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zaynesdesimc · 4 days ago

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the end times — gojo satoru

synopsis. gojo satoru thinks he’s going to die because you’re giving him the silent treatment. (aka your first big fight with gojo).

contents. hurt/comfort, ooc, lovesick!gojo, you give him the silent treatment and he goes crazy, he is so pathetic in this one, tw obsessive behavior (he makes it EVERYONE’S problem), gojo’s pov

notes. loosely inspired by that one scene from yakuza fiance. not proofread whats new

Gojo knows he’s screwed up the second he steps into the common area of Jujutsu Tech’s dormitory. The air feels thick, wrong. And then there’s you, curled up on the couch, a book open in your lap, but your eyes aren’t moving.

His grin falters for half a second before he masks it with his usual bravado. “I always knew you had a little freak in you, but reading your erotic books out in the open? Who knew my girl was such a perv.”

The joke usually earns him a laugh, a shove, maybe even a teasing retort. But tonight, the silence that follows is deafening.

The pit in his stomach grows.

“Sweetheart?” He tries again, waving a hand obnoxiously close to your face.

You finally react, swatting his hand away, but there’s no playfulness in the motion. Your eyes don't even meet his.

“You’re late,” you say flatly, still staring at your book. “Again.”

Gojo scoffs, irritation bubbling. Not at you, never at you, but at the damn book that’s getting more attention than him.

“Ah, you know how it is. Got held up in Kyoto,” he says with a shrug.

The words leave his mouth too easily. He doesn’t realize his mistake until you finally, finally look at him.

And it’s nothing like usual.

There’s no warmth in your gaze, no sparkle of amusement or exasperation. Instead, you pin him with a look so sharp it strips him bare, leaving nothing but the hollow weight in his chest.

“You missed our date.”

His breath catches. His throat goes dry. “I–”

“I’m not mad about that.”

Relief floods him too fast, too soon. His shoulders sag as he leans down, tilting his head for a well-earned kiss. “You’re the best. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.”

You pull away before he can touch you.

Gojo freezes.

“[Name]?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You know, it’s funny.”

There’s nothing funny about this moment.

His pulse thrums as you continue, voice eerily steady. “That your mission was in Kyoto. I mean, we have a whole sister school there, full of sorcerers ready to handle a first-grade threat. So why would they need you, specifically?”

His stomach drops.

He’s never been good at guilt, not when he’s spent his whole life believing he’s untouchable. But now, standing before you, unable to meet your eyes, it sits heavy in his gut.

And you don’t let up.

“Of course, I asked around. Thought maybe I was overthinking it.” A humorless scoff escapes you. “Imagine my surprise when I found out my boyfriend was too busy meeting with his future bride.”

Gojo’s mouth opens, but for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to say.

“That’s–” he starts, then stops because, shit, you’re staring at him like he’s a stranger. Like he’s someone you can’t trust. The realization makes his stomach churn.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” you say bitterly, arms crossing as you lean back into the couch. “I mean, I’d love to hear how you were going to explain this one, Gojo Satoru.”

Full name. That’s how he knows he’s really fucked up.

“It’s not–It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, voice unusually hoarse. His usual bravado, his charm, none of it is coming to him. He doesn’t even know where to start. “I wasn’t–I wasn’t hiding it. I just–”

“You just forgot to tell me that your clan is arranging a marriage for you?” you cut in sharply. “That slipped your mind?”

“No! Yes—Fuck, that’s not what I mean,” he groans, pushing a hand through his hair. He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s scrambling for footing on uneven ground. “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter, sweetheart. I wasn’t ever going to go through with it. You know that, right?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Do I? I mean, Suguru seemed shocked when I didn’t know that these were recurring dates set by your clan.”

Gojo falters.

“You didn’t even think to tell me, Satoru,” you say, voice quieter now, but somehow even more devastating. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

His heart clenches. That’s not–God, that’s not what this is.

“Of course you deserve to know! But I—” he exhales sharply, trying to gather his words. “I just—Fuck, I thought it was stupid. I thought it wasn’t worth mentioning.”

You shake your head, looking almost tired now. “Right. Because I’m just supposed to assume you’d never go through with it. After your multiple dates with her. Because I’m supposed to read your mind, just like always.”

The weight of your words crashes into him, and Gojo suddenly realizes that this isn’t just about Kyoto. This isn’t just about one lie, one mistake. This is about every time he’s brushed things off, every time he’s let silence speak for him, every time he’s sat through those excruciating meetings, knowing he would never go through with it, but never once thinking about how it would feel for you to find out this way. This is about every time he’s expected you to just get him without him ever having to say a word.

This is about how, even after everything, you still don’t know how much he loves you.

And now, looking at you, Gojo is terrified that he’s already lost his chance to prove it.

“I’m going to sleep,” you stand up from your place on the couch.

Gojo tries to follow you, “Listen, baby–”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now. I need some space.” you turn around to send him a teary glare and that stops him in his tracks. He had never seen you cry. And it tore him apart knowing that he was the cause.

The sound of your door slamming echoes in Gojo’s mind.

Gojo Satoru is the first one in class the next day.

He drums his fingers against the desk, restless in a way he can't explain, but he knows it has everything to do with the fact that he spent the entire night not sleeping. His mind was too busy replaying the way you had looked at him, no, the way you hadn’t looked at him.

He had left you alone and upset. He had made you feel like you were second to someone else. And worst of all, he hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.

“This must be a first.”

Gojo glances up as Suguru enters, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Gojo Satoru, on time? It must be the end times.”

He knows it’s a joke, but it might as well be the end times. Gojo doesn’t respond, just presses his lips into a thin line as he goes back to mentally reciting the apology speech he’s been revising in his head all night.

Then the shoji door slides open again.

You walk in with Shoko, your head tilted slightly as you whisper something to her, something he’ll never get to hear because you don’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead, you take a seat at the farthest desk, as if he isn’t even there.

A part of him withers away.

But Gojo Satoru isn’t one to give up.

If words won’t get your attention, he’ll just have to be Gojo Satoru about it. He leans back in his chair and stretches obnoxiously, before loudly exclaiming, “Yaga-sensei! Are those grey hairs from your recent divorce?”

He grins, waiting for the familiar sound of your laugh, for that little shake of your head, for you to scold him like always.

But you don’t even look at him.

Instead, he’s met with Geto and Shoko’s twin expressions of abject horror, and before he has a chance to register what’s happening–

BAM!

Yaga’s palm collides with his head, sending him face-first into his desk.

Even through the throbbing pain, he can only think about one thing.

You didn’t even react.

“And how exactly is she ignoring you?”

Shoko’s grumpy voice echoes through the morgue, where she’s been attempting to practice her technique. She’s clearly unimpressed that Gojo Satoru has decided to spam-call her instead of dealing with his own problems.

“She’s ignoring me, Shoko,” Gojo groans dramatically from the other side of the Jujutsu Tech campus, rubbing the fresh bump on his head as he stands in front of your door. “I’ve been knocking for an hour. She’s in there. I know she’s in there, but she won’t answer.”

“Maybe she finally got tired of your bullshit,” Shoko says dryly. “Honestly, I don’t know why it took her this long to hold you accountable. She’s let your bad behavior slide for way too long.”

“Why are we talking about me like I’m some kind of dog?!”

Shoko ignores him.

“From the sound of it, you really messed up. I mean, who keeps a marriage a secret from their girlfriend?” She pauses, then adds with a smirk in her voice, “Oh, right. You.”

Gojo groans, pressing his forehead against your door. “You and I both know that’s not what happened. But she doesn’t. And she won’t even give me the time of day to explain.”

Shoko sighs. “Give her time to cool down.”

“And what, let her decide she wants to run off and marry some other guy? Move to a cute little beach town in Enoshima, start a family, have three kids, and leave all Jujutsu sorcery behind?”

There’s a long pause before Shoko makes a disgusted sound. “O-oi. Keep your weirdly detailed fantasies to yourself.”

“I’m just being realistic,” he insists, clutching his flip phone dramatically.

Shoko promptly hangs up on him.

Gojo stares at the device for a moment before slowly lowering it, exhaling hard.

Then he rests his head against your door again, defeated.

But Gojo Satoru was never one to admit defeat, so he tries again. He returns to your door the very next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

“[Name]!” he chirps. “I bought us some parfait! Let’s talk things over, yeah?”

Silence.

Not even the sound of movement.

But Gojo Satoru is not easily discouraged.

So Gojo Satoru comes again the next morning.

“[Name]!” he knocks again, this time balancing a slice of strawberry cake in one hand. “This is all my fault, so come out and let me apologize properly!”

Nothing.

Gojo sighs, leaning against the doorframe, about to knock again when—

Your phone rings.

His breath catches as he presses his ear to the wood.

“Hi, Suguru?”

His heart stops.

“Yeah, we’re still on for the movie. I’m just about to leave right now.”

For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru understands what people mean when they say they feel like they’ve been punched in the gut.

Because you’re going to Suguru.

You’re not just ignoring him, you’re choosing someone else.

His fingers twitch at his sides as a feeling he doesn’t like at all creeps into his chest. It’s something ugly, something unfamiliar. Something that feels a lot like jealousy. Was that how you felt?

He wants to knock again, wants to demand that you open the door, look at him, let him fix this before you walk away from him any further.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he presses his lips into a thin line, shoves his hands into his pockets, and forces himself to step away from your door.

Forces himself to give you the space you deserved.

You don’t know why you relent so easily.

You shouldn’t. Not after the way he lied, the way he kept something so important from you.

And yet, when you hear him pacing outside your door, his nervous energy practically seeping through the walls, you feel something crack.

He’s been outside your room for the nth time this week. Every day, like clockwork, he’s knocked. Brought your favorite snacks. Talked to you through the door, filling the silence with his ridiculous banter, even when you refused to answer.

You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your blanket a little tighter. You should stay angry. But you can't.

You sigh, pressing your forehead to your knee.

Maybe it’s time to stop punishing the both of you.

With a deep breath, you stand, crossing the room to the door. When you open it, Gojo nearly stumbles forward, mid-step in his pacing.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and filled with so much desperate hope it makes your chest ache.

And the way his face lights up like you’ve just handed him the entire world tells you that, maybe, you were never going to be able to stay mad at him forever.

But you’re here, leaning on your door frame with your arms crossed, your nails digging into your skin as you glare at the man who has spent the last ten minutes tripping over his words, looking wrecked in a way you’ve never seen before. His hair is messier than usual, lips are parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know where to start.

Finally, you scoff, breaking the silence. “If you don’t have anything to say, I’m going back into my room.”

“No!,” Gojo steps forward instinctively, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. And after everything, he is. “I screwed up.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Oh, really?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, yeah, I really fucked up.”

Silence.

You should say something. You should demand an explanation, yell, maybe even cry, but you’re so tired. You’ve spent days twisting yourself into knots over this, convincing yourself you never meant as much to him as he did to you.

And then Gojo says it.

“I should’ve told you.” His voice is hoarse. “I should have told you after the first meeting. After the first second they brought it up.” He swallows hard. “But I was stupid. I thought if I ignored it, if I went through the motions, if I waited for the right moment… then it wouldn’t matter. That it would be over before you ever had to know.”

You shake your head, letting out a hollow laugh. “Satoru, do you even hear yourself? Do you get what it was like for me to find out from someone else? To hear that the person I–” you cut yourself off, but the damage is done. You see it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you.

“The person you what?” he asks softly, pleading.

You clench your jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

Your shake your head. “You lied to me.”

“I know,” he says, and the sheer brokenness in his voice makes your throat tighten. “I know, sweetheart. And I swear to you that I never meant to. I never wanted to hurt you.” he exhales shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear on everything, I was never going to go through with it. I never even showed up to any of the dates, so they kept ambushing me under the guise of missions! I sat through every single one of those goddamn meetings thinking about how ridiculous it was, how there was only ever one person I wanted.”

He stops himself, inhaling sharply.

And then, quieter, almost afraid:

“How there’s only ever you.”

The words hit you like a fist to the chest.

Gojo watches you carefully, breathless, waiting. Hoping. He’s given you the truth, raw and unfiltered, and now it’s up to you.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the way he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in his world that makes you believe him.

For the first time in a week, your lips find his, and Gojo swears he can finally breathe again. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers curl slightly as if grounding yourself in him. It’s enough to make him melt.

"You’re so insufferably cheesy, Satoru," you murmur against his lips, your breath warm, teasing. "It makes me so angry that I love it." A pause, a soft exhale. "But I forgive you."

His grin is instant, smug and shameless. "That was good, huh?" He tilts his head, cerulean eyes twinkling. "I’m willing to bet your heart skipped a beat."

You roll your eyes, but you kiss him again, slower this time, because, damn it, he’s right.

extra!

“I demand some extra loving!” Satoru sprawls dramatically across your bed, limbs hanging off the edge like a defeated king.

You barely spare him a glance, flipping a page in your book as you lie comfortably on your stomach. “And why, exactly, do you deserve that?”

He lifts his head, pouting. “I deserve it after a week’s worth of psychological trauma. Don’t think I forgot that you ditched me for Suguru.”

“Oh… that.”

“Yeah. That.” His voice is thick with exaggerated betrayal.

You finally look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “It was a fake phone call, Satoru. You were just so insufferable camping outside my door that I had to make up an excuse.”

His jaw drops. “Huh?!”

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zaynesdesimc · 5 days ago

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★ STRAWBERRIES AND CIGARETTES. all the times gojo desperately wants to kiss you, and the one where he finally does.

ft. satoru gojo x reader.

warnings — loser!reader / popular!gojo. smoking, kissing + making out. consumption of alcohol, mentions of sex, lots of cheesy banter. sato is a man down bad ! slow-burn kinda but mostly just very sfw fluff :p

(呪術廻戦) : note — 7k words + in my fluff era again awooga

୨୧ ⌞ act one: strawberry shampoo. ⌝

gojo rarely sees you. not often, truly. in class is different, but even then, it's infrequent.

you always wear a bored, distant look, as if you'd rather be anywhere but here. he suspects you simply don't care. the professor's words wash over you, in one ear and out the other.

most people don't notice your frequent absences. gojo does. he always does. the empty seat at the back of the room never escapes his eye.

it feels emptier, too, despite your quiet nature. he's unsure why. why he's so captivated by you. but when you are present, he stares. trying to be subtle, yet desperate to memorize every detail: the curve of your lashes, the perceived softness of your lips.

perceived softness, he should clarify. gojo isn't a creep. he doesn't spend every waking moment fantasizing about kissing you. (only every other waking moment.)

he knows you know he exists. you've exchanged words a few times, straddling the line between acquaintance and stranger. it's odd, but he finds a strange peace when you converse.

you're funny, kind, caring. a good listener, with a voice like honey he could listen to all day. god, he loves your voice. he wishes you'd speak more. if you did, people would listen. there's a lilt in your voice that makes him.

he's your opposite. you keep to yourself, wired earbuds always in. gojo has friends — many friends. he thrives on company and conversation.

he's got his whole crew: nanami, shoko, geto, haibara, utahime. even toji and sukuna, on a good day.

academically, he's a powerhouse. top of the class, loaded with extracurriculars, tests always returned with a perfect score.

and you? you're number two. he's certain you could be first, but you simply don't care. no ambition to be the best, no need to prove yourself.

you're just… there. you show up, ace your exams, and leave. he'd be threatened by the competition, but you don't seem to want it. he doubts you even realize how close you are to taking his spot.

it's infuriating. so much potential, so little drive.

yet, it's utterly enticing. you're enticing.

it's a shock when he pulls into the gas station in the dead of night, needing kikufuku because geto devoured the last of it, and there you are. perched on the ledge behind the worn building.

he doesn't see your face at first, but he recognizes the leather angel kiss bag you practically live with, adorned with sonny angels and charms.

the grocery bag falls limply in his hand. he takes a few steps, stopping just behind you. he calls your name out, quiet and hesitant, a rare tone for gojo. there's a crinkle of foil from you, and you turn, startled.

"gojo?" you inquire, head tilted.

"uh, hey," he manages a gentle smile. "what're you doing here?"

a small smile touches your lips. "hi. i could ask you the same."

the white-haired boy chuckles. "dickhead roommate ate all my snacks."

your quiet laugh is beautiful, he thinks. "yeah? well, i ran out of cigarettes." you place one between your lips. sliding over on the ledge, you offer a silent invitation, which he accepts.

you're close. the scent of your saccharine strawberry shampoo fills his senses.

"want one?" you offer. he shakes his head. gojo doesn't smoke, rarely drinks. instead, he watches you inhale, then exhale, wispy gray curls dissolving into the dark.

the silence between you is mellow, not awkward. in the dim streetlamp glow, your lips look coated in strawberry-red gloss, leaving a stain on the white of the cigarette.

"sure you don't want a hit?" you ask, sensing his heavy, focused gaze.

and because he'd do anything at the sound of that voice, he nods, changing his mind.

satoru gojo has game, no doubt. one hundred percent. he's smooth with women, but you're not just any woman. you're you, and with you, his game dissolves. all his past charm feels irrelevant, meaningless.

it's just you. you and him. he's not sure how to navigate it, and his attempt only leaves him embarrassed.

his eyes fix on the red smudge. he presses his own lips directly onto that spot. this isn't even a kiss, but an odd euphoria floods him, as if he's never kissed anyone before.

gojo's eyes flutter shut. he takes a quick, deep inhale, lasting only seconds before he's spluttering, coughing. a dry, charcoal-like feeling enters his lungs, leaving his throat dry. "jesus," he winces, handing it back.

you giggle, not teasing, but amused. he echoes the sound, and you both dissolve into laughter.

at two in the morning, everything's funny. your hands brush his as you take the cigarette.

"a— are you okay?" you ask, trying to compose yourself.

"yeah!" he clears his throat. "i mean, yeah. yes. i'm good."

"never smoked?"

"nah. coach would kill me," he chuckles, and you hum. sometimes, he forgets he's that picture-perfect, well-rounded student. in these moments, everything else fades.

"yeah," you say, meeting his gaze. his eyes are already on you.

"yeah," he repeats, smiling.

and then he remembers your closeness. his heart, if it ever slowed, races. should he do it?

should he kiss you?

you're so sweet, so pretty, right there — so close. he leans in, instinctual, like his body is drawn to yours.

and maybe you're leaning in, too?

just like that, gojo doesn't have time to tell, because his phone rings, a bleary call from his confused roommate.

just like that, the moment shatters. gojo pulls back, farther than before. the sweet scent of your shampoo vanishes, the press of his thighs against yours, knees knocking, gone.

you wave goodbye. he waves goodbye.

and just like that, you're back to being the girl in his class. the girl behind the gas station.

୨୧ ⌞ act two: pro-bono deals. ⌝

gojo doesn't see it coming. he knows you're here often enough, a quiet fixture in the library's familiar hum. there's not much he knows about you, not really, but what little he's gathered, he clings to like scripture.

he knows you like to read. that's a given.

he knows the cute thing you do with your nose when you're deep in thought, a slight scrunch, lips pursed just so.

he knows you hate writing in pen. he offered you one once, when you were caught without anything to write with, but you’d asked for a pencil instead. something about being accident-prone, you'd said.

he knows your handwriting is god-awful, an illegible scrawl that makes him abandon any idea of feigning interest in your notes as an excuse to talk. he figures it’s because your brain moves faster than your hands can keep up.

he knows you like flowers, sometimes catching you pausing by the daisies near the fountain on the way to class.

these little things, these quiet quirks you have, he catalogues them meticulously. they're important to him, these small habits you might not even notice yourself.

it's what makes it so real, so tangible. it makes him feel like he knows you, as pathetic as that might sound.

what you don't like is studying. so, when he sees your nose buried deep in the familiar green shade of a physics textbook, he's got every right to be a little lost. for the entire two and a half years he's known you, gojo has never seen you go out of your way to study.

he shifts his weight, from one foot to another. he could let you be, let you work. or, he could… work with you? would that even be okay? after a dreadful moment of hesitation, he slides into the seat beside you.

you’re surprised to see him; it seems like you always are, when it’s him. nonetheless, a smile touches your face, so it’s a pleasant surprise. "gojo, what's up?"

"just… reading through things, studying for finals," he says, watching you close the book. "you don't mind if i sit here, right?"

"no, not at all," you assure him, waving off his mild concern. "i might go crazy reading this dumb thing alone, anyways."

gojo laughs, and your heavy sigh turns into a little chuckle. "don't like physics?"

"don't like science," you correct, slumping in your seat. you click and un-click your pen, groaning, "it's so boring."

"sounds about right coming from a literature major." he hopes you don't focus on how he knows your major. it seems to be alright, though, because you know his.

playfully, you raise your brows. "seriously, i have no idea how you're planning on doing that for the rest of your life."

"you're not bad at it, are you? i mean, based on, like, your scores and… stuff."

"no. i guess not. all my absences are catching up to me, though, and i'm a little behind."

he supposes it makes sense for you to be struggling a little, at least. he's not sure how you do it in the first place, managing to pass at all without any visible effort. sure, gojo's smart, but he's not that smart. he wouldn't say he's envious, but he wishes he had that ability.

the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "well, i could help you out," he offers. it comes out as more of a question, which he hates himself for. he also wishes he were more confident around you.

your eyes light up. "really? because field theory's kinda killing me." your gaze flickers from your notes to him, a little skeptical. you’re just not sure why he's hanging out with you in the first place, much less willing to, like, tutor you.

"yeah. if you want," his voice is a little less tentative, this time around.

"like… pro-bono?"

gojo chuckles. "sure. if you're up for aiding me in psychoanalyzing othello."

"you know what?" you ask, sticking your hand out. "deal."

he can't help the grin that spreads across his face, and he accepts your handshake. "deal."

your hand feels soft in his, and the mere touch makes him shiver. gojo inhales quietly, his eyes briefly glancing down to your lips.

it's the same strawberry-colored gloss. like a man down bad, all he can wonder is if it tastes like it, too.

୨୧ ⌞ act three: to get or not to get (some). ⌝

"i think we need to get you laid," shoko remarks, rather casually, the words cutting through the bass and chatter of geto's party. it makes gojo choke on his drink, a cheap beer in a red plastic cup, his grip tightening around it.

geto seems entirely too amused by this, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. "shit, sho, look at him, all red."

"shut up," he seethes, an unnatural flush creeping up his neck. he can feel the heat on his cheeks, a testament to his unexpected embarrassment.

she sighs, a faux melancholy. "poor guy. the clenched jaw tells me all i need to know."

"i don't— alright," gojo groans, quickly giving up. it's useless to argue with them when they're like this. "go ahead, abuse me like the great friends you are."

swirling her vodka with a straw, shoko snorts. "we are good friends, trying to save you from your newfound virginism."

"she's right," geto says pointedly, leaning forward. "you're like a male nun."

weakly, gojo repeats himself, "shut up." just as he’s reaching for his phone, a girl walks by. short dress, long legs, a smile that’s less friendly, more predatory, aimed straight at him. at some point, she would’ve been his ideal type, the kind of easy distraction he gravitated toward.

now? now, he doesn't even bat an eye. shoko looks at geto, a silent communication passing between them. geto looks at shoko. gojo glances up from his pocket, catching the sly, knowing looks his friends are giving him.

"or… maybe he's already getting some," geto nods, a mix of betrayal that he wasn't told and grudging impressment in his voice.

"you dog," shoko chuckles, nudging his arm with her elbow. "c'mon, who?"

"it's not— i'm not—"

geto sighs, "i didn't know we'd be around for the 'someone tied him down' era."

"guys—" he tries to interrupt, but then you walk by. his world narrows, the party noise fading to a dull hum. as if on instinct, his eyes get dreamy, following your path. his world stops, along with time itself, and gojo freezes, completely captivated.

they follow his line of sight, their gazes landing onto where he's looking. no, staring.

if he wasn't caught so off guard by shoko's low whistle, a sharp, clear sound in the sudden quiet of his world, he would have had a second to figure out why you were even here. "damn," she laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound. "if you fumble her, i call dibs."

"...didn't expect that. how do you even know her?" geto asks, a note of surprise in his voice.

"uh, she's in humanities with us," he says, a little annoyed that his friend, who shared classes with you, hadn't noticed you. he can’t imagine that possibility, especially not when you’re all gojo can seem to notice.

shoko squints, like she's trying to recall a distant memory. "oh, yeah. i think i've seen her, sometimes. doesn't she ditch, like, a lot?"

gojo shrugs. "i guess."

"i'm with geto. i wouldn't have pegged that, but congrats."

"it's not like that! we're just…" he’s about to say friends, but the word feels foreign, ill-fitting. he’s not even sure if you're that.

"no, no," geto shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. "sex is always great, man."

"we're not—"

the brown-haired girl cuts him off, her attention already elsewhere. "speaking of sex, i think i'm gonna have a go," she murmurs, vaguely gesturing to a pretty, curvy redhead across the room. downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, she's off before either of them gets a word in.

and, because god is good, a group of people walk in through the front door, and geto, ever the host, goes to greet them; it is his party, after all.

gojo sighs, weary, the weight of his friends' teasing momentarily forgotten. then he remembers: you're here. he’s practically racing away from the spot he's in, a desperate, though he hopes nonchalant, attempt to find you. had he been hallucinating? was he so crazy about you that he was now seeing you everywhere? oh, god.

gojo doesn't get any further with his worries, because someone runs into his back.

oh. oh, wait. the familiar, faint scent of strawberry shampoo. he turns around, heart already beating faster, a frantic rhythm against his ribs, when he sees you.

"jesus, i'm sorry. i didn't even see you." you look up, your eyes meeting his, and your apologies vanish into thin air, replaced by a soft, surprised expression. "oh, my god, hi."

"hey," he says, his voice a little breathy, holding his breath as if he’s scared to move, worried you'll simply vanish like a mirage.

"isn't it crazy how we keep running into each other?" you giggle, a light, melodic sound, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

"yeah, um, small world," gojo nods, straining a smile that feels more like a grimace. you give him a funny look, a slight tilt of your head, but thankfully leave it. "i didn't think this was really your scene?"

your shoulders slump, and you sigh, a familiar weariness in the sound. "it's not. my friend dragged me here, and then left to go have trashy sex with a trashy guy."

"oof," he winces, a sympathetic grimace. "that's alright. you can always stick with me, you know." the words tumble out, hopeful and a little desperate.

you put a hand on his arm, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt through him, sighing in relief. "once again, you're my savior. i'm stuck here until she's," you pause, a flicker of distaste on your face, "done."

"ah, well, if it's trashy sex with a trashy guy, it'll probably not be too long." he rubs the back of his head, a nervous habit. "i wouldn't mind if it isn't, though. i like talking to you," he admits, the confession coming out a little sheepish.

"oh," you say, your cheeks flushing so slightly he almost misses it. "thanks. i mean, me, too."

"yeah." there's a beat of comfortable silence between you two, the thumping of bass from downstairs filling the quiet space. "say, uh, wanna go upstairs?"

your eyes go a little wide, a startled deer caught in headlights, and gojo quickly backpedals. "to talk. it's— it's just loud, here."

you nod, a slow, deliberate movement, sighing in either relief or disappointment (he can't tell, but he desperately hopes it's the latter).

his fingers tentatively lace with yours, a hesitant connection, and he pulls you gently past bodies of people swaying to the music. he leads you into a less crowded room, a quieter haven, and shuts the door behind him. the muffled bass is a distant thrum now. "isn't this much nicer?"

"definitely, yeah." you take a seat on the edge of the bed, a quick, almost imperceptible glance around to ensure it's clean. "so… how's your day been?" it sounds awkward, a little stilted, and he's glad that he’s not the only one.

taking a seat beside you, a comfortable, close distance, he smiles, "good. very good. you?" he looks right into your eyes, letting the sincerity of his words reach you.

you return the smile, a soft, hesitant curve of your lips, debating whether or not to scoot closer. "s'okay. better, now."

"i know you don't like parties, but on that scale, how's this one been? be nice, i helped set it up," he warns, a playful glint in his eyes.

"it's good. i appreciate the lukewarm beer."

he holds his hands up, defensive. "see, i told geto to get more coolers. that part's not on me."

"okay, then, what part's on you?" you ask, crossing your arms, a hint of playful challenge in your tone.

"uh, i did the…" he frowns, trying to remember his own contributions to the party prep. "i taste-tested all the snacks. does that count?"

you snort, a small, endearing sound. "did you eat all of them, too? 'cause there weren't any left when i got here."

"i," a pause, a hint of guilt in his voice, "might have had a little more than i was supposed to, but those cookies were really good. so was the kikufuku."

"there was kikufuku?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"not anymore," he admits, a wry grin on his face. "that, i did finish."

laughing, a genuine, unforced sound, you tilt your head, "what parties have kikufuku?"

"the really, really cool ones."

"is that right?"

"would i ever lie to you?" his voice is teasing, but there's something else there, too.

"hm, maybe not," you hum, making a show of inspecting his features, your gaze lingering on his eyes. "you do have a really honest face."

"you have a really pretty one," he retorts, the words escaping before he can think better of them. it takes you a second to process, a faint blush dusting your cheeks. him, too, because… did he just say that? was that bad? he can't, for the love of god, read your face.

your mouth opens, a soft parting of your lips, but you're robbed of a chance to respond, because a couple barges into the room, their laughter loud and jarring. gojo flinches, startled. huffing, he says, "occupied!"

it's shoko and the redhead. shoko's eyes flit from you to gojo, a silent apology passing between them before she quickly steers the redhead back out of the room, shutting the door. god, out of all his friends,

he wouldn't have expected her to be the cock-block. well, at least someone's getting some.

୨୧ ⌞ act four: nepo-baby v. broke barista.⌝

the gentle chime of the bell above the door echoes through the quiet café, a familiar melody that always brings a sense of calm to satoru.

he pushes the door open, the scent of rich, freshly brewed coffee washing over him, a comforting aroma that instantly eases the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. he lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of contentment.

this, to him, is the best place to be.

his sunglasses, a constant fixture even indoors and in the dead of winter, are perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. he knows he probably looks a little eccentric, a touch out of place, but he doesn't care.

gojo’s soft, white hair, perpetually threatening to fall into his startling blue eyes, drifts gently across his forehead. with a practiced flick of his wrist, he rakes it back, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of the café.

he steps towards the counter, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the smooth, polished surface. his order was always the same, a creature of habit in a world that constantly shifts and changes around him, a small anchor of predictability.

“hi,” a soft voice says, breaking him out of his reverie. gojo’s eyes fix on the meticulously arranged cookies in the display case, and he’s caught between the choice of chocolate chip or macadamia nut.

chocolate, duh.

“hey, could i—” his gaze finally shifts up, and he locks eyes with the barista. but, because god really does have favorites, it’s not just any barista, it’s you.

he’s caught off-guard, seeing you, though he really shouldn’t be. not after having run into you unplanned this many times, already. it’s almost comical at this point.

“damn,” he shakes his head, a smile of disbelief slowly spreading across his face. “are you playing a trick on me?”

“god, no,” you laugh, a clear, bright sound. a few stray strands of hair escape from beneath the café’s branded hat, and you brush them out of your face with a practiced motion.

your smile is a little lopsided, charmingly imperfect, and he notices your apron is slightly askew, a testament to what must have been a busy morning.

“i come here all the time. don’t tell me i’ve been missing you… somehow, like, every single time,” he pouts, a playful whine in his voice.

“no, no. don’t worry, i’m new. i started yesterday. apparently, i’m more broke than i realized,” you confess, a wry smile touching your lips.

he nods in understanding, giving you a look of genuine sympathy. “yeah, i get it.”

��oh, do you, rich boy?” you tease, your gaze playfully raking over his expensive sunglasses, then his wrist to his watch, and finally the glint of a gold chain peeking from beneath his shirt. i

t’s not a secret that gojo is loaded, the son of gojo enterprises’ founder. he’s always gone out of his way to be humble about it, part of why he works so hard.

“yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, a dismissive flick of his hand. "speaking of, you gonna mess up my drink, newbie?"

"oh, haha. did you lose your stick? because i think i know where it went." you quip back.

gojo snorts, motioning to the register. “caramel macchiato, please. extra sugar.”

“aw, elitist baby can say please.” you pause, a faint wrinkle forming between your brows. “wait, did you say extra sugar?” you ask, making a face as you reach for a plastic cup and a sharpie. he nods, feeling his face flush under your intense, slightly disgusted gaze. “you know it’s already, like, super sweet, right?”

in return, he nods again, a little sheepish. gojo watches you scribble his name down on the side of the cup, your handwriting the same scrawl it always is. he shuffles to the end of the counter, waiting to receive his order.

your movements are a little clumsy, a novice’s hesitation in your hands, and you have to pause to remember the steps for making the drink. he even sees you gag, just a little, when adding the extra thing he’d gone out of his way to tell you.

“enjoy the, uh, macchiato.” you can't help the slight grimace as you push the cup across the counter. the smell alone was overwhelmingly sweet, amplified tenfold by the extra sugar he’d requested.

“you’re laughing. don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he grins, a flash of white teeth against his pale skin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“nah, i think i’ll be knocking,” you giggle, shaking your head, a slight shiver running through you. “but, if that’s what you like, you do you.”

there's a beat of silence, and gojo watches you attention momentarily shift to a spilled sugar packet near the display. "we really should start planning our run-ins," he chuckles, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting moment as he grabs the cup.

"they wouldn't be run-ins, then," you correct, a sly lilt in your voice.

"i… wouldn't mind that." the words are soft, almost a murmur, but loaded with intent.

the universe has a weird way of pulling people together, doesn't it?

୨୧ ⌞ act five: she loves me, she loves me not.⌝

gojo goes out of his way to plan this. he knows it's not a date, and he probably shouldn't pretend it is one. you had taken him up on his offer to hang out sometime, and he wanted it to be perfect.

you don't deserve anything less than that.

to anyone on the outside, he's sure it does look like a date. it feels like one, at least, if that counts. gojo picked you up, he dressed nice, you dressed nice, and he drove you to the park for a nice picnic. all of it sounds date-like, especially the part where he told you that you looked very cute today.

and, especially the part where he frantically back-pedaled, telling you; wait, you look cute today, but you look cute everyday. he doesn't just mean today.

and, especially, especially, how you'd teased him about it after. so, yeah, forgive him if he's having a hard time differentiating a platonic meetup and a not-so-platonic date.

gojo's picking off the petals on the daisy he's holding, hoping you don't notice how he's mentally playing she loves me, she loves me not. he glances at the small pile of discarded petals, then back at you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

you weave the stem of a flower into another, your brows furrowed in concentration on the crown you're making for him. "how long should i make this? you do have a really big head."

"hey, that's insulting. my head is perfectly normal-sized," he huffs, feigning offense, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. he leans closer, trying to get a better look at your handiwork. "are you sure you know what you're doing over there?"

"positive," you retort, not looking up. you wrap what you've got so far around his head, the cool petals a gentle press against his temple. "yep, definitely needs to be longer. see?"

"okay, rude." he pulls away slightly, inspecting the half-finished crown. "i'm starting to think you're just trying to wound my feelings."

you sigh, a dramatic, mournful sound. "truth hurts, right?" you glance up, your eyes locking with his, a gentle warmth in their depths. "this is really nice, by the way. i'm really glad we're doing this."

"me, too. feels a lot less rushed, compared to just seeing you around. not that i mind seeing you around," he quickly adds, the words tumbling out a little too fast, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

you smile, a soft, genuine curve of your lips. "yeah, i get it. you picked a nice spot. the gardens are so beautiful, i can't believe i've never been here before," you say, looking around at the vibrant roses beside you, your gaze lingering on their soft petals.

"you just wait, then, i've got a whole roster, baby." he means the pet-name as a joke, a casual endearment, but the sudden flicker in your gaze has his breath hitching, a silent question forming in his mind.

"you make me sound like your girlfriend," you laugh, the sound light and airy, a small puff of air escaping your lips.

"i bet you'd like that, huh?" he teases, pushing his luck, and you respond by playfully throwing a torn-off stem at him, which he easily dodges.

rolling your eyes at him, you scoff. "i just meant all this. you're really nice to me." your voice softens towards the end, a subtle shift in tone that he notices.

"well, yeah, we're," he hesitates, the word catching in his throat, "friends." sure, he's glad that you're even that, that you tolerate his presence, but it's still disappointing, only that.

"mm, friends," you repeat, the word echoing his own slight disappointment. he wonders if that's a similar ache he hears in the tone of your voice.

"what? you fallin' for me?" he asks, playing it off as a joke, a lighthearted jab, but, god, he wishes. he so, so desperately prays that a tiny part of it is true.

"oh, shut up," you huff, but the warmth on your cheeks contradicts your words, a tell-tale flush that brings a hopeful flutter to his chest.

he tilts his head at you, intently studying the familiar sparkle in your eyes, the way they crinkle slightly at the corners when you're amused.

taking one of the remaining daisies, he gently tucks it behind your ear, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your neck. "you should call me satoru."

"yeah? okay, then, shut up, satoru." the corners of your mouth quirk upwards, a small, knowing smile.

he plucks off the last petal. she loves me.

୨୧ ⌞ act six: stay, little valentine, stay.⌝

"i hate valentine's day, you know," you frown, slumping down in the bakery's chair. the place smells sweet, a comforting blend of buttered croissants and something faintly fruity, like berries.

"of course you would. you're single," he remarks, casually, playing with the crinkly wrapping paper of his straw.

"you're single, too, gojo."

he points a finger at you, raising his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "yeah, but that's different. i'm at peace with it."

shoving his index finger away, you whine, "what, like you aren't sick of seeing love-sick couples sucking each other's faces off, all day?"

well, he won't admit it (to you, at least), but he's mostly just been imagining what it would be like if those love-sick couples were you two.

before he can come up with a lame excuse, an employee, a young guy with a chipped name-tag stops by, checking in to see if you need anything else. "just letting you know, it's all half-off for couples today," they say, their tone far too cheery for your liking.

you say, "oh, no, we're not—" at the exact same time gojo says, "sure. another blueberry muffin, please. two, actually."

"are you crazy?" you whisper harshly at him, leaning across the table, your eyes wide with disbelief. "we're not even a couple." unbothered, he shoves your face away, a playful flick of his wrist.

instead, he smiles brightly at mark, and audaciously winks at you. "a couple of those strawberry tarts, too. my girlfriend here has a real sweet tooth."

your voice is strained, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. "he's exaggerating. just the muffins, please."

with a click of their pen, they're telling you that you're an adorable couple, then walking off, already distracted by another customer.

"see? adorable. i'm already winning 'em over." gojo leans back in his chair, a smug look on his face.

you shoot him a look, a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "winning who over? the employee? or me, into wanting those things? besides, i didn't even need any."

"first, who said it was for you?" he retorts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "second, it's half-off. it'd be a shame if we didn't take advantage of it."

"right," you laugh, shaking your head. he might be going crazy, but he's really fond of the idea that at least one person thinks you're dating. and, sure, that doesn't make it real, but it's a step closer.

"you know," he says, taking a sip of his smoothie (your smoothie, he stole it from you and you said nothing, which he considers a victory), "i think we'd make a good couple."

"oh? what makes you so sure?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

"think about it. i'm the brains, you're the… well, you're pretty good at complaining. we balance each other out," gojo claims, with a confidence that has you kicking his shin from under the table.

"ow! seriously?" he yelps, rubbing his leg.

"oh, is that your sales pitch? my top quality is complaining? how charming." you deadpan, crossing your arms.

"it's a very enthusiastic quality. plus, you'd never have to open jars again. or reach for things on high shelves. i'm basically a human step-stool with great hair." he gestures to his impeccably styled white locks.

"so, your criteria for a good relationship is purely utilitarian? i'm good for complaining and you're good for opening jars?"

"and looking good. don't forget that. i'm the eye candy. every couple needs eye candy. you can be good at appreciating my eye candy."

you fight the urge to stick a fork in his eyes. "right, because all i do is sit around and appreciate your god-given good looks."

"besides," he continues, ignoring your sarcasm, "that guy bought it. means we look pretty couple-y, right?"

you stare at him, a flat, unimpressed look on your face. "or, it means he's being paid minimum wage, and couldn't care less."

"you would know, broke ass." another swift kick, and he hisses, pouting exaggeratedly.

"excuse me?" you huff. "minimum wage or not, that man is doing his job. unlike you, who's just freeloading off my good reputation."

he nods, as if he's genuinely considering this profound statement. "good reputation? for hating valentine's day? that's quite the legacy."

defensively, you sit up straighter. "it's a very respectable stance! and i'm not broke. i just appreciate a good discount. like you, apparently, considering you just scammed a bakery employee into thinking we're an item."

he choose not to address you, taking a moment to meticulously tear the paper of the straw in half. "on the other hand," gojo says, eyes fixed on his paper dissection, "if you weren't single, you'd be far less grouchy all the time."

"you already said that," you huff, deadpan.

"it still holds true," he nods, finally looking up, a serious expression on his face.

snorting, you tilt your head up, looking at the cracks in the ceiling. "so… you're suggesting i need to get a boyfriend? are you also suggesting the boyfriend is… you? just to not be grouchy? okay, well, what if i prefer to be grouchy? what if that's, like, my thing?"

"not necessarily." he almost says yes, but catches himself. "but you should know, i'd make a gas boyfriend," he insists, puffing out his chest playfully.

"good to know," you hum, snatching your drink back. when you take a sip from exactly where he did, his heart does a little flip in his chest, a secret, happy flutter.

gojo clicks his tongue. "and, also, impossible. no one prefers to be grouchy. you're just… unfulfilled. a boyfriend would bring joy, sunshine, spontaneous acts of adoration. less frowning, more smiling."

"these are high standards to hold to yourself. or, like, this hypothetical boyfriend. also, i like the grouch. i think it's kind of like my core trait." you tap your chest, a definitive statement.

"that is such a sad, sad trait to base yourself off."

"oh, please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "like the rich daddy's boy thing you have going on is any better."

he holds his hands up, defensive, but a grin splits his face. "well, one of us is paying for lunch, and the other isn't. you know, because she's broke." mildly offended, you kick him. again.

"hey! quit doing that. anyways, my point is, i've got all day to change your mind about valentine's."

"all day? what if i'm busy?" you challenge, a playful glint in your eye.

"nah. you wouldn't be here with me, if you had plans." he says it with absolute certainty.

he doesn't know it yet, but, yeah, even if you did have plans, you'd still ditch them for him.

୨୧ ⌞ act seven: strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you.⌝

gojo's phone died a little while back, and he has no idea what time it is. it doesn't really matter, though, not when he's walking in the dim-lit street with you, not when it feels like this moment will last forever.

he pulls you behind that same, tattered, gray building, the gas station he saw you at just a couple months ago. it looks the same, save for the dumpster that's against the bushes instead of the wall.

"oh, shit," he laughs, the sound a little breathless. "it smells rank back here."

you plop down on the familiar concrete ledge, scrunching your nose in agreement. "don't even start, you're the one who dragged me here. for your stupid matcha cravings."

pulling him down next to you, his shoulder bumps against yours. "wait, wait," you murmur, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. holding a flame to the end, you cup your hand to keep the tiny light from going out in the faint breeze.

there's an odd feeling that passes through him, not quite nostalgia, when he sees that identical stain of strawberry-colored gloss on the end your lips are over.

"remember the last time i tried to smoke one?" he asks, a small, knowing grin on his face.

"yeah," you giggle, your shoulders shaking slightly as the smoke hits your lungs. "you almost died."

he's a little flustered, denying it immediately. "i did not almost die."

"close enough, you started choking and everything. wanna try again?" you ask, holding it near him, the lit tip glowing orange in the dim light. he eyes it, then looks back at you, a challenge in his gaze.

"damn, you tryna kill me?" he teases, but his voice is softer than he intends.

you lean closer, a pretty smile on your face that makes his voice catch. "would i get your money, if i did?"

his lips part, a hesitant breath escaping him, and you slip the cigarette between them. he can faintly smell the sweetness of the red. it's barely there, a ghost of a scent, but it's enough.

"relax," you hum, your voice a low, soothing sound. "you don't need to be so tense, it's just me."

but that's the thing — it's just you. just you and him, here again, alone in the quiet hum of the night. you're so close, invading all of his senses, leaving him breathless. how is he even supposed to think straight?

he, hesitant, inhales the smoke. he lasts hardly any longer than last time, turning away and breaking into a coughing fit, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

"oh, my god," you wheeze, patting his back, a mixture of concern and amusement in your touch. "careful. you're not supposed to suck in that much. just a puff, sato." the nickname, soft and intimate, has him blushing, and he has to duck his head, hiding his flushed face.

"one more time, or are you tapped out?" you ask, your voice still laced with laughter.

"one more," he breathes, tilting his head up to take in a smaller stroke. it's easier this time, irritates his throat less. he has to clear his chest, a low rumble, but he doesn't start writhing on the floor, so it's a win.

"oh, look! you did it," you smile, your eyes sparkling, and you gently pat his cheek. he wants to respond, but all he can manage is to lean into your touch. you don't move your hand, but stay cupping his face instead, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.

"hey, pretty," he whispers, his voice thick, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the cool night air.

you scoot closer, virtually pressed flush against him, and the sudden warmth of your body sends a jolt through him. "hi." his heart is beating loudly against his ribcage, a frantic drum, and he's afraid you can hear it.

gojo watches your eyes glaze over, a hazy, soft look, and how your long lashes flutter against your skin. you clutch his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric, and your noses brush against his. and in a moment of a burst of raw courage, he presses his lips against yours.

it's not patient, but it's still loving, desperate in its urgency. it's clumsy, rather, messy, because both of you have been waiting too long for this to happen. your teeth clash against his, a soft click, as your lips, almost silkenly soft, move against his.

he tastes the faint sweetness of strawberries, a hint of something smoky and intoxicating. his hand, warm and firm, cups the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

the other hand fixes on your waist, keeping you there, pressed flush against him, as if he fears you might disappear.

it's awkward at first, tentative, because he's all too focused on the frantic butterflies that loop through his stomach, a dizzying swarm. it's like he's never kissed another person before, like he's forgotten how to. it was like his first one. his right one.

when he pulls away, you're panting little breaths, needing air, foreheads pressed together, your eyes still hazy. gojo presses another gentle kiss to the top of your hair, his nose nuzzled there, inhaling your scent.

you taste like strawberries and cigarettes.

unofficial permanent taglist: @jeonwiixard, @mia-can-yap-too did u guys know this is the longest fic ive ever written i should get head in the gc <33 big thanku to @mia-can-yap-too for beta reading i cannot be trusted to go back and do that myself i will cry also tagging myleslover @shokocide bc ur long fics inspire me + idk how u do it but share the talent !!! gatekeeping is bad incorrect buzzer

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zaynesdesimc · 5 days ago

Text

STOP!

You’ve scrolled too far. You must pay the toll.

The bottle cap toll.

Fat Mephisto will accept nothing less than your shiniest of trinkets

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zaynesdesimc · 6 days ago

Text

Endure.

It had taken all of six hours and eighteen minutes for you to stop trying to get the stubborn spots on your forehead and cheeks to disappear through sheer will and bloodied fingertips- and resign yourself to your hormonally induced fate.

An acne breakout.

Tw: Self-deprecating thoughts, calling oneself ugly due to an acne breakout, avoidant tendencies, angst. Hurt/comfort, this is essentially me venting,

a/n: you are loved and you're beautiful, just as you are :) tell me how you like this

An acne breakout.

In hindsight, it might’ve been stupid to care so much, but when you’re bonded to the most annoyingly perfect creature in existence and have to have close personal contact with him on a day-to-day basis, it was hard not to care.

And thus, that thought process led you to avoid your darling, lovely Sylus for the entire day. Dodging his calls, leaving him on delivered, not opening Moments so he couldn't see your status, and worst of all, not allowing Mephisto to see you, which probably hurt the mechanical crow more than it did Sylus.

It was relieving at first, not dealing with the pressure of him seeing you like this, with the marks and the ugly, ugly aftermath of picking your face. Your face looked like a failed henna experiment because the wounds scabbed to a dark brown, and it made them so much more obvious, so of course, there was no way Sylus would miss them.

But even if they weren’t so obvious, he’d notice. He always noticed every little thing about you. And on a normal day, it was one of the things you loved most about him, because he knew every part of you. But you didn't want to be known, or even seen now. As sad and self-critical as it seemed, it was just the truth. Or rather, the truth you were made to believe.

You smiled sadly as you stirred sugar into your tea, thinking about him.

“Shit, I miss him.”

It hurt to shut him out. When every part of you screamed for him to be near, for his warmth, for his words, for his stupid, beautiful smile that could quell every mean thought in your head.

But no, you couldn’t let him see you like this.

As you made your way to your bedroom to wallow in self-pity, the sound of the doorbell reached your ears, causing a chill to run down your spine.

Who else, but him, would arrive now? I mean, what else did you expect?

You debated tiptoeing to the room and pretending to be asleep- stupid, of course, but panic and shame clouded your judgment- before your phone started to vibrate.

His nickname- Sysy- flashed on your screen, and with a sigh of defeat, you picked up with a meek, “Hello?”

“I can hear you through the door, sweetie, please open it.”

“Yes, my darling, I’m fine, how are you?” you replied, voice saccharine-sweet.

“Miserable, a certain kitten has shut herself out from daylight, and my love has nowhere to go. I’m certain I shall burst any moment now.” his rumble was soothing.

“Sylus-” you hesitated, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to avoid you.”

“I only want to know if you’re okay, sweetie. Shielding yourself to the point where Mephisto can’t see you isn’t you, is it? Mephisto was distraught.”

“Stop projecting your feelings onto him,” you chuckled sadly.

“Then put me out of my misery and let me see you,” his voice softened, “Please.”

You sighed, “Sy, I-I don’t look nice right now.” Your face burned with embarrassment, heat in your cheeks and neck, “I’m breaking out real bad.”

The line goes silent, “What?”

“I look ugly right now, okay?” you groan, “This is embarrassing, gosh. Look, I picked at my face, and like they started bleeding, and now they're scabbed over, and I looked like a giraffe or something, I don’t know. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

After a beat of quiet, he speaks up, “You know I will never make you do something you don't want to do, Kitten. But you avoided me all day, because of acne?”

“That’s the thing, it’s just acne to you, it isn’t just acne to me. It’s the difference between a good day and a bad day, whether I want to be seen or not. Thankfully, today I didn’t have to go to Headquarters, or I would have crashed out. Or called in sick. I don’t particularly enjoy not seeing you, I’m not gaining anything from shutting you out, am I?”

“Then, why are you?”

“You’ll take one look at me, be startled, and treat me like I’m some weird creature. I don’t need you to tiptoe around me.”

“Sweetie, when have I ever tiptoed around anyone? I’m not exactly the picture of subtlety.”

“Yeah, but that's also the issue, I don't want my face to be treated like it’s a problem. I’ve had enough people do that.”

“It’s acne, Kitten.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never had to go through with it, your face is like a porcelain doll.”

Another beat of silence, “You’re right. I apologise. But my love-” he sighs, “You know there is absolutely nothing in this world that will stop me from being devoted to your very being, right?”

“Don’t spout poetry, you’ll cloud my judgment.”

“I’m glad you think my words are like poetry, sweetheart. They’re the truth.”

“Promise me, you won’t be weirded out?” Your voice is soft.

“On my soul, I promise,” he breathes out.

“The door is open, come in.”

It’s terrifying, those five seconds. The twist of the doorknob and his sigh of relief, his shoes have been left outside in the shoe rack. There’s a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand.

He looks at you, and you want to disappear. He smiles, “It’s cold outside.” he makes his way to you, gesturing to the flowers, “Figured you’d like these. Your favorite.”

You look away, “You didn’t have to.”

He chuckles, finally in front of you, “Ah, but I wanted to.” The flowers are put aside, and his hands slowly snake around your back, pulling you to him.

You bury your face in his chest, not daring to look up and give him a VIP view of the mess on your face. You miss the slight furrow in his brow as his arms tighten around you.

“You know I think you’re stunning, right?” he whispers.

“Shut up,” you say against his chest, “Don’t look at my face.”

“But Kitten, that's my favorite thing to do.” he caresses your back.

“You’ll start hating it.”

“You wound me.”

“..I mean it.” You sniffle.

He kisses the top of your head, “So do I, my love. It pains me to hear you talk about the love of my life like that.”

You scoff, “Smooth, you should write songs.”

“Stop deflecting,” he smirks, “I mean it. I want to see you, my darling.”

You shake your head, and finally, after hours of keeping your feelings in, you let a few tears slip out: “I hate it. I hate that I can’t fix this. That even if my face is normal for a while, it’ll become like this. Ugly.”

He hears you out, and after you’ve finished, he speaks, “Let me say this, you are not ugly. There is nothing that will ever make you ugly in my eyes. But what matters more is that you stop seeing yourself as something horrible every time something as normal as pimples form on your face. My telling you you’re the most beautiful person in the world won’t make a difference if you don’t believe it yourself. And I want to help you believe that, I’d do anything for you to see yourself the way I see you.”

“You haven’t seen me with acne yet,” you grumble.

“Then let me, you think my view of you will change?”

You nod, and a part of him wants to break, because it hurts to know that you’d think he’d ever stop loving you.

“Let me prove you wrong,” he nuzzles against you, “Let me look at every part of you, and show you that I love you the same.”

You’re terrified, you want to push him away and run inside because no part of you believes he’ll stay, and it feels stupid because it’s just acne.

But this is Sylus. He’s seen you in almost every form. When you’ve eaten the messiest meal of your life with sauce on your face, and when you’ve woken up with eyecrust and morning breath, and when you’ve eaten dirt on the battlefield, and still he’s loved you. When everyone has told you to look a certain way, to act a certain way way, Sylus only loves you as you are, and damns the rest to hell.

You take a deep breath and lift your head, ripping the dread away like a Band-Aid. You don’t look at him, your lips twitching nervously.

A moment later and he softly kisses your forehead, right on the bumps. And you flinch, making him freeze.

More tears run down your face and after a beat of silence he kisses them away, follow their trail down your face, quite literally not giving a damn about any bumps or ridges.

“You’re stunning,” he says against your skin, nose pressed to your cheek, “My love.” he resumes his sweet attack and pulls you as close to him as possible. Nuzzling into your neck like a purring cat that has missed their companion.

You wrap your arms around his hulking figure, and he hugs you tighter, “I love you.” you whisper, and he shudders, mouthing at your neck.

“Mmm- I love you, I’m in love with you,” he murmurs and kisses your forehead again, harder, to make a point.

He pulls away, smiling down at you, his eyes soft and full of devotion, “I missed you.”

“Me too.” You agree, finally smiling at him, and he wants to tuck you in his pocket and nuzzle into you again.

Cuteness Aggression, you’d called it.

“Let’s eat something,” you say, and pull him towards the dining area.

He follows your lead; it’s second nature at this point, he’d follow you anywhere.

Hours later, he watches from the bed as you apply your cream to your face, making sure to keep your forehead and cheeks coated with the gel.

“You can’t kiss my forehead or cheeks now, Sylus.” You twist the cap on the tube and make your way to him, “You’ll get gel over your lips.”

He smirks, the dim candlelight falls on your face, and once again he thinks of how he’s managed to find you, how you’re in his arms again, and how you’re so beautiful it makes his heart skip a beat.

He’d tell you in great detail how he loves every inch of you, if it didn’t embarrass you. So he settles for pulling you closer to him, and smiling, “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll just kiss your lips instead, over and over again.”

As your giggles fill his ears, he knows with every being that he’d endure the world, the universe, everything, if it meant you’d smile at him, eyes carefree and happy.

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zaynesdesimc · 6 days ago

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☆ || Sylus x Neurodivergent!MC/Reader !! <3

-----

• Sylus, who notices that even alone, you wear your headphones everywhere, including to bed, and makes sure you have the most comfortable, highest quality pair for every situation you could think of. Everyday wear? They're light yet still perfectly block everything you need them to. Sleeping? They're soft, integrated into a plush headband made for breathability and comfort while you sleep. Missions? Built for heavy use and endurance, and somehow they magically muffle the sounds of your gun.

• Sylus, who pays attention to every detail you explain to him of your latest hyperfixation, as well as researching it on his own, be it a show, a game, a hobby, any subject, he's happy to engage with it so long as it's with you.

• Sylus, who notices when you've run out of social battery and does everything he can to get you home and comfortable as soon as possible, letting you rest quietly in his arms, telling stories to keep your mind occupied, or even just quietly lying together.

• Sylus, who pays careful attention to any sensory issues or preferences you may have, noting them down both mentally and physically, making sure none of the things he gets you conflict with those, wanting every piece of clothing he gets you to be as comfortable as possible, and every meal he makes you to be as enjoyable as possible.

• Sylus, who doesn't mind if you don't look directly into eyes when you talk, and shoots daggers at anyone who would demand it from you.

• Sylus who also doesn't mind if you end up staring at him, he thinks your eyes are gorgeous. <3

• Sylus, who keeps every single thing you've given him that "reminded you of him" in a special place, a treasure trove of everything you've "pebbled" to him.

• Sylus, who helps you advocate for your needs when you find yourself struggling to, whenever you may need him to.

• Sylus, who remembers your routines and helps you stick to them, gently encouraging you to maintain positive habits even if your brain doesn't wanna let you.

• Sylus, who never minds your stimming, rather finding it cute, making sure you have something to fidget with when you accompany him, and never minding if you end up playing with his shirt sleeve or hair.

• Sylus, who reassures you constantly that you're never too much or not enough, that you're perfect exactly as you are. That even if the world couldn't see how incredible you are, he does. <3

-----

( hello this is my first time writing anything like this for literally any fandom ever pls be nice qwqqqqq ,, this is heavily based on my own experience being audhd so I tried to keep the ideas somewhat open ,, please let me know if you wanna see more or if you'd wanna see something else !!! )

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zaynesdesimc · 6 days ago

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POV: Missing your LaDs guy part 2

This is going to be Zayne only as I’m having a harder time with Caleb and Xavier but rest assured those are coming!

Mentions of Zayne’s Bonding card Nostalgic Sweetness

Pairings: Zayne X Reader (Gender Neutral)

TW: Mentions of Surgery slight graphic detail but doesn’t stay long. Scent based Triggers, hospitals

Zayne ☃️❄️🏥🩺

Aksu Hospital always kept Zayne busy—whether he was seeing regular patients, consulting on surgeries, or being on call for emergencies. Not that your schedule was any easier. UNICORNs always had some mission lined up for you, and the long hours during the No Hunt Zone raids left you utterly exhausted. Still, when you both had time, you made the most of it—sleeping over at each other’s apartments, sharing brief pockets of peace.

Tonight, Zayne had been called out for an emergency surgery. He tried his best not to wake you—knowing your rest was just as important—but you were always a light sleeper.

“Sorry, dear,” he whispered, voice low as he leaned in close. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s alright. Duty calls,” you murmured sleepily. “Just… text me when you get to the hospital, okay? It calms my nerves, knowing you made it safely. Especially on long nights.”

He kissed your forehead softly, a lingering touch that said more than words ever could. “I promise,” he said, and then he was gone.

The bed felt cold from his absence. You never knew how long he’d be gone during his emergency calls—it was one of the few things you wished he’d take a step back from, just a little. For his sake. Maybe even a little for yours.

You rolled over, brushing your hand across the spot where he’d been. It was still faintly warm. His scent lingered in the sheets—clean jasmine and the subtle sting of antiseptic. Familiar. Comforting. Lonely.

Nights like this always made it hard to fall asleep.

You curled into the lingering warmth of his side of the bed, pressing your face into the pillow where his scent clung the strongest. Your body ached for rest, but your mind lingered in that space between wakefulness and sleep, chasing the comfort of him.

Slowly, the quiet of the room faded, replaced by the soft hum of a summer afternoon long past.

You were small again—knees scuffed, cheeks hot, the sun heavy on your back. You sat on the concrete steps outside your old apartment complex, tears streaming down your face. In your hands was the ruined mess of what had once been a bright orange popsicle, now melted and dripping through your fingers.

It had felt like the worst thing in the world.

Zayne, younger and gangly, had appeared out of nowhere, a frown of concern pulling at his face. “Why’re you crying?” he asked, crouching beside you.

“My popsicle died,” you sniffled.

He blinked at that, serious in the way only a kid could be, and then nodded—like this was a situation that needed urgent attention. “Hold it out,” he said.

You did, trusting him even then.

He cupped his small hands around yours, brows furrowed in focus. A faint shimmer of frost glimmered between his palms as he activated his evol, clumsy and imperfect. The air grew colder, the sticky mess stiffening, slowly reforming—not quite like before, a little lumpy and uneven—but it was solid again. Cold again.

He looked at you, hopeful. “See? Good as new.”

Your tears had stopped. You smiled, wide and gap-toothed, as you took a careful bite of your re-frozen popsicle. “You fixed it.”

Zayne grinned, proud. “Told you I would.”

You smiled in the dream, the sticky chill of the refrozen popsicle against your tongue, the warmth of Zayne’s boyish grin shining brighter than the sun above. For a moment, it was like nothing else existed. Just the two of you and that small, imperfect miracle he’d made for you.

But the colors began to soften, the edges of the memory blurring like water on a painting. The summer heat faded. Zayne’s young face turned to mist, and the sweet taste of orange vanished from your lips.

Bzzz... bzzz...

The faint vibration of your phone stirred you from sleep, dragging you gently back to the dim stillness of your room. Eyes still heavy, you reached out and fumbled for it on the nightstand.

A message from Zayne lit up the screen:

[Zayne]: Made it to the OR. Might be a long one. I’ll be home late. I’m sorry, love. Try to get some rest for me.

You stared at the words for a beat, your chest tightening and softening all at once.

[You]: I will. Be safe. I love you.

You set the phone down again, rolled back into his side of the bed, and pulled the blanket up to your chin. The jasmine was still there. So was the memory.

And though the bed was empty, it didn’t feel quite so lonely.

Zayne’s POV

The phone buzzed softly in his pocket as he stepped back from the scrub station, fingers dripping, heart already deep in surgical focus. He glanced at the screen as he dried his hands.

[You]: I will. Be safe. I love you.

He exhaled slowly, thumb hovering over the reply button. But the OR doors were already swinging open, the anesthesiologist giving him a curt nod. There wasn’t time for more. Not right now.

So instead, he tucked the phone away and carried your words with him.

Inside, the lights were bright, sterile. The air was sharp with antiseptic and tension. The patient was prepped. His team was already in motion.

Zayne pulled on his gloves, his mind locking into place. Steady hands. Clear decisions. Unshakable control.

But behind that practiced calm, a part of him lingered in the dark quiet of the apartment—the soft hush of your voice, the way you’d barely woken to ask him to text, the ghost of your warmth still in the bed when he’d kissed your forehead goodbye.

He shouldn’t have left you tonight. Not after how tired you’d looked. Not when he could still feel the subtle tremble in your muscles when you curled toward him in your sleep.

But duty called. And he always answered it.

Still, as the first incision was made, he found himself clinging to the image of your sleeping face like a lifeline—reminding himself that once this was over, he’d go home to you. Even if it was late. Even if all he got was an hour beside you in the cold blue haze before morning.

Because that hour? That was everything.

The world outside the operating room disappeared.

All that remained was the rhythm of monitors, the hiss of ventilation, and the soft murmurs of his team. Under the harsh surgical lights, the patient’s chest lay open before him—heart exposed, fragile, human.

This was the dance he knew best.

Zayne stood at the head of the table, his gloved hands steady, scalpel already replaced with a finer tool. The moment demanded focus. One wrong move, one miscalculation, and everything could unravel.

“Vitals holding,” murmured the anesthesiologist.

He gave a slight nod, already threading a suture with delicate precision. The damage was worse than expected—a ruptured chordae, multiple tears in the mitral valve. Fixable. But only if he didn’t falter.

"Clamp."

The tool was placed in his hand with practiced ease.

This wasn’t the kind of work that allowed distraction, not even the echo of soft words and jasmine-scented sheets. But tonight, her voice lingered beneath his thoughts like a second pulse. “Just text me when you arrive… It calms my nerves.”

He blocked it out. Had to. Emotion had no place here. Not when a heartbeat hung in the balance.

“Pressure’s dropping,” someone said, sharp and fast.

Zayne’s jaw tightened. “I see it.” He adjusted his angle. “Hold suction—don’t fight me.”

The assistant obeyed, and Zayne slid the valve clip into place, every movement exact. Measured. A fraction of a millimeter too far and the valve would leak again. Too shallow and it would fail.

This was his world—the knife’s edge between life and loss.

He didn’t speak again until the repair was secured and the bleeding was controlled. The monitor’s rhythm stabilized, slow and strong.

A breath escaped him that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Close up,” he said, stepping back at last. “We’re out of the woods.”

A wave of muted relief passed through the room. The OR settled into quieter motion as the team moved into post-op.

Zayne peeled off his gloves slowly, flexing his fingers. His shoulders ached, his mind throbbed with the intensity of the work, but he didn’t let it show.

The worst was over.

Still, as he stepped out of the OR and into the quieter hallway, he found himself pulling out his phone—not to check updates, not to check stats—but to read your message again.

[You]: I will. Be safe. I love you.

He ran a hand through his hair, sweat cooling at the base of his neck.

I love you too, he thought.

He just hoped he could get back to you before morning light crept through the windows.

The apartment was quiet when he stepped in, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. The city was still dark outside, a thin sliver of dawn just beginning to tease the edge of the sky.

He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and shrugged off his coat, shoulders heavy with the weight of the night. Every muscle ached. The buzz of adrenaline had long since faded, replaced by the dull throb of fatigue.

But even through the weariness, his feet moved instinctively—quietly—toward the bedroom.

The soft sound of your breathing greeted him first, steady and slow. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in just enough light to see the silhouette of you curled up on the bed.

Zayne paused in the doorway.

You were sleeping on his side.

Cradling his pillow like a lifeline, your arms wrapped tight around it, your face buried in the spot where his scent lingered. The blanket had slipped partway down, revealing the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders, the subtle crease between your brows—like even in sleep, you missed him.

Something twisted in his chest.

He moved closer, careful not to wake you, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the bed. His hand hovered over your hair for a moment before he brushed it gently back, fingers feather-light.

You stirred slightly, murmuring something he couldn’t quite catch. But you didn’t wake.

Zayne leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “I’m home,” he whispered, more for himself than for you.

For a few minutes, he just sat there, watching the way your breathing slowed again, how your fingers tightened around the pillow like you could still feel him in your arms.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed this—needed you.

And tomorrow, or maybe the day after, he’d tell you he was thinking of pulling back from emergency calls. Not quitting. Just... breathing. Making space for the things that mattered more than work. More than being needed by everyone else.

Because this—this quiet moment, your arms around his scent like it was enough to keep you safe—this was what he came home for.

He moved slowly, careful not to disturb the peace of the room as he lifted the blanket and eased himself into bed. The spot where his pillow had been was still warm from your embrace, faintly damp where your cheek had pressed into it.

Zayne lay on his side, facing you, breath catching slightly as he watched your sleeping form up close. You didn’t stir—at least not at first.

But then your brow twitched, your nose crinkling slightly, like something was shifting in your dream.

You inhaled.

The scent was stronger now—his bodywash, warm jasmine with that ever-faint trace of antiseptic from long nights at the hospital. It wrapped around you, deeper and realer than it had when you’d curled up with the pillow alone.

Your fingers twitched, curling slightly. A soft murmur left your lips, barely above a whisper. “Zayne...?”

He didn’t speak. Just reached out and gently touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers, brushing along the line of your jaw. His hand was warm—real.

Your eyes fluttered, not quite open, caught in that blurry space between dream and waking.

You shifted closer instinctively, pressing your forehead to his chest as a soft sigh left your lips. “Thought I was dreaming,” you mumbled.

Zayne smiled against your hair, wrapping an arm around you, anchoring you to him with quiet tenderness.

“No dream,” he murmured, voice low and rough from fatigue. “I’m here.”

You didn’t respond with words, just melted into him like you’d been waiting all night for this exact moment. The tension in your body slipped away, replaced by something soft and contented.

Zayne pressed another kiss to your temple, this one lingering. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’ve got you now.”

And for the first time in days, he let himself believe it—that here, in this bed with you beside him, maybe he didn’t have to be everything to everyone. Maybe, just maybe, this was enough.

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zaynesdesimc · 6 days ago

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Zayne is so fucking proud of you.

Doesn't matter what it is that you accomplish, that man is looking at you with stars in his hazel eyes. Like you are the only person who has ever existed and will ever exist along side him.

It makes you feel so many emotions, your blood rushing to your face and your hands going clammy. There is just something about receiving praise from Zayne that makes you go weak in the knees.

Maybe because his praise is so unexpected. Or maybe because he gets a bit shy praising you himself - finding little roundabout ways to declare his love, devotion, and pride for you.

Either way, your heart feels like it could leap from your chest the moment Zayne flashes you the smallest of grins. Such warmth in his eyes that you can't help but give a wobbly smile back.

#🥹#when I got my exam results and saw I got over 90 percent all I thought was how proud Zayne would have been #I love this so so much #echo's comfort fics

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zaynesdesimc · 7 days ago

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TO TASTE YOUR BEATING HEART ⎯ sylus x fem/gn!reader [1.8k] tooth-rotting fluff. a leisurely session of strawberry picking with sylus in the distance province, far from linkon. inspired by his ‘midnight warmth’ secret times audio!

A mishap on the field forced you into sick leave for a few days, which was a rather welcome surprise from the Hunters’ Association on their part, and you accepted the rest with open arms. You even had a ‘chance encounter’ with Mephisto on your balcony after being discharged from the Association’s clinic.

Naturally when that crow is there, Sylus is soon to follow.

I heard you’re on break, sweetie. I know a place to take you for a short vacation, you deserve it.

If it were anyone else, you would have turned down the offer in favor for skepticism. For Sylus, you were especially considering turning it down in favor for skepticism, but considering the many properties that he’s told you about owning in the past—whether he actually uses them or not— surely, there wouldn’t be anything nefarious waiting for you on the other side.

The following morning, Sylus was discreetly waiting outside of your apartment complex with a grin. He donned a pair of sunglasses and a large coat, his hair was also parted differently, likely to not draw attention to the fact that the Leader of Onichynus was going to be accompanied by one of Linkon’s best hunters. His words, not yours.

After securing your bags in the trunk of his car, the lengthy drive to his property begun. He appeared to not be in the mood for sharing, because the details of this ‘property’ were vague and practically non-existent to begin with.

Oh, well. You still enjoyed the views along the way, Linkon’s towering skyscrapers and city skyline couldn’t compare to the mundane beauty of the valleys and fields in the more provincial areas.

A few twists and turns into the narrow roads of the forest and that concluded the journey, however what you were expecting to come into view as Sylus pulled into the driveway was something a little closer to a mansion like his usual tastes, not a full-scale castle. The bewilderment on your face was apparent, not only that but he was looking at you like a castle was just an ordinary thing to own.

Why? Do you like it? The smug bastard.

He spoiled you with a night of fine dishes and expensive liquor, he later lured you into his bed under the guise of watching a movie, one that was very difficult to focus on due to his deep voice whispering sweet nothings into your ears, or his plush lips leaving kisses on your skin, from your clavicle to your neck.

What you remembered the most though was the plea hidden in his voice when he asked you to stay a few more days. You were always going to, you always would.

“You want to pick strawberries?” Sylus’ fingers lingered at the hem of your shirt. He laid beside you, resting his head on the ball of his palm. You shifted your gaze to him, but he seemed to be distracted.

“Well, yeah.” Without hesitation, you grab his fidgeting hand– his grasp engulfs you completely, your eyes traced the veins and nearly invisible scars trailing down from his knuckles before snapping out of it. “I don’t know… I’m okay with doing basically anything, as long as I get to do it with you.”

“I could imagine a lot of things I could do with you, kitten.” He hummed inquisitively as he brought your joined hands together and placed chaste pecks along your knuckles, he slid his fingers in between the gaps of yours. The action caused your lips to unknowingly curl into a gentle smile. “... But I suppose picking strawberries is a good start to the day, no?”

~ Sunlight poured from the curtains, leaving gentle rays on Sylus’ silver hair. He brushed your frayed bangs to the side, and greeted you with a soft kiss on the lips. You raised your hand and cupped his cheek, as your thumb drew loving lines across the slight incline of his cheekbone.

“You should wear the dress I got you,” he whispered against your lips. “I’m afraid our efficiency would go down a bit though if you did.”

After the filling meal you two had last night, Sylus knelt down in front of your chair with a black box topped with a crimson ribbon. When he revealed the contents to you, it was a beautiful dress with frills delicately stitched along the hem of the skirt-end and puffy bell-like sleeves. On the bodice, there were embroidered vines and florals.

You were stunned upon first receiving it, it wasn’t like any of the other clothes that he’d given you in the past, so sleek and elegant. No, this was new territory, even then— not entirely unwelcome.

“Why would it go down?” You asked innocently enough, Sylus sent you an expectant look before smirking.

“I would be distracted because I’d be looking at you the whole time,” he said, like it was a matter of fact. You felt the tips of your ears burn a little under his sly remark. “You’re a vision, and in my opinion, far more enticing than even the ripest strawberries in the world.”

Unable to handle his forwardness for a moment longer, you pushed against his cheek gently but the swiftness of a tiger, Sylus was able to wrap his slender fingers around your wrist and pin it down against the silk sheets. Even when you play-fight, he tries so hard. “No running away, kitten.”

“You talk me up way too much,” Sylus most times was far too charismatic for your own good. With just a few words, he held up a mirror to your true appearance, the you that was worth all of his love and attention, the you that was worth the entire world. “More than I actually deserve it sometimes.”

For a moment, you swore you saw his expression harden, but it passed as quickly as it came. He released your wrist to pinch your cheeks, which you responded to with a sharp but dramatic hiss.

“You’re worth every bit of praise. Every moment more that you doubt yourself, the more I’ll make it up to you.”

Blades of grass tickled your calves as you walked hand-in-hand with Sylus to the farm—an empty basket occupied your free hand, but soon, it would be full of fresh fruit and happy memories. You wore the dress like he said, but Sylus didn’t cut it short in terms of style, as he wore a knitted cardigan and soft, cotton button-up.

The farm began to come closer and closer into view, and it wasn’t long until little red specks became full strawberries right before your very eyes. You squeezed Sylus’ bicep in barely concealed excitement, “I’ve never seen these kinds in any of Linkon’s supermarkets before, they really do look tasty.”

“Is that so? Let’s pick a lot then so that you’re able to take some home,” he bent down slightly to kiss the crown of your head. He let go of your hand and pushed on the small of your back gently, thus your fruit-gathering began.

There were already a good amount of people at the farm, but it was clear that you and him were one of the first. The small crowd consisted of a mother and her daughter, an elderly woman, and likely the farmer himself.

Nevertheless, that meant more to fill your basket with. Sylus trailed behind while you bent down to inspect the fruit in the bushes—you would pick one. No, two. Maybe even three, all from one bush. It was the happiest you probably looked in a while, the serenity of the countryside really was doing wonders for your mood.

After a good hour or so, you raised the abundance of berries you picked to him. “You think this is enough?”

Sylus looked down and smirked, he plucked one of the strawberries from your basket and inspected it closely. “It might be enough to decorate two whole cakes with, sweetie.”

In a flicker, his brows raise in a way that certainly wouldn’t spell good news for you, before he shot you a knowing look. “Actually, we need to verify if these are any good before we head home, no?”

Danger. The implications of that statement meant danger, but before you could even think of breaking into a full sprint, Sylus is already pushing the fruit in between your lips. Naturally, you must take a bite, but you do it while glaring at him with the fire of a thousand suns and all he could do was laugh at you.

You chew for a beat, then two, then the sweet flavor coated your tongue and narrowly washed away your rage for just as long. As good as the strawberries were, the bitterness you wanted to spit back at him was twice as strong.

“Sylus! We— we have to wash them first, you can’t just–”

Not offering you another breath to go on a long-winded rant on hygiene and washing fruit, he leaned forward to capture your lips in turn. Your hands, confused on where to go, land on his forearm in a gentle caress. He hummed appreciatively, before pulling away.

“There,” he wiped away a drop of the juice that remained at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Now, we’re even.”

Stunned as you were, you scolded Sylus for a little while before carrying on with your expedition, huffing and puffing as you went.

Soft jazz floated in the air as it played from the record player, you played a game on your phone while Sylus washed a small bowl of the strawberries you picked. You let him keep a bunch also, should he ever need to use them.

You spent the rest of the morning slow, mundane. He tells you about the regular happenings around the base with Luke, Kieran, and Mephisto occasionally. Shockingly enough, not related to work. You tell him about your occasional night out after you’ve resigned your hunter work for the day, he tells on you for your bad sleep schedule despite the fact that according to his, he was meant to be asleep by now.

What you gained from talking with him for what felt like hours was that you were both people tied down to your jobs, rigidity and routine being a curse and comfort.

Sitting down now on the comfortable sofas in a castle that was practically larger than life, sharing a bowl of strawberries, it felt like a dream.

In a distant past perhaps, where you and Sylus weren’t constrained by the duties of a modern world, you were greeted by fresh grass, rustle of leaves, and eternal warmth.

got into lads recently and sylus honestly seemed right up my alley as a character so i couldn't NOT write a fic for him... love this dragon guy so, so much and i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

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zaynesdesimc · 10 days ago

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the artwork used in the header is “the reconciliation of the montagues and capulets over the dead bodies of romeo and juliet” by frederic leighton!

divider by @cafekitsune ! all credit to the original creator of the divider!

ma meilleure ennemie / rafayel

After having to come to terms that Rafayel is both the worst and best thing that could ever have happened to you, there’s only one thing left to do. Realize that the past does not matter. And accept that what you feel for Rafayel isn’t fated, because no matter who you were, you’d love him in every lifetime.

content warnings: reader as mc, reader remembering her past after meeting rafayel, 3rd myth mermaid rafayel because yum, abysswalker lore is kinda mixed up with my 3rd myth assumptions idk just take it heres comes the airplane (zig-zags the fanfiction-spoon towards your mouth), rafayel MAY be a little ooc, some miscommunication trope, reader is kinda self-deprecating in the beginning because i was listening to “i’m your man” by mitski sorry guys, verbal fights, reader is obtuse, idk . let me know if there’s anything i forgot LMAO. also as always probably not completely canon-compliant because the lads lore is too damn confusing for me (yall got any videos breaking it down????????)

You don’t understand who he is at once.

In the beginning, it had been a simple mission. Two paths crossing naturally because of an incident. You were chasing after a threadbare connection to the murders you had been assigned to, anything that would have made sense of the mystery unfolding in front of you. You were a full-fledged Deepspace hunter, with all the responsibilities that came with it, and you were determined to make that count. All the blood, sweat and tears you had dedicated to this vocation had all paid off the day they handed you your uniform. You were determined to serve that uniform with dignity.

Under that guise, he slips the bonds of fate and reunites with you again. Mysteriously, lightheartedly. An important witness who just so stumbled on the hunter assigned to the case. An accident arranged. You just don’t know that yet.

It’s when he really begins to penetrate every aspect of your life that your brain kicks into overdrive. You’re sensitive to every interaction, dizzy with déja-vu. It doesn’t help that he seemed to look at you as if he knew exactly what was happening. Imagine a doctor who’s sat on your sickbed, and he refuses to give the life-altering diagnosis. Out of pity. Out of fear. Whatever reason he can conspire so that he can keep on dangling the truth away from you. For a very long time, you cannot even think of the possibility that you’re an experimental mouse in Rafayel’s maze, and he’s studying your reactions. Delineating from his own past what he expects and does not expect from you. You’re too busy trying to find a way out.

You don’t realize at first that the familiarity you associate with his pretty face runs deeper than just a red-scaled fish won at random at a booth. You barely even make the association that he’d taught at your university, during your preparatory education for the job. It’s Tara who points it out in what was supposed to be some normal girl-talk. He’s gorgeous, after all, and Tara one of your closest friends. You indulge her gossip every now and then from the fringes of the social circles you still entertain. Professor Rafayel, she’d said, excitedly snapping her fingers as the name rolled of her tongue. You’d sat up arrow-straight, although for a different recognition than the one Tara was experiencing at the identification. That’s who he is. He teaches art history, I think. Wasn’t that one of your electives?

You knew him. You knew him beyond a capacity of words, unable to formulate why his eyes pierced deeper into your brain than some of your most familiar childhood remembrances. You turned the name over in your mind, like the childhood game you’d always won at, playing Memory with your actual memory. It was unbearable.

He had been creeping up on you for a very long time, like an ailment, or a slow-working poison. One of the first few things they force you to go through at the beginning of a hunter education is basic self-aid classes, where they teach you not to exacerbate the spreading of the poison by moving or exhausting yourself. Movement meant blood circulation, and a heightened blood circulation meant a quicker way for the poison to reach all the vital areas it needed to kill its victim. What precious immune response your body could have mustered up is quickly squashed by you running, running, running. You were running after the truth, running after your memories, running after what it meant that Rafayel had fallen in love with the idea of you. But not really you. Of that, you were certain.

It’s the very first accusation you hurl at him when Rafayel finally has to confront the possibility that your memory may be returning. What little barriers your mortal mind possessed are quickly torn through as your past life crashes through it like water breaking apart a dam. You remember the piercing sensation of your nervous system trying to commit suicide from the flood of experiences it was recovering, and Rafayel’s gentle hands trying to cradle you, wanting to help you, and you remembered the way you had pushed him until his back had hit the mahagony closet that decorated the corner of his room. Neither of you were particularly violent. But what had been the most vivid impression of that day was the screaming you had then subjected at each other, an eternity’s worth of pent-up anger, and resentment, and love lost and regained. It hadn’t taken long for Thomas to crash into the room, disturbed by the noise he had heard upon his arrival into the studio, and he’d torn the two of you apart from - well, what was it? You would never raise a hand to hurt Rafayel, and you didn’t do so in that fight. And Rafayel, past life or not, would rather die than ever inflict pain on you. But there was a desperate fumble of fingers, the tearing at whatever flesh you could grasp, the urge to claw open his chest to prove to yourself that it couldn’t possibly be true, that your chest didn’t contain the proof of a deity-level heist. And Rafayel, lovelorn Rafayel, didn’t lift a single hand to defend himself. Just shouting, and shouting, and shouting. You barely even remember the way Aunt Thalia herself had to drag you out of that room, probably called by Thomas, who by then had been panicked at the intensity of the fight.

It was heartbreaking, the way Thalia’s face only evoked the memory of her nephew’s. They looked too alike. Even looking at her had wanted to make you yell anew. And she, too, looked at you as if she knew that her appearance only made you want to crumble with the shame of what you had done to her, her family, and her home.

You remember, then, she had said. The tone in her voice had sounded entirely too sad and forlorn for you to continue to hold on your anger. It dissipated, like foam on the water, like your memories eroding over time. Glass smoothed to treasure. You sank deeper into the cushion of her expensive car, turning to look through the tinted windows. Your parting gift is the sight of Rafayel stumbling out to the porch, his face wet with tears, watching you go. It’s a sight that haunts your nightmares from then on. Yes, you told her. Yes, I remember.

To say it was a betrayal would be an understatement. What you feel haunts you to your bone marrow, curdles the blood in your veins. You spent way too many nights tearing at your hair, torturing your scalp for the memories that stir below it. Ignorance really was bliss. Whatever feelings had been growing in your heart for Rafayel are quickly dampened by the realization that no matter how much he loved you, you could not let it ruin him further. He was chasing a dead girl, that’s all it was. You’d end it here and there. It can’t undo the damage you’ve done, but it could cut him free at last. Of a bond he didn’t want. Of a love he had conjured for someone else.

Your heart fights your brain’s assumption. After all, you never once asked him. During the fight, he had never mentioned your shared past, not once. His concern had been real and current. Your brain shuts your heart up pretty quickly. He’d been watching you for so long, after all, long enough to determine whether you acted like the bride he had chosen so long ago, before he decided to re-introduce himself. And he’d never told you the truth. Instead, you’re forced to grapple with a bone-crushing guilt that threatens to swallow you whole. Your fault, your fault, your fault.

It’s your fault that Lemuria is dead and gone. It’s your fault that Rafayel’s only memory of his home is constrained to the few paintings he allows himself to reminisce over. It’s your fault that once again, Rafayel is forced to wander the earth alone.

The bride of the Sea God is gone. You are all that remains.

You can’t even tell anyone. Who’d believe you? A therapist, perhaps, would indulge your ravings, but that would only get you a private suite in the mental asylum. You may as well put the strait jacket on yourself. Whatever survived of Lemuria lives on in the fairy tale books told to children, in the occasional lecture of a professor teaching about folklore, in the family bond between Rafayel and Thalia. No, no one would believe you. And you cannot go to Rafayel. You cannot ever see him again.

But that’s not on fate’s cards for you. Of course not.

The first social outing you let your friends convince you to attend (which was a New Year’s Eve, your favorite celeberation of the year, which in and of itself should be sick and twisted. Couldn’t you have see him again on Christmas Day or something?), you manage to end up right back where you started. In a soul-gripping stare-off with the man who knows every inch of your mind, all your dark and light corners. He looks at you like a man haunted. He’s a ghost attending a hanging, and you feel the noose closing around your neck. Whatever torture the retrieval of your memory is forcing you through, Rafayel has already lived through it. He already had to stew in his own memories, since he didn’t have the luxury of losing them as you did.

Sweet Simone who has no grasp of social cues at all, who’s already drunk out of her mind, says then, “You already know each other, right? Rafayel, please make sure she dances tonight! She’s not allowed to pout today!”

And with that, Simone plucks your hand and places it into Rafayel’s. You both flinch at the motion, an ironic reenactment of the father’s bride giving over his daughter to the groom. Tradition, too, is a kind of memory. You stare up into Rafayel’s eyes, stumbling into him as you’re pushed into a makeshift dancefloor, which is really just Tara’s living room. Neither of you breaks the hold. Neither of you comments on the fact that this is the first real interaction you’ve had in weeks. You silently place your other hand on Rafayel’s shoulder, and he places his on the your waist, the fingers fitting perfectly into the curve there. Like it’s made for him. Like his body remembers.

Rafayel’s sunset colored eyes darken noticeably. You make a point of ignoring that reaction, and let yourself be guided into the dance. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to verbalize that gut-wrenching feeling that you’ve confirmed every prejudice Lemurians ever had about humans; like the human you were, all you had given him in return for his love and devotion was agony and despair. You want to apologize for making him fall in love with you. You want to yell at him for deceiving you. You weren’t the woman he fell in love with, and you wouldn’t turn yourself into her. But at the same time, the woman you were at the moment wanted to weep with the loss of him.

How mortal of you to be so irrational. How expected of you that your brain and your heart are in an ever-warring conflict.

The silence between you is palpable. Instead of initiating conversation, you angle your head around, taking in the scenery. Tara’s apartment is unrecognizable. There’s an actual disco-ball hanging from the ceiling, a tacky, glittering planet Simone had found in the thrift store a block away. She loved to frequent it, and the friend group was often blessed with some kind of trinket or piece of clothing she managed to scavenge every time a fresh batch of donated stuff was displayed in the store. The kitchen is lined with cheap booze, the expensive stuff hidden in the guest bedroom. The door there is locked shut using a passcode, and the group chat, signaling your friends’ drunkenness, keeps asking what that passcode is, since no one seemed to remember in their intoxication that you could scroll up and check past messages. There are alumni here, some you recognize and some you don’t. You even catch a glimpse of Xavier and his hunting partner turned romantic partner, but they quickly disappear behind the curtain that hides away the door to the balcony.

Truthfully, it was your fault Rafayel was here. You were the one who had introduced him to Tara after she had made that connection between Professor Rafayel and Painter Rafayel. No one even knows he’s the reason you weep into your pillow after night. No one could know the truth, so you hadn’t even bothered creating a story that would legitimize a falling-out. In their minds, he’s still just Rafayel, who may or may not be sweet on you. To Tara, he was just a friendly face whom she associated with you. But he didn’t have to attend.

So you finally ask, “Why did you come?”

You’re still not looking at him. You keep your eyes fixated on Simone, who’s knocking back yet another round of shots with Leila, a Deepspace hunter from a different, lower-ranking squad. Leila’s face is already taking on a greenish hint that reveals she cannot keep up with Simone’s voracity. Someone should have warned her that Simone drinks like a sailor, but you guessed it was too late for that. Your fixation on the girls is the only reason you don’t start collapsing in Rafayel’s hold; you want to come apart at the seams below his touch, disappear in the waves of emotion. Below the hand that grips his shoulder, Rafayel’s shoulders rise in tandem with his chest as he sighs out. “You know exactly why I’m here. We should talk.”

We should talk. That so doesn’t cut it. You make the mistake of turning your gaze on him and immediately regret it. His eyes, as changing and churning as the sea, reflect the light sparkling off the cheap discoball, but at the moment, all they’re reflecting is the helplessness in your own. This is exactly why you didn’t want to see him. Although you are proud enough to not want to demean yourself because he doesn’t see you as the person you actually are, you aren’t strong enough to claim that he leaves you untouched. It’s always his eyes. You sink into his gaze like an anchor disappearing beneath the waves, deeper into the ocean’s embrace. You think of a lost city and an unfinished ceremony. That pushes you to tear your eyes away, just in time to see Leila rush off to the bathroom. Simone, meanwhile, has moved on to a new victim, although Nero appears to be an unwilling one. Despite being in a loud, packed to the brim room full of party-goers, he’s actually reading a book on wanderers. “Maybe me blocking you on all social media and cutting you out of my life wasn’t a clear enough message. I don’t want to see you. And I don’t want to talk to you.”

Rafayel’s fingers guide your head back to him. It’s a gentle gesture, bespeaking his tenderness, yet the expression on his face is anything but. It’s the same expression he had when you pushed him away on that doomed day, both physically and emotionally. “You’re human,” he says, his tone dripping with bitterness. He speaks the words as if they are sufficient explanation alone for your stubbornness. “You don’t understand what it feels like. Maybe you can live on and pretend that night never happened. But I can’t, and it’s killing me. You don’t even care that I’m standing here because another second without you is torment to me.”

You suppose you’re acting like a hypocrite, because the words hurt. You physically recoil. You catch the unhappy glint in Rafayel’s eyes before he methodically wipes it away, his emotions like paint on a canvas. Sweet Rafayel, always showing the knife but never intending to stab. Because he loved yoo too much. You admonish your brain. No, because my past life tied him to me against his own will. He remains a careful artist, creating a narrative that befits him. Your heart - his heart, the one you stole like the thief you are - painfully pounds in your chest as you lean in and tell him, “You should’ve expected this when you gave your heart to a human. But I’m not her, Rafayel. I will never be her.”

You step away, ending the dance. But Rafayel’s hand slips down, until his fingers are clenching your wrist, painfully encircling it until it feels like a handcuff. Normal you would have broken the hold, maybe punched him if he was a strange drunkard in a nightclub. But you are changed, remade. The melancholy of the past hangs over you. You are not strong enough to be free of him. “No, you are not,” he bites out. It’s clear you’ve hurt him. You forget that your words are knives, too. “You never were.”

The meaning of that is lost on you. This time, you shake free. You refuse to let him see your tears. Turning on your heel, you abandon Rafayel once again. As you always do.

How to explain what you felt? How to explain that your heart was beginning to burst open like a blossoming flower because of what you felt for him? How to make sense of the feeling that even though he made sure to find you again, you can’t be sure he loves you for what you are and not what you were? It’s not in you to doubt his intentions. Although you are slow at it, even your brain is beginning to understand why he took your memories during your time as a princess of a vanished city. Even slower, you are coming to terms with the fact that Rafayel’s love for you had been pure and without regret when he had given you the sea god’s heart. But you cannot find it in yourself to accept it.

You cannot find it in yourself to live on a sacrifice you never had intended for him to make. It should have been you.

It only takes three steps to reach the kitchen slash makeshift bar, but Simone is long gone. When you swivel your heart around, deluding yourself with the poor excuse that you’re looking for Simone, a quick scan of the room reveals that Rafayel is gone as well. Must have melted back into the crowd. The relief you feel inside your chest transforms into grief rather quickly. You are a strange creature, vibrating like in a metronome into two wildly different directions. Never stopping. Never changing.

You shake your head, flinging away the thoughts. You decide to tap Nero’s shoulder, cupping a hand around his ear so he can hear you yell, “Where’s Simone?” He cringes away from the loud sound, but helpfully points to the main bathroom. You give him a thumbs-up in thanks, which he only acknowledges with a nod before returning to his book.

At least one person here was enjoying himself. Even if he wasn’t really taking part in the celebration.

You slip into the bathroom, then turn the lock so no one else can enter. You’re not the only guest aside from Simone. Both Tara and Michaela have made themselves comfortable, with Michaela lounging in the bathtub fully clothed and Tara kneeling next to a puking Simone. You stare at them in disbelief. “Since when does Simone throw up from drinking?”

Michaela laughs. “You’d be throwing up too, if you realized the orange juice you’d been chugging was actually Malibu Beach.”

“What?”

Tara, having finished tying up Simone’s hair, shrugs. “First hint should have been the suspicious burning down the throat, but I don’t think Simone was paying much attention,” she drawls out. She’s not exactly sober, either. “She was just focussing on hydrating. Nero told her it was important to stay hydrated, because it helps when the alcohol is broken down inside your body. I don’t know. That’s what she said.”

“Shouldn’t we, like, drive her to the hospital?” You gesticulate wildly with your hands to the door, as if anyone needed clarification on what you meant. You are still hazy from your interaction from Rafayel. Your heart is still on that dance-floor. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Tara eyes Simone, who’s dry-heaving now. It’s Simone herself who speaks up. “Am fine,” she manages to choke out. Her fingers clench and unclench around the toilet bowl. She doesn’t sound particularly believable. She’s a skilled topic-changer, though, clearly embarrassed, since she’s never been this drunk. “How was your dance?”

You cast your eyes to the ceiling, at the paint separating from it, eager to fall like confetti. You imagine that fall, swirling, swirling. Coming down. You are out of your body and in it all at once. “Lovely, Simone. Thanks for asking.”

The new year comes with a loud, yelled out countdown from the party guests. You girls huddle around the intoxicated Simone, hugging each other as the count reaches zero and the new year is ushered in. There’s a shout, and lots of whoops and hollering. Even Simone manages to spit out a “yippie!”, without ever raising her head from where it’s hanging over the toilet.

You lean your head on her shoulder, rubbing circles into her back to comfort her. Tara’s and Michaela’s encouraging comments for Simone to straighten up and have some water fade into the background, forced to the edge of your perception as you think about Rafayel and what it would have felt like to kiss him as a new year’s celebration. It’s a wish you shouldn’t entertain. A fantasy that won’t come true. But Rafayel is right. You’re a human, destined to want what you cannot have, desperately trying to reach it anyways. If you hadn’t extricated yourself from Rafayel, you would have smothered him with it, that feral, violent attempt to keep him. Everything you’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.

Perhaps that didn’t make you as different from her as you thought in the first place.

You remember the days before the ceremony. While your descent into Whalefall City had been tainted by fear and unwillingness at first, every second you had spent in Lemuria’s embrace and Rafayel’s vicinity had managed to coax out the embers of your old faith. Like a fire being stoked, you had come to accept what giving your heart meant to Rafayel. And you would have done it. You’re not quite sure when the decision hit you. In fact, in the time you had spent with Rafayel before the ceremony, one moment had started blurring into one another, becoming a blend of pure happiness. You stopped asking him to take you to the surface. You stopped trying to evade his questions.

Instead, you had found yourself opening up in a way you had never done before.

Your upbringing had never allowed for real bonds and relationships. You had been a lamb, although a particularly pretty one, destined to land on the chopping block. Only they hadn’t given you the dignity of blindfolding you, so the sight of the knife had made you panic. That panic is erased the second you begin to bask in Rafayel’s affection. Because whether you had wanted it or not, Rafayel was falling in love with you. Perhaps neither of you had realized that a simple agreement would turn out to be a consuming, everlasting love.

All you had been thinking about was how to stay in that moment forever.

Although Rafayel had told you shortly after your migration to the deep sea that he didn’t like being touched, that quickly changed due to the warmth of your tenderness. He’d begun to let you trace the paint adorning his skin, retracing where the veins raised up to kiss his skin. Hand-holding is something you both quickly become accustomed to. One day, he finally is able to completely surrender to you. He falls into your embrace, pillowing his head onto your lap, and does not move. It’s the ultimate sign of trust he can give you.

He puts himself into your hands.

You had cradled his face, and you knew then and now that you’d never hold anything as precious as him ever again. He was the most delightful, most important part of your life now. Not many people were able to change their minds like this. A more modern diction would call it “a complete 180”. You begin to bend for Rafayel, stretching to accommodate his existence, his love. Your heart yearns to become his, that final step that would erase all boundaries between the two of you. There is a Lemurian song, old and melancholic, that describes love as the union of two souls to become one pearl forever. True love does not need mortal bodies. It persists forever, in any shape it can take. A bond eternal. You find that fitting. As your fingers softly trace their way down his cheekbones, the look in Rafayel’s eyes tells you that his every want mirrors your own. Without intending to, you have become one.

Rafayel reaches up to catch your fingers. He tugs your left hand to his lips, dropping a kiss into it, as if the need to kiss you was as natural as the need for your lungs to require air. “You’re very silent today. I thought we decided to discard this fake sense of politeness and etiquette, and just speak of what we think.”

“I’m not thinking of anything except you.” In another life, you may have blushed. In this life, you keep looking at him straight-on, willing him to see. How much he plucks at your heartstrings, to the point where you’re sure every creature of the ocean can hear the melody of worship they create. “‘Tis pleasant here, and we are together, and the sun is setting. I’d bottle this moment for eternity if I could.”

Rafayel’s beautiful face takes on a mellow expression, one you cannot decipher. Despite the fact that he is a young god, and he has bared his soul to you, there is still an entire culture, an entire life that seperates the two of you. But all he says is, “You need not bottle it. We can stay like this forever. In fact, I wish for it to be so, and you are not permitted to leave me.”

This time, you place your hands at his cheeks and lower yourself until your noses are touching. There are no sounds, no noises in the deep sea, nothing but the sharp intake of breath Rafayel’s lungs exert due to your proximity. There is a tiny, arrogant little part of you that is pleased to know you can evoke these kinds of reactions in him. His lungs don’t need air, not really. But you make him want to draw breath. The larger part of you is too concentrated on the fact that your heart is racing, and there is a joy flooding your entire being that is threatening to make you explode at the seams, to float out of existence. “As long as you wish for it to be so, I will never leave you. Do you doubt my intentions?”

Rafayel laughs shakily. His own fingers come up to tangle in your hair. “Of course I do. You’re human.”

You lean down even further, his lips only a width of a kiss away. His fingers tug at your hair, an unconscious urge that tells you the desire inside you is reflected in him thousandfold. What an honor it is to be loved by a sea god. What a blessing. “Liar,” you whisper to him. Rafayel’s response is to raise his head, and then he’s kissing you, and there is no need for words. No need to speak of what you think. Every kiss is a message. I love you. I devote myself to you. I want to be with you.

Of course, this isn’t only where your treachery begins. It’s his treachery that sets in motion the events of you obtaining his heart, his treachery that fools his own people as they never expected from the ruler of its own folk. You at least can accept that Rafayel was acting in the name of love. However, you'd rather he forget his love and live on than make you carry the burden that everything that has ever meant anything to him ceased to exist just for you.

It's those kinds of memories that make you grab your head in the middle of the night as you're forced to relive them. Brain-splitting, deafening. The lines seperating past-incarnation-you and current-life-you blur every time you think of Rafayel, because aren't you the same at your core? Don't you both love him more than anything else in the world? You'd like to pretend you could slide right back into her, fit yourself around her like the last puzzle piece needed. As always, though, you recall how thinking like that made Rafayel turn his back on everyone except you. What had made him selflessly spare you from your fate, twice. Not only did you cheat death on that fateful day when the ceremony went wrong, you did it again when the chance came to return the heart to its rightful owner. Back into your own four walls you went, clueless, protected, and forever seperated. You weep at what could have been. You weep because of what you did to him.

It's those delightful thoughts that float around your waking brain the morning after.

When you slipped out of your dream of the past, you almost had a heart attack because of the arms wrapped around your frame. For a second, your heart had burst out of your chest in exultation, thinking you were with Rafayel, even though rational thought would have made you question why he was here in the first place. The arms in question however are not one set, but two sets of arms, with one belonging to Simone in the middle of the bed and the other belonging to Tara at the other side of it. Michaela had walked home with Leila, who after upending the contents of her stomach felt much refreshed and grateful for the fresh air. Simone could not be trusted to go home on her own, and you would have slept over at Tara's anyways, which is why you ended up in this predicament.

You gaze up at the ceiling of Tara's bedroom, feeling restless. You had no answers for the girls last night, at least no good ones. You couldn't tell them about why there was tension between Rafayel and you. In the end, they had given up their line of questioning and instead turned their attention on Nero, who, after the party was over, still peacefully remained to finish his book. While they pestered him about when it was his time to finally find a partner, Tara had pulled you to the side, and in her eyes you had seen the worry she didn't want the other girls to know of.

Whatever it is that you're going through with him, Tara had said, her tone careful and gentle, I'm sure it can be solved if you guys were to sit down and talk. You taught me that, you know. To always communicate what you feel. And it's worked out this far, hasn't it?

The painful grimace you had turned on her in response ressembled more a cat bearing its fangs than a human person trying to smile. He's not my boyfriend, Tara.

Tara hadn't let that point fly. She kept looking at you with that steady look you'd never expect her to possess, the rare moments in where your friend discarded all humor and told you the truth as she saw it. No, he's not. But we both know he means more to you than that.

Well, she's not wrong. As Tara went to rejoin the group to chase Nero out of her apartment because she was growing tired, you mulled over her words, distressed. Of course he meant more to you than that. He was the air in your lungs and the blood in your veins, the joy in your laughter and the very first tear you cried in grief. If someone cut you open, they'd need no archeological background knowledge that his imprint was marked all over you. There is something at the core of your existence that knew and cherished Rafayel before it learnt to recognize and care for yourself, something that got separated from him during the creation of humanity. Perhaps you're being stubborn and stupid, and the past lives don't matter at all, because you'd find him in every lifetime so you could fall in love with him again. Perhaps being stupid is all you have left. In your heart, you cling to the belief that this is the right thing to do, that a healthy affection cannot spring up from a relationship as sacrificing and destructive like this, from a bond that surpassed all boundaries.

You seek to set him free. You don't want him if it means subsuming his will to your own because of a bond your past life forced on him.

Maybe you're nothing more than an archnemesis, instead of being a soulmate to long for. You dig your fingers into your palms, welcoming the pain, knowing it will never compare to Rafayel's hardships.

You know it will be a quiet patrol when your brain begins to hunt through your newly-acquired memories like a movie reel.

It keeps doing that, as if your brain is trying to cope with its' boredom. It's a little like lying awake at night and telling yourself it's time to sleep now, but then you start remembering the top ten most embarrassing moments of your childhood. Your brain likes to see you suffer. It seemingly has picked up on your general self-depricating mood and now intends to make it worse. In one moment, you're balancing yourself on the red-tiled roof of a small house, and in the next you slip back into the memory of a soft as down bed, while gentle hands cascade down the shape of your body.

It's a bitter-sweet kind of torture. You yearn to envelop yourself in the memory, of the feeling of Rafayel touching you with the same reverence as a devotee in a shrine. It had been a long day of journeying on the surface, where you had pointed out where you had lived, what you had done and what adventures you had lived through. Rafayel, attentive and inquisitive, was eager to learn more about you. Although he tended to do things his own way and mostly denied what you asked for just because he wanted to tease you, he had jumped on the chance to learn more about your life immediately. The smugness that usually accentuated his every behavior vanished. It had made you blush to realize how earnest he was with his interest in you. You felt light as a feather, giddy with happiness.

It would have scandalized his attendants if they knew he ended his day with bed in you. Neither of you cared. You knew the ceremony was approaching fast, and you wanted to spend every available minute with Rafayel, for as long as possible. His touch was reassuring. His gaze had made you melt.

This is what true love must feel like, you had quietly thought to yourself. It feels a little like faith.

"You always disappear so far into your head." Rafayel's melodious voice tore you out of your mindspace. His tone was both amused and wishful. "I wish I could follow you there, discover all the treasures that lie hidden beneath your skull. I'd give anything to know."

"But you do know everything about me. I have not hidden a single thing."

"Yes, I know." Rafayel's face tipped forward. The luxurious room was softly lit by several hanging lamps, in which the glass in-laid with mosaic patterns which created colorful displays on the walls. It painted Rafayel in a mysterious allure that made you think he couldn't possibly be real. It was difficult to fathom that you were in the presence of divinity sometimes. "But I am interested even in the most simple of thoughts. Does it make me sound insane when I say that I want to live inside your head? The way you think and articulate yourself is not only endearing, but interesting to me. And it makes me want to not miss out on a single thing."

You cradle Rafayel's face into your hand, watch as he hides his face in it. Like a pearl returning to its shell. "You already live there," you whisper to him, your heartbeat too loud inside your ears for you to raise your voice. "You accompany my every thought. Whatever I do, I always imagine you being there, laughing along and making fun. In the darkest of moments, it's your memory that brings me light."

For a moment, nothing happens. But then your palm begins to drip with something, the hot tears searing a path into the skin there. Rafayel is crying. You draw yourself up, alarmed, but he hinders you from any movement by embracing you. "Every time I think you cannot possibly read the wishes of my heart, you prove me wrong," he laughs, the voice shaky from emotion, but filled with genuine joy. His hands guide you towards him, closer and closer, until the hug feels like a cage keeping you in your place. You close your eyes and let yourself be enveloped in warmth, your worries slipping away. A kiss lands on your temple, then your cheek. "Your sincerity is a dangerous thing. It will undo me."

It's with that self-fulfilling prophecy that you tumble out of the memory, falling backwards into present time, landing harshly on the roof. Your spine screams in sensation, the landing echoing in every vertebrae. Ouch.

For a second, you are so dazed from the pain you do not move. That could be dangerous. If these flashbacks hindered you from Deepspace hunting, you could lose more than just your job; it could cost you your life. After making sure you didn’t hurt yourself, you hurl yourself down the roof, deciding that camping out in a higher place will just invite in the possibility of falling from it after another memory.

Your shoes hit the ground fast. You fall into a crouch, eyes still directed on the building you had been keeping watch on. Your constant visits to the Nest had paid off in the end. Supposedly, this place was used for illegal dealings, possibly involving protocores. You were hoping for a connection to the aether core currently being investigated by your department, but you’d take what you get. As long as you get the job done. You’re not a cop, but as long as you manage to write a report at the end that proves you were at least doing anything, Jenna would know you weren’t slacking off. The new moon offers some good cover as you noiselessly weave in and out of the surrounding streets until you find an appropriate hiding place. You then pass your time camping out in the crown of a maple tree, your fingers drumming melodies on the handle of your gun. You’re getting bored.

You almost decide to abandon your post for the night, determined that the tip-off had been bullshit. That very thought almost makes you miss the sight of one limping Rafayel, cradling a wounded arm and sliding along the alley like a stray cat.

For one horribly long moment, your brain finally empties of action. You blank out completely. If it would have been any other time, you would have reeled back from the momentary bliss, excited by the fact that everything was finally silent. But you don’t. You can lie and make up excuses all you want, but your heart knows the truth. Your love makes you drop to the ground immediately, not even thinking about doing it, your steps morphing into a sprint before you reach him.

He recognizes you before you barrel into him. You hadn’t expected to gain such momentum, and you try to extricate yourself from the embrace since you do not want to upset his wounds, but then Rafayel’s hand fists the back of your uniform and crushes you against him. “Rafayel?” you say, uncertain. You hadn’t expected him to react like this.

Rafayel slips in your grip, sliding. You readjust your hold, bearing his weight for him. What the hell was he doing here?

He doesn’t react, at least not in the way you want him to. There is a shaking in his chest that feels like an earthquake, an entirely too sharp rumble which you only belatedly come to understand as laughter. He’s laughing, despite the fact that he’s bleeding out in a random alleyway. Rafayel, who never bleeds without purpose. Rafayel, who knows better than anyone else what the scent of Lemurian blood does. “How ironic,” he manages to gasp out, the harsh sound entirely too close to your ear. You shudder when his nails dig into your clothes, seemingly reaching for the skin there. “I was praying for salvation, and here you are. Is this a joke?”

“Are you being followed? What the hell happened?”

He draws himself up with your support. When you look back at him, the cover of darkness is too heavy to see the look in his eyes. But his mouth is curled into a deceptive version of the smile he had sported in your recollection. “This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof,” he says. You blink at him, not understanding. “I did love you once. And I love you still.”

“You’re delirious.” Your heart is pounding in your chest, clawing at the ribbed jail it’s enclosed in. “We need to get you home.”

He tesrs a hand free from where it dug into your back, which makes him stumble. You move to steady him, and then his hand is cupping your cheek, and Rafayel leans down until the darkness embraces you both. There is no light, no visibility. There is only him. “It’s Hamlet,” he whispers, as if that would clear up everything. “No appreciation for the arts. And here I thought I was your Ophelia.”

“Rafayel?” You ask, nervous. The hand cradling your face slips, and then he does, too, and you almost don’t catch him before he meets the ground. You hold him up with all your might, cradling him against your chest as if he could be safe there, as if that wasn’t one of the many lies you told him.

The glint in the waves should scare you. It should.

You climb down with your awkward human legs, your unwebbed hands finding holding points on the stones where his couldn’t. The mystical sea creature watches as you descend further and further, the tail hidden in the water angrily swatting back and forth like the threatening stance of a cat. You try to not let that deter you. You try to ignore the sharp taste of fear and the knife-like sawing it seems to exert on your nerves. You are the princess of Philos, after all, and if you can’t face one measly Lemurian, than maybe you should never have become princess at all.

You drop to the ground just a few feet away from him. This close, the sight of his face robs the breath of your lungs. He is beautiful. He is more than beautiful. You’ve always been entranced with the description of Lemurians in your books, always eager for any detail you could scrounge up. It just doesn’t compare. It cannot encompass the miracle this young man seems to represent. You shakily raise both hands at him to show him they’re empty. “I’m not going to hurt you,” you tell him. At the raise of his eyebrows, you realize how ridiculous that sounds, so you amend, “Not like I could without you pulling me to my watery death. I realize that. But I have come to help free you from the trap’s grip, and I have brought a knife. I will pull it from my robes if you permit me, and I promise I will only use it to help you.”

His face is dangerously impassive, calm as the deceptive sea before it swallows entire ships whole. You cannot trust the ocean, your lady’s maid cautions in the back of your mind. “Like your promises mean anything to me, mortal,” he tells you, and in his voice, you find he cannot hide his true emotions as he does in the grimace of his face. His anger boils the sea like a stew. You shrink back from that anger, and you miss the way his face softens at your reaction. “But rest assured that if you free me without hurting me, I will not - what was it you said? - pull you to your watery death. I’d much rather be supping on your blood and bones in case you do betray me, so maybe fear that.”

You stare at him, momentarily distracted. “Do you actually do that? I thought that was a myth the priests made up to demonize Lemurians.”

He stares back, stupefied by your lack of appalled reaction to his naked threat. “Does it matter?”

You scratch your cheek. At home, everyone always complained about your level of detachment from human behavior. You were an outlier in the court, the weird tulip in a rose garden. Perhaps that weirdness went even as far as the mystical ways of societal interactions below the sea. “Well, I suppose not. I’m going to pull the knife out now, okay?”

He waves a hand to indicate that it doesn’t matter. And you understand what he means: that knife doesn’t matter. The being in front of you was created to hunt everything the sun touched upon, had horrified eons of humanity to the point that their documentation seemed more like horror stories told at a campfire rather than a historical note. This knife would do nothing, would change nothing. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. But you see the relief flash by in his eyes as he realizes that you are truly going to help, and your heart soars. This is why you came down here. To help a living, breathing entity. To do good. So you carefully, slowly extricate the knife from where you have hidden it in your clothing, and then, under the predator’s watchful gaze, begin to approach him.

The closer you get, the more you understand why humanity fell to these creatures’ allures. His tail reflects every color of the rainbow, pure sunlight contained in every individual scale. It is heartbreakingly wonderful. You do not know of a single thing in the mortal world which could be as lovely as this. As you step closer with your gaze locked onto that mermaid tail, you slip on the algae on the ground, and you shriek as you fall.

You find yourself in the deadly creature’s arms, staring your mortality into the face.

There is no way to hide it for you as talentedly as he does, so when you look up at him, the fear in your eyes is entirely real. This time, you are not caught up in your fascination with Lemurian history, and you remember the threat of becoming his supper. Yet he looks at you with pure amusement, his corners twitching as if he has to hold himself back from laughing. “Well, I do suppose there’s nothing I can do if you decide to become my dinner voluntarily,” he tells you, and in the gentleness of his tone, you recognize he is capable of joking. You unclench your hands from the fists they had balled into on his chest, an instinct born out of your fear. His hands on your waist guide you back to steady ground, and they linger there as you straighten up, just for a moment. Then he draws them back. “Do make sure you’re not just entangling yourself in the trap instead of helping me. I’d have to eat you for survival.”

“Ha, ha,” you murmur, trying to lean into the joke so he can see that you appreciate it. And you do. You’d come down here with a half death wish, tired of haunting the palace grounds. The tone of your life had come to be a monotonous one, boring you to death. There was nothing to lose in the decision to head down to free a possibly feral predator. You either died or you helped someone escape death. That’s all it was.

At least that’s what you try to tell yourself. The entire time you cut away the knots and tangles in the net to free the merman from his prison, you ignore the way his gaze on you makes your heart skip a beat.

When all is said and done, you fling the shredded net back into the land. It disappears behind the treeline you had been climbing down from, swallowed by the greenery. It should not be able to trap another ocean’s creature a second time. “Will I see you again?” you ask. It’s a stupid question, but you cannot hide the yearning in your voice. He truly was a wonder to behold. You expect him to mock you again, to draw up another threat so he can spook you and keep you as far away as possible from the sea.

Instead, you watch as he extends his hands to grab your own, your smaller hand disappearing behind the elegant tangle of his fingers. There are rings adorning his knuckles, each and everyone bespeaking his inheritance. You are still hesitant, but you cannot find it in yourself to move away from someone who holds you so tenderly, fully aware he could crush the bones in your hand down to sawdust. The violence in his eyes is as great as the gentleness in it. “Perhaps when you inevitably fall to your death into the sea, since you do not seem to have the steady gait of a sailor’s legs,” he answers, referencing your earlier stumble. He still doesn’t smile, as if he cannot bring himself to do it. But the corners of his mouths curl, and you find yourself smiling at him anyways, your joy honest and radiant. “I cannot hold you to your promises, as you are human, but you can hold me to mine. If you ever need a friend in the sea, I will return the kindness you have shown me today.”

“So you’re not going to eat me?”

He snorts. “I might still decide to do so,” he says. “But for now, the taste of your lips suffices.” And the man leans in, without forewarning, without any respect for courtesy. As your hand is tugged forward so you can fall back against his chest, you open your mouth to question him on as to what he means, but then he’s kissing you and your realization cannot keep up with the speed of the desire hitting you straight in the face. It wells up in you like a geyser exploding into the sky, unbidden and strangely familiar, and instead of pushing him back from stealing your very first kiss, you let yourself be entwined against this rude stranger and kiss him back as if you’ve done this a hundred times before.

He tastes of recognition and memory and blood.

His sharp shark-teeth dig into your lower lip, softly tugging at it as he breaks the kiss and leaves you behind. You draw in a shuddering gasp as you return to reality. “Exquisite,” he teases, and then your stranger turns and dives back into the waves, gone with the blink of an eye.

You are left behind on the shore with a mind as jumbled as a kaleidoscope, teetering on the edge of a memory that has been taken away from you a lifetime ago. You do not understand. You cannot understand. But you raise your fingers to your lips as if you can still feel the kiss there, as if your body will always know who Rafayel is even if your mind never can.

In this life, you massage away the taste of that freedom’s kiss while you stare at the familiar stranger in the bed.

You do not want to address the irony of the situation, the fact that you remember this specific instance right as you save his life again. Rafayel, sleeping away the pain in his bed, is bandaged up to teeth, every wound having been carefully nursed by you. Truth be told, you should have left the second you were certain he’d survive the night and sleep peacefully, but you couldn’t tear yourself from his side. You stare down at the blanket, down at the fingers that are only a few inches away from yours. They don’t look as elegant as they did when he was still a mermaid tossing in the waves. More roughened and scarred. But they are the same fingers. And they are reaching for yours again.

Even in sleep, even unconscious, even unaware that you’re actually there, Rafayel reaches for you.

Helpless, you strain your fingers to meet his in the middle. You cannot find it in yourself to deny him right now, not after seeing him almost bleed out on his own bathroom tiles. S’all good, he had said. We’re together. Don’t mind going like this. The moonlight, enveloping the room in its light like skimmed milk, glints off the ring on his ring finger, the one you’d given him before you came to realize who you were. Wearing it like a marriage ring. His sleep-drowsy fingers curl around yours awkwardly, curling like a cat’s paw before they finally slot inbetween yours. As if on command, a heavy, satisfied sigh leaves Rafayel’s mouth, and he curls his body into the direction of your joined hands. Finally at peace.

It breaks your heart.

The tears spill over your cheeks before you can stop them, burning as hot as fire, heavy as a promise. You want to shake him awake and apologize, want to tell him that you never intended to push him away like that, that you thought you were doing the best possible thing for him. And haven’t you done the same? the insistent voice in your mind cries out, still enraged with the injustice of the situation. Haven’t you decided for me in the same manner as I am deciding for you right now, when you took my memories away and took away the only chance I had at returning my heart to you before changing that prophecy forever?

You hold his hand tightly, the only thing anchoring you in this world. His bedroom seems to sway like a boat in the waves, and Rafayel is the only stability you can hold on. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, as if that truly helps, and you make yourself hold still, to stop the tremors so Rafayel can keep sleeping peacefully.

Does it really matter who you are, when he loves you despite it all? Shouldn’t you love him just for that?

You stare at Rafayel’s face, pondering. You wonder if you yourself can know where her love ends and yours begins, interconnected as you are. Perhaps you’ve been holding up an impossible standard the entire time.

Perhaps you’ve been chasing after the shadow of self-punishment because the light of Rafayel’s forgiveness was too bright.

You spent the night thinking about your own inadequacy as you stare at Rafayel resting, the steady rise and fall of his chest serving as a calming influence on your own wellbeing. You return to a sense of calmness, smoothing over the sharp edges of your thoughts as they turn to sea-glass, an ocean-made treasure you can finally gift him, just as he wished so long ago. You don’t let go of his hand once. Ignoring your feelings is too tiring now. You watch as he finally rouses from his dreams, watch the way his eyes squint adorably, his sleep-tousled hair falling over them. It wrenches at your heart, but for once, it’s not a painful feeling. What stings is the way he realizes that you’re still here, and then, the way he freezes when he sees your intertwined hands, as if afraid that if he acknowledges it, you will let go of him. You want to reassure him that you won’t, but you don’t voice it, not yet. You still have to address the elephant in the room. So you say instead, “Good morning, Ophelia.”

He screws his face up in embarrassment. “So that wasn’t a dream,” he mumbles, but he finally relaxes back into the mattress. His satin pillows sink with the weight of his head, cushioning him like your lap did another lifetime ago. His free hand moves to cover his face, rubbing away the night of agony and the last traces of sleep. “I thought my extravagant imagination conjured you up, but you’re here. Talking to me. Did a miracle happen over night?” His voice is sharp-edged, provoking. A defense against your usual cruelties, just as Hamlet began to reject Ophelia as their relationship faltered. You understand the reference now.

You only shrug. “You did say you wanted to talk on New Year’s Eve, so let’s talk. I’m here now.”

He stares at you as if you grew another head, The corners of your lips twitch, reminiscent of a smile. You don’t want him to think you’re laughing at him. “That was ages ago.”

“So you don’t want to talk?”

“I don’t want to just talk,” he hurls at you, a sword drawn up to wield at you. He’s standing on the edge of a cliff, on the precipice of a fall. You see it in his ocean eyes, that wish to trust you anew and believe you are what you claim to be. It’s not in his nature to trust humans, and you’ve only reinforced that stance.

But he hasn’t let go of your hand yet.

You swipe your thumb over his knuckles, watch the goosebumps raise on the skin of his arms, racing up, up, up. You want to follow that path, litter it with kisses and fall right back into that memory of where you loved in full and were loved in return. You can’t let go of the guilt you’ve shackled to this relationship, the guilt you’ve been punishing him with, but you want to try. “I know,” you whisper, not trusting yourself to speak louder. Afraid of breaking apart in his hands. “But let’s start talking first. I thought I’d lose you yesterday.”

“My love,” he sighs. Slipping back into the diction you were thinking of before he awoke, back into a world where you guys were one pearl, one love, one soul. “Please don’t expect me to start believing you’re afraid of losing me when all you’ve been doing is trying to achieve just that. I’ve waited and waited and waited for you to want to talk. I’d have expected fish to start flying and the seas to flood the earth before you ever wanted to.”

You grip onto that joke like a drowning sailor clings to a life buoy. If he can joke, then maybe it means all hope isn’t lost. “Can’t you try to understand me here?” you tell him, and then your voice finally breaks, and you can’t hold yourself back anymore. You’ve spent so much time trying to pretend you were fine, trying to pretend you didn’t need Rafayel’s love. Gaslighting yourself into believing this was the right thing. Rafayel begins to draw himself up, despite all his wounds, and when he lets go of your hand to draw you into his embrace, you finally let him. You pillow your head on his shoulder, his trusted and familiar shoulder, and begin to dissolve into sobs. “Did you think … this is … easy for me? You lied to me … and you took my memories from me… and you sacrificed your entire life for me. And here I sit, trying to bear all that. You’ve lived your life all this time, shouldering this burden, accepting it. But I’ve died and been reborn so many times, and I’m fighting so many memories at once. Did you think I could just slip back into that role, into that soul? Did you think I could bear it, when it feels like I’m building up a sand castle that keeps getting swallowed by the sea?”

Rafayel cradles your head in his hands, holding you up. You don’t rely on your own strength for once. You let him carry your entire weight, the way you’ve never been able to, because all your life you’ve been trying to hold it on your own, struggling with it as Atlas was struggling to hold the sky in the ancient Greek myth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into your ear, and it feels like he’s speaking into all the hollow spaces inside your soul, the holes you’ve been trying to patch with hatred when all they needed was a little love. “I’m sorry for misunderstanding you so badly. I never realized. I’m sorry.”

You close your tear-blurred eyes, slumping into the hug. He rocks you like a child that needs comforting, not pressuring you once, just sliding his hand over your head in a steady soothing rhythm. You draw in a shuddering breath, and another, and another. He smells like the only home you’ve ever known, the home you’ve been missing in every lifetime, unnurted by the ones claiming to be your family or caretakers. “I can’t be her, Raf,” you weep, clawing your fingers into his hurt shoulder. He doesn’t seem to mind it. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I really can’t.”

His hand stills, the fingers intertwined with the curls of your hair. Resting there, like it belongs there. “But I don’t want you to be,” he says, in the most sincere way you’ve ever heard him speak. It sounds like a vow, and you lean into him, eager to hear more. Your breath hitches. “I’m not the man I used to be anymore. Isn’t that what life is all about? Changing and growing? I can’t pretend that there isn’t a past between us, something that belongs to another time. But I am a different Rafayel, too. A Rafayel that wants to learn about you and fall in love with you all over again. If you let me. Please, please, please let me.”

Can you?

You open your eyes again, trying to orient yourself. When you lean back to look at him as best as you can, his face looks hopeful and open, a look that shakes you to the core and breaks apart the last shackles of your heart. So you nod at him. You nod and say, “Okay. One step at a time.”

The look of joy in his face is so exultant, so bright, that you have to blink away the blindingness of it. You let him lead you back into the light, slowly, steadily. “One step at a time,” he repeats. He takes your hand into his own, kissing the fingertips that worked so hard to bandage him up. You are still unsure, still tentative. But you have never been more certain than you are about the knowledge that you love him enough that you want to try.

So you try.

You let him back into your life, on your own terms this time. You introduce him to your friends a second time, with the only addition of a romantic declaration, where you clarify to your friends that Rafayel and you have been seeing each other. You delight in the blush that dusts across Rafayel’s cheeks, a color as beautiful as the gleaming scales on his mermaid tail. You relearn the map to the other’s soul - how Rafayel doesn’t like sleeping in any other bed than his own, how you have to follow a specific rhythm in the morning before you start your day, how you both used to prefer an adventure but now prefer the comfort of your own four walls. The way you take your coffee. A preference in food. A changed behavior. Who would have known there was an actual scientific endeavor behind love?

But the most freeing thing is being able to talk about what happened between the two of you. There are no accusations, no screaming matches anymore. Like two government officials hammering out the terms of the truce, you try to make sense of what has happened and how it changed you. You watch as Rafayel’s sad eyes trace the shape of a scar between your chest, and he in turn endures your self-pitying thoughts whenever your guilt threatens to crush you because of what happened. Your love is in active metamorphosis, discarding and fashioning new appearances. In awe, you two begin to find common ground again.

It leads you back to the sea, the one place you used to dread.

In the warm afternoon light, the traces of his shoework light up like stars in the sand. Shoes and jacket long forgotten in the house, you follow those steps like a treasure map, the sea breeze kissing your skin as you hurry to meet it. Whitesand Bay cleaves into the earth before you, opening up as a metaphoric maw as it swallows the waves. The tell-tale glimmer of a shimmering mermaid tail greets you, a beacon at sea, a lighthouse guiding you home.

He’s never once showed you this form ever since you two have met again.

When you finally reach the sea, Rafayel is waiting in the shallows for you. Fully conscious that you are still wearing clothes, you wade inside. You care more about being with him as you care about being soaked. Rafayel angles his head up, looking at you with a mischievous glint in those seafire eyes. Pink like coral, blue like the ocean. Entangled, as you two are. One as a pearl. “Decided to brave the cold water, did you?”

You smile at him, glad for his humor. “Isn’t that what you intended, siren king? Or are you just cosplaying as a rubber duck today?”

Rafayel’s seductive lips curl into a pout, one you want to kiss off of him. “You’re being mean, cutie,” he accuses, and yet his arms reach to pull you into his lap. The scales there can’t compare to a featherbed, but you feel safer than anywhere else in the world. “But yes, I was hoping you found me here. I had a looooong day of being super important at work. Wanna unwind with you.”

“In the water?” you gently prod, proud of seeing his true form again. In answer, he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and finally gives you the smile you’ve been yearning to see. “Yes, in the water,” he says. “And if you can’t behave yourself, I’ll drown you.”

“Ha-ha. Brave words for someone I would turn into a five-star sushi meal.”

Rafayel rolls his eyes, but doesn’t quip back. When he looks at you again, his face is the picture of tender joy, a quiet but resilient happiness. A happiness that you’ve helped him rediscover. You touch your fingers to his cheeks lightly, basking in his warmth. “I have to ask you something,” you say slowly, trying to unravel the last threads of your reunion. He leans into your fingers, chasing the touch, so you give in and hold his face in full. “When I told you at that party that I wasn’t the same bride you married eight hundred years ago, you answered that I never was. What did you mean by that?”

“Can’t you tell?”

The question seems like a tease, but his smile is earnest. It’s the expression of a man basking in the peace he has achieved, a true sense of tranquility. The past cannot be shed like a snake sheds it skin to become something new, but it has become a foundation of something entirely better, something that lives in the curl of Rafayel’s lips and the echoes of your laughter. “I was never chasing after your after image, my love,” he finally clarifies. “You and I, we are connected beyond just two souls meeting. I love you for who you are and who you have become. And I love you for the person you have helped me become. Even though the past has interlinked us forever, it’s the present with you I want. I can’t help the person I was before, just as much as you can’t. And we don’t know what the future holds and who we’ll become. But I love you despite all that. What I learn, what I change, what I become is what I want to do with you. I want to build with you. I want to be with you.” He taps a finger against your temples, then slides it down to the curve of your jaw so he can angle your face up. You raise it towards him, towards the sun of your life, the only rise and set you ever want to experience. “Like a pearl, you have a thousand different faces which you still have to explore or are already polishing. And I think the greatest happiness of my life will be in witnessing that with you. It is you. You are my happiness, now and always.”

You place your hand on his heart, and he covers it with his own. For a second, you both become quiet, taking in his words, his heartbeat, the sacrifices that had been made to achieve this reunion. But to reject them would be to void them of meaning, and you refuse to do that when Rafayel has given your life just that. Maybe it doesn’t really matter how Rafayel came to be in your life, or what memories have shaped your bond before you took fate into your own hands. What matters is that you’ve returned to the heart that knows your own, the one that reflects every emotion to you and sees you as you are, and despite all that, loves you anyways.

And besides, it is much better to walk in the light than it is to stumble through the shadows.

“You knew me all along,” you state, the statement a glaring accusation. “And here I thought I was rescuing a handsome stranger.”

The sea is much calmer tonight, not as angry as it had been when you first freed Rafayel from a net’s clutches. His surreally beautiful face turns towards you from where it had been fixed on the sight of the sunset, the golden light only enunciating what was already perfect in your eyes. He looked ethereal - and embarrassed, as if being caught in a lie wasn’t something he was proud of. “And yet you’re here,” he tells you, wondrous. Perhaps not comprehending how you could still stand him, after all that has happened.

You dip your toes into the surf, the train of your dress already drowning in it. He’s staring at the satinous material as it drifts in the waves and exposes the lush flesh of your thighs, the skin he used to kiss. “Yes, I’m here,” you say. You look at him with a smile that is entirely too kind for someone who’s been pulling the wool over your eyes. “What did you think would have happened?”

“I was being treacherous,” Rafayel answers, feeling numb. Steeling himself for rejection. He cannot trust your smile, cannot let himself walk to his own doom. And yet he cannot bring himself to shy away from the careful hand that splays itself along his wrist, then finds his way up his arm. He lets himself be tugged closer to the shore, the one place he as a Lemurian had always dreaded. He despises the land. But he loves you. As you surrender to the water, he surrenders to you, letting himself be pulled out of it. “Our story is not the best. I made you take my heart. I cursed you to this fate. I even took your memories.”

“And yet I fell in love with you anyway,” you tell him, your voice as soft as your caress.

He screws his eyes shut. “You love a memory. ‘Tis all.”

“No, I don’t think so.” You cock your head at him, the sight of it as adorable as always. He remembers your habits as clearly as his own; how you had cocked your head in confusion before you scrunched your face up, as if your entire face was acting in accordance to your brain. The sight tears into him even now, and he doesn’t argue against you, stuck in his devotion to you. “I fell in love without knowing who you were. You were just a stranger I helped, a charming face with a sweet smile. But I fell in love of my own accord, without the memories I had. It doesn’t matter who we are. Our hearts are born with the knowledge of what key opens them up, and my heart will always wait for you. It sings for you.” Your face lights up with a smile, and he can’t help himself from reciprocating. From the darkness within his own chest, his own heart begins to crack open to receive the light you bring him. “It loves you, as I do,” you remind him. “We will learn together who we are. Your love will be the mirror to my growth, as mine will for yours. I am not afraid of that.”

Rafayel is not afraid either. For the first time in his life, he begins to hope.

A hope that there is a happy ending for you both, after all. If meeting again did not have to be tragic, then this love, too, could be something good. That was something worth to live for.

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zaynesdesimc · 10 days ago

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maomao x jinshi

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zaynesdesimc · 12 days ago

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Out of Touch

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zaynesdesimc · 14 days ago

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remember when?

pairing — satoru gojo x reader

synopsis — while cleaning the attic, you stumble across photos of your husband from his school days.

wc — 5.2k

warnings — mentions of scars (au where satoru survives shinjuku showdown), angst but in the yearning way, so much fluff, husbandjo, domesticity, not proofread! i also made hc's behind some of the photos hehe

author's note — the new illustrations from the jjk movie completely broke me :( so i had to whip up a little something from the jjk fold of my brain.

It was just some random Tuesday, and your husband Satoru wasn’t due home until after six — something about looking over a pile of reports on rising cursed energy in the Kanto region. Even with Sukuna gone, chaos liked to linger.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist, like it always does when your mind drifts back to that winter two years ago. The Shinjuku showdown. You’d been convinced you’d lost him — his cursed energy disappeared, his body literally split in two. The moment still plays in your nightmares: the blood, the silence, your own voice screaming. You remember clutching his hand — or what was left of it — while Shoko fought to bring him back. And somehow, impossibly, she did.

He survived. Scarred, different, quieter in ways only you can read — but alive.

Sometimes you still wake up and run your fingers across the long scar that traces the soft skin of his abdomen, as if to confirm he’s really still here.

After that day, everything shifted. You left your role as a teacher at Jujutsu Tech — too much pain, too many memories, and honestly, too much peace. Not many cursed spirits dared show their faces anymore. These days, you exorcise a lingering curse here or there, but mostly? You spend your time being what Gojo Satoru once joked about during a late night walk back when you were still just colleagues: a housewife. A relaxed one at that — sans the apron clichés.

And truthfully? You don’t hate it.

Your house — the one Satoru picked out, of course — is enormous. It sits just outside of Tokyo, nestled high enough to offer sweeping views of the city skyline on one side and forested hills on the other. Wide windows. Sun-drenched walls. Room for both quiet and chaos. "A house that can hold all of our egos," he’d grinned when you moved in, but when he saw you spinning barefoot in the sunlit kitchen, he’d gone quiet. You’d looked over and seen it in his face: this is home.

You decide to clean the attic today. Partly because it’s been ages, partly because the place is a mess of dusty boxes and half-forgotten memories, and partly because you just want to surprise Satoru with something useful. Maybe you’ll find that old vinyl player he swears he didn’t lose.

You spend a solid hour sorting through stacks of cardboard — some labeled with scrawled handwriting (Nanami’s, definitely), others with faded Jujutsu Tech stickers. There’s a whole box of broken sunglasses you recognize immediately. Another of loose-grade mission reports that probably should’ve been shredded, like, a decade ago. You toss what you can into piles — keep, ask Satoru, burn before someone finds it — and you’re wiping sweat off your brow when you find it.

It's in a box labeled “JJT archives”, a thick, heavy book tucked beneath a pile of old uniforms and loose cursed tools wrapped in cloth. The cover is cracked leather, and there’s a faint, almost unreadable embossing on the spine.

It’s not labeled.

Curious, you tug it out, brush the dust from its cover, and flip it open.

Instantly, you realize what it is.

Photos. Dozens of them. Smiling, chaotic, deeply youthful energy practically radiating off the pages. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Shoko Ieiri. Haibara Yu. Kento Nanami. Their classmates, their mentors, the Tokyo branch in all its raw, messy, golden-era glory.

You blink, and your throat tightens. There’s a warmth in your chest — fond and aching all at once.

You close the book gently, your fingertips resting on the worn leather for a moment longer. This isn’t something you want to rush through alone.

You set it aside carefully, ready to go through it together when he gets home.

He always said he wanted to show you what he was like back then.

–

The front door clicks open at exactly 6:14 p.m.

You hear the familiar jangle of keys, the rustle of his coat as it hits the entryway hook, and then—

“Honeyyyyy,” Satoru’s voice calls out in that signature sing-song tone, the one you always say makes him sound like a bored housewife in a drama. “I’m hooooome and emotionally exhausted!”

You can’t help the smile that breaks over your face. “Kitchen,” you call back.

A beat later, you hear his footsteps pad across the wooden floor — not quite heavy, but still loud enough to announce his presence. He never really learned how to walk quietly. Maybe he just doesn’t want to.

He leans into the doorway like he’s posing for a magazine shoot, white hair tousled from the wind, shirt wrinkled from too many hours slouched at a desk. His jacket’s half-off one shoulder, and his blindfold’s gone — replaced by tinted glasses that slide slightly down his nose as he tilts his head at you.

“Whoa,” he says, deadpan. “Who’s that absolute beauty in my kitchen?”

You snort, stirring the sauce on the stove. “She’s married.”

“Lucky bastard,” he murmurs, crossing the room and slipping his arms around your waist from behind.

His body is warm — always — and it fits against yours like muscle memory. You feel the hard line of his chest, the loose way he rests his chin on your shoulder, the way his breath ghosts against your neck when he exhales like he’s finally safe again.

“Hey,” he says more quietly this time. “Missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.”

“Yeah,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “but that was twelve hours ago and I almost died again from boredom.”

You turn around and press a soft kiss to the spot just below his jaw. “You hungry?”

“Starving. For food and love. In that order, but barely.”

You flick his forehead and he pouts, but he lets go so you can plate the food.

Dinner is nothing fancy — rice, grilled fish, the sauce you were working on, a couple of side dishes you whipped up out of boredom. But Satoru reacts like you’ve served him a five-star meal, moaning dramatically with every bite.

“My beautiful, talented wife,” he groans, flopping sideways in his chair like he’s been slain by deliciousness. “You’re always spoiling me.”

“You spoil yourself,” you mutter, pouring him tea with the practiced grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times. “I saw your UberEats bill last week.”

“Hey,” he says, mouth still full of rice, “those were all emotionally necessary. There was a lot of paperwork. Such labor requires tiramisu.”

“Three separate orders in one day?”

“They were from different places. Variety is key to mental wellness.”

You shoot him a flat look as you sit back down. “Pretty sure buying four desserts doesn’t count as a balanced diet.”

“I got one of them for you.”

“No, you got it for you and said, ‘you can have half if you want.’”

“And you didn’t want it,” he points out smugly. “Which means it became mine by universal law.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. You always sit across from him — it’s become a quiet habit over time, a way to read his expressions even when he’s being dramatic. Like now, when he’s chewing with exaggerated slowness, eyes half-lidded like he’s in some kind of blissful trance.

Sometimes he nudges your foot under the table, tapping his toes against yours like a child trying to get attention without using words.

Other times, like tonight, you catch him staring mid-bite — not in a silly way, but in that strange, still quietness he gets sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. Like there’s a part of him that still can’t believe this is his life now: a warm dinner, soft light, your voice in the kitchen, no curses waiting around the corner.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you set down your chopsticks.

“Hmm?” He blinks, then smiles, and it’s all teeth and softness. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He kicks your shin lightly under the table. “Thinking about how I tricked the prettiest person in the world into marrying me.”

You scoff. “Yeah, still trying to figure that out myself.”

“Oh come on,” he groans, laughing, “at least let me pretend I’m a catch.”

“You are a catch,” you say, voice softer now, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Just… a really expensive one with terrible food delivery habits. And you hog the bathroom a lot.”

He grins and laces his fingers with yours. “I’ll take it.”

After dinner, he insists on helping with the cleanup, which mostly means he dries dishes while doing an elaborate stand-up routine with a tea towel slung over his shoulder like a bartender. You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you feel a cold splash hit your back.

You pause. Slowly turn.

He’s holding the sink hose, blinking innocently.

“…Did you just—?”

“Oh my god,” he gasps, “did someone get wet? That must’ve been a malfunction. Tragic, really.”

You squirt him back instantly. He lets out a squawk like a wet cat, and before long, the floor is a mess, one of you is definitely going to slip and die, and he’s trying to use his body as a shield while cackling like a maniac.

“I live with you,” you mutter, wiping water off your face.

“And what a gift that is,” he says grandly, leaning in to kiss your damp cheek, water droplets still clinging to his ivory eyelashes. “Totally worth the near-death experience.”

You shake your head, but let the moment linger, let him hold you there by the sink, his lips brushing against yours like a silent thanks.

Eventually, he drags you to the bathroom.

The shower is big — another Gojo-specific choice when you built the house. He said he needed “space to dance dramatically during hair-washing.” You hadn’t realized he meant it literally until you walked in one day to find him swaying under the water, humming some ballad with shampoo running down his face.

Tonight, though, it’s quiet.

You both strip down without fanfare. He steps in first, holding out a hand like a gentleman even though he’s already dripping wet. The steam fills the air as you join him, the water warm and soft as it runs over your skin.

You wash his hair, carefully, gently, nails scraping his scalp in slow circles. His eyes are closed the whole time, a rare expression of serenity on his face.

Next up is washing his body — an act you love a bit too much.

His hands are by his sides, water cascading down the large expanse of sinewed muscle and scarred skin. There's a glimpse of a jagged scar that runs diagonally across his collarbone — one of the many pale remnants of the battle that nearly ended everything.

Your fingers brush against it absently, and Satoru doesn’t flinch.

He never hides them anymore — the scars. They scatter across his body now: fine lines, brutal gashes, faded burns. A slash across his abdomen from where Sukuna’s curse split him in two. A jagged cut down his spine that he jokes looks like a zipper. An old puncture near his hip that Shoko sewed shut with her own hands, mumbling curses the whole time.

You’ve memorized each one. Some days you trace them like constellations. Some days he lets you.

He doesn’t talk, not much. Just stands there and lets you take care of him.

Later, he returns the favor — fingers combing through your hair, rinsing soap from your back, holding you steady with his large hands reverently roving across your body when you lean into him just a little too much.

When you’re both towelled off and dressed in pajamas (his: old Jujutsu Tech sweats and a faded tee; yours: one of his shirts and soft shorts), you crawl into bed.

He flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh, limbs sprawling everywhere. You make a sound of protest when his knee knocks into yours, and he just grins at you lazily.

“Can we watch that dumb baking show?” he asks, already pulling the blanket over the two of you.

“The one where they all sabotage each other?”

“Yes. It’s healing. Sorry that I said it was boring before.”

You roll your eyes but grab the remote anyway.

He shifts closer as the episode starts, arm sliding under your neck to pull you in. Your head rests against his chest, and you listen to the steady thrum of his heart, strong and sure beneath old wounds.

“Comfy?” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Good. Stay right there. I had a long day of being the strongest and I need my beautiful wife.”

You laugh into his shirt.

This — the warmth, the closeness, the scent of his skin mixed with soap — this is the part no one sees. Not the world, not his students, not the remnants of the Jujutsu world that still whisper his name like a myth. Just you. Just him.

The baking show is halfway through an episode. Some poor contestant has just dropped their chiffon cake while another is sabotaging the whipped cream station. You’re tucked under the covers, your head resting on Satoru’s shoulder while his arm holds you close, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair. The glow of the TV casts soft light over the room, flickering across the ceiling in pale pastel hues.

You’re warm. Safe. Your husband smells like your shampoo, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest is starting to lull you into that lovely, sleepy post-dinner haze.

But then — like a light flicking on in your brain — you remember.

“Oh!” you sit up suddenly, disrupting the blankets and causing Satoru to yelp, “I almost forgot. I cleaned the attic today.”

He groans like you’ve just committed a war crime. “Babe… why would you voluntarily enter the attic. That’s the one part of this house I refuse to enter.”

You ignore him, already swinging your legs off the bed. “No, listen — I found something. I think you’ll really like it.”

He props himself up on one elbow, squinting through his glasses. “Oh? What is it? Old love letters from your angsty high school boyfriend?”

“You mean the one who cried when he found out I liked Gojo Satoru more than him?” you smirk, heading toward the walk-in closet. “Yeah, no.”

You pad barefoot across the room and slide open the double doors. The closet is huge — because of course it is. Satoru insisted on custom shelving, backlighting, and enough hanging space for what he called his “seasonal drip.” But your things have taken over half of it by now, neatly folded sweaters, coats, your woven baskets for accessories. You had tucked the book on the upper shelf earlier after finishing the attic, too tired to sort through it just yet.

It takes a second of rummaging, but you find it: a thick, heavy photo album with a fabric cover that’s fraying slightly at the edges. You had found it in a box labeled with faded marker: JJT Archives.

As you walk back into the bedroom, Satoru’s sprawled on the bed like a lazy cat, hair wild, blanket pushed down to his waist. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the album.

“Oh? What’s this, a cursed object?”

You roll your eyes, climbing back in beside him.

He smacks your butt lightly as you settle under the covers again.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he grins. “You turned your back on me. That’s an invitation.”

You elbow him in the ribs, but you're smiling. “Figured we could look at it together. I think it’s a photo album of sorts.”

His expression softens instantly. “Yeah? Alright. Let’s see what kind of damage my past self got up to.”

You flip the cover open.

The first photo is grainy and a little off-center — a picture of him and Suguru pulling exaggerated faces at the camera, their expressions wild, faces contorted in a weird expression. Satoru snorts.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “Look at us. I told him I’d look better than him if we both pulled a dumb face.”

You study the image closely. Suguru’s hair is tied up, not unlike most of the photos you’ve seen of him, which were during his time as a wanted criminal.

Satoru’s laugh fades into something quieter.

“That was my old phone. Shoko looked at this picture and said we looked ‘ugly enough to preserve for future generations.’”

The next is a selfie — Satoru smiling into the camera in his black sunglasses, unlike the round ones he wears to protect his sensitive eyes. Suguru is beside him with sunglasses, and Nanami just barely in frame, scowling at the lens like he’s half being forced at gunpoint to participate and half wanting to do it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, amused. “Kento looks so cute. His hairstyle… He definitely had an emo phase.”

“Because he was,” Satoru grins. “And he did have an emo phase. The amount of Visual Kei he listened to… We made him go shopping with us in Harajuku that day. Got the sunnies as a treat for doing well on the mission. And because they were on sale.”

You both laugh, the warmth lingering even as the sound fades. You flip the page.

This one’s softer: Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru sitting at a dinner table at someone’s house, a dinner spread between them — looks very much like homemade food. It’s candid. Suguru’s laughing at something and posing with a peace sign. Shoko’s mid-clap, mouth open in laughter. Nanami looks slightly more relaxed than usual, a peace sign on his fingers too. Satoru’s grinning widely, and your heart melts at how lively his smile used to be when he was a teen.

“That was Shoko’s family house,” Satoru murmurs. “She invited us over after a mission. She lived nearby. We just… stayed. Slept in her living room. Talked until like, three in the morning.”

“She really was part of your trio, wasn’t she?” you say softly.

He nods. “Yeah. People always think it was just me and Suguru. But Shoko was there too. She was always there. Holding us together.”

You flip to the next: the entrance ceremony.

A selfie again — this time it looks like Shoko’s doing. They're all grinning like idiots. Principal Yaga is in a corner. Suguru is holding up a peace sign. Shoko’s teeth are out as she grins. Satoru, front and center, is glowing with the kind of cocky, pure-hearted energy only youth can give you, throwing a thumbs up, rounded glasses slipping down his nose.

“Your smile is so big in these, sweetheart. You look beautiful when you smile,” you say softly.

Satoru presses a kiss to your neck in quiet thanks, arm coming around your waist as you both continue flipping through the album.

The next photo is pure chaos: Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara standing in the bathroom mirror, toothbrushes in their mouths. Looks like they were having a sleepover of some sort.

You let out a startled laugh.

“Oh my god, you guys are so cute. Was it a sleepover?”

“It was,” Satoru says. “Haibara had to practically force Nanami to come. Too bad Shoko and Utahime couldn’t come. For some reason, dorm restrictions were actually quite strict — not that we’d ever do anything like that. We were like a family.”

You laugh, squeezing his knee under the blankets.

You keep going.

A photo of Suguru with his hair mussed, smiling into the camera like he doesn’t know it’s pointed at him. It's intimate — the angle low, soft light filtering in.

Satoru's voice drops. “I took that. We’d just woken up from a nap in the common room. He hated being caught without brushing his hair, but… he let me keep it. He never had a bad hair day, you know? Was always so particular about it. Only used a specific shampoo that he said his mother would buy for him in the countryside.”

He goes quiet for a long moment, hand flexing slightly on the luminescent film of the album page.

“He really loved his mom.”

You rest your cheek against his arm.

There’s a photo of Shoko tying her Converse, crouched down, her fingers deft and focused. It's an ordinary moment — a cute smile on her face — but something about it feels lived-in. Real.

“Shoko loved this pair,” he chuckles. “She wore them to annoy the elders. They claimed proper shoes were needed if we were to go on missions.”

You grin. “Respect.”

The next is crowded: all of them standing outside a classroom door. Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, Haibara, and Satoru — shoulder to shoulder, smiling like they’re just normal teenagers, not the weapons the Jujutsu world molded them into.

The key highlight of the photo is Satoru’s arms are around Suguru and he has this big, goofy smile on his lips.

“I can’t believe they’re all…” you trail off.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away.

You glance up.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are wet.

“They were… good. All of them,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper. “They should’ve had more time.”

You nod, curling into his side.

Another photo makes you both pause. It's taken from behind: Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko in matching red soccer jerseys, standing on a field. They're holding up peace signs with their backs to the camera. You can almost hear their laughter, imagine the mud on their shoes, the heat of the sun.

You run your hand down the page.

You flip through more: snapshots of their friend group — sleeping, on trips, in classrooms, in ceremonies. Candid, fleeting, young.

And then — the final ones: close-ups of Suguru.

Photos taken with quiet intention. One where he's clearly caught off guard. One where he's looking out from the bridge. Another where his back is to the camera and he has a small bear keychain on his bag. The sight makes your stomach clench.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does Satoru.

The weight of the past settles thick in the room, like dust stirred from an old shelf. The baking show continues on in the background — a contestant shouting about a collapsed ganache — but it feels distant. Muted. Like it belongs to someone else’s life.

Your hand finds his where it’s resting on the bedspread. His fingers twitch, then curl slowly around yours.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet in that particular way he gets when he’s fighting to stay intact — jaw locked, mouth set, shoulders wound tight with grief. His eyes are glassy, tracking the same photo over and over, like he’s trying to memorize it before it disappears.

Nanami with his dumb emo haircut. His peace signs. Haibara’s joy, how young he looked when he laughed. Suguru’s sleepy, messy hair. That crooked smile. The ghost of laughter in his eyes.

It’s rare to see Satoru this still. Not just physically — but inside. No quip. No grin. Just silence, and the slow breathing of someone on the edge of something sharp.

“I used to think,” he says eventually, voice hoarse, “that we’d grow old together.”

You don’t interrupt. You let the words come, raw and aching.

“Me, Suguru, Shoko,” he murmurs. “Nanami and Haibara. I pictured it sometimes. Thought we’d be old and bitter and still calling each other dumbasses over desserts. Thought maybe… maybe we’d all be able to come back from the shit we did. Thought we’d last”.

He pauses, taking in a deep breath.

“Thought I could save him.”

Your thumb strokes his knuckles.

He blinks fast. Swallows hard.

“I see these pictures and I—I forget he’s gone. Just for a second. And then it hits me all over again. Every fucking time.”

You press your forehead gently to his shoulder. “He was your best friend.”

A hollow laugh escapes him. It sounds like it hurts. “He was everything. The only person who ever really… got me. Not the strongest. Not Gojo Satoru. Just… me.”

You wait.

You let the silence stretch — thick, aching, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“I hate that I still miss him,” Satoru finally says, voice raw. “I hate that he left. I hate that I couldn’t stop him. But I miss him. Every day. Like an ache in my ribs I forget about until I breathe too deep.”

You turn toward him, hand still wrapped in his. He looks like he’s trying to hold himself together with nothing but willpower — a man who’s used to keeping the world up with one hand, now struggling just to hold his own heart in place.

“I miss him too,” you whisper. “I never even met him — but with the way you talk about him, I miss him too. I miss him for what he meant to you. For who he must’ve been, to leave this much of a mark.”

His breath falters. A quiet shudder works through him. You lean up and kiss his cheek, slow and steady, then press another to his temple, just where his hair is growing back in, short and soft. He leans into it, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded — like he’s been brittle for a while now and you’re the only thing keeping him from cracking open.

“He would’ve loved this house,” he murmurs, voice thick. “He’d pretend it was too flashy. Say I was compensating for something. But then he’d steal all the good tea and claim it was just to humble me.”

You smile gently, warm against the side of his face. “Well. You do have terrible spending habits.”

That gets a sound out of him — a real laugh, shaky and low in his chest. He presses his forehead to yours.

“He’d have hated the mirror in our bathroom.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, the faintest curve to his lips. “Would’ve said it makes me look even more insufferable than usual.”

You laugh. “To be fair, you are insufferable.”

“Mm. Don’t forget stunning.”

“Of course,” you breathe. “That’s a given. My beautiful, insufferable husband.”

You kiss away some of the tears that have fallen down his pale, scared face, wiping away the tracks as you pull back.

The silence settles again, softer this time. You tug the blanket higher over both of you. His thumb is rubbing slow circles against the back of your hand now — absent, but insistent. Like he’s anchoring himself to you, to this moment, to anything that won’t vanish like the rest.

You watch his face, watch the way his expression drifts somewhere far away and comes back a little more worn every time. A man standing in the ruins of his past, trying to build something worth living in.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He turns, only slightly. But it’s enough. His eyes find yours — wide, blue, shining a little too much even in the low light. You see everything there. The love, the grief, the guilt, the ache. The part of him that never really left that bridge. That battlefield. That moment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s seeing the future and the past crash into each other in the shape of your smile.

And then, after a long beat:

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

His hand lifts — trembling just faintly — and he cups your cheek. His thumb swipes gently across your skin, reverent. Then he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and careful, like he’s sealing something sacred inside you. A promise. A memory. A hope.

The baking show buzzes quietly in the background, someone yelling about a collapsed meringue, the absurdity of it all somehow making it feel more real — more here. More now.

Grief still sits in the room, thick like fog, but it no longer feels unbearable. It lingers, yes, but it’s softened at the edges by something gentler. Something like love. Something like healing.

You curl back into him, resting your head against his chest. His hand comes up to cradle your back without thinking. His heartbeat drums steadily beneath your ear — a rhythm that tells you he’s still here. Still trying. Still holding on.

You hold each other in that silence. In that ache. And in the quiet miracle of still being able to love, even when it hurts.

You close the album gently, smoothing your hand over the cover like it’s sacred. And maybe it is. The only reliquary you have left of those years — of who he was, of who they all were, when the world was still a little less cruel.

Satoru shifts a little closer, nosing into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to burrow into the safest place he knows. His hand finds your waist beneath the covers and rests there, thumb absently stroking small circles against your skin.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Mm?”

“Do you think we’ll still be like this when we’re old? All wrinkly and stubborn and falling asleep at nine?”

You smile into the dark. “We already fall asleep at nine.”

He laughs — a soft, sleepy sound. “Okay, fair. But I mean like… old-old. Like, arguing about soup and forgetting where we put our keys kind of old.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, hair messy and soft and just barely starting to silver at the edges. You think about him with deeper lines around his eyes, laugh lines etched into his skin from years of grinning too wide.

“I think we’ll be annoying,” you say.

“Hell yeah.”

“Annoying and still obsessed with each other.”

“Obviously.”

“Still holding hands in public and making waiters uncomfortable.”

“I plan on kissing you in every checkout line we ever stand in,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to your shoulder to prove it.

You laugh softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love that about me.”

You turn in his arms until you’re face to face. His eyes are warm in the dim light, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I do,” you murmur. “I love everything about you.”

He leans in, kisses you — slow and unhurried. Not out of need, but out of affection. Out of something deeper. His hand cradles your jaw as he does it again, then again, softer each time, like he’s trying to say things he doesn’t have words for.

You kiss him back, just as slow.

He pulls back only slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“I want it all with you,” he says. “The boring parts. The little arguments. Taxes. Grocery lists and laundry days and late-night walks when we can’t sleep. All of it. I want to grow old with you.”

Your throat tightens, but not from grief this time. From something tender. Something whole.

“You have me,” you whisper. “For as long as we both get.”

He kisses you again, this time on your nose. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Then your lips again, just because he can.

Eventually, you settle into the silence, warm and safe under the covers, his arm around your waist and your head tucked beneath his chin. His breathing evens out first, deep and steady, but his hold on you never loosens.

You stay awake a little longer, just watching him. Memorizing the curve of his mouth, the softness in his face, the way he looks at peace when he’s finally, finally allowed to rest.

And before you let yourself drift too, you whisper it one last time, just to be sure he hears it — even if he’s already asleep.

“I’ll love you when we’re old. And after that, too.”

And in his sleep, Satoru smiles.

u guys i'm genuinely sooo devastated over jjk it isnt funny i cried to sleep the other night thinking abt satoru :)

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