Powercloud - Lmao

₊˚⊹。so this is what it means to be in love | gojo satoru

wc: 8.9k

summary: gojo finds out what it really means to be in love. 

contains: f!reader in mind, friends to lovers (prev. slowburn), suggestive scenes, might be mature/mildly explicit? (i only mention ‘butt’ once though…), ‘being in love’ as a journey, almost like a falls in love first (you) vs. falls in love harder (gojo), they fight, they swear, character death/s mentioned, shibuya onwards spoilers, lots and lots and lots of love

a/n: this is better read after the other parts in the collection but can work as a stand alone too!, there’s a jump between this and tell me about love (show me how) so gojo would have developed a lot in the relationship since then! 

collection masterlist: conversations on love  2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours) -> 03. so this is what it means to be in love + (extended scene) too good to be mine -> 3.5a. this feeling inside of me—

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

this is a re-upload! (because i accidentally deleted the original one!)

Gojo catches onto love slowly.

He takes the hand you leave open just for him, and closes the space between your palms, reducing infinity. 

Maybe he’s felt it all this time without knowing; after all, love looks a lot less profound as friends in your early 20’s. 

But being in it—being in love? That’s uncharted territory. 

Gojo’s been to a lot of places, has travelled back and forth from point-to-point endlessly. He’s survived battles, a war, near-death, and cursed spirits reincarnate; he’s got eyes—two bright blue and an extra four hidden, ones that see beyond human comprehension. Unearthing this simple truth shouldn’t shake him, shouldn’t even faze him. If anything, he should have seen it coming—

Except, he doesn’t. 

It sneaks up on him, bit by bit, until he finds that being in love means getting to experience you all over again, just differently.

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It starts with the little things. 

Gojo has known you for so long (a decade and a few years more), but has only recently begun to notice everything: how your baby hairs stick out in the humidity of summer, the way you purse your lips in thought before finally deciding on a drink to order. You play with your fingernails subconsciously, out of habit, the soft taps on your nail beds an accompaniment of anxious conversations you’ve had since you were 23. 

He knows you always blink twice before focusing on him, and it’s a mystery whether this is a recent development or something he’s just never noticed, but if you’re trying to enchant him by the flutter of your eyelashes, he wants to let you know that it’s working—except, he knows that you aren’t, because you’re just like that: a daydream without even trying. 

These aren’t new things; he’s sure he’s probably encountered them all before, but lately they’ve evolved into cute things, and there’s no hiding the slight curve of his lips every time he spots them. 

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The sun is beaming brighter this summer, the ocean a faraway blur from the beach towel you set up under the shade. Going to the beach is never your go-to when you think of an extremely hot afternoon, but Yuuji’s been eyeing a weekend getaway since sorcerer work’s lessened significantly. 

‘It’s a good effort,’ Gojo convinces you, ‘to get everyone together again.’

And it is—you see it now: Yuuji and Megumi preparing to fling Yuuta into the water while Nobara and Maki race along the shoreline. Toge stays close to Panda but he watches fondly, eyes crinkling every now and then, happy. 

When you blink, the image of them softens—a captured memory in the heat haze. 

The only older ones here are you and Gojo; Shoko’s always disliked the stickiness of sunblock on her skin, and Ijichi’s new position has made him constantly busy. Somewhere in the distance, you can maybe envision Nanami. He wouldn’t come if you or Gojo asked, but if it were Yuuji—

You rub at your eye, resting your chin on your hand as you will your tear ducts to please, don’t cry. 

Yuuji's been smiling a lot more lately, an observation you note from the way his ears are perked up every time you look his way. It’ll never be the same as it used to be but it’s relieving to know that he can exist living as himself now. Just Yuuji. 

You hug your knees tighter to your chest, wrapping your arms around it. Your place under the coconut tree provides ample enough shade but your back still burns from Gojo haphazardly slathering sunscreen on it after hearing an ice cream stand from miles away. 

The mind is a weird place to be at times like this—split into bittersweet reminiscing and telling yourself to just take this moment and breathe, to live in it. You think about Megumi, and how you hurt for him, always will, for all that he’s lost despite every attempt to avoid it.

You should have been there for Tsumiki, you could have been there for both of them. 

Your guilt never leaves you even on days that shine as vividly as this, but perhaps that’s the silver lining—that they’re still with you, always. You can carry pieces of them to these places, and scatter them to the wind, to the sand, to the sea, and maybe to the ice cream stand Gojo’s waiting in line of, surrounded entirely by kids. They all rise to half his size, but if you squint, you think the bounce in his step makes him blend right in. 

A chuckle escapes you. 

You could sort through your memories and land on one where he looks just like this—freakishly large limbs towering over a tiny, excited Tsumiki. Back then, an ice cream stop after school consisted of your pseudo-family of four, with Megumi on your hand and Tsumiki on his leg, both gripping tightly to combat a chilly 10°C.

Things are different now, evidently. Megumi’s outgrown it, and Tsumiki is no longer here. But Gojo has stayed the same, and it’s comforting to know that he will continue to be this Satoru, your Satoru, even when some things are gone. 

You don’t realize you’ve spaced out until he waves the ice cream cone while walking towards you.  

Gojo is a sight in trunks the color of his eyes, with seahorses and starfishes in an alternating pattern of peachy-pink against cerulean blue. 

You could have sworn you asked for your own cone, but he plops down beside you holding only one. For the both of you. The side-eye you give him is almost criminal, if not deadly, but your lips twitch from the smile you’re hiding (terribly). 

He raises an eyebrow and you break character, shaking your head while laughing. 

“Did you eat the other one on the way here?” you tease, craning your neck to lick at the bottom scoop (vanilla-strawberry-vanilla, Gojo’s signature order). 

Your tongue lands dangerously close to his fingers, and he feels it, but his eyes only land on you—your lips, how they part for your tongue to glide smoothly on his–both of your–dessert. You look every bit of an angel in the soft, pale hues of your bikini, but Gojo’s thoughts are anything but saintly. 

He blushes furiously, the tips of his ears and nose bright red as he turns away from you quickly. 

“I’m fulfilling your dream of sharing an ice cream cone with me.” he tilts his chin up, proud, smirking slightly. He jokes about it knowing full well that this is his dream come true, just by the look of you. 

You stay quiet, rolling your eyes but never meanly, no. You only ever do it fondly—he knows, being on the receiving end of it one too many times. 

The beach towel scrunches when you scoot closer, looping your arm around his as you both rest your elbows on your knees. Gojo holds the cone between you two, tipping it towards you when it’s your turn to lick. 

He shouldn’t stare, shouldn’t hyperfixate, but it’s so cute how you get the tiniest bit of ice cream on the tip of your nose—as if it belongs there, soft and sweet just like the rest of you. 

You look up to find Gojo gazing at you, eyes glimmering like sunlight on the ocean, and a tiny smile that only widens when he realizes you’ve caught him red-handed. Your eyes narrow suspiciously, scrunching your nose in an effort to stop yourself from grinning. 

When Gojo looks at you this way, as if you are his favorite place rediscovered, your heart thumps furiously against your ribcage. 

“What…” you drawl, your smile impossible to hide in the lilt of your voice. 

Gojo thinks he can count every eyelash, every speck of sand dotting your face, and stil not be bored of you. He can’t stop beaming. 

Is this what it means to be in love with you? 

“Nothing.” he replies, almost giggling, a little bashful but with every inch of sincerity. You know that smile, the only one that holds every ounce of Satoru. Gojo smiles big and wide to everyone else, but this small one you know, is reserved just for you. 

He leans in, lips coming closer to brush against the tip of your nose. Your eyes fall shut, instinctively, and the pink dot is wiped clean, a hint of strawberry dancing on his palate. He’s done this more times than he can count, has gotten this near to know that close will never be close enough, but you still jolt a bit—PDA has never been your thing. 

When he pulls away, you continue to stare at each other, locked in a gaze until the ice cream begins to drip down his fingers and onto the beach towel. It misses his trunks by a hair and you both laugh at how he belatedly tries to escape it even though it’s already there. 

It’s indescribable, this moment, seeing you in slow motion, laughing as bright as the sun—the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. It takes every bit of him to look away so he can wipe his hands clean from the dripping dessert.

You hand him a packet of wipes and beckon him to sit in front of you after. Squeezed onto the palm of your hand is a copious amount of sunscreen you plan to slather all over him. A touch-up, if you will. 

Gojo has sensitive skin, pale as bond paper and burns just as quickly. The high points of his face are already reddening, warm to the touch when you dab at them with sunscreen. 

You’re so near, so close, sitting cross-legged in front of him with your knees touching his. The tip of your tongue sticks out just slightly as you focus on his skin. 

Even though he knows, he still wonders what your lips would taste like, SPF chapstick and crumbly bits from the wafer cone. He wonders what your eyelashes would feel like, fluttering over his own. 

The light casts a halo around you and he thinks it’s fitting for all that you do. You pamper him like this, slather love all over his chest and back, massage it in so it dissolves into him—and he feels it so deep that he tastes it.

How can your love be so sweet? He thinks, sighing as your fingers work sunscreen up his neck from his collarbone. You always apply his skincare like this: upwards, gently—‘no tugging, please!’—something about keeping his baby face even when he’s old. 

“You should join them,” you mumble, rubbing more product onto the nape of his neck. You’re leaning over his shoulder, neck brushed against his cheek. 

Gojo hums, watching everyone from a distance. It’s been a while since he’s had a day like this. 

“But maybe after 30 minutes, so the sunblock doesn’t wash off. You’re already burning.” you note, coming back to sit. 

Of course, he’s already burning. How can he not when the sun is right in front of him? 

.

You join everyone for a game of beach volleyball in the sunset of the afternoon. You’re transported back to high school, the last time you did this—you and Satoru against Shoko and Suguru, with Haibara keeping score. 

From the way Gojo’s eyes are glossed over, you can tell he’s thinking about it too, the memory having seared itself into your brains forever, it seems. 

Being paired together should feel familiar—the same, but it doesn’t—isn’t, because Gojo can’t concentrate, sneaking glances to notice all the little things about you that he never used to. Your skin shines from the combination of sweat and sunscreen, and when you crash into him it’s both sticky and slippery. He should really ask for a time-out before you blind him completely. 

You look unfairly good in your bikini, too good he can barely hear you calling for him; between the ocean and his blood rushing, any other sound is drowned out into nothing. 

Maki and Yuuji absolutely demolish the both of you, reaching 15 first in the final set. Gojo blames the loss on you of course, even though he’s missed every pass you’ve sent his way and netted 60% of his spikes. 

And maybe it technically is your fault—you and your (very distracting) little things. But it’s entirely on him that he’s fallen for it, fallen for you as much as this. 

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Gojo thinks of love differently when he sees a picture of himself and all it does is remind him of you.

There’s a photo tucked safely in his wallet (saved and set as his homescreen too). Shoko snorts when she walks in on him printing it, all six-foot-three of him hunched over the small inkjet printer in the faculty room. 

“It’s all digital now, Satoru,” she scoffs, taking a puff on her cigarette. 

Gojo doesn’t say anything even though he knows it’s true, too focused on watching the printer push out the two-by-three inch image he’s about to cut into. 

Print photos aren’t as important anymore when cloud storage spaces are just as–if not more–accessible, but Gojo is admittedly sentimental despite every front he puts up to hide it. 

He’s kept every single gift you’ve given him and camouflaged it as decoration in his office, and the family drawing 10-year-old Tsumiki made is still folded between the pages of a self-help book Yaga had given him when he first decided to teach. 

When every moment is experienced so vividly, seen through a muddle of infinite energies, there are those he wishes could stay still—ones that take up space to remind him: ‘this is real, it happened, and here is proof that it did’. 

He already has one of all of you, fresh-faced and barely pushing the peaks of youth at 16. A tangle of arms wrapped around each other—one of his gripping tightly on Suguru, and the other hanging loosely over you. Utahime is crouched in front, holding the hand you’ve placed on her shoulder while pulling Shoko into a semi-squish-semi-hug (because out of the four of you, Shoko is her favorite—completely valid; if given the choice, she’d be your favorite too). Nanami and Haibara stay close to Suguru, squatting low to balance the photo, and Haibara is smiling, the ever cheery grin Suguru loves to dote on, while Nanami is Nanami—sharp features and a serious gaze that you all know he’ll grow into someday, handsome with age. 

For the longest time, Gojo has kept that photo hidden, locked away in the drawer of his bedside table as if keeping it there means the memory will stay guarded forever—untouched, unspoiled, unruined. 

It would have stayed there if you didn’t stumble upon it while looking for his painkillers during another one of his skull-crushing migraines. 

You approach him with the image hesitantly, eyes damp and glossy. Years have faded the colors ever so slightly, but the corners remain crisp from being stowed away neatly. You say sorry, that you shouldn’t have looked through his things, but you remember the moment it was taken so fondly: a visit to the Kyoto campus on a one-day break to train with other students. 

Gojo has many theories about time and the multitude of spaces it takes—like how a person can exist at different points in time, disparate at each instance, and still take up the same big chunk of space. The opposite can be true too, that someone can live finitely (just once) and occupy spaces in every place you look: the face of a passerby down the road, a sign at the corner of the street, or even a photograph that immortalizes people you once knew. 

He only shares when you ask, aware that he tends to be a bit of a nerd about it whenever it’s brought up, but you don't mind. You like listening to it all, no matter how insightful or confusing they are for you to make sense—a version of him not many get to witness. His explanations are comprehensible for the most part, except—

When Gojo tells you that he’s kept the image in his drawer, hidden, because exposing it to the space-time that exists now will erase every reminder that it ever happened, you hug him tightly. 

Your sniffles are heard from the way his head is tucked into the crook of your neck, your fingers gripping strands of his hair in empathy. 

He considers your near-tears as a sign that the memory is long gone, decayed into the brittling tragedy of reality. But you smile, the corners of your lips bittersweet as you express disbelief that he’s kept it all this time. 

You tell him delicately that some precious things are meant to be celebrated, put out to be remembered—to be experienced. 

And it becomes clearer to him then, by the look in your eyes and remembrance soft-spoken, that what good is a photo unseen? 

What good is a love unwitnessed?

When you gift him a frame a year after finding the photo, he hangs it by the wall next to his office door. The image is painful to look at, always has been (even when it was hidden in his drawer)—during Suguru’s defection, and death anniversaries especially. 

The recent one for Nanami was heavy; the first time he’s ever been able to process grief fully. 

Gojo can argue that it grows more difficult every time he catches a glimpse of it from his desk, but you have a way of honoring pain that doesn’t make it sting as bad—that turns it into a reminder of a love that was once there, of feelings that hurt as evidence that someone cared. 

Now, he wants another photo printed, one of just the two of you. Not because it hurts, but because he wants this precious thing to be remembered and seen—for this love to be witnessed too. 

It’s self-timered, snapped under the shade of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom. The picture is far from perfect: your eyes bright and mouth open mid-fear of his phone falling off the bridge railing. 

You may look a teensy bit funny, but Gojo will always find it cute. Anyone can see it, at how he looks at you in that moment—like you are every bit worthy of the distance travelled and seasons waited. He gazes at you fondly, eyes holding clear skies and pink lips curling into a small smile. 

It’s cheesy, but if you ask him what he thinks about this year’s flowers, he’ll tell you none of them (not even any of them combined) could compare to you. The cherry blossoms could be gone and he’d still see them everywhere (in the softness of your lips, the fullness of your cheeks, the radiance you emit when you are truly, solely content and happy). 

He remembers that afternoon well: the spring breeze that jolts his phone sideways, his hand resting on your lower back, unseen in the image. There’s no real reason for visiting the blossoms on this day of all days, but Gojo doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he’s counted down exactly to a year since you both had your first kiss.

It’s so silly, because he’s never thought of things like this before. He knows you probably don’t think much of it either considering that neither of you have made anything official yet since. 

And he feels a little stupid for that, honestly. 

You have a drawer of his clothes for the nights he stays over (more often than not), and even though you go on these little trips that are so obviously dates, you both still just tell everyone you’re ‘hanging out’.

He’s not fooling anyone here, not when he looks at you then with the feeling of his chest expanding, stretching to accommodate the overflows of his affection since learning the ways to love you—tenderness caught in little pixels of eternity.  

When Gojo goes through all 179 photos from that afternoon, he filters out the ones to delete and picks this one out especially—favorites and resizes it to fit his home screen and his wallet too. 

There’s something about the look on his face that reminds him of every time he’s caught the same one on you. 

He slides the photo into the little sleeve behind his credit card, catching himself smiling—this must be because of you, he thinks, and the bits and pieces of yourself that have somehow become part of him slowly, sneaking into him unknowingly.

If this is what it means to be in love, with you, then he’s fucked. 

Don’t you know that he’s insatiable? These traces of you will only make him want the whole of you. 

.

You find the photo while he rushes to the restaurant restroom. On ‘hang out’s like this, you insist on splitting the bill, but Gojo has always been stubborn and you’ve learned that you can never argue. 

He hands you his wallet to pay with his card, and when you slide it out, the photo falls. It’s face down on the floor when you pick it up, fully expecting it to be a photocard of some idol you know Gojo follows. 

But it isn’t, and your smile widens. 

When Gojo comes back, you’re looking up at him affectionately, biting your lips as if to stop yourself from speaking—the same way he always does. 

It’s funny because, slotted between your two fingers is the photo he’s kind of flustered you found, but he has no time to be embarrassed when he sees a little bit of himself in the way you’re staring at him right now.

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“So, Yuuji asked if we were together.” 

You quirk an eyebrow, looking up at Gojo from the pile of laundry you’ve begun folding on your bed. He emerges from the bathroom, ruffling his hair with a towel. 

Over the past year, Gojo has spent his weekends off with you, sleeping over and traipsing around your room in his pajama set as if he’s lived here just as long as you. 

You snort as you fold, amused that this is even a question to begin with. Yuuji’s always been known for being exceptionally dense, but you didn’t think it was this bad. Gojo was especially touchy with you during that beach trip, and you’re sure Megumi and Nobara have caught up to let him know by now, somehow. 

“What made him ask?” 

“I think he wants to take you away.” Gojo teases, wiggling his eyebrows as he throws the towel on the chair across your vanity. 

You roll your eyes, still sweetly, indulging him, “Sure.” 

It’s now a running joke that Gojo’s threatened about Yuuji stealing you; you’ve always had a soft spot for bright eyes and even brighter souls and Yuuji is as close to that as anyone can get.

It’s not like that though, it could never be; Yuuji is just like your Megumi—the two boys you want to protect and care for in hopes of treating them better than their lives have ever. 

Gojo feels the same, you know, otherwise he wouldn’t have guided them as much as he has (despite his... questionable ways). Still, your hands have always been gentler, kinder—and though shorter, have always outstretched much farther than his. 

You have a way of inching yourself into people’s lives that just fits. He’s experienced it first-hand, can’t even dare to imagine what his life would be like if you didn’t. 

He walks across the room to you, bed dipping as he steadies a knee before draping his entire body over your shoulders. 

Now that you think about it, it makes sense that Yuuji’s confused, because Gojo has always been extremely touchy to everyone, just never when the feelings mattered, with you. Kiss him once, though, and it snowballs into an avalanche of firsts. And what he’s about to do right now, he thinks, might just trigger another one to form all together. 

“As if I’d let him.” he mumbles right by your ear, chin tucked by the crook of your neck. It tickles when he speaks, his nose poking at your cheeks. 

“Who put you in charge?” you scoff jokingly, unfazed. 

He moves away from you in disbelief, mouth open as he stares at you mindlessly folding.

To be fair, he can’t fault you. You aren’t technically official even though you have kind-of-been for a little over a year. There’s no particular reason, just that you haven’t talked about it—part because you wanted him to approach it whenever he was ready, and also, because it just never seemed like a priority.

You laugh as he stares at you, stunned into silence, the pout on his face borrowed from all the versions of yours. 

There’s no point of contention because you’ve only ever loved Gojo since you were 17. 

“Kidding,” you kiss his cheek as an apology. 

“Don’t even joke about that.” he huffs, you’re starting to take after him a little too much.

“You’re mine.” he murmurs after, arms wrapped around your waist and legs stretched out wide to encase you. 

He says it as if it is the simplest truth. 

Your heartbeat quickens, too loud and pounding; this is the first time you’ve ever heard this from him, and a part of you thinks this is just another one of those flirty side-comments he makes on a whim.

“You tell him that?” you hope he can’t hear your voice shake as he nuzzles your neck, your fingers trembling on the pair of socks you have yet to roll. 

He hums, hugging you tighter. He waits for you to finish folding before letting you lean against him, offering his fingers for you to fiddle with. They’re cold, long and slender, veiny just by a bit, and he always gives them to you like they’re yours, you like to think. 

There’s an inhale, a breath of hesitation, before he exhales.  

“Something like it.” 

You don’t say anything, only nod, and it’s nerve-wracking. He’s so nervous even though he knows he doesn’t have to be because it’s just you. And there’s no need to doubt what you’re feeling. But—

“You are though,” he pauses, “right?” 

He has to be sure. This is a testament to you more than himself that he’s learned to ask instead of bulldozing you like he does with everyone else. Who else will he pick that up from but you? 

There’s hesitation you hear that you think shouldn’t be there anymore; the fact that you’ve given so much of yourself to this man and he still thinks you’re unsure—

“‘Cause I’m yours.” he speaks, clearly, definitively, before you can even answer. And you know—you’ve known ever since that party years ago. A simple admittance: ‘I’m taken’. 

You turn around to face him, eyes shimmering. 

Can he see? You’re meant for him only. 

All you’ve ever wanted was to love him; everything else he’s done up until this point is already more than you could ever imagine. The labels can only do so much to capture the gravity of what you are to one another: years of history unpacked into a mishmash of feelings overlapping—it’s a lot.

You sit cross legged in front of him, your knees touching his. He’s biting his lips again, an anxious habit you want to kiss away. 

Gojo has proven far too much of himself already that he’s serious with you—your kind-of-confession, that confrontation, and the days after, all the ways you’ve both learned to love each other. 

You cup his cheeks. 

A single word cannot possibly define what he is to you.

“I mean, o-only if you want me to be.” he adds on, blue eyes darting back and forth.

Gojo runs his mouth almost all the time and you’ve never heard him stutter once in his life. Except now. 

He’s endearing like this—a version of him you are slowly discovering. 

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” you finally say, and it’s a relief. 

He feels good, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His arms pull you closer, hugging you tighter as you both smile. 

He kisses you once, twice, maybe a million times all over, travelling across your eyelids, the center of your forehead, down to the corners of your mouth before landing a real one right on your lips. 

Gojo always looks pretty but he looks prettiest like this, worry-free, with love in his eyes and nothing but pure happiness in the way he holds you. 

He won’t tell you that Yuuji asked about your anniversary, not if you were together. 

At least now he has an answer.

Gojo stares at you like he wants to say something, a thank you maybe, but he bites his lips instead. No words will ever amount to this feeling, he thinks, of his chest expanding and heart hammering. So he kisses you with all of it, trailing soft smacks of his lips down your neck, tickling. The tips of his hair are still wet from his shower, leaving droplets on your skin as he nips. 

You laugh—sprinkled in love. 

“S-stop!” you push him away, “Satoru,” giggling, “tickles!” 

“We have to consummate it now.” he whispers, grabbing you by the waist to place you on his lap, squeezing your sides while nibbling at your neck playfully. 

You roll your eyes at his antics, “It’s not–” you laugh out loud when he pinches your hips, “–marriage, Satoru.” 

Oh, if only you knew, he thinks. 

The image you’ve planted in his head is dangerous when he’s this drunk on love right now. 

More decades, more years spent with you? In another life, or maybe even in this one, if time permits, he wouldn’t mind making that come true. 

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It’s crazy how much things can change—for all his life, he’s ruled out the possibility of love ever taking root in his ribcage. 

You’ve managed to make it feel so easy, so good, even when he was shit-terrified not knowing how to love you like he should. 

Now, he thinks, how could he ever miss out on love this way? A love this good, with you? 

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For all of Gojo’s life, he’s never had to be anyone else—always the strongest, the only one. He’s never had to change anything about himself, because what’s there to improve when you’re already the best?

In a way, this is why it works with you. You’ve taken him as he is, all the good and ugly and never asked for anything more than what he can give. 

But being this in love with you—it’s foreign. There are pieces within him shifting, all on their own without him knowing. 

How he wants to be better, for you. To be good enough to deserve all of it, and give back more of it too. 

Gojo doesn’t realize how much love has changed him until he feels it uprooting every insecurity he never even knew existed, pulling it all up to the surface. 

When things are going great, it’s hard to imagine them ever going the other way. 

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“You don’t mean that.” you mumble, voice trembling.

Gojo stares at you, at your lips quivering and the fists clenched to your sides. There are tears collecting in pools by your eyes, and if there’s anything else he hates in this world, it’s seeing you cry. 

So why?

Why couldn’t he just shut up? 

“Please tell me you don’t mean that,” you take a step closer, gripping the edge of his jacket, “Satoru.” your voice cracks, begging. 

It’s an out-of-body experience when Gojo registers that he’s fucked up, and he sees himself now, bird’s-eye-view, and thinks this is the worst thing he could do to you after all you’ve been through. 

“I need some time to think,” he says, finally, the only words coming out of his mouth—but he can’t hear himself speaking. 

He should have said sorry, taken it all back, he thinks, not make it worse by leaving. 

He heads for the door, heart crunching under each footstep away from you. 

Is this what being in love’s supposed to do? Break his heart while yours is bleeding?

.

You’re too good for Gojo, in every sense of the word—and he knows it.

You are far too kind, far too generous, far too patient with him. You give him more love than he deserves, definitely, and admittedly enough, with how he is, you have been settling for the bare minimum but that’s on him, not on you. 

He had no right speaking to you the way he did, hurting you with accusations born from insecurities he’s never before had to deal with. 

He knows it. 

Who accuses you of ‘meddling’ as if everything out of you doesn’t come from the goodness of your heart? Of provoking you with ‘chasing the bare minimum’ as if he isn’t aware that that’s all he’s given you to work with? 

Utahime was right in telling you to be careful with him, and he doesn’t blame her for it. He would have done the same. 

He should have told you there was something brewing inside of him already—should have talked to you instead of bursting from all the things people have been saying lately.

Gojo hasn’t spoken to you in three days and the feeling this compares to is worse than anything else he’s ever had to face. 

.

He knocks on your door at night, a little past dinner and too early for bedtime. They echo loudly within the walls of your apartment, and you drag yourself up despite your obvious look of heartbreak. 

Gojo hears your footsteps and everything moves entirely too slowly; the lock, taking far too long to turn, the gap between the door and the door frame widening incrementally. Even your face comes into view as if in stop motion, frame-by-frame, gradually.

His hands are in his pockets, lips bitten to bleed. He’s pretty sure he isn’t breathing when he takes you in—puffy eyes and a sweater that belongs to him. 

(Is it sick of him to say that he still finds you beautiful this way? Even when you look every bit the part of heartache?) 

Gojo didn’t have a plan coming here, didn’t have a list of things to say, just the feeling that he needed to talk to you, see you, even just be around you today. 

When your eyes meet, it’s quiet. You stare into him for one–two–three– (Can you tell that they’re watery? Can you see they’re puffed up too?) and then open the door wider to let him in. You head straight to the kitchen, never once looking back while dragging your feet. 

He stands outside a few seconds more, waiting for you to take it back—but you don’t, so he walks in and closes the door.

He’s been in your apartment plenty of times before, has practically lived in it by how often he stays over. But this is the first time he’s felt wholly out of place, not knowing where to put himself, just standing in the space between your kitchen counter and the living room awkwardly.

You push a glass of water towards him and he can’t stop staring at it—at you, at your fingers that he wants nothing more now but to hold. 

Even with all his faults, all his wrongs, you open your arms for him to walk into, allow him in as if he didn’t just hurt you. 

And he wants to cry, at the fact that this place still feels like home, at how it’ll always feel that way wherever you go. 

How are you still treating him so kindly? Still taking care of him? A glass of water is one too many for someone like him. 

You turn away from him to pour yourself your own then he speaks—

“You should be angry with me.” Gojo says softly, but you hear it. 

You pause, tilting the pitcher back upright. 

“Why aren’t you angry at me?” he says, a little louder this time, more desperate, more pleading.

Why are you never angry at me? he wants to ask. 

You turn around to face him, putting the pitcher down.

Under your kitchen lights, his eyes shine like sunlight on the ocean, waves lapping on the shore. You think it might be a trick of the light, but his lips tremble when he closes them, as if he can’t speak any more. 

It’s just as you’ve said, there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it. 

You always give Gojo the benefit of the doubt, and though he’s hurt you—though this might be the most painful thing he’s told you yet, you know that he’s been under immense pressure lately. Stressed beyond belief from negotiating with the government on policies for jujutsu society. 

It’s not an excuse, you know, but Gojo always has his reasons. He'll tell you eventually, you believe that much. 

You give him a sad smile, struggling to stop your tears from spilling. His fists are clenched too tightly, nails digging in hard enough to bleed. He hasn’t moved since coming in, so you push yourself off the kitchen sink towards him. 

You take his hands first, unfurl each finger pressed upon his palm and rub gently. He cries quietly for a love so pure that only you would attempt to ease his hurt despite the pain he’s dealt you. 

You tiptoe second, pulling the sleeves of your (his) sweater before reaching up to wipe his eyes—beautiful and blue just like you’ve always known, droplets of the ocean at your fingertips. 

“Be mad,” he whispers, “please.” squeezing his eyes tightly. 

It hurts more when you aren’t, he thinks. 

His hand comes up to grip your wrist, bringing it down to cup his cheek. You stroke your thumb across his skin, soothing, loving, and that’s all it takes for him to pull you in. He hugs you tight, arms wrapped around you, clutching. 

He wouldn’t deserve you. In any life.

Gojo’s never cried this much before, head pressed to your neck as you rub circles along his back, shushing him softly. You start sniffling too, small at first until it turns into soft hiccups when you finally cry. 

Your grip on him tightens. 

“‘M sorry.” he mumbles, lips moving against your neck. 

“‘S–” you hiccup, “–okay.” 

“Stop saying that when it’s not,” he presses against you, nuzzling your neck, “I hurt you.”

“Then don’t–” another hiccup, “–call yourself–” hic, “–bare minimum.” you cry harder. 

Gojo knows your heart and the tears that leak out of your eyes; he knows they hold pain for more than just yourself but every single person in your life. You, crying now, is evidence of that truth—shedding tears for him not just because of him when he thinks he’s the bare minimum. 

This must be what it means to be truly, deeply loved, he thinks, to have someone know what you mean without even having to speak it—to know your heart, and all the good and bad parts of it. 

“I don’t think I’m good enough to you,” he admits, pulling himself away from you.

When he sees your face, wet, with your nose and eyes puffed up from crying, he decides that he hates it more than anything else. Makes it sick to his stomach, even. 

He cradles your cheeks, thumbs wiping away your tears. A whole hand of his could cover your face entirely, but he always, without fail, holds you delicately. 

“That’s not–” hic, “–true.” you gather your breathing, holding him by the wrists as he presses his forehead against yours. “Only I get to decide that. Not anyone, not you.” 

You kiss his lips, a small peck before nudging his nose with yours. You soothe each other this way—in the quiet, swaying to your own tune. 

“You’re good to me plenty, Satoru.” you whisper, once both of you have settled. 

He opens his eyes to look at you, smiling sadly as he cradles your face, “I didn’t mean it.” 

Whatever he told you that day, taking it all out on you.

“I know.” you mumble, nodding. 

You always do. 

.

.

.

Gojo has always loved you, in some type of way—as friends, colleagues, a-little-bit-more-but-less-than what you are today. 

But how he feels right now? It’s kind of ridiculous, borderline out-of-hand, and it’s driving him insane. 

It’s such a simple, ordinary thing for you to do: you rush up to him, phone in hand and scroll to some video you found online. You’re so excited, a bounce in your step as if he’s the first and only person you want to show this to. Your eyes shine bright with a megawatt smile to match, and you’re talking so, so fast, completely lit up like fireworks in the making. 

He knows you think that he’s listening but, he couldn’t care less about it honestly. Sorry. Not when the words go in one ear and out the other, because all that registers is how adorable you are, giddy and everything. 

He makes a joke—completely unrelated, but you find it so funny. Then you’re laughing, full on smacking his arm, doubled over, arms hugging your stomach, guffawing. Your feet are kicking the air as you sink deeper into your couch. Gojo’s standing in front of you, post-enactment of some impression he made, and he’s frozen in place but warm all over. 

Seeing you laugh like this, smile like this, being so pretty when you’re happy, the pounding in his chest goes crazy. 

This isn’t the first time he’s made you laugh; he does it all the time. You almost always roll your eyes and chuckle, sometimes giggle with your eyes squinting and laugh lines creasing. But it might be the first time it’s like this: with you so bright, more than the sun and every other star in the sky. 

And he thinks, this is all he could ever want—to make you happy for the rest of his life. 

There’s too much of this feeling inside of him, clawing at his throat, itching to get out. He’s filled with it, has been filled with it for so long that it’s starting to overflow and if he doesn’t say this now he might just—

“I’m so in love with you.” 

Gojo breathes it out, as if finally releasing it after all this time. You don’t think he processes it because he just stands there, in the middle of your living room, staring at you. 

Your laughter dies with maybe a little part of you too (in a good way). 

He looks so sweet, so sincere, and you see his heart, so big, so honest and pure. You get flashbacks of every Satoru you have ever known, at 15, 17, 23, to now. 

It’s not like either of you don’t know; it’s plain as day, how you feel about each other—and you would have been fine going on without ever having to hear him speak of love this way.

But hearing it now, it’s far better than anything you could have imagined. 

You stare at him. He stares at you. 

He’s shocked too. 

You don’t want to embarrass him, especially if he didn’t mean to say it, so you chuckle, moving on to break the quiet.

“I can unhear it if you want,” you offer shyly, genuinely. 

Gojo looks at you, confused, before a pout makes its way onto his face. You sit up on your couch, playing with your fingers as you look up at him.

Sure, he practically blurted it out, maybe in the heat of the moment, or something, but it doesn’t make it any less true. And he’s realizing that the only thing he really wants from this—

“Though…” you continue, biting your lips, “I think I’m pretty in love with you too.” 

The little laugh you make has him, completely. 

The grin that breaks on his face is infectious. Gojo, who is normally so pale, is now pink all over—red by his ears and down his neck. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that can be found in yours too. 

This moment right here feels like first loves—teens first saying ‘I love you’. 

“You think?” he asks incredulously, joking, “So you’re not sure?” he walks closer to you. 

You laugh, candy for his cravings, and take his hand to kiss each knuckle before guiding it to your cheek. He runs a thumb across your skin, affection on his fingertips. His index finger hooks itself under your chin, tilting it to rest on his stomach as you look up at him. 

A kiss to your forehead, tenderly, gently. 

The best part about being in love? 

He gets to be in it with you. 

.

.

.

Gojo can’t sleep. 

It’s not anything new—4 hours on average, maybe 6 on a good night. He doesn’t remember a time when sleep ever came easily.

Sleeping with you, beside you, has helped, but it’s never solved the problem. You’ve gotten him to a full 8 hours before, but never consecutively, and he’s starting to think that if you can’t do it, nothing ever will. 

Your sleeping positions change every night, but they always come out as some variation of hugging. Gojo firmly believes that he might as well sleep alone if you aren’t touching. 

Tonight, you’re spooning, arm slung over his waist and palm right on his chest, fingers interlaced with his. Your legs stay tangled together with soft puffs of air blowing at the back of his neck. 

He opens his eyes and checks the clock by his bedside. 3:24 a.m. 

He sighs deeply, carefully maneuvering his body to slip away from you. You used to wake up the first few times this happened, worried about an emergency or some kind of accident. Being a sorcerer trains you for things like that. 

You’ve always known Gojo had bad sleep, just not the severity of it. 

You don’t wake up to it as much as you used to, having grown accustomed to it after more nights together, but on the off-chance that you do, Gojo always kisses your forehead gently as if to tell you that it’s okay, you can go back to sleep.

You don’t wake up now, thankfully, so he grabs his phone and heads for the kitchen. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest tonight, far heavier than others he’s woken up from. He pours himself a glass of water before hopping on the kitchen counter, ready to sort through the bowl of candy sitting on the island. 

The date today is October 31. Halloween. It’s been a few years since Shibuya but he still feels like he’s suffocating. 

In the train station. In the box.

In front of Suguru—or Kenjaku, both, whatever. 

He’s gone to therapy, just like you wanted, for the both of you, and grieving has been an interesting concept to wrap his head around since.

But no matter how much he trains his mind to deal with it, his body will always remember the feeling. 

He snaps out of it when he hears your footsteps padding on the floorboards. Your figure emerges from the hallway, bed hair and eyes still sleepy, squinting. 

“Satoru?” you rub at your eyes, his sleep shirt entirely too long as the sleeves extend past your fingertips. The extra fabric swings in the air. “You okay?” you whisper, approaching him. 

Waking you up is the last thing he could ever want right now, but it’s hard when you’re also the only one he can talk about this with. When you know what it’s like to grieve everyone too.  

He has every intention of brushing it off, of telling you to go to sleep, but one look at you—one look at him and it’s like you just know. He doesn’t even need to explain. 

It isn’t hard to piece together, knowing what today is and seeing him choked up the way he is. You tell Gojo it’s your intuition, but he has a tell, and maybe you’re the only one who knows it. 

His eyes—they’ve always given him away. There’s the Satoru you know, then a Satoru that’s far removed, gone away. You can spot it though, the moment it loses its sparkle, the moment it turns from blue to gray. 

He feels a little selfish sharing this with you; he’s not the only one who’s lost people. You have too. 

You stand in front of him and offer a sad smile, outstretching your arms as an invite, as if to tell him: you can stay here for as long as you’d like. 

He moves into your space slowly, hopping off the kitchen island to slump against you. 

He doesn’t hug you yet, not immediately, hands still shaky at the memory. You rub his back, hooking your chin on his shoulder as he bends down to rest his head by your cheek. 

You take his hand delicately, bringing them to your lips so you can kiss every fingertip gently. When you finish, he wraps his arms around you, squeezing tightly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you whisper, like a hushed secret. 

And he wants to, but also, there isn’t anything else to say that you don’t know already. You were there the first few times he had therapy, and when he felt comfortable enough to go alone, he told you all about it anyway right after. 

If there’s a secret to fighting the Gojo Satoru with guaranteed victory, they’d only have to get to you—he’d be gone, entirely. You know too much of him, own too many parts of him already. 

He chuckles dryly, vibrating by your neck. A step back and he’s leaning against the counter, bringing you closer by the hip, thumb stroking. He tucks away strands of your hair behind your ear, flattening down the bird’s nest that it is from your sleep. 

“Nothing you haven’t heard before, pretty.”

Gojo’s been more tender lately, especially in the night when his piercing eyes turn soft, gazing. 

You pout, the same one since you were 16. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to it, the way he calls you such sweet, honeyed things; you’ve only recently begun to call him ‘baby’ and that alone has been enough to make your head spin. 

Still, he wouldn’t be your Satoru if he didn’t surprise you. With how he is now, it’s hard to imagine a time when this was all so difficult for him, when even the slightest bit of your hands touching was challenging. 

It’s hard to imagine that both of you are here now, living in the same space, by the kitchen at night, with the contents of your hearts memorized—the sorrow, the pain, the joy, all the love, every single one. 

He kisses your nose, and that’s comfort alone. 

This is his reality now, with you, and it’s safe.

It’s good. 

“Do you want to make waffles?” he hears you mumble, running your hands over his chest, soothing.  

The clock reads 3:56 a.m. Early breakfast doesn’t sound so bad, could also be a midnight snack.

(But he knows what you’re doing). 

You don’t tell him to try to go back to sleep, never forcing anything you know he can’t do. Instead, you offer yourself to stay up with him, keep him company. Whatever he needs. 

(And he loves that about you). 

.

.

.

Gojo will forever argue that you might have fallen first, but he’s definitely fallen harder. 

He could map out every single location he’s laid his love on—your eyes, the flutter of your eyelashes, the curve of your nose, and your lips, the same ones he’s kissed and nipped, bitten until he gets his fill. 

Your neck and chest—a canvas for his desires. He glides a finger across your collarbone before lightly tapping on it thrice. 

There’s the little dip at the base of your spine, and your thighs—

Oh, he could get lost in them. 

He knows. 

He has. Many times.

There’s an animal inside of him that only answers to you. 

When you kiss his neck and grip his back, soft moans by his ear—short and sweet. He’s a gone man, wholly devoted to you, and you only. 

You breathe his name out, “Satoru,” raspily, and he sinks into you—everything, all that he has spilling in the depths of you. 

How can he possibly contain all this love?

It’s scary how so much of him already belongs to you, all these years—how you’ve been carrying pieces of him, all versions of him throughout every birthday, every moment you’ve touched his life and have it irrevocably changed. 

.

“Are you happy?” he mumbles by your ear, voice deep and lazy. 

It’s the morning, sunlight barely peeking through your curtains. Gojo hugs you from behind, arms caging you as he traces little hearts on your sides. 

“Right now?” you whisper back, chuckling, “That’s not fair.” 

He nips at your ear, a small bite, before you turn to face him.

He supposes you’re right, it isn’t fair to ask that now; both your bodies are sore, well-exhausted, and littered with conversations on love. 

Gojo is pretty in the mornings just like he is all the time, his hair lending well to sunlight as much as it does to the moonlight. And his eyes—they shine a different shade during the day compared to the night. 

You though, you’re an entirely different creature of your own: a goddess in bedsheets and pillows, wrapped in immaculate white.  

You giggle when you face him, nose-to-nose, and he pulls you in tighter, grips you by the butt to slot you in right where you belong. 

Are you happy with me? 

He wonders, and you can read it—his eyes his greatest tell. You kiss him tenderly, lips moving gently against his. Then you smile, sincerely, before whispering—

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

this is a re-upload! (because i accidentally deleted the original one!) thank you notes: to @stellamancer for being there since the very start!! col wouldn’t even exist without you!! you’re every much part of the creation of this as i am :'), to @crysugu for being so ever supportive, cheering me on all the time!! and for loving col reader as much as i do!! and to you reading this and everyone else who has loved this collection so far!!  of course!! a credit to all the writers whose works have inspired the way i view and write gojo: to @seravphs for teen dad!gojo and cruel summer influences, i draw so much of the way i understand these characters and their dynamics from you and your beautiful way of writing them and i hope my interpretation gives justice to that!!, to @augustinewrites for keeping up with the fushigojos, this series and the way you write them, with so much love, has always pushed for me to view gojo that way!! you’ve inspired so much of my understanding that gojo does believe in love and that when he falls in it, he falls in it hard!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

SLEIGHT OF HAND | LYNEY

summary you will not let lyney get to you. unfortunately, lyney already got to you the moment you met eyes. after all, what is a magician if not an expert in stealing hearts?

or, local sumeru architect goes to fontaine looking for inspiration and comes out of it with three rainbow roses and a crushing magician.

warnings 13+, gn!reader, follows the fontaine archon quest, so there are major spoilers throughout the entire fic! MURDER (lyney trial spoilers) + feminine french pet names ough + bff!Aether loml + sweet talker lyney + KISS SCENE (suggestive)

notes 8K words. thank u to my french bff art @aanobrain who said lyney is a magician he would say mon lapin 🤧❤️ + other various french pet names. thank u to ellie hyomagiri & earthtooz too for hyping this up, my supporters…

“500,000!?”

Sumeru streets are always bustling with its people—from children skipping around the neighborhood to frantic scholars who zip back and forth before returning to their homes when the moon is high. However, the sun is beating down on everyone right now: street vendors are making a profit, dogs are barking as they play fetch with laughing children, and you stand across the blond traveler and his floating companion.

You wince at the volume of Paimon’s shrill voice, inciting bypassers to send miffed glances your way. Embarrassed, you cover the side of your face with a hand, whispering, “Is—is that not enough? I can—”

“No, no, it’s not that!” Paimon’s arms flail around, eyes blown comically wide. “It’s just, you know, more than what we earn from our daily commissions combined!”

“Oh, I see.” you nod, relieved. “Well, I can lower—”

“No, no, no, no,” Paimon interjects hurriedly, and even the traveler shakes his head. “Pleasure to do business with you! Paimon and Aether, at your service!”

“Really?” you can’t believe your luck—the traveler himself agreed to escort you to Fontaine! Or does it count if Paimon agrees on his behalf? “That's a relief. Even Katheryne of the guild had a strange expression when I posted my commission.”

“It’s probably because of the amount of zeroes you might’ve accidentally put,” Paimon murmurs.

Aether tugs on her foot as if warning her. “We'll be leaving soon. Are you prepared?”

“Oh, yes. My stuff’s over there by the bench, you see?”

Aether and Paimon’s faces simultaneously fall. “All of that?” Paimon starts counting it, gaping when she has four little fingers held up.

They sure complain a lot. “You can still back out.”

Aether takes a deep breath, making his way over to your luggage. When he brushes past, you hear him chanting 500,000; 500,000; 500,000 under his breath. He wordlessly carries all of them, his chest puffed and expression grave.

“They’re heavier than I thought,” Aether wheezes out as Paimon flits worriedly around him. “How long are you going to be staying in Fontaine?”

“Oh, just a day or two, maybe,” you say, taking pity and taking one bag from him. “Most of what’s inside are art supplies.”

“Ah,” Aether says.

“500,000,” Paimon reminds him.

“We’re close,” Paimon says, flying back to where you and Aether are still walking behind, him heaving and you offering water now and then. “I saw a huge ravine-looking view! It was like a city on a waterfall!”

“R-Really?” Aether puffs out a breath, sweat rolling off his temple.

You tried prying some of your bags away from him when it seemed like there were monsters up ahead, but he refused instead to fight them with one hand on his sword. He still won. You guessed that he was trying to make traveling easier for you, yet all you felt was immense worry.

“Are you feeling okay, Y/N?” Paimon asks, floating beside you. “You look unwell.” You should ask your companion that, instead.

“I’m a bit nervous. After all, it’s my first time traveling outside of Sumeru.” You smile, patting her head. She doesn’t seem to mind, beaming back. “But I need to get out of my comfort zone to be better, right?”

“That's right! Paimon has a feeling you’ll enjoy Fontaine!” You and Paimon glance at Aether when he heaves a heavy breath, yet he only waves the pair of you off with his free hand. “Before you know it, you’ll be itching to travel again once you’re back in Sumeru.”

“I'm only there for work. I just need to learn a lot, and then I'll enjoy it.”

“Still a student through and through, huh…”

“I can see it,” Aether chimes in, looking all too relieved to rest his arm finally. “I can see Fontaine up ahead.”

You feel the cool breeze brush against your face, a refreshing change from the past hours you and the other two have been trudging through the desert. You could strip off layers and dive if you could. You can make out the harbor even miles away, pouring water out like an endless waterfall stretching for miles.

Arriving in Fontaine is introducing yourself to the rustle of layered skirts, the water-kissed smell, and citizens left and right babbling about tragic endings and thrilling climaxes.

Aether sets your bags on the floor with a heavy exhale. Paimon feeds him with another jug of water.

“I guess we’re here now.” You pull out a heavy pouch you’ve been keeping in one of the bags Aether had been holding over his shoulder. Paimon takes it with greedy, greedy hands. “Thank you for keeping me safe and carrying my luggage, Traveler— are you even listening to me?”

“There’s a girl over there,” Aether says, now staring ahead.

You and Paimon turn to look; sure enough, someone is standing by the edge, looking forlornly over the water. Half of her foot is off the platform, making Paimon fidget.

She gasps. “She isn’t going to jump into the water, is she? Maybe we should go check on her…”

Halfway through Paimon’s sentence, you gathered the courage to speak to the girl with the cat ears.

“Hey, miss.” Her ear twitches. “Is something the matter?”

She turns, looking faintly surprised. If you weren’t so close to her, you wouldn’t have been able to tell there was a change in her expression. “I'm fine. thank you.”

“Oh.” Now things are a little awkward. “Is there something in the water you’re looking at? You might slip if you keep tipping forward.”

She peers below, unworried—silent.

“As long as you’re okay, I guess,” you sigh, awkwardly hovering above her shoulder when realizing it might come off strange if you touch her. “I’ll leave you be.”

Her lips twitch, something close to a smile. You don’t stick long enough to admire it, heading back to Aether and Paimon and shrugging at their inquisitive looks. “She says she’s fine.”

“I think it’s time for me to separate,” you say. “I want to take all of it in as much as possible. Paimon has my payment. Thank you both so much for keeping me safe.” Mostly Aether, though. But Paimon was there, emotionally.

“It’s no problem,” Aether says, his smile warmer than when you first met him. “Stay safe out there. You can look for us if you need anything else.”

“I don’t always pay 500,000 for each of my commissions.”

Paimon wilts. Aether flushes, stammering, “Not what I meant.” You laugh heartily as they wave when you walk off to the aquabus, hopefully, prepared for what Fontaine will give you.

Your sketchbook is a page away from completion when you hear about a magic show at the Opera House. Not that it was hard to miss—everyone and their grandmothers were prattling about nothing else but the entire day.

Fontaine is known for its love for dramatics, but the twins they keep mentioning must be a one-of-a-kind spectacle to have half their region’s population speak about them so reverently.

After wandering for hours, taking in the endless sights of fresh water streaming and grand castle-like modern buildings, you find yourself in the Fountain of Lucine. You’ve heard of Fontaine being somewhat titled the ‘City of Love,’ but seeing couples surrounding each nook and cranny of the tourist spots was still astonishing.

(You console yourself by thinking that there’s something romantic in sketching frantically while the rest of the crowd are sucking faces.)

To your luck, you spot three familiar heads in the fountain plaza.

Aether senses you before you can even say anything, glancing to the side and smiling when you wave at him.

Paimon flutters excitedly. “Y/N! We didn’t think we’d see you again this early. You look like you’re glowing.”

“Was it that obvious?” you laugh sheepishly. “Fontaine is beautiful; I couldn’t even stick too long in one place before I see something else that catches my attention.” You look to the girl you met earlier, who nods politely. “Hello. Are you three acquainted now?”

“Mhm!” Paimon says, hands on her hips. “This is Lynette! She’s inviting us to the show they’re holding here!” She gasps, “Speaking of—”

“Ah,” Lynette says quietly, “I couldn’t get an extra ticket. I’m sorry.”

Lynette is the magician you keep hearing about? With her seemingly reserved personality, you wouldn’t have guessed it. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Paimon,” Aether speaks up. “They gave you your ticket, right? Why don’t you just float next to me or sit on my lap?”

Paimon’s eyes sparkle. “Great idea! That way, I can give my seat to Y/N, right?”

“You guys…” Your chest feels warm as Aether hands you one of the two tickets in his hand. “You really didn’t have to.” Is this what 500,00 gets you? The loyal companionship of Aether and Paimon?

“It’s a good idea,” Lynette says. “My brother wouldn’t want you to miss the show. He’d be devastated.”

“If you insist, then I suppose I can’t refuse.” Aether and Paimon do a cute little cheer. “But I need to return to the hotel; I can’t be watching a magic show carrying all these.” Surely Aether can understand.

Later, with your hands finally empty and charcoal-free, you rush back to the Opera Epiclese, the person standing guard kind enough to open the doors despite being a minute late.

“Welcome, one and all, to the Opera Epiclese!” The audience roars with cheers as the spotlight illuminates a figure on the center of the stage. You hurry to your seats, brushing past Aether and Paimon. “I am the star of today’s show, Lyney.”

Lyney bows, then stands upright with a Cheshire cat grin.

The thunder of the crowd’s applause is deafening. If you weren’t able to see it, you’d think that you hadn’t been clapping at all—senses numbed and your fixed stare all on the boy on the stage.

Your eyes catch on the small braid on the side of his head before the gleam of his eyes hypnotizes you.

He’s handsome, you think dizzily at the back of your head.

“Don’t blink,” he says, his voice lower as if meant to be a whisper, “or else you might miss it.”

The show proceeds. A dove soars away from inside as he flips his hat; you flush at hearing the soft laughter that slips from him after. The cards that materialize out of nowhere descend to the floor. His fingers shuffle the cards while talking to keep the audience satiated; they fly off his hands, yet he doesn’t lose focus, stretching them mid-air with a sleight of hand. They fall apart and come together neatly and precisely.

His stage presence is demanding. It would be as if Lady Furina herself would accuse you of committing a crime if you were to look away for even a second.

Then, when he scans the crowd, busy twirling his cards in his fingers, his gaze catches your awed ones.

Something in the air shifts. Or maybe it’s that it slows.

A card slips from his grasp. A mistake. He blinks and breaks eye contact, laughing heartily to play it off. But you don’t believe it—not when you swore your limbs locked in place as well when lilac drilled into your soul.

You breathe, hands bracing against your chest. What was that?

You would’ve played it off as something you imagined if not for Lyney continuing to glance at you occasionally. His slip-up had been forgotten, as though it was all part of the show.

(Is it also part of the show when it seems he’s unable to tear his eyes off of you?)

Of course, the twins prove their worth. They showed you exactly why the people of Fontaine adore watching them through theatrical magic, cards in their sleeves, and defying logic.

You’ve shuffled to the edge of your seat as Lynette disperses into bubbles and comes back alive. You’ve held your breath as Lyney emerges from the box across he was in a moment earlier.

You’ve also been witness to the murder of Cowell.

CRASH.

The shatter of glass resounded along with the horrified gasps of the audience. Sickeningly enough, you could almost hear the crack of bones if you hadn’t been crying out in alarm. Yet, as they gape and shriek over the sight of a limp arm popping out, you find your gaze tracing back to Lyney, who stands motionless in front of the box.

When Lady Furina points fingers and has everyone siding against him, the guards escort the audience from the Opera House. All evidence presented left Lyney in a spotlight unlike his performance: with a disgusted and unamused crowd. Even you have to agree that it isn’t looking well for his case at all.

Yet all you can think of as you leave the room is that Lyney looked as terrified as everyone else was—much too raw of an expression for someone to accuse him of anything at all. He looked young and scared.

(His hands were shaking.)

The rest of your Fontaine trip is admittedly duller when you’re a little more familiar with its city and don’t have a yapping little fairy and a capable Traveler by your side. It’s hard not to hear chatter about the events that went down: Lyney’s trial, Aether volunteering to be his lawyer, and the truth behind the real murderer.

It solved a case beyond the murder of Cowell. Fontaine sure has its mysteries, and the crowd sure loves them as they would a magic show.

You keep your hands busy. Last night, you found yourself thinking back to the magic show, to deft fingers weaving through cards, to violet eyes that kept on flickering to you. By the time you snap back to reality, you’ve subconsciously drawn shapes and lines that suspiciously look like the magician himself: the curve of a smile, piercing eyes, and you entranced by it all.

Flustered, you crumple his face staring back at you out of sight. Yet you can’t bring yourself to throw it away.

You shove the last bit of garlic baguette in your mouth to furiously bat these unwanted thoughts away.

“Isn’t that Y/N?” Paimon’s voice is unmistakable, a short distance off.

You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Aether and Paimon waving and walking over to you. You thought they'd already left Fontaine after that; you wouldn’t blame them if they did.

“Y/N! We haven’t seen you since the Opera House performance,” Paimon exclaims, twirling around your head like a thrilled fly circling a trash can.

You hold onto her back, hoping she’ll stop making you dizzy. “We were escorted out before I could say goodbye. I couldn’t watch the court trial but heard it all turned out fine.”

“That’s right!” Paimon nods proudly. “Paimon helped a ton during it; you should’ve seen it! What have you been doing?”

“I found a fellow architect while visiting the cafe nearby, and we chatted for hours,” you say, remembering that your voice is hoarse for that reason. You also don’t tell them you couldn’t get a certain magician off your mind. “I learned a lot. I don’t regret coming here one bit.”

Paimon says something else that you’re sure you’ve nodded absentmindedly at while your gaze wanders over to the two familiar people a few feet behind, watching you three with cat-like eyes—and it’s not just because of Lynette’s unique features.

“Those are the magicians, right?” you gesture behind Paimon and Aether as if you haven’t already familiarized yourself with their faces.

Paimon nods. “Uh-huh. You should introduce yourself! They look like they want to talk.”

Something about that feels foreboding. “Um, no, it’s fine. I don’t want to be rude and interrupt your conversation.”

“No,” Aether says firmly. He seldom speaks; you might as well play along if he says so. “Besides, Paimon is right. Lyney wants to talk to you, you know?”

“Oh, yeah! He kept mentioning seeing someone sitting beside us! And it couldn’t have been Neuvillette because he said it was an unfamiliar beauty that bewitched this weak magician’s heart.” Paimon nods, even recalling how he’s enunciated each syllable theatrically.

“I’m sorry?” you blurt. “Lyney recognizes me? What did I do?”

“Paimon thinks it’s because Lyney is curious about who Lynette met! He was like that with us, too.” Paimon changes her pitch to match Lyney’s. “Are these your friends, Lynette?”

Aether’s eyes feel like they know something you don’t. “It won’t hurt to strike up a conversation with Lyney. He’s been shaken up since the trial.”

There’s something unspoken hidden in his words. “What does that mean?”

Paimon doesn’t wait for an answer, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you to where the twins are waiting. Aether chuckles as he jogs behind.

“Paimon, Aether,” Lyney says, almost sly, “You haven’t introduced us to your friend here.”

“Paimon can do it!” She floats on top of your head and does a bit of jazz hands. “This is Y/N, the one who commissioned us to escort them from Sumeru up to Fontaine.”

“Generously,” Aether adds.

It’s a little embarrassing to have the legendary Traveler and Paimon introduce little old you to a famous magician such as himself, but his grin is still excited.

“From Sumeru?” Lyney repeats, smiling wider when you nod—as if that crumb of attention is enough for him. “I see.”

He performs a bow around the same height as where your hands rest; he takes one, kisses the back of your palm, and smiles against your skin. “I’m Lyney, and she is my sister, Lynette.”

“It’s nice to see you again.” You smile at Lynette, who nods in return. Lyney straightens to look at his sister.

“We met when the Traveler and Paimon just arrived at the harbor,” Lynette sighs even without looking at her brother.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say, meeting Lyney’s eyes. The spot where he kissed is still warm—tingling. “Your show was incredible, despite what happened. I’m glad that the truth revealed itself.”

“Thank you.” Lyney’s gaze sharpens. “I saw you at the performance, yes. I was worried for a second you might steal the show if you were to come up on stage.”

You blink. “Are you saying—”

Lyney grins, “I apologize that the night had to end that way; it must’ve been horrifying. Say, what if I give you a little show right now to make it up to you?” Did he make it up to each one of his audience, too?

This is not a man acting “shaken up,” as Aether put it.

“You really don’t have to.” You glance at Aether and Paimon, silently asking for help; however, they’re too far gone, urging you to say yes with gestures and encouraging nods.

Lyney tilts his head, demanding your attention on him once more.

You sigh. “I would love to see it if you don’t mind.”

“Of course!” Lyney looks like he’s the sun bursting personified. “It would be a pleasure, ma chérie. Not to worry, it’s nothing life-threatening. I just need you to focus on me.”

Not that it’s hard. The others have become a dull buzz in your mind as Lyney holds your gaze. “Okay.”

Lyney smiles, much softer, satisfied. “Good. Now,” he tips his hat, “recently, I’ve received a little lesson from someone about the language of flowers. Are you familiar with them?”

“Not in Fontaine, no,” you mumble, watching his hands closely. You were expecting a rabbit to hop out of that hat any second now.

“Shame. But I suppose I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.” Lyney snaps his finger, then deposits his hand inside his hat. “Hmm… Oh? Something’s not quite right. Would you mind looking into this hat for me to see if the flower is here?”

You hesitate. The hat is so close to him.

Swallowing, you nod, leaning in to inspect his hat at a careful pace. All you can sense is the faint scent of heat Lyney is emanating, the breath you two share, and the pounding of your chest. You swear you could also hear his, matching yours.

“The hat’s empty.”

Lyney smiles wider. “Yes, perhaps because you already have it.”

You jump back in surprise, your hands patting your body to see where he could have snuck the flower in. With your frantic movement, the flower falls off from what seems to have come from your head—Lyney catches it.

His mouth carves into a smirk, leaning to invade your personal space, his free hand coming up to tuck hair behind your ear. “Careful.”

Your face is burning. Plucking the flower out, the delicate and tender pink sears into your palm. “What does this flower mean?”

“What does it, I wonder?” Lyney whispers thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ll have to tell me once you find out.”

And when he inclines backward, it feels like you can breathe again. Time flows normally, and the people passing by seem much louder than before—as though you’ve surfaced from underwater.

Lyney clears his throat. “Shame I haven’t prepared myself a grand show for you, but I suppose that would call for another time, wouldn’t it?”

Lynette is looking at Lyney as if he is stupidly amusing.

“Thank you,” you say, burning, burning. “For the show, I mean.”

“That was a little weird,” Paimon whispers to Aether, but she is terrible with keeping volume and has everyone turning to her with varying expressions. “P-Paimon means that was good! Wow, Lyney! Isn’t that a different flower you gave us? That’s the flower Charlotte was talking about, right?”

“Rainbow rose?” Aether supplies.

“Yes! It means—”

“Ahem.” Lyney is quick to interrupt. “Lynette and I must take our leave now, if you don’t mind. It was fun catching up with you two.” You have to hold your ground and not look away when he hones in on your figure. “And it’s a pleasure meeting you. Don’t be a stranger. Look for me if you want more.”

His smile is a little devilish, you now realize.

“Bye,” Lynette says blankly, following after her brother, who seemed to be hurrying to exit.

His ears were red.

“You’re still staring.”

“I am not,” you rebuke hotly, flailing to cover Aether’s mouth with your hands. Yet all it does is bring your attention back to where Paimon and Aether are staring—the rainbow rose on your person.

Paimon and Aether yelp when you drag them away despite Lyney having already left the scene.

“Hey—! Don’t just go dragging Paimon around like a balloon like that! Did Lyney get to your head that much?”

“He did not.”

Paimon tilts her head, frowning. You shy away from her worried gaze, glaring at the flower instead. You still don’t know how Lyney managed to get it there; you hold it to your chest, where your heart is racing miles per minute because of his stupidly smug smile.

“What does this flower mean, Paimon?”

Paimon seems elated to be of help. “Easy! Charlotte told us that Rainbow Roses mean ‘passion’ and most notably ‘romantic encounters’!”

“Passion,” you curse. The rose seems as if it is staring back innocently, unknowing of the turmoil you’re going through because of it. “Romantic encounters.’ ugh.”

You can still remember how Lyney’s eyes twinkled as you felt his breath against your face.

“Ooh, he thinks he can trick me. He thinks he can affect me just because it pleases him to do so. I’ll show him. I’ll show him! I am not a blushing maiden!”

“You’re already very affected by this,” Paimon says, yet it’s lost by your newfound determination. Two can play at this game.

You’ve definitely been staying in Fontaine longer than what you told Aether and Paimon, but you can’t leave yet. Not when you found yourself walking to a flower shop to purchase a vase, fiercely digging through soil, turning gentle when your fingers reach for the Rainbow Rose. Not when you see it in the corner of your eyes as you try to sleep, and you find yourself daydreaming about a charming violet-eyed virtuoso.

It’s for research, you excused lamely at the hotelkeeper who didn’t ask why you’re extending your stay. In truth, not that you’d tell anyone. It was because you were hoping for another grand show from him. A farewell show for you—closure.

If you were to travel back home and get too drunk to think straight, Kaveh would learn about your crisis (romantic awakening?) and laugh at your face.

In hopes of looking for your Fontaine architect friend, you spot Lyney instead, on the side of the street surrounded by cheering kids. They clap and jump, and Lyney laughs. “One more, one more!”

“Again?” Lyney does an exaggerated sigh. “I’m starting to run out of cards in my sleeves. I’ve guessed my entire deck from your hands by this point!”

“But, Mr. Magician,” one of them whines, pouting up at him and blinking, “we want to see more! We want to know how you do it!”

“Alright, how about this, hm?” And then Lyney peers right at you. Ironically, you’re the one startled when you’ve been watching that entire spiel, and he hasn’t acknowledged your presence beforehand. “Y/N, would you mind giving these children a little show with me?” He gestures for you to come closer.

“What show?” you ask suspiciously, taking slow steps in case he pulls out another flower out of nowhere.

“You don’t have to worry,” Lyney laughs. “Will you be my assistant for this show? You are very familiar with this trick.”

“Please, we want to see!”

You falter at the little kids’ excited grins, especially when paired with Lyney’s pout and round eyes. “Okay, tell me what to do.”

His eyes do the little gleam again. “Stand in front of me, mon lapin.”

Your heart is skipping beat after beat, making itself known as you shuffle until Lyney is directly behind you.

“Relax, chérie, you just need to stand still.” It’s a little hard to relax when you feel his breath against the back of your neck, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that, so you keep your chin high and relax your shoulders. “Good.” 

He begins to speak louder to his awaiting audience. “I know it’s hard to keep your eyes off this beauty before me, but watch the hat for a surprise, alright?”

He flips it for his little audience, one hand resting on your waist and the other extended to hold his top hat. The proximity is almost suffocating. You watch with bated breath, and they complain about it being empty.

“Oh, is it?” Lyney hums, twirling the hat until it’s flipped upside down, presented right before you. “Perhaps I need my assistant’s help.” You snap out of your daze when you realize he’s talking to you. “Y/N, do me a favor and show them the flower inside.”

You reach inside the hat and, much to your surprise, feel a stem. You pull it out; the Rainbow Rose stares back at you, almost mocking you, saying he did pull out a flower out of nowhere. It's this trick again.

The kids gasp in awe and confusion—it’s all the same for Lyney, who snaps his fingers and creates magic like he was made to. Like magic was for him to summon with his hands.

“What? It was empty!”

“Where did that come from? I was watching Mister Magician’s hands the whole time!”

“Are you a magician, too?”

“No,” you say lamely, holding the rose, feeling Lyney still patiently standing behind you. Heat crawls up your neck. “No, I’m not. It’s all Lyney.”

“It’s all me,” Lyney echoes in amusement. “You’re quite magical yourself.” Finally, he spares you, pulling away to stand beside your figure. He doesn’t take the rose back—maybe even give it to one of the children. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “That’s enough for today. The sun is setting, and your parents might get worried.”

They pout and slump their shoulders, but Lyney has this older brother's sternness to him that has the children scurrying back home anyway.

You then realize having to stand in front of Lyney was unnecessary.

The flower is warm. Lyney’s eyes slip to yours.

“I didn’t even have to stand in front of you like that,” you complain, heart inclined to race off your body.

“Yes, but I feared that I would slip up again if I were to catch a glimpse of your face,” Lyney admits smoothly. His lips curl into a smirk when you stare wordlessly. “What? Don’t believe me? I had to improvise when I saw you watching from afar.”

“A great magician such as yourself? Making a mistake? I doubt it.”

“You already have such high expectations placed on me, chérie,” Lyney says, his smile easy, but his ears are a little red, poking out from his hair. “That’s no good. With no audience, I’m just plain ‘Lyney’ to you.”

“No trickery? No cards up your sleeves?” you play along.

Lyney doesn’t miss a beat. “No, though I do have a few more roses begging to be held by your hands.”

“They can keep begging.” Lyney grins wider when you glance down at his hands. “Do you give them off to everyone you meet?”

“Who do you take me for?” Lyney isn’t offended; he laughs, delighted. He is preening under the sunset—or maybe it’s your attention. “Of course not. At least, not like this.”

You stare, unimpressed. “Sure.”

“So cold, chérie,” Lyney sighs, plucking the stem from your fingers to slot it behind your ear. It seems he likes doing that. “Here I am, trying to get you to warm up to me, and you treat me like this.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be going back home soon anyway.”

Lyney’s expression shifts into something more unrecognizable, his eyes dipping down to somewhere below your nose. “Oh. Avoiding attachment?”

You nod.

He grins, and he’s still so close. He knows how to entrance his audience, pulling you in until you forget to resist. Always watch the hands; yet Lyney could be digging a dagger to your side at this moment, and you wouldn’t even notice.

“I’m flattered you even want to avoid me because you know you’d get attached,” he purrs, tilting his head. Is Lyney just big on personal space? 

“Don’t assume,” you retort. “I know how guys like you think. Even a magician as great as yourself can’t trick someone who’s already seen through it.”

“It would be easier if it were just a trick, wouldn’t it?” Lyney sighs, much to your confusion. “I take it that someone has told you what this flower means?”

You’ve nearly forgotten all about it. “Yes.” You find yourself unable to look directly into his eyes. “I know.”

But even with that, you can still feel his heavy gaze, pinning you down and threatening the strength of your knees. You suppose it comes with being a performer—watching his audience carefully, pinpointing each micro expression to say the right words.

“There doesn’t have to be any attachments.”

“What are you trying to say right now?”

Lyney’s reaches for your hip, sharing your gaze like he doesn’t know how to do anything else. “That you enamor me. That I am holding back from wanting you. I know you feel the same—you can never hide anything from a magician. But if you’re concerned,” he mumbles, “then this doesn’t have to mean anything. You may call it infatuation.”

You want to laugh. Or maybe you want to cry. Most of all, you want to nod helplessly, wrap your arms around his neck, and give in. It’s hard not to when he looks at you like that. “You want me that bad?”

“I almost want to disagree.”

“Almost?” Lyney gets closer, and you stop him with a palm on his chest. “We’re outside.”

Lyney grins. “Have you forgotten what Fontaine is also known for? No one would bat an eye. Love is in the air, and all that.”

“Absolutely not.”

“So still you’re letting me?”

You laugh this time. Letting him, as if you aren’t the one itching to pull him close and find out what he’s like behind the curtains. “Are you asking me as plain old ‘Lyney?’”

Lyney brightens, clearly pleased there wasn’t a ‘no’. “Yes.”

“No tricks?”

“No tricks. No strings.”

You let him lead you away into some dark alleyway. He kisses you like he was longing to do so all his life. You have only met him that fateful day, not even a week ago. But you claw at him like you get it—like he’s ruined you for anyone else the moment you shared gazes in the Opera House.

Romantic encounters, you quietly recall as Lyney swipes a thumb over your aching bottom lip.

You don’t see Lyney the day after that. And for some reason, it makes the itch worse. (Perhaps it’s because you’ve gotten a taste and can’t get enough.)

It’s mostly your fault, the sudden disappearance—you’ve cooped yourself up in the hotel room, buried your face in pillows, and screamed. You berate yourself for giving in, but another part of you—one that’s louder than any other thought in your head—wants to do it again. Wants to hold his handsome face in your hands and have him kiss you breathless. That was nothing like you had ever felt before.

You groan. It’s another new day. You might as well make some progress with your portfolio.

There’s a Café you’ve been visiting more often than not. Ordering a drink and spending a good chunk of your day sketching the view. Instead, you find yourself staring at Aether, Paimon, and Lynette seated at one of the tables.

Lynette’s eyes flick up to yours as she sips tea. She murmurs something to the other two, and you watch with amusement as Aether and Paimon’s heads snap to face you.

You let your gaze wander, eventually landing on Lyney, who is reciting his order with his charming-act-on smile, who is present because of course he is. You want to turn and run away, but that’d be letting Lyney win, and you’re nothing if not stubborn and prideful.

“Y/N!” Paimon greets once you’re within earshot, kicking her feet happily. “Good morning! What are you doing here?”

“Breakfast,” you reply, waving at them. Aether pulls a chair from the other table and gestures for you to sit. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Nope!” Paimon swipes a fork from the table and digs in on the Ile Flottante, leaving nothing for Aether. “Lynette and Lyney told us about another show they’re holding to make up for the previous one.”

“Mouth full,” Aether reminds her, a little too late as the Ile Flottante spews from her mouth.

“Really now? Maybe I can pay properly for a ticket this time,” you laugh, nodding at Lynette. She smiles faintly, hiding it behind the rim of her cup. Lynette sure is the polar opposite of her twin brother.

A shadow looms from behind, the silhouette of a figure with an unmistakable top hat. You tilt your chin and see Lyney peering down at you with a sweet smile. You will yourself to keep your gaze focused on his eyes only and nowhere else below the nose.

Speak of the devil…

“Sweetheart,” Lyney says instead of exchanging pleasantries like a normal person.

“Lyney,” you reply in kind. Then you look away upon realizing that Aether, Paimon, and Lynette had been silently watching the exchange with muted, stunned expressions.

Lyney, holding a tray of drinks and food in both hands, scoots the chair next to yours with his ankle. “I wasn’t informed that Y/N would be joining us,” he says, setting the drinks and plates down like a waiter with a flourish. “You can drink mine. Let me order another.”

You hold onto his wrist as he makes his way back. He turns to you, surprised. “Let me at least pay for my own breakfast.”

Lyney grins, delicately withdrawing from your grip. He places a loud kiss on your hand. “Don’t worry about it.” And then leaves, because he can’t take no for an answer.

“Is it just me,” Paimon starts as you resign yourself to finishing Lyney’s drink (It’s your favorite, the one you always order), “or is Lyney acting weird around Y/N?”

Aether laughs. “There's definitely something going on. Don’t end up staying too long in Fontaine, now. What was it you told us? ‘A day or two’.”

You huff, your face turning unbearably warm. “Shut up, you two. I am here to do research, not to find a summer fling.” You’ve already failed, but they don’t need to know about that.

If you were to touch your lips with your fingers, you’d think of no one else but Lyney’s hands on your hips and his mouth swallowing your words.

Lynette clears her throat, a quiet but noticeable thing. “Don’t be fooled by my brother, Y/N.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m still keeping my safe distance.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. Don’t be fooled by my brother.” She stares at you from the rim of her cup—something about that has you listening obediently. “No matter what he tells you, he always cares too much. No matter what you may think, he always gets hurt first.”

“That’s not…” You can’t imagine that. From the start, it’s always felt like he was the one who could do what he wanted.

No tricks.

Lynette is his twin, after all. She knows him best.

No strings.

Defeated, you sip on the straw with the same fervor of an aggravated hilichurl, and that’s the end of that.

Conversations during breakfast are much lighter when Lyney returns with a full meal as his treat. Celebration, he says. Celebration for what? Who knows? Lyney winked, but his glance directed to you said enough.

“You say that you don’t want to get attached, but you’re awfully close to the Traveler, of all people,” Lyney says offhandedly once the others have left for their own matters.

You lean against your seat, grinning. “Are you jealous?”

He doesn’t say anything, instead upturning his nose as if scrambling to regain control. You laugh, oddly endeared. Lyney turns his head away, trying to hide the smile that curls his lips upon hearing it.

“Hey,” Lyney says seriously, reaching for your hand. “Where have you been yesterday?”

“Why? Missed me?”

And because he’s Lyney, he takes his time kissing each of your knuckles. It’s more intimate than the whole ‘no strings’ arrangement you agreed on, but you suppose Lyney thinks that any physical attention is free reign. “What would you do if I said yes?”

“You’ll be fine,” you say slyly. “You’ll have to get used to it if you want to risk your heart just to get laid.”

He rolls his eyes, tugging you closer. “I’m not risking anything to get laid. Do you think so lowly of yourself, chérie?”

“Isn’t this all there is to it? Physical attraction,” you ask, genuinely confused.

Lyney blinks. “Of course, but—” His eyes flicker down, and his words trail off.

When you speak, you feel your breath bounce back from his skin—a testament to your proximity. “Lyney,” you whisper. For what? Urging him to continue? Urging him to close this distance? You’re not sure, either.

You have so much to ask. What do you mean? Why can’t you finish your sentence? Why don’t you just kiss me already? But it’s hard to speak; Lyney’s name is all you can think of. 

You whisper his name again. His grip on your hands tightens and loosens, a frustrated frown creeping up his brows.

Your hand shoots out to reach for the back of his head and give in. He flinches for a second before relaxing completely.

His lips almost taste sweeter than his words. Almost as sweet as how he finds purchase on your waist and holds your chin during every kiss.

You pull away to breathe, missing how he leans closer to chase after you and pouting when he can’t. “Yeah. That—That didn’t have to mean anything. I just wanted to know what it felt like again.”

“Yeah.” Lyney licks his lips, his gaze unable to tear away from where yours are swollen. “Yeah, I know. You taste like my drink.”

Really, no one’s surprised you gravitate towards each other again, feeling like you’re soaring and melting into a puddle at the same time. Lyney doesn’t touch you where you both know would cross the line, but he grips near possessively to what he can, as if breathing you in and worshipping your skin.

You know after this, he’d go back on stage, fooling his audience with what’s invisible to the average eye, as if this never happened. You know this because this is your deal: satiate the feverish attraction you have with each other and leave once you’re satisfied. (But you also know that you’ll be thinking of his touch and his lips while you stare at the vase beside your bed.)

Lyney is a magician, first and foremost.

He hooks you in, and keeps all your attention to himself like he’d die without it. Then he disappears with a snap of a finger. He’s finished his trick, leaving you befuddled in your seat with more questions than answers.

As you drift off to sleep, all you can think of is that there are two roses now.

“Brother.”

Lyney looks up from where he’d been entertaining Rosseland, seeing Lynette with a stern face. “What? What happened?”

Her tail flicks. “You said you weren’t going to get attached.”

Lyney exhales softly, his eyes slipping shut. “I’m not.”

Lynette finds herself smiling softly. “I may just be your assistant, but you can’t lie to your own twin.”

He buries his face in his hands. With his sight gone, images of your face while whispering his name flash in his mind. His eyes fly open, mortified, his whole face red. “I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t think it’d be deeper than that.”

He was the magician in this, but it felt as if you were the one who tricked him instead.

It’s been two weeks since you first arrived in Fontaine. By this point, you’ve grown more familiar with its views than your own city. Having Aether, Paimon, Lynette, and even Freminet around doesn't make it any easier for you to feel at home.

And then there’s the Lyney Situation. You meet up most nights, more than that when he’s free from shows. He keeps seeking you out, and you keep letting him in. There was one night where Lyney spent the night instead of heading straight to the door—and those nights turned into two, then three, and then he finds any excuse to keep doing it.

It’s not like you could stop. He told you look for me if you want more, and you always want more, because how could you not? Lyney treats you like he’s never had to take care of anything more precious but still manages to render you breathless like you’ve never experienced thrill the way he gives it to you before.

But you still have to go back home. And Lyney still has his own life, has his secrets. He feels untouchable even when your arms are wrapped around his neck.

No strings attached can still work for summer flings, doesn’t it? And what are summer flings, if not just that?

Lyney hovers above with his hands caging your face. He’s grinning so wide—and you’ve seen all kinds of smiles on him with your time spent together, but it was never this genuine.

“You’re bad for me.” He says it like a confession, a prayer.

You raise an eyebrow. “What did I do to you?”

His hand trails down until he’s rubbing shapes on your hips. “Make me feel like I’m myself whenever I’m with you.”

At your silence, Lyney clears his throat. “But it’s not like that, don’t worry. I just mean—”

And how does that even make sense? He pours his heart, then later reveals it’s nothing but a decoy to keep this facade realistic.

“Oh,” you say.

That was the final act you’d been waiting for. The final trick—the farewell show.

And so you pack your bags—shoved your sketchbook back inside, face forward, and promise not to look back. Leaving Sumeru hasn’t even been this hard.

Aether and Paimon shouldn’t be surprised if they find you missing; they’d been the first to know that your stay in Fontaine isn’t meant to last forever. And you’ve warned Lyney about this. Avoiding attachments? It felt more like running away from your problem.

Lyney is a busy man on his own; you’re nothing but some architect from a different region who happened to get caught up with him at the right time.

You sigh and call for the aquabus.

A hand clasps around your wrist, pulling you to collide against a familiar chest. Lyney’s eyes are wide, almost insane. Sweat clings to his forehead, and his breath comes in frantic pants.

“W-What—”

Lyney’s eyes search your face. Or maybe it’s him trying to convince himself that you’re right there, in front of him. “You didn’t even tell me.”

“I—I’m sorry—”

“Were you just going to leave like that? Don’t you think I at least deserve a farewell?”

“Lyney, I’m sorry. I know, that was stupid.” You haven’t seen him with an expression like this before—so raw and broken, begging to be glued together with your hands. “I didn’t want to formally say goodbye because I knew I'd want to stay.”

“That’s stupid,” he repeats in agreement.

You breathe shakily, eyes scanning the stunned crowd. What’s The Great Magician Lyney doing here? Holding some stranger in his arms? That must be what they’re thinking.

“How did you even know I was leaving?”

Lyney’s eyes cut down to his hand, gripping a crushed rose. “I was paying a visit to an empty room.” Embarrassed, he tries to toss it away, but you take it before he can.

You wordlessly place it in its home: the spot behind your ears. You don’t tell him that the two other roses he gave you serve as bookmarks in the sketchbook you’ve used all up in Fontaine. Where you’ve drawn his face more often than not.

Lyney groans in frustration, his hands curling around your waist. “Is staying so bad?”

“It’s not like I’m leaving forever.”

And then you notice Lyney’s hands. They’re shaking uncontrollably, not unlike how it did during that incident—and with it came the frantic exhales, as if natural human breathing alone is already hard enough for him.

“Oh, Lyney,” you say softly. You drop your bags and embrace him fully.

He doesn’t hesitate in pulling you closer, burying his face on your neck. “Don’t—don’t,” he gasps, “don’t just try to leave like that.”

It’s hard seeing Lyney like this. He’s usually so composed and easy-going. He gulps in a deep breath, and his voice cracks as he calls for you. This must be something out of his control—something deeper than the back of his stage.

“Y/N,” he whispers.

“Lyney,” you call back as gently.

He swallows your surprised noise with his mouth, moving against you like you’re his last meal on Teyvat. He’s still shaking, but it has subsided the longer you stay pressed against each other. You’re not sure if it’s his Pyro vision or if it’s your skin burning at the thought of Lyney’s skin against yours. It’s searing.

This is different from the last kisses you shared.

Passion, you think dizzily, breathless from his hunger. This is passion.

“What was that for?” you ask, embarrassingly winded.

Lyney brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. He looks sad. As though he only comes alive when you’re with him. “A kiss to make up for your absence in the following weeks.”

“I can always come back,” you say. “No, I will come back. I promise. I just need to get home for a bit.”

“Okay.” Lyney nods, exhaling heavily. “Yeah. I know, I understand. Once you come back, come straight to me, alright?”

“Of course.” You lean in to kiss his cheek. You’ve never done it before because it always came off too intimate. And judging by the blush that explodes on his face, he thinks the same.

It all doesn’t matter. The line has been crossed days ago; you’ve just been turning away from seeing it.

He kisses you again. Then again. “Have a safe trip,” he says in between kisses. “I almost wish you commissioned me to escort you, regardless of the price.”

“What, you want 500,00?” The aquabus has arrived; Lyney grips you a little tighter, childishly willing himself not to see it.

“500,000 kisses, and more.” Lyney rests his forehead against yours, his captivating eyes keeping you still, the way it always does. “But you can give me that when you come back.”

( Before they were taken away from the stage for an investigation, Lynette comes up to her brother and asks, “What happened back there, Lyney? I thought you were about to twist your own fingers.”

He is unsure how to tell his sister that he saw your awed expression and nearly lost his wits.

“It was nothing,” Lyney admits, his face growing hot at recalling his slip-up. 

It wasn’t out of embarrassment, no—not when the memory of your wide-eyed beaming expression and how his mind blanked along with the skip of his heart plagued his mind.

“It was nothing,” he repeats numbly. It’s not. It was the start of something. )

a/n ok just a quick rant this fic BROKE ME. it was like every other day i hated then loved writing this fic. im not used to writing fics this long so pacing is not my forte </3 but i just feel proud of myself for finishing this so HOPE U LIKED IT. if ure still reading until here ily ❤️

more a/n two lyney fics and two kissing scenes. i can’t even lie to myself. everyone can tell.

more more a/n it was halfway through writing this fic that i rewatched the magic show and only noticed lyneys hands were shaking and i GOT SO SAD OMF 😭😭😭😭

Hugging Tighnari's Tail in the Cold

Pairing: tighnari x reader

Fluff!

I got the idea based on his voice line "I dont see weather like this very often! Oh, are you cold? If you want, you can tuck your hands into my tail."

_________________________________________________

The weather was oddly chilly today. You were not dressed for such occasion. You brung your hands to your mouth blowing warm air onto them. "Are you cold?" Tighnari glanced over at you. "You can use my tail to keep you warm, I wouldn't want you to get sick." You took him up on his offer and buried your hands into his tail. He was so warm. You walked a little closer to him and brung his tail to your chest, hugging it. He giggled a little in response. "Still cold?" He asked. You shook your head, "just a little." You squeezed his tail a bit keeping him close. You glanced up at his ears and were suddenly curious. He's probably cold too. You hesitated for a moment but then gently touched his cold ears. He shivered, "What are you doing?" He brung his hands up to his ears too. "You're cold too." You stared at him worried. You didn't wanna be the only one receiving warmth. "I guess you're right. We should head back quickly." He nodded and you both picked up the pace headed back home.

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part.

warnings: fem!reader, worldbuilding for snezhnaya & fatui & fontaine, reader not in the best mental state (esp in first scene).

notes: FINALLY!!! its unedited so bear with me, i dont rlly have time to go through and edit + i've been sick as hell for two weeks straight now. but i hope u guys enjoy!!!

ALEA IACTA EST

You were trapped. 

You didn’t know what sort of witchcraft Pantalone used but you couldn’t leave his wing. You thought you might be going crazy, it took two days of making excuses for you to realize that something was severely wrong, and another three for the anxieties to start embedding in your head. You had your first panic attack in years on the sixth day, and now on the seventh, you were sitting in the small library alone—there was a book in your lap, but the words were swimming off the pages and your head was spinning. 

How was this what he wanted? 

You couldn’t understand how either of you were benefiting from this. He wasn’t getting whatever knowledge he wanted from you and you weren’t getting what you needed to know. You were just stuck here, alone and lost. Not even Pantalone was around for the past few days because he went to finalize a business deal in a Mondstadt port town, he should be coming back soon but even when he did, you knew he wouldn’t spare you much attention. 

How was this what he wanted? You wondered if it was supposed to be some sick sort of torture, wear down your mental fortitude so you’d be more apt to answer the questions he wanted. If that was the case, he would be severely disappointed when you spat in his face the next time he dared to make an appearance. Another part of you wondered if this was just how it would be—he would keep you locked up and alone so he didn’t have to deal with you but he also didn’t have to fear you running off and putting yourself in danger.

The more you thought about it, the more you convinced yourself of both options, and the more you hated your own soulmate. 

Seven days. It had been seven days of being trapped in this place with only Pantalone to occasionally talk to and of the few times he spoke to you, the majority were just of him going on a vicious rant about how the Tianquan of Liyue kept sidelining his proposals and how the wineries of Mondstadt were icing him out of the wine market with Liyue’s merchants. He claimed it was all some big conspiracy against him because there was no reason they should be blatantly disregarding his letters, all of his proposals were mostly targeted for their profit, which the Regrator thought was blasphemous in itself—the Jester apparently cared more for building relationships with the administrative and economic sectors of each of the nations than Pantalone’s dignity as a businessman. You, evidently, did not give him the outraged reaction he wanted and he hadn’t come back to speak with you since, leaving for his meeting across the nation without a word. 

Now you were alone, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching you—and you knew it was not Dottore. 

You exhaled as you tried to focus again on the book laying on your lap but your head throbbed and you were forced to avert your gaze back to the ceiling, trying to quell the pain through sheer willpower alone. The Regrator’s library was filled to the brim, but with nothing that would be of use to you trying to figure out how they had trapped you in this sector. Books on economics, the aristocratic families of Snezhnaya, the history of the northern lands and all of the old traditions and folklore that noble children were brought up learning, undoubtedly so he could fine tune that mask of his, pretending that he had always been one of them in order to shear more money from them.

A part of you wanted to warn him that the more he tried to fake it, the more they would ridicule him, but you didn’t want to be totally isolated again as soon as he came back so you figured you’d just let him figure it out himself. 

Regardless, even with the massive amount of books that stacked his library’s walls, not a single one could help you in figuring out this spell. You’d never seen magics like this before—it was not elemental based, it was psyche-based. Every time you got down the hall, to the eighth window from your room to the right, your head started feeling light and dizzy, you felt sick and nauseous and were forced to turn back lest you put yourself in a very, very vulnerable position in a place where you could not afford any vulnerability. 

As nervous as it made you, at first, you found amusement in it. You were irritated and scared, yes, but more than that, you knew that Dottore could feel everything you did. So, you made it your mission to stay right at that eighth window for as long as you possibly could, just because you knew that you were racking your soulmate with that same nausea and dizziness and light-headedness that you were experiencing. 

Now, the amusement was gone and you were just scared. You were scared that you would be trapped here forever, never again to see your mother and your half-siblings and your grandfather. You were scared that you’d disappoint your father, that you wouldn’t be able to succeed in your mission and he would never be able to rest peacefully without justice having been exacted. And as much as you hated him, you were scared that you would never see him again either, that he would just leave you here to rot, live out the rest of your miserable existence confined to a single hall with books that you would rather burn than read. 

You hated that you felt so attached to him already—that even though the thought of him filled you with vile rage and agony, your body still ached for his touch, your eyes still longed for the sight of him walking through the dark doors of the library, and your bond still screamed for you to somehow end this war between the two of you so it could find peace. 

Even if peace negotiations were in your hands, you would still stubbornly throw them out the window, but they weren’t because he continued to completely deny you his presence. You were at his mercy, only when he decided, would a white flag be lifted. 

“Excuse me.”

You stiffened, an unwelcome chill ran down your spine as you looked over your shoulder to where an unfamiliar figure was standing in the doorframe of the library. With golden blonde curls and green eyes, no more than a decade older than you, you thought that the man might’ve been handsome were it not for that there was a dark gleam behind his eyes that reminded you a lot of your step-father, one that promised danger and deceit. 

He smiled and even though his teeth were not sharpened, somehow they looked more like knives than Theta’s did. “You’re the aristocrat from Fontaine that the Regrator took in, no?” 

“I am,” you said. Your voice was hoarse from days without speaking, you cleared your throat, closing the book and placing it down on the couch next to you just in case the man tried to take a seat there with you. “And you are?”

He wasn’t as unfamiliar as you originally believed. You recognized him from the event, standing with the rest of the Harbingers—immediately, you were on edge, trying to figure out what he wanted from you. He came closer to you and you bit the words that tempted to fly from your mouth as he picked up the book you had placed as a deterrent to take a seat on the couch right next to you, too close for comfort. You could feel his thigh brushing yours as he looked to the side to watch you, eyes tracing over your body once before settling on your face.

“Brighella,” he greeted, holding a hand out to you. “Tenth of the Fatui Harbingers, delighted to make your acquaintance.”

You placed your hand in his, albeit reluctantly, watching raptly as he lifted your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently before letting go. His lips were soft and pleasant against your fingers yet it still made your skin crawl. You drew your hand back into your lap immediately, waiting for him to explain what he wanted.

“I was just curious,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “The Regrator is a very proud man, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, he never responds well to help. It came as a shock to hear that he was taking in an aristocrat from Fontaine as an advisor.”

He was lying—about what, you weren’t sure, but you knew somewhere in that statement of his that there was a lie, and though you had no way of confirming it, you suspected that it had to do with his initial claim: that he was simply curious. 

“He intends to expand the Northland Bank into Fontaine City,” was all you replied with, a thin smile painting your lips. “Even someone as proud and intelligent as him is not capable of such a feat alone, the Court of Fontaine is notoriously anti-Snezhnaya.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Brighella waved off your words and relaxed into the chair next to you, eyes disarmingly beseeching as he watched your reactions. “But we have our own operatives in Fontaine City, I was surprised that he didn’t just come to me for information, rather insulting, actually.”

He laid the information in front of you like meat to seduce a starving beast, all the while he lurked behind the bushes and waited for you to lunge at it so he could drive his blade across your neck as an execution. You didn’t respond, maybe for a second longer than you should have, but the sudden information had thrown you off guard. 

It was him. 

The words rang resounding through your head, Brighella was the one running the Fatui’s operations in Fontaine. Why had he told you? What did he expect to gain from this? There was something you were missing still, but after a week of forced isolation and no progress in your mission, this was like a feast handed to you on a silver platter.

“Perhaps your operatives are just not capable enough for such a scheme,” you said dryly, but your voice sounded vacant even to your own ears, it was clear that you were focused on something else. 

Brighella raised a hand to his chest as if he’d been wounded by your words. “Oh, but the Knave and I had trained so many of them personally,” he sighed. “What use am I to this organization if my colleagues won’t even rely on me or my agents to deliver when necessary?” 

It was a rhetorical question but you didn’t know what to make of it, or of him. Faux-mourning tainted his tone as he spoke, a regretful expression on his face as he turned his eyes up to the ceiling above. 

What was he trying to gain from this? You asked yourself again, more desperately this time. His lips, still tilted up as they’d been this whole conversation, had a bit more of triumph in them than they’d had before and you knew that somewhere you had slipped up, revealing something you shouldn’t have. But you rewound the conversation in your head over and over and over again and you couldn’t quite place where you had. You’d been careful with your words, nothing to set off alarm bells—your cover with the Regrator’s expansion in Fontaine was true, but you were just not being quite as helpful as he would like you to be, and Pantalone was very clear in his opinions on their Fontaine plants and their inadequacy. 

It had to have been your tone, the emptiness in your response to his reveal about his subordinates in Fontaine. It gave away your interest, and you could play it off as if it was just a general interest in how they’d infiltrated Fontaine, but if your stepfather truly was his agent, then he would know very well who you were and your ulterior reasons for being here—or he would at least now have confirmation. 

Pantalone had told you that Pulcinella, Brighella and Tartaglia would be the three Harbingers who would be the least of your worries, but you thought that the Friar was much more dangerous than he made himself out to be. 

How were you supposed to proceed? You tested words on the tip of your tongue but you could not figure out what to say—if you were suddenly interested in him, he would know it was only because of the information he revealed, but if you were cold and distant, you risked him not returning and you needed more information one way or another, even if it meant consorting with a man that made your hair stand on end. 

You didn’t get the chance to speak up again though, as your lips parted to speak, Brighella rose to his feet.

“I should get going. I’d prefer not to draw the ire of my fellow Harbingers, but it was a pleasure talking to you,” he murmured, a small smile and eyes turned upward as he nodded his head down in acknowledgement. “I’ll stop by again soon, it’s cruel of the Regrator and the Doctor to leave you alone the way they have.”

Two days later, the Friar returned. 

You’d spent the two days alone reeling and trying to understand where you had gone wrong and how you could compensate for it. You needed a plan of action, and a fast and efficient one at that. Freezing him out would be stupid, as much as it might be the most comforting course of action, but you also couldn’t just suddenly be trying to get closer to him because he would realize something was up.

You weren’t stupid. If he had truly just been curious about you, he would have come much sooner than he did. He waited because he wanted you to be worn down and utterly alone, so you would latch onto him like he was a buoy in the raging sea. Unfortunately for him, you were far too used to being alone. As agonizing as a week of isolation was, it was not near enough to make you that desperate. 

But he had information you wanted desperately, so you wanted to let him think whatever plan he was concocting was working in hopes that he might reveal more to gain your trust and dependency. You thought it would be a slow and arduous process, not to mention agonizing, but considering neither Pantalone nor Dottore have come to see you in over a week now, you figured you had nothing better to do anyway and this was your best shot at getting what you wanted… and maybe, if you ended up being successful with this, you could free yourself too but you thought that was far less likely.

At the very least, it might force Dottore into action if he thought you were starting to get close with Brighella.

But that was a long shot anyway. Brighella was a type of beast that you were unfamiliar with. He kind of reminded you of some of the crueler members of Fontaine’s aristocracy, the ones who found entertainment in setting up trials that they knew would lead to one terrible sentencing, all the while smiling to the defendants face, but even then they were nothing like this. He was a wolf that portrayed himself as a sheep in the truest sense of the proverb and you just didn’t know what he was capable of, or what he wanted, and that was what scared you most—you didn’t like it when you didn’t know what someone’s intentions were with you.

Your stepfather was easy, all he wanted was more power in Fontaine, evidently to report back to the Fatui for a promotion—you and your father were obstacles in obtaining said power, so he removed your father from being able to influence your mother and you were certain that if you had stayed in Fontaine City, he would have gone after you too.

Dottore was somewhat frank in his intentions with you: he wanted you out of his life so that you couldn’t affect his research but he was keeping you here because he wanted information from you… and a part of you was certain that he was keeping you here also because it prevented you from going out and getting yourself hurt or killed, and that scared you because you didn’t know just how long he planned to keep you isolated here. Or if he ever even planned to release you.

Pantalone had been upfront with you: he wanted a way to get the Northland Bank into Fontaine, you had offered your help in exchange for assistance with removing your stepfather from the courts but you had no intention of giving him any help until he had pulled through on his end. And even then, you had never specified how much help you would give him—you were not going to give the Fatui more of a foothold than they already had. 

Not after what they did to your father. 

Brighella was an unknown. He had come to you with a goal two days ago, and whatever that goal had been, he had achieved it. You still couldn’t figure what it was, even after days of recounting your conversation to figure it out, and that unnerved you more than anything. 

“You actually came back,” you said quietly, eyes flickering up to where Brighella had entered the library. He brought something with him, you couldn’t quite tell what it was but it smelled good, and familiar. 

“I promised, didn’t I?” Brighella replied, amused. He came around the couch to sit next to you. He sat closer this time. 

“It’s been two days, I was beginning to doubt.”

“Yes, well, the Regrator grew a bit suspicious when he saw me coming from the direction of his wing, the last thing I needed was to draw his ire. The Doctor already has it out for me even when I do no wrong.” Brighella sounded aggrieved as he spoke but your ears rang loudly at his words. 

“The Regrator already returned from his meeting in Mondstadt?” you asked, keeping your voice free of all tightness but when Brighella only shot you a confused look, one that did not appear to be feigned in the slightest. “Ah, I see.”

There was no meeting in Mondstadt. 

You wondered if it was by Dottore’s will or his own that he had lied and left you here in isolation. You thought it would be easier to believe it was Dottore’s, you had already made him out to be your villain, but you knew better than to assume that. Dottore was obstinate and prideful, yes, but Pantalone was the one who had clawed his way from the bottom tiers of society to the very top, his manipulation would know no bounds—he knew that you were already struggling with Dottore’s refusal to acknowledge you, and he probably thought that his disappearance, after entertaining you for a few days, would put you over the edge.

Jaw tight and trying your best to keep your emotions off of your face lest Brighella take advantage of your distressed realization, you forced yourself to turn your attention back to the Harbinger.

“Here,” Brighella said, passing the covered dish over to you. “Tartiflette, I figure you must be missing home. I hear tartiflette has been rather popular amongst the aristocrats lately.”

I hear. 

Bitterly, you wanted to ask just how he managed to hear that but you refrained. Instead, you glanced down at the dish—it was covered with foil but it smelled good, just like the one you and Sylvie used to get from Cafe Lucerne before your father passed away.

You wondered if it was poisoned, or laced with something, you didn’t exactly put it past Brighella. Even if there were ulterior motives behind him bringing you the dish, it was thoughtful nonetheless. So instead of voicing your suspicions or refusing the dish, you took into your lap, letting the warmth of the bottom of the plate and the familiar scent sink in.

“Thank you.”

Brighella looked pleased, green eyes glittering. “You’re welcome.”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, and you listened to the way the wind rattled the glass nearby. It was getting late already, you could see the moon rising over the trees in the distance. Nine days now with no word from Dottore at all. You were sure he was probably keeping the segments away from you too because you hadn’t seen a single one since that night.

After a few moments of silence, Brighella asked, “He told you that he had a meeting in Mondstadt?” 

You didn’t respond, you supposed that was answer enough because he let out a heavy sigh. 

“The Regrator does love his underhanded tactics.”

“And you don’t?” you couldn’t help but press, eyeing him curiously.

“I do.” At least he didn’t bother hiding it, shooting you a deceptively friendly smile as he relaxed back into the chair. “But it’s different, my underhanded tactics are for the greater good.”

“Many men have claimed to do terrible things for the greater good,” you murmured. “What makes you different?” 

Your subordinate killed my father, you were saying, tell me how that was for the greater good?

Brighella watched you for a second and then said, “Perhaps you’re right, but I’d like to believe otherwise.”

You hummed, looking away but you could feel that he was still looking at you and it was making you feel antsy, like a cornered animal. 

Finally, Brighella spoke up again. This time, his voice was far more quiet, as if he didn’t want someone listening in. “I wish we had more time to talk instead of rushing straight to business, but I fear that I’m testing many boundaries and patiences by coming to visit you and I’d like for you to understand why I am.” Curiously, your eyes focused onto him, he was still staring at you, watching your reactions. “The Regrator cannot give you what you want. He has no power in Fontaine, nor jurisdiction over any of the subordinates there, that is why he’s coming to you and trying to get your assistance. He does not want to use me as an intermediary for his business.”

There it was. You raised your chin a bit in surprise as Brighella’s words reached your ears and his motives became clearer. You didn’t doubt that there were other ulterior ones that he was keeping to himself, but this one was enough for you to get some clarity on the situation: Brighella and Pantalone were playing a game of chess for Fontaine, and both thought that you would be the piece that would win them the game. 

You realized, slowly, that you might just have a bit more power than you realized, and that Pantalone had been trying to keep you ignorant to it. 

It also gave you more insight on the Fatui itself, and more specifically, the relationship between the Harbingers. You had a feeling that the camaraderie shown during the event was just a show but you hadn’t thought the rivalry ran so deep as to having Harbingers competing for power through using outside sources. 

You wondered if Brighella realized just how much he had revealed to you. From the steady look in his eyes as he watched you, he very much did. You wondered then why, because it had to be something beyond just trying to get you to not help Pantalone—unless he was that desperate to keep Fontaine in his grasp. But you had a feeling that wasn’t the case.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you finally responded with, pointedly meeting his eyes. 

He was studying you carefully and finally, he nodded, rising to his feet. “It’s alright. I’ll come back soon and give you some time to think. Just remember, what the Regrator promised you is not something he is able to give at this point and time. He’s making you think that you are the one dependent on him but without your cooperation, he doesn’t have a foothold in Fontaine, which is what he desperately wants.”

You didn’t respond as he walked out of the room, but before he stepped through the door, he turned to look at you one last time, “Enjoy the tartiflette—perhaps next time, I’ll bring you an even grander gift.”

You were not in the library the next time Brighella came to visit. You were lounging in your room preparing for bed when the knock came at your door. For a second, just a second, you might’ve hoped that it was Dottore, finally ending the war between the two of you—but as you called for the person to come in, and a head of curly blonde hair and green eyes peeked from around the door, the bit of hope that had sprung up withered in an instant. 

“May I?” Brighella asked, motioning for him to come into your room.

How improper, you thought to yourself, trying to force away the heat that rose to your cheeks. But you needed to keep talking to him, milk him for all that he knew before you made a decision about what you were going to do. 

“Of course,” you responded with, watching him carefully as he slipped into the room and made his way over to where you were sitting. He sat on the window nook next to where you were sitting at your vanity, leaning back on his hands as he studied you carefully. 

“Have you thought about my proposal yet?” Brighella murmured, his eyes were intense as he watched you, you could barely even hold his gaze and you had never had trouble holding anyone’s gaze before. 

You had. Of course, you had. With the newfound knowledge of Pantalone’s inability to actually get you what you want without you giving him what he wanted first, everything changed. Your whole position in this situation changed. You were still a prisoner, naturally, but you were a prisoner with power right now. You had two different Harbingers vying to acquire your support. It could change in a second, you knew that, you couldn’t get ahead of yourself, but you couldn’t just disregard the opportunity this presented.

You also could not take everything Brighella said at face value. 

You remembered the look in his eyes when you first met him, the skeevy one that reminded you of your stepfather and all of the other men and women in your life who had done terrible, terrible things without remorse. 

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied instead, and Brighella sighed, disappointed but not surprised.

“Ah, I see,” Brighella said. “I haven’t quite gained your trust yet—well, perhaps this will change that.”

From his pocket, Brighella pulled out a piece of parchment, sealed with a wax Fatui insignia. He held it out to you and you reached out cautiously, taking it into your hands and turning it over to view the blank back of the parchment. You had no way of knowing the contents of it without breaking the wax seal, you looked up at Brighella, questioningly. He looked pleased, a small smile teasing at his lips. 

“This is a letter I have addressed to a particular subordinate of mine stationed down in Fontaine,” Brighella explained, leaning his chin on his hand, elbow propped up on his knee as he watched you. You could only barely bite back the sharp intake of breath as you looked down at the parchment again. “Yes, yes, I know, you don’t know what I’m talking about. But hypothetically, if you did, I was willing to gift you one of two options.”

“What are these hypothetical options?” you asked, your knuckles just a bit too tight around the parchment to pass it off as normal.

“You can keep that letter, and we can work together as partners. I can work with the Knave to set up a mission with the Jester and the Tsaritsa to have you head back to Fontaine, where you can use the letter as evidence to put said subordinate on trial before the Hydro Archon and Chief Justice,” Brighella said, your throat felt tight and swollen, your lips on the verge of trembling. 

Everything you wanted, but there had to be a catch. You knew better. For all you knew, the contents of the letter was empty, he could let you go down to Fontaine only to make you look like a fool when you presented the letter as evidence. 

“The second option?” you asked, proud that your voice remained steady and void of the turbulent emotions rushing through you.

“I will send it south and summon him back to Snezhnaya. You can exact your own justice here.”

What was the catch?

There had to be a catch, but you couldn’t for the life of you figure it out. You knew it was something more than just preventing Pantalone from stepping into his territory but Brighella was impossible to read and far more unpredictable than you expected. You were baffled that he would go to this length to try to get you to trust him. 

“You can hold onto the letter until you’ve made your decision, I-”

“My, my,” a familiar, smooth voice drawled. “What is this?”

At once, your blood ran cold as you looked up to see a familiar figure standing in your doorframe, violet eyes cold and cruel as he stared at where you were sitting with Brighella. Brighella only smiled thinly, mocking, as he looked at Pantalone and said: “Regrator, I hope you don’t mind me spending time with your new advisor, she’s quite the lovely little thing. I’m rather fond of her.”

“Is that meant to mean much?” Pantalone asked dryly, the smile on his lips tightening at the corners and you braced yourself for whatever he was about to say. “You’re fond of everything with two legs that will open for you.”

Your face felt hot, fingers tightening around the parchment as his words registered. Two legs that will open? 

How dare he?

Who does he think he is?

The barrage of livid questions battered your head, begging to be let loose but you bit your tongue, sharpening it as you instead responded with: “How crude, I know you had an unfortunate upbringing but I thought you’d learned better by now than to speak every vile word that crosses through that repulsive mind of yours.”

Next to you, Brighella hid his smile behind his hand and you at least felt a little validated even as Pantalone’s eyes bore down into you, you could see the promise for bloodshed barely veiled beneath his calm expression. 

“I’ll take my leave.” Brighella rose to his feet and to your horror, he leaned in close to you, taking both of your hands in his and you wanted to pull away, ask him what the hell he was thinking, but the words died on your tongue as he took the parchment from your hand before Pantalone could catch sight of it, subtly letting it drop to the floor before using his foot to slip it beneath the bed. His lips flickered upward. “Think about what I said. I’ll come by again.”

“No, you will not,” Pantalone interjected coolly. “I believe I have mentioned before that you are not welcome in my wing of the palace, Friar.”

“Then I will send one of my subordinates to fetch her to bring her to mine.” Brighella waved off the comment. “It’s no bother.”

He directed a faux-smile toward Pantalone as he slipped past the other Harbinger and left the room, leaving you alone with him. Pantalone stared after Brighella for a moment before turning his attention on you. 

You raised your chin and asked sweetly, “How did your business deal down in Mondstadt fare?” knowing damn well that there was no business deal down in Mondstadt.

He very clearly understood what you were getting at, the sweet smile on his lips just as fake as your tone as he said, “Very well.”

“I’m sure.”

The mockery in his eyes slowly slipped away the longer he stared at you—he wanted to say something, that was for sure, but he either didn’t know how to say it or he couldn’t, and you had a distinct feeling that Pantalone spoke more than he breathed so finding a way to say it was not the problem, he felt that he couldn’t. 

“The Friar is not to be trusted,” he finally decided. 

“There is not a single soul within this palace that is to be trusted,” you countered icily. 

He smiled, but the smile did not meet his eyes. “Fair enough.” 

There was a quiet tone to his voice, you wondered if any of Brighella’s statements held any truth to them, if he was worried that you would side with the Tenth instead of him, and he would lose his shot at expanding the Northland Bank into Fontaine. 

Something wicked swam in his eyes as his gaze cast over where you were sitting once more, voice more scathing now. “I do wonder how the Doctor will feel about your newfound relationship with the Friar,” and you realized that the Regrator did not fret over anything. And if he was backed into a corner like a wounded animal, he would lash out ten times as deadly. 

He was threatening to tell Dottore if you did not speak to his liking, if you did not dismiss Brighella’s option. 

Your eyes widened, just a bit—you knew there was nothing wrong with what you’d been talking about with the Friar. Dottore knew that you were here for one thing, and one thing alone: obtaining the evidence to convict your stepfather of your father’s murder. But you had a feeling that Pantalone would be spiteful and describe what he had walked in on as not what really happened, he’d put it in the worst light possible and blow the slim chance you had for Dottore ever showing up…

Or, it would finally force him into action. 

It was a risky gamble—one that you weren’t sure if you should take. Dottore was prideful and stubborn and you didn’t know how far it extended. It could blow up in your face, or it could finally get you what you wanted: the upperhand. 

You had never been a gambling woman before, but ever since you got to Snezhnaya, you were being put into situations forcing you to change and adapt just so you could survive, so you could bring justice to your father.

You didn’t think you liked the person who you were becoming, but you didn’t think you had a choice.

You smiled at Pantalone, but the smile was as empty as you felt. 

“I don’t particularly care what the Doctor feels concerning my relationship with Brighella. Tell him whatever you please, do pass on my regards to the younger segments though.”

“I must say your soulmate truly is a little spitfire, she has proven it time and time again.”

Dottore sighed as he looked up from his vial, heavy eyes focusing on Pantalone as the man slunk into his labs as if he owned them. His smile was tight and his eyes were not in the typical upturn they usually turned up whenever he was amused—whatever you had said to him had severely pissed him off, it nearly made his own lips twitch upward, wondering what exactly you had said to get under his skin so badly. 

“And what did she say this time?” Dottore drawled, not even bothering to feign curiosity, placing the vial back down on the burner as he looked up at Pantalone, whose eye twitched at the question. 

“It’s about time you stop playing this game with her, Doctor.” Was all Pantalone said in response, observing a failed, burnt test subject disdainfully, poking at it with a long, gloved finger before drawing his gaze back up to Dottore. 

“And here I thought you were playing the same game,” Dottore dismissed, although he would beg to differ that it was not a game, but the last thing he wanted was to get into a battle of semantics with Pantalone. “Was that not why you’ve been loitering around my labs this past week?”

“Yes, I was,” Pantalone agreed, but there was an edge to his voice that made Dottore suspicious, “and it backfired. A certain snake rose from the grasses to take advantage.”

“Hm?” Dottore tilted his head to the side, red eyes narrowing as Pantalone’s words registered.

“Now is not the time for your stubbornness, Doctor,” the banker warned. “Continue to disregard her and she will turn to someone else… or I suppose, she already has. I caught her acting rather intimately with the Friar in her quarters just before I came here.”

Dottore’s lips flattened and his eyes went cold, Pantalone caught the physical reaction, eyebrows shooting upward, mockingly. But Pantalone could only see the physical reaction, he could not feel how Dottore’s blood somehow felt like it was burning and freezing at the same time, he could not see how his vision tunneled and he could not hear how his ears were ringing. 

Intimately?

There it was again—that prideful and possessive feeling rearing its ugly head. You were his, only by fate and by chance, but you were his nonetheless, even if he was loathe to admit it. He ignored the hypocrisy of his thoughts, you were his and yet he had ignored you for over a week? He was laying claim to you after all of his denial and anger?

He had been doing what was right, separating himself from you to prevent the bond from getting any stronger. He wasn’t playing the same game that Pantalone was, isolating you to try to make you more malleable to his requests when he finally came back around; Dottore did not play games, not with anyone, much less with you. 

But was he okay with you turning your attention elsewhere with his absence?

No. No, he was not. The thought filled him with an emotion he hadn’t felt in over four hundred years, not since his years as a Fatui recruit before he’d learned to separate himself from his emotions.

“She asked for me to pass on my regards to the younger segments.” Pantalone smiled as he spoke, knowing that the words were bound to set Dottore off even more because how dare you send your regards to the children as you let another man into your quarters. “I’ll be heading to my office now. I have some paperwork to finish filling out. Do think on what I said, I expected a branch of the Northland Bank in Fontaine to come out of this arrangement. If it does not, you will have to make up for it.”

“Your expectations are not my responsibility,” Dottore said, voice clipped and icy and far more strained than he meant for it to be. 

Pantalone only let out a huff of laughter as he spun on his heel, shooting Dottore one last long look that had Dottore’s body begging for violence as a response. Nearly twenty years of him being forced into a corner because of you, and it was only getting worse.

“It is in this situation,” he said as he made his way out of the lab as quickly as he had come, leaving Dottore there alone with raging thoughts and turbulent emotions. 

The Friar. 

Brighella. 

Lip curled up in a type of rage he hadn’t felt in a long, long time, he finished putting his equipment away and reached for his mask, intent on heading to your quarters himself to understand just what was going on between you and the Tenth. 

It was the first time you’d been in Snezhnaya where there hadn’t been a storm battering the night. Once the Regrator had left you to your business, and you were finally able to finish getting ready for bed, you curled up at the window nook to look outside, where the air was still bitter and cold but the harsh winds had subsided and the moon was reflecting prettily over the frozen lake north of the palace. 

It looked calm and peaceful—you thought there was a beauty to Snezhnaya that was unique. The Hydro Archon and her acolytes liked to frame the nation as one big frozen wasteland but the more time you spent there, the more you realized that it was just not true. It was frozen, yes, but there were towering trees and massive lakes, the snow sparkled beneath the sun and moon in a way you’d never seen before.

You pressed the pad of your finger against the glass, a longing feeling sweeping over you as your eyes focused on the line of trees on the opposite side of the frozen lake. You thought that this might be your chance—the storms had subsided, you could make a break for it, but you knew deep down that the lack of storm was a deception you couldn’t afford to fall for. Just because the winds had died and the snow and ice had stopped falling, it didn’t mean that it was safe enough to travel through. You would still freeze. Perhaps if you had a pyro vision, it would be different but your hydro vision would do nothing to protect you against the cold.

You sighed, laying your forehead against the window and letting the chilly feeling spread through you, a stark contrast from the warmth of the fireplace emanating throughout your room. 

You wondered if you made a mistake. You had antagonized Pantalone, and he had likely antagonized Dottore on your behalf. It had felt good in the moment—a sharp jab that relieved some of the heavy pressure that isolation had put on you, but now the pressure was back and worse than before. 

You were not wondering. You knew it had been a mistake. 

Even if Brighella had been telling the truth and you held more power than Pantalone was leading you to believe, you couldn’t afford to isolate yourself from the option he presented. Dottore clearly trusted him enough to trust him with you, which you thought was about the biggest show of trust anyone could get from the Second.

And neither of them trusted Brighella. 

Your pride and anger had gotten the best of you—they had gotten the best of you when you had thought you had been in control. You laid everything out logically, convinced yourself that the option Brighella posed was just as appealing as Pantalone, forgetting that at the very least, Dottore and Pantalone were known threats to you. That yes, Pantalone wanted to use you and Dottore wanted nothing to do with you, but neither of them would risk your safety. Brighella was an unknown, just a charming and manipulative one that knew precisely when and how to strike.

You weren’t cut out for this. You let your eyes slide shut as you tried to force away the tears building in them. Frustration, anger, desperation, they were all becoming too much for you to handle. You didn’t know what to do. If Brighella was telling the truth, he really was the key to getting what you want, but you couldn’t trust him, you didn’t know what his motives were. Behind the pretty eyes and glittering smile was a snake with venomous fangs that could clamp down at any moment. 

You thought the courts of Fontaine had prepared you for this but the Snezhnayan court and the heart of the Fatui was a beast that you were not equipped to deal with. The courts of Fontaine were a beast, you would never think otherwise, but you’d been foolish enough to let yourself believe that they were similar enough to Snezhnaya’s that you’d be able to handle it. 

In Fontaine, your name had power and words were as sharp and lethal as daggers—as long as you put on a pretty mask and an entertaining performance, you would survive, but the aristocrats and observers of justice would eat alive anyone who could not put on a convincing and beguiling show.

In Snezhnaya, your name meant nothing and the only coat of protection you could place over yourself was Dottore’s position in the Fatui, and his forced bond to you. Your mask was shattering the longer you were stuck in the cold, and the entertaining performances you were so adept at putting on were becoming more pathetic than anything else. Danger lurked around every corner, not even just those who wanted to kill you as a means to weaken the Doctor, but also those who hated you for the country you come from. You had seen the way one of the Harbingers had looked at you during the event, and having even one Harbinger against you meant that you had hundreds of subordinates out for your throat to try to gain her approval. 

You were well beyond your depth. A vast ocean all around you and the currents were dragging you under, water filling your lungs as you tried to thrash your way back to the surface but there was an anchor chained to your ankle that you simply couldn’t fight against. 

You took in a deep, shuddered breath. You thought back to the old prophecy, the one that whispered that one day Fontaine and all of its citizens would be washed away by the rising waters, drowned by that which is supposed to protect them, finding their eternal rest in the sands until they became one with the sea. 

Sometimes you wondered if it was a literal or metaphorical fate, you had always taken it as literal and dismissed it as an old wives’ tale, but now you were questioning everything you held as true: you felt like you were drowning, your identity dissolving as the water closed in around you, and you felt helpless to it, just like how the ancient prophecy threatened.

Finally, you raised your head and looked back outside, eyes widening when you caught sight of a figure standing in the frame of your door through the reflection of the window, tall and imposing. You hadn’t even heard the door open. Even with the mask, you could feel the coldness behind his gaze. 

He only spoke one word:

“Come.”

reblogs appreciated!

₊˚⊹。these traces of love, they outline you | gojo satoru

wc: 12.9k

summary: the 5 times gojo’s sure you’ve changed his life + the 1 time he hopes to change yours. 

contains: f!reader, pronoun she, 18+ nsfw (not super explicit but the act is there), symptoms similar to synesthesia, reader’s cursed technique, sparring, drunk call, pet names (cutie, silly, pretty, baby, loml), nervous feelings, tummy ache, food descriptions, surprise appearance of one character, emotional tears!!, internal thoughts and insecurities.

a/n: primarily in gojo's pov! & best read if you’ve gone through the other parts in the series! (lots of callbacks and references + better context!), lots of songs as inspo (would gladly share if you’re curious!), will add descriptions for the food in the a/n at the bottom!, from conceptualisation to actual writing this piece is my baby!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love +4 (extra). take my time (i’ll spend it all on you) <- you are here

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

Gojo thinks he might pass out. 

There’s a feeling of unease sitting deep in his gut, nervous and gurgling. His hands have always been restless and fidgety but never this sweaty, and his head feels like it’s floating—even more than that first time he attempted a 24-hour stint on keeping up Infinity. 

It’s eerily quiet in his office as he waits for your meeting to end, the white colon on his digital clock taunting him as it flicks on and off—16:27. 3 more minutes until you finish. 

He paces around the room. 

Attempts at any distraction are thwarted when everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you. There’s a photo hanging by the door, the mix-and-match of couch cushions in varying hues—all souvenirs you’ve given him from places you’ve been to. The coffee table books hold your touch too, and as he runs his hand over his face. he’s hit with that signature scent, clean and subtle from the hand cream you use.

Waiting in his office today has been absolute torture, but what’s made it more excruciating is the fact that he knows you’re aware of absolutely nothing.

To you, this is just like every other Friday. 

You’d done your usual morning routine, kissed him on the nose with the promise to meet him in his office after work, as you always do. And it feels like a big joke when he thinks about it now, because while he’s been on edge this entire day about it, you really have no clue what’s coming. 

To him, this could change everything with you. 

He’s been feeling it for a while now, the ripple effect of loving and being loved by you—how he can recall every time a single drop of you has shifted something deep within him, marked and colored you. 

There’s not a lot that Gojo wants now that he feels like he truly has it all, but when he thinks about all the times he’s sure you’ve changed his life, he hopes that with this one thing, he can change yours. 

.

.

.

1 — UNDER YOUR TOUCH, WHEN IT GETS TOO MUCH

The weather today is good—sunlight peeking behind cloud pillows and the occasional gust of wind passing through the space you’ve put between you and Gojo. It’s neither too humid nor too dry and though Gojo does get the occasional sniffle from his pollen allergies around this time, he woke up earlier completely fine. 

So, the weather today is good, perfect even, for a brush-up on sparring practice. 

You’ve kept a sizable distance away from him since it started, and every attempt he’s made to draw nearer, you’ve only moved away farther—a push-and-pull, an old dynamic that shows itself in the ways you engage in battle.  

Gojo’s hands stay tucked in his pockets, his stance one you know perfectly well as relaxed but still guarded. He’s gotten a lot bulkier than the days you used to spar often, the past few years having filled in all the areas of what used to be slim, lean muscle. He doesn’t move because he knows the style you fight with, how you stay on defense until your opponent charges, utilizing their own strength against them. 

It’s the only way you’ve managed to win against someone as deadly as Gojo, equal-parts lethal in speed and strength. 

So when a cluster of clouds pass by and the sun glares directly into your eyes, Gojo smirks, then bends his knees as he lunges for an attack.

Your senses are sharp and reflexes quick; in the split second that a white-and-black blur appears before you, you attempt a high kick, only for it to be blocked with his forearm. He uses his other hand to twist around your ankle, trying to flip you over, but you see right through his motives. You huff, furrowing your brows as you narrowly escape, slipping your ankle out before he can fully grab a hold of it.

Most of this practice has felt like a stalemate, with the both of you waiting on the other for the most part of the hour. Gojo can see how it’s wearing you down, this entire thing being dragged out, and if he’s being honest—this is exactly what he wants.

Sparring out here with you today, while still meant for actual training, is also just an excuse to do this for old time’s sake—the way you huff and frown, jaw clenched as your fists ball up tightly like you’re doing right now.

He kind of misses seeing you like this, impatient and frustrated, so unlike the tenderness you always regard him with. 

A smile threatens to form on his lips, and he bites it back down. 

You only ever get like this sparring against him. 

The tension breaks when you decidedly throw a punch; it’s a desperate attempt to get the fight moving but he ducks, arm securing itself around your waist as he locks your hip with his. Before you can even comprehend, your body is lifted across his back and lowered down to the grass below—the only thing in sight being two blue skies, beaming at you. 

Somewhere during the commotion, he managed to remove his blindfold, hair let loose, fluffy and white almost like the clouds above you. Gojo isn’t taking this seriously at all; he’s way too soft, having cushioned your fall by carrying most of your weight instead of throwing you down like anyone seriously sparring is supposed to. 

He doesn’t care though. All he really wanted this afternoon was to reminisce with you. 

You’re kept underneath him, one of his arms remains wrapped around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head—and it’s there, that frown on your face, that pout he’s witnessed for years evolve into what it is now. Beads of sweat collect at the crease between your brows, your temples tensing as you breathe out. 

Gojo at 17 would have teased you relentlessly for this, but he feels different now, warmth settling in his chest as he stares; he can’t help it, the words coming out of his mouth—

“You’re so—”

But he doesn’t even get to finish.

Everything around him blurs, green and blue blending in motion before he finds himself on his back, completely flipped over. He’s met with the sight of you, smug smile pulled wide with your hands resting on his chest. And his heart—

Can you feel it under your fingertips? How it’s beating a mile a minute? 

A shiver runs down his spine, the pinpricks of grass tickling the nape of his neck. The shock is tingling, his eyes fully open as he processes what just occurred. 

In the lapse of time he’d been a little too preoccupied staring at you, you managed to inch your leg to wrap around his, locking it at the last minute to flip him over—it lands you where you are now, on his lap, straddling his hips. 

“Sneaky.” he gazes fondly, grin teasing.

You catch your breath, “Do I win?” 

“Only because I let you get too close this time.”

Which is a lie, he knows, because having you near him like this, with some form of touching—you could never be close enough.

You roll your eyes, his fingers grabbing hold of your thighs. The grass pricks at your knees through the fabric of your leggings, and Gojo knows that if you stay like this any longer, it’s going to start to itch.

“Did I hurt you anywhere?” you ask, already assessing him for any point of injury. Your eyes go over his face before trailing down his arms, rarely exposed today in his black compression shirt.

“Yeah,” he pouts, pointing to his lips, all pink and puckered out, “kiss it better?” 

Asking for this is against his better judgment, he’s aware; with the way you’re situated on his lap, this could escalate into something else entirely. You shake your head, swatting at his chest. His grip on your thighs loosens as you get off him, but the curl of your lips is extremely telling. 

As you stand up to dust your knees, Gojo gazes at you fondly. The sun hides behind you from where you tower over him, but the halo effect around your head is just as blinding. 

“Lie down with me,” he pats the space beside him. You quirk your brow but follow anyway. 

He requests, not asks, because the weather today is good, and it’s making him a little bit sentimental, remembering earlier days with you. 

You lie down, positioning your head to align with his. And for a few moments, Gojo doesn’t speak, just looks at you once and smiles before turning to face the sky, hand placed behind his head as he sighs. 

You do the same for a while, this shared silence warm and just right. 

“So rude,” he jokingly tuts, “interrupting me while I was talking earlier…” 

“You shouldn’t have been so distracted then,” you tease back, sneaking a glance only to lock eyes with two skies. 

He wonders if you can tell—how he’s always looking at you in the stolen seconds before you notice him. 

“Well, you shouldn't have been so distracting then,” he holds your gaze. 

It’s incredibly cheesy but a part of you still feels like melting—he sounds so sincere; no lilt, no tease, no Gojo-typical flirting laced into it. 

You scrunch your nose, shifting on your side to face him, the arm used to support your head now resting against your cheek. He follows, taking one last look around him before turning to you. His other hand rests on your hip, fingers splayed out while his thumb draws hearts on fabric. 

You reach for him. 

The gesture is small, just your finger running across his cheek, but it nudges something in him—a memory of you and how you’ve always touched him like this: softly, kindly. 

“Remember when you used to do this?” he takes your hand, long and lithe fingers wrapping around yours as he guides them over his ear. 

Your eyes widen in recognition and he blinks, taking you in as he stares, “Wanna do it now?”

Concern reveals itself in the furrow of your brows, “Is it hurt—”

“No,” he chuckles, already knowing what you’re about to say.

The last time you did this for him, he didn’t even have to ask. One look and you knew—it’d been the night of his final conversation with Suguru. His skull-splitting migraine ensued after bickering with Shoko on what to do with the body. You were there; you heard everything, and when she gave up arguing and left, there was only one thing you could do. 

With his head on your lap by his office couch, you tuned out the sounds. 

He doesn’t prefer you using your cursed technique this way; it takes a considerable amount of your cursed energy to focus its effects solely on another body—and frankly, it’s a waste of time for you to spend all of that on him, at least in his opinion, personally. 

You’d struggled a lot with your technique back in high school, having to learn how to fully manipulate different sonic hues: white noise, brown noise, any and all of it in the entire spectrum. Being able to amplify, distort, reduce, and isolate them into their respective hues covers only the bare minimum when it comes to understanding your technique.

It’s tedious work, and when one of your senses holds so much more power over the others, the information that flows through it can be overwhelming, overloaded even. Sorting through all that noise—he gets it, gets you, and how it must hurt too. 

And yet you, at 17, still figuring out how to grasp it all, came knocking on his door when you noticed he hadn’t come for dinner. Quietly, you placed your hands over his ears and selflessly offered your discomfort for his relief. 

The first time you did this for him, you’d only heard of his migraines from Shoko. You witnessed it yourself when he opened his door and looked so unlike himself: blindfold secured tightly but haphazardly, strands of hair sticking out oddly; his room seemed to be blacked out completely. 

Gojo Satoru is no stranger to sensations beyond what any human should be subjected to, but when you laid your hands on him that day, cursed energy tickling his ears as it flowed through your fingertips—he’d never felt more normal, more human to be able to hear things without conjuring a visual of it. 

It’s almost like you silenced his mind—enough to hear himself, and you, and the buzz of the white noise you’d amplified to flow through him in his blacked out room. 

You’ve gotten a lot better at controlling it now, the task in itself barely causing you any ache or struggle at all. 

“Just like old times,” he nudges you. 

So you keep your hand where he’s left it, covering his ear with your palm as your fingers rest on his temples. Cursed energy flows from your touch, all sounds drowning out. 

He keeps his eyes on yours, watching as your expression shifts with every sonic hue you focus on—an upgrade to your abilities the more you’d gotten the hang of it. 

You concentrate hard for white noise, creating your own mix to emulate radio static, transitioning out to green noise the moment you highlight the sound of birds chirping. Then, you ease it to brown noise, intensifying the soft whistles of the wind to mimic it. 

It’s weird how sentimental he’s been feeling lately—without any trigger or anything, but the more he leans into your palm, the more it gets him thinking. 

Touch had begun as extremely foreign to him—a god revered and valued but never really truly loved, untouchable with infinity, and the pedestal he’s always stood on. 

It was never supposed to be important to him. 

Until you. 

From your kindness that first day, and the many more that followed: of fingers brushing and hand-holding to breaths mingling and bodies moulding, moving—you’ve always touched him in ways no one else has, in places no one’s been able to reach. 

And if it wasn’t important then, completely foreign, it’s important now, so much that he looks for it everywhere, all the time, even. The way you scratch the short bristles of his undercut, fingers dragging down to the nape of his neck; the way you tap his collarbone thrice, run your fingers across his lip, and intertwine your fingers with his at random. 

When Gojo thinks about your touch, he thinks about how gentle it is, with intent and purpose. How it’s always been careful for him but never of him, and that’s made the biggest difference. 

He blinks, and you follow two times, focusing on him. 

All he hears is a heartbeat now, a little too fast to be at rest, but still steady and grounding—

The way he feels when he’s with you. 

Whether it’s his or yours, from your cursed technique or just the blood rushing in his ears, he knows this is pink noise, the one you’d so excitedly shown him when you first mastered it. 

The pink noise that resounded all throughout his twenty-somethings, when he first realized that you meant more to him than what you were. 

.

.

.

2 — WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME

The bed feels cold tonight. 

Gojo’s been staring at the lights on his ceiling for the past 30 minutes, and though his pillow is cool and blanket soft, he’s wide awake—nowhere near falling asleep any time soon. 

He shifts to the side, the space beside him taunting, empty. 

He misses you. 

For the past week, you’ve been off to a much-needed girls trip with Shoko and Utahime. He’d even offered to pay for the entire accommodation—to which you and Utahime declined, while Shoko shrugged, crossing her arms as she snorted, “If he really wants. At least he’s being useful.” 

You’d compromised and agreed that he could pay for an evening out in some nightclub. 

Now, he regrets it. A little bit. Maybe. 

Gojo’s bed is big, a king-size that fits the height of him and all his long limbs, and while it’s comfortable and spacious–supposed good things–he feels anything but comfortable in how spacious and vacant it now feels. 

He turns to the other side, facing his sidetable instead.

The digital clock reads 01:17 and he sighs; you still have a few days left. 

The next time you bring up being away for this long, he’s going with you. Even if he has to spend the entire day on his own, he’ll do it—as long as he gets to end it next to you. 

If he’s really thinking about it, nothing’s stopping him from teleporting there right now. He could hop in quick, give you a hug, hopefully a kiss, and maybe even get lucky if you allow him to steal you for the night. He’ll teleport you right back in the morning and it’ll be like you never left, even. 

He could do it. You can never resist him when he gives you his googly eyes. 

If you’re already back from—

Bzz bzz. His phone vibrates. 

He reaches for it over his night stand, instantly sitting up once he reads that it’s from you—the nickname he just recently changed your contact to. 

(It was always just your name, simple and straightforward, easy to find; when you return, he’s probably going to change it back because you prefer it that way—for safety purposes and everything.

But while he still can, he’s going to keep it like this: a petname with an obnoxious string of emojis that he associates with you).

1:20 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> satoourur are u awaeke??

The corner of his lips curl up, endeared at the image of you hunched over your phone, fingers slipping as you clumsily press the wrong letters. So cute. 

1:21 a.m.

< yes cutie? ( ˘ ³˘) 💕

1:21 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> casll?

He stares at it for a good minute or two, trying to decipher this rare, drunken code from you. But before he gets the chance to respond, your face appears on his screen, a photo of you he’d taken months ago, mid-chew special Daifuku.

You’re calling. 

He grins, biting his lower lip. His feet slip inside the house slippers by the side of his bed as he gets up, swiping his phone to answer before holding it against his ear. 

“Miss me already?” he teases, padding out of his bedroom.

“Satoruuu,” you drawl. Definitely drunk, if not tipsy.

Even like this though, Gojo aches when he hears you speak; there’s a twinge that pokes at his ribcage, making him wish he was right next to you.

The music around you sounds muffled, almost as if you’d stepped out just to make this call—another thought that makes him ache.

He walks down the hall towards his kitchen and stops, realizing: if you stepped out of the club, does this mean you’re alone? He trusts you can take care of yourself, but if you’re this inebriated…

“Are you with Shoko and Utahime?” he asks casually, attempting to mask his worry. His hand digs deeper into his pocket, shifting his weight to his other foot. 

“‘Nside.” you slur. 

You don’t actually sound that drunk, more sleepy if anything, really, but his heart still picks up pace. Maybe he should just go to you already. 

“You should go to them,” he urges, continuing his walk to the kitchen. 

“M’be later,” you sigh, and he hears a bit of rustling on your end—a soft curse and a small thud, “w’na talk t’you.” 

Another ache. 

He can picture it: you, in some sidestreet, phone clutched to your ear as you tuck your hair back before sighing, legs buckling as you clumsily drop down to sit. 

“Oh?” he lilts, eyebrow lifting. A smirk forms on his lips, head tilting as he wedges his phone between his neck and shoulder. He reaches for his refrigerator, “Got something to tell me, pretty?”

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting you to say, maybe a recount of your day, or something funny that he’s bound to laugh at, whatever it is. 

“Just miss you.” 

He wasn’t expecting you to say this—

—in an exhale, with a slight tremble, like it’s been waiting to be let out. Vulnerable. 

There’s another ache, and he nearly drops the water bottle.

He should really just go to you.

His phone nearly slips from his neck, the thump of his heartbeat on rampage as he readjusts it.

He swallows, “I miss you too.” 

And it’s odd, how it sounds when he says it, a bit shaky too. A stillness settles in the room and it echoes off every kitchen equipment and countertop. He can’t even get himself to tease you for this one. 

“I can go there now, if you want.” he offers, almost a whisper, before attempting a chuckle. It comes out flat, tinted a little sad, “Blink twice and I’ll be there when you open your eyes.”

You giggle on the other end, and it fills him in this moment. 

When he looks around his apartment now, steel finish and walls accented black, the backsplash of his kitchen a grayish hue of iron—it reminds him of luxury fit for a bachelor, sleek in its utility. 

He’s lived here since his mid-twenties, and he likes how it’s designed, the colors and feel of it right up his alley. The furniture remains simple, modern and minimalist, filling the spaces of his open floor plan down to the two bedrooms and office space. 

But right now, it feels so empty. 

“Silly,” you chuckle, he can hear your grin forming, affection dripping, “my silly baby.”

Now his heart really aches. 

The subtle static makes you sound unreal, strung together by radio waves; it’s rare enough for you to call him ‘baby’, and for you to say it when he can’t even see or hold you while you do it—it’s cruel; a test of his restraint. 

He rests his back against the kitchen counter, arm coming across his chest to rest under his elbow, supporting the one holding his phone–you–by his ear. His teasing is softer tonight, tinged by yearning, so he hums, “Your silly baby, huh? Any chance it could be your silly ‘Toru instead?” 

The way he says ‘‘Toru’ is a pitch lower, slower, and exaggeratingly more seductive in his banter; it’s what you call him in bed, or by accident, and in the moments you find yourself needing him in ways he can only satisfy by being your lover. 

If you say it, he’s definitely going to teleport himself over. 

You giggle again. 

“S’that your fav’rite one?” you mumble, words blending together. He can imagine your cheek smushed against your knee, arms curled around your legs as you sit on concrete, “‘‘Toru?’” 

When he thinks about it, you aren’t too big on his nicknames—at least, not as much as he is with you. You only call him three things: baby (which truthfully, he had to convince you to), ‘Toru (first whispered in the moment, heat fueling it), and Satoru (since you were 16, weighted and grounding throughout all the years you’ve known him). 

Is ‘‘Toru’ his favorite? 

For obvious reasons, maybe.

But—

“I like everything you call me,” he smirks, shifting his weight. 

“Sweet-talker.” 

He closes his eyes, head tilting back as he leans further—and he swears, he can see you, the image of you rolling your eyes and scrunching your nose seared into his eyelids. 

God damn, he really misses you.

“You love it,” he murmurs.

A beat. He hears the faint honk of a car before you drown it out, sighing. 

“I do,” you whisper, admittance ringing in his ears, “I love you, Satoru.” 

He hears this all the time, but tonight it just aches; the way you say things so sincerely, so honestly even in an inebriated state—how you call him Satoru and it’s still weighted, still grounding, like who he is resides right there, in the softness of your lips. 

Gojo’s always been relevant but when you call him Satoru, he feels more than just the name.

If you’re asking about his favorite, he thinks this might be it—in every handwritten note you leave, his name scrawled in your hybrid of semi-print-semi-cursive letters; in every call you pick up, opening always with a ‘Satoru?’, end pitched higher, sweet and curious. 

“C’n I tell you somethin’?” you ask (even when you don’t need to, even when he’s already listening). 

“Let me guess, Utahime has a travel ick and Shoko—”

“Satoru.” you scold, rolling your eyes, but there’s no bite. The next bit you say under your breath, a little fragile, “‘M serious.”

The nervousness sits in his stomach; this conversation feels significant.

He takes a seat on his barstool. 

“Listening.” 

For a while, it’s only your breathing; knowing you, you’re probably thinking, crafting what to say carefully. 

You sigh again, and—

“I worry sometimes,” you admit.

He furrows his brows, “About?”

“That maybe bein’ with me’s a lil’ boring?”

And this… this aches in a different way. 

How can you even think that? 

You chuckle anxiously; he can bet you’re biting your lips, a habit you’ve picked up from him. 

He rests an elbow on his kitchen island, leaning onto it as he tilts his phone closer to his ear. 

“Apologize right now,” he commands, sternness making him feel a little guilty, “that’s the person I love you’re slandering.” 

But you only laugh, real and more relaxed, nervousness dissipating. 

“My bad, my bad,” you play along before mumbling, “‘m just sayin’, there’re lotsa others who are more everythin’ y’know?” 

He wonders what’s got you thinking like this, if it’s triggered by seeing people at the club, perhaps younger and far livelier—how you spent those years of your life exorcizing curses and making a home for two kids. 

“So what? They’re still not you.”

And he means it, genuinely.

Your breath hitches and he grins, swinging around on the bar stool. 

Those years of youth were still fun, he thinks, and it’s precisely because of you—how you’d made the apartment the four of you stayed in as fun and homely as a teen barely pushing twenty could.

You had your fair share of mishaps and adventures—rushed breakfasts and Megumi’s ‘my dog ate my homework’s. Tsumiki had to miss a day of school once because you accidentally booked her a birthday gift trip to Disneyland on a weekday. 

(And he got scolded a lot, ‘Satoru’ exhaled with a look. But it would only last a few moments; you can never stay mad at him, no matter how hard you try). 

There was no way you and Gojo had the maturity and responsibility of actual parents (maybe more like inexperienced guardians, really), but you tried your hardest to give Megumi and Tsumiki a home. 

Home, what he’s beginning to realize reminds him of you.

He looks around him now, at the details of his interior, and begins to think of yours—your apartment, a little more wooden and lived-in; there’s a lot more wear but also a lot more love, never empty like his feels right now. 

“If being with you was so boring, I wouldn’t be itching to go to you right now.” he confesses, fiddling with the string of his sweatpants. 

You laugh again before it falls into comfortable silence. 

Muffled conversations and the occasional beep sound in your background. There’s a couple giggling around you and he thinks that could be the two of you—if only he were with you. 

“Satoru,” you call him softly. 

He hums, letting it sink in—the way you say his name, distinct in how you stress his consonants despite the softness around his vowels.

When you say ‘Satoru’, it always feels targeted, speaking straight to who he is. 

“‘M so happy it’s you,” you whisper shyly, but it’s bright—unmistakably smiling, the visual of your eyes crinkling. 

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, drunken affection and vulnerable confessions, but there’s that ache again, and all he wants to do is go to you, hold you. Be with you. 

For a while, Gojo’s been resigned to the fact that there are some things he can’t give you: how you’ll never know true peace because he’ll always be linked to jujutsu society; how choosing him means choosing the tumultuous, the unpredictable. 

And while you’ve already told him that you prefer this life with him better, for you to say you’re happy, that it’s him—

He’s thankful it’s you, too. 

Tears collect at his lash line, pools of gratitude, “I love you.”

“Hmm? you’re coverin’ the mic w’your double-chin,” you joke, just to hear him say it again, he knows. 

(There’s no way he has a double-chin from how you complain about his jawline being too sharp all the time). 

“I love you.” he repeats, louder, steadier, pressing it into his phone’s microphone. 

He’ll repeat it again as many times as you want him to. 

You giggle and he echoes it—like that couple from earlier, your own version. 

The clock reads 02:47, and he normally doesn’t like being up this late, barely getting enough sleep as is. But if you’re the reason why, he doesn’t mind staying awake.  

.

.

.

3 — TUCKED IN BED, WHEN I LIE CORRECTED

“Satoru, you can’t keep eating sweets on an empty stomach.”

He turns beside you, the dull rumbling of the Shinkansen hardly masking how loudly he asks, “Why not?” 

An old man seated across the aisle looks your way, grumpy by the folds between his brows—as if he’d been woken up by Gojo’s whining. You bow your head slightly in apology. 

It’s been an early day so far, with you and Gojo catching the first train out from Kyoto to Tokyo. Departing at 06:14 doesn’t exactly leave room for food stops, so all you have are the two water bottles handed out from yesterday’s meeting and a pack of (now) half-eaten Hi-Chew that Gojo picked up from the convenience store last night. 

“You’ll get a stomach ache.” you whisper, with emphasis. 

He fiddles with the stick of Hi-Chew, tossing it between his fingers before popping one piece out. 

The seats in the Shinkansen are spacious enough for Gojo to stretch his long, gangly legs, but despite all the free room in your row, he’s chosen to encroach on your space, sticking to you shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“Nonsense,” he tilts his face, sunglasses sliding a few centimeters down the bridge of his nose, “I do this all the time.” 

And his eye, clear and bright blue amidst the morning haze zipping past the windows of the train, winks at you. 

Heat warms your cheeks; it’s too early for this. 

The moment you look away, hiding your smile, he knows he’s got you. 

. 

Or not. 

Because you seem to have gotten him—

—tucked in bed, nursing this stomach ache that could have been avoided if he just listened. 

To be fair, he does do it all the time: a few candies, sometimes gummies first thing in the morning, last thing at night. So he’s right, it’s nonsense; he probably got this from something else. 

(Even when you’d both eaten the same meals—how you always order to share because you like tasting a little bit of everything). 

Which is why, you insist it’s from the sweets, his beloved Hi-Chew to be specific. And though he wants to, he can’t argue much when he’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach while writhing in bed. 

“I made you tea,” you stand by your bedside, holding out your mug—small cereals patterned all over it. 

He opens an eye, hair mussed up from all his squirming. The pain in his stomach is radiating, a knot that tightens in waves; this is different from the twist-y pop-y sparks of jealousy, and is nothing compared to the sting of multiple slashes. 

Still, it’s a pain he doesn’t understand: a mixture of feeling gassy and bloated, like he needs to run to the toilet only for it to turn out futile. What makes it worse is that when he catches a glimpse of you, a lock of hair perfectly out of place, the sensation in his stomach intensifies—like butterflies flapping (or maybe just another wave of radiating pain). 

“S’hot,” he grumbles, half of his face mushed into the pillow.

The mug in your hand is piping hot, steam lifting from it, and Gojo doesn’t like drinking hot things; he’s burnt his tongue enough times on hot chocolate that he swears any hot liquid is out to get him.

But you don’t know that about him—he’s never told you, he thinks. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“That’s kind of the point, baby.” you chuckle, tone doting with a hint of pity, “It has to be.” 

Your hand rests on his thigh, attempting to soothe him. He catches your eye and whines. 

“If I blow on it, will you drink?” you plead, “Please?”

At this point, he doesn’t know what hurts more: this stupid stomach ache or how nice you’re being. 

You could have said ‘I told you so’ the moment his stomach started gurgling when you both arrived in Tokyo—but you didn’t. Instead, you asked him what exactly he was feeling and had him change into his pajamas as you nursed him to bed. Then, you cooked him real food, a bowl of Okayu for his stomach to digest something plain and non-irritable. 

You haven’t stopped moving since you both got back from Kyoto, unpacking both your things while simultaneously darting in and out your bedroom, checking in.  

How you speak to him is so gentle, caring, doting—even when you have every right to hold it against him. 

He pushes himself up, leaning back on the headrest. You smile, lovely, and beautiful, and every bit healing that it eases the pain a little, somehow. Your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you blow on his tea, scooting closer.

A gurgling sound comes from his stomach again, but it’s manageable, and he bears it as he takes you in—how you’ve barely had the time to change out of your clothes since this morning. You’re tired, he’s sure, but you don’t mention it as you take care of him. 

The bed as you draw nearer, bringing the mug to his lips—he’s a grown man and he can definitely do this on his own, but you always take such good care of him. 

Who is he to say no?  

Sips of peppermint coat his tongue, warm as it eases down his throat. He wraps his fingers around yours, drinking a third of the mug before urging you to set it down. 

“I’ll heat up a hot compress,” you motion to get up, placing the mug by your bedside. 

He stops you, grip loose on your wrist. 

“Have you eaten?” 

You stare at him, a little surprised, but you nod.

“Just stay with me, then. Don’t need that thing.” 

Your brows furrow, pouting, “But it’ll help,” 

“Hug me instead,” his fingers play with yours, intertwining, “or I’ll hug you. Either.” 

You shoot him a look, disbelieving, but he musters up a wink, for you, despite the new wave of pain arising. 

“Okay,” you sigh, knowing you can’t exactly argue. As you get up, you land a kiss on top of his head, rubbing his knuckles as you get ready for bed. 

When you come back, dressed in your pajamas, he’s turned to his side, lifting the comforter to welcome you in. You lie face-to-face with him, his arm reaching out to rest on your lower back, pushing you closer. 

“You sure this is enough?” you whisper, breath tickling his chin. 

“Mm, yeah,” he hums, hugging you tighter as he grins, “you’re hot.” 

You hit his arm lightly, and he chuckles.

It turns quiet, then he shifts, resting his forehead against yours. White strands, as pale as your pillowcases tickle your eyes. 

He nuzzles your nose, hiking your leg up to rest on his hip while slotting his leg between your thighs—like a pretzel, twisted into each other tight. 

“You’re too good to me.” 

He’s said this before, and no matter how much you say it isn’t true—he’ll always think it, believe it. 

You frown, gripping his waist, “I don’t like seeing you in pain, you know.” 

And he thinks you’ve always been like this: hands outstretched farther than his, offering yourself to help carry whatever pain, struggle, or burden you can. You cry for the sadness others feel, share the hurt of anyone who needs it. You’re the pillar, the support for everyone around you—from Yuuji, Megumi, and Tsumiki all the way back to Utahime, Suguru, and Nanami. 

You’ve always been this way, ever since he met you. 

“Does it still hurt?” you mutter, concerned, fingers grazing his stomach. 

It does and it doesn’t—the pain is unfamiliar but he can take it, having gone through far worse. If he’s being really honest, a part of him just likes being babied by you. 

“Better,” he inches back a little, lips curling into mischief, “would definitely go away with some Hi-Chew.” 

You shoot him a look, then pout. 

“Satoru.” 

He figures there are still a few things you don’t know about him: how he really dislikes hot drinks, how discomfort turns him into a whiney, needy baby, and how he remains incredibly stubborn, maintaining what he stands for (but maybe you know this already). 

“Hey, you should be thanking my Hi-Chew’s. It helps with energy when we fu—” 

You swat at his chest in hopes of shutting him up.

He clears his throat, correcting himself instead, “—make love.” 

This is hardly the time or situation to be talking about the other things you do on your bed, given that he’s been out of commission, curled in on himself the entire day on it. But you sigh, resting your palm on his cheek. 

He turns to peck your wrist, hand coming up to cover yours.

“Just because you were fine doing it before, doesn’t mean you always will be.” you whisper, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone. 

And Gojo thinks he’s right most of the time, if not all the time, but—

“We’re not old, but we aren’t as young as we used to be, you know? Have to take better care of ourselves now…” you continue.

—when you talk to him like this, you humble him. Immensely. 

He’s always known that if he were to give in to anyone, it’d be to you. 

Things are different now, he knows; his considerations have changed too—like how to lay the foundations of a new, ideal jujutsu society, with all the political and diplomatic gymnastics he knows is necessary; what to do with all this downtime, with all this life and no more death looming overhead; there’s also you, where this relationship is headed, what he plans to do. 

“What will I tell everyone when the love of my life, Gojo Satoru, the strongest, gets knocked out by sweets?” 

Then you joke around like this so casually, kissing his nose and calling him the love of your life like it doesn’t bear commitment that spans your–his–entire lifetime—it shakes him a little. 

He holds his breath, eyes staring at yours. You seem completely unfazed—a slip of the tongue maybe, so he lets it go. 

“Okay, okay,” he pinches your nose as you scrunch it, “I’ll try, but no promises.” 

You kiss his wrist in return—the softness of your lips always turning him a little delirious when he feels it. He pulls you closer to his chest, palm pressed to the back of your head as his other arm wraps around you, squeezing you tighter. 

“But don’t complain if I only last one rou—” 

He gets kicked in the thigh. 

.

.

.

4 — WHEN IT'S YOUR WAY OR DOWN THE DRAIN

There’s the right way, then there’s the Gojo way. 

Sometimes there’s an overlap, but most times he’s just unorthodox. Gojo’s always had his own way of doing things, but now, he’s throwing all that down the drain in lieu of doing things your way (which in this case, he’s decided is the right way). 

Between the two of you, you’re definitely better at cooking. 

He isn’t inept at it per se; all these years, he’s managed to get by. It’s just that, he’s only ever made quick, simple things—barely having the time or need to make things on his own when you seem to have an extra plate on standby.

Long cooks like this, for real, big meals aren’t his forte at all. 

This is the fullest his kitchen has ever been, a trip to the grocery store producing bags overflowing with the ingredients he needs. He tightens his apron (yours, actually) by his waist, pale pink a stark contrast to his black shirt and gray lounge pants. It’s tiny on him, barely fitting, but it covers enough to (hopefully) save him from any mishaps. 

With all the ingredients lined up on his kitchen counter, he stares, hands on hips as he contemplates where to begin. 

You’ve mentioned before how his kitchen is every cook’s dream: complete equipment, all high-grade with steel surfaces for easy wipe downs and more than enough real estate to move around. It’s a shame he’s barely used it over the years, either too busy out on missions or lately, too often staying at yours.

The unease makes him fidgety.

There’s an air of confidence that normally surrounds Gojo in everything he does, but it wavers just a bit with this one. 

He has to get this right. 

It’s your anniversary—the third (officially), but the number doesn’t matter as much when the years have always blurred the lines of what you are to each other. 

The past two celebrations were cute and fun, adventurous in how you’d spent the first one on a trail date up north, and the second one fruit picking in a farm, just west of Tokyo—things you’d both done for the first time, together. Now, there’s added pressure because this is your thing; everything on the menu for tonight’s home cooked dinner is based on your recipes. 

You know all of this by heart. And though he’s aware he doesn’t have to impress you, he wants to. 

He glances at the clock: 15:05 in white, 4 hours until you arrive. The table hasn’t been set up yet and he’s barely dressed, an array of ingredients on the table waiting to be transformed into four of your recipes he plans to attempt. 

Gojo is no quitter, but it’d be stupid of him to underestimate how fast time flies. 

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contact list—then he shoots a text, pocketing the device as soon as he hits send.

.

In the amount of time between asking for help and said help standing outside his door, ringing the doorbell, Gojo’s managed to do most of the prepwork: slice all the vegetables, set the rice cooker, and mix together all the sauces and glazes so he can set them aside for later. 

“Just type it!” he shouts from the kitchen.

Four beeps sound from the door, a soft woosh following as it opens. Help enters in the form of spiky hair and a deadpan gaze, putting on house slippers by the genkan as he drags his feet to the kitchen counter. 

“Megumi!” 

The younger boy sighs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his joggers, long sleeves wrinkling higher. “Why did you call me?” 

“Oh!” Gojo claps his hands together, “I need your help.” 

Megumi looks him over, eyes zeroing in on the pink apron, then the bowls of sauces and chopped vegetables in front of him. The rice cooker is steaming beside the sink while empty pots and pans line the burners of the stove. 

“With cooking?” Megumi shifts his attention back to Gojo as the older male nods. He mumbles, “You made it sound like an emergency.”

(“Come here now.” in proper punctuation, lacking any of his usual emoticons—only ever being used in the most dire situations).

Gojo furrows his brows, “It is!” 

Megumi stares. 

“Anniversaries are emergencies.” Gojo stares back, holding the silence for a few seconds before he continues, demeanor turned serious, “Think of it as doing this for your Sensei, not me.” 

There’s a crack in Megumi’s resolve that Gojo knows only appears when it comes to you; a soft spot that exists because you’ve always been closer, warmer—an accumulation of all the times you were adamant on being present because the kids deserved someone there, especially when he couldn’t be. 

Megumi sighs, resigned, as he pushes up his sleeves, trudging over to the sink. He turns on the tap, soaping his hands until it suds, “You should have asked Itadori.”

“Yuuji wouldn’t know how it’s supposed to taste though.” 

“Sensei’s recipes?”

Gojo nods, fanning out pieces of paper from the recipe folder you keep in your kitchen drawer, “Your favorites.”

Megumi scrunches his nose, embarrassed as pink tints the tips of his ears. 

His relationship with Megumi has always been a bit weird, a not-quite-parent-maybe-kind-of-distant-guardian-and-good-but-annoying-mentor-slash-benefactor kind of weird. And he’s sure that the boy isn’t too fond of the idea that he knows small, seemingly trivial things about him like his favorite food, but if there’s anything they can settle on, it’s definitely love for you. 

“Do you have another one?” Megumi turns to Gojo, pointing to the hair band pushing back his hair. 

.

There’s a different kind of care in cooking that he’s now realizing, coming face-to-face with the pot of dashi he’s just started boiling—a patience that comes with waiting and an efficiency meant for multi-tasking.

During the 30 minutes of soaking the kombu, they split tasks: Gojo takes duty rolling the Temaki on his own, while Megumi seasons the Wagyu and prepares the Sunomono. It’s not long before Megumi is directed to setting up the table as Gojo focuses on the Miso Soup. 

There’s a reference photo, some picture he pulled online. The gray plates and silverware on his dining table match the iron-hued backsplash and steel surfaces of his kitchen, sleek but softened by the vase of red and white camellias from the florist you frequent. 

Megumi doesn’t say anything, frankly because he’s gotten used to walking in on Gojo searching up these things: a youtube video of trail dates and articles of ‘the top 10 best farms for fruit picking’. There was also that time he found Gojo’s browser open on a catalog of lingerie.

(Megumi’s been trying really hard to forget that). 

These aren’t things Gojo’s done before, much less thought of—romance and all. 

But he admits, it’s hard work, wiping off the sweat on his brow caused by the heat from the stove. 

“Why,” Megumi sighs, “Why are you cooking anyway?” He mumbles, adjusting the silverware on the table, “Couldn’t you just reserve some place?”

Most of the cook has been silent, with Gojo too focused and Megumi barely saying a word. So while adding the katsuobushi after the kombu boils, the older male answers. 

“I would have, but she said she wanted to stay home,” he turns away from the pot, leaving the katsuobushi to soak as he shrugs. 

Megumi snorts, straightening out the black tablecloth, “Don’t you have anywhere you want to go?” 

It’s a simple question. Innocent. 

But it hits him then, how what you say follows; how ‘anywhere he wants to go’ is wherever you are, how he’s choosing to cook this meal for you instead of just ordering in—-how he’s now considering you, in everything.

This isn’t his strong suit, far from it, really, but because he’s thinking of what you want—suddenly he’s domesticated, cooking for you in hopes of romancing you (even though he already has you).   

You come first now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind. 

He turns back to the stove, straining the soup through a fine-mesh sieve before adding miso paste, dissolving it into the dashi.

“I guess not.” 

The thought stays with him, even as he drops in the tofu, dried wakame seaweed, and green onion. Even as he waits for it to finish cooking, moving the pot atop a different burner while grabbing a spoon to dip in it. 

“Megumi, come taste,” he calls behind him. 

And when the boy sidles up next to him, he feels nervous, fingers trembling as he hands over the spoonful of Miso Soup. He stares at Megumi, eyes wide open, anticipating. 

The boy arches an eyebrow as he takes the spoon, blowing on it gently. He takes a small sip.

“I added less salt because—” Gojo speaks up, a bit panicked, fingers scratching at his nail beds. 

“She’ll like anything you make, even if it tastes bad.”

Gojo’s brows furrow, “Are you saying it’s bad?” 

“Or bland.” Megumi adds, smacking his lips. 

“So it’s bland?”

The horror on Gojo’s face is laughable, but Megumi continues, deadpan. 

“No, it’s okay.” 

Gojo sighs in relief, then pouts, “Don’t mess with me like that.” 

“I don’t.” Megumi sets the spoon down, walking back to the dining table to finish setting up. 

The 18:03 on his digital clock flickers, and the rest cook continues: he heats up the skillet to cook the Wagyu—Matsusaka Beef, grade A-5, heavily marbled, meant to be tender and sweet. Some oil is drizzled onto the pan before cloves of chopped garlic are thrown in, followed by the beef, cut into bite-sized pieces. He adds a bit of soy sauce and red wine, to draw out the sweetness (or so he’s read), then finishes it up by plating it. 

And, there really is a different kind of care in cooking, he’s now realizing; how, when he stares at what he’s cooked in the past hour, he’s thought of you through it all—your preferences, the way you make things. How big meals aren’t his forte, but for you, he tries anyway. 

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Megumi asks, adjusting the camellias in the vase one last time. He takes off his hair band and ruffles his hair, hands tucking inside his pockets immediately after. 

Gojo looks up from the spread of food on the kitchen counter, motioning for the boy to come closer, “Taste test everything with me.”

Lined up are a plate of Temaki, a wooden board of Wagyu, a plate of Sunomono, and a bowl of Miso Soup. For every bite he takes, Megumi follows. And honestly? He thinks everything tastes… okay. 

The Temaki bursts with the sweet umaminess of buttery salmon dotted with ikura, the yellow daikon pickles adding a tart balance that complements the salmon well by simultaneously being sweet and salty. The avocado adds extra creaminess, while the cucumber and corn provide a freshness that lifts everything else. For some added decoration, he uses radish sprouts to mimic leaves on the filler plants of bouquets—-the main reason he chose to make this: it looks like the bundles of flower arrangements you keep on your desk. What ties everything together though, is the crunchy, crispy texture of the nori, giving contrast to the creaminess it holds inside. 

There’s a reason why Wagyu is so expensive, and it’s being told in the way it melts into his mouth right now, sweet and tender. He paid a pretty penny for this, but it’s worth it because he can’t wait for your reaction. 

The Sunomono is meant to be a palate cleanser—with sesame seeds sprinkled on it, mild and sweet, while wakame seaweed and cucumbers serve as the base ingredients. The sauce is meant to be light, just a mixture of rice vinegar and soy sauce, seasoned to taste—and maybe his is a little lackluster compared to yours, but he swears you have some form of magic when it comes to cooking. 

After each bite, Gojo looks at Megumi for his reaction—but the boy gives nothing away, face blank and devoid of any emotion. None of them are as good as yours, definitely, but for his first shot at this, they aren’t too bad. He’d pat himself on the back for it. 

“They don’t go together.” Megumi regards the entire spread with his chopsticks. 

All his hard work? Shattered. 

Gojo is dumbfounded. 

It’s too late to change everything now. 

Should he just scrap everything and order takeout? 

“But they’re not bad.” Megumi continues, washing his chopsticks by the sink before heading for the bathroom to change out of the house clothes he’d borrowed because there were no more aprons. 

When he emerges, long sleeves and joggers, he asks one last time if that’s all he needs to do, taking Gojo’s nods as a sign to take his leave. The older male remains rooted behind his kitchen counter, frozen from the crisis he’s facing.  

. 

You arrive a little later (thankfully), giving Gojo enough time to figure out this whole debacle. He’s ultimately decided to feel around for how the night goes, then he’ll act accordingly—if you show any sign that you aren’t happy, he has the delivery app ready. 

He dresses in simple slacks and a white button down, fiddling with how he’s rolled it up; the thought of you finally seeing everything he’s prepared for tonight makes him nervous—the table set-up, the ambiance, the food.

(He’s even cleaned up his bedroom).

Then he senses it, faint traces of your cursed energy by the door, and he holds his breath. The beeps on his lock count down the seconds to your entrance; and when he sees you come in, surprised and so amazed at the entire thing, the tightness in his chest eases up immensely. 

All he told you was to wear something nice. 

And, by god you did. 

You walk up to him, pretty and smiling in the simple dress you’d opted for tonight—a midi slip-on with a cardigan thrown on top. Black has always looked good on you, uniform or not, ever since up to now. 

But in white, you’re radiant. Glowing. 

He reaches for you. 

The grin on his face is lovesick as he grabs a hold of your waist. You instantly tiptoe up to kiss him, hands on his shoulders as you land a soft peck that transfers a light sheen of lip gloss onto his lips. The view behind him shows the table set-up, a pop of white and red amidst all the food he’s prepared for tonight. 

Your eyes widen, gasping, “Did you make all of that?” 

He nods, pulling away from you as he grins cockingly, “Call me chef.” 

But he immediately bites his lips, restless as he shifts his weight. He hopes you don’t notice how nervous he is—if you weren’t able to tell from his heartbeat, pressed against his chest. 

“You didn’t have to,” you pout at him, eyes watery as you swipe your thumb across his lips, wiping off the residue of your lipgloss. 

“Guess I’ll just undo everything then.” he chuckles, hands sliding lower to rest on your lower back, fingers tapping against silk. 

You roll your eyes, and before his hands get the chance to grab you lower, you’re whisking him away, holding his hand as you lead him to the dining table.

He pulls out your chair and you sit, the rare gesture making you giggle. As he settles in the seat across you, there’s a disconnect between the expression on his face and his body language—eyebrows wiggling and lips smirking, meant to be lighthearted and teasing, but he won’t stop fidgeting, shifting as he readjusts his seating. 

As you reach for the Temaki, he sucks in a breath, entirely hyper aware of every move you’re making. When you bite into it, he’s waiting. Anticipating. 

Your eyes fall shut as you chew, humming, then you grin. But when you open them and they catch his, it’s like you can tell—what he’s feeling. The furrow on your brows deepens as you look at him, concerned, “Hey, what’re you thinking?” 

How he hopes he hasn’t fucked this up, this dinner. What if the Miso Soup is too bland? Isn’t at all to your liking? What if the Wagyu’s dried out? Isn’t cooked properly? 

If he can’t get this right, this seemingly simple thing, how can he do everything else? Consider you the same way you’ve always considered him? 

He’s so sure of you his heart could burst at it, but what if he can’t ever come to terms with himself? With what he’s able to—

Then he feels it, your hand on his as you reach for him across the table, rubbing the back of it, soothing. 

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s worrying. 

“Megumi said it doesn’t go together,” he stares into your eyes, breathing slowly, grounding. It’s been a while since he’s given you a non-answer, but you accept it, patiently. 

“Megumi was here?” you ask gently, brow arched curiously. 

He nods, “Asked him to help a bit.” 

You hum, looking back at the food on the table before taking his other hand, soothing, “Well, that’s Megumi’s preference. Mine will be different.”

The smile you give him is warm, like the Miso Soup you’re reaching for right now. He watches you take a sip.

“S’good, better than mine.” You hum and he knows you’re lying but it’s still comforting, the fact that you’d do this for him. 

So if this is your effort for him, he isn’t going to waste it.

The rest of the dinner has you making the most exaggerated sounds, your ‘mmm’s and ‘ooo’s emphasizing how good the food is if he still doesn’t believe it. Your reactions are over-the-top and definitely overplayed, but it makes him laugh—-has him grinning in his seat the more he relaxes. 

You help clean up, even though he insists that you shouldn’t. 

“It’s our anniversary, Satoru.” you bump his hip, shooing him away from the table as you stack up the dirty plates. 

When he finishes washing the dishes and turns to find you, sitting atop his kitchen counter, nibbling on a piece of strawberry from the special Daifuku he put out for dessert, he approaches you. 

“Don’t be greedy now,” he rests his hand on your knee, coming to stand in between your legs. You hike your dress up a little bit, just to give him some space. 

You chuckle, cupping your hand under his chin as you feed him; he eats the entire thing, half-bitten by you already. And as the tips of your fingers touch his lips, sticky and syrupy from the strawberry coating, he takes them in his mouth, sucking lightly. 

He holds your gaze.  

“Thanks for doing all this,” you blink twice as he releases your fingers, interlacing them with his, “s’not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life.” 

You say it again—how you call him that so casually. 

What do you mean it’s not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life? 

You do it for him all the time.

He hums, moving closer. His other hand rises higher, kneading the flesh of your thighs through the smooth silk of your midi dress. 

“Thought you were going to spit it out for a second there,” he swallows his nerves. 

“Stop,” you frown, grabbing him by his belt loops before pressing your lips against his forehead, landing a loud ‘smack’, “go away silly thoughts.”

He chuckles when you blow a raspberry on it, laughter easing up as you drag your lips down to the center of his brows, tense from all the worrying earlier. 

You always seem to get it right, he thinks, this whole relationship thing—always knowing what to say. 

He tilts his head up, leaning closer to kiss you on the lips, fully. The breath he lets out mingled with yours, sweet with hints of strawberry, and when he catches your bottom lip you lean back, hands coming to rest on his cheeks. 

You nip on his upper lip, playful but lightly, and he groans, hand reaching up to slot itself by your neck. 

It’s there, underneath his fingertips, the pounding of your heartbeat. 

As you squirm on the kitchen counter, you pull away for a moment, restless from the growing heat. The action is subtle but dangerous as your cardigan slips off your shoulder, revealing the strap and lace of your lingerie. 

Blue eyes land on familiar pink, one he’s certain he’s caught you in before, but seeing it now, under white, it does something to his brain—-blood rushing, ears ringing. 

He leans closer, grabbing you by the waist as he runs his lips against along your neck, nipping on sensitive skin.

“‘Toru,” you gasp, breathy as you grip his shirt. 

“Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs against your skin, muffled. He sneaks one glance at you, pupils blown, before hovering over your temple, lips barely touching, tickling as he whispers, “anything.” 

Your fingers trail lower, pinching at his shirt before you tug, untucking it from his slacks. You turn to him, finding his lips, sliding them over his as you match his rhythm. It’s careful and slow, the way you unbutton his shirt, but it’s like he said—

This is your way; he’ll follow anything you say.

.

.

.

5 — WHEN ALL I SEE IS ME AND YOU

Gojo never thought he’d make this decision all because of your joint streaming subscription. 

It’s a normal weekend, regular in every way possible—just a night in for the both of you. He usually stays over at the end of the week, but it’s been bleeding into the weekdays too, lately. 

The sound of splashing water against tile echoes along the hallway; you normally play songs when you shower, but he guesses today isn’t that kind of day. 

He plops on the couch, pointing the remote to the TV as he selects the streaming app. Normal weekends consist of movie nights, half actually paying attention to the screen, and half paying attention to other things—either way, it ends in falling asleep. 

When the homepage lights up on the screen, he spots two accounts: yours and his. And it’s joint, under one household—your home. 

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been thinking about this more lately: how the past months have been a slow realization coming to terms with himself, and where he sees this relationship going, but the visual in front of him sparks an influx of things he’s been noticing. 

The pajama pants he’s wearing now exist as a pair to a matching set he has with you, but tonight, he’s opted for a white t-shirt because his pajama top is tucked somewhere in the drawers of your bedroom. 

(You keep it with you because you like how it fits more, you say, but he thinks it’s because it smells like him, and you sleep with it when he’s away). 

There’s another pair of chopsticks you always wash now, too, plain bamboo with a ring around the handle, light blue. You’d bought it from a market down the street a year ago, and told him it reminded you of him—-how it’s his from now on, in the container of utensils by your kitchen sink. 

He’s always known how intertwined your lives are, a decade and more of learning one another is bound to entangle you somehow. But the past few years have caused knots, impossible to unravel—a thought that doesn’t scare him as much as it used to; a thought he now thinks doesn’t sound so bad as long as it’s with you. 

As long as it’s with you. 

The creaking of the bathroom door snaps him back, the soft pads of your footsteps growing louder as it reaches the living room.

“Oh, you haven’t picked a movie yet?” you ask, ruffling your hair with your towel. 

He puts on a smile, facing you as he hands over the remote, “You pick tonight.” 

.

You barely pay attention to the movie, snuggled up against his chest, constantly looking up to kiss his neck. He’s the same, distracted, but not for the same reasons you are. 

It’s a lot to resist, the way your hands creep under his shirt, warm against his stomach, but the sinking feeling in his gut makes it impossible to focus anywhere else. 

“Not the time?” you tap his cheek, and he tilts chin down, acknowledging you. The look on your face is anything but disappointed, and it tugs at him, makes him feel guilty that he’s making you worry. That he can’t give you what you’re looking for right now. 

“Maybe later,” he takes your hand, lips grazing your fingertips, “I’ll get ready for bed.” 

You nod, sitting up as he taps your hip. He knows you can tell something’s bothering him—it’s impossible to hide anything from you at this point, but this realization feels like a long time coming, like it’s been brewing, now spilling. 

He gets up, kissing the top of your head before walking to the bathroom. 

When he steps in, it still smells like you—the shampoo and bodywash you use. (Technically, it smells like him too—he’s started using yours because it feels like you’re right there, everywhere he goes). 

As he finishes brushing his teeth, reaching for his towel hooked beside yours, he remembers how none of this existed when it was just you. You only ever had one hook for one towel, how he used to share it with you only to realize that it would never dry. 

Then he found it, some time last year, when he walked in to take a shower and found a hook installed right beside yours, presumably his. 

The lights are adjusted for him too; fluorescent white is too bright, a pain for his Six Eyes, so you changed the bulbs to soft white, tinged a bit yellow, warm. 

And thing is, he never asked you to do any of this. 

You just… did. 

Because that’s you. 

And it’s making him realize even more how he wants to keep it this way, how he wouldn’t mind if this was the rest of his life, everyday.

.

The mood shifts when you both get in bed, and if you notice it, you don’t tell him. Whatever was bothering him before has settled, his head clear, more focused to reciprocate your earlier advances. 

He’s gentle when he touches you, taking the time to love you. Your clothes come off one by one with no haste at all, slowly, almost painfully. 

But he kisses you all over, leaves marks on places only he can see—by your hip, at the center of your chest, and another one, visible, on your neck below your ear. This is more than what he usually does, but he feels determined tonight.

“Off,” you whisper, as you tug at his shirt, pulling it off before throwing it to the side of your bed. 

He holds his breath when your fingers land on his chest, dragging across his collarbones before you tap thrice. This is a spot you’ve loved so intently, he’s become sensitive to it every time you come close. You leave kisses along it, some wet, others dry pecks, but it makes him shudder all the same, every time. 

As he hovers above you, arm bent by your head, his fingers trace your lower lip, tugging only to let it bounce back; he kisses you, noses bumping, softly at first before it turns hungry, lips overlapping, biting. His tongue runs over your lips, smooth and warm. 

There are more touches, more gazes; lips brushing and breaths mixing. The heat between you is shared, intermingling, and when he’s in you—

—it’s too much, how he feels looking at you right now, like you’re everything, the only thing seared into his memory. 

There’s a life he wants to give you, and though he knows there are others who might be more able to—he can’t let go of you, refuses to. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else being this close, doesn’t even want to think about someone else waking up next to you—the bed hair he always looks forward to, the lazy smile you always give him, the hands that always reach for him, first thing. 

These traces of you have made him want the whole of you, and if this is him being selfish, then so be it. 

His arms wrap around your back, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around him, and you’re both moving, timing in sync, and he’s crying. 

He tucks his face into your neck, and he’s sure you feel everything—wet tears, shuddery breaths, but you don’t say anything. You hold him tighter, fingers scratching his undercut as he gets closer and closer. 

Gojo Satoru is a man of impossibilities. 

And this life he thinks you deserve—he wants to be the one to give that to you. 

.

.

.

+1 — WITH MY KNEES ON THE FLOOR, WHEN I ASK FOR MORE

He shouldn’t even be feeling this way, because what’s the worst thing you can say?

It’s just you. 

It’s just you—

And… maybe it’s because it’s you, that the .01% possibility of you even saying no—

—it makes him feel sick. 

He looks back at the clock: 16:30. The walk from the conference room to his office will take an extra 3? 5? minutes. 

The room feels tighter, smaller, floorboards practically worn down from how much he’s paced around it. 

He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, how he’ll grab your hand and look you straight in the eyes as he does it. Fear and excitement churn in his belly, how he’s imagining the look on your face.

If you were here, you’d tell him to breathe—to follow you with every inhale and exhale. 

If you were here, you’d smile at him, lips curled up softly, gently, the one he loves. 

If you were here—-

—-the door opens, and you step into the room. 

Now that you’re here, he doesn’t know what to say. 

You stand before him in your uniform, smiling, just as he imagined you’d be. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling, the way he’s noticed they have since you were 17. 

He must be doing a terrible job hiding how he feels because your demeanor instantly shifts, face contorting into worry, brows furrowed and frown forming. You drop your bag as you walk to him, hands reaching to cup his face. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice hushed and delicate, “Did something happen?” 

Your fingers are warm on his cheeks (or is he too cold?), tilting his head lower so you can look him in the eyes. He can’t breathe, can’t hear you properly; you’re drowned out by the thumping of his heartbeat. 

“Need to tell you something,” he manages to mutter. 

Your eyes widen before you nod, lowering your hands as you speak slowly, “Okay, do you want to sit first? I have water—”

He shakes his head, hand reaching for your wrist, “I think… you should sit.” 

The pause alarms you, your body turning rigid. He has no idea what’s going through your mind, and you give nothing away as you mumble an ‘okay’ while walking to the couch. 

He stays beside you, not too far but still placing a bigger distance than he normally would—for the 0.01% probability that this isn’t what you want, that he isn’t too close, forcing you into an answer you might not want to say. 

The words float in his mind, but none of them string together to form the sentences he wants to tell you. Does he take it from the start? How this whole thing has always terrified him? How he never thought this was meant for him, but here he is, still learning but loving every second of it?

There are things he’s never had to consider before that he cares so much more about now—all because of you, how it’s for you, how he wants to do better by you. 

You call him the love of your life and he hasn’t told you, but you’re that and more for him, too. 

He practiced this, damn it. 

Why can’t he remember a single thing? 

The silence between you is tense, tainted by overthinking on both ends. You look like you’re waiting for bad news, and Gojo’s too stuck in his head, turning over the right words to say instead of reassuring you. 

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he starts, fiddling with his fingers. His feet won’t stop bouncing, knee fidgeting. He’s biting his lips, a tell-tale sign that there’s a lot he isn’t saying,

You place your hand on his knee to calm him down, and he stops bouncing it, looking at you as you muster up a small smile—far from being genuine, but it’s the fact that you’ve mustered it, as if to say: ‘it’s okay, you can tell me; i’ll always want to hear all of it.’ 

He swallows, “This arrangement isn’t working.” 

Your face drops, brows furrowing, “What arrangement?” 

His heart is pounding. 

“I stay over at yours too much.” 

Too much, that mine doesn’t feel like I belong there anymore, he fails to add. 

“I think we need more space.” 

Your hand on his knee slides off as you tuck it between your thighs. There’s a frown on your face he can’t seem to figure out, and the fact that you’re giving nothing away, whatever you’re thinking—he’s turning even more nervous right now. 

“Okay,” you finally say, tone flat, “when do you want me to return all your things?”

He tilts his head at you, confused, “What—” 

“Actually, can I…” you shift around, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears before clearing your throat, “can I ask if it’s something I did?” 

And his heart drops, straight into his stomach. 

It’s not like that at all. 

He’s hit with déjà vu; this conversation feels so familiar, so similar to one he’s had with you before—on the sofa chair across this couch, laying himself bare the same way he is now. 

The couch dips as he scoots closer to you, reaching for your hands. 

“It’s not—”

You scoff sadly, “Please don’t give me the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ thing,” then your tone drops, blinking away your tears, “if you’re going to break up with me, Satoru, just tell me why. Honestly.” 

He blinks. 

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he once told himself he’ll never tell you. 

But now seems like it’s fitting—the right time to say it. 

“You remember when I was unsealed?” he moves to the floor, getting down on his knees in front of you. You nod as he rubs circles over your knuckles, “When I first saw you, it was pretty scary.” 

He brings one hand to your cheek, catching a tear with his thumb. You pout, the crease between your brows growing deeper. 

“You ran yourself dry because of me.” 

When he thinks about it now, he still feels guilty. 

He believes that people are accountable for their own actions, and he still believes that with you, definitely—but he knows your reasons, why you acted that way, desperate for hope everyday. And for that, he takes responsibility. 

“I didn’t want that for you, still don’t.” 

Your frown deepens, tears welling up even more. 

Do you still think he wants to do this without you? 

He can’t take this, seeing you cry; he promised himself he wouldn’t be the reason behind this anymore.

“I’m not breaking up with you.” he tells you firmly, surely. 

You blink. 

Then your shoulders drop as you breathe out—what he hopes is relief. When your eyes meet, a little less sad, he sees the stars in them, glinting like they do when you look at him. 

This should be his answer already, how much you brighten at the thought of staying with him. But—

“I still think you deserve more,” he brings your hands to his lips, brushing them against it, and as you’re about to interject, he chuckles, “but I’m also too selfish to leave that up to someone else, you know?” 

“Soooo,” his hand reaches for his pocket, fishing around until he feels for what he’s looking for. He takes out his phone, swiping and scrolling until he finally stops, placing it on your lap for the both of you to see, “I’ve been thinking lately…” 

He looks up at you, the two skies you’ve always been drawn to, waiting. The unease in his stomach returns, churning. 

It’s a compilation of properties: houses, apartments, plots of land—all scattered around Tokyo, some central and some further on the outskirts. 

Your eyes widen, tilting your head to the side as you attempt to read what’s on his screen. You turn to him immediately, eyes still watery; the expression on your face is unreadable, a mixture of surprise and confusion, like you don’t exactly know what he means. 

“We don’t have to choose from these, it’s just a few brokers I talked to recently. We can look for others if you want, in quieter areas too—” 

Then you smile, beaming, tears falling from your eyes, “Satoru,” and you breathe out his name but it sounds like I love you.

There’s a quiet life he can’t give you, but he likes this one with you much better too. He takes your hands, placing one on his chest, over his heart, and the other on his cheek. Then, he leans into it, kissing the insides of your wrist before staring back at you sincerely. 

His heart is beating wildly, he’s sure, but if he can continue to make you this happy—

“Make a home with me?”

a/n: food descriptions—temaki is easy hand-rolled sushi, sunomono is japanese cucumber salad.

thank you notes: @stellamancer the actual birthday gift for u :') + @em1e for listening to me talk abt the entire plot and even reading the first few scenes!! + @mididoodles @kissxcore @itadorey for always being so supportive when am sharing my progress posts ilu + @crysugu @soumies @augustinewrites @ufo-ikawa no reason other than i just love u ᰔ i reply so slow when am writing smth...

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