso arrives at your apartment with his head spinning, gaze to the ground as thoughts swarm his head around you and your relationship with mairjuana. he thinks over what yuji said for the millionth time, how he mentioned that those experiencing sadness or seeking to escape reality often partake when they're alone. he then thinks about the risk of losing consciousness if you've had too much... and you do get high every day. but that doesn't count as one sitting, right? does it even matter, if the whole point is that you're using marijuana too often, regardless?

choso's not good with this human stuff sometimes, he feels. he wishes he could understand this better for you. he wishes he could try it just once, like his little brother who he still has to further chastise, to experience what you experience every day. to determine whether this is safe or not from his own exposure.

but he's caught the smoke that rises within your car through hefty inhalations before, and he's felt nothing. he'd watch as your speech slows, your eyes drooping, your body loosening, but he hasn't experienced those same symptoms. it's impossible for him to.

hence, his dilemma. he doesn't know what to do, who to listen to, how to go about telling you once more that he's worried without you dismissing him or distracting him, promising that everything is okayyyyy, as you so often say with the playful elongating of your vowels.

he doesn't want you to get upset with him, to think he doesn't have faith in what you say. he just wants to see inside your brain, to understand the way you operate, to help in any way if this hobby of yours is more detrimental than it is helpful.

but god, what yuji said about your shared occupations and roles in this world really stuck with him. despite you knowing how to function the majority of the time when you're high, yuji has a point. you still live in a world where you risk your life for the sake of humanity every day. a sorcerer's expectations are to remain alert, vigilant, quick on their feet, strategic.

how can anyone truly manage to do all of those things when they aren't sober? aren't of a clear head?

power and cursed energy can take you far enough on their own, sure. you're a talented sorcerer, a force to be reckoned with, but what happens if something goes awry? if safety and survival isn't guaranteed? if your environment shifts, if the curse count is miscalculated, if your talent alone is not enough to get you through?

how would being high help you then?

it wouldn't. choso knows that much.

if you were to ever get hurt because you weren't paying attention, because choso hadn't stepped in to get you to pace yourself, the brunette doesn't know what he'd do.

the faint scent of earthy weed intermingled with incense and your perfume wafts into choso's face as he proceeds into your space, dropping his keys on the counter as soft music echoes from the direction of your bathroom. he hears you humming along, in your own little element, and something tugs at his heart.

you're so happy like this. does he even have the heart to tell you he's worried, to take away what could possibly be saving you from sadness?

no, he should be the one saving you from sadness and helping to cheer you up. not some drug that makes people pass out.

choso walks slowly into your direction, following the sound of your voice. he passes cracked windows that flutter against sheer curtains, warm breeze filtering in to air out the space.

he rounds the corner to find you turning on your bedside lamp, just outside of the doorway to your connected bathroom. his soft eyes fall to the sway of your hips to the music, your back facing him, and he sighs, clenching his fingers nervously then releasing them.

you sense his presence behind you and whip your head around. a great beam spreads over your face, eyes deep red. and you look so breathtakingly beautiful, glowing in the peak of your high, freshly showered and moisturized, choso swallows down hard, finding whatever resolve he has to remain persistent and firm, to not let your charms swoop him up and veer his attention away from the elephant in the room.

"babyyy!" you raise your arms high, turning around to skip toward him. you connect your lips to his swiftly, dancing slightly into his arms as your own fall over his head and loop around his neck. you melt into him like sap, and the scent of your vanilla body wash and shea butter overlaying a thin hint of marijuana sends his heart into a stupor.

he kisses you first, electing to ask questions after. his lips chase yours when you pull back, and you lock your arms tighter around him, squishing his cheek into your lips as you kiss him loudly and repeatedly. choso blushes like a fool, for he is immune to every substance and drug but you.

"i missed you," you sigh against him between kisses to his cheek.

"i missed you too," he says, taken, though he had just seen you a few hours ago.

"mmm, you smell good," you hum, pulling back to peck his lips again. he smiles down at you sweetly, holding your upper back with hearts in his eyes. "and you look so handsome," you kiss him again.

"baby," he murmurs, sinking into your kisses rather easily, far too weak to oppose you in any circumstance. you kiss him again, and he swoons. "i love you. you know that, right?"

"of course i do," you scrunch your face and squish his cheeks. you kiss his puffed lips, then the tip of his nose. "i love you too. i love you so much. you're my baby." he hums with a smile, ducking in to kiss you one more time, unable to get enough of you.

"yes i am. and you’re mine."

you giggle, pecking his nose once more before releasing him to turn back to your task. his hand slides to yours, unwilling to let go, and he moves into the space behind you, sliding his arms around your stomach. he walks against you as you lead him into the bathroom, where you continue cleaning up the space.

"what are you doing?" he mumbles against you, cheek settling on your shoulder.

"cleaning up after smoking," you say simply.

"oh," choso says, recalling his responsibility. "that doesn't hurt your throat? isn't smoking bad for your lungs?"

"tobacco's different, baby."

"isn't all smoke bad, though?"

"my throat's fine," you wave off, smiling softly.

he looks up at you through the reflection in the mirror. this is gonna be a bit difficult, he can already tell.

"how was your day?" choso asks. "was everything okay? are you okay?"

"of course," you say. "i'm always okay. how was yours, cho?"

"mine was fine. so nothing bad happened to make you upset?"

you shake your head, looking up to meet his eyes in the mirror. "no," you slightly laugh. "why do you ask? are you worrying again?"

"no."

you quirk your brow with a smirk.

"a little. Yes,” he says. “i love you, i just want to make sure you're-"

"okay?" you finish with a giggle. you pat his hand over your waist. "you say that every day. i'm still okay, cho. i promise. you worry too much about me."

"it's my job. you're my world," he tells you like it's a known fact. and, well, it is. you smile wide.

"you're my world too. but you've gotta relax a bit, okay?" you drawl sluggishly. "i'll tell you when i'm not okay."

"you will?"

"yes, baby."

"...okay."

"what's got you worrying this time, hm? what's wrong?"

"...i don't want you to get upset."

"why would i get upset?" you ask calmly. "is this about the weed thing again?"

he takes a minute before speaking, trying to find the right words. "...i'm not judging you."

"oh, i know you aren't."

"and i want you to enjoy yourself. you seem really happy when you're... when you're high..."

"...but?"

"...but... are you sure you have to get high every day? during the week too?"

"i don't have to. i just choose to. and i don't see why not, you know? it's not like it messes with my performance."

"but what if... one day it does?"

you wave him off again. "no way. i've been doing this forever. i've got it down. i can't mess up what i've been doing all my life."

"but isn't that like drinking alcohol before a mission?"

"not at all," you laugh. "alcohol is a completely different thing. i'd never get drunk and go to work or go on a mission."

"but, weed is still a substance, right? i think it's still considered dangerous sometimes."

you laugh again, leaning over the counter with amusement. choso's embrace slackens slightly.

"what's funny?" he asks.

"you said but so many times just now."

choso releases you slowly, letting you delve into a fit of giggles as he shifts with concern that he poorly hides. "(y/n), i am worried," he admits fully. "what if something bad happens to you while you're high? what if you pass out because you got too high?"

"pass out?" you repeat through giggles, stabilizing yourself with your palms flat to the counter. "why would i pass out?"

"i heard that - that can happen if you get too high?"

"heard it?" you lift yourself up, placing a hand on your hip, leaning against the counter to face him. "from who?"

he doesn't even try to hide it. "yuji."

"yu-" you cut yourself off before finishing, stunned by the ridiculousness of such a revelation. "why in the world were you talking to your little brother about weed?"

"he's... younger, and i just wanted to know... more."

"why didn't you just ask me?"

"...because i wanted to see what someone else would say."

"about something i know all about?" you question, smile dwindling. "wait, were you asking if it's safe? were you - were you asking because of me?"

"i just wanted to see if he'd say anything different."

your brows draw together, lips parting. "choso, you've gotta chill about this whole weed thing."

"why?" you frowns.

"because you keep acting like - like i'm doing crack or something every time i get high. i keep telling you that this is fine. i've been smoking and stuff since forever. i know what i'm doing. i wouldn't get high if i couldn't handle myself. and now you're interrogating your little brother about it?"

"i'm sorry. i didn't know what else to do."

"there's nothing you need to do, baby. why can't you trust me when i say i'm fine?"

"it's not that i don't trust you."

"that kind of is what your actions are saying, cho."

"i just worry," he stresses. "if yuji were in your position, i'd act the same."

"that's because yuji's underage."

"and because i love you both so much," he adds. "i've heard what you've said, but... i wonder sometimes if it's healthy to get high without days for breaks."

you exhale, head rolling back as you close your eyes. "choso..."

"and yuji said that sometimes people who are sad get high. as a distraction. and you're always alone when you do, so maybe... maybe there is something else wrong that i can help with? you said you'd tell me if you weren't okay, right? what if you just haven't let yourself remember that you aren't okay?"

"yuji's fifteen."

"he's smart. he knows a lot of things."

"i know he does, but-"

"could he be right? is he right?"

"i'm fine."

it is clear that you don't want to talk about this anymore, that you want to steer the conversation into a different direction. you swiftly finish cleaning up, your mood slightly dampened, and choso follows you slowly out of the bathroom as you flick the lights off.

he stares at the back of your head, brows angled with concern. "i think you should take a day off."

"choso, please," you moan as you collapse over your bed face first. "too much serious talking. work is good. i'm not taking a day."

"i meant a day off from getting high."

you turn your head to the side, scrunching your eyes through the messiness of your hair. "is that a joke?"

"no."

after a moment, you twist yourself around to sit up, turning your body to him and crossing your legs over the comforter. "why are you so stressed about this?"

"i told you why. i'm worried."

"and i've told you not to worry."

"you wouldn't tell me otherwise. you don't like when i worry about you."

"you're right. i don't," you purse your lips, squinting through the haze of sativa.

"that's too bad," he says.

you can't help but chuckle at just how serious he is. "cho, you're sweet, you know that?"

"i don't want you to do that right now. i want you to listen to me," he tells you honestly, expression earnest, eyes passionate. despite your high, you know your boyfriend very well. you know that when his tone evens out, smooth and subconsciously chilling, he doesn't want his words or countenance to be taken lightly. he needs you to hear him. so you shut up and listen. "please listen to me," he says again.

you nod, correcting your posture, locking eyes. "i will. sorry. go ahead."

he already feels bad for having to put his foot down, but he at least appreciates that you'll take him seriously when he asks. "i may not know a lot about this stuff, but i know about you. and i know that you've been high the majority of the time, since we've met. i understand you enjoy that. i don't want to take that away from you, but i also just don't think it's a good idea to keep going on like this. i don't," he vents.

"i may not know what it feels like to be high. i may not know... a lot of things, but the research i've done leads me believe that you shouldn't function that way all the time. your brain gets cloudy, and as a sorcerer, as someone responsible for saving lives and keeping your own safe, i don't think it's good for you to be that way all the time. not while you work. not every day.

"i wonder... if your brain is hazy most of the time... if you even remember the beginning of our relationship... and everything that's gotten us here. that may be... unfair, but i don't fully understand... if you forget things. or if your memories of us, of everything good you do, of every moment i've had with you, are fuzzy. i wonder if you started to get high because... because you were sad about something that you can't remember. and now it’s just something you do without thought.."

your face hardens with emotion as you stare up at him timidly, watching as he pours his heart out to you. "you can call me dramatic. or overbearing. or say that i worry too much, but, i can never worry enough when it comes to you. i just want to know, to really understand. i want to know why you choose this every day instead of... of reality."

you are speechless for a moment as you search your boyfriend's eyes. you can see the way he worries over whether or not he has offended you or said the wrong thing swirling somewhere in his honest hues. your nose twitches, your conscience fighting against your high, truth bleeding through the escape, disrupting your ease.

you once told yourself that you would never engage with marijuana. you'd grown up in a strict household, held to impossibly high standards that lowered the second you flew the coop, the second the world reminded you that no one is safe from its horrors, your family having been slaughtered by a nasty curse.

you were eighteen when you first tried it. you'd coughed up a storm, sputtered and disrupted the rotation by letting the blunt burn for too long as you tried not to die. you chugged water in those first few seconds after your introductory, and accidentally really long, hit.

but then, the second you set your water down beside you and regulated your breathing, it hit you. that blanket of muteness that muffles everything bad, every fear, every negative emotion, and swallows it up in abrupt appreciation for how strangely your fingers move when you wiggle them before you, how heavy your body feels as you sink into the carpeted floor. the room spun with wonder, and a grin broke over your face.

you thought you'd be anxious, but instead, you floated away on a cloud of bliss.

and you've chased that feeling ever since. for what kind of psychopath can go day to day in this field completely sober?

gojo always demands craziness in his mentees, and all sorcerers alike, but your screws are tied too tight, your empathy and consciousness often overpowering you in a nearly debilitating way. the only way for you to remain sane, surrounded by death and destruction and devastation day in and day out, is to keep your head in the clouds. to blur the weight of hopelessness with sweet, tender, merciful marijuana.

you've struggled to depart with it ever since.

it's easy to tell yourself that it's fine, that a little weed every day isn't going to kill you. but the risks remain grounded in truth that you attempt to deny, that you often dodge, that choso has allowed you to, up until this very moment.

but you second guess yourself when you occasionally forget words that used to come to you quickly. when you take longer to write reports that you have easily blown through when sober. when you consequently worsen your sweet boyfriend's nerves.

you're not a lazy person. you're not cruel. you're not inconsiderate. you just don't want to have to think about the troubles of the world, for if you do, it will consume you completely, and you'll fall into something you consider far worse than addiction.

a deep depression.

"i..." you start, softly. "i get high because... because this world... is awful, cho," you profess.

your boyfriend drops down before you instantly, captured completely by your foreign vulnerability. he settles to his knees, inching toward you to cradle your calves with his chin to your knee.

your hand habitually weaves into his hair for comfort, silken strands of chestnut gliding coolly through your fingers. "i don't like thinking about how bad it is all the time. i signed up to... to help people, but to think of all the people i can't reach... to think of the people i can't save... to think that tomorrow could be my last day on earth, or yours... it's too much to handle. being high makes me feel like... like i can breathe again. like everything isn't so bad. like i can be."

"not all of the world is bad. not when you're in it."

you purse your lips to the side and look down at choso. his eyes shine as they look up at you, like you've hung the moon and the stars, like you're his entire purpose for being.

"if you get high all the time to avoid reality, then you'll only ever remember it as all bad. there's good in the world you should appreciate sober too. to make up for all that bad things you've seen sober. it evens out."

"cho, baby," you exhale. "nothing about our relationship is fuzzy in my head, okay? i remember it all. i think about us all the time. it makes me happy. you make me happy."

he breathes out, content. "you make me happy too. and you deserve real happiness. high and sober happiness. not just all high."

you smile lovingly. "okay," you say. "do you really not like it when i'm high?"

"i like you all the time.”

“but do you like when i get high?”

“...i don't mind if you're high. i just care if it's... too much. i care if it starts to mess with you."

"okay," you nibble on the inside of your lip. "choso, what if i try to stop and i can't? i've always believed that i could stop anytime, but... what if i can't?"

he lifts his head. "i'll be there to help," you promises.

"...what if that's too much on you? what if i disappoint you?"

"i'm always proud of you. i think you're - you're perfect," he speaks saw. "you're everything. not too much. everything."

overcome by choso's honesty, his support, and his love, you give in. "i'll try not to smoke for the rest of the week."choso's eyes widen, and before you can blink, he jumps up and hugs you tight. "thank you. thank you."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

toji fushiguro: porn addiction!

you were only nine when you experienced the ultimate betrayals from members of your family who your innocent naivety led you to trust. a child only learns what trust is when it is broken, shattered in the most unforgivable way.

you've always been a pretty girl. everyone you've ever crossed paths with in your life, from adolescence to adulthood, has mentioned your appearance in some kind of way. whether it's been a compliment to your smile, eyes roaming shamelessly over your body without shame, or unwanted hands that graze your back or your arm when you walk by in public, as if your beauty warrants some lack of boundary between individuals that you don't even know.

with that beauty came the rather early sexualization of your entire being. despite having only been a child, you were warned by your mother and your grandmother to remain modest before you even hit preteen years.

don't wear chapstick that's too shiny.

never wear a bikini to the pool.

always keep your shoulders and collarbones concealed, for your carelessness could lead to the temptation of others.

of men. adult men.

you were only nine.

you failed to understand the concern, why your family had always been so adamant about keeping certain parts of you concealed. after all, what was wrong with a bathing suit? what was wrong with the exposure of the skin around your neck? what was wrong with moisturizing your lips?

how could the actions of a child serve to offend or tempt anyone in any way?

you couldn't grasp it. you merely blindly trusted those who guided you, who antagonized and objectified you for being born with the graceful features of your mother, struck by the effects of puberty too early.

until your art teacher at camp began to hug you too tightly, too frequently when you entered his line of sight or accomplished something worth praising. until you began to fear wandering off by yourself in crowded spaces like the boardwalk or the mall, for you've caught ghostly eyes following you from unseen corners as you simply seek an ice cream cone with your hand clenched tightly in your mother's.

and strangely enough, despite how cognizant your family has made you of your looks and actions at too young of an age, despite the anxiety you've come to subconsciously develop in the presence of men, it wasn't an adult who betrayed you.

but a child. a cousin you'd always loved, just two years older than you.

you don't know why. you don't know what changed. one moment, you were six years old galloping around the house together, filling the space with giggles and exclamations as you imagine trekking up insurmountable mountains, roleplaying wild adventures that you always narrowly escape with the assistance of each other.

sharing bags of goldfish side by side, shoulder to shoulder with innocence glimmering in your wide eyes as you stare excitedly at the tv screen, captured by the motion picture that's been put on for the both of you to enjoy. nursing each other's scrapes and boo-boos when either of you have tripped and fallen on the pavement outside from playing too dramatically. weaving colored bands into matching bracelets for the both of you to wear, to honor your friendship beyond family relation.

then one day, it all changed.

your cousin suddenly fell quiet, eyes dull and void of the glimmer they once carried. her voice shifted from loud screeches to mellow mumbles, colorless and drab. she didn't want to play make-believe anymore, but instead asked you a strange question when the two of you were left alone in the basement of your house, where the two of you often played.

"have you ever had a kiss?"

nine year old you stilled, lowering the doll you were prancing over the floor to the ground with confusion. "what?! uh-uh," you shake your head. "have you?"

she doesn't answer. she merely proceeds to pry more, asking you about things and experiences you don't quite understand. when you look back, her words filter out as a flat, unified ringing sound that does not align with the way her mouth moves to speak.

you didn't understand what she was saying, all the explicit things she was suddenly describing. you watched her with blown eyes, soft perplexity on your features as she went on, speaking with a strange cadence about acts no eleven year old should be so familiar with.

you only began to understand when she left to lock the basement door, and returned to you from around the corner with an empty face. "i'll show you," she said.

you lay awake that night, stripped of the ability to sleep, of the ability to think, of the ability to properly breathe. shrunken eyes bore into the ceiling as you lay flat on your bed. stars danced over the black ceiling from your nightlight plugged in the corner of the wall, and you watched the small shapes twinkle over you, casting your face in a soft blue glow.

you were stiff. unable to move, for you don't know what pushed your body into motion when it was time for dinner, when you had to sit next to her as a film washes over her face, a filter placed by your mind's sensoring. you couldn't eat. you just stared at your food and claimed to not feel well, hoping to be put to bed soon after your cousin left.

you did not speak for a while after it happened, after the girl you'd trusted to be your friend, to be family, stole away your innocence, forced you into participation of the things that were likely done to her. but you didn't know that at nine years old. you couldn't explain it, couldn't comprehend it, couldn't escape it.

the surrounding world drained of the color that all children use as a lens through which to view it. you developed a striking case of ocd, unable to find sleep or rest within your mind unless your bathroom door was cracked open at exactly a 45 degree angle, not too wide and not too closed. the door to your bedroom had to remain locked in the way that it only ever was when the assault occurred. you cracked your neck three times on the right side, then three more on the other. the necklace you always wore had to set the pendant of your first initial directly in the center of your chest, and you had to lay completely flat with your hands tucked under your blanket to your sides.

if any of it didn't feel right, you’d start again, and begin a cycle that stole more of your sleep.

your cousin disappeared soon after that, perhaps about two weeks later. the sleepovers ceased, as did the touching and experimentation that you had become so ordinary in your daily life, that you'd felt strange when it stopped. your family, far too focused on the potential dangers of men, never thought once to look within the circle of your family, of their children and what they were doing to each other.

you were thrown into therapy for displaying a sudden shift in behavior and early signs of ocd, but you never talked. you never told anyone what happened.

from then on, you grew into an obsession with your looks. as school crushes came and went, you absorbed the attention and chalked your very worth up to how you were physically perceived. bras came by the time you were twelve, and early teenagehood sent your mother into a spiral.

your sexual awareness developed early, as did further curiosity regarding so. the gift of an ipod touch one christmas opened the gate to unrestricted internet access, and you fell down a rabbit hole of obscene readings, clips, and images that you absorbed.

you didn't parade your findings about, however. you kept them to yourself, remained reserved and passive about all the things you've seen and done, all the things you began to blame yourself for. you hated the desire that should have come with puberty, not long before it. you hated that hot feeling that brought your screen to your face every night, that left your mind wandering about the crude human urge to sexually collide with one another in such possessive, aggressive ways.

by the time you were eighteen, you still did not have a boyfriend, but countless smuts saved in your drive and flagged twitter porn accounts served as the substitution. you'd long struggled with your sexual identity, due to the past and the variety of pornographic material you'd consumed, and you questioned your ability to be viewed as anything more than an object to be used, a pretty face and a pretty body.

you went to college, and caution became crudeness. you instantly learned to stray from vulnerability, to never reveal yourself emotionally to those who only seek you physically.

the first time you have sex, it hurts. you hate it. bodies writhed awkwardly on a creaking couch in the stale fluorescent overhead light. you didn't cum. his hands gripped you too roughly and left red marks in their wake on your hips and over your throat. you cried the entire night, then as if compelled, as if programmed to at any moment of inconvenience, you pulled out your stash of porn and slipped a hand down your pants with tears in your eyes, seeking the only warmth you knew to provide yourself.

as you got older and college felt more manageable, you learned to further embrace your sexuality, your assets. while sex made you uncomfortable at first, it was the only thing you truly knew, that you'd studied inside and out and grown infatuated over in your mind. you sought control, and while you lacked it in all other areas of your life - as your mom picked where you'd go to school, a continuation of her suffocation of your life and deprivation of your voice and opinions - you found that you held insurmountable power in the bedroom.

everyone wanted you. you've always been wanted. you don't remember a single moment in your childhood where you were viewed as a child and not a potential heart-stopper, a figment of temptation.

so you fucked your way through the rest of school. some people were good. some were bad. none were very remarkable, yet porn always came at the end of the day, along with self-relief that has not relented in some sixteen odd years.

somehow you made it through college, and not too long after, you met toji at a bar one night, where he had found you sipping a long island almost resentfully, dolled up in knee high boots, a black skirt hugging tightly around your upper thighs, and a low cut, skin tight tank under a cropped denim jacket. while your sinful appearance was enough to catch the ebony haired man's eye from afar, it is the solemn look in your eye when you graze the area that pulls him to you.

the bulky man saunters over, shuffling before the stool beside you to rest his forearms on the counter and lean toward you. you look up at him, unsurprised, flickering your hazy (e/c) eyes over his broad chest. sharp, ivy hues gleam as they capture you, and the curve of a smirk grazes his scarred lips.

you lift your brows slightly, twirling your straw around your finger to lick the excess liquor from your painted lips. the man tilts his head, tendrils of raven hair sweeping over his eyes with mischief, desire swirling in his gaze. you play along, for you're alone and he's handsome, rather strikingly so, and you can't find any other way to cope with the sense of worthlessness you carry, as you are jobless and on the verge of losing your apartment due to the rent increase.

"what's a girl like you doin' sittin' over here by herself, hm?" a low buttery voice flows from his lips, his head craning down slightly so that you can hear him over the friday night hustle of the bar.

you blink blandly up at him, propping your chin up on your palm as you lean into him with lazy eyes. "what do you mean by that exactly?"

thrilled by your immediate combative tone, the green eyes man's smirk widens. "y're too pretty to be alone, lookin' so sad."

you furrow your brows, straightening yourself and clearing your throat. "i'm not sad," you deny. "what makes you think i am?"

he hums lowly and takes a moment to search your eyes. your jaw clicks and your eyes narrow slightly in suspicion as you stare back, feeling slightly exposed. he shifts, lifting a thick finger to point toward his eyes. "aren't you? eyes don't lie."

you scoff a laugh and instantly tear your eyes away to stare into your drink. "i'm just daydreaming."

"about what's makin' you sad?"

"no. i'm not sad." you frown.

he chuckles. "did i offend ya, darlin'?" he tilts himself to get a better angle at your face, leaning forward. "hey, don't shut me out, now. we're just gettin' started."

"and your preferred way of flirting is to tell a woman that she has sad eyes?"

"nah. it's my first time tryin' it. i never had any reason to before," he says. "i ain't shamin' ya. just pointing out somethin' we got in common."

you look back up at him with a quirked brow. he smiles, eyes lidded, jaw sharp. "oh, now you're gonna tell me you're sad too?"

"just lonely."

you press your lips together tightly as you eye him. he keeps his smirk and your eye contact as though he is happy to be glared at by such a skeptical, beautiful woman - happy to poke at your nerves, and he doesn't even know you.

when you look in his eyes, however, you see what he could have been referring to. the maturity, the age, the hardships he has been forced to endure in order to stand before you like this in such a casual manner, with his life and a semblance of his dignity still somewhat intact.

your brows twitch. you note the faded circles under his eyes, the intensity of his very gaze beneath that air of smugness, and you relax slightly and suddenly wonder where that scar over his lips came from. how he's managed to bulk himself up to such an impressive level of fitness, his shirt practically bulging against his pectorals, lats, and biceps. what led him to this shitty place to even begin with.

"right," you say simply. he notices the way your mind buffers as you watch him and he watches you, and something strange snaps between you. something unsaid, something shared. it catches you off guard, for you are so used to there being a disconnect between yourself and the people you've physically pursued.

you didn't expect to feel so... seen.

"you gonna let me buy you a drink?" he offers.

"i don't drink with strangers," you lie.

he pushes himself up to stand over you, extending a large hand into your direction with that lopsided grin. "toji."

the corner of your lips curve as you eventually take his hand. "(y/n)."

"would you look at that?" he drawls, shifting to sit in the stool beside you. "we ain't strangers anymore."

the night goes on as the space opens between you, drinks lowering inhibitions and conversation shockingly flowing like you’re old bar friends, like you’ve been joking around with one another for years.

a couple hours of drinking and being the loudest pair within the establishment lead you to where you always end up: in your bedroom.

and while you expect another session of pushing and gripping and being thrown around without care, a half an hour of skin clapping against you over a symphony of pleasured grunts and groans that are the only things that work toward expanding your ego while you dissociate and pretend to enjoy yourself, toji fushiguro shatters your expectations, first by laying you comfortably on your back and leaving searing kisses down your body, trailing further and further toward your heat.

your mind goes to mush as raw pleasure consumes you through his touch, his lips, his breath against yours and every patch of sweaty bare skin he can find. he's firm, but not rough. not in the first half at least. he devours you like he's been starved for years, like he's been seeking your taste but did not know where to find it, and your eyes roll back and your lips fall into a silent scream as toji performs upon you the acts of sex that you have long fantasized and romanticized in your head due to the excess of pornographic media you consume.

with him, you don't scrunch your eyes closed and wait until it's over. you don't let your mind wander to what you'll do afterwards, how you'll distract yourself from allowing yet another man who doesn't deserve this access to use you as if you're his.

you sink into him, into all of toji, as he handles you the only way a man ever should. he doesn't relent until you cum once, twice, three then four times, and he takes his time. he's slow, intentional, grounding, as he does not rush to chase a high but savors everything that leads up to it. savors you.

such a brazen display of intimacy for two individuals who once swore off love completely.

the two of you fall in love months later, an arrangement set solely for the purposes of sexual release having developed into longing gazes, lengthy personal conversations, and the tightening of the string that first bridged a connection between you, a shared hidden grief though derived from separate traumas.

for a while, you don't resort to porn, as toji satisfies you in ways you never believed to be imaginable. the two of you are inherently sexual beings, one noise complaint away from getting kicked out of your place indefinitely. you have your emotional moments, when you talk for hours in each other's arms, wrapped up in warmth and security that feels so foreign, mundanely yet happily shopping for groceries within the company of one another, discussing shared spaces half a year down the line, children you learned early on that he had eventually stepping into the equation.

you've built a true, solid foundation, having found in each other what neither of you believed you deserved. fights and resistance to the good came and went, making your relationship stronger.

but boy, if the two of you don't fuck every damn day like it's your job.

and though you know toji fushiguro of all people would never judge you for your past, for your habits, you have yet to tell him about your assault as a child. you've yet to tell him that it is the very reason why you clamber over him every chance that you can get, grinding against his crotch for the friction you so desperately need.

it is true that for quite some time, you didn't touch your porn archives, but after about a month of fucking toji, you'd gone back to it.

not because you enjoy it. not because it makes you feel good. you just can't help it. you can't help but to chase that release every chance you get, even after toji has wrecked you, even after you've fallen head over heels in love.

you feel disgusting more often than not, like you're some walking disease, like you'll be regarded as gross or as the slut you were in high school just for walking out of the door to go to work, knowing that your fingers had been stuffed inside of you again before you could even think about rising to start the day (with toji away on a job).

and in those brief silences when you aren't surrounded by toji's love, your mind takes you back to that day. the day your childhood was stolen by another child. the day you realized you could never be anything more than a body.

toji's no fool. he knows that there is something that has gripped you from the past, something that explains your waves of confidence that are combatted by waves of inferiority and self consciousness. he didn't lie to you the night you first met, when he told you that he saw sadness in your eyes. he wasn't referring to any typical kind of sadness, but the kind that is engrained in you. the kind that stains your soul, that traps you in a loop from the moment it began to the moment you die.

he knows, he suspects, that something happened to you. he's not necessarily a saint himself. his childhood was shit. the majority of his adulthood was shit, as well. he's seen the gruesomeness and cruelty of human kind up close, and has had to live by it in order to survive time and time again.

he sees that in you. the hardened exterior sheltering something fragile beneath. the neediness you display. your inability to stay off of him for more than two seconds.

now, toji isn't complaining. his sex drive is just as high as yours, which is why the chemistry between the two of you is so potent. he loves you and he's always, always happy to show you, to give in to your needs that so closely align with his. you match one another's energy - you have for ten months now.

but something eats away at him when it comes to you. something that you pretend does not exist.

he thinks he figures it out one night when you get up to go to the bathroom, leaving your phone in a haste with the screen facing upward. your finger had accidentally swiped up when you put it down, showing all the open tabs and apps you'd forgotten to close.

toji glances down, then does a double take at something he saw out of the corner of his eye. he swipes through your apps, clicking where his attention was caught, and his brows lift in surprise when he is greeted with the visual of a woman bent over a balcony in twitter, a burly man's hips smacking ruthlessly into her from behind.

toji's eyes slim as he swipes out of the video, only to find that it is within a collection of films similar to that one, all lined up next to each other in your archives. he swipes through some more, amateur video after amateur video greeting his face - threesomes, female and male masturbation, creampies, squirting, gangbangs, straight, gay, bi, trans, you fucking name it. the whole of the porno verse is captured within your phone, and toji scratches his hair with a pensive look.

he's not disgusted. not grossed out, just mildly shocked. and confused. he gets watching some shit from time to time to just bust one out, but he hasn't even thought of looking up some video of a stranger when he's got hundreds of videos and pictures of you to choose from.

so why do you need all this when you have him?

you return from the bathroom and freeze the moment you approach the side of the bed and see toji on your phone, scrolling through what looks to be your twitter.

your stomach drops and your face falls. "what are you doing?" you rush out.

"tryna figure out why you need all this shit," toji murmurs, a hint of agitation laced in his tone. he looks up at you from your phone, a dip in his brow. "what, i ain't enough or somethin'?"

"oh my god," you breathe out, realizing that your worst nightmare has come true.

you jump over the bed and climb over him to reach for your phone, his arm stretching it out of your reach. he watches you, annoyance bubbling.

"toji, please give it back, oh my god," you beg in horror.

toji clicks his tongue. "the fuck else are you hiding in here that's got you actin' like this? you got something else other than porn you wanna show me?"

the very word itself cements in your gut and makes you ill as you struggle against him, tugging at his arm, your legs straddled on either side of his torso. he sees the sheer panic on your face and starts to fear the worst. "no, toji - it's just - fuck, just give it back!"

"why? the fuck are ya freakin' out for?" he grumbles. "the hell are you doin' behind my back, doll?"

"nothing, toji, i just don't - fucking want you to see all of that-" you reach to snatch your phone again, but he switches sides, raising his arms over you to grab it with his other hand and extend it into the opposite direction. your eyes follow the phone, catching one of the clips replaying out of the corner of your eye, and you yelp, reaching for it again.

toji's free arm blocks you, barring you away as he sorts through dms, messages, pictures that show nothing incriminating.

"toji, what the fuck? you think i'm cheating on you?!"

"why else would you be climbing all over me to get yer phone back?" his eyes remain glued to your phone screen.

"because you fucking opened my twitter!"

"you're embarrassed about some porn?" he rips his gaze away to look at you heatedly. your lips are turned downward into a petrified frouwn and your pupils have shrunken, brows curled and eyes wide as if you're going to cry. the muscles in toji's face slowly relax as he looks over you, detecting no trace of unfaithfulness but every trace of humiliation.

okay... so this is about the porn. and nothing else.

he lowers your phone. "why do ya have so much of it saved?"

"i don't wanna talk about that. please, just give it back. i'll delete it all."

"what are you-" he stops himself, taking a second to think before proceeding. "i ain't mad at ya. not about the porn. i just fuckin'... thought you were hiding some other shit for a second. my bad - sorry. hey, i'm sorry," he softens, lowering his arm from you.

you immediately lunge for your phone, snatching it back in toji's moment of understanding. you immediately swipe out of your tabs, deleting twitter all together with shaking hands.

toji's palm falls to your leg, as you're still seated on top of him. "just forget this happened. please," you plead in a hushed voice. "forget you saw that."

"i dunno, doll, i got a few questions still," toji says as you continue to fumble through your phone, searching for and deleting any remnants of porn. your heart pounds in your chest, and toji's teeth grind together as he watches you.

you look so damn terrified. so ashamed, it makes him feel bad for throwing accusations at you. this is very clearly something else entirely.

"i don't want to talk about it, toji."

"(y/n), come on," he starts. "i gotta know what's goin' through your head. as yer man, i deserve that much. just tell me, am i not doin' enough? you need extra shit to get you off?"

"it's not fucking like that," you snap.

he tosses out his hands. "then what is it like? you got a shit ton of stuff saved. i don't even know how you got time to look at it all when y're either at work or too busy gettin' fucked by me. and i don't think i do a bad job, unless you got somethin' to tell me. so i'm askin'. what's it for?"

you drop your phone to your lap. "how many times do i have tell you i don't want to talk about it?"

"and i'm tellin' you that we have to talk about it. the hell is with you?"

"toji, maybe i don't want to talk anything out with the guy who just practically accused me of cheating."

"you were jumpin' for your fuckin' phone like you got a secret life or somethin."

"i was trying to get my phone because you invaded my fucking privacy and found something you shouldn't have found."

"it's porn. i wouldn't think you'd freak out about it unless there's a reason you have it that you're not tellin' me. which clearly there is."

"why are you acting like what you just saw wasn't fucking weird?!" you scrunch your face.

"everyone watches porn."

"...you watch porn?"

"not anymore. i got you," he says simply. "hence, my question that you keep dodgin'. what am i doin' wrong for you to need all that? you got other men in there, too. what's that supposed to make me think?"

you fall quiet for a few seconds, guilt swarming you. "toji, there's nothing wrong with you," you say, lightly. "nothing at all. it's not you. it's not anything you aren't doing. i - i didn't think you'd - i'm sorry. it's not you, it's me. i've always... been... i'm sorry. sorry."

toji sits up slightly, lowering his hands back to your legs. "always been what?"

you shrug, looking away. you feel that familiar lump form in your throat as your mind takes you back to your basement, to your faceless cousin, to all you've ever been to everyone you've known.

is toji the exception?

"talk to me, doll. c'mon. y're too fiery to lose your words now."

"i just didn't realize you'd assume that you aren't good enough," you frown. "you're perfect. you're everything. i'm sorry i made you feel that way. i didn't mean to - the porn has nothing to do with you, but i just - god, that's so awful. that's so embarrassing," you bury your face in your hands, letting your phone slip from your lap and onto the bed beside the pair of you.

"you need ta slow down," toji murmurs, thumb smoothing over the skin of your thigh consolingly. "stop sayin' y're sorry. i was bein' a prick. not you."

"but the stuff you saw-"

"it's just porn, baby. if you say it don't concern me, then i believe it," he says. "what're you talkin about - you've always been what?" he repeats the question.

a slut. a sex fiend. a pervert.

you're terrified to tell him the truth. you don't want him to look at you differently. you don't want to become what you already feel that you are in his eyes.

"...i - have.... that's not new. it's from..." you can't finish your sentence. the words get lodged in your throat. ghosts of hands swipe over you, unwanted, flickers of grips fisting your hair soothed by later hours of porn surveillance resurface. your nose wrinkles. you've had that fucking archive for years like it's a part of you.

"you've had it all for a while," toji finishes for you. "how long?"

"i can't say," you shudder.

toji watches you shrink into yourself, your face still concealed behind your hands. he reaches for your wrist, gently tugging your hands away. he's met with some resistance that inevitably gives way against his hold.

he holds your hand, revealing your flushed cheeks and glittery eyes. your chin wrinkles as you fight a cry, and you keep your gaze downcast, your head ducked.

toji's fully alert now.

"alright," he murmurs. "alright, girl. i get it. it's been a while, huh?"

you don't nod or hum in affirmation. you merely whimper something broken, bowing your head lower.

"you look at this every day?"

you don't answer again. toji starts to understand.

"alright. hey, listen," he tilts your head up by your jaw. your eyes stay looking downward until he tells you to meet his eyes. hesitantly, you do. "you got a little addiction. so what? everyone's had one or already does. i ain't upset. i'm just tryna make sure y're okay."

you sniff. "addiction?"

"tell me if i'm wrong," he offers. "but just by yer reaction, 'nd by what i'm guessin' has been goin' on for a long time, you look all that porn outta habit." you still don't say anything, and toji probes further. "you like all that stuff? you fantasize about it?"

"n-no. not with you," you manage to answer.

"but y're so used to it, yeah?"

"...yeah."

"that's addiction, sweets. and it's common as all hell, so don't stress about it. i'll help ya."

"toji... how are you not weirded out?"

"it's you, doll. you can't weird me out even if you tried."

"but, i-" you swallow hard. "i mean... don't you see now how hypersexual i am? even after you satisfy me, it's like i... can't stop. and i don't even fucking like porn. it's just always there... that doesn't bother you?"

the ebony haired assassin narrows his eyes at you as the final pieces click together in his mind. your hypersexuality, the porn addiction, that empty look in your eye that he still catches when you think he isn't looking.

his jaw clicks and his chest tightens. he was really hoping it wasn't that. but if you've been like this for as long as you hint, since you were a child, then there's only one explanation for it.

"that ain't wait bothers me," he says lowly, gaze tendering. "what bothers me is what could have made you this way."

you go rigid. "what?"

"folks aren't born hypersexual, doll. i know it."

you've had sex with so many people. each of them the same as the last, eager to possess you, happy to discard you, and you never complained. that was what you asked for by pursuing the men you pursued.

yet, for the first time in twenty five years of your life, someone sees you clearly. honors you accordingly. seeks to support you willingly. how could toji have guessed if he had not endured similar trials? how could he have glanced into your soul upon first meeting without much more than a greeting and a flimsy pick up line?

how is it that toji fushiguro knows you so well without you having to say anything? how is it that he still loves you, still sees you the same as he always has after deducing so? after seeing those videos in your phone? and those weren't even the half of it.

you've spent your whole life hiding behind a facade of boldness and sexual ambition, and to this day, not even your mother can name why you are the way you are - why you struggled to keep a job because you'd be caught flirting with the customers and your coworkers. why you struggle to find purpose outside of what you can physically provide. toji is the only person who's ever made you feel like something more, like a person and not an object. like a woman with a fragile heart, a woman who deserves love just as much as you claim he does.

and though you'd tried to keep the ugly pieces of you concealed, so as to not scare toji away, he's glimpsed into you regardless. without struggle. without complaint. and he cares not about your actions, not about your past, for his isn't any prettier, but about you and only you.

"h-how... did you-"

"it's in your eyes, baby," he purses his lips, fighting off the emotion that threatens to take him over the confirmation of his suspicions. "it always has been."

a tear races down your face as you stare at him, awed. "i've never told anyone."

"you don't gotta tell me. if you ain't ready, it's okay. m'sorry." toji leans forward to cup your face in his hands, holding your gaze. "m'sorry," he apologizes again, and you know this time, it's for all the things he does not know. all the things you've internalized and kept inside.

you take in a shuddering breath, dazed. "i was nine," you breathe.

those three words break the seemingly indestructible man before you, his pupils constricting, jaw clicking faster and harder.

"it wasn't even... a stranger or some man, it was-" you see her face suddenly, the unfiltered vision, her empty eyes. you suddenly feel winded. "it was my eleven year old cousin."

you think it may have been better if he told you he hated you after discovering this.

instead, he catches you as you collapse into him, swaddling you to his chest with his big arms, protecting you from the memories that he watches come to life in your eyes.

"no one ever knew, toji. no one fucking cared. and then i was blamed f-for everything sexual i've ever done. i had sex with so many people, and the porn came - came so early. i was only a kid. i was a baby, and for the rest of my life i'll be this and i can't stop it. i can't fix it."

you babble on, your confession crashing through in a jumbled blur that neither of you can properly understand, but the message comes through.

"y're not broken," toji says into your hair, voice hushed as he holds you. "'nd if they never cared, i do. i fuckin' care."

"my whole life," you cry into his chest. "my whole life, i've just been this."

"y're whole life, you've been strong," he corrects. "dealin' with that fucked up stuff on yer own. with no one keepin' you standin' but yourself," he recounts the similarities you share with dread, for of all people to share life's strife, he wishes to whatever power out there that it wasn't you. you don't deserve this. you never deserved this.

like you said. you were only a kid.

and unfortunately, so was the girl who assaulted you.

your body jerks with your sobs as he holds you. "why don't you hate me...?" he makes out through your stuttered wails.

"hate ya?" he tilts his head down. "darlin', you ain't do anything wrong. not a damn thing, you hear?"

"t-that's not true."

"the hell it isn't." he helps lift you up slightly, pulling back to look you in the eye. "none of this is yer fault. none of it."

"but-"

"not a damn thing," he says firmly. "none of this changes anything. i love you. i always will. y're not weird. y're not gross. you were hurt too soon, and you ain't ask for that. i'm sorry i accused you of all that stuff earlier. i'm damn sorry, (y/n). i'm sorry you-" he can't say it. he just pulls you back into him as you cry silently, burrowing you face into him further. he smoothes a hand over the back of your head, pressing a firm kiss there. "m'sorry, darlin. shit's fuckin' awful."

"please," you whine. "please forget you saw all of that."

"whatever you want, baby."

through the humiliation, the ever present agony of abuse, you let toji love you and see you in ways no one ever has, for he refuses to do otherwise. refuses to let you feel alone ever again.

the world is a cruel place, and yet it has somehow brought its worst victims together by chance.

that is the only thing either of you can thank this universe for.