sophie

22 | she/her

[vorfreudevortex]

★ sophie // 22 // she/her ★

★ about me // rules // masterlist ★

semi-hiatus (y’all i’m busy sorry)

i just made an ao3! check it out!! <3

currently:

requests are open

writing for jjk, aot

watching dandadan (loving it)

© vorfreudevortex // all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, or repost my work.

[vorfreudevortex]

Me getting on here for the first time in like 6 months and seeing people still liking my stuff is so crazy like hiiii!! I’m still here y’all!!! Thanks for reading!!! Ahahahahaha

[fukur0shi]

There is a very real possibility I might perish if I don't see this man animated soon enough

[indiewritesxoxo]

say you don't

today's episode of...who the fuck did I marry? (literally)

synopsis: so you woke up next to the hottest man you've ever met. except, you've never seen him before and he swears he's your husband. and the more you talk to him, the less certain you are he's even human. what'll break first? him? or your sanity?

pairing: eldritch-esque entity!gojo x f!reader

wc: 7.3k

content: mdni, DARK CONTENT, angst, light smut, gojo is an entity masquerading as a human lol, but he's down BAD for you, basically God!Gojo has no concept of any kind of societal norms and is pathetically in love with you, technically kidnapping, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, gojo gets everything he wants and that includes you, Geto guest starring as fellow gaslighter LMFAO, some slight body horror (occasional extra eyes and limbs), wet dreams, fingering, touching, casual affection, mentions of taking meds (that aren't actually needed), reader is convinced she's going crazy, messed-up dynamics, some codependency

a/n: this was a super special commission from @specialgradefckr that was SO fun to write!! hope you guys enjoy too <3

The man sitting across the table from you was not your husband. 

It didn’t matter what the shiny gold ring on his finger said – or the glittering diamond on your own. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Pretty pink lips parting, the bright white teeth behind them opening wider, the sharp tips of his canines catching the bright sunlight streaming through the window of an apartment you’d never been in before. 

You weren’t even sure he was human. 

Or if you were still asleep. 

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He cocked his head to the side, but he couldn’t even get that right. You guessed it was supposed to be cute (well, it kinda was) but it was angled too far, his ear nearly touching his shoulder.

The newspaper in his hands was upside down. The coffee in front of him was half sugar. He hadn’t blinked once in the past two minutes. 

You might not have picked up on that if his eyes weren’t so blue. It wasn’t the same shade as the oceans or the sky. Nothing in nature matched what was staring straight at you. They shimmered, brilliant and burning, intensely focused on each little twitch of your face. 

Spit was pooling in the back of your throat, pulse pounding in your ear as you smoothed down the hem of a thin slip you definitely didn’t own and certainly hadn’t dressed yourself in the night before. No, you just tossed on a ratty old t-shirt before crawling into your own bed, pulled the comforter over your body and crashed. When you woke up, you were here, wherever here was, with no fucking clue how you got here. Or who he was. 

With him half on top of you, sturdy arms wrapped around you and the prettiest man thing you’d ever seen purring good morning in your ear. Kissing your cheek like you and hugging you tight like you were some stuffed toy he always slept with. 

You pinched the back of your hand under the table. Hard enough for your nail to break the skin. You weren't dreaming. 

So he was, for better or worse, real. 

“I should go,” you cleared your throat, glancing down at the almost untouched plate in front of you. Pancakes, apparently, although you’d personally never had any that were so…spongy. You poked it with a fork when he first set it down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach it. 

“Is my cooking not good enough for you?” He quizzed, stark white brows scrunching together like it was a problem he had to solve. Like you were. 

“It’s just, whatever this, uh, weird roleplay thing is-” 

He blinked. 

One eye at a time. 

“What do you mean?” He frowned as you stood up, dropping the newspaper he wasn’t reading to stand too. 

You stepped back, only glancing away to mentally calculate how far away the front door was. 

“I should go back home,” you slowly reiterated. Not that you had any way to get there. You didn’t have your phone, your wallet, your keys. No clue how fucking far you were from your place. 

“This is home.” 

You shook your head slowly, left hand closing into a fist, but it just reminded you of the ring on your finger. Five carats, set in white gold and glimmering while you reflexively looked down at just another detail that didn’t add up.

“No,” you muttered. “This-”

You blinked, and you were on the couch. It was softer than yours, didn’t creak when you shifted, missing all the spots and stains that came from people actually sitting on one. It scratched something in the back of your brain, bothered you for a reason you couldn't name as you sat up and looked around to confirm your suspicion. 

“I'm worried about you,” Satoru murmured, carrying a glass of-

Wait. 

How the hell did you know what his name was? 

Was it on something you’d seen without realizing it? On his phone when you were waking up? On a diploma or piece of mail somewhere your brain had subconsciously picked up on? 

He placed the drink on the clean coffee table in front of you. There was only a small vase with a few white-and-blue flowers stuffed in it as decoration on it. No coasters in sight. And somehow, no scratches or water rings staining the light wood finish either. 

“Who are you?” You asked, hearing how hoarse you sounded. Scared. 

You didn’t want to take the water – but all you could think of was how sore your throat was, reluctantly reaching over to take a sip. 

“Your husband?” He insisted, firm and a little sarcastic, like it should be obvious. 

“I’m not married,” you scoffed, even if the weight of the ring on your finger got heavier by the second. “I don't even have a boyfriend.” 

He made a soft sound, a coo, humming like this was still normal. 

And then it clicked. 

It had to be a prank. Probably pulled by one of your asshole friends who heard you complain one too many times about how sick of being single you were – or maybe even part of a shitty show that would only get aired on an absolutely unethical network. 

“Are you an actor?” You asked, and he laughed, as if you made a joke. “It's not fucking funny. Did someone pay you? Or-”

“I'm your husband,” he echoed, like it was one of the only lines they'd given him. 

“Seriously, are there cameras somewhere?” You started to stand, but your legs felt like jelly. Not quite limp, but unsteady on your feet as you took a step forward. But you bumped into the corner of the table right as he grabbed your arm to steady you, water spilling on the carpet, the cup remaining intact and rolling under the couch.

The only stain on it. 

“Cameras, baby? Really?” He dismissed, innocence you didn’t believe in shining in those big blue eyes. 

“That’s not a no,” you pointed out, looking up and around from the furniture to the corners of the room for any blinking lights or objects out-of-place. 

But nothing stood out.

Except for the fact there wasn’t a single personal item in sight. No photos or signs. No bookshelves stuffed with albums of memories or even shoes or socks left forgotten on the floor? 

“I mean, it doesn’t even look like anyone lives here,” you kept going when he didn’t deny it, gesturing to what could be a stock photo for a bachelor pad. “I mean, you didn’t bother photoshopping a single photo of us? That’s just lazy-”

He slid a photo album across the table you were pretty fucking sure had just been empty.

You stopped, stared blankly at the clean black leather, uncracked. Shiny as he flipped it open to the first page. 

And there you were, in a white wedding dress you’d rather die than wear, one of those poufy princess ones you couldn’t believe actually existed. Your mouth fell open, mid-exhale as your fingers trembled to flip through yourself. 

If it was edited, he’d done a good goddamn job at it. 

His arm was around you, fingers flexing against your waist and a beaming smile across his mouth. No glaring issues or missing fingers to point at. But the flowers in the vase were almost identical to the bouquet in your hands in the photo.

You pulled one free from the plastic, flipping it over to find a date on the back. Almost a full year ago. 

“What is this?” You asked, but the bite in your voice was gone. 

“Our wedding pictures, pretty girl,” he answered, and his bottom lip pushed out like he felt bad for you.  

You didn’t know what was worse, the pity on his face or the pride in his voice.

Each photo was more perfect than the last. The lighting, the shadows, your makeup, his suit, all the tiny details that might give the deception away in order and as expected. Not even a stray hair in sight. 

Your family was in them. Standing in the background or barely in frame, friends laughing and drinking and toasting to a marriage that just materialized. 

“You wanna call someone and ask?” He offered, a calm expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but think he’d done this before. 

“Where’s my phone?” You felt weak, your brain getting foggier as you tried to organize and collect all the information being splayed out in front of you. 

He dug it out of his pocket, and you wanted to protest – tell him that it was weird as shit that he had it. 

You held your tongue though, trying to think of who wouldn’t go along with a prank like this and would actually come clean if they knew someone who would. 

It was kind of hard when your homescreen was him though. 

A candid too, one that looked like it’d been taken in a restaurant somewhere, across the table from him with a candle burning and casting warm shadows on his unnaturally pretty face. 

Your thumb still unlocked it though, and all your contacts were still there – even if there were also now a thousand more photos of him clogging up your storage when you scrolled through. 

It took five phone calls to convince you that something was very, very wrong.

Family members, friends, even a fucking coworker, and they all thought you were the one pranking them. Chuckling at your discomfort, asking how Satoru was, inviting you both over for dinner before your panicked pleas for them to tell you the truth twisted their amusement to concern. 

When the last one hung up on you, you couldn’t even look up.

Just stared down at the smile on your screen, the first full squeeze of fear taking hold in your heart when he said nothing either, waiting for you to look up at him. You could feel his eyes on you. Oppressive and heavy, almost as if some invisible force was pressing against you. 

“I think we should schedule another appointment with your psychiatrist,” he hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, like he really just wanted what was best for you. 

Which, according to him, was an emergency session with a man you’d also never seen. 

You had a psychiatrist already – an appointment you always kept. Every three weeks, curling up on a couch and complaining about work and your friends and venting about everything that bothered you from stupid to significant. 

But he was about half a foot shorter and balding. Not another absurdly attractive guy who shouldn't know your name and still somehow did. 

You blinked at him. 

He stared back at you. 

The clock ticked – your appointment time slipping by in silence when you refused to speak at first. 

You broke first. Glanced out the window at the barren trees outside, wind blowing a brittle chill and frosting the edges of the glass. Shifting seasons. “Weird weather we’re having, huh?” 

“Is that what you’d like to talk about today?” He cooly replied, a sharp edge of sarcasm cutting through the tension.

You shrugged, not that you expected him to answer back with anything actually helpful. 

It was summer last night. The heat had choked out the ac in your apartment, your skin sticky and slick with sweat when you fell asleep, mumbling under your breath it was too fucking hot before you got under the covers

That was the first thing you’d noticed this morning. Your first clue. Eyes still closed and thinking that it was freezing – that your ac must have somehow fixed itself.  

The weather was wrong outside. The man on the other side of the door kept saying he was your fucking husband when you knew he wasn't. And the rest of the world seemed to be in agreement. 

“What brings you back so soon?” Your new psychiatrist asked, one hand firmly gripping a ballpoint pen while the other pushed a thin pair of glasses higher up his nose. How were you supposed to answer when you didn't even remember seeing him once? 

Rationality hadn't quite let you, your brain suggesting reasons you didn't fully believe. Maybe your old one quit, some family emergency or last-minute thing and this was just a replacement he'd forgotten to tell you about. 

You looked over the diplomas proudly displayed on the wall for a Suguru Geto. You made a mental note of the name, one you were sure you’d be searching and scouring the internet for later to see if any of them were real and he was actually an accredited doctor. 

God, that really did sound fucking insane. 

Genuinely suspecting the fact a (hopefully) licensed psychiatrist was just another paid asshole fucking with you? 

There was a calendar by the diploma closest to the windows, and even though the days hadn’t been marked off, it was still on the last month you remembered. You pretended not to notice, shifting your stare back to him. 

What the hell had happened in the past twelve hours? 

“I’m not crazy,” you preemptively said. It wasn't very convincing coming from someone sitting on this side of the desk though. 

“Did I say you were?” He smiled, but it was sly. He reminded you of a fox in a funny way, casual remarks coming off crafty. A hint of cruelty hiding underneath his polished, professional surface. 

“You’re staring like something’s wrong with me.” 

“What would be wrong with you?” He returned your statement with another annoying question, your scowl coming easily as you picked at your cuticles in your lap. 

“I don’t think anything is,” you argued back. Except he wasn’t arguing – he was just setting traps and waiting for you to walk into them. 

“Then why are you here today?” 

Because you fell asleep and somehow in eight hours you’d gone from your bed to living a stranger’s life? Even worse, becoming a stranger’s wife? 

“Why don’t you tell me?” You frowned, eyeing the thick folder he pulled out when you walked through the door, one he quickly closed before gesturing for you to sit. 

“Your husband started bringing you here before for, ah, memory issues for the past year,” he soberly said, like his seriousness could make up for the fact he was full of shit too. 

You almost scoffed. A year? No fucking way. 

“Memory issues?” You repeated, daring him to elaborate and dig them both in a deeper hole. 

He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing like he’d decided on a different approach since the current one wasn’t working. 

“We could start considering inpatient treatment,” he started to suggest, a flare of panic seizing your chest at the thought of a future spent in grippy socks and stuck with needles. 

“No,” you swallowed hard, shaking your head and quickly turning to where your husband was waiting on the other side. Even if you didn’t know him, couldn’t remember a fucking thing about him and didn’t have an explanation for any of it, he wouldn’t let that happen, would he? 

“How about this? I'll write you a new prescription then and schedule a follow-up in a few weeks to see how you're feeling,” Suguru smiled at you, but it was cold. 

“Sure,” you returned his fake smile. 

It wasn’t like you had another choice. How hard would it be to flush pills anyway? 

“Mind sending your husband in for a few minutes?” Your possibly-fake psychiatrist asked, and you could feel your brow twitch, threatening to betray your suspicions. You weren’t all that familiar with privacy laws, but it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. “I would like to discuss a few details of your care plan.”  

Care plan – like you were some troubled child that needed nurturing and hand holding instead of actual answers. 

Stuck sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair out in the hall while they chatted behind a closed door, unable to hear what they were talking about. Just that the man you were supposedly married to looked thrilled walking out, leaning down to kiss your cheek and promise to pick up your favorite food on the way home. 

You figured out two answers of your own about him in the car. The first being he was a really bad driver. You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed on the way there, but you guessed you’d been busy staring out the window trying to discern whether or not this was just a really weird vivid dream or not. But now? Paying full attention to the way his hands were positioned on the wheel, the complete and total lack of awareness he had for anyone else on the road? 

It was ridiculous. 

He rear-ended someone five minutes into it. Completely crushed the back of her bumper, about to drive away until you hissed at him to stop and give the other driver his insurance information. He cocked his head to the side like he didn’t really understand, but he got out of the car anyway – in the middle of the busy road and blocking all traffic behind him. 

The woman he hit was pissed, short hair bobbing in the wind as she started shouting at him while you attempted to hide your face in the passenger seat. 

Until your husband just grinned at her, pointing at her probably totaled car and casually chuckled. That was all it took for her to freeze, mouth hanging open, cheeks blushing when he took another step closer. 

“I think that was your fault,” he hummed, and she nodded. 

“I must’ve stopped too fast,” she said it like she hadn’t been screaming three seconds ago, her eyes glittering like he was a goddamn celebrity who was so kind to grace her with his presence and hadn’t just hit her car. 

“Yeah, you should be more careful,” Satoru cooed, all condescending and still somehow charming, clapping a hand over her shoulder and squeezing before getting back in the driver’s seat.

You stared at him, and he just looked to you for approval. 

“Do you always get what you want?” You asked, too surprised to even frown. 

“Pretty much,” he flashed a smile. What, was it just pretty privilege? 

That the world bent around him because he thought it should? 

You weren’t sure when you started to bend too.

Just that the proof (and inconsistencies) started piling up – and started burying you beneath it.  

He knew everything about you – things you never told anyone else. Not just the easy stuff like your favorite color or food, but what hole-in-the-wall restaurants you liked to order it from and what day you liked to do your laundry on. Could recite off when you were born and what you got for your fifth birthday, collected memories of yours like coins or stamps he wanted to save. 

Any way you tried to slice it, he was either the most sentimental man you ever met or a stalker. 

Maybe both. 

When you asked for the marriage certificate, he pulled it from the shelf on a bookcase in his office. When you wanted to know what college he graduated from, suddenly there was a degree hanging on the wall. If you questioned how long you’d been dating, tried to pick apart his timeline, he pulled up the messages between you from as far back as your first date. 

“You don’t trust me,” he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip too far as he tossed his phone on the couch. 

You bit your own lip. Looked at the floor so you wouldn’t have to find something wrong with his face. 

“Why me?” You asked instead. Why couldn’t he go pick some other girl to torment? Get a divorce and unbind his life from yours? 

“Would you believe me if I said it was love-at-first-sight?” 

You didn't really believe anything he said. 

Even if he always had an answer (or an excuse) at his disposal.

But other stuff stood out, getting ready for work a few mornings post your psychiatrist appointment just for him to furrow his brows and station himself by the front door to ask where you were going. 

“My job?” You huffed, slipping on your shoes. All your clothes had come with you here, half his closest stuffed full of them, your shoes set up on a nice little rack by the door. There were a few things you knew you hadn’t bought, frilly and flimsy and all in that unnatural shade of blue, but you ignored them. 

Foolishly tried to kid yourself that pretending they weren't there would make them go away. 

“You don’t work,” he casually replied. 

“I do,” you insisted, trying to push past him before he stopped you with a firm hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Sweetheart,” he tried to sound kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “You quit six months ago.” 

He guided you back to the kitchen table, sat you down softly before walking over to one of his dark cabinets. Pulled out something from the top shelf and returned to you like he was every ounce the devoted husband he was pretending to be. He handed it to you, something you were sure was supposed to be a show of trust. 

The pill bottle was clear. Thick, almost translucent, white label stretching around with pretty blue pills rattling inside when you shook it. 

Simple instructions printed neatly below your name to take two a day with food. 

“I’ll make you breakfast, baby,” he promised, waiting for you to open the cap and take two. Part of you wanted to accuse him of just not being able to open the child-proofed caps. 

You slowly did, feeling ill already, although it was hard to tell if it was from the idea of eating his cooking or taking the pills. 

He waited for you to put them in your mouth, stood there while you let them sit on your tongue.

“Don’t make me check,” he chuckled, a low warning you could tell he meant.  

You swallowed. 

And still, through the side effects and brain fog they seemed to bring on, you clung to the edges of your sanity, the logic remaining. Enough that when he was distracted typing away at his laptop, you were trying to text former coworkers, your old boss, anyone that would know anything more. 

But none of the messages were ever marked delivered. And when you looked up your former place of employment, you discovered everything about them had been scrubbed online, completely wiped. Like it never even existed. 

And when you managed to slip past him four days later down the stairs and out into the parking garage, you couldn’t find your car. 

The days dragged on - no job, no distractions. Just him and the cocktail of prescription drugs to coast on. 

His work schedule wasn’t kind to you. Allowed him to ‘work’ remotely, although he barely seemed to be in his home office, usually too busy bugging you. Half the week he never even stepped foot in there at all. But they never fired him. Never seemed to pester him to finish projects or demand for more of his time. 

You, apparently, were the most difficult part of Satoru Gojo’s life.

“One kiss?” He pouted, pointing to his cheek and leaning against the wall by the office door, an easy grin on his face.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you excused, itching to walk away for the few hours of peace you got a day.

“Later then,” he shrugged, still unbothered, like he had all the time in the world. 

He liked to take you shopping after work or on weekends, doll you up in dresses and treat you to overpriced restaurants where he always seemed to score free meals or desserts every time. Although, the first time, he accused a waiter of flirting with him (and eventually you) just for asking questions about what he wanted to eat, demanding to speak to a manager. Squinting and scrunching his nose up like ‘is the food to your taste?’ was the equivalent to asking what color underwear he was wearing. No one listened when you tried to apologize for him. Paid any attention to you saying it was fine. The waiter was fired and your food was comped. 

People stared when he passed by. Men asked him about his cologne and his clothes. Women told you how lucky you were to lock him down.

As if it had ever been your choice in the matter.

Sometimes, you'd slip. Forget that you should be fighting this. Instinctively reach out for his hand in crowds in public, offer him bites of your food, roll over closer to him in bed on cold mornings. And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t right, but you seeked his comfort anyway, soothed yourself with his freezing hands and warm voice like it’d make your skin stop crawling, like it’d scrape away all the paint and varnish covering up the ugliness hiding underneath your relationship. 

You always snapped back to what was left of your reality eventually. 

It was after you pulled back that it would be there, the unsettling discomfort of his stare when you turned away from him. 

It was the worst in the mornings.

Crawling out of the sheets first, leaving him with his legs tangled in the blankets. He only ever slept in his boxers, his chest bare and rising slowly. It took too long to fall, like he was faking it. Mimicking sleep like he was imitating something from a movie.

And even when his eyes were closed, long white lashes fluttering, you could still feel them watching. 

His body, however pretty, however perfect, felt more like a shell, a casing containing something too big for it. A man who’d never been told no – and knew how to make sure it was never an option for you.

Not when every day you teetered closer to crazy, swallowing pills you didn’t need, sitting next to Satoru on the couch with a strong arm slung over your shoulder, stuck in a never-ending routine of brain-numbing domesticity. 

You couldn’t even lay in bed and sleep in late. 

The sky outside his window never seemed to get lighter until you got out. Your phone was always out-of-reach – Satoru didn’t confiscate it, but you conveniently could never find it once night time rolled around. He never had watches around either – even though he seemed like the exact sort of asshole that would own a Rolex and brag about it. 

You might’ve called him out. Confessed your suspicions, made a whole fucking list of them to shout at him, scrutinize every tiny detail and demand answers. Until you started seeing the eyes and were forced to reconsider the growing possibility that you were the problem here. 

He was talking – he almost always was. Telling you some convoluted story you were pretty sure was the plot of a bad tv movie he must’ve watched while you were sleeping, one you had overheard blaring from the bedroom, the volume also perpetually stuck too loud. He never left the remote out for you to change it either. 

Your stare had been fixed on the tv anyway, nodding along bored until you caught a glimpse of it out of the edges of your vision. Right below his cheek. An extra eye, just as bright and observant as the other two. It blinked, and you turned.

But it wasn’t there anymore, and Satoru was staring at you innocently, head tilted to the side like he was pleased to have captured your attention at all.

“Everything alright, pretty girl?” He purred, reaching out to place his hand over yours. You didn’t pull away, couldn’t convince your body to move when the surprise had left you practically paralyzed.

You tried to sleep it off. 

But they kept popping up. Behind you in the mirror. When he was making breakfast. On his hands and face and even once on his back. The second you looked, the moment you tried to look directly at it, it was gone, dissolved back into normal skin like it’d never been there at all. 

And then came the ones in places they couldn’t be. 

On the walls and in the furniture. Constantly being watched whether you were alone or with him. 

You used to think you could get used to anything. 

But the paranoia never ended – and you were starting to question if maybe he’d been right this whole time. How much of this was him? And how much was in your head? 

“How have you been doing since the last visit?” Your psychiatrist asked, fixing you in the same cold stare as last time. You hadn’t wanted to come back, but Satoru insisted – and despite all your digging, you couldn’t find any proof he wasn’t who he said he was. 

“Fine,” you lied. 

You were one string away from unravelling. On a short tether ready to snap with one more eye, one more changed memory or crooked detail that didn’t match up.

“Have you remembered anything? Any flashes? Images?” He asked, like someone who had a degree probably would. 

You shook your head, the urge to claw and scratch and fight this slowly seeping out. “Um, no.” 

“Well, we can talk about something else then,” he smiled, and it still didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled through the folder in front of him. “How about your family then? Or maybe your friends?” 

Your mouth had started to open, to dismiss the idea of talking about the one area of your life you still considered somewhat private until a name he shouldn’t have known left his lips. Until he continued to mention more information you only ever told your old psychiatrist about. 

“I think I’m done today, actually,” you muttered. You brushed down your skirt, standing up and hurrying over to the door to twist the knob just for it to bump into something on the other side. 

Satoru had been listening in. 

But he didn’t condemn you for ending your session early. Just wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and brushed your hair out of your face before asking if you wanted to go out to eat or pick something up. 

Suguru Geto would never be able to give you the help you needed.

You didn’t think help like that even existed. What god would be able to overwrite your husband when it seemed like he was the one who made the rulebook? Who never did wrong and always got precisely what he wanted? 

In a weird way, there was an odd comfort in being with him. He didn’t make you feel crazy – even when you threatened to throw his shit out the window and cried yourself to sleep when you did toss his stuff out just for it to reappear in the same spots. He just cooed that it was okay, promised that it would be better soon, pressed faint kisses against your shoulder blades and down your skin like his touch could make the world stop spinning. 

Something was seriously wrong with him and you.  

You were both bad at pretending to be normal. 

Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you hallucinated the eyes on the walls and the secrets buried in his skin. But here he was, sitting on the couch while the sun was still out watching a girl get her back blown out with a fucking notepad in his lap. 

Squinting at the screen while she got backshots in 4k Ultra-HD, her gasps and moans the soundtrack while he made unintelligible scribbles on the page. Pants on, fully clothed, not even fucking erect or hard or anything.  

If he noticed you behind him, he didn’t say it. 

“You're not jerking off,” you dryly commented, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Do you want me to?” He glanced over his shoulder, sincerely asking. 

You stared at him, lips parting as you tried to formulate what the fuck you were supposed to say to that, your own eyes shifting down to where the notepad was suddenly gone, his hand already tugging down his zipper and about to pull out his cock. 

Maybe you would've said no, but you shut up the second you saw it. And really, it was kind of fucking absurd. 

Even more than the situation itself was.

Bigger than what the guy on screen was packing, like someone copy-and-pasted what an ideal one was supposed to look like, vein throbbing and pre-cum leaking around a pretty pink swollen tip. As if it hadn't just been soft and hidden under his jeans a handful of seconds ago. 

“I'm, um, going to bed,” you awkwardly stammered, jutting your thumb down the hall. 

Sleep washed over you here. Like a hand pushing your hand under waves until you were forced to suck water into your lungs. 

But you never drowned. 

You dreamed of being somewhere vast, where the dark stretched out endlessly in each direction. Outside, you guessed?

Except there wasn't a sky. No ceiling. Just space – cold and cruel but not empty. Eyes were everywhere. Instead of being on CCTV, you were being captured from every goddamn angle by the same unblinking blue eyes that haunted your days. You used to think two was a lot. That it was all he needed to see though you. 

Here there had to be at least two hundred. 

All watching you splayed out for their viewing pleasure. Pale hands held your wrists in place, veiny arms and thick fingers tracing and groping you. Squirming against (into?) him while another set of palms spread your thighs. His touch seared. 

Burned into your soul with each pattern he painted and pressed along your skin and inside you. It wasn’t like he had a face, or like you could hear his voice. But you knew it was him all the same. 

And you didn’t resist. 

Didn’t want to. 

When dreams had blended into your waking world already, what was so wrong about letting yourself have him like this? The rest of your life was wrong anyway. You closed your eyes, rested your head back for another hand to hold it up, fingers petting your hair while another set did the work of spreading you open and stretching you out. 

It didn't feel like fingers though, not when each touch was pure energy, electricity that raced through you and back down, pressure building and cresting just to come back twice as hot with each pump of something thick and hard thrusting inside you. It curled cruelly, reached places you never could on your own, invisible and intoxicating as it dragged you close to your climax just to rinse and repeat. 

Being rearranged and remade into something that fit him better. That felt better.

Time didn't exist. It could've been five minutes or five hours. Lost in the void of him while he lost himself inside you. 

You could've lived in it. 

But your life had taken on its own dreamy shape, one that bordered on fantasy. 

The sheets were damp. Thighs soaked and slick. 

“Sleep good, sweetheart?” He prodded when you woke up to the sun shining through the window, a lazy arm slung over your side. Deceptive. You knew if you went to slip out, if you pulled away too soon, his relaxed grip would turn into a harsh squeeze, holding you against him until you whined that it was hard to breathe. 

You were about to turn around to look at him, but his fingers groped your tits and when you started to count how many there were on you, there were too many. 

In your panic, you elbowed him, pulling away before he could fully react. 

And you saw it. 

Not just a glimpse. Not a flash. 

But a full second where there was an extra arm attached. 

It was gone again by the next blink. But you'd seen it, and it felt like everything shattered again. 

“You-” You started, pointing at where it had been. 

“I what?” Satoru dared you to say it. 

“You had another arm,” you accused, voice trembling. 

“You must have missed your dose yesterday, huh, beautiful?" He crooned, still smiling at you like it was okay you just implied he was a fucking shape shifter or alien or some fucking creature charading around as your husband. 

He'd pull documents out of thin air the same way he made an entire limb disappear. Convinced people to give him whatever he wanted for free with just a wink or a purr. 

How easy would it be for him to do the same to you? 

“I'm not crazy,” you said it again, but you weren't so confident. 

Because whether it was real or not, pieces of him, thoughts and images and daydreams, had all started to seep through into your heart. Consideration or codependency, although maybe that was just you coping. Telling yourself that it wasn't some fucked-up form of lust or love. 

There was too much you couldn’t reconcile from reality and the world he was trying to convince you of. 

Something had to snap - and it was you. 

And still, he tried to act like everything was normal, tried to hold your hand in the waiting room and took you to the conveniently-available doctor. 

Suguru Geto tapped his pen against his desk. 

And you tapped your nails against your leg. 

“I think my husband isn't human,” you admitted. Said the big bad words that had been bouncing around in your head out loud. “I don't really know what he is, but-”

“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Suguru dismissed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. 

“I know,” you nodded. 

You'd come up with a list of theories on the car ride here while Satoru promised to prove how much he cared about you. An alien disguised as a human? Some freak stalking you? That one didn't explain the arms or the eyes. The dream you guessed could've been all you, spurred on from seeing his cock. 

“One moment,” Suguru held up his finger, and you figured this was it. He'd call the psych ward and you'd have white walls to look forward to instead of the cool blue of Satoru’s bedroom. 

He stood up, walked towards the door where Satoru was waiting outside. Offered you another professional smile before stepping out. 

Your file was left on his desk. 

It took you two seconds to snag it, flipping through it, half-expecting it to be normal. To be another piece that you'd be left wondering if it was fabricated. But no, most of them were in familiar handwriting, notes taken by your previous psychiatrist, signed and dated precisely how you remembered. 

Suguru was a fraud – and your husband, whoever (or whatever) he was, was too. 

His office was unfortunately on the third floor, too far from the ground for you to make an escape through the window. So, you did the next stupid thing you thought of, pressed your ear against the door like you'd hear anything that would fix the anxiety churning in your stomach. 

Your brain was trying to block out the information you found, to hit erase and rewind the clock on today. You felt fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before you could fully hold onto them. 

“You really fucked this up,” your pretend psychiatrist grunted, irritated as you tried to blink away the fog, to drag your mind out of the haze and back to clarity. “I told you this would happen. Just scrub her memories and then add your own.” 

“I want her to like me for me,” Satoru whined, and the next blink made the world around you sway. 

“You're an idiot,” Suguru scoffed at him. 

“Am not,” he argued back. “I'm intelligent, attractive, attentive, shouldn't that be good enough?”

“Not when she doesn't know you,” Suguru retorted. 

You felt like you were going to pass out.

“Well, you said she started to figure it out so-” 

You didn't mean to make a sound, but your knees threatened to buckle, and you had to lean against the door to stop yourself from falling. They immediately stopped talking. The doorknob jiggled, and then opened, Satoru catching you before you could collapse.

“There's my smart girl.” He poked your nose, one long finger pressing softly against the cartilage as he chuckled. Like an owner playing with its pet. 

A kid testing the limits of his toy would probably be closer. More accurate.

A vein throbbed across Suguru’s forehead, annoyed at how this was playing out. You guessed he was like him too. Something that was out of your understanding, too much for you to fully conceive, under the cover of human faces and fucking around with someone like you because they could. 

“What are you?” You bluntly asked, unable to pretend to not know. To act like you hadn't been listening. 

“Your husband.” 

You wondered what he'd do if you asked for a divorce. Although, here, in his arms, with him looking at you like he loved you, like in spite of everything else that was real, you didn't want one. 

What vows had he sworn? 

For better or worse? In sickness and health? Human or not? 

“Fix this.” Suguru didn't ask. Demanded. 

Satoru frowned, but there weren't any frown lines. Barely even a crease between his brows either. An emotion he hadn't mastered well in this body of his. 

“I could just reset her,” he grumbled, unhappy at the prospect. 

You barely had any strength left – but you scraped together enough to shake your head. You didn’t want to be fucking reset. 

“No,” you hoarsely said. “Don't.”

Satoru’s face immediately brightened, grinning and pulling you closer, squeezing too tight again, until you hit his chest twice to get him to stop. 

“Sorry, Suguru,” he shrugged. “I do what my wife wants.” 

You fiddled with your ring in the car on the way home. For the first time, it felt like yours. Or maybe, you'd just accepted it as part of you. Let go of the pieces of you that didn't fit anymore. Shed those parts of your skin like he stepped into this one. 

“What do you want?” You asked as he ran a red light. 

“You,” he easily answered. 

“You could've asked me on, like, a date,” you grumbled, resting your head against the window. 

“Do you want to go on a date now?” He quizzed, cocking his head to the side at the correct angle this time. Learning, adapting to acting his role out. 

“I want to go home,” you murmured. 

The image in your head wasn't your apartment anymore. When you thought of bed, you thought of his. 

And when he parked the car (and managed to scrape the front bumper against the concrete wall), he still hurried around to open your door for you, to hold your arm to steady you. 

Took off your coat when you got back inside, got down on his knees to take your shoes off. 

“You know you can ask me for anything, right?” He hummed, and there was something unsettling at the thought he could actually conjure up anything he wanted. 

But being scared was exhausting. 

So you didn't say anything when he followed you to the bedroom. 

You stripped off your clothes, one piece at a time, methodical, precise. He stared, reverent. The lump in his throat bobbing as he took small steps forward. 

“Do you love me?” You asked, unsure. 

“You're the only thing I care about,” he reassured, fingertips settling slowly on your hips, one-by-one too. Dipping into the flesh, feeling it for himself and breathing in your air. His eyes glowed. 

Literally. 

A bright gleam that hurt to look at, burning into you with a dangerous intensity. When he spoke, his voice reverberated into your core. “Do you love me?” 

“You're all I have left.”

[mayyhaps]

denji has a nightmare, power doesn't want to be left out, and you can't sleep — so the obvious solution is for everyone to pile into aki hayakawa's bed at 2 am.

content: 900 words. fluff, comfort, found family, implied romantic relationship. written for @fushiguruuzzzz — “when in your life have you ever aspired to write aki fluff” okay! here it is. co-published with 2k worth of aki angst.

masterlist ✲ join a taglist

denji ghosts into the kitchen some time past two in the morning, shirt rumpled and face haggard in a way that suggests he hasn’t quite escaped the reach of a nightmare yet. he staggers over to the sink like a zombie, fills a clean glass to the brim, and is lifting it partway to his mouth with a trembling hand before he notices you—sitting cross-legged on the floor, a thousand-piece puzzle spread out in front of you—and nearly drops the whole thing.

“the hell are you doing?” he croaks.

“the hell are you doing?” you return, bemused.

rather than offer a reply, the boy downs the glass in a handful of gulps that spills over onto his shirt before setting it down on the counter—god forbid he actually put it in the sink.

“had a bad dream,” he mumbles after a moment. he sounds like a kid when he says it, grumpy and somehow endearing; he’s sleepy enough for most of his barriers to have fallen away. “was gonna go bother aki about it.”

you hold up a puzzle piece to better catch the reflection of the city lights spilling through the window. the night air is cool, but pleasantly so; you can taste summer. it’s nice weather to fall asleep in. if you could sleep.

“bother aki?”

“yeah. y’know, wake him up to tell’m i had a bad dream. it pisses the hell outta him.” 

“what exactly does that achieve?”

a crooked grin breaks out across denji’s face. “makes me feel better seein’ someone else all crabby too.”

of course it does.

there’s movement in your periphery; power has entered the scene. her hair’s a dishevelled mess, eyelids drooping; clearly she’s just been woken up. 

“a meeting without me? d-despicable…” 

she’d form a strikingly defiant figure if she wasn’t yawning so hugely. the cat pads in from the hallway like a shadow, slinking around power’s legs, and just like that, your family assembly is missing only one.

“hey,” you say. “i have an idea.”

the kids watch as you rise to your feet and stretch, hissing at the ache in your lower back. “let’s all go bother aki.”

power punches the air.

you’re all giggling uncontrollably as you creep down the hallway single-file to his room, muted footsteps pattering on the wooden floors. your lack of sleep has turned you from a responsible guardian into an accomplice.

“what’s the plan?” you whisper.

“bam!” power whisper-shouts. “we all jump on top of him and scare him out of his slumber.”

“uh, he might accidentally kill us all,” denji offers, scratching his nose.

power huffs. “he can certainly try.”

and of course, they’re facing off in preparation for another squabble as if it isn’t the dead of night.

“let’s just go in,” you intervene hastily, and slowly ease open the door. 

you get there first, pulling back the covers and sliding in beside aki who’s laying all prim and proper: stiff as a board, hands folded over his chest like he’s preparing to be lowered into his casket. you’ve teased him about it more times than you care to remember. he tends to soften up more when you’re next to him, though. the rest pile in after you—power to your right, cackling quietly to herself for some reason, and denji tumbling down onto the other side of aki—jolting him, inevitably, awake.

“wasgoin’on?” aki grunts, syllables slurred.

“don’t worry,” you whisper as power’s elbow knocks into your head. “go back to sleep.”

it’s a testimony to his faith in you that he acquiesces so easily, lashes fluttering shut. denji’s knocked out in seconds too, cuddled up to aki in a way he’ll vehemently refuse come morning. you’re all wedged up against each other, poked and prodded and twisted in strange angles, and your lower leg has already started to go numb—but somehow, with your face buried in aki’s neck and half of power’s body thrown over you, sleep comes easy, like an old lover. 

you wake up blinking sunlight out of your eyes and hair out of your mouth. you’re not sure where you end and power begins (she’s definitely snoring right next to your ear, though), and you’ve somehow managed to slot half your body in between aki’s legs. meowy’s splayed out on top of denji who’s curled up like a baby, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm as his mouth droops open, and with that familiar rush of affection you appreciate how young the boy really is. there’s a crick in your neck you already know is going to plague you for at least a full day, if not longer. you try to shift slightly to ease the angle; aki stirs.

“sorry,” you whisper.

he focuses on you languidly for a long moment, gathering his bearings, before he sighs. “so it wasn’t some convoluted dream.”

“no,” you say apologetically.

“that’s okay.” his voice is soft, bleary. “it’s good to see you get some rest.”

you brush a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. his skin is flushed from sleep and warm against yours; you feel him exhale against your hand. you wonder what he dreamt of last night.

power grumbles incoherently and thrashes out in her sleep, breaking a yelp out of you as you knock into aki who dislodges denji from—well, however he’s managed to get himself situated. the boy jolts awake and reflexively throws himself at power and suddenly everything’s a mess of limbs—denji squawking in your ear, power’s knee digging into your stomach and bursting the air out of your lungs, you desperately trying to retrieve your hand that’s gotten stuck under someone’s body.

your head’s ringing, the cat’s hissing, and aki’s gearing to toss the other two across the room, and despite it all, somehow, you feel more rested than you’ve been in a long time.

if only you could stop the march of time...you'd be happy to live in this moment forever.

new formatting who dis

i miss my flowers we WILL find a way

@lizbix @alcyneus @stars4you777 @1-800reki @riniaras @evesfairytale @livteracts @vorfreudevortex @adoresia @callme-naomi @lovesenge @little-hell-and-co @elysian-chaos

© mayyhaps. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work, or feed it to ai.

[mayyhaps]

secrets you have held in your heart are harder to hide than you thought. sometimes, you imagine a world where aki hayakawa is yours.

content: 2k words. angst, hurt no comfort, canon-compliant, love that almost is but never was—or love that is, but cannot be. doomed love, anyhow. dedicated to @fushiguruuzzzz & co-published with 900 words of aki fluff. very very vague manga spoilers but it should be fine.

masterlist ✲ join a taglist

sometimes, when you’re bone-tired and so lonely it aches and your untouched meal sits congealed on the bedside table, when your mattress is unyielding beneath you and the air of your apartment is silent and numb with cold and the thermostat is too far out of reach—that is to say, when you feel like you’re about to be swallowed whole by the void tearing apart your chest—

sometimes, you imagine a world where aki hayakawa is yours.

you think about how you’d wake up in the mornings beside him. the windows would be open behind the drawn curtains, soft breezes of the air at dawn sending the fabric billowing like a ghostly bridal veil. you’d be warm and weighed down by his arm and wearing one of his shirts; his hair would be mussed from sleep, frizzing slightly and falling into his eyes and instead of sweeping it away he’d turn his face into your neck and grumble something incoherent. he’d let himself be incoherent, let the words stumble out over each other half-formed and more feeling than meaning. he would let himself. instead of pressing his lips into a hard line and closing off like someone’s yanked down the shutters, more brutal and bleak than if he’d physically stepped back.

because it was always that damned distance, wasn’t it? there was a special trick to it you could never quite figure out and whenever you tried to do it in return—brush off his questions, bite out a response, hurt him like he hurt you—you were the only one left burning up inside with something that wasn’t quite despair because it was sharper, angrier; it wasn’t him you couldn’t forgive but yourself. because you knew what your line of work meant for both of you, and you were the only one who couldn't accept it, and all you gained in return was the confusion in his eyes, but he'd never ask.

fool, to be full of hope.

“aki...”

“don't,” he'd said.

cigarette smoke billowed between you; a buffeting breeze carried it away before the drug could reach your bloodstream and all you were left with was its acrid stench as it burned your airways. he was so close you couldn't tell apart his warmth from yours, yet not a single muscle on his face twitched. but of course. strait-laced, by-the-book aki hayakawa did not falter. 

you had no effect on him. his heady scent sent you dizzy and you had no effect on him at all; he could easily box you up and put you aside, another compartment to be sorted out at a later date, and you wish he never loved you at all because to be loved by aki is to be doomed to be loved second, or third, or seventh on the list, or to not even be there at all. loved without priority. as an afterthought. not because he didn't care, but because he did, and knew he couldn't afford to.

you doubt he ever indulged in the idea of you the way you indulge in him. ever thought about the way your lips would feel on his or the jokes you'd share or the secrets he'd murmur in the deadened night. the recipes you'd teach each other and the music you'd play and what tiles your kitchen would have and how he'd want you, and only you, to knot his tie every morning. and you’d bicker over how to take your coffee and fight over the thermostat and bully each other’s choices for movie night but oh, how you would love each other, and that’s where you always went wrong, foolish, because as romantic as his sorrowful blue eyes were, aki did not dream of love; he dreamt of blood and death and empty revenge and woke up sweating and gasping for breath and beyond that he did not dream at all, did not think about the future, did not for a second consider where you stand in his life or if he even wanted you there. 

aki hayakawa would never be selfish. 

you hated him for it. he couldn’t help it—he’d crafted himself into this creature and set himself adrift and now he was only being tossed by the waves—and you still hated him. you hated loving him. if only you could tear out your own heart. 

that day on the balcony, you’d pushed further. all the times he’d sent your mind spinning, all the times his gaze had lingered, all the brushes of arms and half-smiles and weighted looks and the times he’d leaned in, all the ever-growing tension you’d both danced around—surely you were not the only one who was in the throes of this great balancing act that you held between you like a secret. he was hungry for something, searching for something, and you were deluded enough to think it was you.

your hands formed fists on the railing, inches away from his. somehow you felt like a child in front of him. he struck a contemplative figure, looking out across the city, cigarette balanced loosely on his fingers, and here you were chafing at the bit with everything that threatened to spill out of you. your gazes had kept meeting, bodies pulled closer, that magnetism, rising in a thundering wave until it was impossible for you to ignore.

“aki,” you’d pressed again. the street was still below you; you searched for an anchor and came up empty. “i just, i, i think we should—”

aki exhaled, a stream of swirling smoke billowing from between his lips. “it's not... going to work out.”

“huh?”

you remember the look in his eyes when he turned to you. pity, maybe, but there was something more. sharp, bitter. soft, longing. which part of it did he regret, that turned his eyes so dark with everything unspoken? loving you? leaving you? how could a man wear his heart on his sleeve and still be so unreachable?

much good it did, the pain in his gaze, when he was so focused on turning it away from you. how was it that even after all this time and all your mutual sacrifices you somehow still hadn't earned any right to him? you owe me, you wanted to cry out; you owe me—something. anything. a glimpse into your heart. you owe me your grief of what could have been between us even as you are the one hacking away at its heart. you owe me the splinter of a dream. a soft fragment of a quiet hope. anything.

“i'm sorry,” he said, and he was. and you knew all the same that an apology was the only thing he could give you.

there was a drop in your stomach; no, something more. like you’d been climbing the stairs to your apartment long past sunset, arms laden with groceries, and you were so convinced there was another step—of course there was, you’d climbed these a million times, how could you possibly be wrong? you knew it so well: the rhythm of your footsteps, the pattern in your head—and the sickening lurch in your stomach now is akin to the one you'd feel as your foot falls, falls, falls. and there is a landing, but it's not where you expected it to be: too far, too off-balance. and in the span of a single moment you're doubting you ever knew anything at all.

your voice faltered and he moved to fill in the gap. he was always good at that: watching your back, finishing your sentences, picking up the slack. fitting around you like a glove, slotting into place like a puzzle piece. love like a cherished routine. and suddenly he was right there in front of you, locks of dark hair falling into his eyes, free from its usual restraints, half of his face awash in the city lights and the other painted by the singular cold bulb from the living room behind you both. 

he lifted his hand to your face and his knuckle brushed against your jaw, soft as a whisper, and you leaned in instinctively—drawn to him like gravity had lodged itself inside your ribcage and was pulling you closer, like two galaxies orbiting each other, like a drop of rain plunging from the heavens knowing it is destined to spill off the edge of a single, specific petal—fool, a voice in the back of your mind whispered, but it was too late; it was inevitable, and you surrendered every part of you for it willingly. and it wasn’t his mouth that met yours but the thin paper of a cigarette as he slipped it in between your lips.

“you should get some sleep. makima wants us in early tomorrow.”

the balcony door slid shut behind him. you inhaled automatically, like it would do you any good, like it was the drug you were addicted to. the smoke filled your lungs, nicotine flooding your blood, and your trembling fingers curled around the thin body of the cigarette and crushed it. the time on the clock read 1:17 am. the time your heart stopped beating. the time of death.

aki would not give it all up for you, he would not break the rules for you, he would not throw away everything and run away with you and start anew. this, you knew. you didn’t even want any of that. what do you want? he would not sew you into his life either: form a space, add you in. he would not budge nor step aside; he refused to betray himself, and of course, because you're selfish, all you can ever think about is how it felt like he was betraying you and everything you had between you before—because, yes, there had been friendship and camaraderie and drinks after work and banter and patching up and even a movie night, you and him and denji and power, where your eyes had met in the dark, awash with the light from the television screen and something more, and now... 

what do you want? now there is nothing at all. cigarette ashes and air still-warm after his presence. plates scraped clean, soaking. damp laundry and a dying fireplace. the curling ends of a sentence, the snapped lilt of a question, words cleaned of attachment; picked to the bone. a thousand regrets and a single goodbye. the echo of a doorbell, playing over and over, with someone you don’t recognise standing outside.

sometimes, when you’re bone-tired and so lonely it aches, you imagine a world where you ran after him. confronted him, kissed him, yelled at him, begged. walked away from him and never spoke to him again; left him on your own terms. anything would’ve been better. something would’ve been better than—nothing. 

he didn’t want to be saved; maybe you could’ve saved him. you toss the sentences around in your mind. look at them from every which way like there’s still an answer to be found, like the case isn’t cold and long-shut, like there’s any way to go back or make amends or see him again. like you’re not the only one still reaching out into the night. hands closing around city lights and cigarette smoke. chasing after the fleeting warmth, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting out dying rays. watching it all slip through your fingers. it was never tangible, anyway. (you never got to hold him.) maybe you could’ve saved him. he didn’t want to be saved. he didn’t want to be saved. but maybe, maybe, maybe. maybe you.

you weren’t special enough. you weren’t enough. maybe you would’ve been. you’ll never get to find out.

sometimes, when you’re bone-tired and so lonely it aches, you realise there is no point in imagining another world, because this is the one you were dealt.

what do you want?

the one thing you cannot have. 

i felt genuinely bad writing this piece which is a first. probably cus while i was writing it i caught up to the manga. aki lovers do not read the manga it's not real fujimoto told me himself

i think i will not write any more angst for aki he deserves love & joy only

official apology i am sorry for always writing oneshots & never getting to my requests nor my series... deadbeat author 💔 it's ok i'm being an academic weapon

once i get my bag i will treat u all i promise

@lizbix @alcyneus @stars4you777 @1-800reki @riniaras @evesfairytale @livteracts @vorfreudevortex @adoresia @callme-naomi @lovesenge @little-hell-and-co

© mayyhaps. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work, or upload it to ai.

[reignpage]

❀ in which you and Nanami exchange emails where he asks for forgiveness slightly suggestive + features guests stars + nothing but fluff

From: [email protected]

Subject: Talk To Me Please

Good morning, dear,  Or rather, it would be, if my wife so much as looked in my direction this morning. Instead, I find myself writing to you like some forgotten soul behind enemy lines, using this means of communication as if I am but a mere stranger begging for a moment of your time. It is humiliating. Your refusal to hear your husband out is noted and begrudgingly endured but I forgive you (see? It is not so hard at all).  Please just answer your messages. We have a data plan for a reason.  Love, always,  Your Kento

From: [email protected]

Subject: Seriously?

Hello Kento,  I hope you are well.  Please refrain from contacting me via my work email. It is inappropriate and annoyingly endearing. Let me be mad in peace. Thank you.  Best wishes,  Your Wife

From: [email protected]

Subject: Please Forgive Me

Hello to you too, sweetheart, I must admit your response is both upsetting and encouraging. Truthfully, I wasn't expecting you to respond at all. Of course, I wish your email was more welcoming but beggars and whatnot. What must I do, my love? I have apologised. Not once or twice, but countless times. So many times now it feels like ‘I’m so sorry’ were my first words. I rose early to prepare your favourite breakfast — drove clear across the city to find the precise ingredients (you and I both know there is only one acceptable brand of jam in this household). I plated it neatly, included a smiley face, just as you like it, though, I observed, it was met with a frown, thus defeating the spirit of these things.  Your work clothes were laid out, ironed with care and to perfection, if I may say so myself. I made sure the heating was on well before you awoke, so the chill wouldn’t bother you so — I’ve seen how cold mornings test your…patience, should we say. Your lunch was packed and ready, with a handwritten note tucked inside, although I’m sure you carelessly tossed it aside in your bid to destroy my will to live on a spiritual level. It was a new recipe, by the way. I hope it suits your taste. Do let me know. Perhaps by softening your glare when you arrive home since apparently smiles are beneath you. Even last night, I relinquished the duvet entirely — though I must admit, it was less an offering and more a tactical surrender after you ripped it from my body without mercy. I woke up frozen, on the brink of pneumonia. Need I remind you, I am at a tender age?  And after all of that… You walked past me. Not a word. Not even a glance. You washed the dishes (which is, and I cannot stress this enough, my responsibility), and shoved my work clothes off the bed because — what was it? The sleeve was ‘encroaching’ upon your own and the cotton needed space because ‘husband air is toxic?’ That was particularly hurtful. Entirely uncalled for. My blazer may never recover. Still, I could take it. I could take all of it. Because I admit my fault and I recognise my need to be punished. But to leave without kissing me goodbye? That, my love, was unconscionable. A line crossed. A declaration of war. An admittance of lesser character. I am disappointed in you. Thus, I now join your unrelenting form on the S.S. Marital Displeasure. Let’s see how we fare at sea, together. Yours, unwaveringly, Kento— the husband you once swore never to abandon P.S. Dinner is on me tonight. Please let me know what time you’ll be home. P.P.S. You looked radiant this morning. Even in silence. Even in a mood. You’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Wow. Just Wow

Kento,  You infuriatingly adorable man. All those things you listed about this morning are things you do everyday. I know that was supposed to guilt trip me, but that just annoyed me more cause I get it — you’re totally perfect and handsome and tall and you smell nice. Ugh, you’re the worst. Lunch was yummy, by the way. Ten out of ten. The note, which I didn’t carelessly throw away mind you (that was very rude to assume, how dare you) telling me ‘you are loved even when you’re grumpy’ was not. I am not grumpy, Kento. I am aggrieved.  You have aggrieved me.  Also, don’t try to guilt trip me about the cover hogging. You run hot and you know we have a spare duvet in the closet. Many times now, I've begged you to take it because I know I have bad sleeping habits BUT you refused. You said, need I remind you, that you insist on sharing one to be as close to me as possible. Your words.  The work clothes thing was an accident. I didn’t mean to push it off, and I was trying to stay mad so I made up some lie. Tell your blazer I’m sorry. Tell its owner I will never forgive nor forget. You know what you did.  And I don’t want you to join my ship. We can’t both be on it. We’ll sink…damn that’s metaphorical. For your own good, get off now whilst you still can.  Lukewarm wishes,  Your Wife P.S. I’ll be home later than you, I have some things to finish P.S. There was only one other person in the room and that was you, and even then you were clearly the more beautiful one Mr. Wakes Up With A Five O’Clock Shadow And Silky Golden Locks. That pissed me off so much more. Try to be less perfect, thank you.

From: [email protected]

Subject: I Miss You

My dearest, I’ve read your message precisely three times and still, I’m not entirely sure whether I’ve been forgiven or sentenced. However, I feel a sense of optimism, foolish or not.  Let me begin with your opening line: ‘infuriatingly adorable’— it is not quite a compliment but I accept it with caution regardless. I am adorable and I understand that you wish I wasn’t. As soon as possible, I will find a cure. Moreover, in reference to my morning route, you’re right, of course. The tasks I listed are things I do every day. Not as some grand gesture, but because loving you — actively, attentively, without pause — is part of my daily routine. Like ironing my shirts or making my coffee. It’s muscle memory now. If I were to stop, I fear I might just malfunction and catch fire. That said, if you are aggrieved — not grumpy, as I so mistakenly suggested, please forgive me for that too— then I humbly bow to your deliverance, Lady Justice. Though I maintain that the distinction is rather blurry when you’re stomping past me with furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line sharp enough to cut marble, lips I dare say I wish I could kiss into their usual form. Regarding the duvet — yes, I recall saying that. I stand by it. Even if I must freeze to death one night beneath your siege of unconscious theft, I would still rather reach out and find you beside me than not. You will indubitably note that that was unnecessarily dark, I’m sure, and you’ll then make a comment about the phase we shall not talk about that I went through in my youth. Further, the blazer has accepted your apology. It insists you take it off me tonight. Is that too forward? You usually love when I’m forward but I worry this will only enrage you more, likely in a way that will leave me dangerously sore. Perhaps that is what I intend. I cannot tell anymore. I just miss your touch. As for the note, I didn’t assume you threw it away. I merely feared it. I know you well enough to know that even when you’re furious, you’re still gentle with the things I give you. It’s one of those things you do that melt my heart. Your ship — this solitary vessel of marital vengeance — sounds lonely. It is precisely that reason however that I must stay aboard, respectfully. With all my love, Kento – your infuriatingly tall, overly warm, occasionally smug but entirely yours husband P.S. I’ll have dinner ready by the time you’re home. P.P.S. I will attempt to be less perfect, though I make no promises. I’ve spent years mastering my five o’clock shadow, it practically comes in on its own when it senses you’re at your most vulnerable. As for my silk, golden locks, I owe that to you and your hair mask. Thank you.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Tempting

Kento. I’ve read your message. Twice. Once dramatically, on break. Once again, aloud, with emphasis, so the plants in my office could also judge you. And I must say... The audacity. The calm. The poetry. The charm. Ugh. Disgusting. I hate how you win arguments by being emotionally intelligent and devastatingly eloquent. Stop. Also, your blazer is so dramatic. I was always going to take it off you, that was never in question. And yes, I love when you're forward. I loved it just now. Reminds me of that time we snuck off into the janitor's closet and... Moving on. I will admit (reluctantly) that your words were very lovely, they usually are, and the image of you freezing like a noble idiot because you'd rather suffer than part from me for even a life-saving second was both tragic and romantic and exactly the kind of behaviour that makes staying mad at you basically impossible. I hate that for me. But fine. F I N E. You may stay aboard my metaphorical ship, provided you bring snacks and acknowledge that I am the captain and you’re just here for deck-swabbing privileges and forehead kisses. You’ll be handsomely rewarded ;) Love, Your Wife (Still aggrieved. But slightly less so. Like… 69% less.) P.S. If you’re trying to seduce me via dinner, it’s working. You might get that kiss. Or two. Depends how good it is.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Please Stop

Dear YN and Nanami Kento,  I hope you are both well.  Do forgive me for intruding me but, as Head of HR and as your friend, I feel a need to remind you both that you are liaising using your work emails which are monitored by HR. Resolving marital disputes on company hours and company mail is not recommended nor permitted. Please set this aside for when you get home. I also wish to remind you that your offices are a short distance from each other. There doesn’t seem to be a need to be communicating via emails at all. From my desk, I have been watching you two write your emails with smiles on your faces.  I suspect neither of you are mad at each other at all. So, YN, please just forgive him already. He hasn’t done much work all day, whereas your productivity has increased. We should probably hold a meeting to discuss both changes. I am concerned.  Lastly, your fight is distracting everyone. One colleague described it as ‘funny,’ another ‘sweet,’ and someone else called it ‘foreplay.’ I’m sure you understand why exactly I intervened. You are both already on two strikes. Please don't make me remind you of what exactly what happened the last two times. The company is still paying for therapy sessions for the affected employees. Do better.  Best wishes,  Ijichi Kiyotaka P.S. Why were you even mad? Did he forget an anniversary? Comment on your weight?

From: [email protected]

Subject: Kinda Embarrassed. No Longer Mad

Dear Kento, Did not realise the whole office was invested in this. No wonder the intern was giving me a look and Sharon from IT told me that she and her husband also fight like this to ’spice up’ their love life, and that its best when the husband gets mad too. TMI but appreciated. Are you even capable of getting mad at me? Well, anyway, you heard the man. Let’s continue this conversation at home.  And Ijichi, I know you’re reading this, you Peeping Tom. I hope you know we’re going to make sweet, dirty love tonight. All night. Bring this up to the Big Boss, I dare you. I know you haven’t forgotten the huge favour you owe me for beating Gojo up when he needlessly sent you on errands around the city. Please stand up for yourself. Do better, as you say. Kento, let’s go home together tonight. I need to apologise to your blazer as soon as possible and to catch up on kisses expeditiously. In fact, expect a knock on your office door.  Love,  Your wife

From: [email protected]

Subject: Didn't Notice Ijichi's P.S.

Dear Nanami, and Ijichi because you are reading these, He sat on my bunny plushie yesterday. He flattened her. I'm mad again. Hate, YN

From: [email protected]

Subject: Thank You, Ijichi

Dear wife and Peeping Tom colleague, You have no appreciation for the work I put in to get back into my wife's good graces. All your disclaimers about simply doing your job were clearly written in deceit since your gossiping self could not resist prying. Do not think I haven't overheard you collecting bets on why she was mad at me in the break room. Please expect Gojo's presence in your office with some new, overbearing task soon. You're welcome. Worst wishes (to Ijichi), Nanami Kento And nothing but love (to my wife), Ken

From: [email protected]

Subject: Don't Read This One, Ijichi

Ken, You're so hot when you're all assertive. Wanna get strike three? Preferably in your office, on your desk? Gojo can distract everyone for an hour...or two. Lust, Your Wife

From: [email protected]

Subject: Don't Keep Me Waiting

Sweetheart, Door's open.

From: [email protected]

Subject: I Am Not A Peeping Tom

I hate you both and you deserve each other. Regrettably, Ijichi Kiyotaka

From: [email protected]

Subject: Freakyyyy

Dear Nanami, YN, and my favourite Peeping Tom, This is what happens in the office? Wow, maybe I should get a desk job (lol that's probably what Nanami's getting right now, lucky guy) Can't believe I was slaving away, keeping the world safe, and you two were slacking off and getting it on. I'm expecting a baby Nanami soon. Make me the godfather pls pls pls Stay sexy, The Strongest P.S. Can I watch? I’m kidding…unless?

[annabelle--cane]

in the club fully sober politely informing my friends that I don't like loud sounds and will be leaving early

[vorfreudevortex]

this is me checking in again!! i’m alive and doing much better! i think im starting to get out of my little depressive rut lol. love you all <3

[ciearcab]

lightkeeper

[rieamena]

uhh, my finger slipped?

takuma ino x reader

word count: 0.7k

riea's comments: ignore how this is a ten month old request... i'm so sorry

fuck.

it wouldn't have been weird if you were more than acquaintances, more than coworkers who occasionally hung out with other coworkers. but unfortunately for takuma, that's all you were. so, how is he going to explain the like on one of your oldest instagram posts at three in the morning—the one where you stood under the sun and bloomed like the other flowers surrounding you, somehow shining brighter than the literal star in the sky. easy! he doesn't! he just walks into hot topic later that day and prepares to clock in with… you having the same shift as him… how is he so unlucky? well, maybe not since you didn't mention his little stalker-like mistake or maybe you didn't notice? either way, it's better for him!

nevermind.

takuma loves being prepared, which is why he always has an umbrella on hand at all times. after a straight week of inaccurate weather forecasts a few months ago, he couldn't bring himself to trust meteorologists again. and good for him because it was yet another "unexpected" rainstorm. takuma is no scientist but he's pretty sure storm clouds don't just appear out of thin air. "how is this possible…," takuma saw you standing at the mall entrance, the strap of your bag clasped tightly in your fist and eyes trained on the droplets of water before you as you muttered to yourself. he stepped closer, popping his umbrella open over your head, smiling to himself when you looked surprised. you quickly shut off your phone when you saw who it was. shit, she definitely knows. act normal takuma, just be cool. "i need to cross the street to get to the bus stop but there's—like—five inches of water." you laughed even though nothing was funny. you kind of needed to get home and the situation was looking grimmer by the second. "i could take you home if you want," takuma said with too much enthusiasm, way to go takuma, that was super normal and really cool. idiot. "i mean, my car is just over there." he pointed in the distance and your eyes followed his diagonal to a black audi. you nodded eagerly, practically drowning him in your words of praise. if the steadily rising water level didn't take him, his name on your plump lips in that sickeningly sweet voice of yours surely would.

he placed the handle of the umbrella in your hands before picking you up in one fell swoop, walking into the water filled road like it was nothing. like he wasn't getting his sneakers, socks and a fourth of his jeans wet. the things he does when he has a crush… he carried you over to the passenger's side of the car, managing to open the door before placing you in the seat. 

the air was thick throughout the car ride. you knew. he knew. he knew that you knew. and you knew that he knew that you knew. so where do we go from here? home, of course! "this is it!" were the first words said since takuma asked for your address. you moved to open the door but it was abruptly closed. ino reached over your whole lap just to say "i'll get it." he grabbed the slightly wet umbrella from the backseat and stepped out of the car. takuma opened the door for you, making sure that not a single drop of rain hit your body as you exited. you stood together under the shelter of the umbrella for a couple moments, just staring at each other.

"um, ino… that post you liked—"

uncontrollable coughs stopped you, "are you okay?!" he shook his head and waved his hand in a desperate attempt to communicate that he's fine before quickly giving you the umbrella and spinning you around to face your building, "oh wow," he coughs once more, "looks like it's really picking up now! you should get inside quick!"

"huh?! but your umbrella!" you tried to protest but ino was already in his car, how did he get there so fast?

"i'll be okay! just give it back tomorrow!"

it was still pouring pretty hard by the time he got to his area and takuma will just never tell you that the one parking spot he found was a seven minute walk from his apartment building.

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[barbieandkento]

₍^. .^₎⟆ synposis: soulmate!AU. nanami begins to find things that don't belong to him in his apartment. lipgloss. a single sock. a hair dryer. and in the middle of it all, a fluffy turtle keychain he wishes to give back to his unknown but destined lover. word count: 2.5k

it starts with a plush keychain.

nothing too loud or flashy, just a fluffy yellow turtle with a metal clip on.

gojo nearly falls out of his chair when he spots it tucked between nanami's array of books and reading glasses. it's clearly out of place, cute and plush against the pristine cleanliness and monochromatic chic of nanami's apartment, and nanami doesn't harbor any secret children (that gojo knows of).

"and whoooooose is this? or more likely, which lady's is this?" gojo sing songs, dangling the keychain from his pinky finger. nanami sighs, his back turned to gojo as his coffee finishes brewing, the clipped comment dying in his mouth when he spots what the silver haired man is holding.

nanami has a near photographic memory of everything in his apartment. he's damn near curated every inch of his living space. at first he thinks it's a joke.

"where'd you even get that, gojo." he grumbles, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.

"it was right here on your bedside table." gojo scoffs at the accusation.

the black coffee burns nanami's throat on the way down.

"if this is some kind of a prank, i'm afraid it's not that funny."

gojo actually pouts at that, like a little child that's been told off, before crossing his arms.

"I'm being serious, nanami! It was laying right here in between your books!" he pauses, before breaking into a big smile. "So you're either hiding a girl-"

"i'm not seeing anyone."

"or this is... the sign."

nanami pretends not to know, in an effort to calm his racing heartbeat.

"what sign?"

gojo's eyes widen.

"what sign? are you hearing yourself? this is your soulmate's lost item! this is so exciting! we have to celebrate! I have to text everyone we know, arrange flowers, there's this amazing restaurant downtown that does the most incredible s-"

whilst his friend rattles on, nanami's eyes remain fixated on the little turtle now sitting on his kitchen table, warmth blooming across his chest. he'd heard the stories of course. soulmates' lost possessions ending up in each other's homes. but he hadn't gotten his hopes up. not everyone in the world would have a soulmate. nor would it be so easy to say with certainty that finding strange items in your house would be attributable to a soulmate. but this...

his hands moved on their own accord, left hand brushing up against the toy. the keychain was soft in his hands, yellow fur and black stitched smile.

"and- hello? are you even listening to me?!"

nanami hums, if only to placate gojo, whose short attention span has now been diverted by a new text from geto. when gojo rushes out the apartment door, stealing a pack of mochi from the kitchen counter whilst rushing out goodbyes, nanami doesn't even bother to look up from where he's standing.

leaning up against the marble countertops of his kitchen, twisting and examining the soft plush from all angles. his heart flutters at the realization that he's holding something that belongs to... his one and only.

patting the small head of the toy turtle, he tucks it into his coat pocket, vowing to reunite it with its owner in the future.

a week later, on a lazy Sunday morning, he finds lipgloss where his extra toothpaste should be.

but not just a tube of lipgloss.

an array of different lipglosses of all shades - dark burgundy, cherry red, barbie pink, soft pink, sparkly peach. it makes nanami's head spin, pulling down one tube of lipgloss after another that have magically appeared in his bathroom mirror cabinet.

examining each one with surgical precision, he notices that one of the shades are clearly more used up than another. barbie pink. he makes a mental note of this, carefully placing away the lipglosses in a spare toiletry bag he keeps under the sink.

over the course of a month, that bag becomes filled with little remnants of his soulmate. nearly empty perfume bottles. a single sock with a print of a golden retriever. multi colored hair ties. a small travel sized shampoo and body wash set. these items appear randomly and suddenly without warning, often when he's having a bad day.

a late 1am return from work, his head pounding from exhaustion and dehydration? he nearly steps on the perfume bottle laying on the floor near his bedroom door. it's clearly well loved, with only a third or so left, and smells distinctively of vanilla and lavender.

a 7am rush as the city wakes up behind him, the streets of tokyo buzzing with energy as he clips on his shoes? he finds a multi pack of hair ties sitting neatly in between the gaps of his shoes in the cupboard.

nanami even almost misses the single sock - navy blue with a golden retriever print on it - hanging from his closet when he's cleaning, because of how natural it looks. when he takes it off from the rack, he turns it over in his hand and smiles: imagining how nice it would be to have her cardigan draped over his couch and pairs of socks tucked into his closet.

now whenever nanami can't sleep, he imagines what his soulmate looks like. is she tall? short? shy? extroverted? a coffee person or a tea person? the type to laugh loudly with her whole chest and heart, or giggle silently to herself in an effort to hide her laugh?

his hands inevitably find the soft turtle keychain sitting by his bed, stroking its fur and imagining what it would be like to hold her hand instead, as his mind starts to drift off to sleep.

he wonders if she'd have some things of his as well. nanami isn't a forgetful or clumsy type of person, but he is human. he can't really name the last thing he's lost - maybe a bookmark or a reusable straw - but he sometimes wonders if he should purposefully forget something so it would end up at her place.

he's not even sure if that's how these things work.

autumn fades into winter, the cold nights bearable only with the surprise of what he might find in his apartment today. he's actually disappointed when he returns to an 'empty' house, everything in place and just as he remembered. he starts to think the universe is playing a cruel joke on him (or that she's gotten good at keeping track of her things) when a full month goes by with no lost items appearing in his place.

then, he spots a portable charger that's not compatible with his phone lying on his bed, and he knows he has her back.

and when he finds three missing items in the span of one week during a particularly rough December - a fraying picnic blanket with square patterns, a pair of fluffy thigh high boots, and an expensive looking hair dryer - he wonders if she's losing these things on purpose.

all in all, his apartment is no longer looking like a one bed bachelor suite belonging to a single salary man. but more of a couple's living space with his and hers items adorning every shelf and table.

it's gotten to the point that having people over - even for a few minutes - is difficult, without being subject to many eyebrow raises and accusations of dating behind his friends' backs.

as the months now stretch into spring, the frostbite of winter melting away into gentle spring breezes and early sunrises, nanami finds himself getting impatient. when will he meet her?

he knows it's foolish, to even think that it'll happen. the fact that he's even been given a soulmate is something to be grateful for. but there's an ache that nibbles on the side of his ribs, a buzzing anticipation that never leaves his mind when he stands in the middle of a crowded place.

in every train station. public crossing. jam packed bar filled with cigarette smoke. he looks for her, one hand always in his coat pocket, stroking the soft pet turtle that started it all. he imagines it'll be like the movies, he'll come across a stranger and he'll just know.

his stomach will flutter, his vision will blur, and his heart will instantly make the connection.

but it never happens, much to his disappointment.

it's now April, a few months to summer. the cherry blossoms are finally out and nanami needs a morning run to clear his mind. a quick shot of espresso and light stretches in his living room are all he needs before his shoes are hitting the pavement, dodging cyclists and pedestrians enjoying their gentle 7am walk.

a few laps in the park later, he's back in his apartment just in time to fold his running clothes for the washing machine and take a long shower.

a man of routine, he combs his hair and applies his meticulous skincare routine, counting downards from ten. whilst adjusting his tie, he inspects his suit for any faults and finishes by spraying himself with the same vanilla and lavender perfume of his soulmate's.

lastly, out of habit, he makes sure that the turtle keychain is kept safe and secured in his coat pocket.

clipping on his watch on his wrist, nanami doesn't look onto the street as he exits the elevator. he collides with a body, the stranger letting out a surprised yelp and the sound of iced coffee splashing the pavement.

"I am so very sorry." nanami immediately says, lowering his glasses to look at you right in your eyes. you thankfully don't seem mad, just a bit sheepish, as you accept his left hand to stand back up on your wobbly feet.

"no worries. i should've been walking so fast." you try and laugh it off, your brain going haywire at just how good looking this guy is. he's blonde, tall, clearly athletic - from how the tight fitting suit is hugging his body - with a jawline that could kill.

he even smells like your favorite perfume, vanilla and lavender.

"not at all, i was preocuppied with my thoughts and didn't look onto the street before stepping out." nanami quips, eyes falling onto the spilled coffee. "could i buy you a new coffee as an apology?"

"oh, i don't want to bother you-" you start, though internally you want nothing more but to keep talking to this handsome stranger.

"please, you wouldn't be." he assures you, heart fluttering at how wide and genuine your smile seems to be when you accept. when you bend over to pick up the split coffee cup, his eyes land on your socks and his throat dries up.

mismatched socks. one plain black sock. and the other, a navy blue sock with a very familiar golden retriever print.

'stay calm, nanami.' he scolds himself as you walk alongside him on the way to the cafe, quiet conversation filling the air about what you both do for work. 'this could mean anything. it could just be a popular sock brand.'

the conversation is easy. you're witty, kind, you hold his bicep to stop him from walking into traffic when he doesn't realize the light has suddenly turned red. then, you get all embarassed, apologizing for grabbing onto his arm without asking.

it makes his heart so warm.

and when you arrive at the cafe, casually slinging your bag over to the other shoulder whilst ordering, he notices the array of keychains hanging from your bag.

his heart skips another beat.

"you like my keychains?" you ask with a quiet laugh, noticing how intensely he's staring at your bag. "i'm a bit of a collector with these things. i just think they make my bags look more... unique and cute."

"do they each tell a story?" he quips, lips curling at the end. god, he finds you so cute, especially when your eyes light up whilst delving into detail about each keychain.

"..but my favorite one I lost sometime last year." you say, thanking the barista as you accept the drinks. your fingers brush against his when you pass him his black americano.

walking side by side on the pavement, nanami's heart beats irregularly at that declaration, but you're none the wiser. only innocently tilting your head sideways and asking if his coffee is good.

"it's great." he lies, as if the bitter coffee isn't burning his throat from the anticipation bubbling in his stomach.

fuck it.

"what was it?" he blurts out, unable to keep it in.

"what was?" you ask, confused.

"the keychain you lost."

"a turtle." you say with a small laugh, licking away the foam of coffee on your lips. "silly, i know but my cousin got it for me."

he stops breathing for a second.

"... was it a yellow turtle by any chance?"

nanami stops in his tracks. you two are back in front of the apartment where he bumped into you. his blood is rushing so loud in his ears that he's worried you can hear it, as your eyes widen in surprise.

"h-how'd you..."

"a fluffy yellow turtle with white fins and a black stitched smile?" he finishes, smile so fond and wide that it blinds you.

you're at a complete loss for words, the gravity of the situation beginning to settle in, when he suddenly takes out (from his coat pocket) the very keychain you had lost and sorely missed.

"i've got it. and every other thing you've misplaced for the past year."

you stare at his open palm in disbelief, eyes carefully examining the object as you take the keychain from his hands and feel its fur against your fingertips. your heart is thundering in your chest, your soulmate smiling at you so brightly.

"i'm nanami, by the way. nanami kento." he introduces himself, ever so the gentleman.

"(y/n). (y/n) (l/n)."

there's an uniterrupted beat of silence, with nanami staring at you so intensely with burning adoration and you suddenly feeling the rush of embarrassment of how much you've lost in the past year.

"oh god, did you really keep everything i've lost?" you groan, nearly whining.

he only chuckles.

"yes i did. neatly categorized and filed in my apartment." he pauses, surveying your reaction. "would you like to come up and see?"

"yes." you say too quickly, before you're shaking your head sideways in an effort to calm yourself. "i mean, yes, uh, that'd be nice."

he turns to let you in, before he turns back around abruptly, stopping you in your tracks. you stare up at him, confused.

he only smiles, soft and gentle.

"hold on." nanami says, stepping closer to you. you're overwhelmed by his scent, mix of aftershave and vanilla lavender perfume, and how gentle his hands are when he takes the turtle keychain from your left hand.

he clips it onto your bag, giving it a gentle tug to ensure it's secure.

"there. don't lose it again." he says lowly, but there's a hint of teasing to his tone.

"and if i do?" you ask quietly, teasing him back, letting him drag you through the doors of his apartment.

nanami takes your hand, but this time, he doesn't let it go.

"you can come back to me."

a/n: ahhhh my first ever fic! i'm absolutely obsessed with nanami at the moment so i wanted to write something sweet for him. i remember reading a marvel fic with this soulmate AU idea a few years ago (soulmates find each other's lost possession in their apartment) so i wanted to give it a spin.

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

[mayyhaps]

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ HOW TO MAKE: EVERYTHING FEEL OKAY AGAIN

cw. 0.7k ノ not quite fluff; not quite angst. hurt/comfort. for @livteracts — enjoy

aki hayakawa cuts tofu into small, precise cubes. the sound of his knife against the chopping board splinters the silence of his apartment like the ticking of a clock: neat and evenly spaced. counting down to something, though he has nothing planned. tick, tock. he'll go to sleep with the sun tonight; an attempt to feel kinship with something, to remember he exists in space and time. perhaps he won't wake up. tick, tock. an early death.

the chicken broth is simmering on the stove, cracked white pepper speckled on its surface, sliced carrots slowly softening. its rich scent inexplicably reminds him of his mother spooning hot liquid into his mouth which goes on to remind him of things he'd rather forget. he's sweating, even though his apartment is a mild temperature. tick, tock. everybody's dead.

he needs a cigarette. he doesn't light one. he cuts tofu as if an answer is embedded in its flesh. it's restaurant-quality, though he hasn't been to one in a while, and there's no one here to see it. art isn't art without an audience — and it is art, because after all, he's good with blades. killing and soup-making. killing isn’t art, or maybe it is. blood and broth and bone; it’s all the same in the end. 

tick, tock. 

the lines are so perfect they cease to mean anything. why is he trying to find meaning? why is he trying? he wishes the fall of his knife onto the cutting board was hurried, irregular. that each piece would feel different on his tongue; jagged and new. that he had other things to get to; that he didn't have time to stand and slice, stand and slice. that he was in conversation with someone, not entirely focused. laughing, maybe, hard enough that tears blurred his vision and his hands trembled. or, maybe — most presumptuously of all — maybe someone else was curling their wrist, sliding the blunt edge of the blade along the wooden chopping board, steering the creamy white cubes into place, whisking miso paste into the soup, adding seaweed. tick, tock. 

he'd have let himself soak in the bath until the water went cold and his skin wrinkled. he’d be wearing a shirt stained at the hem from takeout the night before. the broth would be missing salt. he’d be wearing hand-knitted socks: lopsided, unravelling. it's a funny series of thoughts to have because they’re barely thoughts anymore, just quiet wishes; tentative, but not in a way that implies the beginning of something — more like the dying embers of a flame long gone out. the hiss of water pouring onto the wood. the billowing white smoke. a dream so intangible he has to squint to make out its shape as it melts into the air and all he’s left with is the breeze of something dead on his face.

aki doesn't even want it anymore. domesticity. he doesn’t think he has the capacity to feel… like that. calm. comfortable. content, if not happy. he doesn't want happiness; he doesn’t want anything. except revenge, but revenge doesn’t do his laundry for him or wash his hair when his hands feel like dead weights at the ends of his arms — foreign; not his own — and when revenge burns it leaves no traces of warmth behind, only something harsh and chemical. 

is he crying? his hands tremble. his vision blurs. tick, tock. his rhythm does not falter. it’s him and the clock. he is counting down the seconds to his own demise. the passage of time is a frightening concept; if it’s a passage, then what awaits him on the other side?

cubes. white sheets. stacked mugs. there is not nearly enough joy in his life for him to give in to imperfection. his walls have been scrubbed until they gleam; his fabrics are tucked away into his drawers in soft folds; his katana is unstained. the tofu simmers, fresh green onions like fallen petals. everything in place, fulfilling their functions, and he might disappear.

he brings the ladle to his lips, uncaring of the searing heat. miso soup only takes fifteen minutes; he returns to it like a default. since he's so low on time. since his life is so full of other things.

tick,

oh. he forgot the salt.

tock.

and for the shortest of moments — despite everything — he finds himself smiling.

me when i have horrible writer's block but liv exists

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© mayyhaps. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or plagiarise my work, or upload it to ai.

[vorfreudevortex]

sorry i disappeared for a while, y’all. i’m depressed as fuck lmao. there won’t be anything new for a while. i’m still on here sometimes but yeah. thought i’d pop in and say hello and that i’m still around!

love you all <333

[rieamena]

y'know bro

takuma ino .

platonic hcs but you have a crush on him bc who wouldnt?!??! and he clearly likes you too

wc: 0.5k

riea's comments: soldiers, riea is finally out of the takuma ino drought. CAN WE GET SOME DOUBLE U-S IN THIS CHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

takuma ino is a man of many words, and yet he cannot form coherent sentences.

"y'know, that never really sat right with me cause i don't know, you know…"

"no, i don't know?? what the hell are you talking about."

he's probably the dumbest person you've met and his iq decreases by ten for every piercing he's got. so that's eighty already gone, plus another ten for the one he's getting in a few days

but hey, takuma may be an idiot, but he's your idiot

also takuma likes auramaxxing. shoot me, sue me, throw me in a ditch, i dont care i speak the truth. 

can he do it? well… sometimes? like that singular instance where he was sitting at the benches, waiting for you to finish dropping off your books at the library. there was a soft breeze that blew through his hair, the sun brought just the right amount of light to his face, and his legs were crossed as he read the book in his hands. he surely would've been the drive-by crush of everyone nearby if the book wasn't… upside down. you didn't know what was more intriguing, how hot he looked in the moment or how he managed to tell you what he read before you did him a favor and turned the book around

but there was that one time where he spaced out after you left to grab some cotton candy from a street vendor. one hand in his pocket, the other holding his skateboard, accessories laden on his black denim jorts, and eyes looking at the bridge before him. he was like one of those guys that post how aesthetic they are on tiktok and instagram but he was actually being aesthetic

and he wonders why people don't approach him. ho, you're dark and brooding, who cares if you have a sunshine personality?! the sun is being hidden by the clouds and thunder and rainstorms right now!!!!!!!!

firm believer that takuma recreated that tiktok with you (B-BULLETS BULLETS!!!!!!!!!) and he volunteered himself to be pulled in and out of frame while you recorded the one that goes "i used to have hoop dreams until i found out there were other ways to score". you violently pull him in on the part that goes "if you're gonna be my BITCH" btw just putting it out there. he was (unsurprisingly) happy about this, giggled and keke-ed all the way home

an absolute loser but his loser stats get multiplied by themselves thousands of times when it comes to you. he likes to put on this tough guy act around you (that you saw straight through so he stopped doing it) but once a friend says the first syllable of your name, he's suddenly a doormat

that reminds me, it was lowkey funny whenever takuma was acting all "big and bad". you two were walking in the park when he spotted some poor little boy being made fun of

"hey! cut that out or…," he paused, tapping his pointer against his chin, "imgonnastealyourlunchmoney!!!!" it came out as one word "we got timmy tough knuckles over here." one of the boys jeered and the group behind him erupted in laughter

takuma ended up getting bullied too.

jjk taglist

@blendingcaramal @gzchaos @theamazingrain @woah-girlz @voloslobotomyservice

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@c-moon20-12 @saltynanobeanie @theamazingrain @synthiiiiis @ghostlyluminarycloud

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@baekhyunsbestie @vorfreudevortex @leuriss @xaithings @corvid007

[vorfreudevortex]

happy birthday to the man ever

[mayyhaps]

something melts inside nanami kento the first time he hears his daughter call him, “dada”.

it's more than melting, though. it's a surrender; an exhalation. a soft puff of dust settling, flowers blooming tenderly in the cracks, dawn over the first breaths of a world revived. and picking his way across the rubble he cannot say he misses the walls he'd built so meticulously around his heart, simply because there is something beautiful in the way he comes undone for you despite everything — you and your silken persistence, like water chipping away at stone.

but even so, there was still a voice inside of him that whispered, this dream is not for you. he supposes he'd convinced himself it was only logical, given the bitter violence his soul was seeped in despite his resolution to make the world at least that little bit more gentle.

you understood; you had seen; you knew. but how could his hands cradle the shape of a child's innocent joy when — even whilst homemade bread rose on the counter and half-finished paintings hung on the walls and there were carefully woven braids in your hair — he sometimes felt that all he knew was the handle of a sword?

he'd thought he'd finally quelled those thoughts for good when he held his daughter for the first time and felt the strength of her tiny hand around his index finger, as if he was the only thing that made sense in her new world. but something had lingered, and only now does he recognise it as it finally leaves him. a laying down of arms.

he is not a child soldier. he is not lost, drowning in blood and then numbers, trying to escape the noise. he is not forging into the unknown alone, offering his body and soul as a shield, unable to comprehend that there could be any further use for him. he is your husband; he is her father.

his soul is soothingly silent, like the ending strains of a song and sunset in the rearview mirror and an earth in perfect balance.

the voice whispers, you can rest.

his daughter babbles, then says it again: “dada”. all confidence and a hint of glee as if she has something to prove from her perch on his chest, and he wonders how something so small could be more precious to him than the entire world and everything in it.

for his family, he would let it all cave in a hundred times over.

slowly recovering from a horrible flu & randomly remembered i can write ... trust me though i WILL forget again.

i need a daughter with nanami kento or so help me god this is our little family

does anybody even want the secret language of flowers part two cus atp i dunno if i do !

★ want to be added to a taglist? — @lizbix @ayatakanosstuff @alcyneus @stars4you777 @1-800reki @riniaras @astrowaltz @livteracts @vorfreudevortex @adoresia