For a while now, I've been thinking that my main blog is kinda clogged up with things not related to otome (it's in the name after all), so, after some very hard consideration, I've decided to make a separate blog for things not related to otome things, to bring back the otome blog as it was originally intended.
Doesn't mean that I'm gonna go and deleted every non-otome related post on the old girl (there's already over 7,000 posts there), but it is going to have more of a focus on otome things from now on.
So, if you wanna keep seeing the random things that are not otome related that I reblog, you can follow this blog instead!
On a related note, I'll also be posting all writings from my @not-krys blog, then reblogging the otome stuff to the main blog (@krys-loves-otome ) while non-otome writings and things will be reblogged from here.
When a Character is Falling in Love but Doesn’t Trust It
Love is terrifying. Especially for characters who’ve been hurt, shut down, or raised to believe vulnerability is weakness. So when they start falling? It doesn’t look like a Disney montage. It looks like panic in slow motion.
✧ They start noticing everything and it unsettles them.
The way their voice cracks when they laugh. The way their fingers tap when they’re thinking. These little details burrow in and refuse to leave. And that awareness makes the character feel exposed.
✧ They become hyperaware of their own body.
Where their hands are. How close they’re standing. If they’re blushing. It’s like being inside a body that’s betraying them constantly.
✧ They act a little mean.
Not because they are mean. But because being cold is safer than being real. Sarcasm, distance, teasing, they use it like armor.
✧ They hate how much they want to share things.
They’ll see a funny meme and instinctively want to send it. Then stop. No. Don’t get attached. They want to tell them about a childhood memory, then bite it back. Too personal.
✧ They become inconsistent.
Warm one moment, distant the next. Showing up, then pulling away. They’re testing how much of themselves they can reveal before it feels like too much.
✧ They assume the worst.
They know it won’t last. That this person will leave. That they’re misreading everything. Love doesn’t feel safe, it feels like a countdown to pain.
✧ They self-sabotage.
Pick fights. Flake on plans. Pull away emotionally just to “protect themselves” before it goes wrong. It’s tragic and messy and real.
✧ They notice silence more.
What wasn’t said. A delayed reply. A joke that didn’t land. Everything becomes a sign that maybe this love thing was a mistake.
✧ They want to run, but never do.
The desire to bolt is constant. But they don’t. Because something about this person is pulling them back, despite every warning bell going off in their head.
✧ They don’t trust the feeling, but they keep falling anyway.
And that’s what makes it beautiful. And heartbreaking. Because they don’t want to fall. But they do. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bravest thing they’ve ever done.
You ever watch someone hold in a scream behind their teeth? That’s her, constantly.
✧ She starts choosing her words like landmines. Each one is sharp, controlled, and timed like a threat. She’s learned that being polite won’t get her listened to, but sounding like you might flip a table will.
✧ She’s mastered the art of the silence that feels loud. Doesn’t fill awkward gaps. Just lets the discomfort sit in the air like smoke.
✧ She explains things with forced calm, the kind that sounds like a teacher asking a second-grade class why the hamster is missing.
✧ She notices interruptions like bruises. She doesn’t react to them anymore, not out loud. But you can bet she counts them.
✧ She repeats herself less. Not because they understood her the first time. Because they never listened anyway.
✧ She’s learned how to weaponize eye contact. Not in a sexy way. In a “I will set this boardroom on fire with my mind” way.
✧ Her voice only shakes when she’s deciding if it’s worth the explosion.
➤ Who’s Been Called ‘Too Much’ Her Whole Life
She isn’t too much. She’s just tired of shrinking for people who were never going to make room anyway.
✧ She says the thing you’re not supposed to say. Then stares at you to see what you’ll do with it.
✧ She’s loud with her laugh, loud with her grief, loud with her love, because if she’s going to be punished for being “extra,” she might as well be honest about it.
✧ She over-explains. Over-apologizes. Then catches herself and stops halfway through the sentence.
✧ She tries to “tone it down” and ends up sounding like a censored version of herself, bland, miserable, unfinished.
✧ She edits her texts four times, deletes the paragraph, sends “haha ok :)” instead.
✧ She keeps her hands busy because otherwise they’d be doing something reckless.
✧ She overcompensates with sarcasm and then goes home and wonders if everyone hates her.
✧ She’s loved fiercely. Regretted it more fiercely.
✧ She walks into a room like she owns it, and then spends the entire time wondering if she should have stayed home.
➤ Who Wants to Be Soft but Doesn’t Feel Safe
She's gentle, but that gentleness lives under twenty layers of armor. And most people never even get past the first.
✧ She’s careful with her compliments, she knows how people weaponize kindness.
✧ She keeps her vulnerability behind locked doors and guards them with jokes, sarcasm, and “I’m just tired.”
✧ She’ll comfort others like she was born to do it, but flinch if someone offers her the same.
✧ She avoids mirrors on bad days. Eye contact on good ones.
✧ She cries where no one can see. Car bathrooms. Locked bedrooms. Grocery store parking lots at night.
✧ She doesn’t ask for help. Not because she doesn’t need it, but because the last time she did, it came with a price.
✧ She’s soft with animals, with children, with strangers, but not herself. Never herself.
✧ She daydreams about being taken care of, then immediately gets mad at herself for wanting something so “weak.”
✧ She wants love, but she’s terrified of being known. Because if someone really saw her? What if they didn’t stay?
And if you’re sitting there reading all of that thinking, “God, I don’t even know how to write women like this…” Please know: you’re not alone. Like, really not alone.
Writing female characters in a way that feels true, nuanced, and unapologetically real isn’t just about avoiding clichés. It’s about unlearning everything you were taught about what women are “supposed” to be on the page. It’s about getting underneath the polish. Past the performative strength. Past the “she’s not like other girls” and the “strong but broken” tropes. Past the idea that softness is weakness and rage is unlikable.
So many people struggle with this, not because they don’t care, but because no one ever really taught them how to see women as people first.
A lot of us grew up reading female characters written through a lens that flattened us. Made us background noise, love interests, plot devices, or emotionally bulletproof when we weren’t emotionally unstable. It’s no wonder we’re all trying to figure out how to do better now. I write a Book about How to Write Women that feel Alive... For you.
In the chapters ahead, we’re going to unravel that mess, together (Promise). We’ll talk about...
❥ Tropes — the ones worth reclaiming, and the ones you can toss into the fire.
❥ The psychology of a woman — how conditioning, survival, identity, and inner conflict shape her from the inside out.
❥ Female vs. male conflict — not in a “boys suck” way, but in a “our emotional battlegrounds are different and that matters” way.
❥ Expectations — society’s, her own, and how characters shrink or shatter under them.
❥ Emotions as strength — especially the ones she was taught to hide: fear, grief, longing, joy, rage.
❥ Female anger — what happens when she finally stops holding it in.
❥ Archetypes — and how to subvert them without erasing the truths they come from.
❥ Female friendships — no more cardboard “bestie” side characters.
❥ Romantic relationships — what it means when she’s finally seen. Chosen. Or rejected.
❥Mothers, daughters, and sisters — because female relationships deserve more than being backstory.
❥ Dialogue — how she speaks when she’s safe vs. when she’s scared.
❥ Inner conflict and development — her arc isn’t about fixing her. It’s about letting her evolve.
❥ Writing exercises — to help you get past the noise and write from a place that feels real.
❥ A full checklist for writing female OCs — layered, powerful, contradictory, alive.
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This isn’t a rulebook. It’s a guide. A toolbox. A comfort blanket. A callout. A reminder that writing women doesn’t have to feel impossible, you just have to be willing to look a little deeper.
So if you’ve ever felt stuck writing a female character… If you’ve defaulted to tropes because you didn’t know how else to make her “interesting”… If you’ve erased her emotions to make her “strong”… Or if you’ve stared at the page wondering why she still doesn’t feel real...This book is for you.
And I promise, by the time you reach the last chapter?
You’ll not only know how to write her.
You’ll understand her.
And maybe even see a little of yourself in the process.
You first notice it in the small things. When Gojo comes back from his week-long trip with his old friends, he’s still his loud, overbearing self—the same man who insists on hugging you from behind when you’re cooking, the same one who leaves his socks everywhere, and the same one who refuses to let you watch an episode of anything without him.
But… he’s off.
It’s the way he pauses before answering questions, like he’s searching for the right response. The way he laughs, still loud and boisterous, but a beat too late, like an echo of someone else’s joy. The way his kisses feel different—not bad, not wrong, but strange. Colder somehow, more deliberate, like he’s mimicking something he remembers instead of something he feels.
You chalk it up to exhaustion. Jet lag, maybe.
Then there are the little habits he seems to… forget.
Gojo never sleeps on his back—he always curls into you, sprawling, stealing every inch of bed space. But now? You wake up at 3 AM, and he’s lying flat, arms stiff at his sides, staring at the ceiling. Awake. Quiet. He doesn’t even blink when you whisper his name. A chill runs down your spine, but the next morning, he’s back to humming while brushing his teeth, flashing his usual cocky grin.
You let it go. You want to let it go. Until the movie night. . .
It’s nothing serious, just the two of you curled up on the couch with a blanket, half-watching some B-grade horror flick while you shovel roasted peanuts into your mouth. Gojo has his long legs thrown across your lap, whining about jump scares being predictable, reaching over to steal from your bowl like always.
You don’t even notice at first. It’s only when your hand brushes his as you both reach for another handful that you pause. Your heart lurches. . .
Gojo Satoru is deathly allergic to peanuts. He can’t even be in the same room if someone cracks open a jar of peanut butter. You’ve spent years making sure none of your takeout orders have touched nuts. He once broke out in hives just from kissing you after you ate a Snickers.
But here he is. Popping them into his mouth like candy. Chewing. Swallowing. Smiling. You freeze, staring at him, bowl trembling in your lap. “Babe?” you whisper.
He turns his head lazily, flashing that perfect grin you’ve seen a thousand times—but now it feels wrong. Like a mask pulled too tight over someone else’s face. “Yeah?”
The word is so normal. So casual. But your stomach twists because now you see it—all the little things you brushed aside. His laugh a beat too late. His kisses that feel rehearsed. The way he stares just a second too long, like he’s waiting for you to notice something.And now… The peanuts.
This isn’t your boyfriend.
This isn’t Gojo.
The realization sinks into your bones like ice water. The thing sitting beside you isn’t him.
And the worst part? It knows you know.
Because as you watch, his smile doesn’t falter. Doesn’t slip. It just widens—slow, deliberate, stretching far too wide as his hand dips into the bowl again, crunching down on another peanut without breaking eye contact.
Devil on your shoulder!Sukuna who scoffs when you let someone bump into you on the streets without apologising. He asks, “Are you a fucking pussy or what?”
Devil on your shoulder!Sukuna who whispers the most violent thoughts right by your ear. He tells you to rip apart the teacher who graded you lower than you deserve, to punch the girl who took your seat, to drop kick the man who stared at you a little too long at a cafe.
When you don’t do as he says, you can almost hear the pout in his voice. “This is why your life fucking sucks, woman. You don’t stand up for yourself. Pathetic.”
Devil on your shoulder!Sukuna is almost always disappointed in you for choosing the pacifist and hippie lifestyle. For example, when you choose to help an old lady cross the street even though it means you’ll be late for a job interview, he’s hissing insults left and right. If you give up the last slice of pizza to a friend, you’re called ‘worthless’ and are warned that when the time comes for said friend to give you the last slice you should hold your breath.
Devil on your shoulder!Sukuna who is oddly impressed when he manages to convince you to buy the red lace set from your favourite boutique. He had no idea that telling you red is your colour would be all it’d take.
“Hmm…not bad,” he mutters, sounding somewhat distracted as you stare at yourself in the mirror. The material hugs your curves just right, the garter digging ever so slightly on your plush thighs, and the sheer cups pushing your tits to a close spill.
You feel power surging through you. Something about the sudden silence as you both take your new form in is making your skin tingle.
Devil on your shoulder!Sukuna begins to whisper a different type of message to you. “You’re pitiful; I bet you can’t make yourself cum without using a toy.”
And…
“Social hermit can’t spread her legs any wider? Hell, you need to exercise more. Go on, spread them, show me how you’ve soaked your skimpy panties.”
Goosebumps rise where you feel his voice grazing your skin, pulling you deeper and deeper into depravity as you do as he says on the bed, legs wide and welcoming a breeze where you’re wettest. Your reflection shows exactly how much you’ve darkened the lace – it’s hugging your puffy lips, hiding nothing to your view, and his.
“Mmm, fuck. Pull it to the side. What are you waiting for?” You hear a low groan by your head, a hellish warmth engulfing your back. Obscene sounds echo when you pull the material away, staring at your most sensitive part in the mirror. There’s no denying it; you’re drenched. “Think an orgasm is gonna find its way to you or something? Get to it, idiot. Touch yourself. Your fucking clit is begging for it. See how she’s pulsing? Don’t disappoint her like everyone else in your life.”
SQUELCHHHH!
Your juices stick to your fingers, easing the tight circles you rub on the bundle of nerves. A whimper escapes you. Fuck, why does it feel so good to actually listen to him? Why is the observant glare of his invisible eyes urging you to cup your tit, groping the way you think he would?
Devil on your shoulder!Sukuna laughs, sharp and mocking. “Poor little virgin ain’t ever been touched before, has she? ‘Course not. Ain’t nobody stupid enough to go near you. If I could touch you, I’d show you exactly what your anti-social ass is missing out on. The rewards you could be reaping if you weren’t such a damn coward.”
Sloppy and uncoordinated, you chase after your orgasm, rubbing faster and faster until all you can hear is how your cunt gushes, putting on a damn good show for your audience.
“Play with your tits, baby. That’s it. There you go. That feels good, doesn’t it?”
When you cum, body quivering and eyes rolled to the back of your head, you swear you can feel scalding heat spray onto your body, a bead of something punishing dripping down to your clit. You look down, panting. There’s nothing but your own puddle pooling on the sheets.
Devil on your shoulder!Sukuna grunts. “G-go clean yourself up. You’re a mess.”
Why does he sound so sheepish?
And out of breath?
And why is a lock of your hair moving behind your ear?
in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic
pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader
summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved—
until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?
warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied
a/n i'll see u at the end :3
December 23, 2018.
“How do you feel?”
The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.
The stars were really bright that day.
The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.
Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.
“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”
You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?
It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.
He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”
You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.
“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”
What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.
It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.
At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”
You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”
“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”
Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”
“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.”
“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly.
“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.
You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”
There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,
I love you.
It goes unsaid.
Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.
You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.
“Always.”
December 24, 2018.
He looks like he’s watching the sky again.
You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.
But you know better. And still, you wait.
Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.
His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.
The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.
But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.
You were going to plant them for him every spring.
You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.
You were going to grow old together.
Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.
“I’ll go,” you say.
It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.
“I said I’ll go.”
You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him.
You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.
As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.
You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.
You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”
You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.
You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.
Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.
So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.
When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.
You just think: I kept my promise.
I waited.
Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:
Let us try again.
Please—let us try again.
…
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
You wake up from your dream, gasping.
The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.
It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.
What a weird fucking dream.
One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid.
From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?
You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.
Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.
Gojo.
A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.
What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.
Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?
You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—
It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.
Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.
And notice immediately that you are going to be late.
Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet.
When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.
Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.
Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.
You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.
His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?”
“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”
As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.
Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.
You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”
You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.
Gojo.
Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name.
But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—
This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.
Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.
Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”
Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles.
It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.
He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.
But you do.
When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.
Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”
And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.
So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?
Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”
You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.
Respectfully, what the fuck.
As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.
Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”
You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.
His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”
Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.
And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.
It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.
Then, a vision.
It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.
A bed.
It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—
The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.
You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left.
Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.
Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.
In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.
next. the aftermath (soon!)
a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!
to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.
The clingiest man ever. He’ll scream your name like an excited fangirl and throw himself all around you after not seeing you for a few hours, acting like it’s been ages since he’s seen you.
He absolutely adores cuddles. In public, in private, in mornings, in evenings, doesnt matter. He doesnt mind being either small or big spoon, any is fine as long as it’s you and you’re comfortable. All that’s important is that he can be all over you.
If you want him to melt, truly the simplest affection will do wonders. Looking out for him expecially; poor guys so used to being treated like a weapon, he’s got hearts in his eyes when you bring him a proper meal bragging about how he doesnt eat anything but sweets.
*deep breath* Though the risk is small, raw eggs can carry samonella.
MORE THREATENINGLY Raw wheat can carry E. Coli. However, if you don’t mind making your own cookie dough, you can easily make it safely.
Take your standard recipe. Omit the eggs. Eggs serve as a binding agent to hold the cookie together. Since we’re eating the dough raw, that’s not needed. Take the flour, put it in a pan and bake it at 350 for 7 minutes. Any E. Coli is now dead.
Just mix the rest of the ingredients together as the recipe is called for and BAM, perfectly safe edible cookie dough.
