random one shots that I think of

Gojo comforts Megumi after a slight relapse 🥰

  It always starts as an itch, one that you can ignore for a little bit but eventually it's impossible to not scratch it. It made him feel trapped in this endless cycle of guilts, hatred, and sorrow that he knew would continue forever. All Megumi wanted to do was take a nice little nap before he and Yuji sparred together. Everything was fine at first, normal even. He'd put his earbuds in and cranked the music up to get lost and forget about everything else around him. The boy had his playlist on shuffle, the anticipation of the next song made him happy, despite knowing all 299 songs by heart. He absolutely loved his playlist. It was one he had taken hours— days even—perfecting, carefully selecting songs and organizing them into alphabetical order to by hand to keep him from spiraling.

Rolling over to find a more comfortable position, his eyes fell onto a certain stuffed toy, the octopus's he had gotten so many years ago from Gojo-sensei. It was one of the ones with the beanbag thing that you could heat up and snuggle with it. The present was gifted to him one night after the teacher had found him curled up in a pile of blankets, trying to ground himself after a particularly nasty episode. He was sobbing so hard he couldn't even breathe, struggling so hard to get a single word out. Megumi felt himself slipping into something that wasn't quite sleep, rather a state of all too familiar restlessness.

A new song starts to play and he's snapped back into reality and the octopus is right there. He considers taking the beanbag out and warming it up, but that would require him to not only get out of bed, but to go downstairs and socialize which he definitely did not want right now, it was his downtime. The only time he ever got to be alone, not that he minded being around his friends, he loved them, it's just that they didn't understand a lot of times. His mind wandered back to the octopus and how the pocket it had was neat for hiding things, namely his trusty pencil sharpener blade. It was pristine, unused, replaced after the blood on the last one had gotten too rusted to even consider using. At this point, he had turned off his music. He felt horrible, even though he was fine just a moment ago. The subtle itch makes its way into Fushiguro's system, and just like that he finds himself with a blade in hand, just as he had been a few months back. The deep gashes that littered on the outermost part of his thighs and hips were fading now. He closed his eyes, hands feeling the raised scars he tried so deeply to forget about on days like this.

He argues with himself back and forth for a few minutes, weighing the pros and cons of doing this.

It'll only be one, I swear.

But you say that every time.

Yes, but this time for real.

But you haven't in almost a year.

Exactly, it's been so long, so it's okay.

But what if someone sees?

They never do.

They never notice.

He places the sharp edge to his forearm, a place he hadn't cut in years. He moved to a more hidden spot of his body when Gojo found out his secret. Exhaustion racked his body and all he wanted was to feel better. Why was he like this? When everything was good, he had to let his stupid feelings get in the way and ruin it. His life was great, so great; All of his friends loved and cared about him, he knew that much, yet he couldn't bring himself to accept it. Sighing deeply, the blade is pressed into the soft skin of his forearm and pulled slowly. The feeling of the blade ripping his skin, getting caught on the layers of bubbly fat. It takes a while for the blood to pool, but he quickly moves on to the next cut, this one more frantic and less calculated. This time, blood spills out immediately and drips into his lap. He's forgotten how good it feels to hurt, the weight and stress of everything being slowly lifted off of him with every cut he makes.