horror? creepy entity gojo, grandma got possessed or traumatized ig, mentions of mold, blood
wc: 1.2k
i wrote this at night when they cut off the electricity so i was sweating bullets writing this hoping the monsters didn't come take me too 🥀 i wrote this on a whim then got inspired by the pale visitor from ninah then the entity from (dont) open your eyes and uhh yeah. tokyo rev fic coming up next i think.
The distant ticking of the grandfather clock sounded all throughout the moldy house, making the lugubrious night ever more frightening. You nestled deeper into the thick blankets, insomnia preventing you from entering the awaited dreamland, and breathed in the musty air.
Your grandmother’s house was full of ancient relics and gimmicks, objects that could be considered artifacts, and it was just your luck that she had called you to help her sort them out and maybe sell them. The money wasn’t for her of course, she didn’t have long to live — neither was it for any of her children or grandchildren — so you often wondered who she was doing all this pointless changing for. Or perhaps, what... she was doing this for.
You felt beads of sweat roll down your forehead, dripping to your neck. It was hot, that was true, but you suspected it had to do with fear as well. You weren’t alone in that room, and as if fate read your thoughts, you heard a small scratching under your bed, as if taunting you about the fact that you knew.
What it was — or who it was — making that noise, you didn’t know, but it wasn’t the first time it’s done this. Only the fourth night in your grandmother’s house, and you honestly felt as if you would bolt the second dawn broke. Three days left, but many things could happen in three days and you weren’t sure you wanted to know them.
Uncomfortable in the stiff position you’d been stuck in, you shifted yourself, making the bed creak and the scratching stop. But just when you thought you would get a moment of peace, the scratching resumed, much louder this time.
You couldn’t take it anymore. The heat, the mold, the scratching, and the damn ticking of the clock.
“Stop,” you said out loud, staring at the damp ceiling, voice trembling a little with fear. “I’m trying to sleep and you're not helping.”
The scratching stopped once again, enveloping the room in a sort of thick silence filled with the despair of the unknown, of not knowing what’s to come next, of this being perhaps your last night. What a lovely way to end your life, provoking an entity.
There was a sound of movement and floor boards creaking as whatever was under your bed did its best to get out of it and in the corner of your eyes, you could see something large and ghastly moving.
Letting out a little gasp, you closed your eyes shut, hoping that it would repel the scratching creature, but you knew it was for naught. The shuffling continued until it stopped abruptly. You could hear heavy breathing right next to your ear and you kept your eyes tightly shut.
“Open… your eyes…” a gravelly voice rasped directly into your ears, making you involuntarily shudder.
Neither of you did or said anything after that, and there was now an eerie silence present in the room, the ticking not even audible anymore.
“Open...them” the voice commanded again, insistent, dragging what seemed to be a sharp nail against your skin to the point where it drew blood.
Your eyes flew open and you felt the trickle of a small, crimson bead down your cheek, moving slowly to warn you of the horrors that were to come if you did not listen to the voice next to you.
“Good… now turn.”
You really didn’t want to. You wanted to dash to your grandmother’s room, seeking comfort in her warm arms as she lulled you to sleep with lullabies and reassurances that there was absolutely nothing under the bed. And she’d double check to make sure. That was the grandma you’d grew up with. This one… was different, and not in a good way.
Shakily inhaling, you slowly turned your head only to meet the brightest, most illuminating ocean eyes you've ever seen. They were too blue to be true, like an undiscovered gem of lapis lazuli, fervently glowing the dark and inviting you to get lost in the swirls of blue ecstasy. The little light it provided allowed you to see the messy strands of white hair adorning his head, and if it wasn’t for you knowing his true nature, you would’ve thought he was a model.
He grinned, revealing pearly white teeth, deeply unsettling you with their whiteness. Like his eyes, they glowed, allowing you to see a miniature reflection of yourself in them. Your eyes darted back to his but even looking at them made yours hurt.
“I have been… observing you.”
“…I can tell,” you whispered.
He chuckled a bit, if the noise he emitted from his mouth could even be considered such a term, but for the lack of words to describe the monstrous and inhuman noise, chuckling would be the equivalent.
"You intrigue me."
A pause.
"What even are you?"
"Human... of course."
"No, you're not."
"You are right. I am not."
Your blood ran ice cold at those words even if you already knew he wasn't normal.
"What did you do to my grandma? She's not the same."
"She doesn't have much longer to live so I..."
He trailed off, staring at you and you realized this was one of those questions you weren’t sure you wanted the answer to.
“I’ve dedicated... my love for you," he deflected, smile growing ever wider. "Would you like to see?”
No! Your body screamed at you to say, refuse! Turn around and pretend it’s all in your head!
But your fear of disappointing him eventually took over the commands, and you had no choice but to obey like a puppet to escape the consequences.
“S-sure?”
His face didn’t change but his eyes flickered with satisfaction. Before you knew what was happening, you felt his arms wrap around you, hands ripping through the mattress to get a better hold of you as his nails pierced your skin as well. You felt yourself getting lifted up into the air before slowly descending… under the bed.
The gap between the bed and the floor was large enough for a small suitcase to fit in, so both you and him found it comfortably easy to slide in. You were trembling in fear but he paid no mind to it, took one of your hands and touched the carvings he made on the wood.
You were confused at first what you were tracing but you soon caught on.
Satoru…Gojo? You assumed that was his name. Your finger traced some more and your heart fell to your stomach when you recognized your own name too. He guided you all throughout the wood of the bed, as it wasn’t just in one place but rather everywhere, every inch, every corner; every free space he could find, he wrote on it.
Your names were always together paired with other words such as love, loyalty, or mine. It gave you the chills, but what could you do in the arms of an infatuated monster?
But you gasped in horror as you traced the forever written in capitals, your name and his written around it like small cupids hovering near an Aphrodite.
He giggled in your ear, the raspy sound making you flinch as it grated on your ears like nails on a chalkboard.
“You and me, forever."
guyz, did i cook or not. should i stick to fluff and angst instead.
a premonition of love ; the sense upon meeting for the first time that you will inevitably fall in love one day
a mini collection of long oneshots set in the same timeline ; modern au (no curses) ; each story involves grief and mourning ; fem!reader
the ruins during a starry night ノ gojō satoru
cw. friends with benefits, obsessive behaviour
winter reminds me of you ノ getō suguru
cw. angst, depression, emotional dependency
found in sunflowers ノ higuruma hiromi
cw. single mother, slice of life
flowers for the graveyard ノ kamo chōsō
cw. substance abuse, depression, slice of life
note. this will take me a long time to write (slowest writer ever) ;; i suspect that each story will probably be around 10k – 20k words & content and characters may be changed／added
The days leading up to the summer of your third year are covered by a veil of melancholy and youth. July, summer is slow, the air is thicker, and time continues to move around you, but not you.
Arriving at school late two days in a row, the third time this month alone, and the displeased results of you “forgetting” to hand in your career plan once again had led the school counselor to say you aren’t taking your future seriously, and while you argued — his words are undeniably true. The future after high school scares you; a blank canvas stares back at you. As result of your repeated carelessness, you get assigned to cleaning duty during the first week of summer break, while everyone is at the beach or training in their clubs. It is better than him calling home, though.
You don’t think you could stomach the disappointment on your mother’s face once again.
(“Redo your career plan by the end of the break,” your homeroom teacher says.)
Ringing of the bell, students running through the halls, summer in the air, faces full of joy.
Club activities are always held after school — but today is a special day, so many have returned home. There’s faint laughter and shouts being heard from the fields. A group of girls, you think it might be the track and field team.
Far from the field, you are stuck cleaning the outdoor pool. A week of days filled with cleaning, and cleaning, and cleaning. And then, more cleaning.
“Yahoo,” a voice startles you from your thoughts. “You are on cleaning duty? All alone?”
You jump in surprise, startled as you didn't think there was anyone nearby. Turning your head, you see him: Oikawa Tōru, the Golden Boy of Miyagi.
Messy brown hair sticking to his forehead, a plain white t-shirt and shorts, a water bottle in hand — the boy’s volleyball team must be practicing, too.
“Oikawa-san,” you mumble to yourself, surprised at his appearance.
His eyes widen a little, and he smiles at you. Bright. Easy. Welcoming. “Hi, you know me?”
“We were in the same class in junior high,” you simply reply. You guess you aren't really surprised that he doesn’t remember your face, you looked a little different back then.
His smile falters. Mouth opening, then closing. Repeating again. Your heart drops a little at the sight — you aren't sure why. “Oh, so—”
“It’s fine, really,” you cut off his apology, attempting to avoid and move on from the awkwardness brewing. Though, his smile is gone, and you can tell he either feels bad or awkward, maybe both. “Trust me. I don’t even think we’ve spoken a word to each other.” And it is true. You think the only words spoken to each other were ‘Good morning,’ and other classmates were there, too.
But then again, maybe it is a little embarrassing that your face is so blurred to an old classmate, your presence left no ounce of spark. Your grandmother used to call you a wallflower, and you think she is right, and maybe a small part of you hates that.
“Oh, but you knew of me?” He asks, sporting his usual grin, a little strained. He is teasing, you realise, his attempt to lighten the mood.
Even if you weren't in the same class, you would know his name. It’s hard to find someone in this school who doesn’t know of him.
It’s hard to separate Oikawa from the image of Aoba Josai’s Golden Boy: smart, tall, attractive, athletic (he’s the captain of the volleyball team), and most notably popular. Well-liked by both the student body, and teachers. Oikawa isn’t just a normal teenager (like you, like everyone else) – he appears in the monthly volleyball magazine often, or so you’ve heard, and even features on Sta Miyagi. You two are the same age, not yet adults, too old to be just kids, and he is far, far ahead — chasing stars.
Admiration and envy mix inside of you.
You decide to play along with him, reciting, “It’s hard not to when Oikawa Toru’s favourite food is milk bread.”
For a second, you think he may be flustered, or it is the sun beaming that causes his cheeks to be faintly pink. But he then gives you a pointed look, raising an eyebrow with a knowing smile. “How do you know that?”
He seems proud. Or perhaps, smug.
Depending on what you answer, it would feed his ego, which you would hate — not this high school boy. “My younger cousin is a huge volleyball nerd,” you reply with a shrug. “He’s in elementary school, and buys those magazines religiously.”
“Now here I was, thinking you were secretly one of my fans,” he longfully sighs after.
“You so wish I was,” you playfully scoff, sitting on the pool’s edge, your feet dips into the cold water. Under the gruelling sun, you wish to allow your body to sink under the cool water.
Surprisingly, Oikawa joins you without a word. Tossing his shoes and socks to the side. “I have a nephew in elementary school,” he casually mentions.
“You do?”
“Yep. He is so cute—look,” he seems more upbeat in this moment, pulling out his cellphone, and swiping through his photo gallery. “I introduced to him to volleyball and now look at him!” He skips over an old mirror picture of himself, to one of when his nephew was a baby — a volleyball next to his tiny head.
The age-gap between Oikawa and his sister must be large, or she had a kid at a very young age — either way, it is endearing, seeing the Oikawa Tōru fawn over his precious nephew. Unknowingly, you haven't stopped smiling until you feel a slight ache in your cheek.
“Maybe your cousin would be interested in joining a kids’ volleyball club?”
You blink, unsure of how to answer. “Oh. Maybe? I don’t know, honestly.” You aren't even sure if your younger cousin actually enjoys playing the sport — you only hear him mentioning moves and pro-players.
Oikawa swirls his feet around in the water, and his hands curl around the pool’s edge. “I think it would be fun since he likes volleyball. He and Takeru might get along, too—Takeru’s really out-going,” he says, and glances back at you. Sun shining on him. “Plus, it might be fun for us, too.”
(Us. You don’t think about it. Don’t overthink it.)
It’s hard to separate Oikawa from the image of Aoba Jōsai’s Golden Boy. But at this moment, he feels a little different. Real. He feels real. You swallow harshly under the summer heat.
Shrugging, you reply, “Well, I’ll think about it . . . I have to ask him and his parents first.”
“Okay, sounds good. Make sure you text me about it.” And that was how you easily gave him your phone number and email address.
Eventually, he asks, “So, why are you the only one cleaning? Did you get ditched?” His expression looks a little more serious, and you can't help but stare at it – him – a little longer.
Does he think you’re being bullied? Or that people threw their duty onto you? You shake your head, replying before he imagines scenarios that are untrue. “Punishment for not doing my career sheet. Summer break has started, and I am sure they can't keep me here all summer, though.”
“You don’t look like a troublemaker, but it seems like I was wrong.”
And he is wrong, because you aren’t one, but you are unable to deny the claim when he continues to speak. “Well, if we get caught, you can blame it on me. Say that I dragged you with me.”
We. He said ‘we.’ “What about volleyball practice? You’ll get punished, we both will.”
Oikawa shrugs, a lazy smile on his face. “That only means we get to spend more time together.”
You ignore the way your heart flutters at his words. The sun in July is too hot.
—
Walking side-by-side, it’s strangely quiet, and at some point, you’re following large footsteps to who-knows-where, but you stay close, and his strides are slow. You grow incredibly cautious when the back of your hands brush. Oikawa doesn't say a word nor reacts to it.
So, you don’t, either.
Not much is said, but he does ask why you don’t like volleyball, which you reply that you never said you hate it — it just doesn't interest you that much.
He dramatically gasps as if offended and swears he could change your mind. You only roll his eyes and wish him luck.
—
The grass blades brush against your exposed skin. The big oak trees offers shelter from the sun — yet in the dark, light always finds a way to shine through. Through the leaves holes, sunlight finds a way to hit you and you shift around, accidentally bumping into Oikawa, who now tilts his head and smiles warmly at you.
Without realising, you smile back.
“Are you sure it’s alright to be skipping out on practice?” Admittedly, you're beginning to feel a little angsty at the thought of someone getting in trouble because of you.
He lets out a quiet groan and shrugs. “Iwa-chan has been saying I’ve been practicing too hard lately. Plus, it’s not bad to take a break sometimes.” Iwa-chan. You think he might be talking abut Iwaizumi-san from the class next door — whenever you do pass Oikawa in the hallway, the two of them are joined at the hip.
“Oh, okay,” you reply. “You . . . You’re planning on becoming a professional player, right?”
His reply is instant. “Yes, I am.” Certaining in his voice, ambition in his eyes — not an ounce of hesitation and uncertainty.
Nothing about him mirrors you. So, so far, like a shooting star. That green and yellow feeling from earlier returns. You won’t ever say it to him, you think, but he really is an amazing guy.
“I heard scouts come by the school for you,” you mention — you’ve seen those men in suits come and go a few times this year.
“Yeah, they have,” his voice is a little softer now, and if you were to look at him, really look at him, you would've seen something like regret lingering. “What about you?”
You lean back, the texture of the bark feels uncomfortable through your uniform. “I figure I will probably be living a normal life, right here in this town,” you answer, trying to maintain a steady tone.
"What's wrong with a normal life?"
His question almost leaves you laughing at the ridiculousness of it. Almost. Because when those soft brown eyes look at you — really look at you, your reflection whole, all you can feel is sincerity from them. No judgement. You don’t know what to think.
“I don’t know,” you mumble, feeling small, your toes curl. “I mean, kids—people our age usually have big dreams and ambitions, right? You do.”
“Because I have always known what I wanted,” he says, eyes still trained onto you. “But life doesn’t end at eighteen. Some people takes years to figure it out, and sometimes people realise late that what they’ve been chasing is not what they really want.” His fingertips link themselves to yours, all so quick and gentle, you think this may be him comforting you — his hand swallows yours.
“Well, aren’t you so mature, Oikawa?”
He just laughs at that. “My friend did say I should grow up soon . . . I’ll tell him I have someone who thinks I already have.”
“I was teasing.”
He hums, dismissing your words. “I meant to say that it’s fine to take your time, but having a normal and simple life isn't wrong, either.”
The sun is beginning to set — everything glows gold, over the sun, an airplane leaves a long contrail, and you wonder where everyone will be tomorrow. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” he simply replies. His hand squeezes yours and you interlock your fingers in his warmth.
The setting sun is all you can see. Slowly falling into the horizon, ending the day, and you almost wish for time to stop, just for a moment.
Nostalgia swims inside of you, you don't understand why or for what reason, but your eyes get a little glassy at the breathtaking sight. A shutter sound goes off, Oikawa takes a picture of the setting sun with such a serious, and distant look on his face — this moment forever captured in a little photograph.
A summer breeze passes by, lulling you, and in that brief moment, it becomes easier to breath within the heat.
"At least I will always know where to find you."
All you can find yourself to say is: "You're funny, Oikawa."
"I've been known to be a funny guy from time to time."
You laugh, and he smiles upon the sight.
The sunset stretched over the both of you beyond the hill, unable to speak — there was nothing else to be said. The days leading up to summer were covered in a veil of melancholy and uncertainty — you are only eighteen and everything feels possible, yet out of reach. Under the oak tree on a hill that no one knows, here you are, eyes drawn to him — oh, golden boy. What an inconvenient time for something so, so fragile to blossom — awaiting the inevitable change.
(Flowers wither at the end of summer.)
Eighteen, summer is found in between steady hands and pretty brown eyes.
note. writing practice — i just suddenly remembered being eighteen and feeling like the smallest person in the world (i was super dramatic !!). i had a friend who i felt like was the complete opposite of me, almost, and basically that is what inspired this little thing :))
submission for @madamechrissy's object!gojo event hehe - congrats on 50k followers & happiest of birthdays to one of the first jjk authors i became obsessed with (wdym we are mutuals!!!! I'M NOT WORTHYYY)
characters: yukata obi!gojo (emperor!gojo) x childhood friend/servant!fem reader
veiled secrets is by far one of my fave works by chrissy - if you have yet to read it, please do!!!!
tags(s): angst, mention of character death, reincarnation, crack, inanimate but sentient gojo, references to chrissy's emperor gojo, perspective switch, yearning&pining, asshole gojo (some redemption?), japanese legend, flower language
word count: 2.5k
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines...
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Emperor Gojo was transcendent. Ephemeral. A beast in battle, and an even more feral one in bed. His bright blue eyes always reminded you of summer – the glistening pond and the vast skies.
Compared to summer though, Emperor Gojo was far more beautiful, and by far more temperate.
Like a fleeting firework display. Burning bright and brilliant, but untouchable up close. Ever since his enthronement ceremony when he came of age, he was lost to you.
Yes, he had gained immense power, stepping into the role he had been destined for: the nation’s Weapon.
But he also finally recognised that you were far beneath his station.
Years of frolicking as bosom buddies, cheeky flirting just… gone.
You knew it was never going to go anywhere, but your traitorous heart loved that white-haired miscreant for years anyway.
Each time he stuck his tongue out at you, each time he skipped his lessons to play with you in the fields, each time he held your hand like he wasn’t put off by your calluses and weathered skin… hope bloomed you in. Dangerous, treacherous hope.
You would have loved him no matter which lifetime, you thought. Even if he weren’t Emperor. Perhaps especially so.
That title burned your tongue and clawed at your heart.
Emperor.
One of the many privileges of being Emperor was the honour of having concubines. Being slighted by the love of your life was already a difficult pill to swallow, but knowing that his gender granted his indiscretion legitimacy, while you were relegated to a life of perpetual servitude and shadows…
You could only bend and kiss the ground, watch the boy you loved grow into a god you resent. Resentment aside, he was still a god you worshipped devoutly.
But what choice did you have?
You've sworn yourself to him, at his altar. You were a willing participant, and a heartbroken one at that.
"Nah, I'd win," he boasted to his gaggle of concubines, as you prepared their teas and robes.
Steam from the opulent bath swirled and rosewater permeated the air. The scent from the oils was pleasantly saccharine, but it did little to tamp down the nausea from seeing Gojo entwined in a tangle of limbs and breasts.
Resolutely averting your eyes, you focused on the task at hand. Methodically folding robes and pouring sweet tea in delicate china while the most esteemed Emperor continued with his bravado.
The Gojo state, for all their folly, had decided to lead the charge against their longest enemy, the barbaric Ryomen clan, without waiting for allies or support. This foolhardy battle plan was spearheaded by the one and only Six Eyes, a revered war title bestowed upon Emperor Gojo after his legacy of going undefeated and unmatched for hundreds of battles.
Six Eyes, they called him – for his foresight, his vision, his ability to see through deception and stealth.
Of course, those piercing eyes never once saw your devotion, never saw you, you’d think bitterly.
In an ironic twist, Emperor Gojo had insisted that you were to be his personal servant, dishing up his nightly dessert. A great honour, he had claimed, which he could entrust to no one but you.
A younger version of yourself many moons ago would have swooned and sighed, relishing the task. After all, this was the only way two star-crossed lovers of different stations could ever be together – through stolen seconds and engineered moments alone.
You know now, or rather, finally could admit it to yourself, that it was because Gojo knew you’d never have the audacity or malice to poison him.
He never had to call for the poison checker if it were you. He’d get his dessert much quicker that way.
It seemed that all you were to this man was what you could offer; what you could do for him.
The syrupy glaze would waft into your nose, but it did little to disguise the dry sand that filled your mouth each time you laid eyes on his Majesty and beloved concubine of the week.
You were never one to be bold or daring, so you never once dreamt of being awarded the title of a concubine. Someone of your background could never.
So what were you expecting?
That your beloved Satoru would swear off other women, renounce his title, and run away with you to live happily ever after in a small cottage?
Scoffing, you shook your head lightly. Even as a child, Gojo was driven by ambition and power.
“I’m going to be the strongest!” His pitchy adolescent voice belied his skill and prowess. You never once doubted him. It was evident in the way he wielded his sword, and moved in combat. Watching with stars in your eyes, you’d gasp at the effortless way he dominated his trainers and challengers.
A true hero, you used to think. The saviour of our land.
There was no one on earth who would rival him as a teenager. What more when Gojo was crowned and at his prime?
GOJO SATORU HAS BEEN DEFEATED. HE HAS FALLEN IN BATTLE. SURRENDER NOW AND WE WILL SHOW YOUR WOMEN AND CHILDREN MERCY. GOJO SATORU HAS B-
Gojo was having a bad week. Not only did he have to fight Sukuna (ugh), but he was made to leave the castle before he could say goodbye to you in person.
Yes, you were probably busy with chores or whatever you had to finish before your lunch break, but he knew seeing his face would make your day. You were sweet like that.
Worst of all though, he freaking died.
That distinct, unforgettable moment of being severed – that was only second to his regret and guilt.
Third on the list of grievances was probably how his first and only true defeat was broadcast throughout his kingdom by enemy knights on horseback, trying to undermine his nation from within.
Could one feel such an intense turmoil of emotions even when dead?
Perhaps it was his punishment for his crimes while living. Whilst he was a fine leader and merciful fighter on the battlefield, he was ultimately just a cruel boy.
A boy who flirted unabashedly with a girl who kissed the ground he walked. A boy with no intentions of actually ever communicating maturely or being the bigger man.
A boy who let down the only real thing in his life time and time and time again.
You were the only thing on his mind at the end; fittingly so. After all the times he dismissed you or snubbed you… if anyone had the right to haunt him for all of time, it was you.
He loved you. In his own stupid, selfish way. He did really love you.
He loved the way your eyes crinkled, the way your hands were rough from use. Despite your flaming blush each time he grabbed them, he never let you pull away.
You saw him for him. As Satoru. Not a weapon, not the future Imperial leader. Just a boy who loved sweets and pranks.
You saw him. Could he say the same?
God, he was a fool. Propelled by some unknown drive, perhaps a part of him knew his end was imminent, he had attempted to make amends before his battle.
The right approach, the proper approach would be to actually speak to you, and begin his litany of apologies, and to try to rekindle whatever relationship he could salvage.
Of course Gojo Satoru wouldn’t take the easy route. That would mean he wasn’t a fool.
No, he decided to commission a yukata, with a blue obi (for no reason, definitely not to match his eyes), despite it being winter.
The royal tailor was momentarily perplexed by the odd request, but still familiar enough with Emperor Gojo’s whims that he compiled readily.
He had the garment wrapped pristinely in a heavy box, and ordered another servant to send it to your room when he left for battle.
Now, once again, the right and easy thing to do would have been to give it himself. To explain why he did it, and perhaps even extend an invitation to you for both of you to attend a summer festival together in said matching yukata.
That would have been the right thing to do.
But now Gojo found himself fucking sealed in that very box, awaiting summer’s arrival, praying that you’d decide to open his (first and) final gift.
Perhaps it was the fact that you filled his mind in his final moments, and that this was his divine retribution - but he found himself as the obi he had commissioned for you.
Cursed with sentience and reflection but unable to speak; to be reborn without a mouth though he was aching to scream.
In darkness over the next few months, he came to learn that his nation had prevailed from hushed whispers and gossip. That his student and distant relative, the prodigy Okkotsu Yuta, was able to defeat Sukuna and take control of the Gojo state.
The pride he felt for Yuta warred viciously with his own shame and guilt, though what emerged triumphantly was actually his sense of relief.
Tragically, it was only as an obi that he was finally free of his responsibilities and burdens.
At least, he still had you. His one consolation. He could finally be with you as just Satoru.
However, sealed away in the gift box, he was utterly helpless when he heard your gentle weeping in the dead of night.
He did not deserve your love, much less your grief.
Each time you mourned him, Gojo was made to relive his death, and more painfully, his failure in life when it came to you.
It seemed so unfair that both of you would be punished for his folly and sin.
Stiffly, as best as he could as a starched piece of fabric, Gojo prayed for your release and freedom.
He prayed that you’d find peace, that you could let go of him, something he should have done for you when he was alive.
Time as an obi… felt neither here nor there. Eventually, Gojo surmised that it was indeed summer.
The air in the box felt especially musty and damp, though he need not concern himself with the high humidity levels anymore since he had no locks to maintain or sweat glands to perspire.
How many months has it been? Or had it been years?
You never once opened the box, and Gojo did not feel like he wanted to compel you to. His final act of what he deemed generosity, was probably just an additional burden weighing you down.
What good is an expensive gift when you would never come to learn of its significance and his intention? It was just like his past self to throw money at a problem, but never to actually open up and be vulnerable.
Being an obi seems to only further compound his long list of regrets, but that was probably the point of his reincarnation into this form. To learn, to grow, to change – even though it was too little too late.
Summer rolled around again. How many summers it had been since his death, he knew not.
The tedious doldrums of life as an obi was frankly, quite bearable. Routinely, he’d wait patiently, until you returned to your quarters after a day’s work.
In the evening, he relished your quiet tears and companionable silence as you washed up, read, and got ready for bed.
In another life, this would be his nightly routine. Coming back to you after a long day of meetings with the higher-ups and council, after walks around town and polite smiles directed to his people.
You’d be there, waiting for him at home. Would you have a pair of children together? A boy with his hair; a girl with your smile?
If he had a heart, it’d break a second, third, forth, fifth time over and over and over again. In the light of day when you left to perform your imperial duties, Gojo counted down the seconds for your return.
Was this what it was like for you when he was alive? Waiting tirelessly for someone who never spared a thought for you?
Fortunately, your grief mellowed with time. And in time, you stopped weeping at night. Gojo had once thought that the worst thing in life was to be forgotten, but he realised he didn’t care if he was remembered anymore.
He just wanted you to stop hurting.
He supposes he’s finally got his wish as an obi.
Watching you get dressed, finally unboxing his gift now that enough time (years?) has passed.
Methodically, you slipped on the yukata, adjusting the front panels, before reaching for the obi.
Oddly, Gojo comes to find, being pulled and tugged and stretched did not hurt. Maybe it was the designated purpose of an obi, so being wrapped tautly and filled with tension felt surprisingly natural for him.
Or maybe it was because you were the one wearing him.
Unexpectedly, the pain came a little later, after you were done getting dressed.
It pierced him like a lance, an agony so sharp and so visceral. To his horror, it even paled in comparison to his actual death.
You were dolled up, and strolling around the local festival hand in hand with someone else. Increasingly sensitive to each movement and touch, Gojo became hyper aware of each time you leaned into the other man’s larger frame and wrapped your arm around his bicep.
Was this what it was like for you? Dying a thousand deaths each time wordlessly? Watching from the shadows, unable to interject?
At least, Gojo comforts himself, he would never truly forget you.
It was his turn to watch over you silently, steadily. Cling to you like second skin, literally. And there was no one to stop him this time round.
It seems, he tells himself, that you would never forget him either. The love and grief might have faded, but you care for Emperor Gojo still.
As the fireworks sizzle to an end, you and your lover take a detour before heading back to the servant quarters.
You stop by the royal mausoleum, leaving behind a bouquet of blue hydrangeas, as your fingers trace over the golden letters etched in smooth stone, 五条悟. Emperor Gojo Satoru.
It’d be funny, if it weren’t so damn tragic.
The tale of the Ajisai, 紫陽花, had been passed down from generations: the story of an emperor who gave his neglected lover a bouquet of blue hydrangeas as a sign of contrition and remorse.
It ought to have been him who offered these flowers to you, not the other way round, Gojo thinks desperately. Overwhelmed with the need to speak, to say something, anything, Gojo would be driven to tears if he could cry.
Worst of all, he notices that they match his eyes, and your obi.
He supposes the flowers have to do all the talking for him now. All he can do now is feel how you intertwine your fingers with another man’s, walking hand in hand, leaving his gilded tomb behind.
Until another lifetime.
big shoutout to @madamechrissy once again!!! big love & lots of kisses to u angel
this was also not the usual object!crack fic but i hope you like it! i'd love to try my hand at sillier fics in the future hehe but the angst bug got me this round
gojo art is official gege akutami, edited on canva by me // others are stock image/free use on procreate // divider by the lovely @/saradika-graphics
Reblogs, comments, likes would be greatly appreciated! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟthank you taking the time to read!
Please do not translate, copy, or feed my work to AI. Basic DNI rules apply for minors; please be kind in the comments! Hate speech or intolerance of any kind will not be accepted.
a/n: soo i really didn’t think id ever write things like this? but then i did? and im sorry in advance! <3
tw: mentions of mental health, alcohol, heavy angst
it was never meant to go like this. you were supposed to say yes, supposed to know how to express your feelings. how to tell him it wasn’t him, it was you, it was always you.
the funny thing about life is that it will never, go how you want it to.
suna sits alone on the last train of the night, funnily enough, just how you had met. years ago, riding the train back after sitting in the university library for as long as they would allow you. you stumbled into the train car past twelve in the morning, dropping all of your posters in the process. shoving them into your bag and praying the train moves quick enough for everyone to forget seeing you in such a state,
instead you made an even bigger fool of yourself. feeling a gentle tapping on your knee you pry your eyes open. immediately panicking, your chest heaves and falls at the rate that thoughts spiral into your head. how long had you slept, where were you? did the train stop?
“it’s the last stop” a husky voice whispers towards you. your eyes frantically meet his, and the world had stopped and begun there. his voice met your anxiety with a sense of ease and comfort you hadn’t felt before. he stands, and you feel the need to follow,
“i waited, i wanted to make sure you didn’t get left alone.” he clarifies. his confidence is admirable, the boldness in the action making your heart thump where it lays useless. he smiles, gesturing to the train doors that now open, it’s just the two of you.
the hum of the fluorescent lights and the way his foxy eyes don’t pry into your soul feels right. as if the world had stopped in the fate of your meeting. bowing to the universal prophecy finally happening. you both step off the train and the cold air outside bites at your skin, shivering, you say
“i don’t even know where I am,” pathetic. not surprising for anyone, even yourself. this wasn’t the first time you had completely felt lost, and most of the time it was in your own home that you felt that way.
“which stop were you supposed to get off on?” he asks, and you take a moment to take him in. his leather jacket fitted to his tall body, his dark brown hair that cascades over his pointed face, and oh you knew you were screwed then.
“north dorms,” you mumble. assuming he would also know, not caring enough to ask if he does. you shuffle and try to force your heavy duffle over your shoulder and willing it to stop sliding down. instead, the weight is relieved and your school bag now hangs in his hand.
“me too,” he says, he lies. “i’ll walk you back” he supplies, and without waiting for you any longer he takes off in a direction you can only hope is correct.
the moon reflects off his features in the most beautiful way, you decide then. you make small talk that slowly fades into bright conversation. shy smiles that turn into hushed laughing to not wake the neighborhood. and when it fades into quiet silence, only the sound of shoes clicking on the ground, you forget everything that weighs on your mind. you forget about deadlines, about the never ending prickling at the edges of your mind about making the right decision, about never feeling like enough, no. only the smell of his cologne and leather jacket, along with the faint click of his shoes on the ground fill your mind, you smile. the first smile you’ve felt for what feels like months.
you let yourself have this,
eventually, after your face is wrinkled with permanent smile lines and your teeth chatter from the cold, you’re at your dorm. it’s a little awkward, the decision of what to do now. he steps closer, and you think he’s going to kiss you. he doesn’t. your duffel bag is set lightly next to you, and he steps down to walk away, and your heart races.
races at the idea of never seeing him again, of never getting a second chance to not look such a mess.
“wait!” you call, following him down the stairs and abandoning your things at the front door. the sky is dark and in your peripheral you can see bright lingering stars, and you take a second to wish on one of them.
“your name, so I can thank you” you ask of him. you smile shyly, as if any of this interaction with this stranger has been normal.
“suna,” he replies, shaking your small and cold hand in between the both of you.
———
“suna” you say, your lip trembles and endless tears run down your face, his name a familiar poison on your tongue. sick and sweet and unforgettable.
you stand on your shared balcony, into the lake that your apartment complex resides next to. it’s beautiful really, this life you’ve built together.
except it’s not real, it hasn’t felt real for a long time. the ache returned, after years of finally thinking it was gone, it was only distracted. suna rintarou had come guns ablazing into your life and set your heart on fire. he had filled every dark spot in your life with a gentle happiness, he had taken care of you. doted on you every step of the way. he never asked for more, comfortable with the pace you kept.
he’d held you while you shook in anxiety, wiped your endless tears after explaining over and over how stupid you felt. reread your papers to check for any mistake he could find, reassured you that it was great. but it was never enough, even after you had graduated with flying colors and gotten the job you’d been working at for years, it would never end.
that was the sick thing about losing your identity in success rather than happiness. where does your own identity go,
for a while you thought it was with him, with the way he held your heart in his warm palms and assured you that you were meaningful, loved, and needed.
“we need to break up,” you admit. you choke on it, as it slithers down your throat and leaves behind a black tar that burns and wretches. he stands behind you speechless, and if you listen hard enough above the sound of night time cicadas and birds you can tell he’s stopped breathing. you don’t face him, you can’t.
your black dress withers in the wind, the silk grasping to your skin as he did every night. you want to rip it to shreds, along with every good memory you’ve obtained. you grip the champagne flute in your hand harder than you have before. you would be worried about it breaking, but you simply can’t find it within yourself to care. not when the feeling of glass pressing into your skin would hurt less than knowing you are shattering the one you’ve love.
“what are you talking about?” he says, walking up beside you. you know he wants you to turn to face him, you’ve picked up on that. for as many times the both of you have had difficult conversations, he looks at you this way with the demanding glint in his eyes to give him a chance. to look his way, you don’t
you don’t because you know if you do you will give in. you will let your heart pitter down the steps and let him in again. let his love wrap around you and make you pliant in his grasp. he always did so well with bringing you down, with loving you so softly that you could only weep against him.
“we can’t do this anymore” you whisper. but he hears you, he always does.
his clad black suit looks wonderful on him tonight, it always does. you don’t know, but you suspected, and maybe it’s why you bring it up tonight. but his mothers ring weighs hundreds of pounds in the velvet box in his pocket.
he swallows back the shock, and you can see the desperation riddling his body language even without looking at him. you have learned him over the years, prided yourself in understanding his unspoken thoughts. he always gave you space, didn’t ever indulge his own mercies and let you be fully yourself with him. he never concerned you with his own day to day benign worries, and that’s why you’re here today.
when he doesn’t offer you any signal of asking why, lost in his own mind about how this would come up, you say
“we can’t. i won’t ever be enough for you-“ the words feel eerily similar to how they did years ago. years ago when you finally promised yourself you would stop saying that to him. you would trust that you were enough, but not now.
“you are enough. what is going on, what’s going on in your head, honey, let’s just talk about this.” your heart pours and bleeds itself dry at the name he only used with you when he knew you were fragile, it breaks you.
“no, i can’t be. you need someone who isn’t so stuck in their own head. i can’t stop thinking about how much you could have and how little i am. suna, please understand me.” you taste the salt of your tears slipping beyond your lips and you think this might be the last gift of love you’ll get from your body once this is over.
“i thought,” he sets his hand on top of yours. you don’t move, couldn’t force yourself to if you tried. “i thought things were getting better, you need to talk to me! it’s not supposed to get this bad before we talk.” he whispers, like you’ll break if he speaks any louder. you can’t give that grace of fragility anymore,
“no! i’m not going to get any better, this is who I am. I can’t keep you stuck here with me. you have to move on, i’m never going to get better.” you shudder. fully choking out sons now, you were never able to coherently explain it.
“i don’t want better, i want you!” he practically yells back at you. you swig down the rest of the now flat champagne and slam it down harder then you mean to on the patio table. the wind violently throws your hair around, you don’t make any effort to move it out of your face. stuck to your lipstick and tear stained skin.
“no, suna! you don’t get it.” you hold yourself. arms wrapping around your own body, to shut him out, to beg him not to follow you. you know yourself too well, you will fawn to him.
the problem was never that you didn’t love him. in fact, the opposite. your love had grown tenderly through the years, as you felt his soul merge with yours in a beautiful and messy way. you had fallen in love over cheap textbooks and expensive coffee, over late night movies and falling asleep on top of him with your correcting pen still open in your hand, now dropping ink onto your sweatshirt. you fell in love over his endless need to love you, the way he never let your hand go even when you tried to pull it away, how he always reheated your dinner when you were tempted to leave it cold on the table. the way he refilled your shampoo and conditioner bottles without asking,
suna loved you. it was never the problem. he loved you so loud that it blared your endless thoughts of having no worth till they were silent among themself. he loved you so tenderly that the wounds left by your own mind were now long forgotten scars.
the problem with scars is that the tissue left behind is always tender. and you had been pushing at it until it burned, and you tasted iron on your tongue.
“you’ve taken care of me for years, you’ve healed parts of me that i never knew needed it. and i’m still like this” you gesture over yourself. you feel manic about all, but these thoughts have sat festering in your head for weeks. becoming dusty before you spiral again. late at night, when he sleeps peacefully next to you and you feel guilty heavy enough to leave you crushed.
“i can’t keep letting you care for me when I need to learn how to care for myself,” you sigh. maybe it’s a half truth, maybe there is no truth at all. but you need him to believe you
“i need you” is all he can muster to say. and when he walks forward to wrap himself around you, you don’t stop him. but you don’t hug him back,
“no you don’t,” no one does
“please, we can figure this out. we can change your therapist, we can go on that retreat you saw, we can look at new jobs-“ you can feel his heart hammering so hard against his chest that it convinces yours to beat faster as well. you pretend you don’t feel a small rectangle shape press against your leg. he pretends he doesn’t know you know.
“i can’t- i can’t keep hurting you.” you say. internally, your soul scratches at the iron walls you’ve already set and drilled into place. it begs you to let in, to give him another chance.
but if you love something, shouldn’t you let it go? isn’t that what they say?
“but i love you, isn’t that enough? can’t this be enough, please.” he drops to his knees. a beggars pose, it brings fresh tears to your eyes, this time they sting.
“suna,” you softly card your fingers through his hair.
“i need you to book the late night train, i need you to go and i need you to never look back. i need you to love someone and it be enough for them, don’t you see” he looks up at you. his chin rests on your stomach, it shakes with every sob you manage to choke out around your words.
“just like we met,” you swipe a thumb across his cheek. it’s wet.
“i can’t just let this go, we’ve been together for years. this isn’t right, i love you! please just don’t-“ you try to hush his pleas.
“don’t you see that i love you” you ask him, you try to be brave. suna never expected you to be brave, he did it for you, gladly.
“then why are you leaving” his voice is broken, and vulnerable. and pinpricks of knives threatening to push into your back begin to threaten their entrance. you brace yourself, it hurts, hurts so good that you continue.
“because i will never be able to accept it, i will never accept that im enough for you. and id rather have you hate me than stay with me, suna” you say his name like a prayer,
“im so broken. i don’t know what’s wrong with me and i-“ you stop to take a deep breath. you beckon him to stand up, and you stuff your face into his chest. your body accepts this as a final offering before death, breathing in his scent like a drug.
normally, it would calm you. it would trance you into something so delicious and soft, instead, it just shatters you further.
“i can’t keep loving you with half of me unfixable,” you say. you trace meaningless shapes over his heart. you can’t feel him anymore, you can’t tell what he’s thinking and you try to convince yourself that’s a good thing.
“so please, leave me. as a final act of love, walk away and don’t look back. i promise you suna i will live, but i will not keep living to love you, it’s not fair to you.” you say, and its crestfallen and melancholic.
“i need you to live,” you say. he’s been quiet for a while, and maybe that’s okay. you sink against the wall behind you and he goes with you. you play with his hand that rests against your leg. it’s intimate, but you don’t care. you don’t ask him to move, a man of few words.
you watch small tears roll down his face, you watch his fox eyes become swollen as the moon rises and falls. hours pass, and you only know that because the moon had went from sitting in the horizon to now sitting center sky.
“i don’t want to live with out you” he replies, minutes, hours, later. you lean your head back until he gently smacks against the siding. you only nod. you kiss his hand and set it back down, you both know it’s over. both know that if it weren’t over you would’ve caved.
would’ve let him usher you to your shared room, let him lay you down and he would’ve dragged his hands over your back until you fell asleep, but this time you sit there together. you drag your hands over his back, but he doesn’t sleep.
it takes a while, and although he begs a few more times to figure this out. he knows you’re serious, he knows you too well. he walks out, and when the apartment door clicks shut and nothing is left of him, you crumple to the floor and part of you wishes you could die there.
if grief had embodied a person, it would be you.
he buys the late night ticket, he sits alone in his seat, you are not across from him. there is no heavy duffel bag to carry, no lost girl to lead home, no heart to soothe. nothing but him and his own demise.
he calls your friends who awaited you at your favorite restaurant. he tells them to go home, he hangs up before they can ask why. he doesn’t get of the train until the last stop, but this time, he doesn’t wake anyone up. he steps off and sits in the train station till the morning train comes. he gets on, and goes back. he doesn’t come back to you, he burns the speech he had written on paper, he tucks away the memories of you and keeps his promise to love you from afar.
you never speak again. your friends ask questions, you tread carefully around them. you pretend you’re not drowning, you pretend you aren’t suffocating at the loss of him. the self-inflicted loss.
you scroll through his instagram a few years later, and the weight is a little less unbearable. you click a new post, a wedding announcement. her hand adorns his mothers ring, and his wallet adorns of a photo of them, in the same place your photo used to be.
you bite back the bitter jealousy that burns in your stomach. then, you smile, you feel lighter than you have in years. he will be loved. and that is enough.
❦ content — geto suguru x fem! reader, cult leader! geto, cult leader! geto x follower! reader, no like explicit relationship, but it is hinted at, slight violence, maybe ooc geto?, lmk if i missed anything !
❦ synopsis — For the first time ever, you’re not sure if the world Geto Suguru gave you is the one you want anymore. And for the first time you think he knows it too.
── ❦ father, into your hands, i commend my spirit
The first time you leave the compound alone, it isn’t rebellion.
It's a curiosity.
The kind that starts small– quiet, almost harmless. A lingering thought at the edge of your mind, something you’d always brushed away before because you trusted him. Because everything you needed was here. Because he had given you purpose, given you belonging, given you a world that made sense.
Still, that day, you step past the gates.
And no one stops you.
The city is louder than you expected.
It presses in on you immediately—voices overlapping, footsteps echoing, the hum of traffic threading through everything like a pulse. For a moment, it feels wrong. Overwhelming. You almost turn back.
These are the people he warned you about.
Careless. Ignorant. Blind.
Monkeys.
Your fingers twitch at your sides.
…but then, you notice the laughter.
It comes from a small karaoke bar tucked between two buildings, its neon sign flickering faintly. The door is cracked open, and through it spills music– off-key, loud, joyful.
You pause without meaning to.
Inside, a group of friends crowd around a screen, one of them gripping the mic like it’s the most important thing in the world. They’re terrible. Objectively terrible. Missing notes, shouting lyrics instead of singing them.
And yet–they’re smiling.
Not the polite kind. Not the quiet, reverent kind you’ve learned to wear.
It’s messy. Unfiltered.
It’s far too real.
One of them stumbles mid-verse, and the others burst into laughter, grabbing onto each other, nearly falling over. No hierarchy. No purpose. No weight.
Just… happiness.
Your chest tightens, but you keep walking.
You tell yourself it’s just observation. Just confirmation of what you already know. That humans are loud, obnoxious creatures…
But then you see a couple.
They’re standing near a crosswalk, hands brushing together in that hesitant, uncertain way, as if neither of them is fully sure they’re allowed to want this. When their fingers finally intertwine, it’s quiet. Small.
But the way they look at each other–like the world has narrowed down to just the two of them.
No grand purpose. No greater meaning.
Just… this.
Your breath catches.
By the time you turn back, something inside you feels… off.
Not broken. Your belief has not shattered.
Just… shifted. Like a piece of you has been nudged out of place, and now nothing quite settles the way it used to.
You don’t realize how much you’re smiling until your friends point it out.
“What happened to you?” one of them laughs, nudging your shoulder. “You look like you’ve seen something amazing.”
And maybe you have. So you tell them.
You tell them about the karaoke bar, about the laughter that filled the room like it mattered more than anything else. You tell them about the couple at the crosswalk, about the way their hands found each other like it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world.
You talk about it like it’s beautiful.
Because it is. Because for the first time, you think–
Maybe there’s something out there worth wanting.
You don’t notice the room going quiet.
You don’t notice the way the air shifts, how the warmth drains from it, how something heavier settles in its place. Not until–
“Is that so?”
The voice cuts cleanly through your words.
Calm. Measured. Familiar.
Your heart stutters. Suguru Geto stands at the doorway.
You hadn’t heard him arrive.
No one ever does.
The others fall silent immediately, their expressions tightening, their bodies subtly shifting as if instinctively bracing. But you…
You’re still caught halfway between the outside world and this one, your thoughts slow to catch up, your smile not yet fully gone.
He watches you.
Not with anger. Not yet.
Just… interest.
“Come with me.”
It’s not a request.
The walk is quiet. Too quiet.
Your earlier excitement curls in on itself, shrinking with every step. You tell yourself it’s nothing–you didn’t do anything wrong. You only went outside. You only observed.
You only spoke of the outside world.
Still, something in the way he moves–controlled, deliberate–makes your stomach twist.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click.
Private. Sealed.
You barely have time to turn before his hand is on your jaw.
It’s sudden–firm fingers gripping, forcing your face upward, your breath catching sharply in your throat.
You’ve never once spoken out against him or the congregation.
He’s never once treated you as anything less than a treasure.
His touch has always been gentle with you before.
Measured. Careful.
Reverent, even.
Like you were something worth preserving. Not like this.
“Say it again.”
His voice is soft.
Too soft.
His thumb presses slightly into your cheek, not enough to hurt—but enough that you feel it.
“Tell me,” he continues, tilting your head just a fraction, forcing your gaze to meet his, “what exactly was it that you found so… beautiful?”
Your pulse pounds.
Up close, his expression is wrong.
There’s a sharpness in his eyes you’ve never seen before–something cold, something cutting, something that strips away the warmth you’ve always associated with him.
And yet, you hesitate.
Because it’s still him. Because this is still the person you…
“They were just…” Your voice falters, but you force it steady. “Happy.”
The word feels fragile in your mouth. Dangerous, as if it should have never been spoken out loud.
“They didn’t need anything else. They were just… living.”
For a moment, he says nothing. And that silence…
It stretches. Tightens. Until it snaps like a cord.
A quiet, humorless laugh slips past his lips.
“Living.” He repeats it like it’s something foul. Something laughable.
His grip tightens.
Not painfully.
But enough where you feel more threatened than just scolded.
“I gave you a world,” he says, voice low, steady, controlled–but underneath it, there’s something darker, something simmering. “A place above all of that. Above them.”
His gaze sharpens, boring into yours.
“And now you want to lower yourself to their level?”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s not what I—”
“Those people,” he cuts in, sharper now, the softness gone, “are the very reason this world is rotting.”
His thumb presses harder against your cheek, his hold no longer just restraining–it’s possessive.
“They are weak. Filthy. Blind to how they cannot save themselves..”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “Monkeys.” The word lands heavier than it ever has before.
“And you,” he continues, voice dropping, dangerous in its calm, “you stand here, telling others how beautiful they are?”
Your throat feels tight.
Because this…this isn’t the man you’ve followed so faithfully.
Or maybe it is. And you’re only just seeing it.
“They’re not filthy,” you say, barely above a whisper.
The words slip out before you can stop them. And then there is silence.
For a second–just a second–something flashes across his face.
Not anger. Not yet.
Something closer to disbelief.
“…What did you say?”
Your heart is racing now, your breath uneven, but you don’t look away.
Not this time.
“They’re not filthy,” you repeat, a little stronger. “They’re just… people.”
That’s when it happens. The shift of what you two were, into what you were about to become.
His expression doesn’t explode.
Doesn’t crack.
It just hardens into a cruelly cold look, not the one he says he reserves just for you. Where he smiles, not a sick smile, a true genuine one.
And for the first time, you’re afraid of him.
Not the idea of him.
Not the power he holds.
But him. As a being, as a whole. You’re scared of him. The person standing in front of you. The person you trusted.
The person you might have–
“How disappointing.”
The words are quiet. Flat. Final.
His grip loosens- just slightly- but he doesn’t let go of you. Not yet.
“I thought,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “that you, of all people, would understand.” His gaze lifts back to yours, colder now, distant in a way that makes your chest ache. “That you would see the truth.”
Something in your chest cracks, because you’ve followed him for so long. Listened to every speech given. Hated people you, yourself, hadn’t known. Judged because of their lack of powers. Called others useless, knowing you would be just that if you left.
For a split second, you think you hate yourself more than him at this moment.
“I do,” you say, but it sounds weaker than you want it to. “I just…”
You swallow, feeling like you’d been left in the desert with no water, “I see something else too.”
Then, slowly, he lets go. The loss of contact feels colder than his grip on you.
“You should be careful,” he says, turning away from you, his voice once again composed, distant—like he’s already put space between you.
“Curiosity like that… tends to lead people astray.”
You stand there, frozen, your jaw still tingling where his hand had been. Your heart still racing and your mind still trying to catch up. Because the thought of living like them, like the people you’ve been taught to hate settles in slowly. Quietly. Unavoidably.
For the first time ever, you’re not sure if the world he gave you is the one you want anymore.
Youth is not always comprised of golden days, and the carefree summer nights spent running underneath a blue horizon. Days meant for freedom and happiness [childhood innocence] destroyed before the taste of dreaming hit your lips. Learning of the cruelty of living before you learned how to swim.
And youth, or yours, was spent tip-toeing through a familiar, yet unfamiliar hall, unending and compressing — between hushed whispers and eyes crawling up your skin. Your mother’s grip had only tightened.
Bone crushing against yours.
White nails pressing into your skin. Stinging of the scattered crescent moons drawn into you. Warmth as red pools beneath your thinning skin.
Your mother hands shake around you, cold, and you want to comfort her, despite the suffocation in your chest. You could justify her leash, because you love her. You understand her, because she is your mother, and you, her only child.
Life is not fair to anyone, but there was always good times within the bad. It wasn't too cruel, despite the small part of you that will forever remain trapped within that August summer day.
On an otherwise pleasant summer day, it was shining with childlike innocence — you, and the sound of your pink sandals flapping against the pavement, and the clear blue skies, and the familiar cicadas ringing in the distant that began to become distorted as red pooled your vision — your mother screams, yet sound does not come through.
The sky was beautiful, you remember.
—
Your room is on the first floor. Everything you need is on the first floor — navigating through the house is easy and simple, because you memorised the lines and how many steps it takes you to get from your room to the kitchen. Everything is organised in a way that makes sense to you and only you.
Your mother doesn’t like gazing upon the clutter, she says your room is a mess, but she doesn’t move anything. She hasn’t since then – that day – and the flooring has been renovated with different textures.
It is not easy loving you, you think. Not anymore, at least.
There was a time when the moon rose, and voices echoed through the halls of your home. Anger and frustration and anxiety lingered in every corner. The voices of your mother and father were only heard during the night — hidden hearts and blame — where burning love morphed into blinded hate.
(Fading hearts slipping away. You stand there cold.)
The click of your white cane tapping against the floor overrides their anger. Everything dies down, their voices, the owls, and you, who lied and said you needed to use the washroom. Their attention falls onto you — their voices soften, and loving hands touch you, but the atmosphere stays the same. One day, the argument died down completely, and for a moment, you believe everything would go to how it was back then — back before the accident.
A week from then your father had left with only a suitcase. Only the sound of wooden floors creaking and the faint click of the door as he slips away remains in your mind. Your mother hasn't talked about it. But it is your fault.
(A part of you and them remains trapped in that summer day, a memory that burns to the touch.)
It is not easy loving you, you know this, even when she says she does.
[They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul. You cannot see her eyes — even as they pierce into you.]
—
It is early in the morning when he wakes to the scorching heat. There are no classes today, or the weeks that follow (thankfully, and finally). Summer turns his room into a sauna, and he chugs the glass filled of lukewarm water on his nightstand. Yukimiya immediately regrets it, unable to soothe the dryness itching his throat.
His mother calls his name, yelling from the kitchen, to remind him of his afternoon appointment. 13:30. Luckily, it is only noon right now, yet his dreadfulness pulls at his ankles, and he does not want to take a step.
His mother places iced hōjicha instead of her usual homemade fruit juice in front of him. Yukimiya instantly understands without a word. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, and says everything will be fine.
The iced tea works on soothing the dryness. His nerves are not evident, and he feigns his usual cool, subconsciously rubbing his eye.
The specialist he goes to see was recommended by one of his father’s best friend. They say there has been nothing, but kind words said about the doctor. And Yukimiya thinks he understands. Dr. Motomura is an old man with gentle eyes, he makes him uncomfortable in the unfamiliar room, yet his next set of words feel like standing in January’s storm.
Optic Neuropathy.
[Everything will be fine.]
He suddenly feels so, so small. Surrounded by flashing lights, cameras and eyes focused on him and only him — the doctor’s gentle eyes feel magnified and they sit in every corner of this little room staring at him and his failure.
It is as if he, and his entire world [football], had become frozen. He, his dream, was stuck frozen in time with no way to move forward — no light shone at the end of the tunnel. And when he cries, Dr. Motomura’s words of comfort do not reach him.
—
“Hey, are you alright?”
The hallway lights are blinding — it takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. White light stinging him. He’s crouched down, a few feet away from Dr. Motomura’s office, his legs gave out and the remaining tears leaked down his face.
In his misery, he had forgotten he wasn't alone, and he failed to hear footsteps approaching him. His eyes are probably red and puffy and he doesn’t want anyone to see his face like this — tear-stained with snot.
Face to face, reddish eyes meet yours, or attempts to. Your eyes stay closed under this light, and he takes in your appearance. Eyes zeroing in on the white cane held in your hand. “You can’t see,” he blurts out without a thought before slapping a hand over his mouth.
Yukimiya quickly snaps his head up to guage your reaction at his insensitivity. Yet, there’s nothing on your face, and he suddenly feels so small and pathetic.
“As you can see,” you reply, unable to hide a small smile that tugs your lips — a joke, he thinks. Though, he can’t find this situation amusing, his heart aches with regret.
A quiet I am sorry falls from his mouth, ashamed. He wonders if you heard it, he attempts to repeat his apology a little louder, but a familiar, low tone calls out your name.
Mr. Motomura calls for you, and his apology dies right then and there.
“Here.” Your hand reaches out to him, closed-fist, and he meets you half-way. “Cheer up,” you say as hard candy is dropped into his hand, and you disappear down the hallway into the room he exited.
[It tastes like vanilla and condensed milk. Too sweet.]
—
It is a week before you meet again. He runs into you at Dr. Motomura’s office — that is when he finds out you are related to Dr. Motomura. Not by blood, you mention a little later.
You accept when he asks if he can talk to you. You end up sitting at a small park bench, only three minutes away from the office. And you mention that your mother will be here soon.
An awkward silence fills the air, not unpleasant, but not exactly comforting. “I hope you’re feeling better,” you began, taking the opportunity to comfort him once again. “Did you like the candy?”
“. . . I am,” he lies. Yukimiya takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I felt bad for what I said last time. I kept wishing to see you again to apologise.”
“Oh. Yes, he told me that you . . . Well, don’t worry. I wasn’t offended.”
“No, I was insensitive. I am sorry about that, please don’t pretend I didn’t do anything wrong,” he replies, disappointed in himself, his hands clutched together. Each night since that day, he laid in bed, his words and that interaction on repeat.
A light breeze picks up, your cane falls onto his thigh and he reaches for it before it clatters onto the concrete.
“Really, it’s not big deal.” He stays silent, a soft sigh escapes your lips. “Fine. I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name.”
“My name?” Eyes flicking to your face — nothing masked. He answers, “It’s Yukimiya Kenyū.”
You smile, asking, “As in . . . ?”
He stares for a second, before reaching out a hand, “Can I see your hand?”
Without hesitation, you place your hand in his, and honestly, his heart flutters at your trust in him.
Palm open, index finger traces feathery lines — burning to the touch. Sweat builds beneath, unsure if it from the summer heat or a strange collection of nerves — him, or you.
雪宮 as in a snow shine.
剣優 for gentle sword.
You’re giggling by the time he finishes the last stroke. Smile, showing your teeth. “You didn’t have to trace the kanji for me. I only wanted to know the meaning, but thank you.”
“Oh. I thought—no, nevermind . . .” He rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, internally groaning.
And when you began to laugh, he turned his head away quickly — as if you could see [read] everything written all over his face. He's embarrassed, despite it not really being anything, it could mean something.
Then, you take his hand in yours this time, his palm faced up, and you don’t seem to be bothered by the sweat that had slowly built up from the previous touch. Your finger presses against his palm and when you began to trace, he attempts to memorise each stroke, except you draw dots.
He blinks.
And he is left confused. He wonders if it is in English or another foreign language, and he concentrates on your light touch (your skin against his), except it really is just dots you press into his skin. “What are you drawing?”
You simply reply, “It is my name in braille.”
“Braille?”
“Mhm. For people like me.”
Something flickers inside of him at this moment. A genuine curiosity for the person in front of his eyes — he wants to know you. “How do I write your name again?”
That night, the lamp in his room stays on. Only the faint click of the mouse is heard as his family is fast asleep. He spends a long time browsing through sites and YouTube, his finger tapping against a thick sheet of paper with cells of raised dots.
—
He gets a new pair of glasses. One more fashionable. His agency says it suits him and glasses are considered fashionable these days. Trends always come and go. But those words do make him feel more confident while wearing them. If anything, he thinks they frame his face quite well.
A magazine, one from his shoot from a few months ago, is shoved into his face. “My mother says you are on the front page. I know she isn’t lying to me, but I want to make sure.”
He confirms that it is him, but says he is not alone. It was a couple’s shoot for White Day. Upon seeing the pictures, Yukimiya realises that the fake glasses he wore in that photoshoot are similar to the ones he has on now.
You softly hum, as your finger glides across the page and when you turn to the next one. “Do you think the blue or brown shirt suited you better? The blue is so dark, but I am not sure how fair your skin is.” There are little scratch marks on his image, and his heart warms at recognition.
“Maybe brown? I prefer it over the blue. I like earth tones.”
“When I was a child, I think I liked yellow. Like dandelions, and the sun,” you tell him. In these little moments, he learns more things about you. It may not be much to anyone, but he likes the way he naturally learns without asking — you just speak, and he listens onto every word ever spoken between the two of you.
You like braille. You are learning how to cook, though your mother stays in the kitchen at all times. You ask him what his favourite dish is, and then he asks if he is allowed to be hopeful (you answer maybe, and to not blame you if it tastes terribly). You lost your sight when you were a child, it was an accident, and you never mentioned it again. He doesn't ask. And your childhood favourite colour is yellow of all things.
Admittedly, he does not know of anyone who likes or wears that colour, dandelion yellow, besides during photoshoots. “Well . . . I guess those could be consider earth tones, too.”
“I am pretty sure those don’t classify as earth tones.”
“It is considered part of the Earth, no?” And he knows he probably sounds so ridiculous, uncharacteristic of him, but your laughter makes everything worth it.
He confesses, “When I was a kid, blue was my favourite colour, like the sky.” He doesn't tell you that he went through a red phase during all of his years in junior high.
“The sky is beautiful,” you reply.
He gazes up to white clouds, and contrails on sky blue. It is beautiful, he agrees.
—
It becomes a routine: the gentle footsteps that stop five inches before reaching you, and the soft [tender] voice that calls your name. Soft and gentle, like cherry blossoms petals swaying in Spring.
“I am going to grab a petal that had fallen on top of your head,” Yukimiya states, smooth voice next to your ear, and it tickles — your heart flutters as he waits for your okay before moving.
Minimising the space between the both of you, yet his fingertips are barely felt against the little strands of your hair as he carefully picks up the flower petal.
Yukimiya is a gentleman, so sweet and kind, your best friend. He treats you so gently, as he does with everyone, and it makes you feel equal.
“Oh, thank you. Shall we go now?” You reach out your hand and he instantly catches it, allowing you to be the one to link your arm through his.
—
You seem to take more walks these days. Sometimes, you invite him and he accepts more often than not. But today is Thursday, and Thursdays are meant for you and your mother to go to the market together, except she had a sudden client meeting and could not reschedule.
Your name lights up on Yukimiya’s phone screen, and he answers on the second ring. Twenty minutes later, he is running out the door in his best outfit.
The two of you take a walk, chatting about random things that has happened since the last time you’ve seen each other [exactly four days ago], and he suggests stopping by a café for drinks and mini cakes to which you agree.
The whispers and noises within the café hush out everything, and he moves his chair closer to you to hear better.
“You must be popular,” you point out, twirling your straw in your iced latté, ice clinking against the cup.
“Hm?” Softly scratching his cheek — debating on what the proper reply to that would be. “Well, not really,” he decides to add.
“I feel a lot of stares when we go out together. More than when I am alone. It must be you.”
“Maybe it’s you,” he replies.
You softly giggle, tip of the straw pressing against your bottom lip. “No, these stares feel a little different.”
For some reason, he doesn’t like the way you said that, despite your face and smile looking so bright. Discreet glances thrown in this direction from a few school girls – maybe junior high – and you never once reacted to the growing stares.
“I want to know what you look like,” you say.
He replies before thinking, “You can touch me.” And you do just so.
Cold from the way your hands were cupped around your iced latté, he flinches at the first touch, and you softly giggle at that — the scent of the strawberry cake you had eaten mixed with caffeine surrounds you. He thinks you did it on purpose, but he doesn’t accuse you of so.
Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin, and his breath hitches as you run a finger over his jaw and he swallows harshly.
Yukimiya ignores the stares, or attempts to as he has always grown conscious of the way people look and perceive him, because this is what you have always done. You told him that your other senses are only stronger, because you have no choice, but to rely on them unlike your eyes, and he is sure you can hear the soft giggles and glances every so often as they’ve grown louder and more bold — he is envious that this doesn’t seem to affect you.
The closing distant doesn’t seem to affect you, nor does the way you touch his face — growing red from soft and lingering touches. You seem so unfazed, so concentrated on memorising the bones and blemishes that makes him him.
Your fingers rub along the black frames of his glasses, careful to avoid the lens. “Can you describe your eyes?” You ask, a little quieter than usual. A little drowned out by the sound of the coffee machines.
“My eyes . . . They are orange, I think they’re a little bigger than normal. I get it from my mother,” he slowly answers.
“Orange. Like the sun?”
Yukimiya lets out a quiet drone. “The sunset, I think.”
“Oh, wow. I can see why you're a model,” you reply. “I think these glasses look good on you.”
A ‘pfft’ falls from his mouth, a little less gentlemanly than he liked to be, all at your joke hidden within a compliment. But the noise makes you break out into a grin, and he can't help, but to smile at the sight of your smiling face.
He walks you home today — rare, yet not uncommon. He had memorised the direction to your home, the difference in what street you turn into depending on if you’re walking home or when your mother drives.
A soft, warm glow paints over the horizon as you reach your house. Before you reach the door, you turn around to say, “You’re beautiful, Yukki.”
Your features glowing against the memorising light. Golden, you and your smile. The sun is sinking down so slowly, reluctant to say farewell to this day, and he swallows down everything and anything he isn’t ready to admit.
And for the first time, in this moment, he is glad you can't see him. There's no way for him to hide the redness flowing onto his face and ears and quivering lips.
Even after you had disappeared inside, his eyes linger on the spot you had just been.
—
There is hope for him, his eyes and dream, though the chance is low. Dr. Motomura says, “It’s not a crime to keep on dreaming. No matter how dark it seems, never give up hope.”
And he thanks the elder, sincerity in his words and heart — his voice shakes a little at the end. “I feel like I’ve come to terms with my diagnosis.”
Dr. Motomura proudly smiles.
“Yukimiya-kun,” his doctor unexpectedly calls out from behind as he is about to step out of the office, one foot out the door.
He turns around, and the man’s smile is awfully gentle, yet sad. “I haven’t seen that child so expressive before.” So, so sad. And when the man thanks him for treating you normally — his eyes began to sting, though he does not cry.
—
A confession spills from his lips to you. About his dream. About football, and his worries.
You confess to him, too. You tell him you don't really have a big dream, and you just want to live a normal and happy life.
Smiles shared over secrets, fingertips that nearly touch, and mirror of hearts that feel like it – the two of you – means something.
He asks if you are happy.
Your throat tightens, barely missing a beat when you say yes, and he replies that he is happy, too.
A shooting star passes by overhead, Yukimiya points its location out to you. Shooting stars are meant to be wished upon, and you do just so — a blue streak of glittering hope left behind as it disappears from human eyes.
[Shooting stars are not stars at all. Just specs of dust turned into meteors. Burning up as they inevitably fall down, down, down.]
—
At Miyazaki Station, you wait for the train with him. It’s early, too early — the sun had only just risen, its soft glow barely seen from over the tall buildings surrounding the station.
You yawn beside him. Contagious, as he does, too. “You didn’t have to come,” he says to you, but is grateful all the same. Admittedly, it would’ve feel right if you weren’t here.
“I wanted to.”
And all Yukimiya can say is, “Okay.”
You held hands, not knowing who reached out first, and it fits together like puzzle pieces. Perfectly together. You held hands and didn't let go until the train stopped.
And that faint tremble of your hand causes his heart to ache in a way he had never experienced as he pulls away. Regret immediately comes, and suddenly, he doesn't want to leave. He hugs you first, so sudden and he hopes he did not frighten you, but you hug back instantly without a word. The surrounding noise dies out — the footsteps and voices of people drown out, as does the hissing of the train. Diseal fumes and metal in the air mix in with the sweet scent of your shampoo.
“I’ll see you later,” he whispers, and your arms tighten themselves around his waist as you nod into his chest, before you let go of him first — the warmth of your body vanishes, and he suddenly feels cold.
You don’t say goodbye. You only tell him to call you, and he turns to board the morning train to Tokyo.
He can't find it in himself to look out the window despite this growing need of wanting to catch a glimpse of you just one last time, because he knows you will still be there in the same spot he had left you. You won't leave until you don't the sound of the train slowly fades from your ears.
(You will still be there.)
Eyes closed, from tiredness and not wishing to look back, he lays his head against the glass — the coldness keeps him awake, there’s an ache. Yukimiya reaches into his pockets to grab him cellphone, maybe hoping there is a message from you or his friends, except his fingers brush against paper and he pulls it out in confusion.
White, thick card stock, no smell of ink lingers. Written in braille, his index finger gently glides over the cell of raised dots, careful to not leave even a scratch. Once. Twice. He swallows harshly.
Good luck, Yukki. I believe in you.
Words bubble up, and get trapped in his throat. and strangely, it makes him want to cry, despite his heart being filled to the brim — like a glass jar full of happiness, anticipation, and you.
[Everyone was hopeful.]
note. this was so rushed. i lost motivation and i gave up half-way through ;;; there is probably a ton of grammar and spelling mistakes as it’s unedited
idk much about him, sorry if he is mischaracterised !!
tw for sh & suicide themes . please reach out if you or someone you know is struggling.
there’s a certain misery that comes with crying after a long day of keeping yourself together.
and fuck, michael kaiser did not mean to be your breaking point.
god, the more he thinks about it, the more ashamed he feels. you were tired when he picked you up from work. hell, that alone should’ve been a sign. you never ask him to pick you up, especially on days he has practice.
as he drove you home, the car was filled with a tense silence. unlike your usual ride homes—rare, but not unheard of—, it wasn’t the comfortable kind of silence. it didn’t linger between the two of you, making itself known with the gentleness of a kiss.
no, it plagued you both. it felt like a ticking time bomb; one wrong move, and the whole thing blows up.
well, shit. michael’s never been too good with keeping his mouth shut.
and you’ve never been too good with social cues.
it starts as a joke. or sarcasm. you can’t really tell. to be fair, you only found out it was a “joke” once he told you. it was a stupid thing to get upset over. hell, it was a stupid thing for him to even say.
“are you serious?” you can’t quite understand the feeling that’s scratching the inside of your throat.
“yes, schatz, why wouldn’t i be?” he’s monotonous; god you’re too tired for this.
“oh,” it feels like every function of your body is manual. blinking, twitching, breathing—fuck! your breath hitches in your throat, a few coughs clearing it out.
“what’s the matter?” he’s unreadable.
“i, um,” you gulp hard. was it always this difficult to talk? to swallow? to breathe? “i really needed to do that tonight.”
he laughs. it feels mocking. it rings through your ears; an alarm that’s off button is broken. a record with a broken player holding it hostage. a cd with irreparable scratches tainting it.
the tears that welled up in your eyes dripped down your chin, without you even realising it.
slowly, painfully, embarrassingly. a scene being replayed from a hundred different angles in a movie. a song that would be perfect without the next verse. a fountain that recycles the water, from the top to the bottom, and repeat.
your tears itch your skin as they begin drying, and you roughly wipe them away.
“any excuse to cry, huh,” he murmurs to himself, and the ride falls back to silence.
not even a tense silence anymore. it hurts.
it hurts almost as much as the coarse fabric of your sweater’s sleeve cuff that you frantically wiped your tears away with. it stings.
unlike any other.
maybe it was a joke to him, but to you?
crying has never felt worse.
coming home after a long day has never felt worse. waving goodbye to michael as if everything is okay when its not has never felt worse. flopping onto your couch without locking the front door has never felt worse. letting the hours pass and rotting on the floor has never felt worse. dragging yourself to your bathroom and opening your drawers has never felt worse. pulling out miscellaneous items until you find what you’re looking for has never felt worse.
dragging that purple eyebrow razor across your skin has never felt more rewarding.
but all good things, even illusions, come to an end.
it feels horrible, once again. worse than before. worse than ever.
crying alone on the cold tiles of your bathroom…
when will it end? all of it?
you don’t recall when you passed out, nor when you woke up. all you know is that you woke up in someone’s arms.
warmth. a stinging, almost painful warmth.
but a hug is a hug, you know.
a wild rose is still wild, no matter how much you think you’ve tamed it. its beautiful and free, but its thorns still prick you if you try to take it away from its home.
you used to think that michael was that wild rose. you’ve changed him a little, sure, but he still belongs with people that understand and can provide his freedom.
and maybe your freedom is… well, you get the gist.
you stir in your sleep, eyes opening to blonde and blue hair hovering just above your face.
and speaking of faces, what a beautiful face, the one that looks down at you. its a shame, though, since the expression is contorted into one of worry and guilt. shame, maybe.
“mihya?” the name slips out of your lips before you register it.
no answer. the warmth disappears. the stinging pain persists, and the almost miserably ethereal face fades away.
this illusion… it withers away. you knew it would, you just didn’t think the thorns would prick you so harshly. with beauty comes the burden of being wild; unfortunately, michael could not tame yours.
he couldn’t tame you. and he couldn’t do anything but sit and watch with you in his arms, as you withered away.
if there’s one thing that’s an overthinker’s nightmare, its getting an impulse to do something and not being able to do it immediately. or being too anxious to ask for help if its a two-person task, so you spiral and can’t do it.
thinking about kenyu yukimiya growing accustomed to your anxiety and overthinking. he doesn’t fully understand it—i mean, what does he know about remembering something you stressed about, reigniting the anxiety and not being able to do it, all in the span of one minute?
you bite your nails, your throat growing dry and painfully tight. your eyes gloss over in hot, thick tears. don’t cry. don’t cry, don’t cry—it’s not a big deal.
don’t cry, you can handle this like the mature person you are.
maybe its rooted in being an anxious, overthinking child. this fear of burdening others. just like being a kid; how no one listens to you. not even you listen to yourself.
so the tears drip down your puffed cheeks—your lips quiver into a frown. if only your mind, tears and mouth moved in coordination.
“hey,” kenyu’s soft voice breaks through your zoned-out state. “what happened?”
when he asks a question while you’re crying, he knows that it’ll take some time before you respond. so he opens his arms, offering you a hug—to hold you, but you don’t know it yet.
you hesitantly sink into his embrace, not noticing as he lifts you up carefully and wraps your legs around his waist. he distracts you by whispering sweet nothings beside your ears, pressing chaste kisses to your cheeks as he sits down on the couch.
“cry it out, dear,” he murmurs, adjusting your body so you can comfortably sit on his lap. he wraps his arms around you again, gently leaning your head into the crook of his neck.
your tears felt cold against his shirt and skin for a second, before you really melt into his embrace. like you’re letting yourself be vulnerable, but also safe, in his arms. after that, your tears feel warm against his skin.
after what feels like forever in his embrace, a sound other than sobbing and breath hitching croaks out of your throat.
he listens closely—between the rerun of sobs and tears, hiccups and sniffles between words, stuttering and pausing over your feelings—, to what was bothering you. he waits for you to finish talking, with a few moments of silence afterwards, in case you wanted to talk more.
“thank you for telling me, love,” he helps you sit up on his lap, fixing your hair and wiping the tears off of your face. he wipes under your eyes with the pad of his thumb, planting a delicate kiss to your slightly salty skin.
there’s not much he can say in response to you venting in itself, and he doesn’t jump straight into giving you advice, either. you seem content in just having talked about it, and that alone is enough for him.
you two share a comfortable silence for a while, occasionally making eye contact and hastily averting your gaze. there’s nothing to really be embarrassed about—he’s just so grateful that you could open up to him.
maybe its a little too obvious, with the way you start laughing to yourself. he slightly raises his eyebrow, confused.
“you’ve got my tears and snot on your shirt, yet you’re grinning like a lovesick idiot,” you can’t stop laughing, and now he really has a reason to be embarrassed. but he can’t bring himself to look away from your—absolutely beautiful—face, even as you light heartedly mock him.
“i don’t really mind,” he laughs with you, stamping an exaggerated, sloppy kiss to your cheek. “there, now we’re even.”
Wait are u writing more for tokrev now? I loved ur sanzu fic and ur characterization of him
hiii, thank you so, so much. i am glad you enjoyed reading it ^^
i used to write for tr (mainly ran) back then & i have a lot of pieces and wips written ;;; ran is still my muse
i might write for it again in the future if i come to like my characterisation of the characters TT . . but maybe on their birthdays i will post something c:
I WA SLOOKING AT YOUR PROFILE EARLIER AND WAS LIKE/. WAHT A COOL PERSON. THEN I SAW U IN MY NOTIGS AND REALISED WE'RE MOOTS??? IM FUCKING?????? STUPID???? HELP
LMAOO not you thinking someone with a kaiser pfp is cool i hope you’re getting enough rest these days, angel <33
also, the timing of you sending this ask while i was in the middle of stalking your fics is so crazy
pixelskylines
areudirty
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
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