vergil being extremely possessive and clingy is something my brain loves to drown in,,
he would definitely be the type of man to leave his clothes scattered around the place, in hopes of eventually seeing them on you,, the thought of your body, scattered with his hickeys and love bites underneath an item stained with his core essence belonging to him would send his mind into a frenzy,,,
no doubt he’d also try to find a sweet, dainty necklace with a v pendant and gift it to you so innocently, knowing he would like to mark and brand you for eternity only for his own pleasure,,
i love your prison toji series!!! could you please do a geto one 🩷🩷
suguru’s no stranger to the ever growing pile of letters taunting him from the floor of his cell.
ex-time vessel association members, curse-afflicted members of the public looking for free exorcisms, the occasional self motivated incel looking to pick his cult-leader brain for fun.
and most recently, you.
a penpal program aimed at reconnecting prisoners with the developing world. that’s what you’d explained in your first letter to him, inked in the cutest handwriting he’s ever seen with a little smiley scrawled at the bottom as your signature.
most of the letters he gets sent are full of high praises. lovesick strangers who’d choose to lick his boots as their death row meal. one’s who’d bend over backwards just for a glance of his their way.
you don’t praise him. hell, you don’t even acknowledge him apart from a simple “hello”. you talk about yourself instead.
the music you like, the movies you hate. you’re a sorcerer—and thank fuck for that— he thinks, making your living performing low-level exorcisms at a clinic your family passed down to you.
the residuals of your cursed energy are sweet. wafting off every fiber in his hand like the incense he likes to burn before bed. you smell like home. like a time long before your existence.
it'd takes a village to get a reaction out of him any other day. but somehow, as his eyes flit over the message clutched in his hands, suguru fights a smile for the first time in years.
his first letter to you is messy. scrawled out on a sheet of lined paper he doesn’t bother to tear the hole-punched border off. suguru doesn’t need to introduce himself. you’ve seen his face on the news.
he stops once he’s gotten a single paragraph down, not quite knowing what else to say to you. the cult leader forgoes a signature. instead, he ends the message off asking you what your phone wallpaper is. he doesn’t know why he does it. doesn’t try to fight it either.
suguru knows you’ve got him wrapped around your finger later at the mail desk when he forgets what side the fucking stamp goes on.
years of the guards dumping wheelbarrows of envelopes in his cell. nearly half a decade of waking up to the smell of paper glue and manila every single morning, and yet, he can’t remember a single thing besides how cutely you cross your letter t’s.
if only his subjects could see him now. lovesick and senile like the boys he used to make fun of in highschool. how disappointing.
the next batch of mail is delivered to his cell at 8 am on the dot.
suguru hasn't slept.
he sorts through the new mail for hours, beating his knuckles raw and bloody against the wall after coming up short.
it’s his fault, really, for allowing himself to be swayed so easily. for allowing a mere civilian to ease his guard down. still, a part of his brain urges him to hold out.
your reply arrives exactly three days later, placed on top of cursed energy residuals feeling a bit stronger. your words are scrawled just as beautifully as he remembers, sending sticky sweet endorphins straight to his brain.
he finds out that your phone lockscreen is a picture of the cake you’d baked yourself for your most recent birthday. you call him cute for asking. the pain in his knuckles fades away at that. suguru wonders why a sweet thing like you would ever give him the time of day.
he thinks he starts losing his mind the day you come in for a supervised visit.
you’re beautiful. even through the smear streaked plexiglass glass separating your side of the room from his.
the other inmates notice you. watching, craving, not at all registering what their wives and girlfriends are saying through the grey plastic phones attached to the wall.
suguru wonders what it’d take to make you feel good. what turns you on, how you’d sound under him. in fact, thoughts of you plague him so vividly during his day-to-day that he legitimately thinks he’s losing his mind.
he chastises his brain for becoming weak. mentally berating himself every time he tries to trace back the origins of how exactly he let it get this bad. he wants to rip up your letters, burn them one by one in a pool of gasoline until singed paper is all he can smell for weeks.
at the same time, he finds himself trying to make you happy. cracking childish, pathetic jokes through the plastic phone tethered to his side of the visitor’s window, feeling his stomach flip and sink every time you grant him a smile, giggling into your hand like he’s the funniest man you’ve ever met.
every time you leave he tells himself he never wants to see you again. that the sight of you slipping out of the visitation room is a good thing. an omen, if anything. and every single time, without fail, some sick part of his brain reminds him that he can’t live without you.
synopsis; an upcoming exam has been stressing you out, and satoru’s pleas for you to take care of yourself fall on deaf ears. thus, he sets his sights on your professor.
word count; 4.3k
contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, yan!gojo, as far as yanderes go he’s very mild i think (im sensitive u can trust me!!), mentions of blood, implied murder (not depicted!!), he threatens your professor w a knife lol, surprisingly fluffy??, gojo is soooo lovesick & smitten, he just wants his baby to live a happy life :( is that so wrong :((, also your parents love him <33 and he calls you honey <333 ideal man.
a/n; i blacked out & when i woke up this was in my drafts… mysterious. @kissxcore here u go alexis <33 one very smitten morally gray yan!gojo just for u!! i completely lost the plot halfway through but i had a lot of fun writing this!! :33 i don’t dabble in yan content at all so it was a fun lil challenge hehe, i hope it ended up . Somewhat .. decent…
satoru thinks you deserve everything good.
”haah…”
— the sigh spills into the air, like a dot of ink on paper, dripping with exhaustion; a palpable fatigue that has his heart clenching beneath his ribs.
just as he feared, you’re here. again. seated on the couch, in the living room, legs crossed and framed by flimsy strings of moonlight; illuminated only by the dim light of the laptop in front of you. carding through your hair, blinking sluggishly.
another sigh. deep, exasperated, from satoru this time. he keeps a single hand on his hip, brows furrowed in soft disappointment.
”honey… what do you think you’re doing?”
you jolt, the sudden sound breaking you out of whatever trance you were previously in. when your gaze flits to his, craning your head to see him rest against the wall leading up to your bedroom, he thinks you look a little like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
it makes him smile. despite his disapproval.
”ah — satoru! it’s… um.” a moment passes. he can practically see the gears of your mind turning, searching for a good excuse. ”… not what it looks like?”
he clicks his tongue. ”nice try.”
then he’s walking towards you, in long strides, gliding across the room like a butterfly in search of nectar. from the sweetest flower there ever was.
even when said flower is still awake, past midnight, pulling an all-nighter despite his frequent advice not to. his very frequent, very thoughtful advice not to strain yourself until you just about pass out.
but you just won’t listen.
”’m disappointed in you, baby,” he huffs, just playful enough to ward off any genuine feelings of distress. he could never truly be disappointed in his baby. ”what did we say about studying this late, hm?”
a sheepish chuckle slips past your lips. satoru is standing in front of you, hands on his hips, raising a questioning eyebrow as you squirm. lighthearted, yes, but genuine. it makes you feel a little guilty.
”… sorry,” you breathe, closing the lid of your laptop. knowing he won’t let you stay up any longer. with the loss of light, your face becomes shrouded in darkness. ”just can’t sleep when i’m so stressed.”
at that, satoru makes a tiny noise — something worried, a little sad, from the base of his throat. a soft frown finds its way onto his lips, and he blinks the sleep away from his senses. plopping down beside you.
”i know. i’m not trying to lecture you,” he croons, reaching out to cradle the apple of your cheek. you melt into him like molten honey, easy and sweet. ”just worried. know you’re stressed.”
and he does. he does know — it’s all he’s been able to think about, these past few weeks. to his dismay, he’s even begun to grow used to this sight, used to finding you in the midst of working yourself to exhaustion. fighting the urge to sleep, slumped over your desk, or cooped up on the couch. staring into your laptop like it holds the secrets of the universe.
time and time again, he’s told you to take care of yourself. tried to coax you into relaxing, rubbing your sore shoulders and kissing the puffy skin beneath your eyes. but this exam is important — you’ve told him as much, more times than he can count. he doesn’t doubt that you’re right.
of course you’d be stressed. he gets it.
still, though.
”but you know it’s not good, yeah? that it’ll just burn you out?” his thumb goes to smooth over the dark crescents beneath your eyes, gentle as a feather. ”we don’t want that, do we?”
you bite your lip. trapping it between your teeth. he knows you know. ”… yeah,” you admit, a flimsy little sigh on your tongue. ”it just feels easier to do this at night. don’t know why.”
”my little night owl.”
that makes you smile, a little, but it’s not enough to satisfy him. he curls an arm around your waist, and drags you into his lap; gentle, always gentle, like all that exists under your skin is made of porcelain. like the lines of your face form a string of words, a label of fragile: handle with care. he always does.
with his heartbeat by your ear, his warmth melting into yours, it’s easier to speak. a pressure on your chest that fades away. ”i’ll try not to do it again,” you murmur, biting back a soft yawn. nuzzling into his neck. ”promise. don’t wanna worry you…”
satoru softens.
(always so good to him.)
”it’s fine, honey. i understand.” he smiles, smoothing down your spine, counting the bumps of vertebra that slide along his palm. ”don’t worry that pretty little head of yours over me, alright?”
in return for his comfort, you wriggle away, lifting your head to give him a smile. one of your many smiles, each one fervently cherished by him; the one you’re wearing now is tired, a soft curl of your lips, the kind that makes him want to lull you to sleep. just the sight alone makes the anxiety in his veins feel like a worthy investment.
he doesn’t tell you anything that could cause that joy to diminish. doesn’t tell you that he can’t sleep without you, that he can barely breathe knowing you’re this stressed all time. doesn’t tell you that he jolted awake with a sinking feeling of dread, a gaping pit in his stomach when he didn’t immediately feel the warmth of your skin against his. doesn’t tell you that he always, always assumes the worst.
satoru doesn’t tell you these things. it’s a safety measure, an act of love. a bundle of unvoiced syllables, woven into white lies, silky and sweet. tailor-made to put your aching mind at ease.
satoru thinks you deserve everything good.
it’s a theory, of sorts, a train of thought. a hypothesis made manifest. after many years of pondering, he’s arrived at the following conclusion; you are all that’s good. therefore, it only follows that you deserve everything that’s good, all of it and more. satoru believes you deserve every single thing your little heart desires — and he’s determined to give it to you.
so he’s been worried.
it’s not that he doesn’t trust you. he knows you’ll ace the exam, knows you’ll do your very best, knows you’ll make him proud. you always do. you aren’t the problem, no, never.
he just doesn’t trust your professor.
that unfair, stuck-up, incompetent professor who’d fail his students just for being a couple minutes late, who curates his exams to be as convoluted as humanly possible. you and your friends are starting to suspect he just likes berating people for a living. satoru knows it all, he’s heard it all, of course he has. satoru pays attention to everything, when it comes to you. he knows all about your professor, the man who’s been making your studies pure hell for the past semester.
it makes his blood boil. steady, ruminating, hot and heavy in his veins. a rivulet of lava.
(it was only a matter of time.)
satoru is a teacher too; he knows that type. one that has no business being a teacher, in the first place, one no student deserves to be subjected to. he’s met more of them in his career than he could even begin to count. the thought of one of his own students being at the mercy of someone so incompetent makes his skin itch.
and the thought of you, seated on the couch, crying and sniffling when he comes home because none of the exam questions made enough sense for you to even try —
it makes satoru want to claw his skin off.
it makes that tiny, tiny cavern in his heart extend, widen, like a maw, swallowing up his liver and lungs and sense of morality. an emptiness begging to be filled.
there’s only one way to satiate it.
so he plants a wet kiss on your forehead, ruffles your hair, tucks you into bed and waits until you fall asleep. deep and heavy, a slumber you won’t wake up from anytime soon. he presses his lips to your forehead one more time — for good measure.
then he grabs his coat and slips outside.
the moon is visible through the window.
a thin crescent, nailed next to the dim stars, leaking a dream-like fluorescent shine; illuminating the office, so quiet he can hear those erratic breaths spill out, one by one. a heavy, heavy silence, thick enough to spread like butter over toast.
(ah, that’s right — he forgot to buy the butter you asked for this morning. no wonder he feels so out of sorts. he’ll have to grab it on his way back.)
”who… w — what are — ?”
satoru stays silent. lips pursed, eyes keen, burning into the back of the man in front of him. close, almost chest to back, enough to have him scowling in displeasure.
just being in his presence makes satoru feel a little sick.
he keeps the blade pressed right beneath his adam’s apple, a silver glimmer in an office painted blue and gray. not enough to sink into his skin, but enough to have his heartbeat hammering, enough that satoru can practically feel those rapid flutters of life. brushing against his gloved hand.
he gets straight to the point. voice muffled by the fabric covering his mouth, low enough that it’s barely even audible. he’s careful, about this kind of thing. there’s a delicacy to the ill intent, something he’d be a little enamored with if it weren’t for the compass stuffed into his ribs — the compass that tells him this is wrong.
he just can’t bring himself to care.
”the upcoming exam.” his voice sends a shiver down the man’s spine. satoru can feel it. ”don’t fail a single student.”
silence. pure silence, suffocating them, tangling itself into the air. satoru can practically taste it — fear, familiar, that pang of panic. a ticking time-bomb. the knife stays pressed against warm skin, pushing, sinking, just a little, a drop of red against his pale throat.
it’s enough to get your professor to make a little noise, one that vaguely resembles a whine. like that of a small animal, rolling over on its belly, eager to play dead. no word is spoken in reply, but he nods, just barely, a nervous tremble of his head.
satoru hums, approving. ”good.” he doesn’t loosen his grip. ”there’s a particular student i’m worried about. marked them down in the catalogue... i’m counting on you.”
another noise. a grunt of affirmation, a silent plea — satoru allows that fear to seep into his own bones, just a little, just to get a taste of it. cold on his tongue. he wonders if this is what helplessness feels like.
then he takes a step back. slow, tentative, dragging the knife with him. not before parting his lips once more. ”don’t turn around,” he warns. ”i’ll be back if there are any complications. this’ll be our little secret, hm?”
the man in front of him doesn’t say a thing. frozen in fear, paralyzed, not moving an inch. a fly trapped in his web. it’s a relief.
before he exits the room, satoru puts the final nail in the coffin. just in case. ”i happen to know what school your daughter goes to.” he waits for a flinch, and it comes almost instantly. like clockwork. “remember that.”
it’s an empty threat. your professor doesn’t know that, though. he doesn’t know that satoru knows his daughter, that he walks past her preschool almost every morning on his way to work. that she waves to him whenever he passes by, and that he makes it a point to always wave back. a little troublemaker; the rowdiest of utahime’s preschoolers. she has a bubbly laugh, and just lost one of her milk teeth. she was giddy when she showed him, a bout of giggles spilling from her lips as he cooed and ruffled her hair.
he wouldn’t lay a finger on her.
but your professor doesn’t know that, hasn’t got a single clue, and satoru delights in the fear that must be running through his veins. down his spine, crawling into every narrow of his skeleton, making a home for itself that he’ll never quite be able to root out.
a gulp. satoru hears it, in the quiet of nightfall, just before he shuts the door behind him. good.
the rest of the evening is a blur. satoru gets home, relieved to find you still asleep, and tucks you into his chest. makes a mental reminder to order your favorite take out tomorrow; a little reward for your hard work.
finally, he can sleep easy. knowing you’ll get what you deserve.
three weeks later, satoru places his hand on the familiar doorknob in front of him, dragging his weight behind him. blinking sluggishly.
there’s a sinking feeling in his chest, weighing him down — like an anchor tied to his liver. a compass, tucked between his fourth and fifth rib, one that’ll always stay lodged right there. he’s learned to grow used to it, a natural consequence, a sign that his humanity is still intact.
that doesn’t make it any less bothersome, though.
(ridding the world of a pest shouldn’t make him feel dirty. especially when he felt nothing but contempt for the pest in question, for the way he whistled as you walked by, the words he spewed before satoru met his eye. vile. putrid. why should he feel guilty for wiping a stain off the pavement?
it does make him feel dirty, though. a sinking feeling in his chest.)
there’s nothing to be done about it. satoru swallows the unpleasant taste on his tongue, and drags the door open, closing it behind him with a softness he reserves for you alone.
and there you are.
on the couch, farther away, already looking his way — lips instantly curling up into what he knows will be a smile. this time, it’s laced with excitement. one of his personal favorites. his gaze devours the joy in your features, the glimpse he gets of your teeth, that familiar crinkle of your eyes.
you’re smiling. at him. you smile and his world wakes up, it’s dyed in different shades of blue, it’s brimming with life and love and something too good not to kill for. you smile and everything is right, good, worth it. you smile and it's as if the blood has been washed off his hands.
suddenly, all is well again. satoru exhales a blissful little breath.
“‘m home, honey,” he grins, a light pink dusting his cheeks, hanging his coat up before turning to face you. arms wide open. “did you miss me?”
his heartbeat stutters when you practically engulf him, all giddy giggles and that perfect smile, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “mhm,” is what you chirp, pressing kisses down his collarbone, and he has to bite down on his lip to stop the shivers trailing down his spine. he tastes iron, but laps it up with a coo. sickly-sweet.
“missed you too, precious,” he purrs. “sorry i was gone for so long — had to take care of something.”
he cups the back of your skull with his palm, large and crafted just to hold you, and marvels at how much you trust him. how you’re melting into his chest, fitting into every crevice of his heart. he wants to keep you there forever. forever and ever, always within reach, always close enough to touch.
but he also wants you to be happy. he wants to see you run away, wherever the wind takes you, if only so he’ll get to feel you jump into his arms again, when you’ve had your fill of the world. when you come home to him, where you both belong.
satoru would never cage you. never, never, never. he wants you to enjoy your life — confining you wouldn’t do any good, would only stifle that pretty smile he loves so dearly. he wants your world to be large, brimming with life, blooming with fervor, wants the air to be clear enough for your beautiful lungs. he couldn’t build a world for you, here, in this apartment. no matter how big or luxurious.
so his only option is to bend the world into a kinder shape — twist and mold until it forms a path good enough for you to follow.
(it’s worth it, he knows, he’ll always know. it’s worth it to see that smile.)
“is that a new coat?” you ask, naive and innocent, and it breaks him out of his thoughts, attention wired to the lilt of your voice.
“yeah.” it’s stylish, expensive, a nice shade of black. he had to throw the last one away. “looks nice, right? i’ll get you the same one, pretty.”
“you don’t have to, toru!” you hurriedly exclaim, knowing he’ll jump at the opportunity to spoil you. “i like the one i have now!”
satoru pouts. a soft huff, right by your ear. “you don’t wanna wear matching coats?” he feigns sadness, scratching softly at your scalp, drinking up the little purrs that bubble up in your throat.
and you giggle. you giggle and all he can think is worth it, worth it, worth it. a stained coat or two means nothing. the blood on his hands is just insurance.
“well, when you put it like that…” you shift a little, curling your arms around his neck, breathing him in. he wonders if you can smell the cleaning detergent. “i guess i wouldn’t mind a new coat.”
and he grins. “right? want me to buy you new shoes while i’m at it? some jewelry?” he peppers kisses down your neck, amusement laced in his voice. “the whole store?”
again, those giggles. again and again. he laps them up like fine wine. “okay, that’s too much.”
“but you deserve it!” he whines, sickeningly sweet. sick to his stomach with love. “been working so hard, my angel.”
and, suddenly — you light up. his little firefly. brightening, inhaling a giddy breath. pulling away, a little, and he does his best to bite back the frown on his face. you’re practically beaming, sunshine personified, eyes glittering with giddy joy.
“right! i almost forgot!”
then you’re skipping away, happily, to retrieve your phone. and he knows what you’re going to show him, but still feigns surprise when he sees the score on your exam, that perfect 100 on the screen. still makes an expression of shock that he knows will get you to laugh, still picks you up and spins you around and tells you how proud he is.
he almost, almost feels bad, seeing you smile so wide; at what you assume to be the fruits of your own labour. almost feels ashamed, knowing that perfect 100 wouldn’t exist without the knife at your professor’s throat.
but, then again, this is how it should be. those numbers are the fruits of your own labour, because satoru is a part of you. and you deserve it, deserve it more than anyone — he knows you would have gotten it, even without his help, if your professor was competent enough to see your brilliance.
satoru smiles. he is proud of you. and this is exactly how it should be. he’s just bending the world into its rightful shape, cutting strings from a wrongly woven web, righting the wrongs of the people around you.
you, you, you. the only thing that exists.
all of him is for you.
”i knew you could do it. never doubted you for a second, baby,” he smiles, so wide his cheeks hurt, and you return it with a kiss to his jaw.
”thank you. i’m just so relieved,” you exhale a breath, heavy, and it’s like he can practically see the stress melting from your shoulders and eyes. worth it, worth it, worth it. ”gosh. i’m gonna sleep like the dead tonight.”
”as you should,” satoru chirps, pinching your side. softly, brimming with fondness. ”but before that, we’re gonna celebrate. all day. and tomorrow too!”
another smile coaxed from your lips; this time, it’s a little bit shy. bashful, at the praise, his endless excitement. so precious he wants to kiss you breathless. give you all the air in his lungs.
so precious that he forgets about everything else.
this is what you always do to him; wrap him up in a blanket of your love, cloud his veins with a nectar so sweet he takes the leap into your arms without a second thought. a foolish, lovesick butterfly, sticking to a single rose; dripping with honey, overflowing. the butterfly is too drunk on love to care.
you’re his flower, his joy, the most useful form of anesthesia. with you in his veins, on his mind, your lips on his jaw — satoru can pretend that his hands are clean. that they always have been.
it all slips from his mind. your professor, the creep who catcalled you yesterday, that one classmate you’ve been complaining about recently. he forgets that they even exists, and satoru thinks that must be what love is: something that narrows your world down until you can make a home out of it.
(something worth holding onto, no matter the cost.)
as always, it’s your voice that snaps him out of the trance he’s in. turning around at the sound of your call, the orpheus to your eurydice, too in love to save you from himself. you’re both getting ready to head out, dressing up for a well-deserved date.
satoru feels himself smile. he does the dirty work, and you get to reap the rewards. heaven on earth.
“oh, by the way! would you want to have dinner with my parents tomorrow?” you meet his absent gaze with a tilt of your head. “they’ve been asking about you again. it’s such a headache, seriously.”
satoru giggles, barely containing how delighted he is. raising a playful brow. “oh? grumpy that you aren’t the favorite child anymore, hm?”
“okay, first of all —“ you stifle a giggle, pulling a drawer open, rummaging through it. freshly washed clothes. he washes most of your things. “you aren’t their child. and second of all —“
“— yet.”
a pause.
satoru watches your gaze flick over to him, then back to the drawer, collecting yourself. a cute flush to your cheeks. “… whatever.” you clear your throat. “second of all — i don’t like how much they like you. what kinda spell did you put them under? it’s always satoru this, satoru that!”
a huff fills the air, and you mutter something that sounds a little like mocking, an obnoxiously imitated where’s satoru? that makes him chuckle into his fist.
he shrugs. “i’m just a natural charmer, y’know? and, for the record; i would love to have dinner with them.” he sends you a wink, playful, and you roll your eyes. “are you joining us?”
a bout of laughter pushes past your lips, and satoru thinks he could die happy — just soaking up the joy that spills from out your throat. he wishes he could live in it, paint your house in it, wear it. he wants your joy to be all he ever feels. he feels sick at the idea of ever being out of earshot for it.
“yes, i’m joining you.” your scoff is dripping with humour. ”i’d hate to be the fourth wheel, but it is what it is.”
satoru stifles a grin. ”lucky me. three beauties all to myself,” he drawls, a seductive lilt to his voice, just to hear that little noise you always make with the back of your throat. vaguely disgusted.
”you’re so gross.”
a coo. like the buzzing of a bee. ”don’t be jealous, honey. know you’re my favorite, don’t you?” satoru smiles — more sincere than you’ll ever know. ”could never love anyone else.”
”so my parents are in second place?” you quirk a brow, amusement lacing your words, and he clicks his tongue.
”well, they made you. i’d have to be a fool not to worship artists of such caliber.”
”charmer.”
”yours.” the word is a knife at his throat, a stain on his coat, a love so heavy it’ll burn him alive. ”only yours.”
and again, you smile. all he can think is that you deserve everything, everything he could ever give you. it’s all he can think as you go about your day, as he leads you outside, as he watches that flicker of joy dance inside your iris. as he watches you walk wherever your heart takes you.
the thought remains when you return home, when you wrap yourselves up in blankets and he throws a leg over your waist and you curl an arm around his ribcage. it’s all he can think.
satoru was born to be of service — to someone, to the world, to something or another. he was born to carry a weight on his back, so why not bear the weight of your burdens?
all he wants is to protect you. all he’ll ever need is that smile on your face. he was always bound to be just this: a dog at your heels, a halo around your head, the watchful eye keeping you safe from everything rotten in this world. he’s the butterfly, the spider, the web itself. and he’ll never let you be tangled up in it.
he was born to be of service to you. so service you he will, until it all comes back to bite him.
SYNOPSIS: You don’t like it when Suguru takes care of you. As your boyfriend, he takes offense to that.
WORD COUNT: 8.2k
CONTENTS: suguru geto x gn!reader, hurt/comfort, early relationship hurdles, reader is unaccustomed to suguru’s self-sustaining brand of caretaking: inner spiral ensues, jealousy and all that good stuff, reader has an established ct. non-sexual nudity. reader is referred to by their name exactly once, but it’s blacked out (<- guy who didn’t want to slam [Name] in there). sugu-typical intensity and yearning; he’s silly and boyish and in love.
A/N: this was commissioned by my dearest @loverducky !! 💗 thank you so much for your patience and kindness ily very much… please enjoy 8k of suguru geto Going Through It <3
When your technique sputters out, Suguru feels a cold wash over his bone-marrow.
It's a warm evening in April, and you're standing in front of a First-Grade cursed spirit: an onryō, if his instincts are on the money, clinging to the presence of a nearby well. Five-yen coins click together in her palms, catching streaks of light with every movement she makes, the rest of her body blotted in shadow. Underneath her bare feet, crushed glass stains the grass crimson.
The effects of her technique aren't physical. It has something to do with the coins— with each clink, a different bone in his body feels out of sorts. Whatever conditions are needed for it to root itself into the innermost parts of him, they've already been fulfilled. Must be connected to these grounds themselves. The crushed glass makes her scream, and the bottom of his throat twists. One coin scrapes against the other, and his limbs feel like lead. Suguru isn't worried, because this cursed spirit isn't as hostile as she could be; lashing out in defense but never making a direct move to kill him. Some vengeful spirits are like that. They want to be left alone.
His curses aren't responding to him properly, though. That's worrisome.
Still, nothing is happening externally.
He thinks that must be why your technique isn't working. He could still feel it until just a moment ago, like a warm blanket over his head, settling nicely in the space around the battle-field. The actualization of luck: the ability to sense where luck will strike and turn it into cursed energy. You still haven't learned how to utilize it properly, so it works best when applied on physical properties. A particular area, a particular body, attacks that you can see with your eye. It might land in a different spot than usual, a gap in momentum may be created, a tree might fall to the ground in front of your opponent and block their escape route…
There are many components to "luck". Your ability lies in reading them. But when applied like this, recklessly, desperately, on an opponent who's attacks you can't understand—
He isn't surprised when your knees buckle.
Isn't caught off guard when he has to catch you with one arm, and sees a trail of crimson running from your nose down your lips.
(Worried, though. That, he'll always be when it comes to you.)
"Stick to the sidelines for now," he whispers above you. One of his smaller cursed spirits, sluggish but still listening, comes to usher you away. "I'll handle the rest."
"Suguru, I—" you swallow dryly. "I can't feel my technique."
"… I know." Suguru sighs. "We'll worry about that later. I've got it, alright? I'll come get you."
He can tell from the look in your eye that you aren't happy. Far from it, hesitance and frustration burrowed into the hazy, dilated pupils of a body pushed well beyond its limits, directed not at him but at yourself. You're too tired to protest, though. Suguru makes sure you're all sorted, led farther into the woods on the back of the serpent-like curse, its tail curled protectively around your body.
Then he turns to face his opponent. She makes no move to pursue you, knowing he's the only real threat. It's a welcome relief.
Thinking is still difficult. It's still difficult to move, watching her flicker, the echo of coins and glass cruising around in his skull. Clean-up missions are always risky— he's sure none of the locals know of this location, the rotten bundle of cursed energy clinging to the well. He already has an idea of its cause. Past disappearances, serial murders, and the perfect hiding spot. That's not his mess to untangle, but it's something to file away for later reports.
Suguru takes a breath. Roots his cursed energy to the ends of his ankles, his feet on the ground, and attempts to get in touch with his senses. The polyester of his uniform is soft beneath his palms. The stench of rotten plum tree hangs heavy in the air. The click, click, click of coins being rustled in a pair of bony palms makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He scans the battlefield, pupils struggling to land where he wants them to; disorienting, like weaving a sieve through muddy waters, but still doable. His curses aren't moving, some of them trembling, others circling the target, seemingly unsure of what their next move should be. They're stuck in a stalemate. Stasis.
Suguru knows this kind of curse: the kind sorcerers get lost in. Their bodies slowly broken down, their minds lulled into dream-like passivity, their corpses found wide-eyed and untouched days later. He finds them especially terrifying. Interesting, too.
But this curse doesn't know what Suguru is capable of turning it into.
All he needs is one clear opening. One good strike, and he can breach the distance she's created. He needs a curse unaffected by mental disarray. Better yet— a curse that can only be properly utilized when in mental disarray.
He summons Kuchisake-onna.
You don't like it when Suguru takes care of you.
This tendency of yours is by no means new to him. You came to Tokyo Jujutsu High as a transfer student two months into his first year, wide-eyed and fawn-legged and late to class on your first day. In over their head, Satoru whispered to him. Not unkind, just stating the obvious. He does that a lot. It's exactly why his jabs sting, but Satoru has no sense for that kind of thing.
Of course, Suguru tuned him out. Half-enamored by the look of you. The smile on your face, how you'd laughed to ease the tension when you admitted to oversleeping and Yaga-sensei pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh, cherry petals in your hair from where you stood next to the opened window. A breath of fresh air. When he was put on duty to show you around the school, the training field, the weaponry— Suguru was pleased.
But he noticed it, during that first hour you spent together. When you insisted on paying him back for the drink he got you from the vending machine; how you'd ask about his own background when he tried to ask for yours, smoothly redirecting the conversation. How you'd stiffened briefly, shifted in place when he held the door open to let you in first.
To the naked eye, that's good behaviour. Standard politeness. Give and get.
Suguru knows better.
Because as much as he knew you were trying to hide it, cover it up with a smile and a laugh, your expression back then wasn't one of politeness. There was only the subtleties of discomfort. You don't like it when the spotlight stays on you for too long, and you don't like accepting favours without giving something back. He gets that. Care is a heavy drug. If you aren't used to leaning on others, it won't come to you that easy. He understands. Really.
It only made him want to get to know you more, though.
(Funny how that works. You were never going to get out of being courted by him; Suguru is a boy who knows what he wants, if nothing else. There's only room for one Tokyo Jujutsu High student in your heart, and it's him. He’s made sure of that.)
… Deep down, he'd assumed it would change once you started dating. That you'd realize he wants to look after you, or that you'd accept the idea if it's coming from your boyfriend. That you'd learn how to ask him for help when you need it. Mutual understanding. Partner to partner. Something like that. The special connection only you two share.
But, even now, you are hesitant to lean on him. It grates at him like nothing else, now more than ever.
Two weeks have gone by since your technique sputtered out in the precipice of battle, but it still hasn't returned to normal. Stale, is how you described it. When I try to use it, it feels like dragging a spoon through mud… Seriously. It's the worst. Suguru absorbed the vengeful cursed spirit before taking you back home with him, so any lingering hex placed by her should have already dissipated. That can't be the issue.
Shoko's theory is that you pushed your senses so far they need to relearn the basics for a while. Spatial awareness, cursed energy control— everything your technique needs to function as it should. That means more training, less missions. More time spent with Yaga-sensei, less time spent with him. He knows you hate that. You get restless if you sit still for too long, and there's nothing you hate more than being left out of a mission him and Satoru are going to. It's a stark reminder of the difference in your capabilities: Suguru doesn't think of it as a bad thing, but you always get so silent with him. Always ask, sheepishly, why they aren't letting you tag along.
Luck isn't always applicable, he says. There are better and worse uses for it. It's nothing more or less than that.
When you hang your head, half-unconsciously, he regrets being honest with you. Wishes there was a way for him to tell you that you don't need to be strong without hurting your feelings. Not all techniques are suited for combat. It doesn't make you less significant. It doesn't make you any less special in his eyes.
(… If he told you that now, he thinks he'd break your heart.)
One, two knocks ring out against the door to your dorm room. Suguru is holding a plate with one hand, a mug murmuring steam towards the ceiling with the other. On the plate is a neatly cut sandwich, well furnished with veggies and meat— bread is all they have left in the pantry, because a certain someone dropped the entire bag of rice down the sink— and slices of fruit from a local market by the train station closest to the school. The owner likes him, so he always comes back with more than he can carry, apricots and plums and perfectly pink peaches.
Today has been a slow day. It's still springtime, edging into summer, but curses have already been found swarming Tokyo's middle schools, appearing in larger packs than usual. He was sent to clear the area with Satoru. An easy mission. He only had to absorb three of them, one of each kind, so the taste didn't linger for longer than the hour-long trip back.
When he entered the dormitory's kitchen lounge, Haibara and Nanami told him you haven't left your room since breakfast. That's why he's here, knocking at your door— bringing the kitchen to you. Selfishly, because he doesn't really want anyone else to see you when you're feeling blue. Wants to be the first to check up on you, make sure you're alright, watch you eat what he brought you. It'll cheer you up, hopefully. Make you smile at him, ask him to hold you. Maybe. If he's lucky.
… Though he shouldn't be greedy, either.
When the door opens, Suguru's heart twists. You're blinking up at him, slowly, weary lashes weighing down and up. Out of sorts, glancing down at the plate with a blank expression. He smiles.
"I brought you lunch.”
As easy as breathing, you step to the side; letting him slip into your dorm room. Built in routine, the kind that makes his heart flutter. "Thanks, Suguru."
"You aren’t skipping meals, are you?” He watches you sit down on the side of your mattress, your bedsheets tangled up and tousled like a kitten had its way with it, one of your pillows sprawled out on the floor. Suguru loves your dorm room: loves how it reflects everything you are. Band posters fastened to the wall above your bed, board games stashed into a corner on the shelf, figurines you've gotten from gashapons in the past. For my technique, you'd tell him after stopping in the middle of the street, hunting for loose change in your pockets. He's learned to keep spare change close at hand for you, though it's not a given you'll accept it. I want to see if I can apply it here…
Fondness blooms in his breast. Even the unmade bed and dying houseplant on the windowsill instill something like endearment in him. It's you, after all. You in your mess, you in your well furnished. You, you, you.
"It's not like that," you reassure him. "I just forgot. I've been studying."
"Studying?"
You nod.
"Not too hard, I hope."
"Nah. Just the basics. Like Shoko said."
… Your tone of voice shifts at the end there. Something pitiful. The way you're seated, the look in your eye; it reminds him of a bird with broken wings. Staring up at the branches of the tree where its nest is.
"Baby." His voice is soft, delighting silently in how the pet name makes you squirm, shy as a fawn. Another thing it seems you can't get used to. "Are you okay?"
You dangle your legs, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine. It's just boring. And I don't know what to do."
"That doesn't sound fine."
You give a sheepish smile. It doesn't put his mind at ease in the slightest. Suguru raises a firm brow, keen eyes cutting into yours, and you stammer out a laugh.
"I'm… I'll be okay. I just miss going on missions with you, and stuff."
"I know." He misses it too. Missions with Satoru are always exciting, but nothing beats spending time with you alone. "But you need the rest."
"…"
He knows you disagree. You don't need to tell him. Haven't I rested enough? He can practically hear it.
"You gave me a scare back then." He walks towards you and holds out the plate until your fingers come to curl around the ceramic edges, bringing it pliantly to your lap. "I don't want you pushing yourself like that again. Okay?" His smile is kind, but it doesn't make you look any smaller, on the cusp of curling in on yourself. Suguru doesn't like seeing you like this.
At the same time, he…
"… You do too much for me, Suguru."
"Huh?" His gaze snaps to yours. You're smiling somberly, looking down at the peeled fruit cut into slices. He almost wants to ask you to repeat yourself. "What makes you say that?"
"Just… This. And missions." A beat. "And everything, actually. I just don't want you to worry."
Suguru tries not to furrow his brow. How can you say that, when you barely let him do a thing for you? You don't let him carry your bags when your arms get tired, you don't let him do your share of the laundry. You don't let yourself be selfish with his time the way he'd like you to.
That's too much?
"That much is natural," he responds. Trying to keep his voice even. "I'm your boyfriend."
"… But I," you breathe, "don't do anything for you."
"That's not true. You do more than you think." Suguru's lips furl in silent distaste, like he just bit into a lemon peel. "You do too much on your own. I want to help."
He must sound desperate, because that's how he feels. Desperate like a dog. Fiending for scraps, battering its paws against a chain-link fence. Suguru wants to grab you by the cheeks and look into your eyes until you believe him, but he can't let himself be so uninhibited with you— doesn't want to say too much and end up pushing you away.
He just wishes you would take his hand when it's offered to you. That's all.
Your face is framed by strings of shadow, waves of them caressing your cheekbones, down-turned and shut-out. "I want to," he echoes. "You don't let me do enough."
…
Inhale, exhale. He watches your lips part.
"Thank you." You muster a half-smile, meeting his gaze with crescent eyes. They're lacking luster. "I appreciate it. Really. But I just want to be alone right now, to be honest."
Suguru watched you. Fox-eyed, sharp.
Contemplates denying you that isolation.
"… Alright."
Before he leaves, he runs a gentle palm down your head. Ruffles your hair. It makes your lips draw into a smile, flimsy as a sheet of paper, as a talisman waiting to be ripped into shreds. It's better than nothing. Suguru doesn't want to leave. Obviously not. He wants to help you study, help you sleep. His palms itch to do more, but he knows it'll be futile.
You'll just reject it again.
"But make sure you get some rest," he clears his throat. "And eat what I brought you. Okay?"
"Okayyy."
He puffs out a breath. "Good."
When the door to your dorm-room closes behind him, Suguru tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. The light is broken, giving out faint flickers, burning into his gaze. Dead flies are stuck to the inside of the paper sheet. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh.
(There's nothing he can do about this helplessness.)
One rainy morning in May, Suguru enters Jujutsu High's library premises with a mission in mind.
He walks past the books on innate techniques, the tombs of history he spent his first few weeks after enrollment scouring through, up the stairs and past the infamous Domain Expansions: To Master Barrier Techniques by an unnamed sorcerer of the Heian era—
and stops by the essays and academic papers written on sense-based techniques.
The selection isn't grand. They have more in Kyoto, he's almost certain. Yaga-sensei isn't the textbook type; if it weren't for the principal and past faculty, Suguru doubts their library would be this furnished. It's enough, though. He flips through a few of the soft-covers and bundles of threaded-together paper, tucking the most note-worthy of the bunch under his arm. Nanami is sitting on one of the tables downstairs, reading through a book on cursed energy application— Suguru reads off the title as he takes the seat opposite of his junior, who looks up only to give his upperclassman a polite nod of greeting. Suguru doesn't mind that Nanami is quiet. It's nice to have that in a school like theirs. With classmates like theirs. No pressure to speak or make small talk.
He leans back, and relaxes his shoulders. Opens one of the smaller essays at page number one.
Suguru's mission is a simple one: help his partner. Recently, you've been wanting to take your technique in new directions. From the ability to sense lucky spots, to the ability to create them yourself. The evolution of your Luck Shall Follow is a Lucky Break: forcing the possibility of luck onto your target, a weak spot for your allies to abuse. You told him last night, mouth full of takeout he brought with him post-mission— half-sheepish, like you were afraid he'd discourage you. But Suguru couldn't have been prouder. And, though you seemed hesitant, he's grateful that you spoke to him about it. The least he could do is his fair share of research. Even if you're too stubborn to ask him for help, he's always been a good teacher.
What you need is an even stronger grasp of what components your technique centers around. To direct luck, you have to understand it; see the full path it travels down. You have to break it down until the pieces couldn't get any smaller. You have good instincts, he thinks. It's the basic understanding that needs honing.
Suguru hums, thumb in between two pages: hunting eagerly for any information he can relay to you later. 'Abilities built around utilizing the senses were, as far as our records show, the foundation of olden sorcery; sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste— and of course the infamous sixth sense. Out of these human traits blossomed sense-based sorcery, not only by utilizing cursed energy to strengthen them for survival, but by sharpening one's innate cursed technique—…' Nothing new. He flips forward, the soothing sound of pages falling. 'The ability to sense what should be unseen is the first any sorcerer gains. Certain sorcerers attain an even wider scope of sight: the ability to view the abstract. Emotions, elements of the human body, and any manner of things. In the Kamakura period, a sorcerer by the name of Shinonome was said to have had an innate technique that allowed him to see people's pasts and futures flutter behind them, reflected in a swarm of broken glass.'
Suguru flips forward. Yet another section.
'… Further development of this technique is said to have granted him mastery of weather currents. He began to use it for directing storm-clouds to the wheat fields surrounding his village, securing a bountiful harvest. The innate ability to sense became the ability to warp reality.'
There.
Just when he's about to continue the passage— his cellphone buzzes in his pocket. It almost makes him jolt. He fumbles for it, inwardly wincing when Nanami gives him a weathered look, flips it open and glances at the contact.
It's Satoru.
Suguru answers. "Hell—"
"Where are you?"
…
A weary exhale. "Greet me first."
On the other end of the line, a thoroughly drawn out sigh. "Hey, Suguru. You're so annoying." Suguru's brow twitches. Before he can tell his best friend off, he continues: "Where? I wanna go to the city today. You down?"
"I can't right now." He continues to idly read through the weather-based section, skimming the contents with his eyes. "I'm reading."
"Reading?! Dude, how do you not get enough of studying?"
"It's not for me. It's for ▇▇.” Suguru tuts. "I'm helping them look into their technique. Ask Shoko to go with you."
"Ohhh. They told you about it?"
"… Huh?" He blinks. Gaze moving towards the phone at the corner of his vision, subconsciously, as if he could find Satoru looking back at him. Suguru tries not to frown. "How do you know about it?"
"They asked me about it. After class." Ah. He remembers. You stayed behind for what must have been at least half an hour, urging him to get lunch without you. (Not that he did.) He'd assumed you were going to talk to Yaga-sensei, though. Not— "I guess they thought I'd have something useful to say 'cause of the Six Eyes. Well, I did try, though. I figured they were keeping it a secret from you."
(… Why would you ask Satoru?)
Suguru bites his inner cheek. Jealousy festers in his gut, hot and oily.
No, more importantly—
"Why would they keep something like that a secret from me?"
"I don't know. Because you're a mother hen?" He can practically see Satoru's careless shrug through the phone line. "They want to develop their technique into something more offensive, right? Something that'll let them fight on their own. Even I thought you'd be a little put off."
…
"Well, good on you, I guess. Maybe you can stop being so overprotective now."
"Satoru," Suguru's voice feels raw in his mouth. "What are you talking about?"
"… Huh?" The line goes silent. "So they didn't tell you? Or did you just not realize what they meant?"
His stomach twists. Satoru's jabs are never meant to hurt as much as they do, Suguru reminds himself. Inhales, for five silent seconds, and exhales: feels his chest lift, then deflate.
"I didn't realize."
"Oh." A beat. For once, his best friend seems to be weighing his words. "I know you might not… love the idea. But it's a good thing, right?"
"Right."
"Weird that they didn't tell you."
"Mm."
"… I'll ask Shoko to go with me."
"Sounds good." Suguru cards through his bangs. Restless hands. Closes his eyes, and looks into the dark of his own skull. "Bye, Satoru."
"B—"
He hangs up.
…
So. Here's what Suguru knows:
1) Your Lucky Break is meant to be an individualistic offensive technique. That's just fine.
2) You were hiding it from him, though.
3) You told Satoru about it before you told him. You asked Satoru to help you figure it out, instead of asking him.
How is he supposed to contend with that?
(Suguru was awake when you first moved into the dorms. He remembers it in perfect detail, down to the thud your bags made when they hit the floor through the thin wall between you. He was lying in bed, unable to sleep, staring up at the ceiling; made sure to get up off the mattress and gently clink the empty cup on his nightstand, just so you'd hear him too.
It felt like a secret between the two of you. Even though he didn't get to greet you until the morning after, you had already met before sunrise. To some extent— Suguru always felt like you were his. He heard you first, felt you first. He knew of you before Satoru or Shoko. Sensei asked him to show you around, because he knew he was the only one suited for it. You're his partner. He's your boyfriend.
… So why did you go to Satoru for help?
Why not him?)
Suguru simmers in the feeling. Waits for it to come to a boil. Not anger, but frustration.
He wants to kick something. Satoru, ideally. Maybe swallow a curse, just to forget about the rotten taste of what he's feeling now.
Has he really failed you this much? You can't even ask him for advice anymore? Do you trust Satoru's judgment more, just because he's been a sorcerer for longer? Because he was a prodigy from birth? Satoru doesn't even know basic history. Satoru didn't know Ryōmen Sukuna was a human being and not a curse until Yaga-sensei held that class three weeks ago. Satoru doesn't know a damn thing that wasn't hand-fed to him by the clan elders——
Suguru closes the book on the table in front of him and stands up from his chair.
"… Are you alright?"
Nanami asks, staring at him from the other seat. Usually he wouldn't intrude like this. It'd warm Suguru's heart if it wasn't so muddied by his thoughts.
"Yes." He turns to his underclassman with a smile on his lips. "I'm fine."
He doesn't believe him, obviously, but that's just as well. Suguru doesn't believe himself either. He walks up the staircase and puts the book back on the shelf where he got it, then walks out of the library with a heavy heart and a vacant expression. Bright-green leaves scatter around his feet, catching streaks of golden sunlight breaking through the cloud-line in the sky. Summertime is almost here.
It's difficult, he thinks. It's difficult to be loved by you when you don't want him loving you back.
How is he supposed to approach the situation?
Suguru chooses force.
It's early in the morning when he knocks curtly at your door. One, two knocks, in rapt succession.
You wake up shortly after 8 AM on most days. An hour or two later on weekends, depending on how hard you worked the day before. (You sleep like a baby on nights after back-to-back missions, two or three in succession. Not even slipping his tongue into your mouth could wake you. Not that that's something he's thought of trying.) He's sure you're still asleep now: curled up in bedsheets, legs to your chest, cheek smushed against your pillowcase. Infuriatingly adorable. If he thinks about it too long, he'll lose his strength of will, so—
Another knock. Sharper.
Behind the door, the sound of rustling. Bare feet meeting floorboards, moving sluggishly towards him. His palm moves on instinct, fingers curling through his bangs.
And the door opens. You're blinking at him as if you're still half-asleep, eyelids drawing up and down like haphazardly closed window-blinds, weighty with whatever dreams you were having before he roused you awake. It makes his heart pang with guilt. Like this, watching your tousled hair and unguarded face, he…
…
No.
This time, he has no choice but to be firm.
Suguru's smile is tight-knit. A crescent moon hung on its side, sculpted by monsoons.
"Good morning, baby."
You blink at him again. Lips parting slightly.
"… Morning, Suguru."
"How did you sleep?" He lets himself in, guiding you seamlessly, his broad palm falling down to rest over your lower back. Voice carefully sharpened. Like a coyote circling its prey.
"Um, I…" you rub your eyes as the door falls shut behind you. "Good. I think. I don't remember."
A breezy chuckle. "You don't remember?" His gaze is fond where it holds yours, sitting down with you on the bedside. Your shoulders knock together. The mattress creaks beneath your shared weight. The lights in your room are off, so Suguru leans back to open the window-blinds until they've let in enough hazy streaks of dawn to illuminate your face. "I guess I woke you up, huh? I'm sorry."
You shake your head. Leaning against him, too tired to keep your head up— it makes Suguru's heartbeat sputter like a marble dropped on ragged concrete. It makes him feel more solid than a brick-wall, softer than the pillows scattered across your bed.
"It's okay."
He watches you silently.
Carefully, after a moment's hesitation, he brings his hand to your face. Cups the apple of your cheek, and lets his thumb ghost the sensitive skin under your bleary eye. Your eyes flutter shut in response— Pavlovian— a dog to a bell-chime, even though you hold the leash to his heart. He wonders if you realize that.
He wonders if he hasn't made it clear enough.
"What did you talk to Satoru about?" Suguru asks, smiling tightly. Only his eyes remain gentle. "After class."
"Oh." Slowly, your eyelids blink open. "We, um… just stuff, you know."
"Stuff."
"Yeah."
"Just stuff," he echoes. Sucking on a laugh. It comes out sharper than he meant it. "For forty minutes?"
The air between you shifts— sparks with the beginnings of unease, blisters on the palms of whatever gravity is keeping you both side by side like this. He can't dull the spike of anger in his voice, and he knows you've heard it when you stiffen beside him. When you try to move your cheek from his collarbone. Which is the very last thing Suguru wants, so he guides you back with a palm on your skull, not firm, but insistent. You melt into it nervously.
"… Suguru," you whisper. "Are you mad at me?"
No, he wants to say. Never at you.
I'm mad at Satoru, and Shoko, and Yaga-sensei. Nanami and Haibara too. I'm mad at everyone who enables your behaviour. Who don't hold the door open for you, who don't ask if you've eaten by dinnertime, who don't tell you to take a break when you're obviously looking to exert yourself beyond your capabilities. I'm mad at whoever made you like this in the first place.
I'm mad at myself.
"No," slips up his throat. The word tastes like ash. "I'm not mad. I'm upset, though."
"Why?"
The word is meek off your lips. It makes him want to lay himself at your feet. But Suguru is mad— just not at you— and he doesn't have it in him not to let it show. Not right now.
"Because you didn't ask me." A slow inhale, air flooding his lungs. "You asked Satoru. Why is that?"
His palm curls against your bedsheets. Forms a fist, white cloth spilling out through the gaps between his fingers, his gaze bleeding gold and ochre. Suguru can't hide the hurt in his voice, and he hates that more than anything.
"Why do you trust me so little?"
Your eyes widen.
Anxiety squirms in the black of your pupils, lips parting around a sound that doesn't make it out of you. You close your mouth again. Then make another move to pull away, maybe to look at him properly, but he won't let you. Doesn't let you move an inch. Petty. His mother liked to call him that when he got silent with her.
(Suguru feels beastial. Like he could eat you. He hates the feeling— desire spilling over itself.)
"Suguru, I didn't mean it like that," you rush to explain yourself. "I just— I didn't want to bother you with it."
"Bother me."
…
This time— Suguru does laugh. It isn't cruel, nor is it sharp. It's…
"Is that how you think I feel?"
(… Exhausted.)
"I don't know what I need to do to make you understand. To make you see things from my perspective. But if you think I've ever," he nearly seethes, only his voice is too quiet now to have that much of a bite, "ever, seen you as a burden— You're wrong. Alright?"
When you flinch against him, Suguru's palm slips from the back of your head. You pull away from him, standing up clumsily. Like a rabbit about to break into sprint, he thinks cynically. Are you going to run away from me again?
"Suguru."
And Ah, he realizes.
You're about to cry. That's why his heart doesn't feel like it's beating anymore.
"I don't…" your gaze falls to the floor, mouth formed around a garbled murmur. The sunlight from the window glides across your face, the dip of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose. "I love you. I really do love you, I just can't—"
A sniffle, barely-there, tugs at the back of your throat. He put it there, he thinks. The confession jabs the blade in his heart deeper; a smack against the handle. It cuts between his ribs.
"I don't know how to do this."
"… Do what?"
You make a gesture with your hands, smiling brokenly. "This. I don't… know how. I've tried."
Your breath is staggered— unsteady in your breast. He watches you worriedly, sure it's showing on his features; watches you take a moment to gather yourself. There's something so fractured about your expression. As if you've been keeping this dam in your throat all this time. That hurts more than anything.
How long have you wanted to speak to him like this?
How long have you been avoiding it?
"I know you want me to rely on you. I'm not stupid." He wants to cut in— tell you that he's never once thought that— But Suguru bites his lower lip to keep himself silent. You need this, too. "But it makes me so uneasy. I promise I've tried, Suguru. It just doesn't…" a breath pulls at your teeth, weather-worn. "it never feels right."
…
"Isn't that," he exhales, "because you aren't used to it?"
The expression you're wearing now is tight-strung. Your features drawn together, set into firm lines. Like you're about to take a leap off a mountain trail, still gathering the courage.
"You don't know how to be taken care of," he summarizes. "If I want to be the one to teach you— is that so wrong? Is it still that scary?"
You wring your hands together. Inner palm cupping the small of your wrist. "… Yeah."
"… Even if it's me?"
"Especially when it's you," you laugh breathlessly. It doesn't sound much like laughter at all. "Because I like you so much. More than anyone. The last thing I want is to become another chip on your shoulder, Suguru." You bite down on your lip. "… You're always taking care of everyone. Not just me. I don't want to contribute to that."
"What? I don't…" his brows furrow. "I've never felt that way about you. And you're not just like anyone else."
"I know that's how you feel, but—"
"No." Suguru cups your jaw. It shocks you out of speaking, makes you focus on him and nothing else. He stands up with you, leaning over your frame, half-threatening, hunting for the eye contact you're trying to flee from. The amber of his eyes is aflame with angered love. "You're trying to give me something that I don't want from you. That I've never asked of you. Who are you to decide that all on your own?"
Your eyes are still wet, unshed tears pooling at the corners. He shouldn't be so rough with you, he knows. Shouldn't be this firm. But it's hard— it's hard when you say things like that, and look at him like this——
"I want to take care of you. I want you to need my help. For everything, ideally." His eyes bore into yours, never letting them stray. He wants you to hear this. Feel this. Thinks he'll go crazy if you don't. "I'm not being polite. That's my own selfish desire. I want you to need me. When you don't, I…"
…
(On the back of his tongue: a sour taste.)
"I feel like I've failed you."
The words ring out like a bad omen. Sorcerers shouldn't be careless with their words: That's the first thing Yaga-sensei taught him, before he even moved into the dorms. Suguru has always taken them to heart. Even as a child, he knew to think before he spoke. Knew words carry weight. That they have consequences.
But now, in this moment— he's letting his greatest insecurities spill out of him. Can't take them back, because they've already splattered on the floor for you to see. If love makes you this careless, he thinks, is it really any different from a curse?
His hand forms a knuckle, the indents of his nails digging crescents into his palm.
"You've… You've never failed me," you frown. "You're always good to me, Suguru. Seriously."
He holds a sigh between his teeth.
"I wish you'd trust me more. That's all." He collects himself; Think before you speak. Reigns himself back in, a bull finding solace in the firm palms at the juncture of its horns, blisters blooming against the ridges. Don't take your anger out on them. It isn't anyone's to bear but you. "I know it's not that easy, but..."
…
"I'm sorry," you mumble. As if there's nothing else to say. Your voice is soft and battered. "I don't know how to fix it. Sometimes it's just… so overwhelming. I want to like it. I do."
Suguru's hand slips from your chin. He shakes his head, after a moment. "I should have been more considerate. Maybe I've been pushing too hard."
"No. Anyone else would love that about you." A beat. "I love that about you. Even when you're a little… intense." Heat gnaws at the back of his neck, nipping at his nerve-ends. Suguru clears his throat discreetly. "I wish it was easier for me. To depend on you like you want me to. Honestly."
"It can be," he tries. "It'll get easier with time."
…
Your fingers curl around the fabric of your shorts. A gentle anchor. Through the window, slathers of rusted gold and tangerine come to cradle your features. The beckoning of a sun late to rise. Suguru doesn't even feel the fatigue anymore, the lead in his sleep-less limbs: all he can do is stare at you, breathlessly, waiting.
"You think so?"
"I know so," Suguru promises. Sharp facial features, broad shoulders accentuated by the sunlight. Eyes soft, always, only for you. "I'll be patient. I won’t force it. But can you try, for me? Even when it's scary? Can you believe me when I say you're not a bother?"
…
After a moment— though it feels like a century spent at your ankle, down on his knees— you nod. Suguru's heart loosens its shoulders, goes limp under the bird-cage of his battered ribs.
"Okay," he exhales. "Good."
For a moment, all is still. Silently, he begins to wipe your unshed tears away: the pad of his thumb rubbing gently at the corners of your eyes. Catching them before they can think to fall, slip down your cheeks, like he's counting rain-drops cruising down a car window. Like he's cupping the innermost parts of you, pressing kisses where it hurts the worst.
"Thank you."
You shake your head, snuggling closer. Still weary, still fragile. So, so very fragile like this. In the dim light, in the crook between his neck and shoulder, whispering so low he has to strain his ears to hear: "Are we… okay?"
"We are." He cradles you closer, tethering you to his chest. His heart beats a lullaby for you. "More than okay. Talks like this will only make us stronger. Better suited for each other."
"… It's scary, though."
"I know," he croons. His palm slips down your spine, rubbing gentle circles into the small of your back, tender eights. "But we'll get through it. We've got luck on our side, remember?"
Finally, you smile. It's weak, but sincere. Suguru lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding: leaning forward to press a kiss at your temple, relieved that he could salvage this dam waiting to break. Relieved that there's something for his hands to do, and places for his lips to land. This is the first of several challenges you'll face together, but he isn't worried. Not anymore. Not right now, at least.
No one gets to see you like this but him. A wounded bird on his wrist, letting him hold its broken wing in his palm.
It's a start, he thinks. A leap off the ground.
"… Suguru."
He bends his gaze from where his feet are planted, gently untangling his hair from the hasty bun he threw it into this morning. "Yes?"
"Is this…" you shift from one foot to the other, holding a pure-white towel in your arms. It looks good there. Soft. Makes him want to hug you tight. "… really necessary?"
Suguru smiles. His hair falls across his shoulders, across his back, a pitch-black meteor shower.
"It is."
And he turns his back on you. Turning on the shower-head, then stepping away to avoid the downpour, waiting for the temperature to rise. It takes a while for the communal showers. With an exhale, he pulls off his uniform. The black fabric gives way to white, his buttoned-up undershirt. His hands move to unfasten it.
Behind his back, he can practically feel you squirming.
"I won't look," he promises. Unless you want me to. "Just let me wash your back, baby."
"But… why?"
You sound embarrassed.
"To teach you how to lean on me. How to let yourself be taken care of." He turns around, half of his chest bare. Tries not to smile when your gaze drops, then flees all over again. "I'm not expecting you to change in a day, but this will be progress. Does that sound okay?"
A moment passes.
"… If you really want to, I guess."
Another smile; deeper. It carves all the way to the corners of his eyes. "I do." Suguru steps away to fumble with the last of the buttons, until his entire chest is bare: warm skin and a few sun-shade moles smeared like kisses on his collarbone. After he's taken the undershirt off, he drapes it over his bicep. Then steps away to give you space. "You should go in first. Face the wall if you're shy. I won't peek."
"… Okay."
Ah, you sound nervous. It shouldn't make his heart flutter. But as he imagines you, eyes shutting in silent loyalty— imagines you moving your arms, dragging your uniform up and over your head, left in nothing but a tank top, or a t-shirt, or maybe nothing at all— Suguru's mouth waters. This isn't lust. It's not something that can be so neatly defined.
(When he pictures you, the flustered, vulnerable state you're in, physically and emotionally: Suguru thinks to himself that he'd truly do anything for you.)
Darkness. Overwhelming, blanketing darkness. He sees nothing else. Suguru hears only the shuffling of fabric, and finally, the sound of bare feet against the floor. Moving forward, beyond him, coming to a halt. His heartbeat aligns with the rhythm of your steps.
"… I'm done," you call softly.
And Suguru opens his eyes.
He makes quick work of his pants. Leaves his underwear on, with your comfort in mind. Then he turns to where you're standing, your naked back facing him, the lines of your neck and spine already hot with steam and shower-water, and moves until he's hovering above you. Close. Close enough that he feels sheepish. Warmth buds between your bodies. Warmth from the water, warmth from the tender nervosity bubbling in the air.
Suguru knows how much trust this must have took from you. He intends to reward that.
"Is the water okay?"
"Yeah. It's perfect."
"Good."
Body wash, shampoo, conditioner… he even brought you some of his expensive herbal oils. Anything you could need. They're stacked on the shower floor; he leans forwards and picks up the body wash, uncaps the lid and squirts a dollop onto his palms. Rubs them together until it starts to froth and the air begins to smell of honey and lavender. Your shoulders remain tensed-up, like you're waiting for a strike in the back of your neck.
"Are you sure this is fine?" He hears hesitance in your tone. "Nobody will walk in?"
"No one. You have my word." Suguru puts his hands on your shoulders, working his way down your lower back. It makes you squirm, so he remains careful. Slow enough not to overwhelm you. "I locked the door. They'll know not to force it. Nanami does it all the time."
"Oh… Okay."
He digs his thumb into the tender skin under your shoulder-blade. Waits for your body to respond. A twitch, or a shiver, a feathery flexing of your bones. You let out a shaky breath. "Don't be nervous, baby. It's just you and me."
"I know," you exhale. "It feels… nice."
Suguru's lips draw up at that. The branches of a plum-tree, budding into bloom.
He avoids doing too much. Lathering your back, shoulders and collarbone in sweet-smelling froth, all the way down to your forearms. It's fine if he doesn't get all the spots. Your comfort is more important. And the purpose of this runs deeper than just washing. Once he's finished, the shower-head rinsing it away, he changes to the hair products.
It's soothing. Quiet. He works at a slow pace, cradling your scalp with both palms.
"Um. Suguru?"
Like a dog, he responds within a heartbeat. Like he's leashed to the chamber of your voice. "Yes?"
"Is this really… good, for you?" you ask him, shifting subtly from one foot to another. He doesn't hear you well under the patter of water, so he leans closer, his breath ghosting the back of your head. "You like doing this? Honestly?"
…
He can't help it. Suguru leans down, and presses a kiss at the nape of your neck. Water clings to the seam of his lips, his nose pressed against you. He feels you shiver in response, like you've never been touched here before in your life. Like he's the only one who's ever come this close. He can't explain what that does to him. "Honestly." Then, after a moment, half in jest: "I feel like a god."
Just as he hoped, it makes you laugh.
You even turn your head to meet his gaze, the colour of your eyes shining through the steam. "A god?"
"A god," he echoes. Stifling a grin. "Your shower god."
"That's so… silly."
Suguru shrugs.
"I can be silly," another kiss, this time smeared against your shoulder. Hot water in his mouth. Worth it, for this. "For you."
Only for you.
You hum. It sits low in your throat.
"Yeah." He hears the smile in your voice, bleeding honey and gold. "You can."
After that, only silence, woven into the very space between you. You've melted against his fingers now, gone soft and pliant under the weight of the experience. You're like a small animal after a good meal. Docile, curled up with its belly exposed. Suguru keeps rubbing your scalp, washing your hair free of the conditioner. The air smells of lavender and coconut. He breathes it in, hungry.
"Suguru?" you break the silence. He hears that you're weary, feels that you're drowsy. Knows you'll fall asleep standing up before long.
"Yes?"
"I… love you." You say it shyly this time. Almost like a question. Like you're hoping he'll tell you you're exactly right. It's different from before, and better when you aren't close to crying— like you're just now realizing the weight of those words, the reality of what you're signing yourself up for. "I just want you to know that."
Suguru's chest blooms with pride. Warmth. Warmth in abundance, sweltering, his heart melting like candle-wax and dripping down the drain.
"I do know." He wraps his arms around your waist, bringing your back against his chest, skin to skin. His heart beats against you. Now, too, he feels abyssal. Like he could protect you from anything at all. As long as he gets to have you here after long missions, on nights that stretch on too long, mornings that have him struggling to let go of you— he thinks he'll learn to live with letting you fight by yourself. Maybe. "And I love you too. More than you know."
Silently, all to himself, he thinks:
Now that I've said it once, I'm scared I'll never stop. That I'll keep saying it until my tongue goes numb.
You let out a soft, contemplative noise. Something like low-lilted bird chatter. He smiles into your hair, water dripping down his chin, down his chest, down his abdomen. If he drowns here, he'll be happy.
(… Okay. Maybe he does need to work on his intensity. That can wait another day.)
The ones who plead with you as you hide behind a locked bathroom door, begging for you to please let them back in. The ones that make you your favourite foods over and over until they can cook it perfectly, hiding all the burnt mistakes inside the bins. The ones who come home every day with gifts in and because they missed you so much during their eight-hour shift.
The ones who hold you so sweetly every night, hoping one day you'll aclimitise enough or become so touch starved that you eventually reciprocate their hugs. Maybe one day those hugs can evolve into more, into bare skin against bed sheets and breathlessness, but for now you allowing yourself to be held is a luxury they hold deeply against their hearts every night. Its progress from at first, when you first woke up in a home that wasn't yours, kept in a guest room until you were settled enough to move into the master bedroom.
Everything was taken at your pace, he is patient, and he wanted so hard to prove how patient he can be, thinking of you, knowing just how much he cares for you than perhaps you can stop being so terrified of him. Don't you know, sweet thing, that he would sooner burn off his own hands than ever lay them on you in anger? That he'd sooner cut off his tongue and feed it to himself before yelling at you or calling you something he would never dare say before his mother? How mother raised him right after all, raised him to be gentle and kind, he could never disgrace her memory and how hard she worked for his sake to ever harm you. He begs you to understand that no matter what you do, he would never dare to hurt you. He sits you down one night and makes a promise on his mother's well-kept grave that if he ever were to lay a finger on you in violence, then he will unlock the door and allow you to leave him. Because by the lord, he already doesn't deserve your sweetness in his life, and if he can't be grateful for you, he will not allow himself to have you. That was the first night you slept soundly beside him.
And he tries, you have to understand how hard he's trying for you, he doesn't expect you to be grateful. In fact, he expects you to hate him, to curse his name out and fight back like a cornered dog. He doesn't deserve any better than that treatment from you; he knows full well what a selfish, irredeemable man he is. How you were all set to live a beautiful life, but he stole you away from your rightful future because he could not stand that that future could never include him, as he wants to be included. Not as your friend, co-worker, or a stranger on the bus, he could never accept that role from the fates. So instead, he stole your fate from you.
You had so much promise, didn't you? So much potential? All that means nothing now as you lie down beside him on the couch, watching an old DVD copy of your favourite childhood film, the bright colours clouding together from behind your stifled tears.
Originally into Nagi, you were so excited to be absorbed into the friend group. Late night drinking at the park, summer trips to the beach, you remember putting in so much effort to look pretty in his eyes.
You weren't stupid, you knew he was popular with women. Something about those broad shoulders and his intense, wide eyes made your stomach do a flip.
But Nagi, being Nagi, was always going to be oblivious.
Isagi, on the other hand, was not.
A night out to the club to celebrate Reo's promotion, and you were dancing to the heavy bass of the music, pressed in the heat of so many people. You felt a hand rest on your hip, looking back to see Isagi behind you, head lowered as he swayed to the beat. Too tipsy to care (and Isagi was just a friend anyways), you kept dancing, back arching as you ground your ass against him.
A trip to the grocery store for a barbecue at Kunigami's, and you found yourself standing in the meat section comparing prices of beef shortrib. Isagi put his arm around you, leaning down to get a better look.
Voice low, his hand brushed yours. "This one looks good, good marbling."
You nodded. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking."
His touch was warm, hand sliding down to rub your arm. "You want help carrying these?"
It came to a head the night of Chigiri's 25th birthday, out at some new restaurant in the heart of downtown. You'd slipped outside and noticed Isagi crouched out front, typing on his phone.
You stood next to him. "Whatcha doing?"
He brought up a hand to your leg, running his fingers down your calf absentmindedly. "Just work stuff. Need to answer this email."
Isagi was always so friendly, so easy to talk to, that every sign had flown over your head. Standing, his eyes darted to your lips before he spoke. "You miss me or something? Why you out here?"
"Just wanted some fresh air, it's stuffy in there."
"Ah, shit," he laughed, putting his hands in his pockets. "Not the answer I was hoping for."
Before you could say anything, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on your cheek.
"See you back inside, huh?"
You nod, too dumbstruck to say anything.
Eyes-half lidded, you could see a light flush in his cheeks. "Don't take too long."
Contents: hurt/comfort; Reader has mental health issues (depression, social anxiety, possible manic depressive disorder, extreme insecurity)
Word Count: 1.3k
You don’t deserve love.
It is a fact, etched into mind and engraved into your heart after years of painful confirmation. You are not extraordinarily beautiful nor do you have a heart of gold. On the contrary, your face barely passes as “average” and mental illness has rendered your moods a lethal concoction of manic and depressive, the ratios depending solely on the time of day.
Nothing about you is loveable and certainly not deserving of someone like Katsuki.
Bakugou Katsuki, the man who talks big and works more than hard enough to back it up. There is truly nothing he can’t do, nothing he is not the best at. He pointedly steers clear of nonsense, never afraid to call people out on their bullshit. He doesn’t bother with false pretenses, doesn’t bother with things that would get in the way of his goals—
Which is exactly why it’s best for you to leave him alone. You’re weighed down with emotional baggage and weaknesses both mental and physical, you’re just a nuisance and it would only be a matter of time before he recognizes it and promptly cuts you from his life.
You figure it will hurt a little less if you do it first.
That’s why you leave. You skip the date the two of you had planned, the one you had been so excited for just a few days ago, scavenging the mall for hours before settling on what you deemed the perfect outfit. In retrospect it was all pointless anyway, lipstick on a pig is still a pig. Maybe, if you make it home before it starts to rain, you can still return the flowy black dress. Fold it up nicely in the fancy white bag it came in. You’re fairly certain you still have the receipt sitting on the top of—
“Oi!”
Every muscle in your body freezes at the familiar sound. For a moment you think—hope—that you’ve imagined it. The startled jumps and confused turns from the people standing on the busy street corner around you prove otherwise.
“I know ya heard me—if you try to make a run for it I swear to god I’ll hunt you down.”
You refuse to turn around and face his voice as it comes increasingly closer but you can already see the people around shooting you curious looks from the corners of your eyes. A few people step away from you warily, silently wondering what type of dangerous person would warrant the appearance of the Number Two Hero of Japan.
The pause of heavy footsteps is the only warning you get before a firm hand grabs your arm and forces you to turn around. For a moment you look up and meet his eyes, vermillion and boiling with an obvious anger—perhaps if you’d looked longer you would have noticed the worry as well—but you quickly let your head fall back down, too ashamed to meet his gaze full on.
He huffs.
“You better have some damn good excuse for standing me up on our first date.”
The Evil Eye doesn't love you. It's not in his nature as a demon, and he's not sure that it was in his nature as a human either. He wasn't loved and couldn’t love, and that's why he was given to the Tsuchinoko. But he likes to possess you nevertheless, and he often thinks about cursing you so that you’re bound to him. It would be the only way to keep you, because you probably don't love him, either—no human would embrace such a horrid and ugly existence.
You just love the Vessel he inhabits.
(Or: You and Jiji are now engaged. Of course, you have to ask the Evil Eye to marry you too.)
10.8k words. romance, smut, mild angst & comedy. rough sex with the Evil Eye (piv, creampie, overstimulation, bizarre magic, cnc elements in the “nooo it's too much” kind of way, dubcon with the magic). content warnings: aged up characterization, implied past sexual abuse (not involving Jiji or Evil Eye), brief mentions of suicidality, religious references (Taoist ghost marriage), use of English idioms that don't translate well into Japanese (forgive me), canon-typical crass humour. mdni.
I. THE GHOST
You’re in love with his Vessel.
The Evil Eye is well-aware of this. He hadn't known love as a human, but he saw it often enough in the House. Countless families moved in over the years, husbands and wives with little children who were frightened when he tried to play with them. After photography was invented, pictures lined the walls and decorated nightstands. They immortalized brides in their white kimono, grooms with their wide smiles, elegant ceremonies, decadent banquets.
The couples always looked like they were having so much fun, the Evil Eye noticed. Not just in the photos, but in their daily lives in the House—dancing with each other, pressing their lips together, laughing and singing and holding each other. Then they'd die together, hanging themselves because of that shitty worm. The Evil Eye always felt a kind of sadness seeing them in love—he’d never had that, and he'd never get it, and it was unfair in a way that filled him with a searing rage.
But he was even angrier when they died.
It used to make him angry too, when you talked about the Vessel. When he took over and he caught you laughing at something the Vessel had said, or dancing with him, or pressing your lips together. (Kissing, you’d told him the first time it happened. It's called kissing someone, when you do that.)
Then you started kissing the Evil Eye too, and suddenly he wasn't so angry anymore—the latent rage in him for once eased.
Still, it makes him feel sullen when you tell him, “Jiji and I want to get married.”
You are lying next to him in bed. Sweat is cooling on your naked body—you always get so hot when you and the Vessel get into bed with each other, or sometimes when he’s got you bent over the dining room table, or occasionally when you touch each other in that place you call the ‘locker room’, which tends to leave you extra breathless. No matter the place or the time, you’re always lighthearted, glowing, satisfied. It's the effect that the Vessel has when he’s inside you.
(Sex, you told the Evil Eye once, it's called having sex. Or making love. Not all sex is making love, but it's making love the way that Jiji and I do it. And then the Evil Eye demanded that you show him what exactly that meant, and that's when you took him inside you for the first time. He felt so good and so close with you that for a while, it was all he wanted to do.
Wants to do.)
“What does that mean,” the Evil Eye asks, although he has a good idea. You want to live in a House with the Vessel and laugh and sing and hold each other. You want to die together too, probably, your corpses hanging side-by-side from the same bannister.
“It means we’re going to dress up and make vows to spend the rest of our lives together,” you say. “And we’ll live together and build a home and maybe we’ll have babies too.”
The Evil Eye thinks of all those babies who lived in the House, impossibly tiny humans who were cradled by their mothers before they were burned alive as sacrifices. Before he became the Evil Eye—back when he was merely the ghost of a waif—he’d tried to play with them too, making silly faces and dancing as they giggled at him. He liked to pretend that they were his younger sisters or brothers, but sometimes he wondered how it'd feel to hold them and sing to them like their parents did. How it'd feel if he were a husband with a wife and a kid, what it would be like to dance with someone in the kitchen or tuck a child away into its cradle.
But every time he tried to pick the babies up, his hands would pass right through them. Kind-hearted ghosts can't love people in such a physical way; you need to be vengeful to hold onto anything. He'd had to learn to hate all humans before being able to touch them again, and now he's so rife with hatred that he can't love them anyway. All he can do is haunt them.
The Evil Eye doesn't love you. It's not in his nature as a demon, and he's not sure that it was in his nature as a human. He wasn't loved and couldn’t love, and that's why he was given to the Tsuchinoko. But he likes to possess you nevertheless, and he often thinks about cursing you so that you’re bound to him. It would be the only way to keep you, because you probably don't love him, either—no human would embrace such a horrid and ugly existence. You just love the Vessel he inhabits, and that's why he can kiss you and that's why he can hold you and that's why he’s allowed to sex with you (sex, not love—you've never called it making love when you do it with him, and you never look lighthearted after, and you never glow from his touch: he always leaves you panting, marked up, bruised, possessed).
You love the Vessel, so it makes sense that you would want to do all that with him: live in a House together and make babies together and eventually die together.
“Oh,” he says. “Sounds fun.”
You laugh. “Yes, I hope it'll be.” Then you lace your fingers with his, and look at him in a tender way that he'll probably never get used to. In a tender way that's meant for the Vessel.
“So, then,” you say almost shyly, “Do you wanna marry me too?”
II. THE VESSEL
Auntie Seiko is as beautiful, young, and no-nonsense as ever. Between meeting her as a child, coming into her care as a teenager, and now seeking her help as an adult, Jiji doesn't think she's ever changed. Most familiar to him right now is the expression that she’s wearing, the one that suggests that he might have shit for brains. Turbo Granny, perched on her shoulder, seems equally bemused, her porcelain cat eyes narrowed into judgemental slits. He'd been hoping that Momo and Okarun would understand his feelings, but they seem equally exasperated—Momo might even be a little appalled.
Anyone else might be disheartened by this reaction, but Jiji is undeterred. These are the people who once realised his wish to protect the Evil Eye; surely, they’ll also realise his wish for him to find happiness.
“—so we talked to him, right? Or my beautiful wifey talked to him, anyway—”
“We're not married yet, Jiji,” you interrupt dryly. “Don’t call me that.”
“—my future beautiful wifey talked to him about getting married, and he said yes! I'm on board. I think they should get a proper ceremony and everything. I know it's a little unconventional since she’ll be marrying me too, but I don't mind sharing, and I'd be willing to work out any legal issues. I'm sure we can find a country where polygamy is allowed.”
“Don’t you think the bigger problem is that he's an evil spirit?!” Momo asks—yells—but Jiji only shrugs.
“Evil or not, don't you think he deserves love and romance just as much as anyone else?”
“No!”
Jiji supposes that he can't blame Momo for her reaction, given how many times the Evil Eye has nearly killed her. Deeming her a lost cause, he turns his gaze on her boyfriend instead, almost puppy-like.
“Don’t you think so, Okarun?”
“Not really,” he admits, and Jiji nearly wilts at the betrayal before he adds, “but I understand where you're coming from. The Evil Eye was like a child when he first possessed you; his greatest wish was to find a friend to play with. Now he's basically a young man who's found his first love and his greatest wish is to be with her… and she, um, happens to be your wifey…”
“Don’t call me that!” you protest, oddly embarrassed, and Jiji resists the urge to squeeze you. You're so cute when you're flustered, it's unbearable. He makes a mental note to tell you this on the way home, though he already does this every day as a rule. When you were both still students, he would say it whenever he walked you home from school; nowadays, he more often says it during long-distance phone calls, or on FaceTime, or occasionally via text if your schedules are that misaligned. But he still makes it a point to remind you everyday, no matter where he is in the world: You're so cute. You're so pretty. You're beautiful, did you know that? I love you.
I love you, he thinks as he watches you. You look bashful right now. “We both want the Evil Eye to find happiness, and I’m pretty sure marriage will make him happy. And, well…” Your gaze drops. “It’d make me pretty happy too.”
Something in Jiji’s chest swells when he sees your expression. It feels mostly sweet, but there's also a painful edge to it. He’s always carried a kind of ache in his ribs ever since the day he caught his parents dangling from the second floor of the House and had to untie the nooses himself. Nowadays, he isn't sure if the pain is from that memory or if it's from the weight of the Evil Eye’s curse. Sometimes it feels like they're one and the same. Often it feels suffocating, like he's drowning and there's nothing he can do to breathe again—not laughing or joking or playing or running.
But you're always there when it’s hard. You're always beside him when he wakes up in the middle of the night to gasp for air, the way he used to when he was haunted as a teenager: It's okay, Jiji, you tell him, voice tender, I'm here for you. You aren't alone. I won't leave you. I won't let anything hurt you. I love you. The nightmares always leave him soaked in cold sweat, so he often switches in these moments, his consciousness displaced by a lonely, crying spirit. He doesn't know what it is you say to the Evil Eye, but when he comes back his heart feels lighter, and from that he knows that you've comforted him too.
The Evil Eye loves you—that much is clear. He loves you as much as Jiji does, probably. In a different way, sure, but just as much in strength.
It follows that nothing would make the Evil Eye happier in this world than getting married to you, Jiji figures. Dead or alive, who wouldn't be elated to marry the love of their life? And Jiji knows it'd make you equally as happy; only an idiot would think that you didn't love the Evil Eye back, and he's no fool. Some people might find it weird that he wants his wife to marry another man—and an evil spirit, at that—and maybe they're right for that. But why would Jiji ever turn down so much collective joy?
So he nods vigorously, giving Momo an intense look. “It'd make us all happy. Trust us!”
Momo gives you both a long, disbelieving stare.
“Well, when you put it that way…” She sighs, resigned. “When’s the wedding?”
“That's what we wanted your help with,” Jiji says, and he gives her grandmother an earnest look. “We want the wedding to be perfect, but we're not really sure how a ceremony would work with a youkai. What dates to choose, what venue to book, who could perform the rites… I mean, could you perform the rites, Ma’am?”
Auntie Seiko frowns. She looks on the verge of admonishing both of you, but Turbo Granny beats her to it: “Idiots. You can't do a Shinto ceremony with the Evil Eye. All three of you will combust into flames.”
“Oh.” Jiji remembers all the aliens and spirits alike that have burned upon attempting to chase them into the shrine grounds. He deflates. “Then… he can't get married?”
You squeeze his hand, and Jiji suspects that it's more for him than yourself. You don't seem nearly so worried.
“Would a Buddhist temple take us?” you ask.
“Doubt it,” Auntie Seiko says around her cigarette. “They’d probably try to exorcise your hubby on the spot—and even if they didn't, no Buddhist priest here would ever stand for tying the spirit of the deceased to a living person. It's how you get hauntings.”
“I don't mind being haunted by the Evil Eye,” you say immediately, and Auntie Seiko snorts.
“I know you don't, but it’s not in our job descriptions to curse people just because they're horny for a ghost.” Momo and Okarun cough loudly, and Jiji feels himself flushing; you cover your face with your hands. “I know a Chinese Taoist who’s done a few ghost marriages, though.”
“They’re okay with cursing people?” you ask, watching her through your fingers. “I mean—not that I mind.”
“Nah—they perform it as a pacification ritual. It would be the safest way to do something like this.” Auntie Seiko studies you closely. “I'm not sure how my acquaintance would react to an evil spirit or to polygamy, but I’ll call him and ask.”
“You're the best, Ma’am!” Jiji bursts, beaming. “We’ll save you an honoured spot in the front row! Turbo Granny too!” Elders should be respected, after all.
Turbo Granny makes a skeptical noise. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, numbnuts. Even if Seiko can find a priest stupid enough to oversee this wedding, there’s something you need that you probably can't find.”
“If we could find Okarun’s balls, I’m sure we can find anything,” you joke, but Granny seems unimpressed, her paws crossed over her chest.
Jiji frowns. “What exactly do we need to get?”
Turbo Granny gives you both an ominous look.
“His bones.”
III. THE CHILD
The Evil Eye hates being in the House.
All the spirits that he carries hate it too, airy things pulsing with rage and sadness and grief so palpable that he can always easily weaponise it. Any good memories that were ever constructed in the House are eclipsed by the hangings, the knife wounds, the suffocation, and also the burnings. Especially the burnings. Especially the white-hot lava washing over him, eating into his flesh—especially his last few days as a twitching, starving, dying thing on a stake; especially being buried, then the House being built atop his remains. Then all the children and babies sacrificed after him, wailing and screaming: unfair this is unfair let me go let me go let me go it hurts it hurts it hurts please stop this please help me Mom Mommy please help me please come back I don't want to die.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
He isn't ordinarily bothered by rage; he was born of it, after all. But he doesn't like feeling so much rage around you. The Evil Eye likes haunting you and will probably someday curse you—both things he once did to the families in this House—but he doesn't want to kill you.
He glances around the basement—the man cursed by Turbo Granny is here, and so is his lover. (Girlfriend, you’d called her. Momo is Okarun’s girlfriend, just like how I'm Jiji’s. You agree to be someone’s girlfriend when you have feelings for them and want to act on them. A-ah—what? Y-yes, I do have feelings for Jiji… Why do you ask?) The dancer and the Shinto priestess aren't here, and neither is the girl with the lizard suit, but they aren't needed.
If he tries to kill you, Okarun alone could probably stop him. This is the only reason that the Evil Eye agreed to let you come in the first place.
“This is so gross,” you whine, completely oblivious. You're knee-deep in the white gunk left by that shitty Tsuchinoko worm. “I can't believe you spent a whole day buried in this stuff, Okarun.”
“It saved me and Turbo Granny,” he replies, pushing his glasses up as he digs through the mess with you. “The lava would have gotten to us otherwise. I think it probably preserved the Evil Eye’s bones too.”
“I hope so…” You turn to the Evil Eye, head tilted. “Are you sure they're here, Jashi?”
Jashi. You say his title like it's name and not a curse. (Jashi, we should go try out this cafe, you'll say, or, Jashi, let’s go check out this show, or, I missed you, Jashi, it's been too long—here, can you feel how much I need you?) Sometimes he wonders if you ever forget that he's a ghost, or if using this Vessel fools you into thinking that he's human. If you lay beneath him in bed thinking that it's technically the Vessel inside you, and not just the monster possessing him.
“I’m a ghost,” he reminds you bluntly, “‘course I know where my remains are. Dunno if they've turned ash, though. Guess you can't marry me if they have.”
“No, we’ll get married,” you say, unbothered. “I'll dig up all the dirt from this shithole and say my vows to that if I have to.”
Okarun gives you a funny look. “How are you gonna get all that dirt out?” he asks.
“I'll make you carry it.”
“Huh? Says who?”
“Says Momo. He’ll help me carry it, right?”
“He will,” Momo affirms, and her boyfriend chokes. She ignores him, scanning the wreckage. “I hope it doesn't come to that, though. Hey, Evil Eye—can’t you be more specific with where we're supposed to dig? Coordinates or a map would be nice.”
“I'm not a fucking radar!”
You give him a pleading look. “Please, Jashi? Can't you try? For your future wifey?”
The Vessel's face gets hot. Its heart does the stupid thing where it jumps when you're around, or when he holds you after the two of you have sex, or when he stares too long at the engagement ring that's usually on your finger (now hanging around your neck on a silver chain, safely away from Tsuchinoko gunk).
“...fine. Gimme a sec.”
He closes the two eyes of the Vessel so that he can focus on his third. Human vision is too bound by shapes and light and figures; it distracts and deceives him. When he can't see your face, it becomes easier to hone in on his resentment. Unfair, his remains whisper to him, this is unfair let me go it hurts it hurts please stop please stop help me help me help me I don't want to die.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
“There,” he says eventually, pointing at the ground, “it's all there. In one spot. Guess I'm still a skeleton.”
You've got something of a sixth sense—whether it’s an effect of touching the golden ball or coupling so often with a spirit, the Evil Eye can't be sure. However it came about, it seems to tell you that he's right. Your eyes go soft when you rest a hand on the dirt he’s pointed at.
“Momo, Okarun,” you say, “Thank you for your help. I can dig this up myself—you guys can take a break.”
“Huh? No, we’d be happy to…” Okarun starts, but then Momo’s dragging him out by the collar and making him squawk.
“Sure—we’ll wait outside!” she says. “C’mon, Okarun, let's look for Mongolian Death Worm remains—I saw an occult article saying that it has medicinal properties if you make a powder extract from it…”
“You can't take that stuff seriously, Miss Ayase…”
After they leave, you spend the rest of the afternoon digging.
The Evil Eye offers to help, but you are determined to do it yourself. It's okay, Jashi, you say, I’m going to do it. You're going to be my hubby—the Vessel’s heart does the throbbing thing again—so it's only right that I'm the one to unearth you.
He doesn't understand it, but he shrugs anyway. Suit yourself. And he watches as you your fingers dig into the dirt, delicate nails collecting detritus. You don't want to use a shovel, you say, because you're sure that his bones will be fragile and you don't want to damage them. Even when he tells you that his bones are likely ruined in the first place, burned to shit and frail from rot, you don't let up. You just keep digging until you’re picking them out of the dirt.
You roll out a silk cloth, revealing lotuses against a pale backdrop. One by one, you lay his bones atop the pink and ivory thread, and you've found about half of them before he realises that you're reconstructing his skeleton. It's a small, pathetic thing. Help me help me I don't want to die, he can remember himself screaming. It hurts it hurts it hurts please stop. Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
The ghosts of the House begin to wail with rage.
Part of him worries for you—probably the part of him influenced by the Vessel, which is capable of a love that ghosts are not. It knows that you don't deserve his wrath.
“You should leave,” he says, but you shake your head. You take your time as you gather up bones, treating them all delicately as you roll them up in the silk, holding them close to you. As if you aren't in the presence of countless wrathful spirits. As if you are with the Vessel, and not with him.
“You were so small,” you say quietly. “Sometimes I forget that you were a child when you died.”
The Evil Eye stares at you, at the pathetic bundle in your hands. “That was ages ago.”
“But it never stops hurting, doesn't it?” you say, and the walls of the House close in on him. They tell him you're right, that you're a human, that you'll hurt him just like the rest of them, that you need to die too. But you look at him, soft in a way that belongs to the Vessel, tender in a way that the waif-ghost covets, and then the House shudders and goes quiet.
“I’m sorry I didn't help you back then,” you say, and it makes no sense, but he doesn't interrupt you. “I promise I'll make your married life a good one, now that we’re together.”
That's stupid, the Evil Eye thinks of saying, pedantic: I'm already dead. But you rise from the dirt before he can protest, and then you're taking his bones out of the House, cradling him in your arms.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
For the first time since being born, his body is allowed to leave the confines of its prison.
IV. THE BRIDE
The ceremony happens at night.
You spend the whole day readying yourself. Aira helps you get into your dress, admonishing you for the satanic rituals you'll soon perform but giving you her blessing anyway. Momo does your makeup, telling you to ignore Aira. Vamola says that you look lovely in stilted, earnest Japanese. Auntie Seiko helps you with your hair; she asks you, all the while, if you would like to wear a headdress that might protect you from evil, or for her to perform a consecration on your body. Turbo Granny is less roundabout, offering to take the Evil Eye’s banana in advance of your marital rites. Serpo warns you not to let the Evil Eye take your bananas—Why are you even here!? Momo yells at him—and Reiko Kashima says you shouldn't listen to any of them. You need to hold onto your man no matter what, she advises.
She also says you're beautiful, though of course you aren't as beautiful as her.
Beautiful. Are you beautiful? You'll be beautiful when you marry Jiji, because you're certain that his PR agent will want you prettied up by a team of stylists rather than a bunch of goofballs. You will need to look good for the photos, at least as handsome as him, and you don't know if you can manage that. You will need to be poised in front of the five hundred people attending, about which ten are your friends and none of which are your family.
You're already married to Jiji, technically. The two of you had a civil ceremony that only Momo and Okarun attended as witnesses, quick and dirty and secret. But the official ceremony will make it real, and you are terrified of that. You love Jiji beyond comprehension, and you know he loves you back tenfold, but you've never been able to rid yourself of the small voice in your head that tells you that you aren't good enough for him. It's been haunting you ever since the two of you fell in love, and you think maybe even before that. Maybe it started plaguing you when you were young.
When you were a child, you used to ask yourself if anyone would ever love you enough to save you from the things being done to you—the things you were convinced would be irreversible. You had confessed this to Jiji before you had sex with him for the first time. (Making love, he corrected you, I want to make love with you, and it made you feel so shy you nearly kicked him out of your bed.) He'd replied that he did love you enough, and that he would save you as many times as you wanted (I’m sorry I couldn't help you back then, he'd added nonsensically, but now that we’re together, I'll make sure your life is a good one), and you were so happy that you cried.
Sometimes you still cry, thinking about his words. But no matter how many times you replay the memory, no matter how often you tell yourself that Jiji is an honest man, the small voice in your head always warns that he’d lied to you. That your wedding to him will be a lie, too.
You often think about how he would leave you (gently), and why he would leave you (the list is endless). And then you try to imagine life without him—no cheerful kisses peppering your features, no goofy expressions putting you in stitches, no grueling morning runs, no messy kitchen sinks, no you're the cutest girl in the world, you're so beautiful I can't believe I'm dating you, how come you don't believe me when I say that stuff, I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again, I know you can get better I'll help you, I dunno how to talk about this with anyone other than you, sorry I cried that was kinda lame of me, sorry I need to go to Spain, sorry I was away for so long, I got you this merch, I got us tickets to this show, is it my fault you're going to therapy again, can you come with me to Berlin, is everything okay, come with me to the U.S., are you okay, are we okay, I don't want to break up, I love you, I love you so much, marry me, I'm being serious please marry me, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I promise I won't leave you—
You don't think you could imagine living without Jiji.
Your looming wedding to Jiji terrifies you, but your ghost marriage does not. You feel calm in your dress, certain in your decision. Jashi has never scared you the way that Jiji has, after all. He doesn't frighten you even when the Taoist priest pulls you aside and tells you, “You can still back out of this.”
“Why would I?”
He dabs at his temples with a handkerchief. “This ritual is dangerous with a being like the Evil Eye. Ghost marriages are meant to pacify benign spirits—not vengeful ghosts. I can't guarantee that he will be calmed by this.”
You give him a quizzical look. “If he isn't calmed, then what would happen?”
The priest swallows. “There are three potential outcomes. One—he is pacified completely and moves on to the afterlife.”
This would scare you ordinarily, but you know Jashi well enough to understand that he would never move on. “Okay. What else?”
“Two—he is unaffected, and things remain the same.”
You wait, watching the way his fingers tremble. A wind blows; it carries the scent of burning sandalwood from the wedding altar.
“And?”
“And three—the most likely possibility—he will attach himself to you and curse you.”
“Oh.” The thought should scare you, but you don't think it's fear that’s squeezing your heart. “What would a curse be like?”
“Devastating. You'll never be able to live a normal life, nor will you have a proper afterlife.” The priest shudders at this possibility, which apparently frightens him too much to further describe. “Listen—if the Evil Eye doesn't pass on, you must not complete the marriage. Completing it would make the attachment permanent, and it would realise any curse he places upon you.”
“‘Completing the marriage”?”
“Consummating it.” His face is white. “Sex magic is unspeakably powerful. I don't believe anyone would be able to break a curse that’s born from it—at least not involving such a great yaoguai.”
Anyone else might laugh at his words, but you remain quiet. After spending so long chasing golden balls and bananas, after nearly a decade of fighting off aliens trying to have sex with Momo and Aira, you know that he is telling the truth.
And besides—you know just how permanently a touch can linger (a lifetime, forever, doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?), so you aren't surprised to hear the kind of curse it inflicts.
“Okay,” you say. “I promise I won't let it happen.”
It is only with this vow that the Taoist consents to overseeing the marriage.
The affair is a hodgepodge of Chinese funerary practices and Western weddings—foreign in every respect, but not uncomfortable. Auntie Seiko, clad in red-and-white robes and a golden headdress, walks you down the aisle. Against all her counsel, a white veil sits atop your head and chases after your shoulders. You stop before an altar of offerings and summoning talismans, Taoist spells lit up by the full moon hanged above. Instead of a bridegroom, you are next to a coffin that holds a tiny skeleton. The priest is before you, now possessed by a death god that will call Jashi back to his remains. Supposedly it is a Taoist deity, but its presence feels more extraterrestrial to you than anything spiritual. You will need to ask Serpo about it later.
You study the audience as the priest begins the summoning ritual. Jiji sits in the front row, watching you intently; if all goes well, Jashi will leave his body for the duration of the ceremony, along with all the vengeful ghosts that once resided in the sacrificial house with him. The spirits of the house scare you more than Jashi; you do not know how they will behave once cleaved from his control. There's a banquet for them in the back, a long table with a spread of incense, flowers, rice, and fruit—but you do not know if it will be enough to pacify them.
Your wedding party is equally on edge. As the White Impermanence begins its rituals, Jiji’s body slumps, and everyone else stiffens in their seats. The air grows rife with malevolence. The stars and moon blink out of existence, the world around you grows silent, and a suffocating darkness overtakes the night—almost as if you have been submerged in Empty Space. Tiny cyan flames erupt in the air around the banquet table, their glow eerie in the darkness. They must all be onibi, you guess.
Jashi himself emerges before you, standing over the coffin that holds his bones. You’d expected him to look like the emaciated child that he'd died as, or perhaps the stick-thin monster that used to haunt Jiji—but he takes another form altogether, a formless shadow that your mind can barely comprehend. You're vaguely aware of Turbo Granny covering Momo’s eyes, Okarun transforming, Auntie Seiko readying her bat—but you don't look at any of them. You only stare, as if in a trance, at the single vertical eye that is now peering at you from the darkness.
It is probably strange that you feel so calm. If you were a normal person, you'd probably run from your wedding altar of incense and offerings. Or, actually—if you were a normal person, your mind would be fraying at the edges, gripped by a desire to self-destruct. You would sob and beg the Evil Eye to lift its gaze and let you go and to return to you your life.
But you are not a normal person. The Evil Eye has never really made you feel particularly suicidal, nor have you ever really wanted to beg for your life before it. Your gaze is calm as you recite your vows from memory:
I shall marry this man. No matter what tragedies may arise, I will love this person, respect this person, console this person, help this person—until death, and beyond it. I swear these things before the gods.
When the Evil Eye makes his vows, it is in speech that human ears cannot understand. From the wedding banquet, the spirits of the house cry, their wails cacophonous and wrathful, and suddenly you realise that something has gone terribly wrong. Something has changed with this ghost wedding, and not for the better, but when Seiko rises from her seat, you raise a hand.
Finally, the Evil Eye recedes. The darkness lifts, although the spirits linger. Jiji’s eyes flutter open, immediately anxious and disturbed. You give him a reassuring smile—and the rest of your wedding party, too.
Something has gone terribly wrong. Still, you go about your business cheerfully. You thank the Taoist priest, and you insist to him that you will clean up the altar yourself. You greet your friends and say that they should head for the reception, which will have food for humans rather than ghosts. You peck Jiji on the cheek, beaming at him, and he relaxes and congratulates you.
He cups your face tenderly, kisses you on the nose. “You look happy,” he says.
Something has gone terribly wrong, but you still smile and tell him, “Yes.”
V. THE OFFERING
Your marriage bed is an altar.
Ivory petals are scattered across the bed, along with whole lilies and chrysanthemums. Sweetness permeates the room, carried by the smoke of burning incense. Flames dance upon red candles, flickering as they cast a gentle, soft light. This is your attempt to set an intimate mood, but the Evil Eye does not feel any form of love—he only knows greed. Every object in this room is an offering for the dead, meant for ghosts to consume, and you are the greatest offering of all, waiting for him on the centre of the bed in white silk. You are more fragrant than any joss, riper than any fruit, and he is the most ravenous ghost in existence.
“Isn't this romantic?” you say, beaming at him, and this is when the Evil Eye understands that he absolutely cannot have sex with you.
The wedding was meant to pacify him, perhaps even allow him to move on, but it only did the opposite. Seeing you before him at the altar, vowing to spend a lifetime with him despite all his resentment and ugliness made bare—it only made him more covetous. To move on would be to give up all the love you’ve offered him, the kind of love he'd been denied his whole life.
The kind of love he cannot return.
But he wants it anyway. And like any ghost, he’ll take it—take your love, your heart, your body, your life—if he is allowed to spread your legs and fuck you.
He knows this intuitively, although Turbo Granny also told him this. If you care for her even a little bit, she'd groused, you won’t go through with it. Then she'd threatened to take his banana and his nuts.
But vengeful spirits cannot care for human beings, not truly. It's a wonder that the Evil Eye is hesitating at all, why he feels a pit when he thinks about trapping you. It must be a consequence of his Vessel, who loves you so selflessly that even his body resists hurting you.
“We shouldn’t do it,” he says outright. You blink at him.
“Why?” You tilt your head. “...are you getting wedding night jitters? Do ghosts get nervous?”
He stares at you, uncomprehending. “What? No! I'm not fucking nervous!”
You frown. “Then what's the matter?”
It'll be dangerous for you, he tries to say, but then you're giving him a shy look and untying the sash around your waist. He swallows as the silk robe drops around your shoulders, pools around your thighs. The ivory lace covering your breasts and your core is so sheer that he can practically see through it. It's delicate, pretty—and he wants nothing more than to tear it off and ruin you.
“Don’t you”—you look so flustered, so cute, an echo tells him—“don’t you wanna make love to your wifey?”
Part of him thinks he might cum in his pants. The other part of him wants to leave. Wifey, making love—those are all words that you use on the Vessel. All words that are meant for the Vessel. You're confusing the Evil Eye with your real lover, under the delusion that he is human, unaware that you're being haunted. The Evil Eye is not the man you wish to marry, to live in a House with, to make babies with, to grow old with.
Unfair unfair unfair it hurts it hurts it hurts please please please I don't want to die. I don't want you to die. Why can't I touch you? Why can't I hold you? Please please please—
“I can't.”
Your brow arches. “What do you mean?”
“I can't make love to you.” He pauses, feels a kind of frustration bubbling up when you give him a confused look. “I don't love you.”
Your mouth opens, and you make a faint, strangled noise before asking, “What?”
“I don't love you.”
It takes a moment. You stare at him; you look down; you close your eyes. Your shoulders shake. You'll probably get angry and throw him out, or you'll just calmly ask him to leave. However you do it, you would cast him out, and it would be for the better. You would remain uncursed, free to live out a proper life with the Vessel, and the Evil Eye would get to keep his nuts.
But instead of doing either of those things, you start sniffling—and all the blood leaves his face.
“You”—your voice is so fragile, and it cracks and breaks and his throat feels like it's closing up—“what do you mean you don't love me?”
The Evil Eye's mouth drops open as you start to sob. “W-wait, wait—why are you crying? Don’t cry!”
You start to wail. “You don't love me! I just married you and you don't love me! How am I not supposed to cry?” Between hiccups and sniffs, you pick up one of the pillows and throw it at him. He's paralyzed, forgets to dodge, and it hits him square in the face. “What did I do wrong?!”
“Nothing!” he yells. His heart is pounding. It's squeezing and twisting and it feels so bad that he nearly wants to dispossess the Vessel. “You didn't do anything wrong! It's not you! It's—”
“If you say ‘It’s not you, it's me’, I'll kill you! I'll really kill you!”
“I’m already dead!”
“Then I'll beat your ass!”
“You can't beat my ass! You're not strong enough!”
“Then I'll banish you! I'll spray Jiji with hot water everyday and I won't let you come out! Not even to have Pampy! Not even to play with Okarun!”
The Evil Eye’s mouth drops open. “That's fucking mean!”
“You're fucking mean!” You look at him, and your gaze is so watery and pained that the Evil Eye can't help but go to you. He doesn't realise that he's wiping away your tears until his fingers are wet, and he can’t find it in himself to push you away when you press your face into his shoulder and cling to him. His arms—no, the Vessel’s arms; it must be the Vessel doing this—tighten around you.
“Why—why don't you love me?” you whine between hiccups, and the Evil Eye should call you foolish for expecting him, a spirit who intends to kill all of mankind, to ever love a human. To think that you could spend all these years around him and be so delusional about his true nature—is it that you've forgotten that he drives people to suicide? That his intent is to someday kill all of you, after killing Okarun? The spirits of the House scream at him to grab your face and force you to look at his hideous third eye, to remind you of what he is, to say you're a human you should die like the rest of them you’re as guilty as all of them, you would lock me in a cage too, you would burn me alive and bury my bones beneath a House.
Instead, he rubs your back until your breath begins to even out. And rather than grabbing you and threatening you, he clears his throat.
“I'm… a vengeful spirit,” he says lamely. “Love just isn't something that's in our nature.”
“Why not?” you sniff.
“‘cause if it were, we wouldn't be vengeful. We wouldn't even be ghosts in the first place, probably.”
“B-but,” you whimper, “we've been dating for so long. We live together and sleep together and eat together. You take care of me and I take care of you. We go on dates and hold hands. We even have sex—like, a lot of sex. You initiate it!” You sound accusatory, and the Evil Eye doesn't understand why. Of course he wants to have sex with you; it's one of the most addictive things about having this body. The part of the living world he wants most, nowadays. “If you didn't feel anything for me, why would you do any of that?”
He bristles. “Of course I feel something for you,” the Evil Eye says, oddly agitated. “Just ‘cause I can't love doesn't mean I can't feel. Resentment is what anchors ghosts to this world in the first place.”
“Then what do you feel for me, if not love?” Your fingers dig into the Vessel’s white suit. “Resentment?”
The Evil Eye stares blankly. He doesn't know how to describe it all—the longing, the greed, the envy for the Vessel. The euphoria and closeness of being inside you, a feeling so good that he didn't even know that such joys existed when he was human. The idea of living in a House filled with wedding photos, the thought of making babies with you that he might hold and touch and kiss. So many things that he never had in life. So many things that he can't help but want in death.
So many things that he can't help but want to trap you for them.
“...no, I don't resent you,” he says. “It’s more like I wanna curse you.”
He expects you to cry more—after living for such a long time among humans, he now has enough manners to understand that it is rude to curse someone who has only ever treated you with unconditional love, even if in error—but instead, you become strangely quiet.
You pull away from him so that he can see your face. It's—hopeful?
“You wanna curse me?”
“Yeah. Curse you—haunt you, possess you, control you.” He shrugs. “The usual things that ghosts do when they're so attached to something that they can't move on. You know.”
“Oh.” You wipe your eyes, and the Evil Eye has to stop himself from helping. “I'm so happy.”
“...you're what?”
“I'm so happy that you feel that way about me.”
He stares at you. “You're happy that I wanna curse you?”
“Yeah.”
The Evil Eye studies you. You never react to him in ways that make sense—you’re endeared by him when you should be afraid; you treat him sweetly when you should be callous; you even seem to enjoy his violence when everyone else always punishes it. Now you’re touched by the idea of being cursed.
“Why?” he asks flatly. “I thought you wanted to be loved. Or make love. Something like that.”
You give the Evil Eye a long, thoughtful look.
“Jashi,” you start, voice gentle now, “what do you think love is supposed to look like?”
A married couple in a House. A baby in his mama’s arms. Three children dancing in a field, giggling in the sunlight.
“Dunno.” When you stare at him, as if expecting something, he grows agitated. “I said it's not in my nature. Talk to the Vessel about that stuff, not me.”
One of your brows arches. “Why? You're my husband”—his heart kicks violently at that; he hates this fucking body sometimes—“I want to know what you think love looks like. And besides…” Your voice gets all quiet, and you look away. “It’s not like Jiji would necessarily agree with my views anyway.”
That gets his attention. “What do you mean?”
You hum. “How do I explain it… well, for example—if I found happiness with someone else and left to be with them, Jiji would be heartbroken, but he would be happy for me. Because he loves me, it's ultimately most important for him that I'm happy.”
A married couple in a House. Two corpses dangling from the rafters. A baby in his mama’s arms. A child suffocating in the darkness, crying for his parents. Three children dancing in a field, giggling in the sunlight. Starving in a cage nearby, I'm so hungry, I'm so cold. Unfair unfair I don't wanna die I wanna play with other children I want to dance in the field please please please why can't I touch you why can't I hold you why why why—
“That's fucking stupid,” the Evil Eye blurts out.
“But that's what he’s told me—and I believe him.” You smile at him. “Now, how do you think I'd react if someone took you or Jiji away from me?”
This feels like a trick question. He squints at you. “The same?” he tries.
“That would be ideal. But honestly,” you admit, “I would resent you all for the rest of my life and then think about killing myself. That's what love looks like for me.”
“Oh.” The Evil Eye nods, relaxing. “Yeah, that makes way more sense.”
You laugh, sounding genuinely amused. “Jiji doesn't think so. It really worries him that I feel this way. It would worry most people, actually.” Then you get a little quiet. “I do want to get better for him, but it doesn't come naturally to me, the way that he loves me.”
He doesn't like the tone you're using—soft, uncertain. Mournful. You feel like one of the spirits in the House right now. He thinks about the way you cradled his bones, and his hold on you tightens.
“Where are you going with this?”
“I'm saying that I don't mind that you want to haunt me, or possess me, or whatever.” Your eyes are earnest. Steadfast with the confidence you had as you unearthed his grave. “To be honest, being cursed by you isn’t nearly as frightening as being loved by Jiji.”
The Evil Eye cups your face, thumbing away your tears. Would you cry like this if you knew what it would mean, to be possessed by him? Would you regret your offer to him, the way that the Vessel regrets his? Or would you stare at his true face as you did at the altar and vow to love him anyway?
Instead of asking you any of this, he allows you to loop your arms around his neck.
“I want you to make love to me,” you murmur sweetly as you climb atop him, and that makes him pause.
Two corpses dangling from the rafters. A child suffocating in the darkness, crying for his parents. Starving in a cage nearby, I'm so hungry, I'm so cold. Unfair unfair unfair why can't I touch you why can't I hold you why why why—
“I said I don't know how to do that.”
“Fine,” you say, and then you’re pressing your lips against his, grinding your cunt against his hardening cock. “Then curse me instead.”
VI. THE DEMON
You've always known that the Evil Eye couldn't love you in a normal way.
It was obvious from the outset, simply cataloguing him for what he is: a monster born from human sacrifice; a curse that drives people to madness, to suicide; a thing that regularly exploits Jiji for his body and makes him commit violence against his will. Jiji and Okarun and the rest might be delusional about the Evil Eye nowadays—thinking that he's just like a kid, that he just wants to play, that he’s in love and wants to get married and play house—but you are not. He can't play with Okarun in normal ways, and he can't love you in normal ways. Every desire ends in blood. That's how it began for him, after all. How he was born.
Your mind has always known this, but your body only learned it the first time you had sex. The Evil Eye doesn't know how to make love to you the way that Jiji does. You’ve tried countless times now, and he's even demanded that you make him do it that way so that he knows what the Vessel gets to feel during sex with you. You've kissed him deep and slow, gently touched him until he felt desire, taken him inside you and pressed your forehead to his. Just like that, you encouraged him countless times, you're doing so good. Good boy. You're doing so well. I love you.
You always end up with your face pressed into the mattress, cheeks wet with tears and throat hoarse from screaming. Sore and bruised and fatigued and it's too fast, it's too big, I can't, please, and with any other man you'd probably hate it but when it's Jashi you always end up moaning and begging for more. You'd always thought you’d be disgusted with yourself for having this kind of sex, but with him, you feel too good to really care. All you can think about is his teeth marking your neck, the cruelty of his rough hands, how his cock fills you so well that you can hardly breathe.
He’s taken you like this countless times, but something feels different about it right now. It might be the incense, so thick in your throat and your lungs that you're dizzy with it. It might be the fragrant petals crushed beneath you, soft and strange things that you stole from your wedding altar. Flowers for the dead, the priest had said to you, given to the ancestors, or to bodies as they're lowered into the ground.
You think maybe that's happening to you, right now: you’re dying, you're being torn apart, you’ll break in Jashi’s hands. It'll leave a mark on your body for a lifetime, forever—and you don't need to be saved.
But even after being fucked so many times, even after your mind has been made so hazy and distant, you're still trying so hard not to come apart at the seams. An agonizing pressure is building in your belly, and you can't let it burst. It’s inconvenient when you get too wet; it makes Jashi switch, which is normally hilarious but would feel catastrophic right now, when you’re drunk on the feeling of his cock inside you and don't want any of this to end. But it's so hard, keeping yourself from drenching him—you can hardly think when he's fucking you like this, let alone control yourself.
“I c-can't anymore,” you whine. “Jashi, you gotta stop, I need a break, please—”
Jashi doesn't care. He takes and takes and takes, and of course he does. It's in his nature as a vengeful ghost, as an existence so empty it can't do anything but consume the life around it. It's not enough that you’ve been ruined by his cock, that you're being used like a fleshlight. It's not enough that he’s made you cum countless times—not out of consideration to you, but simply because he's addicted to the feeling of you squeezing and milking him. It's not enough that he's spilled himself inside you more times than should be possible, uncaring of the consequences. It's not enough, it's never enough—he always needs more from you; more tears, more begging, more feverish, white-hot pleasure.
You shouldn't be surprised when you feel his hips start to stutter again, his cock twitching inside you. Some distant part of you is alarmed anyway, even as your cunt tightens around him, eager to be filled. You've never let anyone fuck you raw before tonight, never had anyone fill your womb up like this—not him and not Jiji; you've always been too afraid of pregnancy—but with each passing moment, it is harder to remember why. Not when it feels so good to be pumped full by him, your body flooded with a strange warmth each time. Unnatural, you keep thinking, this feels weird, he's doing something to me, he's cursing me, he's claiming me. But all you do is wrap your legs around his waist when he cums again, greedy for more, and you sigh in relief at the feeling of it.
He has to stop after this. He has to be sated. He pulls out, his cock throbbing against your swollen pussy, painting it a creamy white—and then he throws your legs over his shoulders and sinks back into you.
“Nooo,” you moan, squirming, thrashing, knowing you'll burst if he fucks you again. “I can't, I can't—I can't hold it in anymore, I can't—”
“Then don't,” he grunts. He looks straight down at you, his weight heavy on you, oppressive, unnatural. You hold your breath as you look at his face—dark and vicious, the vibrant eye on his forehead enrapturing. For the first time in your life, you feel a madness creeping in as it stares at you, fraying at your control. You can't move, can't resist him, can't think, and when he starts thrusting again, your body floods with a euphoria so hot that all you know how to do is cry.
You’re going to break from the ecstasy.
“W-what,” you gasp, “what are you doing to—”
Something hits your sweet spot, and your voice clips off into a desperate whimper. His cockhead starts grinding against it, and you try so hard to squirm, to stop, to control yourself—but whatever he's done to you has made you weak, pliant, and you feel yourself start to pulse. Pinned beneath his gaze, you can neither get away nor fight it. You can only surrender. The pressure is too much, your womb is too hot, and suddenly your back is arching and you feel like you're dying as you gush all over him.
You're in hysterics as you come down, panting and gasping for breath. “No more, no more,” you beg, squeezing your eyes shut, clinging to him. You sob into the crook of his neck, and finally—finally—he relents.
He’s gentle as he pulls out, careful as he sets you down on the bed. Kisses pepper your cheeks, your eyelids, your lips. Then, finally—his forehead pressed against yours, lashes fluttering against your skin.
Jiji saw it on your body: a sunburst of strange characters on your stomach, an eye in the centre. The Taoist priest had broken into a pale sweat at the sight, its implications: if anyone else tries to touch you, whether with the intent to do harm or pleasure, then the untold carnage will be wrought upon them. Should you ever try to leave the Evil Eye, he will drag you back with such violence that it will shatter you. That so long as that vengeful ghost is bound to this earth, then so too shall be you.
Jiji is less worried than he probably should be. He doubts that the Evil Eye would truly ever hurt you, and also doubts that you’re physically capable of leaving him anyway. Ever since being marked, you haven't been able to go a day without having either of them inside you—brutally if it is with the Evil Eye; gently if with Jiji. Either way, you’ve been desperate for their touch, plagued by an all-consuming lust if you can't have them. It puts a wrench into all the plans for your respective careers and for the long distance arrangement. Auntie Seiko plans to train you to suppress the curse, but it isn't sustainable.
Privately, though, there's a part of Jiji that doesn't mind the excuse to see you all the time. It’s not that he wants to deny you your freedom, quite the opposite, but—you're his beautiful wife. And he's ridiculously in love with you. He can't help but miss you every day you're apart, and he also can't bring himself to complain about this particular aspect of the curse.
He also understands the Evil Eye for doing this to you. Sure, cursing you wasn't Jiji’s first act as a newlywed—but he also kinda gets it.
Jiji shares dreams with the Evil Eye, sometimes. He sees within them everything that the Evil Eye has experienced—not just as a demon, but as a spirit, a child, a waif. Sometimes he hears the thoughts that he once had, the ones that made him turn vengeful: unfair, this is unfair let me go it hurts it hurts please stop please stop help me help me help me I don't want to die.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
After all that? Of course the Evil Eye doesn't experience desire the way that a human would. Of course playing with someone is the same thing as killing them. Of course loving someone is the same thing as cursing them. And the Evil Eye loves you—that much is obvious, would be obvious to Jiji even if they didn't share a body—so of course his instinct was to carve you open and mark you with his spell.
Jiji feels poorly about it sometimes, guilty and selfish and like he should have ended things after all. Then you'd be free to love whoever you want, without the threat of certain death looming over you. But then you smile at him in bed, so tender and pretty and glowing beneath him. “I'm glad I get to be with you both,” you sigh, and then he can't really complain. After all, you're his beautiful wife. Jiji is ridiculously in love with you. Of course he wants you to be happy.
If it really ever comes down to it, if you really ever wanted to leave—Jiji knows he'd have himself exorcised. He'd rather die than hurt you. But the possibility seems so distant right now, with how you're studying the stone monument before you. You seem peaceful, tranquil, a calm figure cut against a placid, blue sky. Jiji guesses that's appropriate: cemeteries are meant to be resting places.
This plot of gravesoil belongs to the Enjoji family, and there is a spot carved out for you, right next to the space reserved for him. You bear his surname now, so when the two of you pass, you’ll be allowed to rest side-by-side. He already knows what the Evil Eye would say to that: you'll live in a House together and make babies together and eventually die together and be buried together. And if Jiji could talk to him, if he could for once directly speak with the monster inhabiting him, he'd beam at him and say yeah, we sure are.
But the Evil Eye would miss one thing, and it's that he'd also be buried with you. He'd be buried with both of you.
In your hands is an urn, plain but dignified. It carries the ashes of a waif hundreds of years old, the remnants of a brutal sacrifice. The last step of a ghost marriage is to bury the bones of the bride with the remains of the groom, but you're an Enjoji now, and Jiji’s family does cremations, not burials. When the time comes, you'll be burned, and your ashes will be mixed with those belonging to Jashi. He’ll go before either of you: by the end of the day, his remains will be in the crypt, though Jiji doubts his spirit is going anywhere.
“We’ll be interred with each other, someday,” you say to the ashes, tender. “But first we’ll spend a lifetime together.”
Then you turn to Jiji, your smile sunlit. It's shy, because you're always shy around Jiji—even though he's now your husband and you’ve married him in front of five hundred people and he's made love to you every which way on every piece of furniture in the house since then—and you add, “And we’ll spend a lifetime together too.”
Jiji laughs. “I guess you're stuck with me,” he says, and a frown briefly overtakes your face.
“We’re all stuck with each other,” you correct him. “You're cursed as much as I am.”
“I guess.” He scratches his cheek, sheepish. “Sorry you ended up with a husband who’s possessed by a ghost.”
“I wasn’t talking about Jashi,” you say, and you seem a little uncertain, but Jiji can't help but smile. Partly because he appreciates it when you're earnest with him, but mostly just because he loves you.
“You're so beautiful,” he says, “did you know that?”
You huff at him, turning around. “You’re too much,” you chide, but he hears the fondness in your tone. Jiji grins, and—in the privacy of the cemetery—takes the opportunity to loop his arms around you. You giggle when he squeezes you, and then your voice goes quiet.
“I love you,” you say, “did you know that?”
“Uh huh.” He spins you around so he can waggle his brows and give you his most reassuring look. You snort violently at his expression. “It’s super obvious. You can't resist my charms.”
When your laughter passes, you look down at the ashes in your arms—the child that you carried out of the House.
“Do you think,” you ask, voice odd, “he knows that?”
Jiji’s eyes soften. Because he shares dreams with the Evil Eye, and sometimes he shares thoughts with him too—like the pain in his chest that's been aching ever since he found his parents hanging side-by-side from the second floor, the one that grew every time he found the body of a spirit medium, the one that choked him when his relatives called him cursed and slammed the door in his face. He slept on the ground in front of their house after that—he didn't want to go back to the place where his parents nearly died—and called Auntie Seiko the next day, when he realised that they truly didn't want him around.
Sometimes he shares dreams with the ghost haunting him, and when he screams in his sleep he can't tell if the voice in his throat is truly his or if it actually belongs to the Evil Eye. But no matter its origin, it goes quiet when you hold him in bed and kiss his forehead. Just like how it went quiet when you carried that skeleton out of the House.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
“Yeah,” Jiji says. “Yeah, he does.”
END
some general notes:
this was a weird fic to write. ordinarily I would write the evil eye as having a childish and immature narrative voice; however, I (1) had to balance it with an aged up characterization, and (2) did not want to get cancelled, so I instead ended up with something in-between that feels a little awkward
there is jiji-focused companion fic that is like 50% done about him fucking you nasty after he switches places with the evil on your wedding night. I will probably finish it and post it when s2 comes out LOL
i know this is not my best writing rip please forgive me
some cultural notes:
taoism has real-life sex magic practices and places a lot of significance on, err, certain bodily fluids in terms of spiritual energy. none of these beliefs have anything to do with getting cursed via freaky ghost marital sex, but they served as the general inspiration for the curse in the fic (alongside dandadan canon, which coincidentally also places a lot of spiritual significance in sex and sexual organs lol)
the vows recited by the reader are a modification of standard japanese wedding vows (found on Google, take with a grain of salt). incidentally, western-style weddings are apparently quite popular in Japan, hence the decision for the bridal dress.
a lot of the wedding details are inspired by chinese funerary practices in addition to actual taoist ghost marriages. I took a lot of creative liberties with the wedding scene in general; real-life ghost marriages are quite different (from my understanding; I have never attended one)
you always wondered what it’d be like to see nanami completely drunk. not tipsy. not that polite one-glass blush he gets after a long dinner. not the loose-tie loosened-smile version of him.
you wanted to see him drunk.
so one slow, rainy saturday, curled up in your apartment with nothing to do and a few bottles of sake on the kitchen counter, you propose it. “let’s get drunk.”
nanami raises an eyebrow. “why?”
“because i want to see you wasted,” you grin, crawling into his lap like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “i wanna know if you cry. or sing. or if you finally admit you like those trashy dating shows i watch.”
he groans, but you feel the low rumble of it in his chest, the amusement under his breath. “you’re insufferable.”
“and you’re avoiding the question.”
he sighs like you’re the biggest burden in the world—but an hour later he’s sitting on the floor with you, sleeves rolled up, cheeks already pink from the second round of drinks, and muttering something about how he’s too old for this.
“i can still work tomorrow,” he slurs his words a little. “can still do long division. give me a pen. i’ll prove it.”
you laugh so hard you snort. “no one’s asking you to do math, kenny.”
“good,” he mutters, blinking slowly. “fuck math.”
two more drinks in and he’s properly drunk. soft, golden skin flushed all the way down his neck, glasses abandoned on the floor, and his head lolling onto your shoulder like it’s the only place in the world it belongs.
he’s clingier when he’s drunk—in a sweet, sleepy, murmuring-into-your-neck way. every few minutes he whispers something completely incoherent and kisses your jaw.
“you smell nice,” he mumbles. “smell like home.”
your heart does a little twist.
he nuzzles into your collarbone like a cat and sighs again. “you’re gonna marry me one day, right?”
you freeze.
you’re not sure he even realizes what he said. he just keeps rubbing lazy circles into your arm with his thumb, blinking slowly like he’s fighting sleep.
you finally whisper, “yeah. if you ask me.”
he lifts his head. squints at you. like he’s trying to focus through the alcohol.
then he grins.
and oh god, it’s such a boyish grin—uneven and almost smug, like he’s just won a bet you didn’t know you were making.
“good,” he whispers. “was gonna ask you tomorrow.”
your breath catches in your throat. “you were?”
he nods, then rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. “but now you said yes first. i’m lucky.” he murmurs.
he’s asleep before you can even process it.
passed out in your lap, still holding your hand.
and you just sit there in the dim glow of the tv, sake forgotten, stroking his hair with your heart about to burst.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: a snippet of vulcan medican officer shouto x starfleet captain reader, inspired by all the star trek au brainrot i had going on a couple weeks ago lmao. shouto is our handsome chief medical officer who just wants captain reader to stop getting herself so grievously injured every time the ship makes port, trying to prove to herself that she is worthy of the ship's command. (6.1k)
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: afab fem reader (she/her pronouns), hurt/comfort, self-worth issues, implied child neglect, unreliable narrator, pre-relationship, some gore (reader sustains significant physical injury), sfw.
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: tos is the only star trek i have seen all the way through, and the last time i watched any star trek was when i was down with the flu for a week in college lmao. i did some wiki digging and some googling but i did take some notable liberties with their comms units and other details are probably hella inaccurate to canon so my apologies to the trekkies!! dedicated to @/volatilematters for drawing me the most amazing vulcan shouto.
It was the crackling of your comms unit that roused you, the ping of an incoming call slicing through the fog of your sleep. You blinked awake, realizing you’d fallen asleep huddled in the corner of your cell, your neck stiff from being wedged awkwardly against the wall as you dozed.
You hurriedly accepted the comm, smiling blearily as First Officer Iida’s anxious expression filled the piece of your wrist unit’s screen that wasn’t obscured by your manacles.
“Captain,” he said solemnly, inclining his head.
You gave him a nod, suppressing a wince as the motion jarred your shoulder, pulling at the wound and sending a wave of hot pain radiating down to your fingers. You suspected it was dislocated, although that was immaterial at this point. You’d figure it out later in the privacy of your own quarters, when the rest of your crew had been seen to.
“Tenya,” you said, pulling on a grin. “It’s a relief to see you—what have you been able to pull together?”
Iida’s eyes slipped sideways to what you could tell was an inventory, a list of items you intended for the UA to present to your Xentauri captors. “Midoriya was able to put together a translator based on the audio snippets you took with your wrist unit. It’s calibrated for their language, so we should be able to communicate effectively.”
You nodded again, pleased with your crew’s progress. You suspected you were only in this mess in the first place because of your communication gap.
Xentauri-II.1ba, as it was officially charted on Federation mapping, was a newly discovered life-supporting planet that had yet to be thoroughly investigated. The Federation had first deployed a small science team to research conditions, but only weeks in, the unit had dispatched an emergency signal. Your ship, the UA had the closest to receive it, and once decoded by Comms Officer Midoriya, the signal had pointed to the team being in severe danger, possibly under attack.
You’d immediately rerouted for Xentauri-II.1ba, and taken a small shuttle down to the research base with a few handpicked officers to investigate. Whereupon you’d of course been attacked by the planet’s inhabitants yourself.
You’d attempted to negotiate, but without a mapping of their language to yours yet established, your efforts were in vain. The Xentauri had taken your rescue crew prisoner too, hauled you back to what you guessed to be their capital city, and thrown you in with the research team.
They hadn’t seemed to want to kill you after the fight deescalated. Or known enough, for that matter, to relieve your crew of your communicators. Which pointed to a possible diplomatic solution still at hand.
“Perfect. What else?” you prompted Iida.
“Records of Federation history reworked to suit their level of technological advancement, a few non-invasive crop samples Ibara thinks will work well in their arid soil, some textiles and worked metals that roughly match their own dress that Midoriya thinks they may like, blankets, and—well, Shouto hasn’t given them up yet but we’re asking him for some species-agnostic hyposprays to represent our intention to help.”
Your stomach flipped at the mention of your Chief Medical Officer. You were going to be giving him a wide berth for the foreseeable future until you were certain he wouldn’t be able to note your injuries. He was the last person who needed to catch on to your weakness.
“He doesn’t want to give them over?” you asked.
Iida frowned. “He has not said as much, but I am getting the distinct impression he does not look well upon the Xentauri.”
You tossed Iida another tired grin. “How can he dislike them when we’ve never encountered them before? He’s just mad about the cleanup he’s gonna have to do on the crew. Tell Shouto it’s Captain’s orders and I want at least five.”
Iida made a noise of assent, pushing up his glasses. “I will. We should be there in precisely twenty Galactic standard minutes. Is there anything else you wish me to assemble before the podship departs?”
You shook your head. “You’ve done a good job, thank you, Tenya. Let’s see how the negotiation goes now that we have Izuku’s translator. If we have to do it in phases, please prioritize the return of the research team first, then the crew. I will go last—is that understood?”
Iida looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, but predictably, he nodded. He was loyal to your command, reliable to a fault. You were so often thankful for it.
“Understood, Captain. I will see you shortly,” he replied.
“Thank you, Tenya,” you said, before ending the comm.
Mina perked up in her own cell, a few yards away from yours. “Party bus incoming?”
You laughed, giving the xenobiologist a wink. She’d been good company the last day or so, easily able to keep her spirits up despite your capture and able to help you reassure the rest of your crew that things were well in hand. You were especially thankful, as she had been inches away from not being here. You’d moved in front of the knife meant for her without thinking, catching it in your own shoulder instead of her throat. It super sucked for you, but it was better a shoulder wound than a dead friend.
“Your shower and breakfast beckon, m’lady,” you joked.
Mina groaned appreciatively, scrubbing a manacled hand through her candy-pink hair. “I think I’m gonna take an old fashioned one. Real water and everything.”
You made a sympathetic sound. A water shower sounded luxurious, and some part of you desperately craved one too. But hot water was not good for most injuries, particularly a dislocated shoulder and what you were also certain was a broken ankle. Not to mention the stinging effect it might have on your stab wound and the litany of cuts and bruises that banded the rest of your body.
You were going to have to wait a little longer until you’d healed up to partake.
“We should wake the rest of the crew,” you said, motioning to the couple of uniformed lumps in Mina’s cell and the few beyond.
Mina nodded, and set about poking your teammates awake, calling excitedly to the next couple of cells down.
Both your crew and the Federation research team were awake by the time the Xentauri guard came to fetch you, exactly 20 minutes on the dot, as Iida had promised. They said something in their twining, sinuous tones, shuffling to the doors of your cells. They were humanoid but strange to look at, their skin waxen grey and necks elongated like Earthen giraffes, sprouting into wide, ridged faces almost like the Ferengi. A set of eight fingers—as long and spindly as their necks—protruded from the cuffs of their shirts, made from a light material like a linen, though their thinness belied a ferocious strength.
It reminded you a little of looking at Shouto, his terrifying Vulcan strength buried under a deceptively beautiful visage.
The Xentauri’s strength was on full display as a guard reached out and hauled you unceremoniously to your feet. They shepherded you impatiently out of the prison, into the harsh blue cast of the Xentauri sun.You stumbled along with them, swearing under your breath every time you took a step with your right foot. Pain lanced up your leg, lodging in your throat, and you grit your teeth, sweat building quickly beneath your uniform.
It was almost a relief to be forced down when you finally reached your destination—a sandy expanse of earth outside or a huddle of buildings erected from a purplish, glittering rock. Your head swam, and your vision whited out for a moment as you hit your knees.
When you recovered, you could see the crew of the UA was already assembled in the lot. Iida stood at ease in front of a small group of expedition officers, flanked by Izuku, Tokoyami, and—you paled to see it—Shouto.
Your Chief Medical Officer looked predictably perfect in the light of the Xentauri sun, the blue catching in the silver of his hair, fading into the blue of his uniform. It played over his broad shoulders and glinted off of the cool metal of the phaser strapped to his thigh. It also underscored his expression, which was pissed—or as pissed as a Vulcan could look, anyway.
It was undetectable if you weren’t already intimately familiar with their baseline expressions. But you were familiar enough with Shouto’s—had been his schoolmate once—and so you caught the tiniest narrowing of his eyes at the corners, the barest hint of a scrunch between his perfect eyebrows as that heterochromatic gaze flicked over you.
Oh yeah. Pissed big time.
You tried to project an air of strength and confidence as he looked you over, though you imagined your stay in Xentauri prison had not been kind to you. You knew you were covered in dust and debris, and you watched Shouto’s gaze snag on the rend in your uniform over your stab wound. It was a mess of dried blood surrounded by some very heavy and very gross bruising.
Dignity and command, you told yourself as your vision fuzzed a little again. You could totally still project dignity and command.
Izuku stepped forward with the translator, offering some opening words that, on this side of the lot, came out in the Xentauri language, sibilant and twisting. One of the Xentauri, dressed in a purple linen that nearly matched the stone of the buildings around you, stepped forward, replying in a hiss of words.
You listened with half an ear as negotiations commenced, trying to keep your focus on staying upright. The Xentauri sun burned through the fabric of your uniform, and the air was biting and dry. You pointedly did not look at Shouto again, keeping your eyes trained on Izuku and Iida as they produced the bargaining chips you’d ordered.
You were pleased when, as you expected, the Xentauri accepted with little delay. You could only just catch snatches of Federation Standard as Izuku and Iida spoke between the translated layers of Xentauri, but you were able to gather that the Federation’s arrival was perceived as an attempt to undermine Xentauri territorial sovereignty.
Once it was made clear that you were not on any sort of political venture, however, you were ceded back into Federation custody with no more ceremony than a box of pastries. They seemed eager to receive the gifts you had pulled together, and not very interested in further violence.
You watched, relieved, as your crew were set free of their restraints and helped back towards the podship by their teammates. You shook out your own hands happily as a Xentauri guard freed you from your manacles as well.
You clambered to your feet, biting back a small scream as you put weight on your right leg. And then you forced yourself to pace evenly over to where Iida stood with the remaining crew, inclining your head gratefully. You waved away the rest of the crew, huddling up with your First and Communications Officers.
“Well handled,” you told them. Izuku flushed beneath his freckles, always pleased, and Iida saluted you. “I’d like ten minutes for a sonic shower and a change of uniform, then I’d like all heads of departments at the bridge for a debrief.”
Iida nodded. “I will arrange it.”
“Thank you,” you said, ignoring the way your head throbbed. “I’m certain you have also already drafted a report to Star Fleet. I’d like to review it collectively to ensure the Xentauri are fairly represented and to request permission for continued negotiation with them for Federation Science re-access to their planet.”
Iida saluted.
“After that, please consider yourself off duty,” you said. “Thank you for your overtime to get the crew back. We can transition ship command back to me and I will cover your remaining shift into my upcoming—-”
“You will not,” Shouto’s low tone cut through your order.
You startled at his proximity, the statement issued from just above your right temple. When you titled your head to look back at him, your shoulder lanced with pain and your vision swam faintly again. You forced it all down, shooting Shouto an impatient look.
“Respectfully—”
“You are not cleared for duty,” Shouto said.
It was lucky the rest of the crew had already hastened towards the podship or you might have strangled him for his lack of deference. But Shouto had a knack for timing—he never disobeyed you in front of the crew, never even came close to a whisper of undeferential behavior unless it was with Tenya and Izuku, both of whom you knew he trusted completely. He was too canny.
“I don’t need to be cleared, it’s just a couple of scratches,” you informed him archly.
“I believe I am qualified to make that assessment on my own,” Shouto told you, his heterochromatic gaze fastening to your face as he stepped around you to join the circle of your officers. You were altogether too aware of the breadth and height of him as he moved, a tiny thrill of fear zipping down your spine.
Shouto was the only person on the ship with the authority to strip you of command should he see fit. And you were determined for him to never see fit.
“What luck there is no need for you to,” you said, sweetly.
A scarlet eyebrow rose a scant millimeter, which to Vulcans amounted to a look of polite incredulity. “That would be in violation of Regulation 8.667-f of the Medical Standard. Which requires a medical officer to clear return for all officers sustaining injury on duty, including command. Especially when you have clearly been stabbed.”
Damn him.
“Details,” you told him. “Plus I’m sure you’ll be busy clearing all your other patients. I can duck in a little later to see if Hagakure—”
“My staff will see to the other crew,” Shouto said. “You are my priority, Captain.”
A little thrill zinged through your veins again, fear and something else you did not care to examine.
Iida and Izuku did not help matters by nodding in agreement, Iida giving you a short bow. “We will see to the situation on the bridge, Captain, until you are cleared for return. Please make sure you are in good health.”
You valiantly fought down a scowl as you dismissed them. “My gratitude.”
Izuku and Iida saluted and turned for the podship, leaving you alone with the most annoying Vulcan in the galaxy. You watched them go, not turning to Shouto until they had cleared most of the way.
“You first, doctor,” you motioned him towards the ship as well, determined to walk behind him so he wouldn’t catch any sign of a limp in your step.
Shouto didn’t move, however, blinking down at you. His handsome face was impassive, the strong line of his jaw and plush mouth perfectly, deceptively at ease.
“Do you so object to walking with me, Captain?” he asked.
You shook your head. “I will cover the rear.”
Shouto blinked again. “I am the only one with a phaser between us.”
If you didn’t feel on the verge of passing out, you could have torn out your own hair. Did he need to be so difficult!
“I insist,” you said, trying your best to look polite and innocent.
Shouto’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Either you are deliberately avoiding mention of another injury or you are injured so badly as to have forgotten it. In which case a mandate of relief from the captainship would almost certainly be required while you recover your memory—”
You reached out and slapped a hand over his mouth, hissing, “I did not forget an injury.”
“Then you must inform me,” he said into your fingers. His tone sounded more entreating than commanding, and for some reason that annoyed you. There was no reason to be concerned.
“Nothing confirmed, possible dislocation,” you said vaguely, pulling your hand away. It tingled a little with the echo of how his mouth had moved against it.
Shouto’s gaze dropped from your face down your body, his mouth pursing in a sweet little downturn. “Where?”
You gritted your teeth. “Shoulder. Possibly one ankle.”
Shouto immediately dropped to his knees in front of you, startling you. You took a reflexive step backwards, letting out a cry when it jostled your right foot. You just barely managed not to go down hard, recovering yourself only by the sudden grip Shouto had on your waist, supporting you.
He was, of course, immediately able to tell which ankle had pained you. His long, elegant fingers reached for the hem of your right leg, rolling it up in a gentle motion. You watched the top of that red-and-white head tilt, and heard the soft intake of his breath as he caught the swelling that had reached the edges of your boot.
His expression could almost be termed thunderous, even on a human, when he looked back up at you. “You were going to walk on a broken ankle,” he said accusingly.
“Oh? Is it broken?” you tried, pasting on an expression of surprise.
Which immediately turned to a yelp of genuine surprise when Shouto rolled nimbly back to his feet, sweeping his arms under you, avoiding your right shoulder.
“Shouto—!” you squeaked, your voice strangled.
“You knew,” he said firmly, tucking you close to his chest. Your face heated at the press of him along your side, warm and firm and harder with muscle than a medical officer should have been allowed. He smelled like sterilants and some warm, expensive cologne, a little unearthly in profile. Possibly composed of Vulcan plants.
It made your lightheadedness somehow even worse, and if he didn’t put you down now you were afraid you might pass out for real.
“It’s probably just a minor fracture,” you insisted, as he carried you towards the podship. You shifted, ignoring the flare of pain in your shoulder as you did, trying to clamber out of his arms. He refused to be dislodged, ducking deftly through the door of the podship and nodding at a crewman as the officer closed it behind the two of you.
You couldn’t bear to look at the crewman’s face, burning with embarrassment at being carried over the threshold like a fucking princess.
Then Shouto had the audacity to buckle you into the podship seat himself, like your arms were broken too, and arranged himself stiffly in the seat next to you.
His mouth was turned down in a frown when you glanced at him, and the expression did not so much as flicker the entire flight back to the UA. It was only when you tried to insist you could walk to medbay yourself that Shouto gave you the flattest, most flinty-eyed look you’d ever seen from him. He knelt before you again, helping you unfasten your jumpseat buckle, and ignored your protests as he pulled your uninjured arm up over a strong shoulder, gathering you up in his arms again.
You squeezed your eyes as he moved through the halls, both to avoid seeing the judgment on your crew’s faces and because the way the walls were starting to spin in front of your eyes was making you a little nauseous.
You appeared to be the first of the captured crew to make into medbay, so it was blessedly empty of people as Shouto bore you through it. He carried you right into his office and set you on the gently medbed in the corner, your least favorite spot on the entire ship.
Then he stood in front of you, and put hands on his hips. You ignored the way it made his biceps pull and flex under the fabric of his uniform.
“I am going to have to cut your boot off of you,” Shouto informed you. “Your shirt as well. It’s stuck in your wounds and I will need to reopen them a little to cut it out.”
Your cheeks heated with the idea of being bare before him, but he was a medical professional. And also that was disgusting—you wanted to get your shirt out of your own body as fast as possible. “Sure—that’s fine.”
Shouto hummed to himself, a low, soft tone in the back of his throat as he moved to a drawer of equipment beside the med bed. “Thank you,” he said, drawing out a device with a wickedly thin, circular blade attached.
You did not like the look of it, and hoped that famous Vulcan precision was everything it was cracked up to be.
Shouto knelt before you again, carefully applying the saw and pulling the fabric of your boot gently away from your skin. It whirred softly, and in a matter of moments you felt the loosening of the fabric, and your boot thunked heavily to the floor.
“I will do your shirt now,” Shouto told you.
You nodded, breath catching in your chest as he leaned over you. Those long fingers slid under the collar of your uniform, easing it away from the fragile skin of your neck. You flushed hotly when Shouto’s fingers met the edge of your bra strap, too, and he paused, going strangely still.
You thought you caught the hint of a blue flush at the top of one high cheekbone, and you quickly bit out a “sorry” at him, cheeks burning.
Then the saw whirred to life again, and Shouto angled it down until it had cut a clean line down your shirt. He pulled it off of you, very gently inching it away from where it had stuck into your stab wound and various other cuts with your dried blood. He murmured a warning before each, and you bit back a groan as it re-tore open the skin in those spots, determined not to look like a little baby.
Shouto tossed your shirt in the biohazard bin with perfect aim, his eyelashes sweeping down across his cheeks as he took stock of all the injuries that had collected across your torso.
You looked down at yourself, noting several deep cuts you hadn’t noticed before and a contusion in the shape of one of the Xentauri’s feet. You also noted how much blood had soaked into the cups and straps of your bra from your stab wound, and chalked it up to a lost cause. When you looked back up, Shouto looked kind of angry again.
“I will administer painkillers via hypospray and a topical antibacterial to your stab wound first,” he said, his low voice flat.
You nodded your assent, and Shouto went to the drawer again, gathering up the things he’d need for you. “Then I will assess your remaining injuries via tricorder. I may need to manually reset your shoulder. Your ankle should be healable with the osteogenic stimulator. Is this acceptable?”
You nodded again tiredly. “You can do whatever you want with me.”
Shouto fumbled the hypospray, whipping around to stare at you. A blue flush crawled all the way up his pointed ears.
You could almost hear the rush of your own blood to your ears when you realized how you’d just sounded. “I mean—uhhhhh. That wasn’t to imply—”
“If I did what I wanted with you,” Shouto said, drawing himself up. “You would never leave medbay again.”
You blinked, unsure if that was the threat it sounded like. Meaning, he wouldn’t let you go back to command for your own good? Or he wanted to murder you himself? Or—?
You burned with embarrassment. You had long wanted Shouto’s approval, or at the very least to avoid him seeing right through you to the poor little wretch you’d been before Starfleet, unable to take care of your own mother, surrendered into state care for your uselessness.
You’d wanted it even back at the academy, realizing how smart he was, how straightforward and empathetic. You trusted his judgment more than anyone else on this ship. And so you wanted him to think you were a capable captain, someone worthy of his respect, too. Not some idiot who could barely handle herself who needed to be kept from command to protect the rest of the crew.
You stayed silent, shame burning through you. You would just have to try harder in the future, make him see that you could be relied on to take care of this crew, including him. You would prove yourself capable.
Shouto moved around you with the ease of long practice, pressing the hypospray to the back of your neck. Then he held the tricorder over you, his mismatched gaze tracking across the screen, that microscopic scrunch appearing between his brows again.
“You have been stabbed, dislocated your shoulder, fractured a finger, broken your ankle, torn your MCL. You have also sustained significant bruising on your right torso, left thigh, and right shin,” he said. “You have a variety of small cuts and other abrasions across roughly five percent of your epidermis.”
His voice sounded kind of funny, and his handsome face waved in front of you like a flag in the wind. A weird feeling of giddiness and relief swept over you, and you realized the painkillers he’d just given you were starting to hit.
“Ohhhhh that feels so good,” you said, stupidly, feeling yourself slip forward. Your head lolled onto Shouto’s shoulder.
You could feel his inhale, and then his arms came around you. “I—Yes, I can do it from this position, then. I will need to reset your shoulder. I need to apply a local anesthetic.”
“Do your thing,” you said into his neck. He smelled really good.
Shouto’s next breath was uneven, and long fingers grasped you just above your bicep, the cold touch of the hypospray at your shoulder joint. “I will proceed.”
You closed your eyes. “Whatever you want.”
A feeling of numbness overtook your shoulder, and then the hypospray disappeared. A large hand braced against your back and Shouto said, “I am going to reset it now.”
You nodded. “Sounds nice.”
There was a strange feeling of pressure, a slide that you did not like, and then—a sense of relief. “Oh, it’s back in!”
“Yes,” Shouto confirmed. Then, hesitantly, “I will need to move you to work on your stab wound and fractures.”
You heard yourself make a grunt of disapproval. You did not like the sound of that. Moving sounded like the worst thing anyone had ever asked of you, actually. “Y’ can ignore them, ‘ll get ‘m later.”
Shouto paused. “I would be professionally negligent not to fix them.”
You frowned. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll get ‘m. Thank you.”
“They…matter to me,” Shouto said. There was something in his voice you didn’t like, something a little dark like you had displeased him. You didn’t want to displease him.
You were interrupted from responding, however, by a soft knock at the door. Shouto hesitated, then called for whoever it was to come in, and you heard Hagakure’s bright tone from over his shoulder.
“Oh! Is that the captain—?” she said. “Is she—?”
“I gave her Metorapan,” Shouto said. “Please close the door behind you.”
“Oh nothing but the top shelf for our captain, huh,” Hagakure laughed. “Explains why she’s all over you right now. She say anything crazy yet?”
It took an inhuman amount of effort to lift your head from Shouto’s chest to glare over his shoulder at her. Only to find she was missing from view, the chameleon skin of her alien species picking up the light reflections in the ship’s environment. She had to consciously remember to be visible sometimes.
“I am not all over him,” you said. “And as I was just explaining, I am done an’ ready to debrief now.”
Hagakure shimmered into view, her mouth turned up into a grin. “With an open stab wound?”
You blinked. Shouto covered you almost completely from view. How could she—?
“Mina says it was meant for her but Captain took it right in the shoulder instead. Didn’t even go down, just tried to negotiate with the Xentauri right through it,” Hagakure reported.
Shouto’s sigh ruffled your hair. “I am unsurprised to hear it.”
You felt another frown pull at your mouth. He probably thought you were an idiot for almost getting one of your crew injured. You hated how incapable you were, too, but you’d at least saved her from the worst of it, and you’d learn the lesson for next time. Next time, you would prove yourself for sure. You would earn the command of this ship, not just on paper but in practice too.
“How is the crew?” you managed, forcing the feelings down.
“None so injured as you,” Hagakure said. “They said you took the worst of it for them, and kept things from escalating. A couple of minor fractures here and there and some bruising but otherwise everyone is safe. The research crew on the other hand, is a little worse for wear—bet they wish you had been there for their arrest too.”
You snorted. Nobody wished that.
“Nothing we can’t fix though,” Hagakure said. “I’ll send you the report Mina gave, Shouto, on Cap’s injury so you have it, and send the treatment records for your review when we’re done.”
“Thank you,” Shouto said.
“I wanted to check if there’s any help you need from me, before I go back to supervise?” she asked.
Shouto shook his head.
You shook your head also, detaching from Shouto reluctantly. The room was cold without him against you. “Thank you for the report on the crew. Can you comm Tenya on the way out to let him know I will be there shortly to debrief?”
Hagakure stared at you. “You’re still stabbed, Captain.”
You blinked and looked down, noting your lack of shirt as well. When had that—? “Oh. That.”
Hagakure made a noise like she was suppressing a laugh and let herself out, the door closing firmly behind her.
Before you could make your excuses to Shouto, he’d eased an arm behind your shoulder and was tipping you over to lay on the cot.
“You cannot be cleared to return to duty until your injuries are addressed and the Metorapan wears off,” he told you. “You will need to sleep it off for a few hours after we are done.”
As he had anticipated it, his hand flew to your shoulder as you tried to sit up, pressing you back down. “I don’t need a few hours,” you said.
“You will have them regardless,” Shouto replied.
“I’ve already taken too much time,” you said, giving him a quick smile. See how ready you were to return to work?
Shouto’s perfect mouth pulled downwards a scant inch, and your eyes tracked the movement. “You are a very bad patient, as usual,” he said.
You rolled your eyes. You were a very bad everything. You didn’t also want to be a bad captain.
Shouto’s mouth opened, his eyelashes fluttering in surprise. “Is that what you think?” he asked, and you realized you’d maybe said that last bit aloud. “You believe you are a bad captain?”
A sudden flicker of fear flared to life in your chest.
To admit doubt was also to be a bad captain. You could not show hesitation, not when you were meant to be the leader of this starship. Shouto himself could not trust you if he knew you were not perfectly sure of yourself at all times.
“No,” you said.
Shouto watched your face. “No?”
Your head throbbed, and a bone deep exhaustion settled over you, tugging at your eyelids. But you watched him back, trying to blink through the feeling.
“I,” you started, then stopped yourself when you realized it wouldn’t be quite true to say you were a good captain. Shouto wasn’t stupid. “I do my best to protect th’ crew. Will always do my best to protect every member of th’ UA.”
A tiny little frown marred the perfection of Shouto’s face again. You reached up, smoothing it, and watched as a bluish green flush overtook his features again.
Vulcans blushed blue. You were probably grossing him out. You took your hand away.
“You take care of most of the crew,” Shouto allowed. “Every single member of the crew but one. There is a notable exception.”
Shit. Who had you failed? How had you failed? Normally you knew, were perfectly and objectively aware of every single time a strategy of yours had not gone as intended, had worked to make up the learning after and never make the mistake again.
But it was Shouto’s job to pull you from command if you were unfit. And if you were negligent enough in your duties like this, not even see the the things you were missing—
“D’you plan to relieve me of command?” you asked. Your face burned again, the question having slipped out before you were ready.
Shouto looked shocked—surprise taking over more of his features than you had ever seen on a Vulcan before.
“What?” he asked.
“Because I let them get hurt. Who is it?” you asked.
Shouto appeared speechless for a long moment. “People will always get hurt on missions like ours. You have protected the crew better than anyone I could think of. Your strategic thinking in times of crises is your area of expertise, and I have no doubt in your abilities. If I were to relieve you of command, I would see double the numbers of crew members in here after every mission.”
Your head swam, and you flushed with embarrassment, squirming uncomfortably with the praise. It didn’t answer your question. Why was he being so hard to understand?
“But you said there was someone I don’t protect. Like a routine failure.”
Shouto raised a hand, his long fingers skirting around the edge of your stab wound. “The only person you do not look after is yourself.”
You blinked, subsiding under his hand. Yourself? That was his problem?
Shouto’s handsome face spasmed again and you could tell you’d said that aloud too.
“Yes, that is my problem,” he said.
“Oh well that’s fine then,” you answered, although you were a little mystified.
Look after yourself? What was there even to look after? You had a good job, and your own sonic shower, and hot food whenever you wanted it, provided you weren’t temporarily behind bars on some backwater planet. You had the chance to earn the trust of people you respected, some of the best in the galaxy in their professions, and—many months into your mission—several blossoming friendships with Iida, Izuku, Mina, and Hagakure. You had a literal starship at your command, a place you were beginning to belong.
The only thing you could want for was Shouto’s respect too.
But you would earn that in time. You would.
“You already have it,” Shouto said, his voice low and intimate. It made you flush again, your heart beating kicking up somewhere into your throat.
“I do?” you asked.
Shouto inclined his head, looking you in the face.
“I will make it clear to you more in the future,” he said, then leaned over you, reaching for some device. You reveled in his warmth and closeness for a moment, until he pulled back with something you recognized as an osteogenic stimulator. “As well as other areas of my regard.”
You blinked, wondering what that meant.
“It is not a conversation that is right to have when you are not in possession of your faculties,” Shouto said. “But perhaps it will convince you to take better care of yourself.”
You blinked again sleepily, having trouble thinking straight now that the immediate problem had been addressed and you’d been horizontal for so long. Shouto did not think you needed to be relieved of duty. Shouto respected you.
You watched him work blearily, his long fingers fiddling with some of the settings on the simulator. It was strangely hypnotic to observe, and another wave of exhaustion washed through you, weighing you down to the table.
“In the interim I will take care of you. Until, and even after, you are able,” Shouto promised.
“That…sounds really nice,” you said absently, wondering if maybe you could just catch a couple minutes’ rest while he worked.
“You can sleep. I will be here when you wake up,” Shouto said, trailing the simulator down to your ankle.
His touch was sure and gentle, and his voice was too.
Maybe it would be fine then, to just take a short respite.
You closed your eyes. And under Shouto’s careful watch, you let yourself rest.
suguru doesn’t, even for a second, believe that you and satoru are—or could be—anything more than friends. he knows there’s nothing between you. you’ve said as much yourself.
and besides, the thought is incongruous with everything he understands about the both of you. and he does understand you—not as thoroughly as he understands satoru, of course. you’re a girl, after all. and satoru is his best friend.
still. knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less.
joyous laughter pierce through the otherwise staid atmosphere, and suguru finds himself resenting it. such uninhibited joy has become so out of reach for himself lately. you’re running around on the lawn of the track field with satoru, engaged in some idiotic game the two of you have invented on the spot. shoko, leaned against the wall beside him, exhales a thin plume of smoke with languid detachment.
“children,” she remarks softly.
“hm.”
suguru watches you fling yourself forward, fingers catching the hem of satoru’s jacket, nearly losing your footing while doing so. he catches you deftly—but in that sickening moment, suguru senses the faintest chance you might allow yourself to stay in satoru’s arms just a bit longer. and for one miserable second, he hates his best friend. hates himself for that stupid, fleeting thought: i wish you’d fallen into my arms instead.
“jealous much?”
he doesn’t dignify her observation with a response. you’ve already peeled yourself off satoru, laughing loudly as you hurl yourself back into the stupid game. he knows better. satoru isn’t the threat. he knows his friend’s heart too well—knows his own, too, the secret, corrosive decay within himself. satoru is his best friend. his one and only: the singular presence who would willingly plunge into inferno at his side. and you—ever kind to both—have transgressed no fault. you, who is thoughtful, composed, ineffably sweet. faultless in every way, aside from your maddening ability shatter the measured cadence of his heart.
suguru wonders, with an undercurrent of unease, if one day you’ll be forced to choose between them.
shoko snorts, amusement in her eyes.
“there it is. you are jealous.”
he is. a bit. he simply can’t take his eyes off you.
when you break from satoru’s side and sprint toward them—hair a mess, looking absolutely radiant in the late afternoon light—he thinks that you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. you skid to a stop in front of him and shoko, panting, digging in your pocket.
“do either of you—god, i’m out of—can i borrow some change? for the vending machine?” he’s already pulling a handful of yen from his pocket, not bothering to check the amount. your hand brushes his when you take them. warm. still buzzing from play.
“do either of you want anything?”
shoko declines with a wave, “no thanks,”
“and you, suguru?”
you turn expectantly to him, hair windblown and eyes bright. there’s a margin of silence between you, one you haven’t noticed and he can’t stop measuring. his gaze drops briefly to your hand. then returns to your face.
“…i’m good. get yourself something with electrolytes,” he finally replies. his voice is thoughtful. almost dispassionate before he adds:
“unless you’d rather me carrying you across the quad in front of everyone. like last time.”
you blink up at him. like a deer in headlights. behind you, satoru shouts something incomprehensible. you ignore him completely.
“i—okay. thank you,” you stammer. you pivot fast, nearly drop the coins, then dart off toward the vending machines. the pair watch the back of your head disappear around the corner. shoko hums behind him, amused.
“you know she’s gonna think about that line for the rest of the week. don’t you, geto?”
suguru indulges himself — not nearly as often as he maybe should. far less than he does you, but nonetheless, he does. on occasion.
allowing himself to act on impulse every so often. on whims and buried desires. letting himself be easily swayed by the current of his heart.
i love you.
he tries not to make it too obvious, too imposing. suguru knows better than most that confessions feel that way more often than not.
he tries to be subtle about it. as subtle as he can. i love you but it's hidden in the odd pauses between his words, between fleeting glances and quiet sighs, and jokes that mean too much to him.
he's pressing you to a wall now. effectively shielding you from view and trapping you in against it. your face delicately held in his hands; be subtle suguru. don't impose.
his touch is light, you could push him off if you wanted to. for a moment, he waits for it. watching you watch him.
you could feel your heart beating in your throat, doing your best to swallow it down. be subtle. your eyes flit to his lips and back to his eyes again. it was quick, impulsive. it may have gone unnoticed if not for the proximity.
before you get so much as a single word out — before you get to see the little hearts in the soft gleaming gold of his violet eyes. before you get a good look at him, the soft of his lips press to your own. pillowy and so inviting.
the questions on the edge of your tongue fleeing, each disappearing in a different direction to a far away place you can't find yourself concerned with right now.
birds fleeing at a sudden disturbance, but you cannot. perfectly pleased being in his embrace, against the hard brick and binding of the building behind your back.
his mouth moves languid against yours, slow. almost torturously so.
taking up your space as he tilts your head back a little further in an attempt to reach more of you.
he's all you smell. all you taste, all that you feel. eyes shut tight, grasping at his arms through the sleeves of his shirt.
greedily, he swallows your breath, stealing the air from your lungs and leaving behind the taste of him on your tongue. fresh like citrus and chilled floral tea, fresh like a cool breeze and the rays of sun filtering in on slow quiet summer mornings.
it's dizzying. accredit to the the lack of air, and perhaps to him too. suguru could have that effect.
your knees buckle, body slumping against the cool wall. there's a blissful buzz in your head, your heart tender; melting to dollops of warm soft caramel.
the weight of your body is suddenly too much to carry, your knees feel hallow. finally giving in as your pliant body slides down the wall.
suguru follows, lowering his body with yours, refusing to break the kiss just yet. your butt meets the ground and his knees too. hunched over, leaning into you, with both of his knees on the hard ground; sugurus drinking you in.
desperately, as if stoping would hurt him.
he thinks it really might.
the material of his shirt is held right in you fist in an attempt to ground yourself. it feels as though you're melting right into him.
pulling away, you have to be the one to break the kiss first — although, calling it a 'kiss' doesn't suffice. you gulp down fresh air in big breathes filling your empty lungs and working overtime to quell your hearts erratic beating.
he watches you, with fondness blending into the pretty mauve of his eyes. lips glossed now and parted to do the same. deep breathes.
you look a mess, the most beautiful he's ever seen; lips slightly swollen and a deep glowing rouge painting your nose, the apples of your cheeks, the tips of your ears.
suguru waits only a moment, his own face tinted in the same deep blush, and he leans in again. pressing quick light kisses to your soft reddened lips. one after the other after the other after the other, ambushing you in a sweet, loving assault of too many too quick little pecks.
you're eyes go wide and a glint all to bright shines in his, continuing the attack until a laugh bubbles up your throat at his antics; silly and playful. your laugh saccharine.
tucked away together in a quiet corner, sheltered from the bustling street by the wall.
suguru pulls away slow, reluctant. just enough to see you properly again. he looks so proud of himself.
big, warm hands that cradle your jaw still, thumbs on either side tracing over the delicate skin there in little abstract absentminded shapes.
he's resting his forehead against yours now wondering if you could feel the quickness of his heartbeat. if you could see past the boyish grin and all his subtlety to the part when he bares his whole chest to you.
Rancher! Nanami who hears you before he sees you, still in your pajamas with a pair of boots he got you, voice sweet as honey as you lean against the fence and point at the herd like you always do.
“That one’s a Daisy,” you say, grinning to yourself, pointing at a soft brown cow, who only gives you back a blank stare and a low moooo.
Nanami instead doesn’t look up from where he’s adjusting the latch on the feed gate. He just exhales slowly through his nose, like if he’s quiet enough, you might forget the names you just gave them.
You never do.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell you not to. Doesn’t have the stomach to explain how fast things can go wrong out here. How cows get sick. How they get sold. How sometimes, they just don’t wake up.
He knows you’d cry.
And it’s not that he doesn’t want you to love this place, it’s that he wants to keep the worst of it from touching you.
So he dusts his hands off on his jeans and walks over, quiet steps in the straw. He leans down just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, warm against the cool air of the morning.
“Honey,” he murmurs, voice low and warm like the rising morning sun, “how ‘bout we save the names for something that’s stayin’ awhile.”
You blink up at him, lips in a soft little pout, and God, he almost gives in. Almost.
But instead, he hooks a finger under your chin and tilts your face up gently.
“Wanna name the new cattle dog?” he offers. “He’s yours to train. Yours to keep. Might as well be yours to name, too.”
Your eyes light up, and just like that, he knows he made the right call. Even if it means shouldering the quiet, ugly parts alone.
prebf!isagi yoichi, who you started talking to one random wednesday after school just because he looked too soft to be sitting alone like that.
you didn’t think much of it at the time— you were just curious. he was always polite, always quiet, always scribbling something in a notebook that wasn’t even for class. you found that kind of thing… endearing.
“isagi, right?”
he jumped a little when you said his name. you’d think you slapped him.
“y-yeah.”
“mind if i sit?”
“…n-no, go ahead.”
and that was the beginning of whatever this was.
it’s been already clear to you that you’ve liked him for a while now. stupidly so.
maybe it was the way he always tied his shoelaces twice, or the way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was nervous, or the way he apologized when someone bumped into him.
he was just… respectful. painfully polite. and for some reason, that made your heart squeeze.
you thought he didn’t notice you at all. you assumed he was just naturally shy, or too focused on soccer, or maybe just didn’t like people like that.
so you kept your little crush quiet. subtle glances during class. soft smiles in the hallway that he’d return with a bow and a panicked blink.
from that day forward, it became a thing. walking to class together. small conversations during lunch. waving at each other from across the field. he always seemed flustered around you — but not in a bad way. more like… he didn’t know what to do with your attention.
but you figured that’s just how he is. awkward. shy. respectful.
besides, he never said anything that would give you hope. he just… smiled a lot. stuttered when you complimented his hair. carried your water bottle when you dropped it during PE. took the long way to his locker just to pass by you. blushed when your hands brushed.
okay. maybe you were the delusional one.
you didn’t expect anything from him. you were just happy being near him. because who else would turn red at a casual “you look nice today” who else would give you their only umbrella and run through the rain? who else would whisper “you’re really funny” when he thought you couldn’t hear?
but from that day on, things shifted. he always waited for you before leaving school. made playlists and said “you might like this one.” offered you his scarf when it was barely even cold.
you chalked it all up to kindness. because that’s what he was — kind. awkward, flustered, endlessly sweet. but never obvious.
until today.
yesterday, you were lucky enough to go to a summer festival with none other than isagi yoichi.
he hasn’t said much since.
but then again, neither have you—
not since you caught him staring at you in that yukata like he forgot how to breathe.
“the yukata you wore…”
he hesitated.
“it suits you a lot.”
holy shit.
he seems to notice, suddenly stiffening beside you.
“wait.. ah sorry, was that weird?” he blurts out, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to make it awkward or anything. I just… I didn’t know how to say it yesterday.”
you turn to him, expression soft, teasing. “were you trying to say i looked pretty?” you asked, grinning.
he goes quiet, his eyes darting away from you.
“yeah..” he murmurs.
oh my god.
you let out a small laugh, heart still fluttering.
“gosh isagi, you’re so cheesy.” he finally turns to look at you, eyes wide and with a slightly embarrassed expression.
“…does this mean we’re official?”
hihii ummm sorry this is kinda terrible also kinda corny for me to write but i’m kinda new to the fields here so any tips for future posts would be appreciated 🌹🌹💖💖 (⁎⁍̴̆Ɛ⁍̴̆⁎)♡
If you're in a relationship with Isagi you have to accept some things about him, and in turn some things about yourself. He WILL start to affect your day to day vocabulary until you're referencing "flow state" and "devoring" unironically. He will get strangely competitive and emotional over random things and you will have to give him consolation kisses after he doesn't win an arcade game. He will look into your eyes and ask you what makes you passionate, what drives you insane...and you better be ready to answer. If not, he'll just show you all the dark parts you think you've hidden away himself. Isagi Yoichi has a tendency for loving things with a monstrous side. You're no exception. You're no angel, and he'll tell you that to your face right after kissing it.
what's better than dessert after dinner with your boyfriend and his parents?? getting to see his baby pictures <3
wc: 1093
"Here's Yocchan's first time riding a bike," Iyo smiled as she pointed to the old photo of four year old Yoichi.
"Mom-"
"And here's Yocchan falling off the bike, crying because he scraped his knee," she then pointed to the next photo in the album sitting on her lap. "Oh he cried and cried."
"Mom." Yoichi groaned, sinking further into the cushioned chair that sat beside the couch you and his parents were currently seated on. She didn't pay her son's complaints much attention though as she continued flipping through the old photo album, happy to indulge all your questions about sweet little Isagi Yoichi.
Isagi knew this was coming. Since the moment you two started dating, he knew his parents had been waiting for the day you would be in their living room, letting them show you every picture and share every story from his childhood to ever exist. And here you were, the love his life looking beautiful sitting in between his sweet, loving parents giggling at each one of his baby pictures. He loved his parents dearly but god was this embarrassing.
"Is this his first soccer game?" you asked excitedly, holding the photo delicately as Iyo slips it out the album so you can see it up close. You smiled at the image in front of you showing a little Yoichi whose jersey was covered in dirt, flashing a smile with a few missing baby teeth, hands behind his back as he looked up at the camera. You recognized that passion and excitement in his eyes in an instant, as it's one you've seen plenty times watching his games as he now plays for a professional team.
"It was! He was so happy that day," Issei, who was sitting on the other side of you on the couch, smiled recalling the day all those years ago. "Even though I'm pretty sure I remember he passed the ball to someone on the opposite team in the first half." You laughed upon hearing this, turning to face your boyfriend who was trying to merge into the cushions and never be seen again. You raised an eyebrow at him, giving him a teasing smirk knowing damn well nowadays if a teammate had made an error like that he'd show no mercy.
"I was eight!" Yoichi rebutted in an act to save himself from the embarrassment. You and his mom just chuckled, finding his rosy cheeks and slightly furrowed eyebrows amusing. Though Isagi was enjoying seeing you and his family get along so well over the course of the night, he wasn't sure how many more embarrassing childhood stories he could listen to you and his mom giggle over. He excused himself into the kitchen, deciding to start washing through the dishes you all had previously used at dinner.
Due to the excitement of finally getting to meet you, his parents had prepared a whole feast. The meal featured not only all of Isagi's favorite dishes, but also many of your favorites as his mom had texted him the week before asking for a list of your top dinner picks. The lingering embarrassment had vanished from Isagi's mind as he replayed the night in his head. He spent all day telling you not to worry, that of course he parents will love you. And now seeing that in person had him beaming with joy.
"Want some help? you sneak up behind him, kissing his cheek as you stood beside him at the sink.
"Already had enough of embarrassing Yoichi story time?" he pretended to be annoyed, making you both struggle to bite back a smile.
"Be careful there mister," you played along with him as you began joining him with washing dishes. "Or I might just go back to hanging out with little Yocchan in his lobster onesie." You laughed at the way he groaned, removing your soapy hands from the sink to pinch his cheeks as he pouted. As your laughs died down, a peaceful silence fell over you both as you two kept working through the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. You'd shift to occasionally brush your shoulder against him, a soft smile painted across both your faces. You turned to face him as you wanted to make a comment about how nice the evening had been, but the train of thought immediately left as you were met with him already facing you. The lovestruck expression he always had when looking at you still gave you butterflies to this day.
"What?"
"Tonight's been nice," his eyes sparkled as he smiled and it only made your heart flutter faster.
"It has," you smile back, drying your hands off on a nearby towel before wrapping your arms around his neck. Your hands slide up the back of his neck to begin combing through his hair, enjoying the way he practically melts into your touch. "I"m happy I got to meet your parents, I really like them."
"They like you too," he pulls you closer to him, "just like I knew they would." He leaned in to rest his forehead against yours, lips slowly moving closer to yours. You hummed once his lips finally met yours, pulling you into a sweet and gentle kiss. He kissed you slowly, pouring his heart into the action piece by piece, wishing to stay like this forever. The sunset visible from the window casted a glow over you two as you two pulled away from the kiss to catch your breath. You opened your eyes slowly, shifting your gaze upwards to meet Isagi's sparkling eyes. His cheeks were slightly pink, breathing unsteady, and smiling ear to ear. You found yourself lost in the beauty of the moment and his eyes, forgetting the rest of the world around you as Isagi held you in his arms and leaned in to rest his forehead against yours.
That was until a loud "CLICK" followed by a flash that snapped you two back into reality. You two pulled away from the kiss, turning to face the direction of where the sound and flash came from. That's when you saw Iyo and Issei standing under the door frame, camera in hand as Issei handed Iyo the developing polaroid picture.
"For the photo album!" she cheered, waving the developing photo back and forth. You and Isagi exchanged an embarrassed expression before bursting into a happy laughter that echoed throughout the kitchen, making his parents smiles grow wider as they looked at each other silently agreeing you were indeed the one for their son.
TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con Kiss (singular one), Mentions of stalking, obsession, your typical yandere behaviors. Manipulation.
Based off of this blurb: HERE
*******
Looking back, this was probably the biggest mistake of your life. Picking up a stray. Your mother’s voice echoed in your mind: “Don’t feed them, or they’ll keep crawling back.” She wasn’t just talking about animals-her words applied to monsters too, though you hadn’t realized that yet.
It was a few months ago, on an unusually quiet Saturday, when you’d decided to do your laundry in the community room of your apartment complex. The air was thick with the faint scent of various detergents and the rhythmic thrum of the machines. The room was dimly lit, the sunlight from outside filtering in through small windows, casting long shadows on the tiled floor. You had expected to be alone, but instead there he was- a stranger standing in the middle of the room, looking every bit as out of place as a lost puppy.
Or maybe more like a misplaced god.
Tall, lean, and dressed in casual clothes that seemed haphazardly thrown together, he held a laundry basket so full it looked like it might burst at any moment. You hesitated as his attention turned toward you, the black lenses of his tinted glasses hiding his eyes, but not the way his lips quirked into an awkward, lopsided smile.
“Uh sorry- am I blocking the open machines?” His voice was soft, almost too smooth for someone who looked so out of sorts. He shifted his weight, holding the basket like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “Here, it’s all yours.”
You blinked, glancing from his awkward stance to the machines, then back to him. “Don’t you need to use them?” you asked, your voice quiet, but curious, as your gaze dropped to the absurdly full basket he was clutching, where you caught sight of something unexpectedly cute- soft pink boxers peeking out from the pile, printed with tiny dango. Adorable.
The man let out a breath chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced away, his sheepish expression almost too genuine. “I’ll uh…I’ll just do it later,” he said, his voice lighter now, as if he was trying to downplay his obvious hesitation.
Your eyes drifted from his face to the empty table in front of him, noticing there was no detergent in sight.
“You sure you don’t need help?” Your tone coming out soft but teasing, knowing full well this beautiful man had no idea what he was doing.
He froze, just for a second. The easygoing charm faltered, replaced by something more real. A sigh escaped his lips, almost resigned, and the barest hint of pink dusted his cheeks. His head tilted slightly away from you, as if hidinging his embarrassment, before he mumbled, “yeah.”
You couldn’t help but smile. Cute.
So, you walked him through the steps, showing him how to use the last two remaining machines. You could’ve taken them for yourself, but instead, you let him have them. Maybe showing this man kindness was a mistake. Maybe you shouldn’t have helped him. Because who knew a single act of generosity would lead to this—an almost instinctual bond forming between you from this one interaction.
The process was… well, difficult to say the least. The conversation played out in fits and starts, with more awkward pauses than smooth exchanges.
“Do you have 100 yen coins? The machines don’t take card,” you asked, your voice soft but practical, as you glanced up at him.
You noticed his smile falter for the briefest moment, as if the question caught him off guard. “No…” His reply was gentle, almost embarrassed, and his eyes widened slightly when you wordlessly handed him a few of your coins.
“Here, take them,” you said, pressing the cold coins into his hand. His fingers brushed yours, warm and hesitant. “There’s a coin machine in the lobby—make sure to use it next time.”
His response was silent, but telling. You caught the faint dusting of pink on his cheeks deepening, the warmth of your simple touch amplifying the effect. His smile, a little sheepish, stretched wider, as if this small kindness meant more to him than you could have known. He didn’t say anything else, simply nodding his head in quiet thanks, his expression soft, almost grateful.
It was hard to ignore the way his entire demeanor shifted—how something about him seemed lighter now, more attuned to you. Like your gesture had unlocked something inside him.
“I’m assuming you don’t have detergent either, do you?” you asked with a playful sigh, grabbing your own bottle before he could answer. “Use mine. I hope you don’t mind floral scents.”
You began pouring the sweet-scented soap into both machines, the fragrant aroma filling the room. You didn’t look up at him right away, too focused on the task at hand, but when you finally did, you found him watching you—not in a way that felt invasive, but with a quiet, contemplative gaze. His eyes, hidden behind his tinted glasses, seemed locked on you, like he was seeing something… special. Something only he could notice.
“No,” Satoru replied softly, his voice calm and almost reverent. “I don’t mind… at all.” There was something different in his tone—an almost affectionate undertone, like the scent would remind him of this exact moment, of you. His heart beat faster, though his outward appearance remained composed, as if trying to keep something at bay.
The sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow over the room, and as it hit your face, you became haloed in light, your movements graceful in their simplicity. To him, it wasn’t just the detergent or the coins or the smile. It was you—the way you moved, the way you looked at him without judgment, the way your kindness seemed to come so naturally.
That’s what you were. Sunshine. A soft, warm light in a world that, for him, often felt cold and distant.
His chest tightened slightly, not in a suffocating way, but in a way that made him want to keep you in his orbit just a little longer. Maybe he didn’t know much about you—yet—but there was a pull, a gravity you had, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to resist it. Your small act of kindness had stuck with him, dug into his thoughts in a way he didn’t expect. Maybe it was the ease of it, how you didn’t even hesitate to help him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He found himself wanting more of that warmth, more of you.
“Next time, be better prepared,” you said lightly, your voice snapping him out of his thoughts. You offered him a small smile, playful but warm, as you closed the detergent bottle.
“Next time,” he repeated softly, savoring the way those words sounded—like a promise of more to come. His smile was gentle, almost too sweet for someone like him, but there was something else behind it too. You couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
After you both finished with the laundry, you were about to give him a polite wave and go your separate ways. But as you turned to head back, Satoru didn’t just leave. Instead, he fell into step beside you with a light, almost bouncy stride, like there was nowhere else he wanted to be. His grin hadn’t faded, but there was something sharper about it now, a little too wide, a little too excited.
“What floor?” he asked, stepping into the elevator with an easy, practiced grace, like this was all a game he knew the rules to. His eyes—what you could see of them behind his tinted glasses—were trained on you, a flicker of curiosity sparking within them.
“Three, please,” you replied, adjusting your basket of clothes in your arms, not quite prepared for the way his expression lit up at your words.
“Oh, you’re kidding.” His voice came out soft, but there was an unmistakable note of giddiness underneath, a sort of delighted surprise that felt a touch too enthusiastic. “That’s my floor too.” His smile widened, a little too much, and he tilted his head as if waiting for the next punchline to land. “I’m in 301.”
You blinked, taking a moment to process before offering a polite smile. “I’m 302. You just moved in next door?”
For a second, he froze—his grin faltered, then returned twice as strong. A low, almost breathless chuckle escaped him, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Glasses sliding down slightly to reveal his bright blue eyes that sparkled with amusement. “Seriously? You’re that close? Right next door?”
He leaned back against the elevator wall, letting the revelation sink in, his gaze never leaving your face. It felt like he was studying you, absorbing every little detail—your expression, the way you shifted the basket, the exact moment your surprise faded into a more neutral reaction. His fingers tapped lightly against the side of his laundry basket, almost like he was containing his excitement.
“Well, isn’t that… something,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. The playful edge in his tone softened, replaced by something more thoughtful, more intent. “It’s almost like we were meant to run into each other today.”
His words hung in the air, the way he said them making your stomach flutter uneasily. He seemed more than pleased by the coincidence, and his smile—though outwardly harmless—felt like there was something deeper behind it, something intrigued and hooked.
The elevator doors opened, and he held the door for you, watching you with that same smile, now laced with quiet amusement. “After you, neighbor,” he said, his voice lighter, but still with that underlying edge of fascination.
You stepped out, feeling the weight of his gaze follow you down the hall. As you reached your respective doors, Satoru lingered, standing a little too close, his eyes tracing the outline of your door—302—like he was mentally noting it down, cataloging every detail.
“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing a lot more of you,” he teased, but the playful tone was almost too sweet, too easy. There was something in his gaze—sharp, calculating beneath the teasing exterior—that made it hard to shake the feeling that he was watching you in a way that was more than neighborly.
“Lucky us, huh?” he added, his voice dipping slightly, as though he was tasting the words.
You offered a small, polite laugh, trying to keep the conversation light. “Yeah… I guess so.”
He stood there for a beat longer than necessary, as though he was savoring the moment. His grin, still plastered on his face, now looked like a cat’s—playful, but predatory, like he had just stumbled onto something unexpected and wonderful. Something he didn’t plan on letting go of any time soon.
“See you soon, 302,” he said softly, before finally turning to his own door. But even as he disappeared into his apartment, you could still feel the lingering intensity of his presence.
Perhaps if you didn’t have such a need to help people, you wouldn’t have let him get too close.
But that’s what led to the next few weeks of constant, seemingly innocent requests from Satoru.
At first, it was small things. Harmless, right?
“Hey, did you accidentally get my package?” he asked, showing up at your door one morning with that same disarming grin. His glasses were perched on his nose, eyes sparkling with an almost childlike glint. You hadn’t, of course. You always kept an eye out for your own deliveries, but it was an easy mistake. The first time, anyway. It happened again a few days later. Then again. And each time, his grin seemed just a little brighter, as if this routine delighted him more than it should.
You began to wonder how much stuff he was ordering. Or if he was ordering anything at all.
Next came the plant.
“I’m out of town for the next few days,” he mentioned casually, leaning against your doorframe one evening. His posture was relaxed, but his presence was hard to ignore. The tinted glasses were gone this time, leaving you to face those brilliant blue eyes directly. They sparkled, drawing you in without effort. In his hands, he held the saddest little pot you’d ever seen—some limp, half-dead thing that looked like it needed a funeral rather than a caretaker. “Can you take care of this fella for me? Just water it a bit…dunno maybe talk to it? Plants like that, right?”
You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the pitiful plant. “This thing’s already half-dead.”
His grin widened, a soft chuckle slipping from his lips. “Yeah, well, if anyone can bring it back, it’s you. Sunshine.” He winked, his tone playful, but his gaze held you for just a moment too long. His words felt like more than a compliment, like he was testing you, seeing just how far you’d go for him. Just how close would you let him get? And somehow, you found yourself agreeing, even though you knew it was a lost cause.
Then came the bento boxes.
“Oh!” he exclaimed one morning, catching you just as you were heading out for work. His eyes landed on the small lunchbox in your hand, wrapped neatly in a blue cloth with a white bunny pattern. “You make your own bento boxes? That’s adorable.” His grin was almost teasing, his tone light, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. “Can you make one for me, too?”
You blinked, caught completely off guard. “I… what?”
“I’ll pay for the groceries,” he added quickly, as if that would fix the oddness of the request. “Actually, here—take my card.” Without hesitation, he pulled out his wallet and pressed a black card into your hand. His fingers brushed yours, lingering just a little too long, and his eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Buy whatever you need. Go crazy.”
You stared at the card, unsure of what to say. “Gojo-sama, I really can’t—”
“Satoru,” he corrected smoothly, his smile never faltering. “No need for the formalities.”
You hesitated, feeling a warmth creep into your cheeks. You couldn’t just call him by his first name, right? You couldn’t just make lunch for him like you were… some kind of housewife, could you?
“Oh, sure you can!” His energy was relentless, sweeping over your hesitation like it didn’t exist. “Come on, it’s no big deal. You’re already making one for yourself, right? What’s one more?”
His voice was as light as always, the teasing playful, but underneath it was something that made you uneasy. He had inserted himself into your life so effortlessly, so quickly, that you barely had time to question it. Each favor seemed so small, so trivial—until they weren’t. Each one drew him closer, inch by inch, as if he was weaving himself into the fabric of your routine.
And the worst part? He made it all seem so casual, like he was just being a friendly neighbor. You could almost convince yourself that’s all it was. Almost.
So, bento boxes became part of your daily routine—unless, of course, Satoru told you he’d be out of town. Wouldn’t want good food to go to waste, right? You always carefully prepared them, even going as far as to cut a few vegetables into cute shapes: stars, flowers, little moons. But never hearts. You remembered him teasing you about that once, saying hearts were his favorite shape, followed by a playful wink. You’d laughed it off at the time, assuming it was just his usual charm, the same charm he probably used on the girls who left phone numbers scrawled on his palm. He had to have someone else in his life—a supermodel, perhaps, given how effortlessly handsome he was.
Yet... he never seemed happy about it. If anything, he seemed lonely. Whenever you talked, it felt like he craved more than just the conversation. It was in the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his entire body seemed to lean closer, like he needed something deeper, something that went beyond friendly banter or casual encounters.
And maybe that’s why you found yourself worried when he would disappear for days, even a week at a time. You tried to brush it off as his job—probably some business trip or other—but it gnawed at you, that feeling of absence. When he came back, though, he always brought something with him, some small trinket, a souvenir, like he needed to remind you of him even when he wasn’t around.
This time, it was a teddy bear. Soft, plush, with a bright "I ♥ Kyoto" shirt. You smiled when he handed it to you, though the way the bear’s eyes gleamed under the light made you feel uneasy for just a second—like they were watching. You tried to shake off the odd feeling. The gesture was sweet, after all. Satoru always put in effort, even if his gifts were sometimes... peculiar.
After the bear came the snack. A box of mochi, wrapped in temple paper, fresh from his trip. "Got these at a temple," he said casually, offering them to you with that charming smile. "They’re best before they get stale."
“You went all the way to Kyoto? For just a couple of days?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “That must’ve been expensive... What do you do exactly?”
His laughter was quick, soft, as if your question amused him. “Oh, nothing too exciting. Just work.” He waved a hand dismissively, his tone light and playful, but still vague. Always vague.
You were used to it by now, his avoidance of direct answers. The more you asked, the less you felt like you actually knew about him. It made him seem almost too mysterious, in a way that kept you intrigued but also wary. Was he hiding something, or was he just playing around?
For a brief moment, you wondered if he could be involved in something shady. Maybe the Yakuza? But then you laughed at the thought. Satoru? Yakuza? He could barely keep a plant alive, much less run some underground empire. And besides, with his teasing and carefree attitude, he probably couldn’t harm a fly.
Still, the mystery lingered around him like a fog you couldn’t quite see through. Every time he dodged your questions with that casual grin, you felt like there was something you were missing, a deeper part of him just out of reach.
And as you set the teddy bear on your bed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it, or perhaps he, was watching you. Waiting.
The next morning, you stood in front of Satoru’s door, barely awake, a small yawn escaping your lips as you lightly tapped on the doorframe. In your hands, you held his bento box, neatly wrapped in a blue fabric that almost perfectly matched the color of his eyes. You’d stayed up late preparing it, cutting the veggies into stars just the way you knew he liked. It had become part of your routine by now, but despite the growing sense of familiarity, something still felt... off. You couldn't quite put your finger on it.
The door swung open, revealing Satoru dressed in a dark blue uniform, his trademark blindfold wrapped tightly around his eyes. You’d seen him like this a few times before—though you never quite understood why he wore it. But then again, you never asked. You were certain he’d just brush it off with that same playful smile, teasing you without ever giving you a real answer. Still, sometimes the curiosity gnawed at you.
“I can already tell it’s going to be amazing,” Satoru said, his voice smooth and chipper as always, his lips curling into a smile. “Curry buns, right? You spoil me, Sunshine.”
When he reached for the bento, his hand brushed yours, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. His touch was warm, and it sent a subtle, unsettling tingle up your arm. You couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or just another one of his casual gestures, but the weight of his gaze—despite the blindfold—felt heavy.
“Oh?” His tone shifted slightly, almost as if he’d been waiting for the moment. “Do you mind if I use your phone really quick? I need to call my driver for work. My phone’s updating, and it’s taking forever... Did yours get that new update last night?”
You blinked, slightly confused. “Update? Uh, maybe... I don’t remember?” You handed him your phone without thinking too much of it. His smile widened as he took it from you, his fingers brushing yours again, lingering in that same, deliberate way.
He quickly dialed a number, bringing the phone to his ear while falling into step beside you. His stride matched yours perfectly, like it was second nature to him. As you both walked toward the elevator, you found yourself glancing at him from the corner of your eye. Satoru seemed perfectly relaxed, almost too relaxed, as if walking alongside you like this was just another part of his day. But something about the situation gnawed at the back of your mind. Had there really been an update? You couldn’t remember seeing any notifications about it.
Satoru spoke briefly into the phone, his voice low and calm. You couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but the way he effortlessly integrated himself into your space, always so close, always so present—it was starting to feel a little too comfortable for your liking. He handed your phone back with a casual smile as the elevator doors opened.
“Thanks, Sunshine,” he said, slipping his hand into his pocket. “You’re always saving me.” His tone was light, playful, but the way he said it, the way he always seemed to need you—whether for small favors or something more—it left a lingering unease you couldn’t quite shake.
“Do you need a ride?” Satoru asked, glancing over at you with that lazy grin that always made you feel a little warmer inside. “You work at that finance building next to the Lawson, right? My friend Nanami used to work there. Said the bosses are real assholes, but I heard they just got bought out?”
You paused, taken aback for a moment. How did he know where you worked? Maybe he’d seen your badge when you came home late or noticed it while you were passing by his door. You decided not to dwell on it, chalking it up to coincidence.
You shrugged, forcing a smile. “A ride? Hm... I don’t really mind taking the train. It’s refreshing, you know?” As you glanced down at your phone to check a quick email, you noticed a new app on your home screen. Was there an update last night? You had no recollection of it, but you pushed the thought away.
“I insist! My driver, Ijichi, won’t mind at all,” he urged, his tone bright and teasing. “Plus, it’s on the way to a meeting I need to be at. And speaking of which—how about dinner tonight? I actually used that coupon book you gave me.” He chuckled lightly, adding, “Not that I really need to save money, but it’s fun to try!”
Your heart fluttered at the thought, but you quickly shook your head. “Dinner? Oh, I don’t know, Satoru. I just got this new role at work, and I might have to stay late tonight.”
His grin wavered for just a heartbeat, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head. “Is that so? Surely you can get the night off for just one night. I mean, you work so hard cooking for me every night…” His voice took on a slightly softer tone, almost pleading. “Or maybe if it’s easier, could I start eating dinner with you?”
His eyes sparkled with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine, but you brushed it off. He was just being friendly, right? Satoru had always been a bit too eager to be around you, but you never thought much of it. You laughed, trying to lighten the moment. “I don’t know if I can handle cooking for two! You’re a big guy; I’d probably run out of food.”
Satoru leaned closer, his expression playful yet somehow serious, as if he were weighing your response. “Come on, I promise I won’t eat you out of house and home. Besides, it would be nice to have someone to share dinner with. I mean, I already take so much from you—like your delicious bentos.” His grin widened, but you could sense something else lurking behind his playful demeanor.
You shrugged, trying to keep things light. “Well, if you’re really going to be that much trouble, I guess I can let you join me for dinner now and then.”
“Great! I can’t wait,” he said, the eagerness in his voice almost unsettling. It felt like he was a bit too excited about it, and while it made you smile, there was an undercurrent of intensity that left you feeling a bit unsure. But then, you brushed it aside. Satoru was just a quirky guy who liked to joke around; he didn’t mean anything by it, right?
Once a night quickly led to every night—if he didn’t have to work late. You often wondered when this guy ever found the time to sleep. Yet, you found it oddly comforting to have him around, even if he was a little too clingy.
Each time he came over to your apartment, Satoru would fidget with your knickknacks, touching the stuffed animals that cluttered your couch and playfully harassing the plants on your windowsill. It felt innocent enough at first, but with every touch, you noticed how he seemed to absorb every detail of your space, like a sponge soaking in your essence.
You often caught him stealing glances at your photos, his eyes narrowing in concentration as if he were dissecting each moment. “Did you really travel there? It looks fun,” he’d remark, his tone light yet laced with something deeper—an interest that made your stomach flutter, but not entirely in a good way.
It started to feel odd, though—how did he know precisely what time you would be home? More importantly, how did he seem to always be waiting just outside your door, a lovestruck grin plastered across his face, as if he had been standing there for ages, anticipating your arrival? You brushed it off, convincing yourself it was merely a coincidence, but the uneasy feeling lingered, nestled in the back of your mind.
Daily rides to work became the norm, and sometimes after work, he’d bring over wine—something fancy you would chastise him for, telling him he needed to save money. But he always waved off your concerns with a teasing grin, “What’s money when I have you?” He’d chuckle, leaning a little too close, and you’d laugh it off, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze.
Tonight was no different; the two of you were nestled on the couch, leaning in closer than usual, wine glasses in hand. Something felt off, yet you couldn’t pinpoint it as your vision began to swirl.
“I think I should call it a night,” you murmured softly, attempting to get up. Just as you started to rise, Satoru’s arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you back against him. “Here, wait for the spins to go away. Just use me as support,” he said, his voice smooth like silk.
As you leaned against him, you couldn’t help but notice how solid he felt—his rock-hard chest seemed broader than before, radiating warmth that enveloped you. His smile was chilling, like the night sky, yet there was something darker lurking behind it. The conversations you shared flowed easily, but the intimacy felt different, tinged with a strange urgency that made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.
You tried to shake off the unease creeping in, but each time you brushed your fingers against the wine glass, it felt like he was watching you—really watching you, as if he could see straight through you. Was he?
You began to notice things shifting in your apartment. A new decorative item here, a small plant there. At first, you attributed it to your own absent-mindedness, but the more you looked around, the more it felt like he was leaving pieces of himself behind, integrating into your life in a way that felt oddly possessive.
When you glanced over at him, his eyes gleamed with that familiar spark, but it was mixed with something else—an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “You know, sunshine,” he started, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I just want to make sure you’re safe. I care about you, you know?”
You chuckled nervously, attempting to lighten the mood. “I can take care of myself, Satoru.”
But the way he tilted his head, that playful smile transforming into something more fervent, made your heart race in a different way. “I know you can, but wouldn’t it be better if I helped? We could make a great team.”
You felt the weight of his gaze on you, an unwavering focus that made your skin prickle. “Yeah… a team,” you repeated, but the word felt heavy on your tongue.
“Let’s keep looking out for each other, alright?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.
And as the shadows of the room flickered with the light of the TV, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was already doing just that—watching over you, waiting for the right moment to take the next step.
You were caught in his web, and every part of you warned that getting closer could lead to something dangerously intoxicating, but you couldn’t seem to pull away. Not like he’d let you either.
The world seemed to sway a bit more. Satoru's fingers deftly grabbed the wine glass from your hand and set it on the table, his movements fluid and deliberate, as if choreographed.
“You know, Sunshine,” he cooed softly, his voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate in the air between you, “the world is a really dangerous place. There are monsters out there… really scary ones.” His gaze locked onto yours, and you felt your heart thud erratically in your chest, panic blooming in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t move. Why couldn’t you move?
Satoru leaned closer, the space between you charged with an unsettling energy. “You’re so lucky that I just… that I just need you,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re the only light I need.”
The intensity in his eyes deepened, and a chill ran down your spine as he continued, “You see, I let someone else leave me. I just can’t do that to you. Let you leave. Let you get hurt.” His lips curled into a soft chuckle, but it sounded dark, echoing with something sinister. “You’re kind of weak, you know?”
Your breath hitched at the weight of his words. “My best friend told me to always protect the weak... so I’m going to protect you for now, okay? We’re going to be a happy little family.” The way he said it felt like a promise and a threat, all wrapped in one.
Your eyes widened when you felt him tilt your chin up, forcing you to look directly into his lovesick gaze. His pupils were blown wide, and that wide smile on his lips sent a wave of dread crashing over you.
“Sunshine…thank you for lighting up my world. Letting me see how kind the world can be,” he murmured, the sincerity in his voice twisted with an almost manic glee. And before you could react, he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours with a fervor that knocked the breath out of you. The kiss was wet, sloppy, as if he had never kissed anyone before. He chased your lips with such fervor as if he was scared to lose you. This wasn’t just a kiss; as his hands held you closer, enveloping you within his warmth, this was a claim. A proclamation that he wasn’t going to let you go. His passion felt overwhelming, consuming, and you realized with a sinking heart that it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.
Your mother’s words rang in your mind, sharp and clear: “Never feed a stray; they’ll never leave.”
