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𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐤𝐞. | 𝐠.𝐬.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gojo satoru x reader ft. megumi fushiguro

𝐰𝐜: 1.4k

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: its a piece of cake to bake a cake, as long as you follow the recipe—or, gojo satoru was never the best at following instructions, but at least he tries.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐰: fluff, hurt/comfort, fear of growing up, minor existential crisis, one suggestive line, no-curse au, gojo adopts megumi au (?), pls let me know if I miss anything!

𝐚/𝐧: this was supposed to be comedic but it ended up being a bit sad LMFAO im actually a little scared to post this bc I had no beta review this...ill probably post it and never look at it again lol but pls let me know what you thought!

Constant huffing, with a desperate groan sprinkled here and there, caught your attention the moment you set foot inside the apartment. All lights, except for the kitchen's, were turned off. A distinct smell of baked goods—or slightly burnt goods, if you will—filled the entranceway, and you followed blindly.

Finally gracing the kitchen with your presence, the image in front of you left you mildly speechless. In front of you, was Gojo Satoru, hair tousled and hands shaky, his back was bent over at a weird angle so his eye line would match the edge of the counter, all his attention was on steadying the piping bag he held with a shaky hand.

It was adorable, the way the tip of his tongue would poke out, with his brows furrowed in the utmost concentration. Multicoloured icing stained his pretty face, highlighting the roundness of his cheeks. He held in a breath as if that would make his piping technique any less disastrous.

Still, despite how cute Satoru looked trying to make fancy patterns with dainty nozzles, seeing your boyfriend trying to do anything remotely kitchen-y threw you off. You wouldn’t say he was banned from entering the premises, but unless he intended to grab a snack—which meant taking the whole container of sugar to the couch and eating spoonfuls of it at a time while watching over-the-top dramas—he wouldn’t be caught dead cooking up anything more complicated than a bowl of cereal.

Lighting pans on fire, somehow fucking up any sort of boxed mac-n-cheese and burning a hole into Nanami's shirt that one time you decided to host a dinner party was enough to name Gojo Satoru as an absolute menace—and not in the fun kinky way.

So, you couldn’t really help but reveal yourself to him without giving it much thought. After all, he looked like he was in dire need of aid, and you were slightly needy after dropping Megumi off at the Itadori’s for a sleepover. Imagine your surprise when rather than being met with your usually clingy boyfriend, you were faced with Gojo Satoru, the newest member of The Great British Bake-off, instead.

“What are you doing?”

If looks could kill, your funeral invites would be ready by tomorrow morning. You could read the news headlines already, Cold-blooded murder! Find out what happens when you ruin your boyfriend’s piece of cake.

“What am I doing?! I’m trying my best!” He whined, placing one of his hands on his hip.

Now that he stood up to his full height, you could appreciate the image of him more clearly. The icing covered most parts of his face, varying from pastel to vivid colours. Over his lounging clothes, he was wearing the frilly pink apron he had bought for Nanami as a joke. It was a bit big on him, his built objectively smaller than that of his friend, but the pretty pink colour matched his azure orbs, made them pop—it reminded you of that time he let Megumi and his friends do his makeup with the chalky palette Nobara had brought to play with. You would’ve relished in the memory of Gojo getting his skin irritated by the spongy eyeshadow applicator if it wasn’t for the groan of frustration ripping through his pillowy pout.

“Baking is stupid, and I hate it.” He punctuated his statement with a slight kick of his foot. As soon as you left, fussing over Megumi and repeatedly checking whether he packed his toothbrush, he had started pulling all sorts of baking utensils. Clanking bowls and measuring cups, random sized spatulas were all evenly spread out; aesthetically pleasing if you will.

How hard could it truly be? After watching you countless times dance around the kitchen, effortlessly mixing up ingredients while humming a tune, he was sure this would be just another easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy task. You would fall in love with him all over again, Shoko would probably stop smoking, and Suguru would finally agree to add his initials—maybe even a picture of his face, who knows? —to his tattoo collection; everyone around him would be astounded, clapping and cheering, all because of his impeccable culinary skills.

Right?

Wrong

Baking was harder than you, and most people on those cooking shows made it seem. It wasn't just about tossing random powdery ingredients onto a bowl. No, they had a designated order apparently, who would've thought. But alas, he managed to mix some cake batter with decent consistency and shove it in the oven without giving it much thought. Fortunately for him, making icing was even harder! The universe was definitely on his side on this one.

The half-hearted laughter he let out was painful to hear, a wet smile gracing his features. It took you less than a second to react; his silence meant he was beating himself up, and you'd rather die than let his mind mill him to a pulp.

With gentle steps, you walked around the island counter. Leaning against the sink next to him, you grabbed his sticky hand in comfort. Rubbing circles with your thumb always seemed to calm him down.

“I—” He sighed, sounding almost defeated as he looked at the mess he made. The number of times he had scraped frosting from the cake had sanded it down considerably; reusing the same frosting to the point where the crumbs had thickened the original texture. Moreover, the constant mixing could only result in a chaos of colours. He had run out of ingredients to make some more icing, so he had to make do with the shades of brownish-green, grey, and pastel blue—that somehow had managed to survive the massacre. “I was just baking a cake for Gumi,”

“I know he went over to Yuuji’s to celebrate his birthday at midnight and all that,” he refused to make eye contact with you, staring at the ceiling like the solution to his dilemma would come out of the paint-covered concrete. “But I- I just wanted him to come back home to something sweet, you know? Sing happy birthday and all that.”

Lowering his gaze towards the floor, he made it seem as if he was cleaning icing from his face, instead of wiping the tears that threatened to spill.

“He’s growing so fast and I just,” he sniffled “I’m scared he’s starting to leave us— I don’t want him to leave us behind.”

Raising his hand to your mouth, you pressed a chaste kiss to his knuckles. You nuzzled yourself closer to his body, trying to eliminate as much space separating the both of you as possible.

“I think there’s a 24-hour market close by,” It felt like hours before you broke the silence. Sometimes all he needed was you, no words uttered, just sharing each other’s warmth. Sometimes he’d prefer the silence, and even so, it seemed like you always managed to sense whenever he was ready to come back to earth; face his fears and all that jazz. “They sell the pretty sparklers you both like.”

And it was after an arduous night of baking—appreciating the way you would guide his hands while whisking and pouring, patiently teaching him the basics; never mocking his mistakes, but softly giggling with him at the little mishaps, and sharing tender kisses here and there.

After opening the door, the next morning, holding the cake as Megumi made its way inside the house. Obnoxiously singing happy birthday, voice cracking in the you, as one does. Admiring the way, the sparklers lit up his pretty green eyes—that weren’t his nor yours but which, regardless of that, held speckles of your unconditional love.

After sharing what felt like the longest hug, and hearing bits and pieces of what he thought sounded like I love you, dad, thank you for being here.

After watching the way Megumi ran into your arms, whispering those same words to you—minus the word dad of course—and holding you tightly because it was also you who gave him the world.

It was after all that, that he felt the gap in his chest beginning to mend itself; the worries he had tried to bear on his own—because he refused to share such irrationalities for a while; you’d probably scold him for bottling up his feelings again—dissipating slowly.

It was inevitable. Megumi would leave you two eventually, but the love he felt for you would never extinguish; not as long as he lives.

“I love fireworks!”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦

words:2.3k

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence, blood, angst, open ended/ambiguous ending, descriptions of death.

request: “Can i request sukuna x male reader. Where reader keeps reincarnating with each lifetime for a curse and every time he remembers sukuna, he dies after gaining memories back. You can choose if theres a good ending or angst. Thank you king! I fell in love with him especially after reading that one shot i had to watch jjk and hes hot! Thank you for turning me into a sukuna simp! Much love”

a/n: i went,,,overboard with this request 🗿 BUT IT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITESSIJEHSHE i’m honored to have introduced you to such a foine man

When you were five, only then had you understood the curse deemed ‘Ryoumen Sukuna.’ A rather tall man with two heads, one of which had splattered blood onto your sneakers. You understood the concept of death, of course, but could never truly comprehend the feeling of nothingness after watching your life flash before your eyes until nineteen. But there you stood, clutching the loop of your shorts when you witnessed the murder of your entire village. You didn’t know evil could have a moral compass, but the tall curse seemed to exclude half of the women and children. After the widening of youthful eyes and curdling screams you learned the monster took likings to things too. Women, with shaking forms and broken spirits. He’d stop before them, stare at them with eyes that could- in fact- kill, if they truly wanted to. But then he stopped in front of you.

“Close your eyes, Brat.” Death's hands were just as large as your family painted them out to be, if not larger. Calloused and riddled with blood as they are placed over your ears. You do as he- it says, squeezing your eyes shut and enclosing your eyes behind the meat of your palms just to be extra careful. You can see stars behind your eyelids, just as you can feel the sickening twang of death lingering in the air. You were aware it would happen at some point, Death would find its place for you over and over and over again, you’d been told since the day you were born.

There’s another sound, only muted under large palms. You don’t need your sense of sight or hearing to know what it was, the warm chunks splattering onto your skin was enough. Immediately, you flinched. When you opened your eyes, there were piercing eyes staring straight into your own. It looked so human, but something was off. Uncanny, as if it took years to manipulate its flesh and bone to emulate humans to a T. But there was nothing human behind those eyes, instead a void of nothingness. Death itself. If Death could express interest, you’d have thought that was the expression it was imitating. It offers a hand, one of four. Larger than your face, with sharp claws that could almost be described as talons. Darkened by dirt and remains of your loved ones, if it truly wanted to kill you, it could. It could tear you limb from limb with the wave of a finger. And it knew that.

So you took the hand, and he became your second home.

When you were ten, you learned about the red string of fate. It could never be broken, and those connected by it would always reunite, no matter the circumstances. You often had nightmares, those of which filled with blurred faces and sharp pain that reached you in your lucid state. Dreams of talons, piercing eyes, and double headed monsters. You dreamt under the stars, tasted metal on your tongue, and choked on smoke that wasn’t actually there. You dreamt of facial markings, details that you couldn’t exactly place, a name that you couldn’t quite remember. It left your tongue feeling thick in your mouth, racked tremors through your body, and caused premature dark circles to accumulate under your eyes.

When you were nineteen, you experienced your last breath. The air was stolen from your lungs, crushed under years of heartbreak and terror, and snatched from you in the dead of night. Your eyes glazed over, and nothingness overtook you. It left you for someone else to find, cold and lifeless. A void, similar to the eyes you had finally placed. But that didn’t matter much then, you had already drifted away from your body.

And that was that.

Thus, the cycle repeated. Under different names, different ages, different genders. There was always something gnawing away at your conscience, you felt as though you were forgetting something. But when you finally remembered, it was too late. And there was nothing you could do about it.

It was almost like deja vu, stepping outside your home to find blood splattered on the concrete floor. It made your blood run cold, sent a tremor through your body and made you feel like you were five again. Small and defenseless. You take it as your best interest to go back inside before you pass out, but the second you whip your body around you meet something- someone?- large and sturdy.

“Sukuna.” That was it, the sour taste at the tip of your tongue, the lingering sensation at the back of your brain. Him. He didn’t look the same, no, much smaller with tufts of pink hair. There’s something behind his eyes this time, something almost irrevocably human. For some reason that’s much scarier than what you remember. What you think you remember. He’s much more human, but the way he looks at you is everything but humane. He looks frustrated, angry at something, as if he’ll implode any second and go on a rampage. Dread bubbles up in your stomach, nearly erupting through your mouth as bile. It felt as though something should be happening, like something usually happened when the itch went away. He chuckles, low in his throat as he cranes his neck to put his face uncomfortably close to your own. His hands, still large, find their way to your wrist, gripping your right hand uncomfortably tight. For a moment, you consider how long a trip to the hospital would be if he shattered the bone beneath his fingers. But instead there’s a jolt of electricity that would’ve had you yanking your hand back if he weren’t holding it.

“What? You look different.” He all but purrs, inspecting your palm with long nails. Not long enough to be talons, but longer than those of a claw. It was true, you did look different. He wondered if you spent your lifetimes looking exactly the same. That couldn’t have been possible, he would’ve found you much easier, then. Still quite boyish, as if the body you were in didn’t originally belong to you. Clearly grown out of cargo shorts and polos, much taller than you were before. There was no way he could have forgotten you, the way you jumped when the remains of your loved one splattered across your legs. The way you stared back at him with a look of acceptance, the way you grabbed his hand and allowed him to lead you out of the village. It explained the body memories perfectly, the feeling of large palms on your head and remnants of a brain splattering onto your knees.

“Last time I saw you,” He let’s go of your wrist with a bored expression, then replaces its spot with the top of your head. He shoves you down, and you make an effort to ignore the crack your knees make when they smack against the concrete. Then, he crouches down to stare you directly in the eye, just like he had the first time you met. His eyes were no longer dark, instead a deep shade of red that caught light from the moon. They reminded you of vials of blood. “You were this tall. Much cuter in this century.”

“And you were bigger.” Sukuna laughs as if hearing that was the funniest thing in the world. He leans his weight into you and uses you as a support beam, laughing until his ribs burn and beg for a break. But how could he laugh at a time like this? He didn’t think it was weird? He’s existed for centuries, murdered for millennias and only now has he seen you. That wasn’t how it worked, when you died, you died. But Sukuna was a walking oxymoron to that statement. When he died, if he died, he would return. He’d return through you, the last fragments of his soul would stay bound to yours until the end of time. Perhaps that’s how he knew, how he remembered. Perhaps that’s why he still took the time to find you, even after countless years of failure. It was peculiar, but not as much as being bound to Death himself. It was a sick game of turning the phrase ‘Til’ death do you part,’ because in your case it was literal.

“You’re still a brat.” His voice is closest to something fond, as if he’s reminiscing sweet memories. It was much different on your account, and part of you wondered if Sukuna understood that. He makes no effort to help you up (he explains that you’re “a big boy now”) as he invites himself into your apartment. Nothing special, he doesn’t care much for family photos or if you have them, but the stacks of letters and books on your table peak his interest. He tears apart envelopes as if he owns them, reads through the contents and discards them to the floor if he deems them useless. The way he sits nearly breaks your chair, and, honestly, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

So you sit beside him.

“You were so scared,” He says, almost as if he were bragging. But he was known to be arrogant and cocky, that was just his nature. He didn’t truly mean it like that, in fact, he looked quite reverent after letting the thought drift into the air. It was kind of funny, such a powerful thing fawning over past memories. But that wasn’t how this should go, you had your memory back, so why hasn’t anything happened? “When you grabbed my hand you stopped shaking.”

“...”

“It’s a shame I couldn’t keep you long,” He visibly frowns, the skin around his lips worry, but you can't tell if it’s genuine or not. He looks at you with something knowing the second the thought enters your head. “I looked for you, at first. You died young, for a human.”

Ninteen. ‘I should have been there,” he wants to add.

“Why aren’t I dying now?” You interrupt and let the panic sink in, the thought of impending doom sits on your shoulders because, really, it could happen at any moment. But this time, you don’t want it to. You remember accepting death when it came to your door at the young age of five, nineteen, countless times over and over. You had only ever gotten this far, you weren’t ready yet. You couldn’t start over, not now. “Sukuna?”

The question sours his mood in the blink of an eye, and instead of looking through your things, he raises himself from his seat to rest his palms on the table. It seemed he had a thing for staring down at people, making them cower under his stone cold gaze. You note the way his jaw clenches. You open your mouth to speak again, but he seems to have other plans. He squeezes your cheeks, making your lips purse together under the pressure of his large fingers. The movement feels familiar, like he’s done it before. The five years you spent with him were still a bit of a blur, but you remembered holding his hand quite often. He’d tell you to close your eyes if there was something he didn’t want you to see, he’d ruffle your hair a bit too hard, let you sleep on his back if he was out in the town. But that was all you remembered. He remembered it all.

“Respect your elders,” He lets go and sits back down as if he hadn’t just thrown a tantrum over you interrupting him. Sukuna was centuries old, but even then, he’d exhibit immature behavior sometimes. Living for so long had to get boring (and lonely) at some point, perhaps that was why he looked for you. He did consider you something close to family, after all. In truth, there were some lifetimes where you met. Some when you were friends, something more than that, and something inseparable. And that’s why you hadn’t died yet, you didn’t remember it all. “It’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re talking.”

“You’re much more handsome in this life.” His smile is much more intimidating than sweet, the sinister curl to his lips would only ever be associated with bloodshed in your eyes. But it was much more than that. Nights of sleeping together, days of laughter and flirtatious comments, soft moments that only you had seen. And it was bittersweet, because he knew the second he’d jog your memory you’d be gone. It wasn’t just a curse for you, but for him. Maybe it was his punishment for hurting so many people, dragging an innocent soul down with him and hanging them by the red string of fate. The comment makes your skin prickle with heat. Sukuna was quite the charmer when he wanted to be, easily picking at your weak spots with whatever you wanted to hear. But the comment was much more for the sake of his own, instead of yours.

Sukuna stands, hot on his heels as he holds out his hand one last time. If something were to happen to you tonight he’d make the most out of it, just as he did countless times over and over. So many years of starting over, getting to know you in various different bodies, realizing that being trapped away was the only way you’d get to live a full life, it was always on his mind. You were always on his mind.

So you take his hand. And for the millionth time, he’d become your second home.

taglist:

@ryoukuna @indigowren21 @cannedfoodisbestfood @junkwhoore @kissesdenji @sanderssidesangsttrash @i-d0g @kaito-asmr @jream-23 @princejasno @mel-bigia04 @mhasimp666 @onehellofasimp @corporeal-terrestrial @angelaturservice @shadows-of-nightmares @rinkindaugly

— DARK SPRING

pairing. yuuta okkotsu x fem!reader

summary. yuuta is having relationship troubles, and he isn’t sure how to go about it. 

tags. established relationship, college au, mentions of blood, murder, yuuta pov, mentions of sex

notes. been in a yuuta mood ever since the cockroach chapter, and @vamptomura just gets me when it comes to him. this is just me procrastinating on my other writing. this isn’t edited btw I literally wrote this in like two hours rn.

wc. 2k+

“Where were you? I stopped by the shop to bring you food, but they said you weren’t in today.”

The door squeaks softly on its hinges as you slowly close it behind you. Once the door is fully closed and locked in place, the doorway remains tensely silent. Yuuta watches as you turn to him fully with slightly widened eyes, lips opening and closing as you struggle to answer. 

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he finds himself relishing in the upper hand that he has over you right now. Just this morning you had told him on your daily phone call that you’d be busy at work later tonight. That usually meant you two wouldn’t see each other until the next day, but you’ve been so distant lately that Yuuta’s been yearning for you more than usual. He ached to see you, even if it was just picking up food from your favorite restaurant and dropping it off at the bookstore. It’s still packaged and bagged, now sitting cold on your kitchen counter. 

Keep reading

You being the dendro archon who was in love with Zhongli but since Zhongli at the time didn't understand human emotions, didn't reciprocate. You ended up developing and dying due to hanahaki disease because of your unrequited love. Zhongli only realizes he longs for your presence, when you were no longer there.

Ehe have fun <3

出水芙蓉, as a lotus flower breaking the surface

pairing zhongli x gn!dendro archon!reader

genre angst... without comfort

warnings war, blood, death, injury, zhongli's name

a/n special piece for mika ily for this

a lotus bloom.

nelumbo nucifera. it is known to symbolise purity, enlightenment, self-regeneration and rebirth. even when its roots are in the dirtiest of waters, it still manages to produce the most beautiful of blooms.

some legends say it is a plant whose fruit induced a dreamy forgetfulness and an unwillingness to leave.

~

at your will, the snow melts and the blooms rise. pearly precious buds that are yet to develop and grow into the character that fate ordains them to be. they could easily be nipped, yet you protect them with all that you have. warm fingers tickle the horizon, and a palette of rosy hues spills across the the line where the lands of teyvat meet the enigmatic void above. zhongli approaches each one, observing their anatomy with a childlike curiosity. his blameless fingertips gently tip each plantlet towards his gaze. they are pure, not tainted by the cruel realities of this world. yet in the way that you both sigh and linger a little too long in the sunrise, you are both well aware that the crimson blood of demons and angels alike may soon tarnish their innocence.

~

pastel pink, like the sudden blush on the cheeks of a young couple in love. a soft, timid shade. one that brings butterflies to the stomach and lets them escape out the lips in the form of lighthearted teasing and giggles that float through the air like a melody. stolen, fleeting glances from across the room, glittering irises and widening pupils that absorb all of who you are. zhongli's gaze drips with the sweetness of saccharine honey, all golden in the sunlight. it is comforting, and you feel as if it coats every surface and seeps into every crack of your fluttering heart. but zhongli says fleeting emotions such as love are limited to the hearts of the human race. we are not human, he says. we are deities, gods of the heavens. you do not open your mouth to reject, but you can hear the distant protests of your heart, echoing in the emptiest depths of your mind.

vibrant magenta. glaring noon light and the sound of crickets in the middle of the night. petals begin to burst forth, unfolding and unravelling a secret you cease to hide. your eyes lock from afar. his strength extends beyond the endless expanse of plains and mountains and waters that stretch between you. he turns to you, and you willingly ignore the fact that his spears and boulders have formed a forest of geological remains. you do not know what souls are pinned below the earth he once summoned, and you do not wish to find out. in the rare ceases of fighting and bloodshed, zhongli says the earth allows a pool to form from the tears of the sky; but the muddy waters do not stop you from letting the lotuses thrive to their fullest potential. they are as beautiful as ever, you breathe. they are, and he nods slowly, his smooth voice ringing in your ears. he takes your stained hands in his own and speaks lowly. these hands have suffocated the lungs of many in vines of restraint, promising release but growing ever tighter; yet you see how they still wield the capability to nurture a species of such purity? it truly is remarkable. the corners of his lips turn up into a slight, rare smile, and even the scrutiny of celestia seems to fall away.

indigo, then violet when the celestial lights dim. in the shadows where the heavens' gaze does not fall, ignorance is bliss, it seems. it puzzles you, because neither of you are ignorant, nor innocent. your hands have wielded weapons of war and the cold, shrivelled hands of your dying friends alike, prayers to celestia falling on deaf ears. he is, arguably in a much more augmented way than you, painfully aware of the realities this world has been facing, the memories the spirits of the land crying out in desperation for his assistance. yet between the two of you, bliss seems to only come to zhongli, who does not share the rush of euphoria you experience each time his hands connect with your own in a steady, secure hold; nor does his heartbeat begin to race when you barrel into his chest. zhongli has always been one to see even that which does not fall below his gaze. but you make sure one thing is certain- he does not hear the rumble of pistils in your lungs when the moon begins to rise, nor does he see the vermillion petals that litter the earth below the haven of your people. you have always been one to protect, to foster, to nourish. now your very own blessings have twisted themselves into a vine of thorns and roses, and you cannot help but feed the needs of the savage, reckless blooms. for the memory will die with the wilting of the flower, and you hope that even when all else erodes into the flow of time, the vulnerable work of your hands may prove to be a symbol of uncovered secrets of the past.

crimson, the life that flows like rivers of human blood in human veins. the iron encapsulated in the warning shades of red are created in none other than the remains of dying stars. fascinating, isn't it? you turn your head to zhongli. he seems enamored with the glittering specks of light above. a single meteor streaks into vision, its tail slowly burning; like the passion crackling away in your heart that eventually will degrade the very existence of your body and soul. for the god of wisdom, you are being awfully unwise, he states matter-of-factly. rigid as always, your inner voice mumbles to itself, and your suppressed frustration seems to bubble up until all you can see is the colour of blood; the blood of all you've let fall at your hands. your throat begins to scream as zhongli's palm makes contact with the bumps and curves of your spine. florets erupt from the very organs that sustain your life, and to your surprise they do not seem to sprout before they bloom. scarlet, ruby, carmine, crimson. red. why is everything red, morax? you sputter out words in between strained breaths, and from the way his eyes pierce into yours, you know he is aware. he knows. that is all that matters, correct? is this not the moment you yearned to witness? the memory of your foolish emotions will live on, etched in the rock-hard tablet that is the heart of the man you love. the vines squeeze, and for once, you do not resist fate, the haze of a dream overcoming your senses. pouring rain, newborn lotuses, and a sunrise. why didn't you give up? a foreign voice resounds in your mind, and here i was, thinking i was the stubborn one out of us two. but your earthly body is already vacant; and a pitiful, longing smile graces your features as you wrap yourself around zhongli, his body hunched over your own, crying out in vain for you to stay. these bodies, you whisper, are none other than containers, vehicles that hold our eternal souls.

black. the absence of all light, devoid of life.

white. the presence of all light, the pinnacle of purity.

~

zhongli's fingers dip below the surface of the water. a drumming drizzle has ceased, and as the last of the sun's rays slip below the horizon, he lifts the bud out of the water. a white lotus, cradled in his tainted hands like an impeccable specimen of porcelain. it has the potential to become any colour it wishes to be. a pastel pink, a vibrant magenta, indigo, violet, crimson. yet it remains pure, it remains innocent. or perhaps the perception of this flower is flawed, zhongli thinks. you knew far too much about this world to let a flower of such endurance represent a nescient innocence. perhaps this white bud was meant to encapsulate the paradoxical essence of everything and nothing at the same time. the promise of a soul that requires it to slowly destroy itself in the process. is this what you had wished to speak? as twilight seeps across the endless sky, zhongli stoops to his knees and raises his gaze to the sky. but he is not searching for the guidance of celestia, nor is he searching for their authoritarian gaze. he searches for you, and you only. the stars will be able to provide answers, won't they?

you smile softly, watching as the bud in his palms begins to bloom.

taglist (open): @chichikoi, @noirkkat, @azumira-404, @starglitterz, @urujiako, @abyssheart, @sincerely-mai, @zierx, @dragon-void, @mikachuchu, @eternism, @shxnosuke, @stupidbirdcentral, @icecappa, @ayra2452008, @luceyluce, @masterofbrioches, @upsetpotatoo, @ariesreii

DAYDREAMING!AU || a little petty

request: okay but can we perhaps see yuuta getting protective of DDR….. and maybe him saying something along the lines of ‘leave my girlfriend alone’…..

please? for a treat?

note: honestly, you know my weakness for my babies >< whenever i get to write for my husband Yuta, there is no way I can avoid that faith lmao. 

pronouns: she/her

daydreaming!reader masterlist

If there was one thing that Yuta prides himself of, it is his patience. 

From the moment he had entered the college, he had been taught that the patient person always gets the outcome that they want at the end. And from the most part, he likes to think that he does take that advice to heart and try to be the best version of himself that he possibly can be. However, everything has a limit. 

And the longer he stared from where he was seated, grip tight around his glass of iced juice, he was starting to think that he was going to find his limit today. 

It all started with a message - Yuta was quietly washing up from the lunch that Y/N had made them when he heard the sound of familiar footsteps running towards him; warm giggles filling the air of the communal kitchen. Just hearing those giggles had Yuta chuckling as he turns off the faucet, wiping his hands dry with a towel just as he turns to catch the giggling girl in his arms. “What got you all excited like this?”

Yuta’s amused question was answered with another fit of giggles before Y/N pulls her face away from his chest, holding her phone screen to the taller male before him. “Remember Hatori? Him, Riku and I are classmates when we were younger, and Riku keeps in contact with our middle school classmates,” Y/N explained whilst Yuta thought back to the couple he had met a few times - Hatori and his boyfriend, Riku had grilled him the moment they found out that he was dating Y/N. But it was all done out of love for her, and soon the three men became good friends; Yuta playing video games with Toge and Riku, and share a few texts with Hatori about new anime merch and where to get them. “What about it?”

“They are having a get together for everyone who is in middle school!,” Y/N replied excitedly as she shakes her phone before his face, to which Yuta just chuckles before he carefully catches her wrist with one hand to stop her shaking. Squinting at the screen a little, he read over the simple message that Riku had sent to a group chat that the three of them are in; humming quietly at the link to register for the event. “I guess you wanna go?”

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