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kingkonoha · 11 months ago

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“WHERE IS MY WIFE?”

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: curses & curse users have discovered satoru’s greatest weakness, and it’s you, satoru’s sweet, ordinary housewife. after getting kidnapped by gojo’s enemies, he’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ only - mdni - slightly dark content // brief smut, fem reader, feral gojo, canon-typical violence, reader gets kidnapped, reader is wounded/has injuries, angst, fluff/comfort

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 5K

♡ —𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I’d count grains of sand if it meant I could spend one minute alone with feral gojo (:

As evening fell, and after a delicious dinner was eaten at the dining table downstairs, Satoru was in the mood for something else now — you.

His pretty housewife would be his dessert.

The apple pie you baked was sitting on the dark marbled counter of the kitchen island, two big slices missing — and the vanilla ice cream tub in the freezer had, of course, two hefty spherical digs in it where the cold treat was scooped out — but, even after his stomach was stuffed after a hard day of fighting curses and teaching his students, Satoru’s head was buried in between your soft thighs, satisfying his other craving.

As your husband moaned softly, his tongue danced around your aching clit. His large hand massaged your thigh. The moonlight pouring in through the big bedroom window shined upon his wedding ring, making it glisten as he rubbed your delicate skin.

“I’ll never get tired of tasting you,” Satoru smiled a bit, his warm breath patting against your wet folds.

“You were made just for me. God, I love it. I love you.”

Two long fingers sunk into your awaiting hole. He attached his soft lips to your clit, sucking on it.

One of your hands gripped at the luxurious pale-cerulean sheets, while your other hand gripped his hair, fingers getting lost in his white locks.

“Satoru!” A sharp moan escaped your dried throat.

Every little noise you made — every moan, every squeak of the thick mattress — it all boasted his desire to please you.

He didn’t stop his licking-sucking-fingering combo until your legs were trembling around his head and he was satisfied with tasting your juices.

Only after devouring your pussy like a starving man feasting on a buffet-style dinner did he rise from his position and make his way across the bed, hovering over you.

With a smile, Satoru leaned down and planted a soft kiss against your lips. But, when he pulled away, he was met with an amused look of disgust.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, furrowing his brows a bit.

“You just kissed me after eating me out,” you said with a little, playful grimace. “That’s nasty.”

“Mrs. Gojo, I mean this in the most respectful way possible, but hush.” Satoru lightly tapped your forehead. “You have swallowed plenty of my-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” shaking your head, you cut off your husband’s naughty sentence, pressing your hand against his lips.

The corners of your mouth burned as you tried to fight off a smile. His latest affectionate nickname was Mrs. Gojo — although it truly wasn’t a nickname due to it technically being your name now — and at every given opportunity, he addressed you that way.

Even after two years of marriage, he was as excited as a freshly wedded man. Your love was a never-ending honeymoon.

You stared into Satoru’s striking blue eyes. He darted his gaze across your gorgeous face, illuminated by the moonlight, and as you ran your fingers through his white hair and he ran his thumb across your cheek, both of you close enough to feel the gentle pats of each other’s breaths on your mesmerizing faces, you both fell in love with each other just a bit more — if that was even possible.

“Can I fuck you now?”

Satoru’s question made a sudden chuckle spilled out from between your lips. He couldn’t help but laugh too.

“You’re a buffoon. I’m trying to admire your beauty and that’s what you open your mouth to say?” You playfully frowned.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a human being call another human being a buffoon out loud before.”

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes humorously. “We need to do our skincare routine first. We have to do it an hour before we go to bed or else we might just rub all the product off. I read that somewhere.”

“Why didn’t we do it before we got into bed in the first place?” Satoru buried his head in the crook of your neck, pouting, but taking a moment to press a little kiss onto your skin.

“Because you were acting as if you were dying of poison and eating me out was the antidote, so I forgot.” you giggled softly.

“Fine, fine,” your husband slowly rolled off of you in defeat. “Skincare routine, nothing more. Please don’t start trying to organize the bath towels.”

“I’m not making any promises,” you said, getting out of bed and following Satoru into the master bathroom.

There, you and your husband stood in front of the big mirror, cleansing and moisturizing your skin as you both chatted about his students, a movie you watched three days ago, and your breakfast plans in the morning.

And it was those sweet little moments that made Satoru’s heart skip a beat. As he flickered his eyes over to your reflection, watching your smother smooth white cream all over your face as you rambled on about a new egg recipe, he couldn’t help but think about how much he loved you.

—

6:00 A.M.

That night ended with soft sex and gentle kisses.

That morning, Satoru’s white eyelashes fluttered open to the early morning sun starting to rise, casting rays through the drawn window curtains and across his comforter.

He squinted his eyes and yawned.

Typically, he was the sort of man who would never wake up at the ungodly hour if he could help it, but the tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling eggs had traveled from the kitchen downstairs to right underneath his nose.

Tossing on his blue house-coat, the grumpy-faced man dragged himself into the kitchen, greeting you with a slightly gruff morning voice and a messy head of hair.

“Good morning, baby,” Satoru walked around the kitchen island and loosely wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging you from behind. “How’d you sleep? I had a nightmare.”

With a spatula in one hand, you flipped the omelet in the skillet on the six-burner stove. With the other hand, you rubbed his arm, enjoying the warmth his hovering hug had brought.

“I slept alright,” you said. “Did the smell wake you up?”

“Always does,” he smiled lazily although you couldn’t see it.

“Well, your drink’s ready,” you gave a nod in the general direction of the silver espresso machine, which hummed as it brewed Satoru’s steamy beverage.

“I don’t deserve you,” Satoru’s arms hugged you tighter, and he showered the side of your head with kisses.

“Stop it,” your sweet laughter only egged him on as you clenched the spatula and leaned back against him even more. “No fooling around when we’re this close to the stove.”

Satoru eventually backed away after giving you one final kiss against your forehead temple.

“If all goes well, I should be back home tomorrow before dark, then we can check out that new restaurant. What do you say? I personally think it’s time for a date.”

The image of you and Satoru sipping on wine and as you wore your favorite dress flashed in your mind, and you smiled. A date night was certainly something to look forward to in light of Satoru’s overnight trip.

Sorcering duties had often taken him on distant work trips. Truth be told, you were lucky his departure would only last around twenty-four hours and not twenty-four days. Although you missed him whenever he would leave, you understood his choice of career. He was a hero.

You happened to be an ordinary human being. You couldn’t see curses. You couldn’t use cursed energy or cursed techniques, but you were fine with that.

“A date sounds fun! I’m excited now.” You took the omelet out of the skillet and placed it on a nearby plate. “And we’re making time to try out that new pottery class too. It sounds like such a cute date idea, don’t you think so?”

“I’m with you. I’ll make the reservations for the restaurant, you can schedule us for pottery-making.” This time, he was the one blissfully picturing you and him spinning messy clay with him sitting behind you and reaching around your body for the pottery wheel, your fingers intertwined as you both created a pot. Satoru smiled at the thought. “Anyway, now that you’re done cooking, can I kiss you?”

You nodded with a cheeky grin, and your husband pressed his lips against yours sweetly.

It was as if some part of him was frightened that he would never get the opportunity to kiss you again.

—

8:37 P.M.

The bright light far above your head flickered briefly as you stood in the pasta aisle at your local grocery store, but you hadn’t noticed it, too fixated on the different brands of spaghetti noodles lying on the shelf above you.

Shopping at night wasn’t preferable, but only after tossing together a simmering pan of sauce did you realize you hadn’t started boiling your noodles yet.

And, with your pot of simmering water ready, you opened the cabinet to see no noodles.

So, here you were, making a last-minute, unplanned trip to the grocery store.

By now, the only sort of pasta noodles left were the ones that a person of average height couldn’t reach. Every box was too high.

You turned your head to the left and to the right.

You even bothered to walk down a few aisles to search for an employee or anyone who might have been tall enough to reach your needed item, but the only other person staggering around was an older blonde-haired woman who was shorter than you were.

Frowning in frustration, you returned to the pasta aisle.

If you had to climb the shelves, so be it.

Suddenly, a kind voice spoke over the calming public-friendly background music playing softly in the store.

“Need some help?”

Whipping your head around, you saw a person — a taller person, thank goodness — who had a smile that was just as sweet as his voice.

“Yes, thank you!” You found that his grin was rather contagious, as you ended up smiling as well. “I just need the spaghetti noodles on the top shelf. Any brand will do.”

The beaming man with long, dark hair stepped forward, and you moved to the side, letting the apparent hero save your day.

He pulled down your desired spaghetti noodles with ease.

“Thanks for your help. My spaghetti sauce won’t go to waste now,” you said politely.

Your eyes darted up to the stitched scar across his forehead, then quickly, you glanced away.

“You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

The man walked down the aisle and left.

There was something familiar about him, oddly enough.

That hair . . . that smile . . .

He reminded you of an old, deceased friend of Satoru’s, one that you hadn’t ever met due to his villainous behavior before his death, but you had seen an old picture of him that he and your husband took during their second year at Jujutsu High, years ago.

As you placed the pasta noodles into your cart, making your way around different aisles to collect a few more items since you were already at the store, you decided that you’d take another look at that photograph once you arrived home, just for peace of mind.

The brown paper bag stuffed with groceries felt rather heavy as you walked down the street, which was brightened by light pouring out of the windows of local businesses that hadn’t yet closed.

You sighed softly.

The dark sky was sparkling with stars. The air was cool and comforting. Soon, you’d have pasta, and perhaps, you’d watch a few episodes of your favorite binge-worthy Netflix show.

If only Satoru was with you.

Chatting with him on the phone a few hours ago only made you miss him even more, but, at least his trip would be a quick one, and soon, you could have dinner with him and listen to his hilarious commentary as you watched television together.

After walking for around five minutes, you were no longer close to the local businesses that made you feel a sense of comfort during your evening stroll.

Now, you had to rely on the occasional streetlight to guide you home.

But that cold air was no longer comforting. It was a chilling breeze that made you clench your grocery bag a bit tighter.

Your footsteps suddenly halted — you could hear something moving in the nearby bushes.

Turning around, you were greeted with nothing but darkness and streetlights. No one else was with you. You kept walking.

However, something wasn’t right.

You might not have been a sorcerer, but you weren’t a fool.

And you had a gut-wrenching feeling that right now, as your wobbly legs guided you home, you were being watched.

You heard that noise again.

The grocery bag crinkled against your chest. You were certain that the bread you purchased was squished by now. If someone was following you, did you really want to unintentionally lead them to your home?

Where should you go? What should you do?

A tear rolled down your cheek from fear.

You were scared. You only wanted to go home, finish your pasta, and watch television.

You didn’t want to deal with such a potentially terrifying situation.

Pulling out your phone, you opened your dial screen.

Your trembling thumb hovered over the buttons, but before you could press anything, a black, disfigured curse appeared in front of you, screeching loudly enough to make you drop everything in your hands and cover your ears, more tears falling as the horrifying monster started to charge at you.

You tried to run in the other direction, but it was too late.

The last thing you saw before you were engulfed by darkness was that man from the grocery store standing on the sidewalk, that same sweet smile on his familiar face.

—

12:27 A.M.

Satoru’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, as he had spent most of the night tossing and turning because you weren’t lying next to him. But, apparently, he did manage to catch a couple of hours of shut-eye.

When he awakened, there was a terrible ache in his heart. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, and beads of sweat decorated his forehead. His throat was dried to a crisp.

He was all alone in his dark hotel room.

He couldn’t hear you.

He couldn’t see you.

And yet, somehow, someway, thanks to his great power, he knew that his wife was calling for him.

—

The overwhelming scent of old, wet, musky wood and dust would never be forgotten by your memory. A lifetime of therapy would never be able to erase the paralyzing fear you felt, sitting on the cold, hard ground of an abandoned cabin with your hands bound behind your back.

Maybe the fear wasn’t completely paralyzing, though. Your body seemed to tremble with terror just fine.

The sight of it made Suguru Geto — no, Kenjaku chuckle.

He kept his eye on you for no other reason besides his entertainment, as watching you himself was pointless considering he had two frightening curses looming over you.

Once, Satoru shared a fun fact with you: regular human beings cannot see curses unless they are about to die.

That fact was certainly interesting when the two of you were strolling through the beautiful park, a red and white striped blanket in your hand and a picnic basket in his. But, now, that fact only made sweat drip off of your scarred forehead, because you could see the two, black, disfigured curses.

It was a telltale sign that you could die.

“I haven’t had the displeasure of meeting him myself,” Kenjaku suddenly spoke, relaxing in a chair he had positioned a few feet away from the corner you were trapped in. “But I have seen memories of Satoru Gojo that belonged to this body I’ve inhabited. And, I must say, I couldn’t imagine that his wife would be such a weakling. It’s truly pathetic.”

Even if you wanted to reply to him, fear had snatched away your ability to speak. It created a lump in your throat that couldn’t be swallowed down.

“My best guess is that he needs someone boring and ordinary in his life to keep house while he’s busy saving the world. You’re just the cook and maid with a ring on her finger, hm?”

“He loves me.”

Your voice was small — it was a painfully perfect reflection of how you felt on the inside. Weak and pathetic.

“Oh?” Kenjaku raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. “Believe it or not, I hope you’re right, or else kidnapping you was a waste of time.”

Your chains rattled as you shifted in your spot on the floor, scooting as far into the corner as you could get. An ache shot up your spine from the wall pressing into your back. Pulling your knees to your chest, more tears slipped from your eyes.

“Aw, don’t cry,” he falsely cooed. “Surely you’ve wondered why the world’s strongest sorcerer would settle for someone who forgets to double-check all of their ingredients before they start cooking, haven’t you? It’s not because of love, or anything of the sort. It’s because those who are deeply insecure would do anything to please anyone who looks their way. Only an ordinary, desperate housewife with low self-esteem and no ambition would waste time caring for a man who risks his life saving strangers. What would make you think he cares for you when he spends more time with curses than his own wife? Helping strangers more than his own family? Think about it.”

Kenjaku’s hurtful words were met with silence, but he didn’t stop speaking.

“I bet you’re nothing but a burden to him. Someone like him probably hates being tied down, but marrying a fool who contributes nothing to society is the only way he can get someone else to handle his laundry while he’s busy working hard, hm? He must carry around divorce papers, ready to serve them to you the day you forget to buy detergent from the grocery store.” Kenjaku’s smile brightened. “Oh, that reminds me. You dropped your detergent and other groceries on the road earlier, by the way. Looks like you’re useless now.”

“You . . .” your teary eyes flickered from him to the hovering curses. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. None of that’s true.”

“You have to believe that I’m speaking honestly, Y/N.” Kenjaku sighed with fake sincerity. “My entire plan rests on the hope that Satoru Gojo is foolish enough to try to rescue you. You see, when you want to lure someone out, the proper way to do it is by discovering their weaknesses. When I found out about you, I was hoping that you would be his weakness. That I could use you to lure him out. Then I met you, and, well, you’re simply disappointing. Sorry to break it to you, but I have memories of the old conversations Satoru used to have with Suguru, and being tied down to a powerless housewife was certainly not how he imagined his future. But, I figured I’d try anyway, and so here you are, and he’s not here to rescue you. What a shame. I bet he’s hoping I’ll kill you so he’ll be free.”

He was lying. He had to be. Satoru loved you more than anything . . . right?

The thought had crossed your mind before; why did Satoru want to be with someone powerless? And this villain’s plan to lure out your husband relied on his hope that he’d come to rescue you out of love, so how would it benefit him to convince you Satoru didn’t love you?

Maybe he was right.

After all, if Satoru cared for you, he would have saved you by now. Where was he?

You couldn’t help but cry even harder.

“Please let me go home,” your tears clouded your vision. “Please let me go.”

“Well, you should know that I hate wasting time,” Kenjaku rested his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow pressing into the arm of the chair he sat in. “I can’t let you leave. I won’t let the effort I put into kidnapping you be a total waste.”

Kenjaku’s smile widened, and suddenly, the curses started to move towards you.

—

1:45 A.M.

The subway station was isolated. No ordinary human beings were lurking around, and Satoru was relieved. Right now, he’d kill anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

His shoes gently shuffled against the ground as he made his way into the middle of the big, bright opening, and he clenched his fists, his nails digging into the skin of his palm, hard enough to draw blood.

Two special grade cursed spirits emerged. He recognized them both from a previous fight in the woods.

Volcano head. Asparagus.

“Satoru Gojo,” Jogo suddenly said. “We didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to-”

“Where is my wife?”

When Satoru interrupted the curse, his voice was low. Dark. Startling.

Blood dripped from his palms and splattered onto the ground.

“I was drawn here, but she isn’t here, is she? Where is she? Tell me now, and I’ll kill you quickly instead of slowly.”

Jogo chuckled a bit. Satoru dug his nails into his palm even more.

“Bring us the vessel, Yuji Itadori, and we’ll return that worthless-”

The two curses didn’t have time to blink — weren’t able to register in their minds that Satoru had moved from his previous spot until Jogo was lifted off of the ground and thrown into the flickering light fixture above, shattering it and causing sparks to rain down onto the ground below, where he then fell.

Satoru stepped on Jogo’s head, squishing it underneath his black shoe.

“I remember you. You’re stubborn, right?” Satoru gritted his teeth. “Who the hell do you think you are to take her from me? Whoever you work for must want you dead if they’re stupid enough to send you on a suicide mission. You think I’ll let you leave here alive after this?”

“If you kill us, you’ll never see her again,” the other cursed spirit, Hanami, suddenly spoke up. “Bring us the vessel, and she lives.”

When Satoru suddenly stopped moving, it was only to ensure that he had heard the cursed spirit correctly.

“Did you just threaten . . .” Satoru removed his blindfold, “to kill my wife?”

It was only a matter of time before the branches attached to Hanami’s head were ripped out, and Jogo was beheaded. The subway was reduced to nothing except crumbling walls and darkness. While the cursed spirits were teetering dangerously between life and death, there wasn’t a scratch on Satoru. Instead, there was a smile.

This was simply the consequence of their actions. This was what happened to anyone who laid a hand on his girl.

Hanami’s body was on the brink of collapse as it was forced to come in contact with Satoru’s cursed technique — a blue shield-like piece of infinity that distorted and manipulated both time and space, protecting the sorcerer from attacks and rendering Hanami powerless.

Hanami’s eyes darted over to their beheaded ally — they couldn’t help him.

“I’m going to ask you one last time,” Satoru’s eyes widened. His smile grew. He slowly turned, facing Hanami, and blasted him back against the nearest wall without lifting a finger. “Where is my wife?”

—

2:39 A.M.

Kenjaku had never understood the concept of love, and, perhaps, that was why he failed.

Satoru’s love for you was his weakness, that was true, but it also turned out to be his greatest strength, and this was a fight Kenjaku couldn’t win.

Not today.

One of his curses, which had been traveling to and fro to observe what was currently taking place in the subway station and reporting it back to Kenjaku, had informed him that Jogo and Hanami were on the brink of death.

He couldn’t lose them yet. They were too powerful, and he needed their help for his future plans.

Kenjaku left the cabin, taking his curses with him.

And, without their cursed energy purposely making it difficult for Satoru to find you, he was able to pinpoint your exact location.

It appeared in his powerful mind as he was ripping Hanami apart limb by limb, and he wasn’t a fool. He didn’t know who was behind all of this, but it was clear that the mastermind had suddenly decided to let your whereabouts be tracked down in order to save Hanami and Jogo.

He didn’t want to make that deal. He wanted to kill these two, bring them back to life, and kill them over again. Their pain brought him joy, all because they took part in your capture.

But Satoru didn’t want his bloodlust to backfire. After all, if he killed the cursed spirits now, the person who held you captive could change their mind and move you someplace else and hide your location yet again, or, worse — they could kill you.

That wasn’t a chance he was willing to take.

Satoru stopped using his technique. But, as he left the subway station, he promised himself that eventually, he would kill those two. He would kill anyone and everyone involved.

But you came first.

You would always come first.

—

He found you.

When Satoru kicked open the door belonging to a raggedy, abandoned cabin, the scent of blood overwhelmed him. It dirtied his boots as he kneeled by your side. Your unconscious, bleeding body was lying there, simply left on the ground as if you were nothing.

“Y/N . . .” Satoru called out breathlessly.

He took the chains off of you instantly, his bloodshot eyes darting over every gaping wound.

It was indescribable — the anger he felt. He wanted to return to the subway and finish off those cursed spirits, to make them suffer and suffer and suffer.

But tending to you took priority right now. Satoru scooped up your broken and bruised body, holding you as softly as he could. A tear fell from his eye, splattering against your cheek.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” he spoke gently.

Your eyelids fluttered as you awakened. An overwhelming sense of pain slammed into you once you regained consciousness, and hot tears streamed down your cheeks. Prior to this, the only pain you had ever known was the wholesome body ache from tripping and falling while playing outside with your friends as a child. But this level of misery took away your ability to speak. Left you wondering if you were going to die.

You could make out stains of your blood on Satoru’s clothes.

Even so, you could tell based on the pained look on his face that he was suffering even more just from seeing you in such a condition.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he mumbled, slowly getting off the ground as he carried you. “This is all my fault. They did this to you because of me. I’m so sorry.”

Satoru raised you a bit, gently pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.

He’d give anything to switch places with you right now — to be the one in unspeakable pain. Why couldn’t they have kidnapped him? Tortured him? If he had the power to take away your suffering and give it to himself, he would. For you, not only would he kill, but he’d die, repeatedly and without a second thought or a moment of hesitation.

As Satoru took you to the nearest hospital, his tears spilling onto your body, he said, “We’re almost there, okay? I promise I’ll make them pay for this, and no one will ever lay a hand on you again.”

Arriving into the uncomforting white halls of the emergency room, Satoru handed you off to the nurses and doctors who rushed up to him. But, before they placed you on the nearest stretcher, Satoru kissed your forehead once again as unconsciousness claimed you, and he whispered, “I love you, Y/N.”

—

10:02 A.M.

Two days later, you awakened in a hospital bed. This time, pain didn’t greet you, but grogginess and blurred vision. The gentle beeps from the nearby machines certainly didn’t help your pounding headache.

Your sight started to clear up after blinking a few times.

Soft strands of hair tickled your arm, and when you looked to your left, you saw Satoru slumped in a chair, his head resting in his arms on the side of your bed. You reached over and ruffled his messy white hair a bit.

He shot up, startled. His blue eyes were wide with alarm, then they softened with gratefulness, but, lastly, they darted down with sorrow.

“Y/N . . . thank god, you’re awake.” Satoru croaked out in his morning voice, clearing his throat a bit. He was dehydrated — too focused on your recovery to worry about himself. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so . . .”

Satoru got out of his chair, sat on the side of your bed, and leaned over, resting the side of his head against your chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

“It’s not your fault,” you mumbled weakly. “It’s mine.”

Satoru pulled his head away from you, staring at you with furrowed brows and a confused gaze.

“What? No, it’s not.”

You couldn’t find the courage to look him in the eye. Kenjaku’s words replayed in your mind. They hurt just as much as getting attacked by curses.

As if reading your thoughts, Satoru cupped your chin, turning your head back in his direction.

“Look at me,” he said. “What happened wasn’t your fault. I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t care if you can’t fight curses-”

“You’re just saying that . . . because I’m kinda useful to you. But I’m easily replaceable. Speaking honestly, I’m a burden. You had to come save my life, and put yourself in danger. I’m not worth it.”

“You think I married you because you’re useful?” Hurt flashed in Satoru’s piercing eyes. “I’m in love with you, and you’ll never be a burden. I don’t care if you can’t fight curses. You’re my wife for a reason, and that’s because there’s nothing greater than seeing you get excited over finding your favorite snack at the grocery store or seeing the way you smile when your favorite scene from a show comes on, and you sit there and watch it as if you haven't seen it a thousand times. I love the way your eyes light up when you find a new activity in town for us to try, or a new book to read, or a new recipe. God, I just . . . I love you. I love you more than anything. I don’t know how you’re able to put up with someone like me. Every day I wonder how I got so lucky because I don’t deserve you. You’re too good for me, and I haven’t met anyone as loving as you are. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Do you understand me? I’d kill and die for you.”

Satoru gently wiped away the tear that fell from your eyes with his thumb.

“I love you too,” you smiled softly, leaning into his touch. “I’m sorry we missed our dinner reservations and the pottery class.”

Satoru couldn’t help but lean in and kiss your cheek.

“I’ve already rescheduled two weeks out.”

Moving away from your cheek, your husband softly kissed your lips. And while he had spent time rescheduling your date night and making sure you were receiving the excellent care you deserved while in the hospital, he was also hard at work, tracking down the monsters that dared to lay a hand on you.

He would make them suffer.

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npdemu · 1 year ago

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reblog to blow up an ableist

#npd safe #bpd safe #hpd safe #aspd safe #cluster b safe #cw explosion mention #cw violence mention #cw ableism mention #cw reblog bait #reblog bait

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subterraneanwatcher · 2 years ago

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youtube

#at the drive in #Invalid Litter Dept.#cw mention of murder #cw mention of violence

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someonehasgiventheratsapen · 3 months ago

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^_^ yosano <3<3<3<3

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yandere--stuck · 7 months ago

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NEED to know your thoughts on a yandere bill cipher

⚠️ Listen, pal, I KNOW why you're reading this. You've got a crush on YOURS TRULY! That's right, buddy, the cat's outta the bag! Well, not like the cat was ever really in the bag to begin with. What? Didn't think my all-seeing eye would spy you making goo-goo eyes at artistic depictions of me? AHAHA, aw, hey! Nothing to be embarrassed about. It's not like I can blame you, I mean, have you met me? A winning personality, great sense of humor, beautiful singing voice - I'm a total catch! And between you and me, you have better taste than the rest of your species’ population.

👁 There are probably numerous reason why you like stuff like this: The obsession, the possessive behavior, the VIOLENCE. Sure sounds like romance to ME! But as for you… Is it the abandonment issues? Lack of validation in your life? Feeling misunderstood and ostracized by the world? Loneliness? A desire for an escape into a fictional world? Or are you like me? Is romance just no good without the true passion of twisted devotion and obsession? There's no need to LIE! We're kindred spirits, you and I.

⚠️ I know just how you feel. You've been kicked down, laughed at, and made to feel small. You've gone unappreciated by blind MORONS who wouldn't know greatness if it melted their eyeballs out their ears. Because you are MEANT for greatness. You are meant for something more, and I bet it burns you to know that. That you're better than all of them. That they're nothing without you, and they DESERVE nothing. They deserve to BE nothing. I know just how you feel because I was in your place. Surrounded by flat minds in a flat world with flat dreams. HA, and I sure showed them. WHO'S LAUGHING NOW, HUH? ME!!!!!!

👁 The point is, I know you. I've had my eye on you for quite a while, kid. Q U I T E A W H I L E. And might I say, out of all the flesh bags that have clogged my vision over the centuries, YOU'RE clearly the best looking outta all of ‘em, hot stuff. But looks aren't everything, of course! You've got a personality to match. Gotta admit, it's cute how you get so invested in your interests, the little hobbies you pick up, just watching you go about your day is like the universe’s greatest reality TV show starring my favorite person in the multiverse! OH, I could just decaptiate you and nuzzle your fleshy little head in an approximation of a kiss right now!!!

⚠️ So, c'mon, just let me in. Shake my hand! Let's make a deal. No matter how big or small! And it’s not just for the purpose of liberating your dimension, no. I want to really get under your skin. To feel what it's like to be in the body of my favorite person. As close as two beings can get, closer than you can get with unworthy specimens of your own kind, more intimate than any experience in the world. I want to be that close to you. Because you're mine. You're MY HUMAN and NOTHING WILL CHANGE THAT. Y'HEAR ME?

👁 So, you might as well accept that you and me are destined, kid. The signs are all there. So, if I were you (and I could be, if you'd just let me), I'd do this the easy way. Because right now, there's two ways this can go down. The easy way: You summon me, and we make a deal. Anything your precious human heart desires - and more! You'll be my precious human pet, my puppet, my toy. Mine to own and have rule beside me! You'll prove everyone who put you down wrong! Anything you want - love, money, fame, worship, vengeance - it'll all be yours, and I'll give it to you. Because I want you to be happy. Because I want what's best for you. Because I’M the only one who actually cares about you. Everything you wanted will be yours. And there'll be an eternal party to celebrate our eternal love… Or, you could do this the hard way. Cause I'm gettin’ outta here one way or another. And when I do, well… I don't think you'd like being locked up in The Love Cage to be TORTURED until you reciprocate my feelings and see the light. I'd say I wouldn't want to, but that'd be lying. So, it's probably not a good idea to give me more of a reason to. So, whaddaya say? You know you deserve the best. Shake my hand and join the winning team. Either way, you're mine.

#yandere headcanons #yandere x reader #yandere gravity falls #gravity falls x reader #gravity falls x you #yandere bill cipher x reader #yandere bill cipher #bill cipher x reader #bill cipher x you #yandere imagines #yandere #x reader #violence cw #violence tw #torture mention #unreality tw #unreality #paranoia tw #paranoia inducing

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sincerelybubbles · 1 month ago

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The Being (Un)Known \\ S. Reid x fem!reader

You never meant to orbit Spencer Reid, but somehow, you always do. The space between you is filled with quiet observations, lingering glances, and a tension that hums beneath every near miss. A brush of hands, a breath caught mid-sentence—small moments that build into something undeniable. It takes a near-disaster to bring you closer, but it’s the nights spent tangled in conversation, stolen glances over case files, and the weight of his name in your mouth that seal your fate.

12.1k, fem!reader. Slow-burn, lingering tension, quiet devotion, and Spencer being insufferably charming without realizing it.

CW: mutual pining, near-miss injury, brief emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, excessive overthinking, cannon-typical violence, references to religion.

Spencer Reid is an enigma you never mean to chase, a sun you don’t realize you’ve been orbiting until the pull of his gravity is undeniable. He’s not someone you’re supposed to know, not really—he works in profiling, a world built on instinct and razor-sharp deduction, while you’re still buried in textbooks, an academy student trying to shape yourself into something worthy.

He’s only a few years older, but the distance between you feels vast, like a canyon carved by time and experience. And yet, no matter how often you tell yourself that he’s just another name, just another agent, you keep finding him. Or maybe—just maybe—he lets himself be found.

You don’t think much of it at first, the way your paths cross in quiet places—hallways humming with fluorescent light, libraries steeped in dust and silence, moments that seem incidental but never quite are. And then, without warning, that quiet fascination tilts your entire world:

It’s Spencer who speaks your name when SSA Hotchner asks for a student to shadow the team.

“It’s only a few cases,” he tells you, voice warm with something like certainty. There’s a rare kind of confidence in the way he smiles—small, knowing. “But Rossi and I agree—you’ve got too much potential to stay in a classroom much longer.”

“You’re sharp,” Rossi agrees, stepping in with the weight of experience, his approval easy but meaningful. “Play this right, kid, and you’ll be glad you did.”

Rossi’s words settle over you, weighty with promise, but reality is heavier.

Your first case comes fast—too fast. One moment, you’re standing in the bullpen with a crisp folder in your hands, the next, you’re on a jet with seasoned agents, listening as crime scene photos flick past on the monitor. It’s a triple homicide, the kind of case you’ve only studied in theory, where the victimology is murky and the suspect is still a shadow. The words feel clinical in the briefing, just patterns and deductions, but then you’re standing in a house that doesn’t feel like a crime scene yet, where someone left dishes in the sink and a jacket draped over the back of a chair, never to be touched again.

You swallow hard.

“Deep breath,” Spencer murmurs beside you, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. You don’t want him to notice—don’t want anyone to notice—but Spencer’s eyes are too sharp, always catching things before they surface. You inhale, steadying yourself.

“This is different than the academy,” you admit, voice just above a whisper.

“It should be.” Spencer doesn’t sound condescending, doesn’t sound like he’s telling you anything you don’t already know. Just a simple, grounding fact. “But you’re still here.”

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

Slowly, you become accustomed to it. The days fly by while the hours drag on. \\

“Okay,” you tell the team, throwing your folders on the table to begin organizing them in the order you’ll present them. “JJ gave me four cases flagged as urgent,” you say, clicking the remote in your hand. The screen behind you flickers to life, displaying a title screen verging on too childish, nearly girly. You built the theme last night, sipping dregs of coffee, clinging to something that makes you feel human. A colorful border is enough to make you feel better about plastering victims' faces on a PowerPoint slide. “Each presents a significant threat, and each has something that warrants immediate intervention.”

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

You’re following the curriculum exactly, formatting how your professor told you to, but coming up with titles for the cases felt exaggerated, almost picturesque. You hesitated to do so last night, fingers flinching above your keyboard.

Your favorite professor, kindly answering your 3 am email, assured you it was natural. Par for the course. Identify the cases, give them a name to be referred to. It feels childish, she conceded in her response, but it’s what they want students to do.

“In Savannah, Georgia, three women have been found buried in shallow graves near the riverfront, all posed identically and dressed in wedding gowns.”

Emily crosses her arms, frowning. “That’s theatrical.”

“It is,” you agree, clicking to the next slide—a zoomed-in shot of the delicate lace on one victim’s gown, carefully arranged over stiff, lifeless hands. “The unsub is mimicking a local legend—one about a grieving bride who drowned herself in the river in the 1800s.”

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

You nod. “The first body was found two weeks ago. The second, one week ago. The third, two days ago.”

“Which means he’s escalating,” Hotch observes.

“Yes. If the unsub continues following this timeline, we could see another victim within days.”

Morgan exhales, shaking his head. “A guy like this? He’s loving the attention. He’s not gonna stop on his own.”

“No,” you agree. “And if his rituals are as important to him as they seem, he won’t just pick random victims. He’s looking for something—someone—to fit his narrative.”

Spencer leans forward, fingers tapping absently on the table. “That level of organization suggests a highly controlled personality. He’s not just killing—he’s curating.”

“He’s hand-stitching the dresses, too. Each is perfectly tailored to fit the victims.” The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You switch the slide.

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

“In Tulsa, Oklahoma, three families have been murdered in their homes over the course of the past two days.” You keep your voice steady, clicking through the crime scene images—too much blood, overturned furniture, a dinner table frozen mid-meal. “In all of the cases, the father was restrained and forced to watch before he was killed last.”

A grim silence settles over the room.

Rossi rubs a hand over his jaw. “He’s not just taking them out—he’s making them suffer.”

Morgan exhales sharply. “Which means this is personal.”

“Possibly,” you say. “There was no forced entry in either case, which suggests the unsub is either someone the victims trusted or someone who knew how to manipulate his way inside.”

“A service worker, maybe?” Emily muses. “Someone posing as law enforcement?”

“That’s a strong possibility,” you admit. “And if the pattern holds, we’re looking at another family being targeted in a few hours.”

JJ’s expression hardens. “We can’t let that happen.”

The weight in her voice lingers as you switch to the next slide.

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

“Denver, Colorado,” you say, clicking to a map marked with four red pins. “Four people have vanished over the last five months—one woman, two men, and a child. No bodies, no forensic evidence, no trace of them after the moment they disappeared.”

Spencer tilts his head. “No pattern in victim selection?”

“None that we can see,” you agree. “Different ages, different backgrounds. The only common thread is that they all vanished from public places.”

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

You shake your head. “In each case, cameras malfunctioned or lost power at the exact moment the victim disappeared.”

“That’s not a coincidence,” Hotch says.

“No,” you agree. “Which means we’re looking at an unsub—or possibly multiple—who is incredibly meticulous, well-prepared, and willing to wait for the perfect conditions.”

Morgan exhales. “Damn. If he’s this careful, we might not even know how many victims we’re missing.”

You nod, the reality of it settling into your gut like lead. You click to the final slide.

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

“Phoenix, Arizona,” you begin. “Five women have been found dead in the last six months. None have been identified.”

Emily shifts in her seat. “That’s a long time for that many women to go without names.”

“Exactly,” you say, flipping through the slides—malnourished bodies, identical scars along their spines. “We suspect the victims were held for an extended period before being killed. Medical reports indicate malnutrition and signs of prolonged restraint.”

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

“Maybe. But what stands out are these.” You zoom in on the marks along the victims’ backs—precise, deliberate incisions. “The wounds suggest medical knowledge. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

JJ’s face tightens. “He’s experimenting.”

“That’s the concern.” You glance at the team, your stomach twisting. “The unsub could still have others in captivity.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Hotch clears his throat. “Alright. You’ve presented four cases, all high priority. Now comes the hard part.” The part where you choose.

You inhale. Exhale. The weight of the decision presses against your ribs, but you don’t let it show.

“Take a moment,” Hotch says, voice even. “Decide which one we handle first.”

The room is quiet as you grip the remote a little tighter, eyes flicking between the slides, between the horrors laid out before you. Whichever case you choose, the others will wait. But not forever. You swallow hard and decide. The weight of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You shift your gaze between the slides still illuminated on the monitor—each one a tragedy waiting to unfold, each one a door closing on lives you’ll never be able to save if you don’t act now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. How awful that the fate of lives rests on a test for a student. You know it’s important – they have to test you. You’re here because Rossi and Spencer see potential, kept around because, according to Hotch’s last report, you’re proving to be irreplaceable. Still, the decision feels too big to be handed off to you.

You have to make a case, despite. You bite your lip, wrinkle your nose. Tells everyone around you can see, signals they’re noting and remembering. “The Tulsa case,” you say, finally, voice firm, but not as even as you want it to be. “That’s where we go first.”

Across the room, the team absorbs your choice in silence.

Hotch nods once, expression unreadable. “Walk us through your reasoning.”

You click back to the slide, the images of two shattered families staring back at you. You resist the urge to look away. “The unsub’s pattern is clear. Three families, mere hours apart. If he keeps to his timeline, another family is in danger—possibly right now”

JJ’s jaw tightens, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “And this isn’t just about killing them,” she adds. “The way he makes the fathers watch—it’s personal.”

“Exactly.” You glance at Spencer, who’s already nodding in agreement. “The level of control, the methodical nature—it suggests military or law enforcement training. Someone used to hierarchy, dominance.”

Morgan folds his arms. “Which means he’s not picking his victims at random.”

“No,” you agree. “If we can find the connection between the families, we can narrow down potential targets before he chooses his next one.” You click to the next slide, where the family structures are laid out side by side. “Right now, we have limited victimology, but the fathers were in leadership positions. One was a high-ranking bank manager, the other an attorney, the most recent one a sheriff.”

Emily tilts her head, considering. “A grudge? Financial ruin, a court case, something that connects them?”

“Possibly,” you say. “But we won’t know for sure until we dig deeper. And we don’t have time to wait for another murder to give us more evidence.”

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.” He turns to the team. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll be in Tulsa by tonight. JJ, contact the local PD and get us access to the crime scenes. Morgan, start looking into the victims’ professional histories—see if there’s overlap. Prentiss, work with Garcia to pull any major financial or legal disputes in the last six months. Rossi, coordinate with victim services—we need to talk to the families.”

Everyone moves into action around you, gathering files, pushing back chairs, murmuring in low voices.

Then, Spencer speaks, “You made the right call.” You glance up to find him watching you, head tilted slightly, something unreadable in his expression.

You swallow. “I hope so.” Because it doesn’t feel like the right call. It just feels like the least wrong one.

Spencer studies you for a moment longer, then nods, as if he understands something you haven’t said aloud. The decision is made.

You catch the guy — you’re with the best team in the world, of course, you do — and subsequently pass the ‘test’ JJ posed for you. This is the deal with your professors: aid in exchange for grades. It’s not totally unheard of, accepting an academy student onto a team for a brief trial to test-run them. Especially a student top of their class like you are.

What’s unusual is how long you stay on the team.

It’s long enough to catch more sightings of Spencer, scattered across the building, like watching a dove rest.

You don’t mean to linger, but you do. A moment too long, just enough to feel like a pause in a conversation neither of you started. His fingers drum against the ceramic of his mug—quick, controlled, an absent rhythm. You can’t help but wonder if he hears the world like that, like patterns waiting to be unraveled. Like music waiting to be played.

You scamper away, like a startled animal, afraid of what the mundane action awakens.

You don’t have time to be entranced by Spencer Reid. You really, really don’t, but you still feel the beginnings of it pool in your belly.

The air in the bullpen is thick with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din before being silenced by a hurried answer. Stale coffee lingers in the air, curling around the sharper scent of printer ink and the faintest traces of cologne clinging to coats draped over chairs. It smells like exhaustion, like long hours pressed into fabric, like something too lived-in to ever be fully washed away. The air conditioning murmurs somewhere overhead, cooling the space unevenly so that certain corners feel frigid while others remain stubbornly warm, weighted by too many bodies moving too slowly.

You should be focused. You should be finishing the report in front of you, should be paying attention to the pages you keep flipping through but not actually reading. But instead, your gaze drifts, betraying you before you can stop it. Across the room, at the coffee station, Spencer stands with his back to you, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped loosely around a ceramic mug, fingers curled just slightly, resting on the smooth surface in a way that seems absentminded. His thumb moves in slow, methodical circles against the ridges of the cup, a rhythm so small and controlled that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching. If you weren’t, despite every part of you screaming not to, noticing. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow over the angles of his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his hair that are just slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through them one too many times.

He doesn’t look up.

Not at you, not at anyone. His focus is turned inward, lost somewhere else, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his coffee as if he’s reading something in it, tracing the shape of a thought that hasn’t yet fully formed. His brow furrows slightly, just enough for you to notice, and then his fingers drum once—twice—against the ceramic, a quick tap-tap before stilling again. A habit, you think. A rhythm he follows without meaning to, the kind of movement that comes from a mind that never truly rests.

It is only then, only in the moment before you force yourself to look away, that he lifts his head. Not in your direction, not searching for you, but simply breaking free from whatever thought had been holding him captive. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something, but no sound comes. He just breathes, slow and measured, before lifting the mug to his mouth, taking a small sip, swallowing in a way that seems almost careful, like he’s weighing the warmth of the liquid against the feeling of it settling in his throat. You shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too small, too insignificant, and yet you can’t help but be transfixed by the way something as simple as drinking coffee becomes a deliberate act with him.

You realize that you’re still staring but you’re struggling to stop. You need to, you really need to, but the impulse to look at him is strong. It’s beyond physical attraction — something in him calls to you. A hunger to understand him, to be near him, to listen to him talk. He soothes something inside of you just by existing, piques your interest without trying, captivates your attention and hardly notices.

You tear your gaze away, back to your report, blinking rapidly, but it’s too late. The image of him is already burned into your mind, curling itself around your ribs, slipping into the spaces between thoughts like ink seeping into paper.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

The scent of rain clings to his clothes when he sits beside you. Not the sharp, metallic bite of a downpour, but the softer, earthier remnants of a drizzle that has already passed, leaving only damp fabric and the faintest trace of petrichor in its wake. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, sleeves still holding the ghost of the movement he made when shrugging it off, the fabric folded in on itself in a way that suggests he hadn’t given it much thought before sitting down. He smells like paper and ink, like something faintly sweet beneath it—maybe cinnamon, maybe something darker, warmer, something that lingers just long enough to make you yearn to lean closer, to breathe in deeply enough to decipher it. You don’t, of course. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes on your screen, your hands resting on the keyboard even though you haven’t typed anything in at least five minutes.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he flips open a case file, fingers moving fluidly over the pages, eyes scanning the text with a kind of quiet intensity that makes it look effortless. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that settles rather than lingers, the kind that feels less like absence and more like something tangible, something with weight, something wet and dripping, something shared. You wonder if he feels it, too.

After a while, he shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to break the stillness.

“Did you know,” he says, without preamble, voice smooth and even, “that the human olfactory system can distinguish over a trillion different scents?”

You blink, glancing at him, and he’s still looking at the file in front of him, fingers tracing the edge of the page like he’s only half-aware that he’s doing it.

“A trillion?” you echo. You hope you hadn’t inhaled too deeply when he sat down, pray to a god you don’t believe in that you don’t smell, start to attempt to calculate the probability of him simply thinking similar thoughts to you about the rain. The roof has been leaking, the scent of the sky is impossible to ignore.

His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile but something close to it. “Most studies used to claim it was around ten thousand, but newer research suggests it’s significantly higher. The brain can recognize scent combinations even in extremely small concentrations, which means—”

“That we’re capable of identifying more smells than we ever actually register.”

His head turns slightly toward you, just enough for his eyes to flicker up, catching yours for the briefest second before he nods. “Exactly.”

There is something about the way he looks at you in that moment—something unreadable, something lingering just beneath the surface—that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You glance away first. Spencer exhales through his nose, quiet, considering. He doesn’t continue with the tangent.

But the scent of rain still clings to him, even now. And for some reason, you can’t stop thinking about it.

After stretched moments, the scent of rain and dirt and musk and sweet lingering between the two of you while you try your hardest to get actual work done, Spencer clears his throat. “You know, you have a tell,” he says, voice thoughtful, not teasing.

You turn to him, brow lifting. “A tell?”

“Whenever you’re thinking about something but don’t want to say it, you press your thumb to your middle finger. Like you’re holding something between them.” His gaze flickers downward. Sure enough, you’re doing it now.

You exhale, glancing out at the room in front of you. “I didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

Spencer smiles, small and knowing. Nearly sad, it twinges at your heart. The organ aches to leap out of your chest and fall into his hands. “I always do.”

The silence returns, but it’s different now. He’s looking at you like he’s already memorized the way your hands move, the way your breath catches, the way your thoughts betray themselves in the smallest, most inconsequential gestures. And maybe he has. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised that he sees you so clearly, that he can read the shape of your hesitations as easily as words printed on a page. It’s his job, of course he does.

The weight of his attention sits heavy on your skin, not uncomfortable but warm, seeping into the spaces between your ribs, something close to reverence but not quite. You don’t know what to do with it.

So you do what you always do. You look away.

It’s nothing more than what he’s trained to do. You’ve noticed his habit of clinking his nails against his coffee mugs. Beyond that, ignoring your fascination with him, you know Hotch only ever sleeps on the plane after a case is solved, never on the way even though the rest of the team will if it's convenient. Emily has a cat that she never talks about, one she methodically lint rolls hair from off of her pants. JJ smoothes her hair when she’s happy. Morgan flares his nostrils often when he’s tired.

You all notice things, it’s natural. There’s nothing more to it than that. Spencer Reid isn’t watching you for any reason other than it’s a habit he’s developed to survive, to thrive, in this line of work.

The night outside is thick with the slow hush of passing cars, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement, the distant murmur of a city that never quite sleeps. The rain has stopped, but its remnants remain, clinging to the asphalt, to the scent of damp earth rising in waves from the ground, to the fabric of Spencer’s shirt, the faint musk of it curling in the space between you.

You curl your fingers tighter, pressing your thumb to your middle finger again, not even thinking.

Spencer’s breath shifts, barely audible, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are still on your hands, watching, studying, something flickering behind his expression—something unreadable, something you don’t think you have the courage to name.

“What is it?” He asks instead of taking the leap.

“What is what?”

He gestures at your hands, veins flexing at the movement. “What’re you thinking and not saying?”

You flounder for a moment, lost in what to say. I think you’re beyond attractive, I can’t believe you’ve been staring at my hands, can you tell how often I stare at your hands, did you know sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you, that I have your smell memorized, that I’m sure this means nothing and I just admire you as a person and there are definitely no fluttery feeling in my gut begging me to put my mouth on you? Also, do I reak? Are you spewing facts about smells, about something so unavoidable, because your desk is next to mine and I’m simply putrid?

“I’m allergic to oranges,” you blurt out instead.

Spencer seems shocked, blinking at you, mouth slightly open. You can see the pink of his tongue between his teeth, slowly pressing into the bone as he begins to smile, pinching the soft skin there in reflex. You hadn’t noticed it in detail before, but you suppose he does that often — bites the tip of his tongue when he’s fighting to keep that full-mouthed smile at bay.

“What?”

“I’m allergic. And Garcia gives one to me every week and Rossi noticed and assumed I love them so he’s started giving them to me, too, and, well,” you push back your desk chair and pull your drawer open. Orange scent wafts out, perfuming the air and making your nose wrinkle.

Sitting in the desk are five oranges, collected over the week, that you’ve been waiting on a clear office to throw away.

“You’re kidding!” Spencer cries, peering over your shoulder and snickering. “I thought you loved them, too. You always smell like them.”

“Oh, ew.”

Spencer waves you off, plucking the fruit from your desk and cradling them in his arms, “It’s lovely, don’t worry. Why didn’t you say anything? You could get sick.”

You swallow the lovely comment, feeling it hit the base of your skull and sink into your blood, warming you all the way down. “It’s only a problem if I eat them, nothing happens if they touch me. Shove a slice down my throat, though, and I break out in hives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spencer says, snickering and tossing the oranges away for you.

You make it through the rest of the evening. You get back to work. You pretend like none of it happened, like you didn’t just let him glimpse a piece of you that you didn’t mean to reveal. You tell yourself that it’s fine, that the moment is already dissolving into the rest of the day, folding itself into the pile of interactions that mean nothing, that don’t linger.

But later, when you’re in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you realize two things.

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

“You lied, earlier,” Spencer tells you, hours later in the elevator.

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

“Do you want to see a doctors note?” You’re tired, struggling to remember what he’s talking about. You two are the last in the office usually — you’re just a student and Spencer is vocal about not doing much outside of work.

“No, I believe you’re allergic, it’s just not what you were thinking about.” He’s leaning against the wall of the elevator, golden hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. It’s not the most flattering — the harsh lighting gives him a sickly complexion, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looks nearly sick.

Frankly, he still looks so handsome that you feel slightly overwhelmed with it.

You decide to give him a piece of the truth to satiate him, knowing there’s not much use in lying to a seasoned profiler. There’s a reason why he’s only a few years older than you with years more experience under his belt.

“You freaked me out. I was thinking about how you smelled like the rain and cinnamon and then you started talking about smells. I thought I either smelled so bad that you couldn’t think of any other way to tell me or you suddenly learned how to read minds.”

Spencer chuckles, motioning forward with his hand as the door opens. You walk forward, keeping your head turned to the side slightly to catch how his eyes crinkle as she smiles. His eyes drift up and then down, a habit he has before he speaks when he’s tired, and then he pushes himself off of the wall to follow you.

“I mentioned it because I could smell you, but it’s not bad, I promise.”

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Sure. Just say I reak and I’ll change my shampoo or something, promise!”

“Oh, please don’t,” Spencer pleads, laughing. “What will I do without your Pantene-y scent filling the office every morning!”

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

It’s supposed to be a temporary holding place, a nondescript home tucked into a quiet neighborhood just far enough from the city that no one should be looking. The doors are reinforced, the blinds drawn tight, the exits mapped and double-checked. A necessary precaution. A routine assignment. A night of keeping a witness safe until she can testify in the morning.

You tell yourself all of this, but none of it changes the sharp tug of unease curling in your gut.

You don’t let it show. Not when you check your watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Not when you shift your stance near the window, your fingers flexing at your sides like your body is already preparing for a fight you haven’t seen yet. Not when Spencer, who has spent the better part of the evening reviewing case notes at the kitchen table, finally lifts his head and looks at you like he’s about to ask what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

He tilts his head, studying you, eyes flickering across your face like he can read the tension there. Maybe he can. Maybe he has been for longer than you realize. You press your thumb to your middle finger, grounding yourself, and Spencer notices that, too.

You roll your eyes as you notice his noticing but say nothing, turning your attention back to the window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesn’t settle right, that carries the weight of something unseen pressing against it. It makes your stomach twist.

Spencer shifts behind you. “The odds of an actual attack on a safe house are statistically low. Most unsubs won’t risk a direct confrontation in a location they can’t control.”

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away, but the flicker in his expression is enough. The same unease that’s gnawing at you has made its way under his skin, too. He may not operate on instinct the way the others do, may rely on numbers and data and probabilities before action, but he isn’t blind to the feeling in the air—the one that says something is coming.

And then, something does.

The first gunshot cracks through the silence like a splintering branch, tearing the night open. The second follows immediately after, embedding into the window frame centimeters from where you were standing just seconds before. You don’t think. You move.

Spencer is already on his feet when you shove him down, his body colliding with yours as the two of you hit the floor. The room erupts into chaos—glass shattering, bullets puncturing drywall, the distant, terrified gasp of the witness as she ducks behind the couch. Your heart pounds, adrenaline splashing hot and fast through your veins as you press against Spencer, shielding as much of him as you can. He’s speaking, but you barely hear him over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The ringing of the gunshot so close to your head has left you dizzy and deaf.

“Move!” you manage to shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you, keeping low as another round of gunfire splinters the table where he was sitting just moments before. You don’t know how many shooters there are. You don’t know where they are. But you know you have to get out.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tighten around yours, and together you bolt for the hallway, ducking as another window bursts inward. You shove him ahead of you, searching for cover, for an escape, for anything but the open target the living room has become.

“Basement,” Spencer says, voice sharp, focused. It warbles against your pulsing ears, barely understood. You’re mostly relying on lip reading and context clues. “We need to get underground.”

You don’t argue. You barely register the movement of your own body as you drag the witness with you, shoving open the basement door and practically throwing Spencer down the stairs before following, slamming it shut just as more bullets spray against the frame. Your breath is ragged, too loud in the thick darkness, the only light coming from the single flickering bulb overhead. The space is small, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture, but it’s shelter. For now.

You’re still gripping Spencer’s arm. Hard. You can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath your fingers, mirroring your own. It takes effort to release him, to force your hands to unclench.

He doesn’t move away.

The witness is shaking, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Spencer kneels beside her, murmuring something soft, something steadying. You press your back against the door, listening for movement above, trying to piece together a plan while your body still thrums with leftover adrenaline.

Spencer looks up at you. His eyes are dark in the dim light, sharp with something between urgency and something else, something you don’t have time to name.

“They’ll breach soon,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, swallowing hard. The air is thick. The scent of dust and damp wood clings to it, mixing with the faint trace of Spencer’s cologne, something warm and familiar despite the chaos above. You focus on it, on the grounding presence of him beside you, close enough that you could reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt if you wanted to.

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

Spencer exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, and shifts closer, just slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact is brief but solid, enough to remind you that he’s here, that he’s real, that this isn’t just a moment suspended in panic but something unfolding, something with weight.

The witness sniffles, drawing both of your attention back. Spencer softens his voice, murmuring reassurances, quiet, steady things meant to anchor her. You keep your focus on the door, ears tuned to the movements above, but some part of you latches onto his words, the cadence of them, the way they smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

Another creak from upstairs. A shuffle of movement. Your fingers flex around your gun. Spencer glances at you again, expression unreadable in the dim light, but his meaning is clear.

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

Then the door bursts inward, and everything moves at once. Gunfire explodes, too close, too loud. You fire off two rounds before a sharp pain sears through your side, white-hot and immediate. The impact sends you stumbling back against the cold concrete floor, breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to pull you under.

Spencer is there before you even register falling. His hands are on you, pressing against the wound, urgent and shaking, his breath coming fast.

“You’re hit,” he says, voice tight, edged with something near panic.

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

Spencer doesn’t laugh. He just presses harder, trying to slow the bleeding, his fingers slick with warmth that doesn’t belong to him. He glances up, scanning the dark corners of the basement, the outline of the intruder slumping forward as your shots take effect. The danger isn’t over, not yet, but Spencer isn’t moving away from you.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You try for a smirk but only manage a wince. “Worried about me, Reid?”

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

A crash echoes upstairs, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. Reinforcements. You and Spencer exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between you. You both know that staying here is no longer an option.

Spencer shifts, keeping one hand pressed against your wound while the other reaches for the gun at his side. “We need to move.”

The witness, still trembling in the corner, looks between you both with wide, terrified eyes. “What do we do?”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the pain threatening to pull you under. “There’s a cellar door. Side of the house.”

Spencer nods sharply, adjusting his grip. “We go now.”

He helps you up, his arm sliding under yours, bracing you against him. The movement sends fire through your side, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps upstairs is growing louder, more deliberate. Whoever is coming isn’t planning to leave survivors.

The three of you move as quickly as you can, Spencer leading the way with his gun raised, the witness keeping close behind. The basement door groans on its hinges as you push through, emerging into the damp night air. The rain has started again, a fine mist clinging to your skin as you stumble forward.

Headlights slice through the darkness just as the first gunshot erupts behind you. Spencer pulls you down, shielding you as best he can while the FBI-issued SUV skids to a stop at the curb. The doors burst open, Morgan and Hotch emerging with their weapons drawn.

“She’s hit!” Spencer shouts, his grip on you tightening as the gunfire continues behind you.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He returns fire, his stance steady, controlled. Hotch moves to cover you and the witness, his eyes sweeping over your injury before snapping back to the fight. “Get her in the car!” he orders.

Spencer doesn’t wait. He all but lifts you into the backseat, the witness scrambling in after you. You can feel how his muscles strain to lift you, flexing and rolling as he lifts you as carefully as possible, refusing to allow you to help. The slam of the door barely muffles the chaos outside. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the weight of adrenaline keeping you upright.It takes your swimming mind time to process that Spencer is curling the van instead of allowing you to move over. You should protest but your mind continues to jump around, straining to pay attention to the scene outside. Have they caught him? The witness is safe, she’s sobbing beside you, but is the rest of the team?

Then the passenger door swings open, and Spencer climbs in beside you. He’s breathing hard, his knuckles white where they grip his gun, but his eyes are locked on yours. “You still with me?”

You nod, though exhaustion is dragging at your limbs, pulling you under. “Still here.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

Morgan jumps into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb, tires screeching against wet pavement. You glance out the window just in time to see Hotch and the rest of the team securing the scene, the last of the gunfire fading into the distance.

Spencer exhales, finally lowering his weapon, and turns back to you. “Let’s get you home.”

The jet hums beneath you, a steady vibration you feel in your bones. Most of the team is asleep, exhaustion weighing heavy after the mission. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the cabin in soft shadows. You should be asleep, too, but the throbbing ache in your side keeps you from finding rest.

Spencer hasn’t left your side. He sits next to you, his book open but untouched, his fingers drumming against the cover in restless patterns. Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes flicking toward your face, your side, your hands.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not opening your eyes.

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

You crack an eye open, giving him a pointed look. “Reid.”

He presses his lips together. “I’m just… observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting slightly, wincing at the sharp pull of your injury. Spencer moves before you can stop him, adjusting the blanket draped over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His touch is light, careful.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And, statistically, someone in your condition should be experiencing lightheadedness, muscle fatigue, and an increased need for rest. Your body is trying to compensate for the blood loss by increasing your heart rate, which is why you’re still feeling so warm despite the cabin temperature being nearly ten degrees lower than standard room temperature.”

You blink at him, half amused, half exhausted. “You always talk this much when you’re worried?”

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re quoting medical statistics at me, Reid.”

He shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t argue. “I just think you should be resting.”

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he nods. “Right. Okay.”

You sigh, closing your eyes, exhaustion creeping in. Just as your body starts to go heavy with sleep, you feel movement beside you—the soft rustle of fabric. Something warm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than the blanket.

You crack an eye open and see Spencer shrugging out of his jacket, carefully settling it around you.

“Spence—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You need it.”

You don’t argue. The warmth of his jacket, the steady hum of the jet, and the quiet presence of Spencer beside you lull you under.

The last thing you hear before sleep takes over is the sound of him turning another page—not reading, just waiting.

The bullpen is buzzing with the familiar hum of keyboards clacking, quiet conversations murmuring through the space, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. It’s one of those rare in-between days—no pressing cases, no jet waiting on the tarmac, just paperwork and coffee refills. A brief, deceptive calm before the inevitable storm.

You’re at your desk, fingers drumming absently against a stack of reports you’ve been meaning to go through for the past half hour. You should be working, but your attention keeps drifting—particularly to the desk across from yours, where Spencer is deep in thought, a book propped open against his keyboard. He’s not even pretending to do his paperwork.

You tilt your head, watching him for a beat. His lips move slightly as he reads, fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk, entirely lost in whatever tangent he’s found himself in. You fight a giggle.

“Should I be concerned that you’ve been staring at that same page for the last fifteen minutes?”

Spencer blinks, snapping out of his reverie. He looks at you, then down at his book, then back at you, brow furrowing like he’s just realized he’s been caught.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I was reading. But I was also thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitates, glancing toward his book as if debating whether to explain. Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his face. “Did you know that the average person speaks about sixteen thousand words per day? But in reality, most of our daily conversations are filled with repetition, small talk, and pleasantries that don’t contribute much meaningful information.”

You blink at him. “So, what, you’re saying we all talk too much?”

His lips twitch. “Not exactly. Just that… statistically, most conversations are redundant. People say the same things over and over again, sometimes just for the sake of filling silence.”

You smirk. “And yet, you’re one of the most talkative people I know.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, but there’s amusement flickering there. “That’s different. I provide new information.”

You hum, pretending to consider that. “Debatable.” The joke dances on your tongue and you see the edge of a smile fight to peel its way across his cheeks.

Before he can argue, a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision, and you glance up to see JJ setting it on your desk with a knowing smile. “Flirting through statistics again?” she teases before apologetically placing another file on your desk next to the coffee-offering and walking off.

Spencer clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his book again, while you just chuckle, lifting the cup in silent thanks, adding the case to your impending pile.

“Face it, Reid,” you say, taking a sip. “You talk a lot. Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

You turn back to your work, flipping through the pages stuck in your folder. You weren’t on the assignment you’re tasked with processing, the curse of being lowest on the totem pole, but the case is interesting enough. Still, you find your eyes skimming, fingers tapping on the desk.

“Now who’s zoning out?” Spencer asks. When you look up, he’s smiling at you.

“Sorry, I was just wondering. Were you saying that because you feel like our conversations are actually redundant?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “No. If anything, our conversations are anomalous.”

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. “Most daily conversations consist of formulaic exchanges—small talk, routine inquiries, expected responses. But ours deviate. We don’t follow typical social scripts.”

You take another sip of coffee, fighting a grin. “So what you’re saying is… we’re special? Different? Not like other coworkers?”

Spencer huffs, clearly trying to fight back a smile of his own. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s a very fancy way of admitting you enjoy talking to me.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. “You already said that.”

“I’m repeating myself,” he says, deadpan. “Which, as I previously stated, most people do without realizing.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “See? Redundant.”

Spencer exhales, feigning exasperation, but you catch the way his lips twitch, like he’s barely containing his amusement. He glances down at his book again, but it’s obvious he’s no longer reading. Instead, his fingers tap absently against the desk, his gaze drifting back to you as if he’s waiting for whatever you’ll say next.

After a beat, you shift slightly in your chair, hesitating before asking, “If most conversations are menial and redundant, is there anything you’d actually like to know about me?”

Spencer’s fingers stop tapping. His head tilts slightly, eyes brightening with interest. “Yes.”

You blink, caught off guard by his immediate answer. “Oh. Okay.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question is so simple, so unexpected, that you laugh softly. “That’s what you want to know?”

He shrugs. “I like colors. They’re associated with memory and emotion. The colors we gravitate toward can tell a lot about how we perceive the world.”

You consider it. “Hm. Blue, I think. The kind of blue right before the sun sets.”

Spencer’s lips twitch, like he’s cataloging that information for later. “That makes sense.”

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

“Yellow,” he says easily. “Statistically, it’s associated with intelligence and optimism. But mostly, I just like how warm it feels.”

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

Spencer watches you for a beat before continuing, “Do you like to cook?”

“I can cook,” you say hesitantly. “Do I enjoy it? Debatable.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, a reluctant chef.”

“More like a survivalist cook,” you amend. “You?”

“I actually do like cooking. It’s methodical. Precise.”

You snort. “Of course, you’d say that.”

His lips twitch again. “What about books? Do you read for fun, or do you avoid it since we deal with enough research at work?”

You glance at the stack of case files on your desk before meeting his gaze. “I do read. But nothing… analytical. I like stories. Ones that pull you out of reality.”

Spencer hums, clearly pleased by that. “Escapism.”

“Something like that. What about you?”

“I’m currently translating a Russian novel written in the 16th century.”

“Ah. So you research at work and at home.”

Spencer hums, tilting his head to the side. “No, I think it’s still escapism. It’s something to focus on that takes just enough of my focus that I can let the world fade away. General novels don’t do enough to ‘pull me out of reality.’”

Your conversation continues, the questions growing deeper—favorite childhood memory, biggest irrational fear, if you believe in fate. The air between you shifts, still lighthearted but threaded with something more thoughtful, something lingering. Neither of you notice how much time has passed, how the rest of the bullpen has faded into the background. Neither of you seem to mind.

“Are you two actually planning on doing work today, or just nerding out over here?” Morgan saunters over, arms crossed, a teasing grin plastered across his face. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more excited to talk about words.”

You roll your eyes but play along immediately, sitting up straighter. “We’re conducting an in-depth analysis of human conversation patterns, actually. Very important work.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “It’s a highly valuable study in linguistic redundancy.”

Morgan snorts. “Right. And how many case files have you two managed to process between all this very valuable research?”

You glance at the untouched stack of paperwork on your desk. “Define ‘process.’”

Morgan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You’re really letting him rub off on you, huh?”

Your grin falters, just slightly, something warm settling in your chest at the thought. You don’t want to just be letting it happen—you want to belong here, to be part of this team in every way that matters. And for the first time, it feels like maybe you already do.

Later that evening, Rossi hosts a team dinner at his house, a tradition that has somehow become a staple among the group. His kitchen is full of the warm scent of garlic and herbs, the clinking of dishes, the comfortable laughter of people who have seen the worst parts of the world together and still choose to sit at the same table.

When you arrive, the house is already brimming with conversation. Morgan greets you first, throwing an arm around your shoulders with an easy grin. "Look who finally decided to show up. We thought you might be hiding out, avoiding us."

You roll your eyes. "As if I could ever avoid all this chaos."

"Chaos?" JJ chimes in, nudging you playfully as she passes by with three drinks balanced between her two hands. "This is tradition."

Emily smirks, leaning against the counter as she sips her wine. "Some traditions involve singing. Others involve roasting marshmallows. Ours? A fine mix of sarcasm and psychological analysis."

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

"And some of us even make an effort to discuss more elevated topics," Spencer adds, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under his arm.

Morgan groans. "Oh God, don’t tell me you brought a book to dinner."

"It’s not for dinner," Spencer says, offended. "It’s just something I was reading earlier. Did you know that communal meals have historically played a significant role in human bonding? Anthropologists argue that the act of sharing food helped shape early societal structures, reinforcing a sense of trust and cooperation."

You smile, all warm edges and fuzzy thoughts. "So what you're saying is, this dinner is historically significant?"

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

Morgan shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, professor. How about instead of a lecture, you help set the table?"

Rossi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring sauces and pulling fresh bread from the oven, effortlessly hosting while still engaging in every conversation. He waves you over at one point, nudging a wine bottle toward you. "Since you brought such a good one last time, how about you do the honors?"

You take the bottle from him, grateful for something to do, something to focus on besides the bubbling warmth of the evening settling under your skin. As you work the cork from the bottle, Spencer sidles up beside you, watching with quiet amusement.

"You know," he starts, "there’s actually a method to opening wine that prevents cork residue from contaminating the liquid."

You glance up at him with a self-conscious smile. "Is that your way of telling me I’m doing it wrong?"

His lips twitch, a near-smile. "Not wrong. Just… suboptimal."

You roll your eyes, finally freeing the cork and handing him the bottle. "Then, by all means, Dr. Reid, show me the optimal way."

Spencer takes the bottle, hands brushing against yours. You find yourself still looking up at him for a moment, fingers gently touching, a moment collapsing into itself. You watch as his pupils dilate, slightly, a normal reaction to eye contact and nothing further (a notion your body refuses to acknowledge, filled with the silly idea that maybe it’s attraction pushing his eyes open further to observe more of you). His mouth opens, ready to explain what he’s doing. But, before he can launch into an explanation, Morgan’s voice carries across the room. "Oh great, the nerds found each other again. Should we all just clear out and let you guys talk statistics over dinner?"

Emily snorts from where she’s leaning against the counter, sipping her drink. "Honestly, I’d pay to watch that."

You play along easily, shaking your head in faux exasperation. "We were having a very riveting discussion about wine physics, actually. Life-altering shit."

Morgan grins. "Yeah, I bet. What’s next, the molecular breakdown of garlic bread?"

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

You elbow him lightly before he can get started, and his mouth snaps shut. It’s the smallest moment, but it sends a ripple of warmth through you—this unspoken understanding, the ease of teasing him without making him feel small.

You’ve noticed before when the gentle teasing goes too far. When the team pushes a bit too much, makes him feel like a burden instead of a fountain of knowledge. The painful edge of it digs into your stomach more often than you would care to admit. A significant amount of your energy when talking to Spencer is spent toeing that line. You can’t help but tease but you never want to make him feel like his interests and knowledge are a burden.

Rossi chuckles, setting a tray of pasta on the counter. "Alright, everyone, grab a plate before the food gets cold."

The group disperses into easy movement, laughter trailing behind as plates are filled and seats are taken around the long wooden dining table. You settle beside Spencer again, your knees brushing under the table. The proximity is unintentional, but you don’t move away, and neither does he.

The meal is indulgent, the flavors rich and familiar, but it’s not the food that lingers—it’s the feeling. The warmth of being gathered around this table, among these people, feels sacred in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced before. Like communion, like breaking bread with disciples who have seen you bleed and stayed anyway. You wonder if Spencer feels it, too, if he sees the holiness in shared meals and easy laughter, in the way the team fills the spaces between each other like stained glass fitted carefully into its frame.

You and this team have been through so much together — the rest more than you. The past months shadowing the team have been insightful, exciting, and have done more than anything else to solidify that this is what you want to be doing with your career. Beyond that, the time has been tough. Your grit, your ability to persevere and persist, and your skills, have been tested day beyond day.

Beyond the toughness though, you’ve found a home. Community. Family. You see through their exteriors to admire them, the people around you. It’s more than you could have ever thought it to be, this life. Before this, you’ve been floating. Drifting through life, living for exams and physicals and finals. Studying, working for a result you were unfamiliar with. Now, though, the taste of the life you’ve ground yourself to the bone for glistening on the tip of your tongue, you’re hungry. Starving for life to continue, salivating at the mouth for any and all opportunities to stay here, in this moment, with the team.

Conversations flow freely around you, a mix of teasing and genuine storytelling, warmth curling in your chest as you sip your wine and let yourself exist in this moment. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he listens—really listens—his attention flickering between the voices around the table, occasionally back to you.

At one point, Rossi taps his glass, drawing attention. "Since we’ve got everyone here tonight, I’d like to make a toast. To this team, to good food, and to the fact that somehow, against all odds, we manage to stay sane."

A chorus of laughter follows, glasses raised and clinking together. You catch Spencer watching you again over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. Not quite curiosity, not quite something else. Whatever it is, it lingers between you like the space between notes in a song—present, felt, but not yet fully realized.

You take another sip of wine, and the flavor sits heavy on your tongue, tart and deep, reminiscent of something older than yourself. You wonder if this is what devotion feels like—lingering in a moment you don’t want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, you’ll still hear the echoes of this laughter in your bones.

Spencer shifts beside you, his knee pressing just a little more firmly against yours. He doesn’t look away this time. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you belong.

It starts over coffee, late in the afternoon when the sky has begun its slow descent into gold. The café is small, tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, where the music is just quiet enough to let conversation breathe. You meet there often, sometimes after work, sometimes on weekends when neither of you have anywhere urgent to be. It feels like neutral ground—safe, familiar, but tonight, something feels different.

Spencer is fidgeting.

His fingers curl and uncurl around his coffee cup, tracing patterns in the ceramic like he’s working up to something. His gaze flickers to the window, the steam curling from his drink, your hands resting on the table. Anywhere but your face.

You sip your drink slowly, watching him with quiet apprehension. “You look like you’re debating something incredibly complicated.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “I am.”

“Must be serious, then.”

“It is.” He shifts, finally—finally—meets your gaze, something fragile and certain flickering in the warm depths of his eyes. “Would you—” he stops, swallows, starts again. “Would you want to go to dinner with me?”

The words settle between you, weighty but delicate, like something precious placed carefully in waiting hands. You can see the way he braces for impact, his fingers tightening around his cup, his breath just a little too still.

You tilt your head, letting the moment stretch, just to watch him squirm. Then, softly, “In what way? A date?”

You are hesitant, voice barely audible. You’re scared to ask, feeling childish, the words tasting forbiddenly sweet on your lips. You tell yourself you can’t have been imagining everything between you two the past weeks — months, even. The lingering touches, the connection that sits at the base of your spine and ignites you with something far beyond holiness.

Spencer watches you for a moment before ducking his head. He looks shy, uncertain. “If that’s okay, yes.”

The words hit you in the center of your chest. You’re certain you’ve heard wrong for a full second, sure that he couldn’t possibly be confirming your wildest dreams.

“I would really like that.”

His shoulders loosen, just slightly. Relief unwinds in the smallest of ways—the way his fingers flex, the subtle shift in his posture. He nods, barely, taking a slow sip of his coffee like he needs to ground himself against the movement.

You don’t miss the small, pleased smile he hides behind the rim of his cup.

The evening of the date arrives, and your apartment is a disaster zone.

Clothes are strewn across your bed in varying states of rejection, your closet door hanging half-open as if it, too, is exhausted from your indecision. You tell yourself it’s not nerves—it’s just a normal dinner, just Spencer—but your pulse betrays you, humming under your skin like an electric current.

You tug at the hem of your sweater, second-guessing, then third-guessing, your reflection offering no clarity. A date. The word itself feels foreign on your tongue, weighty in your mind. The possibility of something more, something unknown, something irreversible—

Then, the knock at your door.

You exhale sharply, pressing your hands against your thighs like it’ll steady you, before crossing the room. You hesitate for just a moment, long enough to gather breath, then open it.

Spencer stands there, scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from the cold. He’s holding flowers, wrapped in delicate brown paper, not random but deliberate, purposeful. His fingers tighten around them as his lips part, ready to explain, but you reach out first, brushing your fingers over the petals.

“They’re beautiful.”

His gaze flickers to yours, searching. “They, uh… they all have different meanings. I can tell you, if you want.”

Your chest feels warm, full. “I’d like that.”

He nods once, clearing his throat. “Well, the blue cornflowers—they mean ‘hope in love,’ and the lavender represents devotion. And the ivy, that’s for fidelity, and um—” he stops, shifting awkwardly—“I wanted it to mean something. To you.”

Your fingers tighten just slightly around the bouquet, breath catching.

“It does.”

The drive to the restaurant is wrapped in quiet conversation, the kind that feels like warmth on a winter evening. Spencer talks—of course he talks—his voice weaving through facts about the historical significance of first dates, how certain cultures believed that sharing a meal was an intimate ritual, a way of binding souls together.

“You’re romanticizing it,” you tease, studying the way the streetlights paint fleeting golden patterns across his profile.

He huffs a soft laugh. “It’s just history.”

“History can be romantic.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable settling in his features. “I suppose it can.”

You watch him as he drives—the way his fingers flex against the wheel, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates. There’s something in the ease of this, in the soft lull of conversation and the quiet hum of the road beneath you, that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something significant.

When you arrive, he moves to open your door but nearly smacks you in the face in his haste. He freezes, mortified, clears his throat. “Sorry.”

You bite back a laugh. “It’s okay. I appreciate the effort.”

The restaurant is intimate, the kind of place that makes everything feel softer—low candlelight, warm wood paneling, the steady murmur of quiet conversation. A flickering candle sits at the center of your table, casting shifting patterns along the surface, making everything feel just a little dreamlike, just a little surreal.

Spencer shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He exhales a quiet laugh. “This is… nice.”

You nod, the candlelight catching in his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

The menu is filled with dishes just unfamiliar enough to make you both pause, debating choices. Spencer, of course, has read about half of them before.

“You know, the origins of risotto actually trace back to the Middle Ages. It was influenced by Arabic rice cultivation techniques brought to Sicily, and—” he stops himself, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I can, uh, get carried away.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I like when you get carried away.”

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

The night stretches in slow, golden increments, conversation winding through shared stories, quiet laughter, the clink of silverware against plates. He tells you about childhood books that meant something to him, you tell him about the first time you realized you loved what you do. The space between you narrows, not in distance, but in something deeper, something quieter.

And then it happens.

The realization strikes like a bolt of lightning, sharp and electric. You want to kiss him. It isn’t a slow realization, isn’t something that builds over time—it hits all at once, undeniable.

The candlelight flickers, catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move around words. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, knuckles flexing. Something about it feels holy.

You realize, suddenly, that you’re staring. That you’re leaning in.

Spencer pauses mid-sentence, blinking at you. “What?”

You exhale, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a beat longer, his gaze searching, curious, like he’s trying to decipher something just out of reach. The air between you thickens, humming with something unspoken, something waiting.

But he doesn’t press. Instead, he picks up his coffee again, takes a slow sip, and when he speaks next, it’s with the same easy rhythm as before.

And you let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.

The knock comes late. Too late for pleasantries, too late for anything but something raw, something that has been waiting to surface.

You aren’t asleep. Haven’t even tried. The air in your apartment feels too thick, the weight of the last case pressing into the spaces between your ribs, making every breath feel just a little too shallow. So when the knock sounds again, quieter this time but insistent, you already know who it is before you even reach for the door.

Spencer stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he’s been standing there for too long, debating whether or not to knock again. The dim hallway lighting casts shadows under his eyes, exhaustion lining his face, but there’s something else, too—something hesitant, something that flickers behind his expression like a barely-contained thought.

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

He exhales, slow, measured, the way he does when he’s trying to pick the right words before speaking. “I—” He hesitates, shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

A lie. You see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath stumbles. You see it in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours, how they flicker toward your shoulder, your collarbone, before darting away again, like he’s afraid of being caught.

You step aside, let him in.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It settles, wraps around you both as he moves past you, as he lingers near the kitchen counter without quite leaning against it, as you close the door and turn to face him.

You should say something. Should ask him why he’s here, why he looks like he’s spent hours convincing himself not to be. But the words don’t come. They tangle in your throat, unwilling to break the moment that is already unraveling between you.

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

The words are soft, careful, but steady. Not a confession, not quite, but something close. Something that shifts the air between you, makes it sharper, makes it real.

You inhale, slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t steady you the way you hope it will. Your pulse jumps, a small stutter beneath fragile skin, and you know he sees it, knows he’s cataloging it the way he does everything.

Spencer exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him, and when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, there’s something unguarded in his gaze. “I think about you all the time.”

You watch as he sways slightly, like he’s resisting the pull, like gravity itself is urging him closer.

And then he stops resisting.

He moves carefully, like he’s giving you space to step back, to stop him, but you don’t. You stay rooted where you stand, watching as his hands hover at your sides, reverent, hesitant. His fingers flex once, a brief curl like he’s debating whether or not to touch you, whether or not to let himself have this.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

Your fingers brush against his wrist, a featherlight touch, tentative, but it’s enough. Enough for him to let out a slow, shaky breath, enough for him to tilt his head, just slightly, enough for his hands—hovering, waiting—to finally settle at your waist. His touch is a whisper of warmth, hesitant, reverent, the weight of it barely there as if afraid that pressing too hard will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you in this moment.

His skin is fever-warm beneath your fingertips, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his sleeves, seeping into your own. The air between you hums, thick with something unspoken, a tension so finely drawn it feels like it might snap at the slightest movement. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the inevitable force that has been pulling you together for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. But suddenly, impossibly, there is no more space left to close.

He is close. Close enough that you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his pupils darken like ink spilling into warm honey. Close enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they rest against you, like he’s bracing himself against something too big to name. Close enough that his breath—uneven, shallow, shaking—ghosts across your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an imprint that will never leave. His fingers flex—barely, just a little—but the movement is enough to send a ripple down your spine, enough to make your stomach dip like a held note in a song unfinished.

He exhales again, something like a laugh but softer, more fragile, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. Like he is standing at the edge of something vast and unknown, and for once in his life, he is hesitating.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet between you.

You smile, small and real, the kind of smile meant only for him. “Me either.”

Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. His gaze drops—to your lips, flickers back to your eyes—searching, waiting, still holding himself back. The space between you crackles with electricity, the kind that comes before a storm, before the sky splits open and the world drowns in something relentless, inescapable.

You make the choice for him.

You lift your chin just slightly, tilt forward just enough, and that’s all it takes.

The first touch of his mouth to yours is hesitant, uncertain, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. A quiet, careful can I? rather than I will. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and his breath stumbles against yours as he presses just a little closer, as if afraid you might pull away. You feel it the moment something in him gives way, the moment the tension in his body unwinds and he stops second-guessing himself and simply lets go.

His fingers tighten at your waist, just barely, but enough to make you shiver. His other hand drifts, fingertips skimming up the curve of your spine like a whisper of a prayer, settling lightly at the back of your neck, a delicate anchor. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like he’s afraid he’ll forget how you fit against him if he doesn’t take his time.

He tastes like coffee, like exhaustion, like something sweeter underneath it all, something uniquely him. You drink him in, slow, deliberate, every second stretched thin and precious. The world has narrowed to this—his breath, his touch, the way he exhales so quietly when you sigh against his lips.

And then he pulls you closer, deepening it just slightly, just enough to steal whatever air was left between you.

When you part, neither of you move away. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, still wrapped in the hush of the moment, still holding on, just for a little longer.

Spencer exhales, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want this to be a mistake.”

You press your fingers against the back of his hand, grounding. “It’s not.”

Something eases in his expression. He nods, just once, before his fingers trace lightly over your jaw, tilting your face back up toward his.

And then, he kisses you again.

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formelydailynowweeklykillersans · 7 months ago

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THIS QUESTION FUCKING APPEARED IN MY HEAD LIKE AN TON OF BRICKS BC OF A AU I MADE WITH MY FRIEND... . . . hey killer, if you could go back to being yourself in the return of someone else taking your place as the person you are now. would you want that too happen..? i- im sorry if this question is out of no where its just curiosity. {waits for drama :moneymouth:}

(ohh very interesting, be aware tho tw mention of abuse and violence down below)

Back to being myself...? I don't think I got the idea. Would I only physically 'go back' ? Would I keep the little memory I have ? Anyway who I was before is no more. I'm not Sans anymore, I'm something else entirely. It'd be silly to live a 'Sans' life.

Plus, I don't think I'd want someone else to take my current place. Whoever would 'take my place' wouldn't know how to avoid getting impaled by Boss like I do. They wouldn't know all of his unspoken rules. That would just be sending a baby animal to the slaughterhouse.

And that would also mean leaving my cats behind, so no.

#ngl i struggled w/ this one #don't hate me if it's too much mischaracterization 🥺#answered asks #killer!sans #cw mentions of abuse #cw mention of violence

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kitocrystal · 1 year ago

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just posting it like this bc Im way too lazy to copy it all down on here

#alnst #alien stage #alnst till #alnst ivan #ivantill #alnst mizi #im so messed up after that round #Im not going to recover im going to hrhehghhj #the violence was all ivan knew to get till’s attention im not okay #im suffering haggagg #dw guys Ill going back to posting the sillies after I rrcover #cw mentions of abuse

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loudclan-clangen · 6 months ago

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Loudclan - Moon 29: Part 1

Summer rolls across the valley territories with a vengeance. The sparse mountain territory of Loudclan offers little reprieve from the ever present sun that beats down on the cats. While most patrols rush back to camp to take shelter in the caves during the midday hours, young warriors itch for a chance to prove themselves, and evidence of trespassers provides just that for Fiercestripe's patrol.

A fight breaks out between the patrol and the farm cats. Though the clan-cats are highly trained fighters, save for Fiercestripe they are untested in battle, and are outnumbered more than 2:1. There will certainly be losses.

[clangen: *takes everyone's favorite characters, throws them in a blender, and sets it to liquefy* me: *twirls my little metaphorical evil mustache* ahh, yes, just as I planned... For real though, I am so glad to finally get this moon (half of it at least) out to you guys! It is definitely the biggest and most time and skill intensive moon so far and I had a ton of fun drawing it! Unfortunately, that means that the second part is going to take a similarly long while to finish, but I hope that the quality of them makes up for the wait! I hope you guys all enjoy! If you're a little lost as to who the farm cats are check out this pmv and this family tree]

Edit: It's been pointed out to me that Rosehiptree's age is wrong here. That's my bad, this was a HUGE project and while I did my best to not make any mistakes it slipped past me. She's 14 moons old, the same as Dogwoodmoth, but it would be more trouble than it's worth to change it, given the size of the moon not allowing me to upload images on mobile, so lets all just do me a favor and pretend it says 14 instead of 13. Thanks!

First Moon

Next Moon

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the-kr8tor · 4 months ago

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For you Ekko reqs, may I suggest R and Ekko hurt/comfort where Ekko slowly confides with R about what happened at the end of show (like probably a year or 2 of Ekko trying to process everything) and how he sometimes wished he stayed at the alt timeline? 🥲 Just him processing his grief of everything while R comforts him. Mans deserves better

-😅

Ahhhhh writing this made me tear up ngl 🥲 I hope you like it! ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.3k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, can be read as platonic, cw violence mention, cw injury mention, cw blood and death mention, hurt/comfort.

Navigation

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

“Ekko?” Your call is carried by the cool autumn wind, breeze fluttering your lashes as you stare at his back. You see him shrink in his seat, face hidden on the crook of his elbow. Walking closer, footsteps clanging against the metal balcony where you always find him on the same day it all happened. “You'll catch a cold up here.”

Piltover shines in front of you, warm light flickering off by the windows as people settle in for the night. But the glimmering fire paper still flies above the city, its light fading as it burns out in the breeze. It's the anniversary of that day, the day Piltover and Zaun saw war right on their doorstep.

Your arm aches, a phantom pain ebbing in and out when your mind goes back to that exact day where the sky was covered in searing smoke, and the streets splashed in warm crimson. Thumb brushing along your scar, it's a mark, a reminder of what was lost that day.

After a minute, Ekko sighs, still unmoving on his spot. “I'm not leaving.”

“I'm not trying to make you leave.” You fetch the blanket that was folded and draped over your shoulder. “I have a blanket for you. If you want it.”

He turns his head slowly over to you, mind playing tricks on him as he sees the flash of you bleeding and yelling for him. Eyes bloodshot, skin clammy and marred with blood. As fast as it came, he blinked and it's gone. Vision returning to the present, the present that wouldn't be possible if not for his sacrifice.

“Don't just gawk at me, bossman,” you smile gently at him, the blanket now unfurled in front of you, ready to drape it over his trembling form. “Do you want it or not?”

The corner of his lip curls up in a small smile, his eyes are tired, weighed down by the world. “Come sit down?”

He has never asked you to join him. You always left him alone up here whenever the anniversary comes around, thinking that's what he needed. But you always waited patiently just outside the door, sitting down on the cold steps while you let grief wash over you like the tides. Until it's time to pick yourself up again at the sound of the door opening. His hand helping you up wordlessly, grief holding the two of you in place, mourning together silently. When morning comes, everything seems to go back in place. The sun still shines, the world still breathes. But it lingers, that grief that has etched itself in your bones, sorrow that lives in his chest, weighing him down but never letting it fester and spread.

You two continue to fight, to improve the very place where blood has been spilled. Carry their memories, their names and their voices until the end. Lest their sacrifices would be in vain. Ekko's sacrifice would be in vain. He deserves better, to not bear the heaviness left in his soul.

“Are you just gonna gawk there or will you take a seat?” He uses your own words against you.

“Can't help it,” you say, heart pounding in your chest as you take a seat right next to him. Giving him enough space, but close enough to see his heavy eyes marred by unshed tears. “You look good under the moonlight.” You joke in an attempt to make him smile.

Ekko manages to chuckle softly, letting you drape the fluffy blanket around his shoulders. Your warm fingers grazing along his cool skin, sending goosebumps on his lean arms.

“Do you find my frown charming?”

You smile kindly, knuckles brushing down his goosebumps. “It’s the tear stained cheeks that gets me everytime.”

He scoffs with a small smile, attention turned towards the Piltover sky. The smell of burnt paper and violets linger in the air, frown deepening at his racing thoughts.

“Will you stay?”

With trepidation, you take his hand in yours, giving him enough time to pull away. He doesn't, instead, he weaves his fingers around yours. His grip is weak, but you can feel how much he needed it by how his eyes stare at your joined hands.

“Of course, whatever you need, Ekko.” You'll stay forever if he asks.

He nods, eyes staying downturned. “I wanted to stay at that place.” Letting out a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, trying to remember what they look like in his mind's eye. Faces that he once thought that he'll never see again. Faces that he had to say goodbye to. “But that would be selfish. I couldn't—” you squeeze his hand. “—I couldn't just leave this place and let it burn.”

The last two years have melded together in your head. All those months of waiting for him at the edge of the hideout, never losing hope, not even when they declared him dead. And then the war came, and you two didn't have the time to reunite, until it ended with you laying half dead on the streets of Piltover. Waking up to him holding your hand in a grip, wishing for you to open your eyes. And you did. A year later, he comes to you, angry and furious, wanting to let it all out. You still remember the day he told you exactly what happened when he disappeared for months like it was yesterday.

He recalls it all like it was a dream, a dream that was destined to be forgotten once he awakes. He didn't want to wake up, not when everything he always dreamed of was there. He gripped onto you tightly that day, held onto you until the sun rose. Nothing was left unsaid, his story left a hole in your heart, wishing that you've seen it for yourself. But you're afraid that you wouldn't be strong enough to leave, as strong as him who made a difficult choice to leave.

He has experienced unthinkable loss, a longing you've never felt. You don't have the exact words to comfort him, to soothe his want, so you move closer to him, fixing where the blanket has fallen and wrapping it over his body like a warm cocoon. You could only hope that it's enough, but you know it will never be enough.

Ekko tucks his head on your shoulder, hand finding its way over to your raised scar. His thumb traces along the skin, feeling your warmth and in turn comforting you. He knows the pain you're in too, he witnessed it, all the nights you've hid away only to come back with red eyes and grief etched on your face.

“I couldn't leave you and Zaun behind.” He mumbles against your shoulder.

Your heart wretches out of your chest. “It wouldn't be selfish.” You say, whispering it into the air around you. “I think— I would've done what you wanted to do. I wouldn't be strong enough to leave, but you did.” He leans away, eyes soft and shining under the moonlight as he meets with your eyes. “You're brave, Ekko. You might not want everyone to know what you had to do to save everyone, but I know. And I'm forever grateful for what you did. For what you have sacrificed so we could live. I'll remember it until I can't, even then, I'll try not to forget.” Cupping his jaw, you watch as a tear slides down. You wipe it away gingerly, smiling at him as he leans against your warmth, eyes closing, shoulders slumping with every word you utter. “You did well, Ekko.”

He moves forward, leaning his forehead against your own, affection radiating off him. “Thank you.”

“We'll be okay. We have time.”

“I know.” He has seen it, one day that dream will come true.

With a tender squeeze, his hand takes the other edge of the blanket, pulling and covering you with its warmth right next to him.

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kingkonoha · 1 year ago

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𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈

⎯⎯ ୨ ♡ ୧ ⎯⎯

♡ — 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: After what happened to you & your son, Satoru couldn’t stop drinking . . .

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: dark content, fem reader, canonverse, amnesia, mentions of death, suicide ideation, violence, mentions of food, drinking, gojo not eating. mention of gojo’s son & the reader struggling with their disabilities. reader wears dress/heels/perfume.

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 11K

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: Hi everyone, thanks for being patient with me! I doubt many of you remember this story and were waiting for a continuation, but I hope everyone who reads this enjoys this series coming to an end, and thank you for the kind comments on the last part.

— MONTHS BEFORE THE REUNION —

“I’m going to throw myself off of a building today,” Satoru Gojo thought as he glared down at his uneaten dinner, sitting alone in the booth of a restaurant called Jeezers, a blue and yellow themed sandwich place that hadn’t seen a spec of cosmetic work since the 90’s.

And it wasn’t a drunken idea; there wasn’t any alcoholic beverage that he could blame the unwanted thought on.

But, could he truly call such a thought unwanted?

His body didn’t flinch when the dark image of his planned suicide entered his mind. He didn’t try to push the negative emotion away, tell himself to snap out of it, or immediately try to think of happy things.

Instead, he thought about how he would do it, where he would go, and when.

But, due to his great power, jumping off a roof wouldn’t kill him — what would?

“Do I have to chop off my own head? Is that the only way?” he thought.

Satoru shoved his unappetizing sub sandwich away. The sandwich itself was rather delicious. The employee wasn’t skimpy when it came to the toppings, and for only five bucks, he also was able to get a refillable soda with it.

But the white-haired man didn’t want food.

He wanted his wife and son to come back to life. Or, he wanted alcohol. And to die.

The glass entrance doors chimed as a person walked through them. The generous sandwich maker — and cashier, as the restaurant was understaffed — greeted the hungry customer who casually strolled toward the counter.

“Welcome in!” The young woman said.

“Thanks,” the customer replied.

And, when Satoru heard that voice — as he didn’t bother to look up and see who entered the restaurant — the former teacher sighed heavily.

The sound of footsteps approaching his lonely booth grew louder and louder. As the person came closer, their steps slowed down greatly as if they were approaching a wild animal, expecting it to lash out.

“Gojo?” The call of his name came from his student — a former student — Yuji Itadori. He hadn’t heard his voice in a long time. It sounded a bit deeper, but he still recognized it.

Satoru looked up. Unsurprisingly, Megumi was with Itadori as well, and Gojo’s eyes flickered over to the boy he practically raised himself.

Satoru didn’t bother with faking a smile, nor an overly enthusiastic greeting — one with a touch of a humorous tone — that would capture the personality of the great Satoru Gojo they once knew.

He wasn’t that person anymore. And, now, he didn’t even have the strength to pretend to be.

“Hey,” Satoru mumbled sadly.

At least he was sober right now. If his students had caught him tripping over his own feet, tears falling from his blue eyes as strong alcohol coated his breath, he would never forgive himself.

Much to the depressed man’s dismay, the two sorcerers slid into the other side of the booth.

“We haven’t seen you in a while,” Itadori said, his voice heavy with worry, but kindness as well. “How . . . have you been?”

Satoru took a moment to truly look at them. They were older. When he had last seen them, they were simply young teenagers, but now, their jawlines had sharpened a bit more. Their voices were slightly deeper. They had grown a couple of inches. Megumi was starting to look more and more like his father, while Yuji — who wore his hair pushed back now — started to resemble Sukuna.

Satoru clenched his fist unintentionally.

Sukuna’s finger destroyed his family.

That’s what the higher-ups told him.

Years ago, Satoru could easily tell the difference between Sukuna and Yuji, markings aside. But, now, it was like he was staring right at the King of Curses.

The only difference was that Yuji’s eyes were filled with kindness and concern, not pure evil.

“It’s not him. It’s Yuji. It’s just Yuji. It’s not him. It’s not him,” Satoru repeated in his chaotic mind.

Looking over at Toji — no, it was Megumi — did him no favors, either.

It felt as if Satoru was staring right at his two greatest enemies.

“It’s been a few years,” Megumi blinked, his face solemn. “We didn’t know if they ever locked you up for that little killing spree of yours.”

The dark-haired sorcerer glared at Satoru with eyes that begged for answers, and Satoru could easily tell that he wanted to ask him about the infamous killing spree since the day someone undoubtedly told him the horrific news.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Satoru clarified. He fidgeted with the paper wrapping of his untouched sandwich. “I was targeting curses.”

“Yeah?” A frown appeared across Megumi’s face. “But you were clumsy, and you hurt a lot of regular people too.”

“Leave him alone, Fushiguro,” Yuji glanced down at Satoru’s sandwich.

The uneaten dinner, along with the plain misery written all over his face, made it utterly obvious that the sad man was suffering enough.

Suddenly, the welcome bell chimed again as someone entered the restaurant. A pair of shoes clicked against the tile as they approached the counter before halting abruptly. There was a brief pause before their footsteps picked up once again, quicker this time as they changed their direction and made their way over to Satoru's booth.

“Gojo,” The young woman said with shock, as both a question and a statement.

Satoru looked up to see Nobara. Her ginger-brown hair was longer, falling past her shoulders, but not yet reaching her mid-back. She wore an eyepatch over her left eye.

She slid into the booth, sitting beside Satoru, who hesitantly scooted over.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she looked at him. “How are you? I could kick your butt for leaving us behind, ya know.”

She smiled sadly as she spoke, her tone soft and humorous despite her words.

“I’m sorry.” Satoru’s leg started to shake.

“It’s okay,” Nobara glanced down at Satoru’s sandwich as well. “I get it. I’m just teasing you.”

“So,” Yuji spoke cautiously, thinking over his words before he said them. “What do you do now? Do you live around here?”

The country music playing softly in the background filled the silence for a moment. His former students simply blinked at him, waiting for a response.

“You guys should go to the counter and order your food.” Satoru stared down at the table. “I think they’re closing soon.”

“Gojo . . .” Nobara frowned, her honey brown eye glistening with worry. “Why don’t you come back to the school with us tomorrow? Everyone would love to see you, and . . . maybe you could talk to the higher-ups about becoming a sorcerer again.”

“The world has gone straight to hell without you,” Megumi added, although truly, he knew it was pointless.

The man couldn’t find the strength to have a proper dinner. He definitely wasn’t in any shape to fight curses once again.

“No, but thanks for the offer.” Satoru managed to glance up at the three of them once again, but it pained him to do so. “It was good seeing all of you, though. I better head home now.”

“Already?” Yuji frowned. “C’mon, Gojo. Just talk to us. Please.”

“What’s there to talk about, Yuji?”

“There’s plenty to talk about!” Yuji raised his voice, speaking louder than he intended, but luckily, the restaurant was isolated for the most part aside from an adorable elderly couple sharing a meatball sub, and the cashier, who started to wipe down the sandwich building station.

“If you don’t wanna become a sorcerer again, fine, but we can still help you.” Megumi stared into Satoru’s eyes. The younger sorcerer was secretly more upset than he let on, but Satoru could see the brokenness reflected in Megumi’s eyes as he started to speak. “You won’t eat your sandwich for some reason, so I’m guessing you’re struggling to eat anything at all. You’re not drunk right now, and yet, you still smell like alcohol. I’m willing to bet that you’re not actually trying to get home right now but to that bar down the street. Am I wrong? Not to mention — you look miserable.”

The silence was deafening.

Nobara thought about kicking Megumi under the table, but she didn’t.

“That was rude, Fushiguro,” Yuji mumbled under his breath, looking down at the table as he did so.

“I know, and I’m sorry, I really am, but kindness isn’t going to help him.” Although he was speaking to Yuji, Megumi’s eyes never glanced away from Satoru.

Satoru stared at Megumi with an expression his old student couldn’t recognize. It sent a shiver up his spine.

“Let me out, Nobara,” Satoru mumbled.

The young woman hesitated, flickering her eye between Yuji and Megumi to see what they wanted her to do. But, she truly couldn’t keep him there. What good would that do?

Nobara scooted out of the booth.

“Gojo, please don’t leave, just talk to us, we care about you,” Yuji's plea fell on deaf ears as Satoru started to make his way out of the door.

“We know you miss your family, but this isn’t how you handle it. Don’t leave . . .”

Satoru tuned out the rest of Megumi’s words.

Both Megumi and Yuji started to get up from their seats and follow their former teacher out of the door, but Nobara stopped them.

The look of sadness on her face spoke for her. It told them that there was nothing they could do. They couldn’t help someone who didn’t want to be helped.

The two sorcerers sat back down, and the three of them watched as Satoru left the restaurant and made his way down the street to the bar.

—

— TWO WEEKS AFTER THE REUNION —

SATURDAY

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Ren, happy birthday to you!”

Your boy smiled happily as he leaned over his five-layer chocolate chip cookie cake and blew out his candles. The guests attending his eleventh birthday party all applauded.

“Did you make a wish?” A young girl with dark hair in a ponytail asked.

“Yeah. I made the greatest wish ever.” Ren grinned at his crush from school, a bit embarrassed to tell her what his wish was.

After all, when he blew out the candles, he had hoped that someday, your memories of Satoru would return.

The white-haired man walked up to Ren with a wide grin, wiping away his tears with his thumb. Satoru was wearing a colorful birthday hat, and he looked rather silly, but even so, he was excited to wear it.

“Are you ready to cut the cake?” Satoru grinned. “We can open presents after. How does that sound?”

“Sounds awesome,” Ren smiled back. “This is the coolest birthday I’ve ever had!”

Truth be told, he already had the number one thing he wanted. A dad.

But seeing the enormous pile of gifts in the corner of the venue was insanely cool as well.

The bright smile spreading across your son’s face made you grin too as you watched him interact with his father from a distance.

Satoru had planned Ren’s entire birthday party and didn’t hold back a single dollar when it came to making sure his boy had everything he wanted, from the cake that he started to slice into, to any gift he could ever ask for.

After all, the last birthday Satoru attended was when his boy turned three.

After a day of bowling and arcade games with his friends from school, they all met up with the parents and other adult guests at a local venue.

Blue and black video game themed decorations coated the entire place. His favorite songs blared softly through speakers as everyone ate the food served buffet-style and socialized with one another. During that time, Ren had met several unfamiliar people, such as his dad’s former students.

It might have been Ren’s birthday, but Satoru was just as happy. If the birthday hat wasn’t an obvious sign, then the constant photo-taking was. Every second, he was snapping a picture of his boy. He wanted to take a picture of you too, but he couldn’t build up the courage to ask.

From a short distance away, Satoru stared at you with those pretty blue eyes of his, watching as you chatted with Kento and Yuji.

He wished that he could say that the drinking had stopped once he found you again, that he no longer knew misery once you reentered his life, but that wasn’t true.

He was happy that you and Ren were alive, of course, but you didn’t remember him. And, if you didn’t remember him, then you didn’t love him anymore.

That hurt like hell.

His grief didn’t fade away, it only shifted focus.

But, even so, this was the happiest he had ever been since the great incident, and he managed to go five days without having any sort of alcohol as well.

About five minutes had passed before the conversation between you, Kento, and Yuji had ended. Satoru took that opportunity to approach you with a slice of cookie cake in hand, and with every step, his knees threatened to wobble. Hands almost started to shake.

He was nervous.

In that moment, he felt like his former teenage self who — despite his overly cocky attitude — had to spend months building up the courage to ask you out on a date.

It was the same thing all over again; he was trying to earn your affection.

Because if you couldn’t remember Satoru, then he’d simply have to win your heart all over again.

“Hey,” Satoru greeted, extending his arm as he handed you the paper plate with a slice of cake on it. “I had to fight three kids to get it, but I grabbed you a piece.”

With a soft laugh — one that Satoru missed hearing more than he could ever express — you took the plate from him.

“Thank you.” Grabbing the plastic fork, you took a bite. “And not just for the cake, but for helping out with the entire party. It means a lot.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.” Smiling shyly, Satoru put his hands in his pockets. “I’ve always spoiled him. I just can’t believe I have the chance to do it again.”

“That reminds me . . .” Suddenly, you turned around and sat the plate of cake down on a nearby table, and faced Satoru once again. “We haven’t had the time to talk about everything, and I’d really like to.”

You and Satoru both sat down at the round table, chairs turned to face one another.

For the past two weeks, conversation between you and him had amounted to nothing more than a few text messages being exchanged, all regarding Ren’s party.

After all, your boy was the only thing you both still had in common. Shared experiences and sweet memories no longer existed, and it wasn’t easy for you to get over your guilt, and for him to get over his heartbreak.

It wasn’t your fault that you couldn’t remember him — obviously. But, even so, the sight of his suffering — even though he tried his best to hide it — made a lump form in your throat whenever you thought about the pain your absence had brought. And your return did little to mend it, thanks to your amnesia. It only brought another form of suffering.

“Noa-I mean, Ren . . . has really adapted to his new life pretty well,” you smiled a bit. “Well, his old life, which is now his new life, or . . . you know what I’m trying to say. I heard him call your friend Uncle Kento earlier.”

“I heard that too. Kento couldn’t stop smiling, and he never smiles.”

A beat of silence passed. Even now, while you were both trying to focus on yourselves — on your own relationship with each other — You noticed that Ren was the main topic of the conversation.

“Ren was worried that you wouldn’t like him. Did you know that?”

“What?” Satoru frowned. “Why?”

“His limp,” you said. “He thought that you would be disappointed. He assumed that any father figure that would possibly appear would be upset to have a disabled son, and discovering that his dad was a sorcerer, and the strongest sorcerer at that, well, it just made him worry.”

“He doesn’t have to worry about that. I think he’s perfect.” Satoru glanced down at the floor, smiling to himself softly as he thought about his boy. But, then, he came to the same realization that you did earlier: Ren was the main focus of the conversation yet again.

“We should talk about ourselves, though.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Clearing your throat rather awkwardly, you pointlessly shifted in your seat. You waited for Satoru to say something — anything to kick the sensitive conversation off. He broke his staring contest with the floor and looked into your visible eye.

But he didn’t say anything.

His eyes darted away from yours, and then a second later, he made eye contact yet again.

And, somehow, you knew exactly what that look meant. You couldn’t pinpoint how you knew, not exactly, but you did.

The way he stared at you, looked away, and then glanced back at you . . . it was familiar.

“What’s wrong? I know that look.” You frowned a bit. “You look like you wanna ask me something.”

Satoru smiled sadly.

“How do you remember Ren, but you don’t remember me? We were a family. I was away a lot, but . . .”

The unreasonable guilt gnawed at your insides. You shifted in your seat again.

“I only remember Ren because he was with me every single day after the incident. After some time, old memories with him started to come back.”

“What about memories of the three of us?”

“Sometimes, I can remember another person being there, and I can remember feeling loved and cared for, but I can’t picture a face or remember a voice. It really sucks, and I’m sorry. I just don’t remember you, Satoru.”

Your last sentence snapped his heart into pieces — what wasn’t already shattered, at least.

As you could see the pain reflected in his eyes, you sat up a bit, and tried to make the situation a little bit less heartbreaking as you said, “but I could, eventually. Being around Ren is what jogged my memory of him, so, maybe, in time, being around you will do the same. And I’m willing to make new memories as well, you know what I mean?”

Satoru made a facial expression that you couldn’t recognize. His face was as blank as a fresh canvas.

“All that matters is that you’re both still alive,” he lied, giving a fake smile. “I’m starting to become okay with getting to know you all over again. It’s better than thinking you were dead.”

It wasn’t okay. Not in the slightest. He wanted his wife to remember him. He didn’t want to start his relationship over, as if you were both strangers, under the pressure to recapture a love that was now lost.

“Why would the higher-ups do something like that?” You suddenly asked. “Why would they lie to both of us?”

“I can think of plenty of reasons. But I’ll deal with them later.” Satoru clenched and unclenched his fist. He planned on handling those god-forsaken higher-ups soon enough, but right now, his family was his top priority.

Once again, Satoru made that familiar face. The face that told you he wanted to ask you something.

“What is it?” You questioned, tilting your head just a bit.

Suddenly, Satoru’s hands were sweaty, just like they were when he was a seventeen-year-old lovesick high schooler.

“Do you wanna go out with me? On a date?”

A bright smile spread across your face. You didn’t know it, but it was the same smile you gave him all those years ago when he asked the first time.

“I’d love to.”

Two hours later, Ren’s birthday party came to an end. He was certain that come Monday, his legendary event would be the hot topic at school.

That night, after tucking your son in and kissing him goodnight — although he playfully insisted that he was too old now to be treated like a baby — you left his bedroom and walked into your own, collapsing on your bed with a sigh.

You gave yourself about ten minutes to rest before getting back up to wash a couple of dishes, take a shower, and brush your teeth. And, as you got ready to go to bed, you only thought about one thing: your date with Satoru.

— WEDNESDAY —

Chicken stir fry and fresh vegetables sizzled in the hot skillet on the stove, the tantalizing aroma traveling throughout your cozy two-bedroom apartment. A short distance away, you could hear Ren playing video games in the living room, chatting with someone through his headset.

“We got second place! Good job — even though I had to protect you the entire time,” Ren paused, laughing softly as whoever was on the other end of the headset spoke.

“What? This is the third duo match where you got eliminated before I did. You can kill curses, but you can’t aim?” Ren laughed once again.

You found yourself curious about who your son was talking to. He certainly wasn’t friends with any sorcerers.

Giving your meal one quick stir, you turned the stove heat down to low.

“I gotta go, I think dinner’s almost ready,” Ren said. “Thanks for playing with me. I know you’re really busy, so . . . thanks. Bye.”

Ren took off his headset and turned off his PlayStation 5 — a sleek, white, and big console that Satoru had bought him for his birthday.

As you stepped into the living room, your son smiled up at you.

“Hey Mom,” he laid his dark blue controller on the couch cushion. “This game system is awesome. It’s digital too, so I don’t have to buy physical copies of games anymore.”

“Yeah, I saw that in the directions. That seems pretty cool, huh?” You grinned softly. “Who were you playing with just now?”

“Yuji,” Ren paused. “He likes video games too. We were playing Fortnite. He said I used to always try to take his phone and play games on it when I was a toddler.”

“Oh, really? That doesn’t surprise me.” Raising your eyebrows in surprise, your smile widened. “It was nice of him to play with you, though.”

For the college-aged sorcerer to take time out of his seemingly busy schedule to play video games with your son was kind of him.

“Dinner’s ready. Put your controller away and go wash your hands,” you said.

“Yes ma’am.”

A few minutes later, you and your son were sitting at the small dining table, eating dinner together as he rambled on adorably about his day at school.

“I have about a week or two to finish my science project, but Mrs. Willows paired me up with Mae.” Ren took a bite of his egg roll as he spoke.

“Is something wrong with that? Mae’s lovely. She’s your crush, isn’t she? This could be a great chance to get to know her.” You thought about the way your son blushed as he chatted with the young girl at his birthday party.

You took a sip of your water and noticed that Ren didn’t respond. In fact, he frowned and placed his bitten egg roll back on his plate.

You knew what was wrong without asking.

Aside from the fact that he didn’t want to discuss the topic of crushes and romance with his mother, he was also incredibly insecure. Mae was always kind to him — that much was true. But, at his age, girls often went for the boys who excelled in P.E. class, not the ones who had a limp and couldn’t keep up with the physically demanding sports.

If only he could be more like his father, and his father’s old students — that is what he must have been thinking.

Not only were they strong and powerful, but they went to a school created specifically for sorcerers.

He should have been preparing to attend Jujutsu High in a few years.

He should have been getting trained by his dad to fight curses and save lives.

That’s what he thought.

“I wish I could become a sorcerer,” he mumbled.

“Interesting thought,” your fork gently scraped against your plate as you stirred your food around. “Why do you want to be a sorcerer?”

“So I can fight curses and stuff like Dad used to do.” Ren paused. “You used to be one too.”

“And the fact that I can’t remember that is exactly why you shouldn’t want to be a sorcerer, honey. It’s too dangerous. Your dad quit for a reason.”

“Okay, okay . . . you don’t gotta talk me out of it. I couldn’t become one anyway.” Ren stared down at his plate. “I was just saying it would be kinda awesome to be special like everyone else. Even you’re special.”

You frowned sadly. Seeing your boy’s eyes glisten with sadness as the corners of his lips fell into a frown was simply too much. The sight of it broke your heart.

“Ren, you are special.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re my mom.”

“No, I’m not.” You stared at the eleven-year-old, trying your hardest to hide how much it hurt to listen to your child’s opinion of himself — both what he expressed through words, and what you knew he was thinking. “You don’t need to be a sorcerer to be special. You don’t need to be great at sports, either. You’re incredibly smart — and I know that because I see your report card — and more importantly, you’re kind too. Not many human beings are as good of a person as you are. Do you know how special you have to be to live in a cruel world like this, and only want to help others? And you’re loved too. Everyone who showed up to your birthday party was there because they adore you, and they don’t care if you have a limp or if you’re not playing sports or killing curses.”

You leaned over, ruffling your son’s head of white hair. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you, do you hear me? I wish you could see yourself the way everyone else sees you. The way I see you.”

Ren smiled softly.

He couldn’t deny that he was loved. The amount of presents he had received for his birthday — which you both struggled to carry into the apartment — was a telltale sign of that. The amount of hugs from teary-eyed strangers who were relieved that he was alive also confirmed that fact.

His friends had also treated him like family.

As he thought about all of it, picking up his fork and gathering a bite of food, he figured that, perhaps, he was worth loving.

“Oh, by the way,” you suddenly spoke up. “I’m closing the coffee shop at three tomorrow, so you don’t go there after school. You can go to your dad’s house if he isn’t busy, or maybe Avery’s. Unless you wanna take the school bus and come home. Up to you.”

“Why?” Ren blinked curiously, but he couldn’t hide his excited grin over potentially getting to see his dad again. Sorry, Avery.

“I have a couple of errands to run. Shopping. Hair appointment. Stuff like that.”

“What for?”

This time, you were the one who couldn’t hide your smile. You took another sip of your water, and calmly — despite the way your heart raced — you said, “I have a date with your dad this weekend, so I need to get ready.”

Both Ren’s smile and eyes widened with unspeakable joy.

While he was overflowing with excitement over his parents going out together, you were filled with nervousness over your upcoming date.

— SATURDAY —

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Satoru Gojo could barely move.

His limbs were unspeakably heavy as if his bones were made out of pure stone.

The bedroom light was too bright. His eyes squinted, but it did nothing to stop his pounding headache.

Kento’s footsteps back and forth from his closet to his dresser — attempting to put together a nice outfit — were too loud.

But Satoru’s negative thoughts were even louder.

“I can’t do this, Nanami.”

Kento stopped walking. He turned his head to face Satoru, frowning.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Trying to get her to fall in love with me. It’s like we’re seventeen years old again, going on our first date. I can’t do it.” The poor man wanted to cry, a lump forming his throat that made it difficult to speak.

“Would you prefer the alternative? Getting drunk in a bar, thinking she’s dead?” Kento grimaced over his own harsh words, thinking that he might have been too harsh. With a sigh, he stepped closer to Satoru’s bed. “Listen, I know it sucks, but at least you’re getting a second chance. Your family came back, Satoru. They came back. And she might not remember you, but at least she’s willing to make new memories. I don’t understand why you’re so nervous.”

“She’s not the same person that she was before the accident, and I’m not the same person either.”

Walking over to the center of the room, the blonde-haired man laid Satoru’s shirt across the ironing board as he listened to the sad guy speak.

“Well, I don’t think you should be worried about that,” Kento said in response as he ran the hot iron over the shirt, smoothing out every wrinkle. “She knows that everything you’ve done, and who you’ve become, was just a result of thinking you lost your family. The Y/N I know would never judge anyone for being depressed over something like that — and she hasn’t changed that much.”

“But I was more than just depressed.” Satoru looked up at Kento as he spoke. “I hurt innocent people. I spent the last seven years of my life in a bar, and all I want right now is a drink. And you’re right, she wouldn’t judge me. But that doesn’t mean she’d want to be with me, either. I just want a drink, just one goddamn drink.”

The sound of gentle steam being released from the iron and the swooshing noise it made as it went across Satoru’s fancy shirt was what filled the silence.

And, during that silence, Kento stared at Satoru with an unreadable facial expression, one that sent a chill up Satoru’s spine.

His best friend was always so intimidating.

“So that’s it, huh?” Kento suddenly spoke. “You got your family back, but you’re still going to drink yourself to death because it didn’t turn out exactly how you wanted it to?”

“You don’t know how it feels to be forgotten by your soulmate.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But I know it’s better than your soulmate being dead. I said it once, and I’ll say it again: you’re getting a second chance. Most people would kill to have their family come back, even if the love of their life had amnesia and their child couldn’t remember them either. And you’re going to throw it all away because-”

“Nanami, she doesn’t know me.” Satoru’s voice quivered. He stared into Kento’s eyes with a glassy, tearful gaze. Unbeknownst to him, he started to dig his nails into his palm hard to hurt himself. Hard enough to draw blood. “She doesn’t remember anything about me. She looks at me like I’m a stranger. Not only that, but all the pain I went through for all of those years was for . . . for nothing because she was alive this entire time and I had no idea. How can you say I got my family back when they don’t remember us ever being a family?”

Kento turned off the iron.

He approached Satoru, kneeled in front of him, and placed his scarred hand over Satoru’s — a hand that was only so scarred from having to pick up more outrageous missions due to Satoru’s absence from the sorcerer world.

“So, let’s say she did remember you, Satoru. What then?”

“What do you mean?”

“What would you have done if she did remember you? Because if I recall, your relationship wasn’t perfect. You were away a lot, and it broke her heart. If she could remember that, then you’d still be in a similar position to the one you’re in now, because either way, your relationship needs some serious work. Do you really want her to remember how long she had to wait each day for you to return home from your work trips? The special events and holidays you missed? Right now, you have a chance to start over. And, who knows? Starting your relationship over might turn out to be easier than trying to repair it ever would have.”

When Kento finished speaking, Satoru looked sad.

Heartbreakingly upset.

The sight of his frowning face and teary eyes made Kento’s heart ache. He was brutally honest, but even so, he spoke to his friend softly. With love and care.

But maybe he was still being a bit too cruel.

“Hey . . .” Kento softened his voice even more and tried to make Satoru look him in the eye, but Satoru avoided his gaze. “I know what you’re thinking, and you weren’t a bad husband, just a busy one. You had a lot of responsibilities and I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty about that. I’m sorry, Satoru. This is supposed to be a good day.”

Satoru nodded as a way of saying, “It’s okay.”

Kento sighed.

Standing up, he made his way towards Satoru’s bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and dampening it.

Then, he returned to his previous kneeled position in front of him. Gently, he dabbed the fresh scars decorating Satoru’s palm.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” His sudden question broke the silence, but that silence returned rather quickly, as Kento didn’t respond.

Not immediately, at least.

He spent a solid thirty seconds trying to figure out what to way.

“It’s like I said earlier. She knows who you are now and what you’ve done, and that hasn’t deterred her away yet, has it? And for all we know, she could be worried about the same thing too. You’ve both changed, and that’s okay.”

Kento finished cleaning the little blood stains off of Satoru’s pale skin. He removed the towel, and kindly, he said, “Come on. Time to get ready.”

—

Your knee-length dress was red. It was tighter than the clothes you wore regularly, but not too revealing — the perfect balance of classy and sexy.

Your heels clicked against your floor as you stepped into the bathroom, checking out your hair and makeup one last time.

After spraying a bit of perfume on your wrists and collarbone, it was time to grab your coat and purse, leave your apartment, and meet Satoru at the nice Italian restaurant in town.

Living in a safe, walkable town had its perks, certainly. But with every step you took, you couldn’t help but wonder if Satoru was just as nervous as you.

The sheer panic you felt — it made you want to cancel.

After all, he was handsome. He was the world’s strongest sorcerer, even if he was out of practice. He was the father to your boy. He had memories of you that he was looking to recapture or recreate — the pressure of it all didn’t help ease your misplaced guilt.

The incident wasn’t your fault, but even so, that familiar lump formed in your throat and couldn’t be swallowed down.

Your nerves didn’t begin to settle until you walked into the romantic, warmly, yet lowly lit restaurant and spotted Satoru.

When he smiled at you, it felt . . . familiar.

A wave of calmness washed over you, and you exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

As you made your way to your table — Satoru getting up to pull out your chair for you, like the gentleman he was — you were feeling relaxed.

You couldn’t recall any specific memory, but somehow, you remembered that you had done this a hundred times with him.

Dinner began with a complimentary bread basket and nervous compliments being exchanged.

Five minutes in, you smiled softly at your lost lover.

“So, what was our very first date like when we were younger?”

Your question made Satoru smile too. He took a sip of his water, glancing at the white tablecloth as his mind wondered back to the sweet, cherished memory.

“It was similar to this, kinda. We had dinner together. It was an Italian restaurant as well, but it wasn’t nearly as nice. You, uh, you wore red then too. I remember you saying that you wanted Alfredo, but you ordered spaghetti in case you spilled it on your clothes.”

The look of love in his eyes as he spoke about the past made your heart skip a beat.

“Oh, I get it,” you nodded slowly. “Red sauce would blend in with the red clothes. Seems like something I’d say. I can’t believe you can remember something like that.”

“What’s funny is that I was the one who ended up spilling something,” Satoru paused. “I knocked over the bread basket when I was reaching for my drink.”

“Really?“ leaning forward a bit, your voice was barely above a whisper as you spoke. “For a guy with the four-eyes thing, you’re pretty clumsy.”

“Six Eyes, and I’m not that clumsy. I was just nervous. Even now, years later, you still make me nervous.”

You leaned back in your seat. Your eye glistened with a peculiar kind of sadness — an expression that Satoru didn’t recognize.

“No need to be nervous,” slowly, your beautiful smile faded away. “I’m down one finger and an eye, and this facial scar isn’t doing me any favors. I’m not worth all the effort and worry.”

Satoru stared at you.

A look of insecurity. That was your unfamiliar expression.

He furrowed his brows, the corners of his mouth drawn downward as he put his laminated menu on the table.

“You decided to quit being a sorcerer the minute you found out that you were pregnant with Ren, but before that, you and I went on a mission together to exercise some curses inside of a mall. It wasn’t an easy mission either. I was exhausted, and you were injured. A curse was about to attack you — you had your back turned, trying to treat a civilian’s wound — and I jumped in the way to save your life.” Satoru started to fiddle with the cloth napkin lying next to his menu. “I was fine. I killed the curse. But you were angry with me for getting in harm’s way. You said to me then what you just said now — that you aren’t worth the effort and worry. And that’s not true at all. You’re worth everything to me.”

“You saved my life once?” The sad gaze in your eye softened into a look of pure admiration. “That’s so . . . I mean . . . until recently, my entire life has revolved around my son and my coffee shop. And then you appeared, along with these old friends I can’t remember having, and now I’m always hearing wild stories about me fighting curses and being madly in love with you. It’s crazy.”

You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t believe another human being loved you this much, in such a romantic way.

The waitress appeared — a kind woman with red hair who jotted down your orders in a tiny notepad. You ordered pasta, and Satoru couldn’t help but smile.

Certain aspects of you have changed forever, but some things still stayed the same.

Once the waitress walked away with your noted order of fettuccine alfredo and his order of ravioli, you shifted in your seat, sighing softly.

“I have another question, and I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a while.” Cluelessly, you blinked at Satoru. “What was our marriage like?”

Satoru’s blue eyes shifted away from yours. Truth be told, he considered lying for a moment.

“It was perfect. We were perfect,” he would have said. “I was always there, and we were always happy.”

He could see the satisfied grin on your face now.

But he couldn’t lie to you. If he won your heart back with a string of lies, he would never forgive himself.

The honest truth wasn’t the perfect fairytale love story that you both would have hoped for, but it was good enough, as what really mattered — what was undoubtedly the most important thing — was that you both loved each other deeply.

“We were pretty young when we got married,” Satoru started, staring at you. “We were young when we did everything, actually. Not just getting married, but moving in together and starting a family too. All we knew was that we wanted to be together. We had movie and dinner nights every other Saturday, but it was hard being a husband, father, and sorcerer. I was away often, and you were always worried about whether or not I’d make it home. You wanted me to quit, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t think anything bad would ever happen to me, and I needed to protect non-sorcerers and mentor my students. It got to a point where I started to miss important events, and you weren’t happy with me. I wasn’t happy with myself either. My very last mission was a few weeks before Christmas. You begged me not to go because you said you had a terrible feeling about it. I just thought that you wanted me to stay home for our holiday traditions. We got into a big argument that night, and I left anyway, telling you that I’d be home before Christmas Day. I felt horrible about it, so I finished up my mission quickly and came home about two weeks early to surprise you. That was when the incident happened.”

Your initial silence made Satoru worry. He looked at you, trying to read the look on your face — attempting to stare into your visible eye and take a peek inside of your brain and see what thoughts were circulating in there.

The quietness was deafening. It was almost worse than you saying that you were no longer interested in rekindling your love, because the silence provided no answers. No closure.

Satoru started to involuntarily shake his leg underneath the table. He so desperately wanted a drink.

“Oh. . .” You finally spoke up, but your empty words, ridden with disappointment, offered little relief.

“I’m sorry,” Satoru said softly, briefly staring down at his half-empty water, the dots of condensation among the glass dripping onto the white tablecloth. “I know it’s not . . . I’m probably not what you were hoping for, but I loved you more than anything. Please believe that.”

Suddenly, that soft smile that Satoru once fell in love with reappeared on your face. Reaching across the table, you grabbed ahold of his hand — the one that was fidgeting with the napkin. You ran your thumb across his fingers.

“Satoru, if there’s one thing that my condition has taught me, it’s that the past doesn’t matter as much as we think it does. I just wanted to know because of plain curiosity, okay? I’m interested in our future and the man you are now.”

This time, following a small sigh of relief, Satoru was the one who smiled. It was the grin that you once fell in love with, even if you couldn’t remember ever doing so.

The date was filled with soft laughter, delicious pasta, and heartwarming stories.

You and Satoru sat at the dining table long after your meals were eaten and paid for. As the hours flew by, other couples and families coming and going, you both didn’t leave until the employees started stacking chairs and mopping the floors.

Together, you both walked down the street of your cozy little town, grinning down at your shoes stepping on the fallen orange and brown leaves covering the sidewalk.

“So, where’s Ren? Is he at home or . . . ?” Satoru questioned.

“He’s sleeping over at his friend’s house.” You put your hands in the pockets of your jacket. “That reminds me. He came up with an idea the other night, and I wanted to run it by you.”

“What is it?”

“A family dinner,” you glanced up at Satoru. “Just us three, sitting around a table, all having a meal together. The whole domestic vibe. What do you think?”

“I’d love that.” With a smile, Satoru started to blush a little.

“Okay, great. I’m thinking seafood, maybe? Hm . . . I don’t know. Kinda don’t feel like dealing with an apartment that smells like shrimp and crab. You know what? I’ll just open a window and spray some Febreze, it’ll be fine. Seafood it is. You’re not allergic, are you?”

Listening to you ramble made Satoru’s heart pound rapidly. It made him want to kiss you and mourn your lost years. But he couldn’t let on the effect that you had on his mind, body, and soul, even if you knew how he felt.

He had to keep all of that inside and remind himself that to you, he wasn’t the love of your life, but a mere friend.

“I’m not allergic. I love seafood, or all kinds of food, really.” Satoru glanced up at the stars for a moment, thinking about how over the last few years, eating was a chore. He went from being a food lover to a man who had to be forced to eat. But now that you reappeared back into his life, so had his love of all things sweet, spicy, and savory.

You brought back the parts of him that were human.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Satoru suddenly spoke up.

“Of course.”

“Have you . . . had any other partners? Since the incident?”

Your shoulder gently bumped against his arm as you both walked. Based on the tone of his voice, he hadn’t asked you that question out of jealousy per se, but curiosity.

“A few, but nothing that lasted very long. Mostly fantasy-obsessed weirdos who just wanted to brag about dating someone who wears an eyepatch, like I’m a fictional character or a damn pirate or something. But, uh, what about you?”

Satoru laughed a bit, but not humorously.

“Nope. I could barely function like a normal human being, let alone be in a relationship.”

He didn’t mean to make that burden of guilt reappear.

Catching a glimpse of you staring at the ground, he opened his mouth to apologize, but you started to speak before he could do so.

“I hate knowing that I caused you so much pain. I should have done something. I should have never let the higher-ups force me to start a new life, or at least, I should have tried to figure out who Ren’s father was. I’m sorry.”

Satoru grabbed your hand. He didn’t think it through — didn’t pause to wonder if such a display of affection was okay, but you didn’t seem to mind. Your warm fingers curled around his.

He couldn’t wait to tell Kento about it.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, okay?” Satoru stared at you, paying no mind to anything that might have been in front of his walking path. “I picked working for people who would destroy my life at any given chance over my own family. None of this would have happened if I had been home like I should’ve been. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

At this hour, all of the small, local businesses were closed, cute little brown buildings showcasing nothing but darkness when you glanced through their windows as you strolled by.

However, one place was still open.

It was the bar.

Walking past it, you held Satoru’s hand a little tighter.

The white-haired man couldn’t see it, but as he made his way by the entrance doors, the bartender could see his former customer walking by with a small, sober grin.

The bartender smiled to himself as he washed a glass.

He was incredibly happy for that man, and he hoped to never get another dollar from him again.

“So what happens now?” Your sudden question made Satoru hum in response and tilt his head a bit. Continuing, you asked, “Are you going to go back to being a sorcerer?”

“No,” Satoru shook his head. “I passed the torch on to my students a while ago, and I think they’ll be just fine.”

As you both unhappily arrived closer and closer to your apartment, a sad frown appeared on Satoru’s face. He didn’t want the date to end. He wanted to keep walking with you forever.

Letting you go with the promise of seeing you again soon never came easy after the incident.

Your footsteps clicked against the hard ground as you made your way to your front door. With a shy smile, you turned and faced the white-haired man.

“Thanks for walking me home. I’d invite you inside, but it’s getting late, and I have to head to my coffee shop in the morning. I was able to get a few bookshelves put in. Can you believe it?” Digging through your purse for your house keys, you smiled at Satoru. “I just gotta spend my Sunday actually putting books on the shelves now before we open on Monday. Boxes are sitting everywhere right now.”

“I’m happy for you,” Satoru said. He couldn’t help but wonder if this newfound passion for books, coffee, and entrepreneurship came after the incident, or if you were always interested in such things, and he never noticed.

He would have bought you a two-story bookstore and coffee shop years ago if that was the case. Was that always your dream and you kept it hidden from him? Why? Did it have anything to do with having to raise Ren and run the house while Satoru was off fighting curses and training his students?

He wanted to ask — and he almost did, his lips parting a bit — but he knew you wouldn’t remember. You wouldn’t have an answer.

“You should stop by sometime!” Your smile brightened. “Do you like coffee? You seem like the kinda guy who’d like something on the sweeter side . . . a mocha, maybe?”

Satoru couldn’t help but lovingly mimic your bright smile, his eyes flickering from your eye to your lips, and his heart skipped a beat.

Most people would assume that a guy like Satoru hated sweets. Back when he was a sorcerer, others figured that he avoided sweets and sugary things to keep himself as healthy as possible. Truthfully, though, he was the kind of person who would have dessert for every meal if he could. Both because it helped energize his overactive mind, and because he simply had a sweet tooth.

But you knew.

Was it something you remembered, or was it nothing more than a lucky guess?

Satoru couldn’t say. You couldn’t say.

However, no one could deny that your old personality was starting to return while in his presence. You had never known yourself to be the kind of person to ramble on and on, but here you were, spending your night talking so much that your jaw had started to ache.

After one proper evening together, the gorgeous man was bringing out a side of you that you had never known — or, perhaps, had forgotten.

“You could serve me a cup of toilet water and I’d drink it,” Satoru said with a gentle, brief chuckle. “But yeah, I have a sweet tooth.”

“So I was right.” You paused. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later.”

The smile on his face faltered as uncertainty flooded his mind, as he didn’t know how to properly say goodbye. You held hands earlier, and you had hugged once before, but should he initiate one now? Should he shake your hand? No . . . too professional. The last thing he wanted was for your reblossoming relationship to amount to that of a business transaction.

He decided to play it safe. He mumbled a quick goodnight, gave you a soft smile, and started to walk away.

“Wait,” you called out.

With a little hum of confusion, his brows raising slightly, he turned and faced you.

Reaching up, your hands gripped his shoulder, pulling the taller man down a bit before planting a soft kiss on his cheek, which instantly reddened the second your lips came in contact with his soft skin.

“Goodnight,” you mumbled.

When your face was still a whisper away from his own, Satoru kissed your cheek back.

It was a subconscious act — as natural breathing. You’d kiss his cheek, and he’d kiss yours back.

“You used to kiss my cheek all the time.” He pulled away from you, blushing.

“Really?” You wrapped your fingers around your house key, turning towards your door briefly to place it in the lock. Looking back at him as you twisted it, you said, “That’s probably why I wanted to do it now. It just felt right, I guess. I don’t normally kiss my dates on the cheek.”

“Right, well,” Satoru, once again, started to walk away. “Goodnight.”

That night — after soaking in the bathtub and texting Satoru to make sure he got home safely, although you felt silly doing so, being that he was the most powerful man in the world — you rested your head against your pillow and started to drift off to sleep.

In that state, in which it felt as if your mind, body, and soul were stuck somewhere between falling asleep and staying awake, Satoru’s face appeared in your mind.

Only — he was younger.

He wore dark sunglasses, and a dorky smile, cheeks pink as he blushed . . .

“Y/N!” He called out, waving for you to come over and join him where he stood in a shady spot underneath a big tree.

As you approached him, the cocky teenager put his hands in the pockets of his school uniform, trying his hardest to seem cool and calm. But despite his best efforts, he was still a blushing mess.

“Hey,” you greeted politely, smiling up at your tall classmate. “Everything alright? I’m gonna be late for training.”

“Y-Yeah,” he awkwardly cleared his throat following his stutter — which made him wish that the ground would somehow open up and swallow him whole to ease his embarrassment. “I just . . . wanted to say hi. I’m sorry I didn’t call you after our date. Well, I did, but I hung up before you answered because I got nervous. Not-not that I normally get nervous or anything, I’m pretty chill, but it was late and I didn’t know if you wanted to talk, or if you’d think I was weird for calling you after we had just hung out. I’m not weird, I promise. I’m not as cocky as everyone says I am, either. I’m just a normal person. You’re not, though. I-I mean, you’re normal, but you’re really strong and pretty, you know what I mean? So, uh . . . yeah.”

An amused grin appeared on your face. Meanwhile, Satoru’s own face reddened even more with every shaky word he spoke. The gifted sorcerer couldn’t look you in the eye.

“You’re adorable,” you chuckled softly, watching as he fidgeted around, unable to stand still in your presence. “And it’s okay. You make me kinda nervous too.”

Your eye darted away from him. Satoru glanced down at your hand and saw that you were fiddling with the end of your sleeve.

“Do you wanna go out with me again?” Satoru’s words were rushed, rolling off of his tongue and falling from between his lips much quicker than he wanted.

“I’d love to.” Your sweet smile made Satoru’s heart skip a beat. Glancing down at your watch, you said, “I gotta go, but maybe we can have lunch together tomorrow. Diner down the street?”

“Okay, that’s cool,” Satoru couldn’t fight the urge to grin, his cheeks starting to burn. “I’ll see you later.”

You started to walk away, but suddenly, your footsteps came to a halt. Turning back around to face a puzzled Satoru, you approached him once again, motioned for him to lean down, and you planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Bye,” you grinned.

Satoru couldn’t speak. Your lips touching his red, blushy cheek had seized his ability to communicate like a normal human being. His body froze, his throat dried to a crisp, and his overactive mind was incapable of forming a coherent thought.

As he watched you start to walk away, eventually snapping out of his trance, he shouted, “Wait!”

The happy teenager leaned down and quickly kissed your cheek. Then, he ran off to locate his best friend, Suguru Geto, eager to tell the dark-haired boy about the heartwarming interaction he just had with the woman he was certain he’d marry someday.

—

— THURSDAY —

Less than a week has passed since your wonderful evening with Satoru. During that time, your coffee shop was now a fully operational bookstore as well. You and Satoru stayed in your shop well past closing hours, sipping on beverages and chatting. On Tuesday night, you, him, and Ren enjoyed seafood and board games.

It was wonderful.

Spending time with him often led to dreams when your eye fluttered shut and the moon was shining through your curtains.

However, the dreamlike images of that beautiful man didn’t feel like dreams at all.

And your therapist agreed.

She suggested that, perhaps, they were memories.

But there was only one way to truly differentiate between what was real and what wasn’t.

And that was by asking Satoru. Only he could tell you if the beautiful scenarios that appeared were missing pieces of a life you had forgotten.

That Thursday, the setting sun began to darken the baby blue sky, and faint stars appeared above the school in which a science fair was taking place.

In the big school gym, several students had their artistic projects on display for judges and parents to walk around and admire. Ren and Mae had created a presentation about power and electricity.

He looked so proud as he stood there, pointing at several different wires surrounded by Mae’s detailed drawings of lightning bolts, explaining the scientific process to curious guests.

However, what he was proud of more than anything was his mother and father, who stood behind the group of judges and parents and snapped pictures of him. The young boy would occasionally dart his eyes away from the crowd of strangers admiring his presentation and smile at his parents.

He had two of them.

A mother and a father.

Later on, as the judges gathered to discuss the winners of the science fair, Ren walked off to chat with his group of friends. While everyone had to create a project for a class grade, submitting it to the science fair was completely optional. Only true science-loving geniuses took it that far. Even so, Ren’s friends — the ones who attended his birthday party — all showed up to support him. They didn’t know a thing about science beyond what they could scribble on a ripped sheet of paper and hide under their sleeves during tests, but they knew one thing: they wanted to be there for your boy.

Approaching Satoru with a white paper cup of water, you smiled at him softly.

“Hey, do you have a minute? Can we talk outside?”

“Of course,” Satoru matched your smile with a grin of his own. Even if he was busy, he’d make time for you now. Always.

Walking through the see-through doors and stepping outside into the darkening surroundings was a nostalgic experience. It was an entirely different school, but hearing crickets chirp and seeing families walking home after their own events ended as the falling sun finished off another beautiful day reminded Satoru of your after-class walks from way back when.

He faced you with a look of curiosity.

“What’s up?”

“I was just wondering . . . do you remember what our second date might have been like?”

Satoru’s eyes darted up at the stars for a moment — he remembered, of course.

“Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure I remember every date. Why?”

“Just curious,” you lied. The last thing you wanted to do was give him hope that your memory was returning, only for it to turn out to be nothing more than a pointless dream.

“We planned it right when we saw each other in person again after our first date. I was nervous and apologetic about not calling you the night before — either I was nervous or I forgot, I’m not sure — but we went to a nearby diner, one close to the school.”

You shifted your stance a bit, much too excited to stand completely still. Could it have been a coincidence?

“I think I might have remembered that.” As you spoke, Satoru’s eyes widened. “I had a dream — or I thought it was a dream, but it felt too real. We were standing outside of a school, wearing uniforms. We were both still so nervous around each other, but you were rambling a bunch, and . . . I’ve just been having a lot of similar dreams like that lately. To know that they actually might have been memories . . . I can’t believe it.”

“Wh-What else do you remember? What were the other dreams about?”

You went on to describe what you had seen.

Satoru’s eyes started to water as you recalled some of your shared memories. The stars appearing in the sky above seemed brighter.

Although you couldn’t remember everything, for now, it was enough.

“I know it’s not a lot, but those little memories are something I’ll hold onto forever. Some of them came back, and I don’t plan on letting them go anytime soon,” you said. “I might not remember our first kiss or every anniversary, but I’m starting to remember how it felt to love you.”

Satoru’s world stopped. It was a feeling similar to the day he first found you and Ren at that one grocery store.

It was a combination of shock and love running through his veins.

Satoru’s large hands cupped your cheeks. Slowly, he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours.

Satoru lost you once. Then, you reappeared. However, kissing you softly, yet passionately in this moment is what led Satoru’s soul to believe that he had finally found you.

Your sweet lips moved against his with a familiar pattern one would only have while kissing their soulmate. Even if your mind had forgotten much, your soul knew. It just knew.

The entrance doors belonging to the school opened and closed. Parents were heading back inside after ending phone calls or smashing their cigarette butts because the awards ceremony was about to start according to their watches.

Sadly, you and Satoru had to pull away, breathlessly, though, and after reuniting for two or three more little kisses.

“I’m starting to get jealous of the old me who used to kiss you like that every day,” your beaming smile was too cute.

“No reason to be jealous, you can still do it every day if you want to,” Satoru’s face was only inches away from yours as he spoke.

“Well, come on, let’s go see if our boy won first place. We can talk about our new every day later,”you said, grabbing ahold of Satoru’s hand.

You led him back into the school, where Ren would later accept his first-place trophy.

As the three of you celebrated his victory — together, as it should be — being a family started to become your new every day.

—

— TWO YEARS LATER —

White dresses and fancy cakes were on your mind, the old, sweet memory of walking down the aisle, glancing up at your teary-eyed husband, had recently come back to you in great detail.

You could taste the classic vanilla cake flavor on your tongue. Smell the special cologne Satoru wore that day. Feel the swaying rhythm of the song played during your first dance.

Today, as you drove your thirteen-year-old to school with him in the passenger seat — the middle school was too far of a walk compared to the elementary school — you touched the knob of your radio and turned up the music a few notches.

“What song is this?” Ren questioned, listening to the unfamiliar ballad.

“I think it’s a song from my wedding. I’ll have to ask Satoru later.”

Ren smiled. Another potential memory was unlocked.

“I’m also hoping he can take you to get a haircut tomorrow because I gotta-”

“Whaaat? No, Mom, no haircut, okay?”

“Since when do you not like haircuts?” You made a swift right turn as you spoke.

Ren scratched the side of his white hair, feeling his growing strands.

“I’m trying to grow it out until it looks like Dad’s, so not too long, but a little longer than it is now. Plus, Mae said that she likes longer hair. Oh, and can you take us to the movies Friday? I forgot to ask earlier.”

“Sure,” you agreed with a soft smile.

Your son and Mae had officially been dating for about a year, and it was beyond adorable.

Turning into the drop-off lane in front of the school, you pulled Ren’s packed lunch out of the backseat, along with his backpack. He was a growing boy — a realization that brought both you and Satoru to tears — and, naturally, his stomach was a bottomless pit right now.

“Bye Mom,” Ren started to open his car door but paused. “By the way, I hope you and Dad get remarried soon.”

And with that final thought, he closed the door and limped away.

—

Three days later, Satoru proposed.

Just like he once did years ago, Kento helped him out with planning the details of a perfect proposal.

It was in a beautiful, forestry area lit up with fairy lights — a gorgeous local walking trail you both strolled down together often.

He got down on one knee. Pulled out a mesmerizing ring. Cheeks red from being nervous, an emotion only you could bring out of the extroverted man.

There was no greater joy than when you wrapped your arms around him after saying yes.

God, he loved you. He loved you, and he loved you.

And, once again, you had promised to spend the rest of your life with him, because, god, you loved him. You loved him, and you loved him.

Satoru kissed you deeply after you accepted his proposal, tears streaming down his face.

“This ring isn’t just an engagement ring.” Satoru’s lips hovered over yours as he whispered, “It’s also a promise ring, too. Because I promise you that I’ll be the husband you deserve this time around. You were always so scared back then of falling in love with someone you could lose, and I’m letting you know now that I’m here, and you’ll never lose me to anything, especially a career path. You couldn’t get rid of me even if you tried.”

“Don’t worry, the past doesn’t define us as much as we think it does, trust me. You, me, and Ren are going to be just fine, okay?” You ran your thumb across his blushing cheek. He was so beautiful. “Let’s just focus on our future. On our every day.”

Satoru kissed you softly, mumbling a subtle, “Okay.”

He had his worries, but whenever your lips touched his cheek, and his lips touched your cheek, he had a gut feeling that, perhaps, everything would be alright.

—

— DECADES LATER —

“This color looks pretty, Grandma.”

Your eldest granddaughter gently rubbed one of her favorite lipsticks across your lips. “Brings out your eyes.”

“I only have one, honey, but thank you.”

Softly, she laughed. Growing up, she loved hearing the made-up stories about how you got your eyepatch. You being a pirate on an adventure to save captured mermaids was her favorite tale as a child.

She was Ren’s and Mae’s firstborn, the oldest amongst their three children, and the only girl. Your granddaughter was sweet and kind enough to help you get ready for a family brunch.

Ren, who was in his forties now, stepped through the front door of his lovely home with his wife and two sons.

He walked into the living room and greeted you briefly as he kissed your forehead before heading into the kitchen and sitting down a big brown bag filled with groceries.

Then, several more kisses followed from your fellow cherished family members.

You smiled with pride. Ren was a successful surgeon who married his childhood sweetheart and had created a beautiful family.

Suddenly, you frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Your youngest grandson asked, tilting his head a bit.

“Where’s Satoru?”

You glanced around for your husband. You missed him. Where did he go?

Your granddaughter held your hand.

“He’s in the bathroom, remember? He left a few minutes ago. He’ll be right back.”

You gave an unsatisfied nod.

Memory loss has always been a struggle for your entire life. Be it object permanence as a baby, amnesia as an adult, or plain ‘ole forgetfulness as an elder.

But at least you remembered love.

That much was obvious when Satoru returned to the living room, eyes crinkly as he smiled, and your mood suddenly changed into complete and utter happiness.

“You look pretty,” Satoru ran his hand across your cheek. “That’s lipstick, hm?”

“Brings out my eye,” you joked.

As Satoru took a seat next to you on the couch, Mae shouted from the kitchen, “Hey, come help us.”

Your three grandchildren left the living room to assist their parents, leaving you and Satoru alone to enjoy each other’s company by chatting and watching TV until brunch was ready.

He had his arm wrapped around you, his body heat warming your entire soul. There was no greater joy than being with him.

That night, you and Satoru were snuggled up underneath your thick comforter, facing each other in bed.

“After all these years, you still make me nervous,” Satoru said, staring into your eye, his cheeks becoming the faintest shade of pink.

With a warm smile, you slowly kissed Satoru’s cheek. He kissed yours.

You touched a strand of his gray hair. Then, your lovely, wrinkly fingers graced his cheek, the warm lighting from his bedside table lamp highlighting his aged, beautiful face.

“Thank you . . . for another great day, and for all the memories. I love you, Satoru.”

A little yawn escaped you. As you drifted off to sleep, Satoru mumbled, “I love you too, Y/N.”

In time, you will once again start to lose all of your memories. Slowly, it will all fade as you grow older and get closer to your impending demise. Satoru had grown to accept that expected outcome. However, this time around, if you passed on before the retired sorcerer, he wouldn’t be a sad man stuck in a bar, mourning. He would be at your bedside, holding your hand and kissing your cheek.

Then, he’d wait for the day in which he too would pass on and join you in the place of eternal happiness and rest, where, finally, both of your souls would be at peace after what happened.

♡ — 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠!

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