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[satoruschapstic]

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬・11.1k

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠・idol!hyunjin x afab!stylist!reader (inspired by this)

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative, alternating perspectives

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia, pussydrunk!hyunjin. minors and ageless blogs that interact with this post will be blocked.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭'𝐝.)・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack. alcohol is consumed. lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication. latter half is just kind of sad in general tbh but what do u expect from a fic based off alex turner lyrics

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・dimple by bts・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh ♡ @like-a-diamondinthesky ♡ @fire-08 ♡ @starsandrqindrops ♡ @txtxlz ♡ @laylasbunbunny ♡ @strayghibli ♡ @nuronhe ♡

𝐚/𝐧・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?” 

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause. 

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path. 

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.” 

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there. 

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.” 

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour. 

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, love.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

 “Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?” 

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall. 

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze. 

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter. 

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds. 

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session. 

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete. 

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person. 

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe. 

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels. 

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you. 

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand. 

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system. 

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod. 

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of saliva suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?” 

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane. 

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

[satoruschapstic]

never gonna leave this bed

｡⁠*ﾟfluff, comfort, kisses, suggestive themes, gn!reader｡⁠*ﾟ

You were sure it was a one-night stand. It had to be one. Being completely honest, you weren't even looking for anything more than that. You bumped into him by chance on the way out of a bar not far from home. The pure coincidence that led to unforseen circumstances that's what it was. You saw Kento Nanami not only as the best candidate to pass the lonely night with, but also as a breathtakingly handsome young man whose shiny agates had been studying your figure for a long time already. A win-win situation for the both of you, right? As cliché as it might sound, you ended up in one bed that night, and the next one, and one more, and another one, and...

Carefully, as if not to disturb your sweet slumber, little golden sunbeams crept into the bedroom, glinting off the polished surfaces, jumping away, climbing up the cool floor and covering the soft peach walls. Some of them, the curious ones, trampled the white starched sheets to catch a glimpse of your face, making a quick run across your features and disappearing into the darkness of the hallway. Your lashes fluttered slightly and your nose wrinkled as you felt the cold slowly envelop your feet, peeking out from under the blanket. You frowned and cracked your eyes open, realizing once again that this wasn't your bedroom, and that underneath the blanket, which was halfway to the floor, was nothing but your naked body. You turned your head, hoping to see a familiar silhouette, but the spot next to you was empty and had long since lost the warmth of another body. You lifted yourself onto the bed and saw your clothes carefully folded on a nearby chair. So thoughtful, you smiled, wrapping yourself in the blanket and quietly creeping in its direction. He must have already left for work, and that definitely is the best outcome possible, ran through your head, yet somewhere in the back of your mind, you desperately hoped you were wrong. You didn't like the thoughts you started to have about him. You didn't like the way his words and actions started to fluster you. You didn't like the way the brief kisses here and there started to turn into more intimate, deep, devouring even. And as you almost reached your destination point your eyes were met with a pair of honeyed orbits peering out from behind the slightly ajar door, curiously watching every of your awkward moves.

Kento pressed his lips into a thin line, trying his best not to burst out laughing. The last thing he expected to see, carrying breakfast to your or rather his bed, was you wrapped up in a blanket, looking like a little marshmallow, your hair disheveled, poking out from under your made-up garment. A few strands covered your eyes and you vainly tried to blow them off your flushed face.

"Are you trying to sneak away, lil cloud?" Kento walked into the bedroom and carefully placed the tray on the nightstand. He wore nothing but a pair of linen slacks that hung on his hips. His tanned figure, illuminated by the rays of light, seemed to have just stepped out of some ancient frescoes. His hair was slightly mussed up from sleep, his glasses long forgotten somewhere. So homely, you dared to think, literally swooning just by looking at his gorgeous profile as your heart seemed to do a couple of somersaults.

"I hoped you're not at home," you mumbled, sitting up straight and wrapping yourself even tighter in the blanket, as if there was something underneath that his eyes hadn't seen and his thin long fingers hadn't touched.

"Why wouldn't I be at my own apartment?" he tilted his head to the side, gaze flickering from your big puppy eyes to your pink lips. You seemed different. Delicate. Fragile. Vulnerable. That feigned impregnability slowly dissolved right before his eyes, revealing the real you, with your cheeks slightly flushed, your lips puffy, a little swollen from the night before, and these sweet eyes of yours that glimmered not with lust as before, no, with unspeakable tenderness. He wouldn't have mistaken it for anything else, because he'd been looking at you that way for a long time, trying to put all those words that get lost without finding their way out into each kiss.

You shrugged and lowered your head, trying to avoid the intense stare that sent treacherous shivers down your spine. Kento smiled softly, sitting down beside you, gently tucking the strands behind your ear. Too intimate, you thought, yet on some instinctive level you leaned forward, letting yourself bask in his warmth. He slowly ran his thumb over your cheek, as if engraving your features in his memory. He could swear his heart got stuck in his throat when he saw the calm slowly spreading across your features, and the corners of your lips lifting into a small smile.

One second and you were pinned to the bed by his strong body. "What are you doing?" you squealed, pressing your hands against his bare chest, "let me go!" He didn't move, shamelessly examining your startled face. You seemed to grasp the great mysteries of the universe, things concealed from the eyes of others, hidden- somewhere in the depths, only for your eyes to see them now when he was smiling oh so boyishly. Kento let his serious facade crumble before you, no longer hiding how utterly enamoured by you he was. Another second and his lips began to leave little kisses all over your face and his arms wrapped around your smaller figure.

"What are you doooooing" you laughed, trying to dodge his kisses and feeling your cheeks growing hotter.

"Just kissing you, you look so adorable like this it's hard to resist, y'know," he smiled, watching you squirm, trying to escape his tight embrace. One more second and his hands were already under the blanket, gently stroking your ribs only to begin ticking your sides in an absolutely merciless manner the moment later.

"Kentooo", you yelped, bursting into unstoppable laughter, frantically trying to push him away from you. "You have to go to work," you tried to crawl back, away from his long arms, but he only cradled you a little tighter, throwing the blanket over the two of you, "i'm not going, actually i never gonna leave this bed".

if you finished reading this, thank you so much, it truly means a lot to me! i'm trying to get back on track with writing, don't judge too harshly! anyway, thanks again 💛 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ✨

tags for my friends lol: @rossithepixie @a-nuisance-called-sam @vagabond-umlaut @daisynik7

[satoruschapstic]

I know i'm home

for everyone the scars on his body showed that for all his immense power, he was still human. for him they were an agonizing reminder that he would never let it happen again.

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

content: just his little inner satoru finally finds peace, warmth and home, hurt/comfort, fluff

a/n: i've been thinking a whole lot about little satoru lately, here's the result of my reflections lol, hope you enjoy <3

The quiet, velvety night slowly descended to the earth, spreading out an endless blanket of dark sky, sprinkled with a myriad of shimmering stars, inviting the full pale moon to slumber upon it until daybreak. A light summer breeze penetrated into your shared bedroom through the slightly open window, filling every corner of it with a pleasant freshness while gently, as if by the hand of a lover, brushing the loose strands away from your face. The barely audible murmur of the leaves, intertwined with the lulling buzzing of night insects and the occasional trill of birds, produced melodies that any composer would have envied. You stood there barefoot, in his oversized T-shirt that reached your knees, leaning your arms on the windowsill and curiously observing the nature, engulfed in a captivity of a tranquil slumber. It was miraculous how, in this hectic and violent world, there were still such peaceful nights, reserved for the two of you.

You pulled away from the window, gently adjusting the thin floral curtain he'd hung so eagerly, almost on the verge of falling, a few days ago. Listening to the tinkling sound of running water, you tiptoed toward the bathroom, the door of which was slightly ajar. The moments of simple domestic intimacy were so rare yet so precious that his five-minute absence felt like hours of unbearable torture, while the desire to peek through that little gap and catch a glimpse of the dearest silhouette grew with each passing second. You reached the door gingerly, and, squinting slightly in hopes that you wouldn't make a loud noise, you pulled it toward you, widening the viewing angle and quietly peeking in.

Your face met the pleasant warm humidity. The lamps glimmered brightly, illuminating the white tiled walls, the little pearl-like droplets still dripping down as if chasing one another in an unspoken game. Satoru was standing with his back turned to you, exposing his broad shoulders and strong back with his birthmarks scattered all across it as if he was a canvas and they were the drops of paint, placed there by the hand of a great master. His snow-white hair, sparkling in the light, shimmered in an array of colors, creating a subtle glow all around him. The misted surface of the mirror revealed the imprints of his large palm, which had rid of the unwanted shroud a few minutes ago, giving him a glimpse of his reflection. His left hand rested on the edge of the basin while the other firmly gripped the razor, moving expertly across his porcelain, now covered in a layer of shaving foam, skin.

Satoru remained concentrated, turning his head deftly and delicately wielding his razor blade. His celestial blue eyes were fixed on his own reflection, while his thoughts were elsewhere. Surrounded by an unusual silence, punctuated only by the gentle whisper of flowing water, he still heard far more than any human ear could. For Satoru, the quietest night, so silent and soundless to everyone, turned into a cacophony of noisy daytime sounds.

He diligently tried to keep the annoying thoughts and noises away from him, striving to mentally return to the pleasant moments of complete tranquility with you. He put all the unnecessary shaving items into the cabinet and bent down, rinsing off the rest of the foam and sending it down the drain along with his dark thoughts. Then he straightened, taking a quick glance at his face reflected in the smooth surface of the mirror and reached for the towel, as his gaze, surprisingly even for him, lingered a little longer on the scar, hidden behind the damp snowy strands that fell on his forehead, and then slowly moved to his neck, eyes flickering worryingly under the blinding light of the bright lamps. He cautiously, as if he were afraid of himself, brought his hand to his neck, tracing the damaged skin with his fingertips and swallowing heavily. He reluctantly lowered his gaze to his chest, staring with revulsion at the vertical scar that so distinctly marked his pale skin.

He shook his head a few times, as if driving away the ghosts of his past, and nestled his head into the soft cloth of the terry towel, gently removing the residue of water from his face. Finally, he lifted his head and flinched slightly, meeting your gaze in the reflection.

"Spying on me?" he immediately turned around, in a moment replacing his startled grimace with his usual wide grin.

"Me? Never," you smiled sheepishly, not expecting to be caught red-handed, and opened the door wider, taking a couple of timid steps in his direction.

"I thought you were already in bed, you little liar," Satoru smirked boyishly, holding out his arms and inviting you into his warm embrace.

"I couldn't sleep without you, so I thought I'd see what you were doing here without me," you teased, wrapping your arms around his strong body and gently stroking his back.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, nothing to make you feel neglected," he joked, sounding as confident as possible, but his eyes brimmed with all the colors of unrestrained sadness.

You slapped his back playfully, bursting into hearty laughter and burying your nose into his naked chest. His strong arms encircled your waist, pulling you even tighter against him as his lips left a light kiss on your head. Your palm slowly caressed his silky skin, tracing intricate patterns with your fingertips, feeling the hundreds of goosebumps running all over his body. You smiled, your index finger now drawing a small heart just where his heart was beating beneath it. Satoru shook his head, laughing softly and rolling his eyes, "You're so cheesy," but you could still feel his slender, long fingers leaving little hearts on every millimeter of your skin for several minutes now. You smiled blissfully, allowing yourself to melt into his tender embrace, forgetting time and plans, feeling only the comfort of his warmth enveloping you from head to toe and his heart beating right under your cheek.

You gently touched his deep scar, like a scorched mark resting on his flawless, soft-white skin. Satoru's breath hitched as he shuddered at the sudden sensation.

"Does it hurt?" a soft whisper, coming from your lips and fanning his chest with your hot breath, reached his ears.

"Of course not, silly, it has long since healed," he looked at you perplexedly, his eyebrows drawn into a thin line.

"No, does it hurt?" you stressed the last word, lifting your head and gazing into his wide-open hypnotic orbits, hoping that he would understand what you implied in that question.

His lips quivered, and his eyes flickered frantically over your face, trying to figure out if he should voice what had been languishing inside for so long. Small but obvious wrinkles appeared on his forehead, giving his face an even more baffled expression.

"Yeah...' he forcefully uttered the answer that was stuck in his throat, 'sometimes I feel his knife going through me all over again…,' his hand slowly covered yours, stroking your knuckles.

"Right...," you whispered, intertwining your fingers with his and squeezing his hand lightly, in hopes of showing that you could understand him.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm a kid again and I relive all this stuff over and over again, isn't that silly?" he chuckled sadly, hiding his eyes, in which you could notice snippets of the suffering he had seen throughout his life. It seemed as if, as he uttered these words, he indeed turned into a little boy, only the mischievous smile that everyone around him was so used to seeing had now faded, and his eyes no longer burned with such a vibrant light.

"It's not stupid at all," you lovingly brushed his hair away from his forehead, gently stroking his cheekbone, "I wish I was there to protect you from everything," you admitted sincerely.

"You know I would have done anything to prevent that," Satoru gently took your hand, leaving an appreciative kiss on your palm.

You nodded, knowing it was useless to argue with him, just hugged him a little tighter, while gently caressing his tense back muscles. You knew how hard he was trying not to reveal his true emotions to you, to keep cool, but it was his hands that were nervously rubbing the fabric of yours, or rather his T-shirt, and the ragged breathing that caused his chest heave so anxiously that made it all abundantly clear.

"I often wonder what that little boy I once used to be would have said to me after knowing how much pain and death those eyes had seen, what he would have thought when he saw that with every step I took there were bloody footprints on the ground, stretching endlessly behind me, how he would have felt when he noticed those scars, evidence that I had let it happen to him" he continued after a pause, burying his nose in your hair.

"He would have been proud of you," you uttered quietly, "after finding out what you had learned and what else those magic eyes could do, he would have admired seeing what your body, now adorned with a pair of battle marks, was capable of, he would have thanked you when he realized how many people you had saved. And he thanks you now for the way you protect him, because he still lives in you."

Satoru fell silent, holding his breath, heeding every single word that he felt was healing his wounds, kissing all the pain away. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears that welled up in his eyes, and exhaled softly.

You caressed his side reassuringly, leaving a kiss on his shoulder, "I just know little Satoru feels safe now."

"Yeah, with you, little Satoru feels at home.”

***

The silent, dark night was replaced by a bright morning, filled with the peals of the birds, causing the sleeping moon to give way to the brilliant sun, illuminating the soft features of Satoru, who had fell asleep on your chest, with its gentle golden rays. The warm blanket he had so carefully wrapped you in before you went to sleep almost slid to the floor, his arm lazily wrapped around your waist while your legs were entwined, preventing you from moving. You smiled earnestly, fingertips stroking his soft skin and once again covering his body with little hearts, while your lips were leaving little kisses here and there. Your heart was full, realizing with its every beat that your whole world was encased in this one person. You lay there quietly, staring at his slightly fluttering white lashes and hoping that in one of the parallel universes you had somehow met sooner, and both little Satoru and little you knew no worries, faithfully carrying your love through life, holding tightly to each other with your intertwined pinkies.

thank you for reading, reblogs and comments are very much appreciated! &lt;3

art and dividers are not mine &lt;3

tags: @shamelessperfectionhideout @afortoru @keiskyutie @vagabond-umlaut @4sat0ruu @softsatoru @mitsuyeaah @playgrl0 @moonsinfonia @a-nuisance-called-sam @gojoshooter

[satoruschapstic]

A fall to oblivion

When do these walls cease to clench me in their grip? Can they allow me to breathe? When do I stop living in a daze? Can feelings return?

pairing: suguru geto x gn!reader

content: just imagine that pivotal moment that happened to geto in the shower, but there was a person who could offer that much-needed support, tons of angst, hurt, comfort? swear words here and there, tiny bit of fluff if you squint

a/n: i don't even know what to say lol. just my rescuer complex is acting up again, hope you enjoy <3

“When does it all stop? When does the screaming die down? Can it be silenced forever? When does sanity come back? Can clarity of thought be restored? When does that weight fall off the shoulders? Can only resignation remain? When does that soul-shattering emptiness disappear? Can it be replaced with meaning to keep on going? When do these walls cease to clench me in their grip? Can they allow me to breathe? When do I stop living in a daze? Can feelings return?”

These were the thoughts that were swirling violently in Suguru's mind whilst he futilely tried to shut his mind off. Endless streams of water hit him mercilessly in the face, and then rushed down his naked body, washing away all the sanguinary red reminders of the previous day on their way. Somewhere deep within himself, he hoped that water would cleanse him of all his sins, and drown out all the things he had done. Yet it seemed to him that it was he who was drowning under the burden of the wrong decisions he had made and the weight of dead bodies that were stretching out their cyanotic hands towards him. Trembling, bruised hands of people whose lives he could not save.

“What is 'rightness'? And who decides that? What is the point of all this trying of saving people when you know from the very beginning that you can't save everyone? Why does someone decide who is worthy of salvation and who is not? What is this world where people rejoice in other people's deaths for? What is this world where there is no room for regret and honesty for? Is there no room for me? Or is there no room for them? What's the point of these super powers when they leave you super weak and super vulnerable? Just to be a toy in the hands of others?”

Suguru leaned forward, both hands resting on the cold tiles, trying to find some sort of balance. The weightless streams of water flowing down his sturdy figure felt like an immeasurable weight of the heaven landing on his shoulders, pressing him to the ground with unbelievable force and making it impossible even to stand up straight. His fingertips unconsciously traveled across the damp surface, groping the slightest unevenness beneath them, sending signals to his clouded mind and convincing him that he was still there. His black, blurry eyes were fixed on one spot, almost never blinking. His chest heaved frantically with each of his convulsive breaths.

He was wrestling with his own thoughts, almost losing a battle, unaware that your small figure had appeared in the doorway of your bathroom a couple of minutes ago. Struggling to stay on his feet, he failed to notice how you, stripped of your clothes, quietly approached him from behind, gently wrapping your arms around his torso. Geto only flinched slightly at the sensation of your hot palms on his icy skin, yet his gaze remained fixed on the wall.

"Is everything all right?" was more of a rhetorical question that echoed off the walls of the half-dark bathroom. A question that left no hope of an answer, but one that so desperately wanted to escape your lips. He just exhaled heavily, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to ward off the frightening apparition, somewhere in the back of his mind, hoping you wouldn't notice. But you did, of course you did, just as you'd noticed every little change in his behavior in the past few days. Your arms wrapped around him a little tighter, as your lips touched his silky skin just where his shoulder blades met.

"Guru," the love-soaked name coming from your lips used to always make his heart flutter, now it pierced his body with a thousand sharp needles poisoned by sorrow, "if you don't want to talk, that's fine, just give me a chance to be around, okay?"

Suguru stayed still for a few moments, carefully weighting your words, before his hand came over yours, squeezing lightly, letting you know that he, despite all the things the little voices were treacherously whispering to him in his head, appreciated your presence. You let out a sigh of relief, intertwining your fingers with his, reassuringly kissing his shoulder. Your fingertips gently caressed his hand as you clung to him tighter; trying to give him all the warmth and all the faith you had. You stood like that for a few more minutes, in the quietude that was broken only by the sound of water cascading down your naked bodies. Geto was the first to cut the lingering silence with his sharp yet quiet words, having gathered the remaining strength but not lifting his head.

"I can't do this anymore..." The five words that forced their way out of his lips fired five shots precisely into your chest, into the place where your heart once beat. His hand released yours, finding its place on the wall once again. You shuddered at the harshness of his movement and the sudden feeling of emptiness in your fingers. Hundreds of assumptions rose and fell in your head, with each one getting darker and more unsettling: “Is this the end of us? Just like that? Without any premises?” You didn't know what exactly caused such a change in him but whatever it was, you deserved to know the truth and to hear it from him.

Despite the excruciating pain that was expanding with tremendous speed throughout your entire body, starting with your bleeding heart, you found the courage not to let go of his shivering body, but instead, leaving another tender kiss on his shoulder blade, as you spoke softly.

"Whatever it is, Guru, we can get through it together. I don't know what thoughts are troubling you right now or what exactly happened to bring us to this point, but we can try to make it right."

He hated it. He hated how each note in your voice was filled with regret and pity. He hated that no one in this world seemed to understand what was going on. He hated the fact that he wouldn't let you know. Anger mingled with fatigue. A rancorous mixture of both was seething in his bones, threatening to burst forth and burn every bridge it could reach. But that little common sense he had left convinced him that you didn't deserve to be treated this way. After all, you were not to blame for anything. It was a simple mishap that led you to him.

"There's nothing to fix, Y/n, it's way too late. Everything we believed in-...everything I believed in, it's all ruined. It all makes no sense." His hoarse voice was like the rustling of autumn leaves, echoing through the entire space. He sounded as if he hadn't spoken to anyone in a long time. Which wasn't a lie, for lately a few phrases during the day were the most you could get out of him.

"This girl that we-...that I couldn't keep safe was just a teenager. A girl with her own dreams. A girl who wanted to stay with us and would have, if it hadn't been for my blunder...And those people," he clenched his hands into fists, gritting his teeth, "th-...they were so damn excited. They were laughing, making faces, pointing their fingers at her dead body like...like they were a pack of monkeys in a fucking zoo." He spat out every word as if they were eating him up from the inside.

"So what is the point of keeping protecting the weak when they find satisfaction in the death of others? What is the point of experiencing pain by swallowing these fucking curses, so they can escape the pain? What's the fucking point?" His voice broke into a scream, and his fists slammed into the wall. You flinched, unlocking your arms and instinctively taking a couple of steps back.

Surugu turned to face you, his fist still resting on the spot where it had landed a few seconds before. Your eyes flicked frightenedly from his hand to his distorted grimace of pain. After following your gaze, he chuckled bitterly, unclenching his fist and standing up straight, as much as his exhausted body would let him.

"What if they deserve it? What if all these people deserve to be cursed?” he continued, “what if this is their punishment for all the shit they do? What if we don't have to save them? What is the point of this pretentious nobility, Y/n? I no longer know what is right and what is wrong. I don't know who's right anymore." He could not look in your direction, afraid of your reaction as he stood there in front of you, exposing not just his scarred body, but also his tortured soul.

You took a step toward him, cautiously holding out your hand. His words knocked the ground out from under your feet, simultaneously messing up your thoughts and somehow putting everything in its place.

"It's not like that. You and I both know it isn't," another small tentative step in his direction, "the world is not divided into black and white. There are nasty people everywhere: among ordinary people as well as among sorcerers, but it doesn't depend on what we are, it depends on who we are. You saved so many people who no longer had hope, and you were able to give it back. "You finally took his hand again, gently stroking his knuckles.

"I don't know, Y/n. I tried so hard to do what everyone thought was right that now I feel like it was the only thing I did wrong."

"You never did anything wrong, Guru. I know you feel baffled by all these things, and that's okay. We'll figure it out and get to the other side, trust me. I’ll never give up on you."

Suguru lifted his head, now looking directly into your eyes for the first time in a while. His drained face was even paler, as the bags under his eyes could be seen from afar. But in spite of that, he looked like a frightened little boy lost in a supermarket, trying to find his mother. A boy who grew up way too young and was lost in the maelstrom of life.

He could not believe how such a young and delicate person could have so much strength, so much wisdom, and so much love inside. Your words enveloped his being with inviting warmth. Closing the distance between you, his arms wrapped around your small frame. Almost bent in half, he nuzzled into your neck, hoping that your scent and the feeling of your skin under his fingertips would bring him peace. Your arms encircled his torso, letting his entire weight rest against you, as you stroked his back gently, feeling his tense muscles and choked sobs under your palms.

And for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to be weak. He allowed himself to cry out loud, burying his nose in your neck while your hands lovingly ran through his hair. He allowed himself to share that weight for two, to take that much-needed breath.

It was then, when you held him closer to you and quietly whispered words of love into the crown of his head, that you realized that if you had to carry him on your shoulders through an endlessly long, dark tunnel, you would do it. You would both find that strength to reach the light. You would be strong in his moments of weakness, so that like a bright dragonfly he would soon soar into the sky again, gleaming with his huge wings in the sun.

thank you so much for reading <3

tagging some of my dearest moots: @shamelessperfectionhideout @afortoru @vagabond-umlaut @mitsuyeaah @luckimoon @strawberrystepmom @daisynik7

[satoruschapstic]

Jujutsu Kaisen 0 The Movie -Gojo Satoru after Breaking Rika ‘s curse

Keep reading

[satoruschapstic]

Is it too late for this young sinner to get baptized?

His scars were scattered across his body, yours were hidden deep inside. He was fiercely striving to die; you were desperately trying to live. He laughed at your naivety, you reproached his indifference. But you came together. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos you had created yourselves.

pairing: port mafia leader!osamu dazai x gn!reader

content: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of suicide (c'mon it's dazai), mentions of guns, mentions of alcohol

a/n: wrote it for my precious @shamelessperfectionhideout as a reason to smile but we both ended up crying, i'm so sorry my love <3 also i'm extremely sorry for all the inaccuracies, i haven't read manga nor have i watched anime but i'm getting there! hope y'all enjoy <3

It felt so right. Every time your hand was in his, it felt so right. Like the stars that light up in the sky every night to illuminate the way. The moon and the stars knew you were in love. It was so right. It was so strange. It was like looking in a mirror, but the reflection is cracked, some shards missing. Your soulmate standing in front of you was shattered. You were so similar, yet so different. His scars were scattered across his body, yours were hidden deep inside. He was fiercely striving to die; you were desperately trying to live. He laughed at your naivety, you reproached his indifference. But you came together. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos you had created yourselves.

Every time you whispered a quiet "I love you," he was swept up in the desire to prolong his life, mentally crossing off a few new ways of killing himself. Every time you were hiding behind the bookshelves of one of the libraries, exploring the mysteries of the world, and stealing little kisses from each other, he found the meaning anew in his worthless life. Every time he was covering you from the rain with his long black trench coat, laughing like a child, while running across the road, flowers bloomed in your chest. Every time he kissed you senseless, you knew you couldn't tell him everything. And each time you made excuses for your weakness. You couldn't let him know the true you. Although, perhaps, only with him were you truly yourself.

Being the head of a special department in one of the mafia gangs was clearly not something you wanted to share with others, especially those so far out of the underworld. Osamu, too, had never revealed what specifically he was doing, because, in his opinion, you would have laughed at him. Yes, there were secrets between the two of you, but that lost any meaning when you looked into each other's eyes and reasoned about eternity. Only then, only in those moments, did you realize that this world wasn't so bad if he was in it. You hated the fact that your hands had blood up to your elbows and your eyes had seen such horrendous things that sometimes you wanted to rip them out of your eye sockets to make it all go dark at once. But when his fingers intertwined with yours and his soft lips touched your eyelids in the early morning hours, you loved to imagine that everything that had come before was a small grain of sand in the desert of your endless life, filled with tenderness and forgiveness, ease and hope. But all those dreams were swept away by the winds of anxiety and lies over which you ironically had absolute power.

Somewhere out there, outside the small apartment you shared, he was a small part of a bigger world, soaring up and crashing down, hoping that his last breath would happen here and now. But from the moment he met you, it seemed to him that he was finally standing firmly with his feet on the ground. The feelings he had around you made his heart beat faster, reminding him that he was alive, and then knocked the air out of his lungs as he watched you tuck a little daisy behind his ear.

Somewhere out there, outside the small apartment you shared, you were a part of the big game, blowing up whole buildings, sweeping up with hurricanes everything you could get your hands on. The air was always your element. You loved the feeling of flying, the wind in your hair, the whirlpools of tornadoes that rose over the water, the storms that put the lives of those at sea on the line. And you owned it all; you could wipe anyone from the face of Earth with an angry gust of wind just by lifting a finger. But from the moment you met Dazai, it seemed to you that you were in the constant act of falling, hovering only a few millimeters above the ground so as not to be smashed to pieces. The feelings you had around him lifted you to unprecedented heights, and then threw you sharply down when you saw the bandages covering a new section of his body.

But the mirror in which you both had been looking, seeing each other's reflections in it, shattered as the darkest parts of your lives saw the light. You were sitting in the office of the Port Mafia boss, surrounded by members of your gang, with your legs draped over the edge of a desk and your fingers tracing the spines of antique books. Things in the town were lousy, you had lost many important connections with partners, and now your adversaries in the Port Mafia were showing an undesirable interest in the territories that had been under your control from the very beginning. So for an hour, you waited for that boss that everyone in the area dreaded, lazily observing the crowd. You knew most of the Night Wardens, except for the infamous bandleader, who preferred to remain in the shadows. You weren't sure if these talks could be peaceful or bear any fruit, but you couldn't overcome your curiosity to see the Youngest Leader in the History of the Mafia with your own eyes.

Suddenly you heard a stirring, as everyone turned toward the doorway. You stretched your head to get a better look at the approaching figure. You frowned and then blinked a few times, as if you were trying to shake off a weird vision. It just couldn't possibly be real. A tall slim figure finally emerged from the shadows of the hallway. You swallowed hard. The bangs framed his face, while some were gathered at the center of his forehead. A couple of bandages covered his right eye and his right arm was in a sling. You couldn't have mistaken him for anyone else, no matter how much you wanted to.

"What the hell is she doing here?" his voice thundered. Dazai stopped in the middle of the room, casting a scornful glance at everyone present, his eyes never stopping on you.

"I asked the fucking question: what the hell is she doing here?" he reiterated, almost shouting, his cheekbones sharper than a knife as he clenched his teeth without getting a response once again. For the first time in your life, you heard his tone so harsh and his voice so loud. For the first time in your life, you were scared to death, bashfully removing your shaking legs from the table and sitting up straight. Yet you couldn't find the strength to look away from his face.

The next second, his tall figure approached you, grabbing your wrist and dragging you out of the office. You could barely follow him, stumbling as you went, clutching at everything you saw on your way, frantically trying to stay on your feet. You could hear the members of your gangs yelling as they watched your retreating figures, but before you could make out a single word, the door shut behind you with a rumbling thud. In an instant your back was pressed against the wall of the empty corridor, his hand a few inches from your face. He was hovering over you with his whole body, not giving you the faintest chance to slip away.

"What the hell is going on?" he hissed, lifting your head by the chin to look into your eyes for the first time so far. "What the hell are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"So you're that scary Port Mafia boss everyone's so afraid of, Osamu?" your eyes ran across his face, hoping to see at least a glimpse of the man you knew.

"What the fuck are you doing here? I'm not going to play these stupid games. I'm asking you one last time," his hand squeezed your chin a little harder, causing you to press against the wall even further.

"I'm here to solve the problem with the territory your fucking organization is trying to steal from us. And as head of a special department, I couldn't let these negotiations pass me by without getting to know firsthand the man who's pulling off such dastardly schemes. Turns out it was you who ran it all along, when you weren't in bed with me," you pushed him away from you with force, freeing yourself from his iron grip.

Dazai froze for a moment, absorbing everything you just said to him, his eyes glittering for a second the way they did when you shared your little secrets, lying under the starry sky, hiding in each other's warmth. But then they grew even colder than they had ever been when he grabbed you by the collar of your coat, almost lifting you off the ground.

"So you've been double-teaming this whole time, like a fucking brat," he spat, full of rage looking you straight in the eye, his cheeks bulged with anger.

"I haven't done anything I can't blame you for, either," you retorted, clawing at the fabric of his coat with your fingernails.

At that moment, there was a banging on the door, someone was yelling threats and insults, asking for you to return to your seat, or the scuffle would start right then and there. You both fell silent, turning toward the locked door. In the next second, Dazai unlocked his fingers, shoving you aside and, swinging the doors open with his foot, knocking several people down in the process, went to the exit of the building.

"Deal with it yourselves, I'm leaving," he barked before disappearing from sight.

Everyone in the room followed his figure with a bewildered look and then turned to face you. With the rest of your dignity clenched in your fists, you got up from the floor, shook off your clothes, and headed for the exit without saying a word.

Your paths never crossed again, and you didn't know where he was or what was happening to him all that time. Strangely enough, but it was indeed true that the port mafia retreated and no longer laid claim to your domain, and everything was resolved without argument or gunfight. And that was probably the most painful thing to realize that it was unequivocally his decision alone. You didn't seek meetings with him and tried desperately to erase him, but he wouldn't disappear in any way. You saw him in the faces of passersby, and every time you turned a corner, looking over your shoulder, you thought he was standing there.

Your paths never crossed, but sometimes you'd hear stories of new, particularly exquisite murders, and you'd realize that he'd been behind them. You couldn't believe that you might once have seen him as your soul mate, shared shelter and food, held his wound-riddled hand, found in him a reflection of yourself. It was funny to think about it now that you knew what was behind his wrecked exterior, and you realized that you were more alike than you'd ever imagined. It was terrifying.

Your paths had not crossed for a long time, but now they did. When the news about the boy whose head was being offered for seven billion Yen on the black market spread all over the town, it'd be foolish to believe that the executive of the most powerful mafia in town wouldn't want to get it for himself. And so you met on the doorstep of the dormitory, where the boy who was your common target was sleeping peacefully.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he walked slowly toward you, hiding his face in the raised collar of his coat.

"The whole town is aware of this deal, the stakes are high, so why shouldn't I be here?" you raised your head higher, showing with every ounce of your face that you're not going to back down.

"I didn't know they sent minions on missions like this," he grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets, "there have to be more professional people for that."

"Then what are you doing here?" you said, looking him up and down.

"Get out of my way," he pointed his fingers to the side, "I have no desire to waste time with useless talk, back off or I'll make you."

"Try," you chuckled, motioning your hand, and in that second, everything dimmed, the sky darkened, and two small tornadoes formed beside you, waiting to consume everything around.

Dazai's eyes widened, as the wind whipped across his face, tangling his hair and limiting his ability to see. "Impressive, would you scatter in the wind the only person who got into bed with you?"

"Why are you so bitter all of a sudden, don't you like it when someone else can have secrets besides you?" you raised an eyebrow, casting more streams of air over him.

His coat fluttered in the wind, forming the semblance of black raven wings behind his back. Dazai only pushed his feet even harder into the ground, leaning forward, his whole body resisting shifting.

"I had no fucking secrets, I wanted to keep you safe from the horror that surrounded me," he was now bursting into a scream in an attempt to shout down the wind. "And you brazenly lied to me, pretending to be just a nice little girl who wanted to save another poor boy. Only I'm not the poor boy. I don't need your fucking salvation."

"Osamu, I..." you tried to discern his face in the endless stream of sand and dust, swirling into more tornadoes, now surrounding you in a semicircle.

"You were the only person I could go to and foolishly trust to have you turn out to be a stalker, watching my every move. I must admit it was a smart move, I underestimated your organization, but they should have chosen someone less naïve and weak," he spat sarcastic remarks, trying to soothe that aching pain in his heart, hoping in his mind that it was from it that he would die here and now, and this time forever.

"I didn't follow you, for fuck's sake," tears streamed down your cheeks, "I knew nothing about you except that you were a nice and wounded little guy. A guy I felt happy to be with. I loved you sincerely, I would never do that to you," you screamed, dropping your hands and stopping the spinning of the air. Everything around you froze: pieces of torn fabric, packages, tree branches, stones left from destroyed buildings slowly floated in place, only to collapse with a deafening crash to the ground a second later, raising a column of dust in the air. That was enough for Dazai to be next to you in a moment, grabbing your hand and pulling you to him with force.

"Let me go," you whispered, vainly trying to pull away, "I don't want to hurt you, don't make me, please."

"You know that one touch from me is enough to neutralize your ability, they told you that, didn't they?" his face twisted into a grimace of morbid pleasure. Seeing your eyes widen, he laughed, "Did they forget such an important detail about me? It seems I was right about your organization, a bunch of garbage that should be chased out of our town.

You didn't know what to answer, because you simply didn't know what you were going for when you drove here without the rest knowing.

"Now come with me," he gripped your hand a little tighter, "and I will kill that boy in front of you in the most ingenious way so that you can tell your bosses about it in detail later, when you are in a hurry to pack your gear to flee town before I come for your heads."

"You will not hurt this child, Osamu. No one is going to do him any harm," you stared confidently into his dark eyes, gleaming under the light of the lone moon.

"What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?" his eyebrows knitted into a thin line, "there's more money for this boy's head than you could ever imagine, and all that money will be mine." He dragged you toward the entrance to the dormitory, holding you firmly by your forearm.

"Wait, just hold on a minute, listen to me," you grabbed the hem of his coat in an attempt to stop him. "You're right, I really was playing a double game, I really was a fucking spy," you exhaled, trying to get more air in your lungs so that you could tell him everything before he would blatantly interrupt you. "I pretended to be a different person, but I never did it around you."

Dazai paused, looking at you with a baffled expression, his lips parted slightly in attempt to utter something, but almost immediately he shut himself up, giving you a chance to continue.

"I was spying. But not on you. All this time I was working for the agency, I was supposed to join the ranks of this group and break it down from within. Getting rid of them, one by one or all at once, it didn't really matter. All this time they were my main task, not you, Osamu, please believe me.

Dazai, who hadn't expected such a revelation, remained dazedly silent as his eyes darted from your face to the sign behind your back that said The Armed Detective Agency dormitory. His eyebrows rose, returning the boyish look to his face. Thoughts jumbled in his head wondering how he could have fucked up like that. Surely you were too good for someone who could get involved with the goddamn mafia. He blamed himself for such a slip and for just being able to have that kind of thought about you. He regretted that he had never been able to drown himself that day when he saw you in his office: frightened but so driven. A heavier stone and the bottom of the sea, hidden in the darkness of the stormy waters, that's what he really deserved.

"Osamu, I know that deep down you're not like that at all. You're just a lost man who has failed to make sense of right and wrong, a man who deserves the best but always chooses the worst for himself," you gently reached out to him, tentatively placing your hand on his cheek, gently running your finger along his bandage. "We can make the only right decision now and let the kid live. You know your heart is not so evil, Osamu. Stay with me, join the agency, we can be together, we can right the wrongs of the past."

The rising wind, as if by your hand, gently brushed the fallen strands from his face, exposing his eyes that shimmered like two small agates. He flattered at your gentle touch, remembering what it was like to be loved so tenderly and delicately. Your words echoed in his head, intertwined with the last words Oda said before he died in his arms. Maybe he really should have tried to live right. Perhaps he really should have tasted life filled with your presence and the right thoughts. But...

He pulled away from you abruptly, brushing your hand aside, "How can I possibly trust you when all you do is lie. You lied to me, you lie to all the members of your motherfucking organization, you lie to yourself when you wake up every fucking morning. Your whole life is a lie. Our whole life has been a deception."

"There will be no more secrets between us, I promise, if you come with me, I will never keep anything from you again. Just trust me...like the first time when you allowed me to bandage your shredded wrists. I'll be there to mend all your wounds. I promise... I still love you, Osamu."

He shuddered at the mere mention of his name, and how gentle it sounded coming from your lips. He recoiled, unable to look you in the eye anymore. His lips formed a thin line, his hands dropped down.

"Do what you have to Y/N. Protect this child. Not me," he turned around and strode hurriedly away, wrapping himself in the coat, trying to find at least a drop of warmth on this windy night. And he never looked back.

You shouted his name watching his fading figure, and raised your hand to try and stop him, but almost immediately lowered it, unable to hurt him more than you already had. The merciless wind rippled your open coat, sending a bunch of goosebumps down your back. But that was not the reason you were cold whatsoever.

Two years have passed since the night his dark figure vanished into the arms of the night. You heard that no one else had seen him in town after that. Only occasionally you heard rumors from other distant corners of the country that he had been spotted in bars, where he ordered the same drink every time, and, drunk as a skunk, left the place and the town. You wondered if it was your own kind of credit that he left the port mafia, or if he just couldn't stomach the idea of even being in the same town as you. Either way, it seemed to you that you could never find solace in walking in the places where you had learned to live together without depending on the world. You spent two years continuing to work for the agency, fighting for what you used to think was good and true. Not forgetting his face even for a moment.

It was one morning when, gathered in the conference room, you and the other detectives were noisily discussing what action should be taken against the Port Mafia, which was once again rampaging, when you were interrupted by the sound of President Fukuzawa's hoarse voice.

"I know you're very much in the middle of something, but I want to introduce you to a new member of our agency," he said firmly, stepping aside to reveal a figure leaning against the door jamb. He wore a long sand-colored trench coat, the belt of which was untied, he had bandages wrapped around his entire body; everything about him was the same only that his face was left uncovered.

You rose from your seat, open-mouthed, unable to believe your eyes. His brown eyes looked only at you, and then he smiled with the corners of his lips, winking at you before he muttered a quiet, "Hello, little spy".

reblogs and comments are very much appreciated! <3

[satoruschapstic]

I went to war with myself, for you

and when your worst nightmare is about to come true, what are the chances that you can stop it? pairing: nanami kento x gn!reader content: angst, angst, angst, hurt with comfort, mentions of death, mentions of weapons, blood, kisses, a bit of fluff. a/n: i've been thinking about this for a long time and it's finally here. the main character here changes kento's fate, because that's what he deserves. literally every word of it is filled with my personal pain that gege caused me by killing him. it's also my very first fanfic that i'm posting on my main, if you wanna check out the others, you can do it here - @satoruschapstic. hope you enjoy it <3

Everything comes with a price. It's a simple truth that you learned when you were just a child, born as a sorcerer into an ordinary family, burdened by mundane concerns. You were different from all the children of your age, able to understand and see much more than they ever could. Hoping to find a place where you could put all your energy into and learn how to master your body you tried all kinds of martial arts. You picked things up quickly. You were fast, agile, resilient and athletic. But no one understood back then that behind this strength and speed was something big, something special, terrifying even. Your reward and your curse.

Your power came out of the blue, even though all the time you felt that there was something in your veins besides human blood, something that would change you and your life over time. And so it did.

It was an ordinary day at school, when your little figure was hurrying to the exit, hoping not to be late for your training, and then you heard someone crying quietly. You turned to the direction of the sound and found a little girl squatting with her eyes squeezed shut and her backpack pressed to her chest. There were boys standing in a semicircle around her, looking way older. One of them was holding her tightly by the collar of her school uniform jacket. Without a moment's hesitation, you headed toward the group of hooligans, and as you got closer, you called out to her bully, asking him to leave the girl alone. He only grinned, spitting a few insults in your direction and returning his gaze to the victim. But you weren't planning on giving up. You never did. As you made your way through the crowd of boys, who squealed approvingly as the bully's hand soared up to hit the utterly terrified girl, you stood flat between them, shielding her. Until that moment, you didn't realize how small you were compared to all the boys, who were now huddled in an even tighter circle and staring predatorily at the newly emerged intercessor. Before the bully could utter a word, you touched his forehead with two fingers, guided by some unknown force.

You remember what happened next very vaguely. Your head felt like it was clenched in a vice, your vision went blurry; you knelt down so you wouldn't fall over, and on the ground you saw the boy's body. Then the scene changed, and you were still there. The same school, the same place, but there was no little girl, no crowd of rowdy bullies. Only the boy, but he was no longer lying there, he was standing in front of you, just as confused as you were. You did not remember the details of the conversation that happened between you afterwards, the only thing you remember is the hands of your mother, who pulled you closer to her chest when she saw you finally coming to your senses. Later, you told her everything you could, while fighting the unbearable headache and the fatigue that had finally gotten the better of you. You fell asleep almost as soon as your story was over, and that night you had strange dreams in which reality intertwined with imaginary worlds, but somehow everything seemed more than real.

Your story as a sorcerer began when your parents brought you to Tokyo and took you to Tokyo Jujutsu High. The school building was well hidden on Tokyo's outskirts, far and high in the mountains. They said it was a place where they would help you figure out your strengths and explain everything that was happening to you. It was there that they told you what your special technique was, the very thing that flowed in your veins and yearned to break out into the light. At first you were over the moon, finally having all your questions answered. But then came the moment when you had to learn the price of such a gift. The first blow was the separation from your parents. With tears in their eyes, feeling that they were leaving their child at the mercy of fate, they stepped outside the gates of the tech and smiled at you bitterly for the last time. You were crestfallen and in an attempt to get over your sorrow you plunged headlong into the exploration of your abilities.

The college director was by your side helping you to grasp the main things every sorcerer should have known. He laid out all your thoughts, but also planted a seed of doubt and fear that lurked somewhere in the depths of your soul. He explained that your power was one of the rarest, and involved the ability to put an enemy into a dream, yet control their subconscious. You were kind of a dream traveler, able to enter anyone’s dream and turn it into a nightmare, because everything you did to them in a dream happened in real time. You were an invaluable asset to their college, an indispensable player, an important figure. But things weren't quite as rosy as you first imagined. You were full of hope that on the battlefields you could finally be of any help and reach your potential. Yes, the amount of cursed energy in you was incredible, but it dropped to almost zero when you used your ability straight away. You had to recover for about a month or so to be useful again, to be of any value whatsoever. You still went on missions, but simple physics was often just not enough. And for the second time you realized how unfair everything could be. There were times when you weren’t able to save your loved ones, even if you seemed to have tremendous power in your hands. And you felt like you weren't enough: pathetic and useless pawn in this big game.

But despite all the twists and turns in life, all the difficulties that fate threw at you, you tried to stay afloat. You learned further, you perfected your techniques. You mastered how to control your energy, and how to use cursed objects. You became a 1st grade sorcerer. But you never stopped feeling useless, superfluous, no matter how often those around you said they were jealous of your ability. Your superiors told you to be careful not to use your power until the big day. But it felt like it’d never come.

You went with the flow of life, accepting the conditions of the higher–ups and battling your inner demons that threatened to overpower you. You found solace in other sorcerers. You found friends – people who shared your views, people who kept you from sinking into your own mire of thoughts. But there was one person who seemed to understand you better than himself. The man with whom you always went on missions without fear of being killed, or worse, humiliated. Kento Nanami always treated you with understanding. He never put any pressure on you, trusting your abilities to know what to do and how to do it. He left you free to act, coming to your aid only when he saw that you really needed it. People said that with your potential and your abilities, you could have easily surpassed him. You could have been stronger. Only if you weren't trapped by your own stupid technique. So it was always Kento who was saving you. You didn't know why, but he was always faster, more nimble, sturdier. He was nowhere and everywhere. He moved with mad speed, preventing the curse from even attempting anything, when his knife was already dissecting its flesh, dividing it into even pieces.

You were grateful. Every time he picked you up from the ground, covered in scratches and bruises, and told you that it wasn't your fault, and the curse was too obstinate, you were grateful. You smiled weakly at him, noticing the worry that clouded his eyes as he carefully treated the wound on your shoulder. He never voiced his concerns and never challenged you to talk, respecting your personal boundaries. And he never said how sorry he was, knowing that pity was the last thing you needed at this point. You cherished that, and you never opened up. Never to anyone. No matter how much time you spent together or what you went through.

But you snapped once. The two of you were fighting a special grade curse in Kyoto that had already managed to hurt a large number of people. You moved in a perfect unison, inflicting critical injuries on your enemy. And you were finally able to feel that you could compete, that you could be important and make a difference. Just then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Kento who was pinned to the ground by one of the curse’s tentacles, immobilized, but his face showed no emotion; on the contrary, he seemed even more confident in his strength.  You calculated where it would be best to strike to free him, as all of a sudden, the curse, taking advantage of the one–second pause, lifted you into the air and hurled you into the building behind you. Your frail figure smashed through hundreds of walls before landing on the concrete floor. You could not move; blood oozing from your mouth. The katana you often took with you was now lying out of reach. In an instant, the curse was already over you, opening a wide maw with hundreds of thousands of teeth to end your life here and now. Despair and hopelessness swept over you, tears were coursing treacherously down your cheeks, blood was pooling in your veins. You weren't afraid to die. You were disgusted that you had failed your partner. You lost again.

You closed your eyes, swallowing convulsively and exhaling a quiet "fuck", ready to feel the sharp fangs piercing through your body. But all you felt were streams of blood, now covering most of your clothes and dripping onto the floor, mixing with your own blood. You opened your eyes and saw Kento in front of you, wiping the remains of the curse off his knife and kneeling down to you. You didn't hear a word he said, leaning over you and staring fearfully into your eyes. You managed to find the strength to wrap your bloody arm around his neck to pull him closer. You couldn't hold on any longer; you cried bitterly, clutching his shirt so tightly that your knuckles turned white. You talked about all your fears between your sobs, you poured out your heart to him, and you apologized a hundred times for not being able to help him. Your hand never loosened its grip on the fabric of his shirt, not even for a second. Kento was nodding knowingly, hоlding you gently in fear of hurting you, and quietly whispered words of encouragement against the top of your head. You spent about an hour like that, opening each other's wounded and blood–covered souls, finding meaning anew in each other's arms. From then on, you never parted again. You knew each other's darkest secrets. You were each other's sanctuary. And you didn't need anyone else.

You began to get used to life with Kento, and he made it easier for you just by his presence. You hadn't felt such ease and security in a long time. You were still going on missions together, but their number had noticeably lessened lately, and both of you were running towards a normal, unencumbered life with open arms, ready as ever to enjoy the simple things that you had failed to notice before. But darkness was already waiting for you around the corner, stretching out its bony arms and ready to pull you down with it.

You began to have strange dreams, not the kind you've been used to since childhood. Different. More frightening. More disturbing. Making you wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. You didn't pay much attention to them at first, but when they began to come true, you grew anxious. At first, they were harmless dreams, in which you saw the exact places where the curses would operate. Then you began to dream about people you knew. They were getting wounded during a fight. Some of them were dying; some of them could find the way to escape. You told Kento about everything, and then you went to Gojo, who at first brushed it off, but when he realized your dreams were kind of bad omens for the jujutsu world, he made you promise that you would tell him everything you saw and that he would make sure to deal with the aftermath of your dreams.

Several times you tried to go to the places you saw in your dreams, explaining that if was you who saw them, it meant it was your cross and you had to bear alone. But neither Satoru nor Kento would let you go, knowing how tough your recoveries usually went. So you returned to this vicious circle from which there was no way out. You were plagued by helplessness, worried about others being sent on your missions, and slept very little for fear of another nightmare. But they didn't leave you for a second. You were the first to see a pink–haired boy eating an indefinable finger in your dream, the transformation that happened to him made you jump up in bed screaming. No one knew anything at the time about the boy or the fingers. Only Gojo hummed meaningfully and once again asked you not to worry. After a while, you met Itadori in person, the boy who had become the vessel of the King of Curses. Another failure in your piggy bank.

Your nightmares grew more monstrous, more vivid, more real with each passing day. You could only find a modicum of tranquility in the presence of Kento. Who gently stroked your hair as you fell asleep curled at his side. He watched intently for every change in the rhythm of your heart, your breathing, your facial expression, looking for signs that you were in the middle of another nightmare once again. But that almost never happened when he shared the bed with you. He was your magic sleeping pill. A little happy pill that allowed you to forget yourself for a moment.

That's why you were terrified to close your eyes today, knowing that Kento wouldn't be back until tomorrow morning. You struggled to occupy yourself with something, to distract, to hide from the inevitable. But in the end you drifted off into a dream that once again divided your life into before and after. You saw many familiar faces, an empty subway station, friends, enemies, all mixed into an incomprehensible, fiercely screaming mass. You heard metal clanking, human shrieks, you saw blood and limbs. You saw someone's twisted grimace, someone's silhouette fading into the distance, their face impossible to discern behind a cascade of raven–wing hair. It looked familiar. Frighteningly familiar. Then you caught sight of Kento, the left side of his face covered in blood, his eye missing. He was standing in front of an odd–looking man. He had a single cycloptic eye, pale gray skin but the top of his head faded into a brown color where the volcanic opening was, he looked like the one Gojo mentioned in his report. And then you saw fire. The fire that engulfed Kento from his head to his toes. The fire that was coming from the curse. You tried to scream, but you couldn't. No sound came out of your mouth. The scene changed rapidly, now you could hear Itadori's voice calling out Kento's name, but everything was shrouded in darkness. Then you saw another one, he had stitches all across his body. The same curse that had already wounded Kento not so long ago. You saw his hand flying into the air. Things seemed to freeze. As if in slow motion, you saw your loved one's body shattered into splinters. Your deafening scream echoed through the empty apartment that was Nanami's. You jumped up on the bed, covering your mouth with shaking hands, holding back your sobs and trembling all over. You buried your face in your hands, hoping to hide from what had just frightened you to death. Unable even to sit up straight, you collapsed back onto the bed, curled up and shuddering with sobs. You howled so loudly that you failed to hear the sound of footsteps approaching you, but only felt the warmth of familiar hands gently pulling you to a wide chest.

“What happened, y/n? What? One of your nightmares? I'm here, it's okay, shhh, it's over, it was just a dream,” his concerned voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

Kento now held you tightly to him, placing you gently in his lap. His hand was carefully stroking your head, tucking the loose strands of hair behind your ear.

“Look at me, my love. Whatever it was, we can handle it together. I promise, just tell me what's wrong,” he said softly, almost in a whisper, but just enough for you to hear the notes of tenderness and care in his voice.

You lifted your head hesitantly, exposing your tearful eyes to him. Trickles of tears still oozed from your eyes as you frantically tried to memorize every wrinkle on his face, as if he was going to disappear in the next moment. Kento left a light kiss on your forehead, deftly wiping away your tears with his thumbs.

“It's all right, you can tell me everything.”

He repeated softly, albeit persistently, letting you know that you don't have to keep it all to yourself and cope with it alone. He was there to ease your pain. Little did he know at the time that all your pain and all your happiness lay in him alone. Your heart was bursting out of your chest, hoping to unite with his heart and beat in tune, knowing that it would never again be torn apart by separation. You don't know how you found the strength to answer him and sound convincing.

“It's all right, really, just one of those nightmares I used to have when I was a kid. I don't know why it scared me so much now, probably because you weren't around,” you said quietly, not trusting your voice.

A pack of lies. That’s what it was. You weren't sure who exactly it was good for: you, because you couldn't make yourself to repeat the awful details of your nightmare, looking into his honeyed eyes, or him, because otherwise he had to know what fate had in store for him. He was the last man on earth who could ever deserve such a thing. You hated yourself for the false words that poured from your mouth, but you couldn't have it any other way. The truth always comes out, but you hoped it wouldn't now.

Kento believed you, or pretended to do so. But he never brought it up again, seeing how painful and difficult it was for you to restrain the dread that stirred in your bosom. Yet you never forgot a thing, not for a second. Fear was slowly shackling you in its iron grip, not letting you take a deep breath. You carried these thoughts and fragments of the dream with you for several more days, until the heaviness in your chest became unbearable. You went in search of Gojo, deep in your heart hoping to find some relief in his words. He was the only person to whom you told that wretched dream, withholding nothing, trying to recollect the smallest details.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” he said in a frighteningly calm voice, “this day will never come. Who said all of your nightmares have to come true, huh? It could just be a dream where things got mixed up. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, sweets. Nanami will be just fine.”

“But...,” before you could even begin, Satoru cut you off.

“But if that day ever comes, I'll take care of it, I'm the strongest, remember?” he smiled broadly, winking, and encouragingly shook you by the shoulders before disappearing around the corner.

Your heart desperately wished to believe him, to grasp the thought and never let it go, to give in to this devious deception. But your mind knew that it was a vain hope that you couldn’t afford.

So you spent your days in a constant emotional torment, clinging to Kento a little more often, holding him a little longer before leaving on another mission, kissing him a little more desperate in the hope of delaying the day's arrival.

But it came many times faster than you could have ever anticipated.

It seems all you had time to do was blink, there you were, lying on Kento's chest, tracing patterns on his chest, enveloped in warmth and serenity, as the next moment, he was going on a mission to Shibuya, donning his jacket. You knew that this was exactly what you feared the most. Your made–up quiet life was crumbling before your eyes with every step he took toward the door. Your heart was beating with such force in your temples that you could barely hear your own thoughts. You followed him on his heels as he gathered the necessary things, frantically fidgeting your fingers and trying to find a reason for him to stay. His calm expression wasn't helping; you wanted to punch him in the chest, to tell him that he couldn't leave you like this; he couldn't be so calm, walking toward his death…And he could not know that, but even if he did, he would rather be of service there, and lay down his life saving others. In your mind you were sending his heroism to hell, but you knew he was doing the right thing. You ran barefoot after him to the door, desperately grabbing his hand and begging him not to leave. He only smiled warmly, kissing you on the lips a few times goodbye.

“Before you know it, I'll be back, and we'll go to our favorite restaurant and order our /favorite dish/, I promise. Don't miss me that much," he added between kisses, I’ll still have time to bore you.”

“Bullshit...,” you whispered helplessly, “why can't you stay with me? Please? They can handle it. Or I could go with you.”

“These kids need help; I can be of help to them there, who knows what that veil means, and what lies behind it. And you need to take care of yourself, darling. I love you.”

Those were the last words you heard, and then the door closed behind him. You slowly slid down the wall, choking back tears and hating your own helplessness. You cursed everyone and everything for constantly being robbed of the opportunity to just be. It was so damn unfair, how many trials had fallen to your fates, but in spite of that, your paths crossed, your lives collided, only to have him taken away forever.

The higher–ups refused to send you along, assuring you that if things got really bad, you would be their ace in the hole. So you were left alone with your thoughts in an empty college classroom, wondering how you could be their trump card if you couldn't save the dearest man in your life. Oh and how you begged for your prayers to be answered, for Satoru to take care of everything and bring Nanami back to you alive. You sat in a chair by the window, swaying frantically, your eyes remained focused on the skyline. You had an earpiece in your ear, like all the sorcerers who went there. You flinched at every rustle, every sound breaking the silence of the half–empty building. It was the only way you could get the latest news in real time. You couldn't stay in one place for long, either sitting or standing up, or pacing the room with your hands in your pockets foe hours. You felt as if you were in a cage, unable to leave the confines of your own prison. Your lips were bleeding from how hard your teeth were digging into them.

And then you received news that made your heart stop beating, and you barely had time to grab the edge of the table to keep your balance and not fall to the floor. Satoru got sealed. You couldn't really comprehend anything. Your thoughts were muddled, and your legs were treacherously shaky. But...he's the strongest, isn't he? What would happen to all those left to fight now? The questions swarmed through your head, giving you a massive headache. If anything, there was no one else to come to help.

You'd been too long the one to be rescued, hidden, fed on promises, and left behind. You had the strength that some students were envious of, and you were no worse than the rest – perhaps even superior in some respects. You were so tired of being cornered, scared, weak and vulnerable. You had strength in you that anyone who came across your path would know about. You no longer planned to hide; you grabbed your backpack, and, clutching your katana tightly in your hand, headed straight to the open grinning mouth of the monster called doom.

Meanwhile, physical pain permeating Kento’s whole body reverberated with tenfold force in his heart; once behind the veil, he realized that things were much worse than anyone could have ever imagined. Gojo was in a prison realm, which meant that an even greater responsibility for the lives of all the students fell on his shoulders. His thoughts were filled with you when one of the curses almost took his life, the moment he lost his left eye. His hair was now down, blond strands covered with dried blood clinging to his forehead. His shirt, once clean and perfectly ironed, was now torn in places, showing traces of blood that was not his own. But he kept moving forward you, knowing that you would do the same, you would return to him, no matter what it cost. And he would do the same. The steps no longer came as easily as before, but he tried to ignore such trifles. Now it was vital to concentrate on the enemy, to think faster, more coherent, more unpredictable. Kento stepped toward Jogo, hoping to protect Megumi and Maki, who had suffered enough already. And they are just children who should never have experienced such horrors of life. He swung his knife to strike, but his opponent moved twice faster, reaching out, almost touching his torso, as someone pushed Kento back with force, cutting off the curse’s arm up to the elbow.

 Kento, falling backwards, looked up in disbelief only to meet your /color/ eyes, which were filled with mixture of remorse and relief. You clutched your katana firmly, blood dripping from its edge. You couldn't wait to hug him tightly right then and there, as the sight of him shattering your heart into a billion pieces, but you had to finish what you started.

“Let me save you just once,” you muttered softly, barely managing to touch the Jogo’s forehead, who seemed to lose sight of what was happening, pressing the rest of his bloody hand to his chest and screaming in an unmanly voice, as Kento leaped up and tried to catch your hand. All he felt was emptiness in his hand, it was too late and he found himself separated by a barrier created by your Domain Expansion.  Now that Jogo was trapped inside of it, all power was concentrated in your small hands, and you weren't going to give him any indulgences.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing?” The cursed spirit shrieked, baring his black teeth and choking with indignation, his eyes darting from your face to your katana.

“It doesn't matter who I am, you'd better think of yourself,” you ignored his questions, and with a sudden, unprecedented confidence, you strode slowly back and forth, not even glancing at him.

“Where are we? Where is everyone?” Jogo looked around; trying to spot anyone's presence, but the station was completely empty. A grimace of horror washed over his face.

“We're in your dream,” you finally turned in his direction, “I'm inside your head, and your body is lying on the floor there on the station while we're here chatting. And while we're here, you're going to tell me what the hell is going on here and who's behind it all. I know someone is using Geto's body. Who’s that and why?”

 “Why would I ever answer your fucking questions? You're just another useless bitch who pretends to be worth something,” he grinned, clenching his single hand into a fist.

“You see, you're deeply wrong on my account, I actually do worth something. You're on my territory now, and if you don't tell me anything, you'll die, I guarantee that,”  you raised your katana, pointing it in his direction.

  “And if I do?” Jogo narrowed his eye, looking at you intently.       

“Then you'd die quicker and less excruciatingly, I could arrange that,” the corners of your lips curved up, forming a semblance of a smile. “You won't touch any of these people again.”

“Oh, so it's something personal,” now it was the curse's turn to look down at you, smiling evilly. I wanted to set that blond guy on fire so fucking much.

Something shivered inside you, but you didn't give it away, continuing to look directly at him. Your face showed no emotion.

“It is, but that's none of your fucking business. It's time for you to hurry up and make a decision about my offer. It seems it was very merciful of me not to kill you in agony.”

 “Fuck you!” he shrieked furiously and sprinted towards you.

There was a snap. The only thing Jogo heard was a snap before he was blown to bits. Since the cursed energy in you reached its peak, that simple gesture was just enough to end it all at once.

The barrier, through which Kento had been vainly trying to break through all this time, collapsed the second the last drop of Jogo's blood touched the cold concrete floor. You turned around in an instant and saw your man, his hands with the knife hovering in place, exactly where the barrier wall had once been. His startled eye scanned you for visible wounds, but as soon as Kento realized you were unharmed, he tossed the knife aside, closing the distance between you in a few steps. You dropped your katana, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your whole body against him. Kento could feel you trembling in his arms. Pulling you impossibly close to his body, his arms wrapped around your waist. As you found the strength to pull away slightly, your hands moved to his face, now gently stroking his blood–covered cheekbones. "You're alive, you're alive," you repeated as if in a delirium, gently brushing his hair away from his forehead. Your gaze flickered across his face until it landed on his lips. Unable to wait any longer, you kissed him, not giving him a chance to say a word. It was messy, desperate, so impatient, yet so moving. Teeth, tongues and all. Your fingers clutched the collar of his shirt, as he ran his hand through your hair.

You pulled away first, smiling weakly, but so sincerely through your tears. Kento gently wiped the tear that was rolling down your cheek.

“You...where is that curse? Are you okay? I... I nearly lost my mind, why are you here and...” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours.

  “Shh,” you put your index finger to his lips, “he's gone, I got rid of him, but that's not over. I need to tell you everything, I need to tell you everything I saw in that dream when you found me in our bedroom, remember? You have to listen to me. We can't let this happen; we have to make it right. I'm not leaving without you.”

And you told him everything that was going to happen next, not hiding a thing, caressing his hand, assuring him that things would be okay. You were able to contact the others to give coordinates. You knew the place where Mahito would be waiting, and with a heavy heart, but his hand in yours, you headed there. Kento wasn't sure your plan would work, and somewhere in the back of his mind he was almost resigned to the fact that he would die today, because both yours and his powers, were running out, but the faith that finally sparked somewhere deep within you, your eyes that burned with hope for the first time in years became his little driving force.

It seemed like you got there a little too quickly. Your self–confidence was dwindling with every step you took. But you had no right to make a mistake. Kento had come to your rescue so many times; without him, you would have been dead long ago. You had to find the strength to help everyone.

Kento went first. You were left waiting and once again praying to God that you would be in time to help. The sound of his shoes hitting the floor echoed through the deserted station. Kento walked confidently down the stairs, knife at the ready.

“Here you are at last, and all by yourself. Wanna chat?” A tall figure rounded a corner, coming out into the light.  He has long grayish–blue hair covering part of his face, but his twisted smile was impossible to miss, “no one would bother us, it’s been a while.” His figure started approaching Kento, extending his arms in an open hug.

“He's not alone, you fucker,” you hissed, stepping out of the shadows, appearing behind Kento's back. At the same moment, other sorcerers in all directions began to come out, trapping Mahito in a circle. For a moment his face lit up in amazement, and taking advantage of the pause, Kento struck a blow, cutting off the hand that had been extended to him. Mahito froze in place, staring in bewilderment at the spot where his hand had just been.

„It's funny that you're all here,” he burst out laughing insanely, flying into the air and landing a little farther away, “it's more entertaining that way.” He waved a hand, tossing the little figures to the floor and at the same moment the pile of curses, which were once humans, increased in size and moved toward you. All the sorcerers who were there rushed into action, using all their techniques, flying into the air as they moved with the speed of the wind, scattering curses in different directions. You fought back–to–back with Kento, not moving a step away. You wielded your blades swiftly and skillfully, slicing apart the creatures that approached you.

Mahito was on the sidelines, climbing on top of the photo booth, watching with rapt attention as everyone fought to the death. But his gaze was fixed on Kento.

„Oh how much I enjoy watching you, we could have been good friends… but it's time to get rid of you,” he giggled, jumping to the ground and motioning in your direction.

You could see him coming, the way he deftly dodged punches from all sides. Mahito moved as if the station was empty and there was no one around him, no katanas ringing through the air and nothing disturbing the silence. His long hair was flying in the wind, revealing his fastened with stitches face, blood dripping from the rest of his arm, leaving trails stretching behind him.

You swallowed hard, glancing furtively at Kento, who was fighting another curse beside you without seeing what was going on behind, and with icy hands but a hot heart you lifted your head, raising an eyebrow.

“Is it time for real fun?” you uttered with ostensible confidence.

“Oh yes, and you're getting in the way,” he tilted his head, displaying his grin. “I'm going to have to end it with you real quick.”

His arm extended forward, almost grabbing you by the throat, but you jumped to his side just in time, splitting part of his face with your katana. You moved easily, confidently, precisely, remembering how your trainer had praised you when you'd knocked out boys twice your size as a little girl. You fought off all his attacks, and with every second his lips grew a bigger smile. He played with you like a cat with a mouse, letting you get closer and inflicting painful wounds. And, when, you hesitated for a second, searching for Kento with your eyes, Mahito flung your katana away and swept you off your feet, pinning you to the floor with his foot.

“It's fun with you, too,” he leaned closer, “but time is running out, and I have an important business here, so,” his hand, which had turned into a drill, moved closer to your face, “it's time to say goodbye.”

You realized that without the ability to use your strength and low level of cursed energy anymore, you had almost no chance to gain the upper hand. So you relied entirely on your physical abilities, and your goal was to distract and hold him off until someone else could deliver the final blow. And then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Kento's figure emerge behind him.

“I'll miss you,” you said, spitting blood.

His eyebrows rose in surprise, and his lips fluttered open to say something else, but the next second, Kento's knife sliced him in half.

You threw your head back, exhaling spasmodically, lifting your arm with desperate efforts to cover the wound on your side. Kento was right beside you, covering your hand with his own, looking regretfully at your small, bruised figure, lying in a pool of blood. All the sounds subsided; you could see that not a single curse was left around you anymore. Itadori helped Megumi up, looking intently in your direction.

“It'll be all right,” you said quietly, smiling haggardly, and pointed to your intertwined hands, blood slowly seeping out through your fingers. “Shoko will patch us up, and we'll be fine, and...”

“Thank you for saving me,” you both said simultaneously, without taking your eyes off each other.

You smiled softly, reaching your hand out to his face, gently running your thumb across the left side of his face. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes.

„I wish I'd gotten there sooner, we could have kicked everyone's asses,” you squeezed your eyes shut, and, overcoming the pain, you gingerly sat down on the floor.

“We did it,” Kento smiled softly, taking your hand in his, kissing your palm, “and now we have to get out of here.”

He was at his wits' end, but nothing could stop him from lifting you into his arms bridal style. His arms gently wrapped around you, pulling you close to him, and slowly, limping, he carried you to the exit of the station, to where the veil ended and your life was to begin from scratch. Yes, it was only the beginning of the war, but for you, it was now over.

    ***

 It's been months of long recovery for both of you so that you can now sit together in a restaurant and truly enjoy that very /favorite dish/. Your eyes sparkle with pure joy, and a smile almost never leaves your lips, just from the fact that Kento is sitting across from you, smiling embarrassedly at the corners of his lips, not yet used to his new look, but he's getting there. Your hands rest on the table, fingers intertwined, like your lives that no one else will ever be able to part again. You smile even wider, moving closer to him and leaving a light kiss on his cheek, just under his eye patch. And for the first time, you feel that it is not the nightmare that ends you all the time, but it is you who now ends it.

@shamelessperfectionhideout @vagabond-umlaut @afortoru @mitsuyeaah @gojoshooter @nikokopuffs              

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! <3

[satoruschapstic]

nanami kento who's never been very tactile in his live. he has lovely parents but they used to show their love different ways never showering him with affection.

nanami kento who learned to do it that very way. he was never a fan of pda, though he wasn't against holding your hand or kissing your forehead in public but that was pretty much it.

nanami kento who didn't mind you running your fingers through his hair and slightly massaging the back of his neck, when you two were chilling on the big sofa at your house. it was so foreign but so liberating and even vital that he couldn't help but lean to your featherlight touch.

nanami kento who never asked for it. it's not that he was afraid to lose his stoic facade, no he was just trying to convince himself that he never really craved this kind of affection.

nanami kento for whom the thought of getting used to the feeling and then eventually losing it was the worst nightmare imaginable.

nanami kento who slightly nods when you tell him that it's okay to ask for a hug if you need one.

nanami kento who comes home after a long mission weary and distressed and quietly whispers, "can you hold me for a bit please?"

nanami kento who closes his eyes and exhales shakily pressing his cheek against your chest and twines his arms around you.

nanami kento who feels at ease the second you start caressing his cheekbone, holding him close .

nanami kento who cautiously learns what it's like to be loved that gentle.

nanami kento who lives in the peace of tenderness with you.

[satoruschapstic]

UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO UNSEAL GOJO

[satoruschapstic]

i don't think there'll be a day when i'm not in my gojo era.

[satoruschapstic]

Why fic no climb out of my head and lie down in paper? Why must I write fic? ☹

[satoruschapstic]

Satoru mulled it over and over as he watched your chest rise and fall as you slept next to him. He dances around the truth, convinces himself he wants nothing more than physical intimacy but he always ends up struggling with the fact that he knows that if he ends whatever he has going on with you, it would devastate him. 

That thought of never being able to see you again. Or not being able to touch you. Kiss you. Make love to you.

The thought of letting you be with someone else. Just the idea of another person being able to taste those sweet soft lips of yours or make you feel the way he did just minutes ago has him pulling you into his arms, not giving a damn if the motion rouses you from slumber. 

"Satoru," you murmur, voice still thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"

Gojo catches your wrist as you reach up to touch his face. He plants a kiss in your palm and closes his eyes. All his life, having his infinity on was second nature to him but with you? He couldn't care less to be protected if it means being able to have you clouding all his senses. All he wants is to feel you. Be near you as much as he possibly could. 

And that's exactly where his dilemma lies. His brows furrow as he kisses your fingertips, thinking, You make me fucking weak, Y/n. That's what's wrong.

But at the same time.. you are where he draws strength the most. Because without you, he will lose all will to continue fighting. If he loses you, he loses all meaning.

But he also knows that if he stays with you.. you will end up getting hurt. It also does not help that everyone he has ever loved.. has ended up dead and gone.

He laughs to himself bitterly as his own words to Yuta rang in his head. Love is the most twisted curse of them all.

You open your eyes and look up at him worriedly. The thought of not being able to see those e/c eyes of yours has Gojo feeling trepidation. Finally, he admits, "I.. love you, Y/n. That's what's wrong."

Because now that he knows that he does, it means he has to let you go. 

And as you see fear in those powerful cerulean eyes of his for the first time.. you knew it too.

[satoruschapstic]

Yuuji: did you hear that loud scream?

Megumi: yeah, it was YN’s problem

Gojo, in the distance: I HATE IT WHEN YOU CALL ME THAT

[satoruschapstic]

Barbie Poster - Gojo ver.

[satoruschapstic]

just want you┆gojo satoru

୧ genre: fluff

୧ wc: 1.4k

୧ synopsis: megumi is sick with a common cold, and gojo is simply lovesick for you.

Gojo Satoru convinces himself that he's not jealous.

How could he feel such a prickling and burning sensation in his lower tummy, slowly rising towards his heart making his blood boil and face grow hot just because you're nursing eleven-year-old Megumi back to health? The same little rascal that he had previously gotten into a spat with over something stupid and it doesn't help that the brat's sticking his tongue out and pulling down his lower eyelid taunting him.

But of course, you're too busy doting over sweet and innocent Megumi to notice. Too preoccupied with fluffing the pillows for the young boy to rest his poor head on, gently tucking him in with a cozy throw blanket, putting something on the platinum screen with the promise of brewing him a ginger-honey tea to make him feel better.

No matter how much Gojo tries to ignore Megumi, his facial muscles twitch and contort on their own in utter dismay and his Six Eyes zeroes in on the couch-ridden boy with his lips curling into a deep frown before sticking his tongue back at him.

"Come on, Satoru. Be nice to him, he's really sick." You say as you start the kettle and reach for a mug from the cabinet. Gojo's forced to acknowledge that Megumi wasn't faking the snotty nose and loud sneezes, but he still doesn't like the idea of losing to one smug child and giving him the satisfaction that he's secured his revenge which is your devoted attention. Maybe Megumi knew that his guardian would go a wee-bit insane being treated as a second thought but Gojo will never admit that it's working.

"Hey honey, you know what? I don't feel so good either. Here, feel my forehead." Gojo takes your hand and places it over his forehead to check if it's warm to the touch and he makes sure to do his best impression of looking pathetically sick—droopy eyelids, jutting his lower lip into a pout, and slumped shoulders to get your sympathy.

"Satoru, you feel perfectly fine. There's nothing wrong with you."

"I swear I'm not feeling well. My throat feels weird and scratchy, my body feels flashes of hot and cold, my head is pounding and it's killing me, and.." Gojo tries to convince you that he's experiencing every symptom he could think of and you knew he was determined to be sick. Between your "uh-huh" and "right" you decide to humor him as you follow his explanation and tried your hardest to hold back a smile when he throws in an exaggerated detail or two.

"Alright, you big baby. We can't have you feeling sick now, can we? Can't have the strongest sorcerer out of commission for long, hm?"

"Nope, that'd be very bad. As long as you drop everything and pour all your attention on me, I should get better in no time. No pressure or anything, but the world does kinda depend on it~" Gojo flashes you a toothy grin then quickly remembers that he's supposed to be sick and feigns a cough or two averting your knowing glance.

"Hmm, okay I'll see what I can do. Now c'mere, let's get you all nice and comfortable so you can get your much-needed rest and get well again." You lead him to your shared bedroom and reflect the covers back for him to climb onto the mattress and ensure he's warm and cozy as you pull the comforter over him. For someone who's supposed to feel horribly ill Gojo sure can't seem to wipe the smile off his face. "You look a little too happy to be sick, don't you think?"

"Just happy that you'll be the one to help me get back my strength is all." Through his fluttering lashes, he sports the most innocent and angelic expression he can muster and you can't help the soft giggle given his stellar performance up until this point.

"Alright, if you say so. I'll get you something to eat, okay? I'll be right back."

As you're turning on your heel to head for the door, Gojo pouts and protests. "Wha- No sweet kiss to hold me over? You might be a while and I'll get so lonely since you're not here to keep me company."

"Aw, I'm sorry baby, but you know there's no kissing until you're all better. Can't get myself sick now that I have to look after you and Megumi, right? I promise I won't be long."

"...Not even a forehead kiss? :(" He murmurs under his breath as he watches your back to him and eventually disappears into another room. Once Gojo's left to his own devices, he wonders how long it would take you to complete your tasks on hand. He fiddles with his thumbs and counts the passing minutes. One minute becomes five, five becomes ten, then ten becomes twenty and he suddenly cannot bear to be apart from you much longer and checks on you.

"Sweetheart, what's taking you so long? I thoug-" And there he stumbles across the answer to his own question. Megumi is being spoon-fed rice porridge by you because he claims that his arms are too weak to do it himself and you couldn't leave him starved in his condition. Gojo appears crestfallen and disgruntled in the throw blanket draped over his lanky body and with a small huff he grumbles, "So that's what you've been up to. Fine, fine I guess it's up to me to take care of myself, huh?"

"What's wrong with him? Is he sick too or something?" Megumi asks nonchalantly as he watches his mentor's dejected form return to his bedroom to sulk. You gently shake your head and offer the boy a soft smile, but you do feel a little bad that your boyfriend has been acting unusual lately hence his needy and clingy tendencies.

"He's just going through a phase, but don't you worry about him and focus on getting better, okay? I'll find a way to make it up to him."

When you enter your shared bedroom with a platter of breakfast in your grasp, you found Gojo hiding under the covers in an attempt of giving you his silent treatment. You place the serving tray of food on the nightstand and situate yourself on the bed beside him, smoothing your hand over his covered shoulder as he's laid on his side with his face away from you. "Satoru, my love, I've brought you breakfast."

With a soft shrug of his shoulder, he responds with a strained hum but you know it's just him being melodramatic because he could never truly be mad at you. "Do you wanna tell me what's on your mind? I'm all yours if you come on out from under the covers."

Gojo shifts his body weight around and tufts of white hair start to peek as he gradually pulls the blanket down until you meet his azure gaze and he receives your sweet smile. "Hey there, is everything alright? Did I do something to upset you?" The tender warmth of your hand finds its home on his cheek with a gentle caress and he sighs contently at the familiar touch. You're patient as you wait for him to gather his thoughts, your fingers moving to his soft tendrils in soothing motions and he inches closer to you.

"You've never done a single thing wrong ever. You are perfect." He starts off slowly, "I just missed you and ever since I got back from my mission you were too busy with the kids (Megumi and Tsumiki) that we haven't really had any alone time together." Gojo confesses as he's playing with the hem of your shirt, feeling a bit vulnerable to look you straight in the eyes. "Oh, and another thing... I'm not actually sick I only said that so you'd notice me more."

"Thanks for being honest with me. And I knew that you weren't sick. For someone who's supposed to be good at anything he tries, I'm glad that you turned out to be a pretty bad liar."

Gojo's face heats up at that and he unceremoniously hides his face in your lap from embarrassment, as muffled words of "Oh, so you knew. I thought I was pretty convincing" managed to reach your ears.

"Tell you what, how about we have ourselves a nice picnic this weekend? Just the two of us, I'll find someone to watch the kids. And I think maybe spending an afternoon in the sunshine will do us some good. What do you think?"

Gojo suddenly lights up at your proposal. "I think you're wonderful for planning the perfect date."

"You're sweet for giving me so much credit." Your soft laughter quickly melts his heart and he returns your affections, feeling a little less lovesick as you're both sharing a beautiful moment together. "I love you."

"I love you so much more, my sweet angel."

[satoruschapstic]

mornings

satoru loves mornings with you

a/n: just a quick little drabble for gojo bc i miss him dearly <3 hope u all enjoy !!

wordcount: 454

masterlist

gojo satoru always wakes up ten minutes earlier than he has to just to spend time with you before he has to get ready to leave.

he sighs as he shuts the alarm off, holding you a little closer and squeezing you a little tighter. his eyes flutter open to take in your every feature. the only source of light is coming in through the blinds, he can barely see you and yet you still manage to look perfect to him.

he smooths your messy hair down gently, doing his best to not wake you. his heart melts as you cuddle closer to him. maybe you were awake, maybe you weren’t, he didn’t care much.

satoru presses feather light kisses to your face, eyes softening as he places one last kiss to your forehead before reluctantly getting out of bed and getting ready.

he wakes you gently when he’s about to leave, ever so softly calling your name, “y/n, sweetheart? I’m leaving” he whispers, your eyes open slowly, still filled with sleep as you frown and nod.

“be safe toru,” you mumble, your voice a bit raspier than usual and it’s driving him crazy, “love you s’much.” there’s love and drowsiness laced in ever word and gojo wouldn’t have it any other way.

you sit up and wrap your arms around him, squeezing a little tighter and holding him for a couple moments longer. you place a gentle kiss to his cheek, running your fingers through his snowy hair and brushing it out of his face. gojo bends over a bit, just enough for you to press your lips to his forehead.

“I’ll be back before you know it” he whispers, it’s a promise, one he intends to keep.

“you better, or I’ll go grab you myself” you tease, gojo smiles, kissing your lips softly, the two of you smiling into the kiss.

he glances back at you as he closes the bedroom door, still smiling as you wave goodbye to him, wishing him luck and telling him you love him.

gojo satoru doesn’t think ten minutes is enough.

as he’s locking the front door and heading to jujutsu high, he already begins to miss you, wanting nothing more than to hold you tighter than he did. to kiss you just once more before he left, to tell you how much he loves you again.

gojo satoru doesn’t find mornings dreadful. not when it means he gets to have you all to himself, holding you close, as if nothing else matters.

gojo satoru learns to love mornings, because in those ten minutes, it’s just you and him in those four walls of your shared cozy bedroom, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[satoruschapstic]

ISFP | The Adventurer

Gentle, practical and creative, ISFPs want the freedom to live their own lives and make their own decisions. Highly curious and with an innate need to try everything, this type of personality is known to dabble in all areas of life. They see life itself as canvas for self-expression.