#nanami is going to be the death of someone

[mierins]

it's hot, and we rot in this oven // nanami x reader; chapter iv

Famous Last Curses.

x Masterlist x

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Rating: M Word Count: 6k Warnings: Mentions of character deaths (you know the drill by now), reader kind of bullies Ijichi, Nobara has maternal abandonment issues, the freshmen kinda bully Yuuji, Jujutsu higher-ups' casual dehumanization of the working sorcerers, drinking + mentions of underaged drinking

“Are you angry with me?” Nanami’s voice was quiet. Even. But something brewed behind it--oddly uncertain, so unlike his usual formality and smooth confidence.

It’s only the two of us in the staff room, and I vaguely consider the idea of pretending he wasn’t speaking to me, specifically, but something felt unavoidable about it all.

I’d been avoiding him.

Well, not exactly avoiding-- per se, more… I’d been busy.

In a much more forthright way than he’d been, might I add-- but nonetheless, I’d taken fully to the role of Kugisaki’s mentor, because it was better than spiralling about… everything else.

The false death. The deception. The Jujutsu higher-ups and their schemes. The fact that we couldn’t even keep our school safe as a sanctuary.

And so I dragged the girl out with me on jogs, to visit nearby shrines-- and even decided to throw myself into the task of reorganizing the cursed tool inventory. Just to have something to do.

I’d caught little glimpses of the blonde-haired man here and there-- but always from a distance. I’d abandoned the track I used to meditate on, and I’d instead decided to start my morning in the gardens instead-- changing alcoves every two or three days.

I told myself it was to ensure I could perform the meditations in any environment.

I refused to think of the rest. Of the apprehension that someone specific might come looking for me-- though if he were, he was obviously not trying hard enough about it.

I swallow, feel my ears burn. Turn my attention to the cup of tea in my hands so I don’t have to look at him. “You let me think he died,” I said quietly.

“And I’m sorry, but that was a necessary evil,” he replies, taking a step towards me. “It was too much of a risk to spread the news of his survival. You saw what happened at the Goodwill event.”

I flinch, barely-- because I did. Saw the way the Kyoto students slunk out of sight of Mei-san’s crows to attempt to corner Itadori, the way Gakuganji barely flinched, just settled his twisted old hands over his cane, as if in some silent satisfaction. The way the higher-ups kept their faces shrouded, sent others to dirty their hands instead.

Sent children to.

I tighten my hands around the mug till my knuckles are turning white.

“We were grieving for him,” I whisper. “Of course I’m upset.”

I barely knew the kid, sure.

But I knew that with my abilities, I could have killed that Special Grade curse as if it were nothing at all-- if only the higher-ups would actually send me out on missions.

I knew that Kugisaki was a walking wall of bravado-- with the barest cracks showing. Not once had she complained about the training. About my mentorship. Just rolled up her sleeves to help me audit the cursed object warehouse. Because it was better than thinking of a dead comrade.

And I knew the guilt had been eating the both of us alive.

And all of that-- it was just meant to disappear with Gojo jogging up the path towards us with a box and his usual cavalier, near-smug expression?

I press my lips together to stop them from trembling.

“We told no one. Not even Yaga-sensei.” He pauses briefly. “I was the only person brought onboard later. It was Gojo’s plan. Shoko knew, because she was there at the autopsy. Ijichi knew, because he was giving Gojo the incident report then.”

I tried to process that. Tried to wrap my mind around the seal of silence around them, and the isolation. Itadori had been alive. All this time. Going on missions with Nanami. Training with Gojo. Being chauffeured around by--

My eyes narrow. “So Ijichi did know.”

Nanami hesitates, and then I can feel him nodding. “He was our auxiliary manager for the Patchface mission.”

Of course he was. I thought back to Ijichi’s skittish evasions, the way he refused to meet my eyes when I finally cornered him about Nanami’s assignments. I remembered the way he’d literally fled the room rather than answer.

“I should stuff him into a locker,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

Nanami made a sound-- barely a breath of humor. “That would be excessive.”

I didn’t smile.

“Why did you recommend me as backup for the Patchface mission, then?” I ask, finally turning to look at him fully. “If I weren’t to be trusted otherwise.”

There was a flicker in his expression-- something complicated, maybe surprise, maybe regret. “I…”

I barely have the time to consider the fact that I wasn’t supposed to know about that mission-- had known about it only because of the files Ijichi had dropped. But suddenly, I’m face-to-face with him, and he’s kneeling on the ground before me, one hand braced against the back of my chair. “I wouldn’t have asked for you if you weren’t trustworthy,” he says, firmly.

He’s so close, the scent of cedarwood and amber fills my senses, and despite the nervous heat that lances up my sternum, I force myself to continue looking at him. Framed in the glow of the October light that filters in from the windows.

“Patchface-- Mahito, his technique is like nothing I’ve ever seen,” he continues quietly. “In scale of damage. In scope. Your abilities are the only ones I can think of that would form a direct counter to his. I’ve trusted you to have my back during the Night Parade. I’ve trusted you to keep the students safe then, too. I trust you. And I’m sorry for being unable to tell you about what I was up to-- it wasn’t your burden to bear.”

“I’m mentoring Kugisaki,” I replied. “She was in pieces after. But she wouldn’t admit it. What are we doing to these kids, Nanami?” I ask, and I fist my hands in the fabric of my uniform slacks, trying to find something to ground myself in-- like a ward against the roiling cauldron of emotions I feel bubbling under the surface. “Please-- please just tell me we aren’t doing to them what was done to us.”

His jaw tenses, and he breaks the gaze first. “I didn’t want to make you complicit. If you’d known, you would’ve had to lie. To his friends. To the faculty. I didn’t want that for you.”

I swallow. “Okay,” I breathe.

It wasn’t a full-fledged explanation. Nor was it the kind of closure I’d wanted. I didn’t know if I could offer him absolution like this, even as he’s kneeling before me.

But nonetheless, Nanami had a way of making sense, of turning me quiet.

“Thank you,” I say instead.

Autumn creeps up on us with the blush of the leaves, the summer stillness giving way to a sharper bite to the air that lingers past dawn. I keep to my morning meditations.

As I return to my on-campus apartment, I spot Nanami’s broad frame lingering by-- cotton shirt, loose sweatpants, hair falling into his eyes and out of his usually combed-back style. I slow my pace slightly-- hesitating. Wondering if I should broach conversation at all, or just pace by-- but in the moment of pause, he looks up at me, and the lines of his face smooth out into a smile.

So he had noticed my absence from the track-- if he were going through the trouble of coming to get me from the staff apartments after my meditations, instead of trying to wait for me by the training field instead.

Unbidden, my feet carry me to him. “Good morning,” I say quietly-- wondering if he’d taken my acquiescence for the tacit approval to approach me in the mornings again.

He holds out a small, pastel-colored cardstock box in one hand, a cup of something warm in the other, steam rising from the cup.

“I picked it up from the bakery,” he says.

A peace offering in glossy soft pink, tied neatly with a jaunty satin ribbon.

I open the box. Inside is a single croissant, fresh and golden, dusted with powdered sugar and garnished with bright-hued slices of strawberry, and in the time it takes for me to look up at him in surprise, he hands me the cup as well-- the scent of warm green tea wafting through the air.

“You remembered my order?” I asked.

A warm undertone creeps up his skin-- and I wonder if he’d possibly jogged here. I don’t think about how familiar I must be with his face to notice it, or know that he usually flushes like this after his morning runs. “Of course.”

I let myself smile a little at that. “Don’t think you can just bribe me. I’m still deciding whether or not I want to stay mad at you.”

He shoves his now-free hands into his pockets. “Fair enough. I’ll say sorry as many times you want me to. How about that?”

“Only because you brought me my favorite bakery combo,” I mutter instead, looking up through my lashes at him.

He chuckles at the quip-- and his entire posture seems to loosen, as if he were letting himself go from the rigidity.

After that, something relaxes between us-- like a barrier coming down.

The next morning, I don’t bother evading him anymore-- returning to the training field I used to haunt. When I walk onto the track, I find him already there, warming up in lunges, a glowing figure in the quiet grey before the sunrise.

“Good morning,” I say, breaking the silence. Soft, simple, measured.

He glances over-- half surprise, and something akin to relief on his face.

As if he missed me too.

“Good morning,” he replies.

I nod. Settle myself down in the grass as he presses a button on his watch-- prompting a beep as he takes off running, and I shut my eyes.

In some ways, it feels like we’ve returned to the simplest version of ourselves-- back when the mornings belonged only to us, to our parallel endeavours of honing spirit and body. No lies. No politics. No tension. No avoidance. A sword dangling over our heads nonetheless. A life of waiting for the hourglass to run out, for the other shoe to drop, but-- one in which we were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, facing it together.

I breathe in again, feeling the cursed energy flowing through me, his familiar presence a few feet away, and for the first time in a long while, I feel almost at peace.

As soon as Akari-chan and I arrive at the izakaya-- her in her usual suit, with all the determination of a designated driver, I in a half-decent blouse and pair of jeans-- Shoko-san’s there outside the door to flag us down, the scent of tobacco already lingering to her brown hair and cigarette hanging off her wryly curved lips.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” she addresses Akari-chan, dangling a set of keys from her pinky finger. “I wouldn’t trust Ijichi to drive tonight with the month he’s been having.” She pushes pints into our hands and gestures for us to follow.

Inside, the private room somehow feels both expansive and claustrophobic. Shoko-san trails in behind us, cigarette still lit, and slides the curtain shut over the entrance. There are already platters of food and empty glasses on the table-- clearly, the drinking started long before we got here.

Nanami’s mentee, Ino, a young man in a beanie, stabs at his karaage somewhat aggressively with the toothpick, as if it had personally wronged him, and Akari-chan’s concerned frown only deepens as I sit myself on Nanami’s other side, across the table from her while Ijichi scoots further down the bench (in my defense, I’m only mean-mugging him to be funny).

When Nanami asked if Akari-chan and I wanted to come by for drinks to mark the weekend, I didn’t expect company-- at least, I didn’t expect this as the company. The atmosphere of the gathering is something, for sure-- full of the determination of people with a mission to forget everything by morning.

Aside from Akari-chan, I’ve only ever known these people tangentially, despite the fact that, Ino excluded, we’ve all circled the same orbit for almost a decade. Three consecutive years of Tokyo Jujutsu High graduates-- three classes of people who have somehow survived long enough to sit here now, drinking like the government is about to ban alcohol tomorrow morning.

(“Drinking nights started as dinners with Shoko and Utahime-senpai whenever she came to town, given that everyone had their reasons to blow off steam,” Nanami explains after he extends the invitation. “We used to go to this hole-in-the-wall spot by Tokyo Summerland but it was closed down a few years back due to the frequent sale of alcohol to minors on premise.”

He shrugs, almost smug in his usual deadpan way. “Probably our fault. Shoko and I were the ones doing the underage drinking.”)

I grasp the handle of the beer mug, and bring it to my lips. Tilt it back. Let the world turn hazy and golden as the alcohol blooms warm in my chest.

Somewhere along the line, Ijichi’s groaning, face-down on the table, glasses off and looking a decade younger without them, squeezing his eyes shut as if by removing one of his senses, he could moderate the effects of the booze.

Somewhere along the line, Ino’s muttering about some girl in Kyoto who thinks she’s too good for him, heartbreak transmuting into a sulky demand for more drinks at the table.

Somewhere along the line, Akari-chan flags down a passing waiter, voice low as she asks for another pitcher of water.

Somewhere along the line, Shoko-san’s lit herself a third-- or fourth, or fifth, cigarette, the smoke blurring the contours of the room even more.

Somewhere along the line, I’m leaning against Nanami, too far gone to care about the metaphorical lines in the sand, my face turned against his shoulder.

“You smell nice,” I tell him, unguarded, muffled into the fabric of his shirt.

I don’t get to hear his response.

The phone call comes at midnight-- and I’m only awake to receive it because my mind is running like a motor on full throttle.

Tsukumo-san’s greeting query ricochets throughout my head. What’s your type?

I turn the moment over in my mind till it’s crystallized, the broad warmth of a shoulder under my cheek. Cedarwood and amber. Steady hands. Clear, concise words, a practical mindset.

(Firm hands closing around my forearms as we wait for Akari-chan to bring the car around, Ijichi apparently pulling a last-minute hail Mary to sober up and take Ino and Shoko-san back to campus. The world felt like it was tilting up-side down, and I’d tipped forward before Nanami caught me, steadying me.

“Na-na-miiiinnnnn,” I’d slurred, trying to blink him into focus. “You smell really nice. Like...I dunno. Warm trees.”

He’d exhaled, just the faintest huff that might have been a laugh. Even his cheeks are flushed with red, despite the fact that he’s visibly more sober than me.

The chill of the October night is counteracted by the warmth of the liquor in my system, along with the mortification when he doesn’t respond further. I squeeze my eyes shut and groan, pitching my face forward into the front of his shirt again. “Sorry, Nanamin. ‘M so...drunk. And… Messyyyyy.”

“It’s all right.” His tone is gentle, arms closed around my back as if in a half-hug. “Do you think you need some water before we ride back? Should I go back in and get you some?”

“Nnnnooooo,” I whine, half-buried against his shirt. “Stayyyy. I won’t call you Nanamin if you don’t like it.”

“Gojo calls me that,” he sighed, a hand finding its way to my hair.

“Oh.” I pitch up, resting my chin against his sternum and tilting my head up towards his face again. “Do you hate it?”

There was a pause, and something unreadable in his eyes. “You can call me Kento, if you’d prefer.”)

I bury my face in my pillow, my arm thrown over my eyes, and groan at the memory. Kento had been sent on a mission the day after-- and I’d been too busy trying to cure my hangover before he’d been packed off with Ijichi in tow.

He hasn’t been back yet. Isn't expected back till tomorrow afternoon.

Ugh. I sigh.

The phone buzzes.

I turn over, and slide to accept the call once I see Akari-chan’s name on the caller ID.

“The kids are missing from the hotel room,” she says abruptly.

I bolt upright, any notions of sleep gone. Something cold slithers down my spine. Missing? “What?”

“I think they went back to Yasohachi Bridge, that’s where we believed the curses we were investigating originated from,” Akari-chan’s speaking rapidly, and I hear the jingle of keys in the background. “They’re not answering my calls.”

I’m out of bed, pulling on the first pair of pants from my dresser that my hands make contact with, throwing on my uniform jacket over it. “I’ll meet you there,” I reply.

The drive is a blur of red lights and adrenaline, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, tires screeching against the asphalt of winding mountain roads.

Did I have the clearance to be taking the car out? No. Was I going to do so anyways, given Akari’s news? Yes.

Even speeding, it takes nearly an hour to reach the bridge in question-- and when I pull up, it’s quiet.

Almost too quiet, but thrumming with the lingering traces of a cursed clash.

My heart lurches when I see the cluster of figures huddled near the guardrail, the headlights of Akari-chan’s car beaming like a beacon. I pull in behind her, and rush out.

The trunk’s open, and she’s hauling two body-sized, fabric-covered lumps into the back of the trunk, and my heart sinks for a brief moment before I spot the rest of the group-- Fushiguro leaning heavily against Itadori, the latter covered in blood that doesn’t look like his own. Kugisaki rounds the trio out, with an entire sleeve gone, harsh red marks lingering on her skin.

The breath leaves me in a rush of relief, and fills me again with some kind of blazing, blind rage-- not really at the kids, but at the general situation at hand. Another misclassified Special Grade. More cursed spirits than in the initial reports. But there’s only the empty bridge, and the silence settling like a rough-spun cloth around us, and I’m chafing at this bit the higher-ups are keeping me on, still raw from being deceived, and perhaps sleep deprived to boot.

I storm over, boots scraping against the asphalt. “What were you thinking?” The words tear out of me before I can stop them. “You could’ve been killed.”

Kugisaki looks up sharply, eyes glinting under the harsh streetlight. “But we didn’t-- we’re all fine.”

“You call this fine?” I gesture to Fushiguro, who’s barely being held upright, though he’s mustered up enough will to just roll his eyes at me. My voice comes out louder than I mean it to. “All three of you are children. You’re not supposed to be out here handling this alone.”

Her chin lifts defiantly, hands on her lips. Had I ever been this full of bravado? Likely not-- I had long since reached the first ceiling of my abilities by the time I was her age. “Fushiguro needed us. We were helping a friend. That’s what a team does.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to throw your lives away!” My hands are shaking again, and I clench them into the fabric of my jacket, trying to will my pulse into normalcy. “You think the rest of us weren’t worried sick? You think--”

“Don’t try to pull the guilt-tripping thing on me,” Kugisaki cuts in, voice hot with resentment. “You’re not my mom. I don’t even have one.”

Akari-chan murmurs something to Fushiguro and Itadori quietly, shuffling them into the backseat of my car.

“I’m not trying to,” I snap, more bitter than I mean to be. My throat feels tight. “But it doesn’t matter what you think I’m trying to do-- my job was to teach you and to make sure you’re safe. I failed in that tonight. And for that, I apologize.”

I turn and hold out my car keys to exchange with Akari-chan’s. “I’ll take the specimen back,” I tell her. “You can drive the three.”

I slam the car door shut behind me-- and suppress my urge to gag at the distinctly corpuscular scent that emanates from the trunk despite the coverings.

It’s still preferable to blowing up at Kugisaki-- at someone I was supposed to have been protecting.

I don’t think I can stand the car ride home if it were with the kids in tow, simmering with resentment and exhaustion as they were.

I just know I’ll do something I regret. I already have.

“Nanami,” I say, knocking at the barrier of his cubicle to announce my presence. My late-night jaunt through Saitama was enough to get me reprimanded by Yaga-sensei the next day, and keep me buried in the paperwork all through lunch and into the afternoon-- though this is also partly because my concentration is in shambles, my brain replaying the argument with Kugisaki in a neverending, humiliating loop.

He looks up from his own files-- and I catch a glimpse of the words Patchface Curse before he’d shut the folder. “Hm?”

“Do you ever feel like just shaking Ino or Itadori by the collar or something?” I ask bluntly-- no preamble, no grace. Just the pit of uncertainty in my own chest.

His brows lift, nearly imperceptibly over the rims of his reading glasses. “As in, do I think they’re foolish and take unnecessary risks to prove themselves? That’s just what young sorcerers are like.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I fought with Kugisaki,” I confess to him, rubbing at my wrist in an attempt to moderate my own emotions on the matter. The fact that I feel like drowning in shame right now for yelling at the girl.

Don’t try to pull the guilt-tripping thing on me.

You’re not my mom.

I don’t even have one.

My shoulders curl in further on themselves as I continue rambling. “I-- I dunno what’s wrong with me. I don’t get sent on missions, I don’t even have someone to really train with now that Tsukumo-san’s out of the country and Gojo’s too busy to be around. I thought I could find some purpose in teaching Kugisaki, but I’m a bad match for that, too, aren’t I?”

He leans forward, reaches for my face, and I don’t realize what he’s doing until I feel his thumb brushing away the stray tears that have escaped down my cheeks.

“No. It’s just the way this life is,” he replies.

Despite being a man of little words, somehow, I feel comforted in that he’s never judgemental, even when he’s terse. Not with me.

“They’ll always treat us like we’re expendable, won’t they?” I whisper-- as if I wouldn’t dare voice it too loud-- even if every damn thing I’ve witnessed in the past year hasn’t been testament to this. As if our entire lives from the moment we first touched that well of power within us hasn’t been proof.

I think of the Patchface mission, of his neat, cramped handwriting noting that his technique was a bad match for effective exorcism. His request for me to be put on the case instead. The fear I felt for days afterwards every time he disappeared on missions for multiple days on end.

I think of the cursed womb mission the kids were sent on, of Itadori and the deception we had been mired in, in order to stop the higher-ups from coming after the boy again-- only ever seeing him as Sukuna’s Vessel, and never just a fifteen year old who was trying to harness the storm inside him.

I think of Daiki grinning at Akari-chan from the back mirror of her car, casual as can be, a grin of boyish bravado on his face-- Wanna grab dinner after I get out of here?, he’d asked her. Only his date to be with death instead.

He nods, so close that I can feel the brush of his hair against my forehead. “I was tired.” he mutters back. “Of seeing my friends die. Of seeing them lose themselves. I was tired of being left behind. So I walked away.”

I nod as his, his calloused palm traces a line from my jaw, to my shoulder, and down the length of my arms to grasp my hand in his.

“But in the end, this is what we’re made for. Not the clans, or higher-ups’ politics.”

He squeezes my fingers, as if in emphasis “Jujutsu. And if there’s any point to it, it’s that we teach them better than we were ever taught.”

“Nanami--” I hesitate briefly.

“Don’t you remember?” his voice is warm, almost amused. “I told you to call me Kento if you wished.”

My face burns even hotter, for wholly different reasons now. “I--” I swallow. “How do I make things right with her?” I ask.

After lobbing a few ideas around, Kento comes up with the idea of taking the kids to Shinjuku for a fun little outing-- though Utahime-senpai had informed us that she’d needed them for a low-level assignment later in the evening. Nonetheless, we had an ample amount of time-- an entire afternoon-- to let them roam wild to their heart’s content.

I’m not delusional enough to pretend everything’s all smoothed over now, but-- the tension’s less spiky than it used to be. She even responded when I asked for the location of the store she’d wanted to be dropped off at-- which was close enough to the cinema that Itadori’s now making a valiant effort to convince them to come watch a film with him.

I feel for the life of me like we’re two parents of a set of bickering teens, as Itadori passionately narrates the plot of the film he’s planning to see. “The theme’s actually love,” he insists, brandishing a phone at the two of them, a noisy trailer blaring from the backseat, all shrieking and orchestral flourish.

Fushiguro makes some kind of strangled half-choking sound, as if trying not to laugh.

Kugisaki cuts right to the point. “I don’t wanna see some wormo man, regardless of theme.”

“It’s Human Earthworm,” Itadori corrects, quietly. Half-wounded.

“Whatever, I’m going shopping,” she sighs airily waving him off. “Fushiguro, wanna come with?”

The dark-haired boy shrugs. “I’m kind of tired. I’d rather just go home,” he murmurs.

Kento and I exchange a look across the center console, as if to say, Then what did we drive you all the way into the heart of the city for, anyways?

True to form, only a quarter of the way back to Hachioji, the phone rings.

“Hey! Is Fushiguro still riding with you?”

Kugisaki’s voice is far sunnier than I’ve heard from her the past few days since the fight. The rapid flip of the switch almost makes me nervous.

“Uhm-- why?” I interject, a furrow in my brow.

“I just sent you the URL for the restaurant I’m at. Can you tell Nanamin to turn the car around and bring him?”

Gleaning enough context through the sound filtering out of the phone speakers, Fushiguro audibly groans in the backseat, letting his head thunk against the headrest.

Without waiting for a reply, she chirps, “Great, thanks! See ya soon!” and hangs up.

“Hell better be frozen over,” Fushiguro mutters, rubbing at his forehead as if developing a migraine in real time.

“Let’s hope not,” Kento replies dryly, though I secretly suspect he’s pleased at not having to turn make the trip back and forth just to try the new cafe we’d been eyeing while the kids have their free time.

“Hm,” I let the flavour sink into my tongue slightly as Kento retracts the spoon. “Matcha tiramisu is definitely an interesting idea.”

He’s picking up another bite-- same spoon, I realize, my face heating slightly. The same spoon I’d just had in my mouth.

“I do think I may still prefer a classic tiramisu,” he ventures finally after a moment of letting the taste linger in his own mouth.

I consider that, sipping at my chamomile tea. “Coffee has a darker, more full-bodied flavor,” I concede.

Kento cracks a smile at that, as if I’ve voiced something he’d been on the verge of saying himself. “Exactly,” he emphasises. “Matcha is meant to be a lighter note, so it doesn’t contrast with the richness of the mascarpone in the same way.”

Dropping off Fushiguro, we had eventually navigated our way to the café a few blocks off the main street-- all floral and warm with fairy lights strung along the potted plants. Gimmicky enough to be Shinjuku, but just tucked out of the way enough that the vibes were less pretentious and tourist-trappy.

The conversation drifts-- exchanging drinks and snacks, trying to glean which one we respectively favour. Then, shop. Missions. Assignments. Ino’s progress. Itadori and Kugisaki’s. If I’ve heard back from Jujutsu headquarters about the deferred promotion yet.

Even with the outside world pressing in on us-- the space we’ve created for ourselves feels like a small harbor away from it all. And somewhere in the middle of debating whether to grab a proper dinner before we have to go pick up the kids, his fingers find mine on the tabletop. My heart skips a beat, and he runs his thumb over the back of my hand in time with my breaths.

We’re still sitting like that when the café door swings open and the kids come piling in, all chatter and windblown hair.

None of them even seem to register our joined hands.

Probably because Itadori is too busy fielding several armfuls’ worth of shopping bags, Kugisaki talking at him at high speed:

“Did you get her number? Of course you didn’t. Lucky for you, I exchanged contacts with her, so you’ve gotta thank me for covering your ass.”

She whirls on us, stabbing an accusatory finger in Itadori’s direction. “Did you hear this, sensei? He didn’t even ask for her number.”

“Itadori reconnected with a middle school classmate,” Fushiguro informs us with a long-suffering sigh. “She just moved to Tokyo.”

“And he’s an idiot who forgot to ask for a number!” Kugisaki insists yet again.

“Oi!” Itadori complains.

Our hands slowly part-- still unnoticed by the trio-- and I carry the warmth of that with me, as well as the secret smile Kento offers, as we pack up our snacks, and head out to the car.

The letter comes for me on Wednesday morning-- a summons to Jujutsu headquarters in the heart of Tokyo later that evening for an audience with the higher-ups.

No further elaboration is given, which is so like them, I think to myself bitterly. Hiding in the shadows, with absolutely no inclination towards clarity, transparency, or honesty. Just a group of cowardly, scraping old men who dealt in whispers rather than the blood, sweat, and tears the rest of us gave to this cause.

I dress myself in a modest autumn kimono, trying my best to invoke the kind of traditionalism that would appeal to them. For all I bore a healthy amount of distaste towards the higher-ups, I also was disinclined towards intentionally antagonizing them-- I just mostly wanted to get the meeting done and over with.

On the ride over, with Akari-chan nearly as tense on my behalf as I were myself, my mind mulls over what the subject would even be-- surely, if it were my deferred application, they would just simply send another rejection letter? But then again, no one knows what on earth they want to get up to anyways.

Could it be related to Kugisaki? I heard Mei-san murmur into Gojo’s ear during the Goodwill event that she might consider recommending a promotion for all of the first years for the right price, of course. Gojo had, to his credit, barely flinched with the proverbial serpent slinking over his shoulders.

And she’s only grown by leaps and bounds since the sister-school event. Despite the worry I felt in my gut for her, the Yasohachi Bridge case also made me incredibly proud-- with her having been blessed by the sparks of black, the same way that Nanami, that Itadori, that Todo had been. A rare occurrence that not even I have been able to harness yet.

And given the lack of context, I decide to step into the audience-chamber with my best foot forward, for her sake at the very least, if not my own.

I bow to the panels positioned at the front of the room-- behind which are the faintest of silhouettes of the faceless higher-ups, the attendant sliding the door shut behind me.

“You are aware, of course, that Special Grade is a rank for sorcerers deemed exceptional in their abilities,” a voice begins.

I keep my hands folded in my lap-- right to it, then, I think to myself, straightening up, bracing myself to stand tall despite the inevitable rejection.

“Your application has remained under review for some time,” another voice adds, reedy and distant, “due to…reservations regarding your affiliations, and the volatility of your technique.”

“However,” cuts in a third. “We have observed your conduct and progress over the past several months while your application remained under review, and deemed your contributions to Jujutsu worthy.”

Worthy, as if I weren’t a person who merited life on their own terms. As if by power alone, I couldn't dismantle them carefully, one by one. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to react.

“Particularly in the case of Kugisaki Nobara,” another old man notes. “We are aware you were tasked with supplementing her education in the standard Jujutsu curriculum, including in training her in combat and cursed energy control. We consider her recent achievements at Yasohachi Bridge, and recommendation for Grade One status, a reflection of your tutelage.”

So Kugisaki was in fact under review for promotion. I feel a surge of pride in my chest for her despite myself.

“Given these factors,” the first voice chimes in again, “the council has conferred and ruled that you shall be confirmed with the status of Special Grade Sorcerer.”

The room lapses into a heavy silence, as if they expect me to perform a full dogeza for the honor.

I swallow. That’s it? I almost think to myself.

I had been so preoccupied with that promotion, that I’d-- somehow built it up into something more climactic in my mind. But I didn’t feel any different. Any stronger. Any loftier. It just felt like the same war in a nicer title.

“I accept the designation--” I barely get the words out before alarms blare, and despite the dignity with which I’m trying to armor myself, I jump.

The door slides open again, the attendant from earlier scurrying in.

“Apologies, Your Excellencies--” he stammers, coming to kneel before the screens. “It seems that a veil has been dropped without our knowledge over Shibuya Station.”

“Casualties?” one asks.

“None thus far-- but the veil prevents all non-sorcerers from entering or leaving the premises. And all the hostages inside the station have been reported as calling for Gojo Satoru.”

The name sends an audible wave of murmurs around the council-- and the first voice speaks again. “Full muster must be called once more. Make this known to the jujutsu academies and their faculty and student body. Send messengers to the clans as well, and contact any inactive and retired sorcerers in Japan.”

“Yes, sir,” with a final touch of his forehead to the tatami mat, the attendant rushes out of the room, barely even bothering to shut the door behind him.

I turn to follow him, breaking into a jog.

Because while I hadn’t been in the room when the decisions were made about the Night Parade-- those orders are sounding awfully familiar.

Which means that once again, the Jujutsu world finds itself on the knife’s edge-- staring down into the abyss of all-out war.

Thank you to @daydreamvalley for helping me iron out the chap (n also for helping me plan future evils muahahahaha). and thank you to @nosferatuix also for inspiring me w the Nanashoko dynamic <333 the girl mentioned by ino is the mc of jessamine

[rahuratna]

Ikemen Kaisen

Chapter 1: Step into the Industry

Cross posted!

Summary: A cursed spirit develops a massive crush on the 7:3 sorcerer while he's on a mission. Trapping him in its unique otome game domain, the spirit soon discovers that it's bitten off a lot more than it can chew with this particular jujutsu sorcerer ...

Content: Humour, fluff, crack, otome game satire, Nanami has Rizz with a capital 'R', the first year trio obtaining front row seats to this absolute shitshow.

“Yes, Itadori, you heard me correctly.”

Yuuji’s eyes had widened to impossible proportions, hands clasped together so tightly, his knuckles were turning white.  

“Wait, you’re serious? You’re for real, Nanamin? We’re going to -”

“A concert, yes. I don’t like repeating mission details, so listen closely.”

Yuuji snapped to attention, one hand raised to his head in a smart salute.

“Yuuji, reporting for duty, sir!”

Nanami sighed. It was Thursday, a day he didn’t particularly fancy in terms of starting a new mission. Missions that started mid-week invariably ended up incurring overtime, along with eating into his weekend on occasion. He would do his duty diligently, nonetheless, as he was expected to show Yuuji the general procedure for such investigations. Thus, he had occupied this empty classroom for a briefing. He stood before the whiteboard on which he had neatly printed the details in bullet points (a necessity for Yuuji’s attention span). Pointing to the first line, he began.

“We’ve been receiving reports for a few months now about suspicious activity at idol performances all around Tokyo. Fans of certain idols have been going missing. All cases so far showed that the victims disappeared shortly after concerts, fan-meets and other public appearances. Initially, we could not make a direct correlation to curse activity. The disappearances themselves were sporadic and presented no specific pattern, so the case was placed under revision and monitored. Recent events, however, changed things.”

Nanami pointed to a photograph of a young man, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, artfully posed to highlight his muscular torso in a hooded jacket that was unzipped. He wore tight, dark jeans, strategically ripped, and was smiling coyly at the camera. He was undoubtedly very good looking.

“This is Takashima Ryouta, stage name Ryo-ri.”

“Eh? Like RiRi?”

“It’s his concert we’ll be attending. Recent disappearances occurring after his concerts have been far more targeted and blatant. Furthermore, our windows have reported cursed energy levels spiking in the general vicinity of these events.”

Yuuji raised his hand.

“Yes, Itadori?”

“How do we know that these disappearances are even linked to idols specifically? What if it’s something else they all have in common? Like, some kinda shady fan club? Or maybe someone’s just targeting big groups of people?”

Nanami pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, expression carefully blank despite the small surge of pride he felt at Yuuji’s astute observation.

“The latest victims were obviously targeted with intent. You see, Takashima has recently been growing in popularity, thanks to his appearance on a TV show. Some of his fanbase is therefore quite intense.”

Yuuji sighed.

“Yeah, they go rabid for guys who look like that.”

“For this reason, his agency has come up with a strategy to gain interest amongst his fans, but also keep him safe. Our intelligence network has informed us that they put up a lottery for each live event he performs at, allowing one fan to join him on stage for the duration of a song. The lottery is fake, however. Girls are hired from talent agencies affiliated with Takashima’s. They are disguised heavily and every time he makes an appearance, one of these ‘lucky’ girls is the one chosen to join him on stage. This way, his fans will continue to buy tickets in the hopes that they will be chosen by lottery, but will never actually interact with him on stage.”

Yuuji’s mouth dropped open.

“Whoa! That’s … really not cool! Isn’t that kinda like false advertising?”

“We’re not here to judge the insidious marketing strategies employed by a soulless, capitalist-driven entertainment industry that consumers blindly latch onto like tapeworms.”

“Er – “

“Rather, we’re going to be investigating why all the young ladies hired from the talent agency to join Takashima on stage have disappeared shortly after each performance.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. As I said, this, along with the more pronounced spikes in cursed energy, make this a case we can no longer afford to leave to regular law enforcement. You and I will be stationed within this area,” and here Nanami pointed to a roughly circular outline on a map of Akihabara. “We have also been provided with special VIP pass tickets to the concert tomorrow and will be closely monitoring the interactions between Takashima and this week’s chosen representative on stage. Afterwards, we will conduct surveillance on the individual in question. Please remember, our presence must be kept discreet at all times and we must blend in to the crowd at the concert as seamlessly as possible.”

Yuuji tapped his chin. “Blend in, huh? That won’t be a problem for me but, uh, Nanamin, not to be weird or anything – “

“Don’t worry on my account, Itadori. I have everything planned out. I have never had trouble with creating a cover.”

Yuuji shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited outside the main entrance of Jujutsu Tech for Nanami to make his appearance. For once, the energetic young student had arrived earlier than his experienced mentor. He had grabbed a hot coffee from the machine in the foyer to pass the time. The caffeine was not calming in the slightest.

There was something about the current mission that both excited him and filled him with nervous anticipation. From the summarized report that Nanami had left for him to read, he knew that the number of disappearances meant that they might be dealing with a tricky opponent this time. The fact that this activity was happening in such a crowded area of Tokyo also indicated that whoever was engineering these vanishings was either unhinged or audacious, neither of which boded well.

A black sedan with tinted windows made its way around the side of the building and Yuuji hopped forward, waving. The car drew to a halt beside him and he opened the passenger door, grinning as he spied Nanami in the driver’s seat.

“Whoa Nanamin, I like the fit!”

Nanami’s immaculate suit had been replaced by jeans, a simple, but expensive-looking grey knit shirt and a long, dark overcoat. His signature shades had been substituted for designer sunglasses and the sleek band of his wristwatch gleamed from beneath his sleeve. The normally swept back hairstyle was a little more relaxed, making him look closer to his age than he usually did.  

“Thank you, Yuuji. You’re suitably dressed, I see.”

 The student cocked his head and Nanami nodded, anticipating his question.

“I’ll be calling you Yuuji for the duration of this mission. I’ve decided that we’ll present ourselves as uncle and nephew. I am your – “

“For real?”

Yuuji’s eyes were shining in a way that made Nanami cough and turn away. He propped up his glasses and shifted gear, the car gliding away from the main gates of the school.

“Yes. That way I can call you Yuuji and you can continue to call me … Nanamin, I suppose. I am visiting home after some time away and decided to spend some quality time with you, my nephew. And so, I’m taking you to a concert that you’ve been wanting to attend for some time. I trust you did your homework?”

Yuuji nodded proudly before pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“I downloaded all of Ryo-ri’s songs last night and learned the lyrics. He’s not bad! I can totally jam to this.”

“Good. It’ll be a long drive, so use the time to brush up on the mission details.”

Which is exactly what Yuuji did, to begin with. He pulled the folder from his backpack and opened it out on his lap. Nanami had been kind enough to summarize the numerous reports for him and provided concise profiles of the main players in the case. Eyes running over Takashima’s info page, Yuuji frowned slightly. Something was missing. He glanced out of the window at the passing scenery, trying for a while to figure out what it was, before his eyes widened.

So obvious!

Scrolling rapidly on his phone, Yuuji began to search for Takashima’s Instagram. The information in Nanami’s profile, as succinct and useful as it was, lacked … flavour. Social media would give Yuuji a more accurate idea of the image the idol was trying to put out there. Soon enough, he found what he was looking for.

Uhhh, okay then.

Takashima’s pictures skirted that fine border of what Kugisaki would call ‘spicy’. They were definitely risqué for an idol, but this was what seemed to appeal to his particular audience. Yuuji’s eyebrows shot up at the sheer number of likes one particular photo had. The picture was a mirror selfie, showing Takashima’s glistening torso, presumably after a workout, his face obscured teasingly by the phone. Yuuji nodded sagely. This image fitted in with a lot of the lyrics he had been learning yesterday.

“Ohh, I see. He’s going for playful fuckboy, but like, more tasteful.”

“Pardon?”

“Oops … I said that out loud, huh?”

“Yes, you did. Now explain.”

Yuuji scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Sooo, like, how do I explain this? Idols have images they create, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“And those images draw fans and make them more popular. I checked out Ryo-ri’s IG page and … and you know what IG is right?”

“I’m not five centuries old, Yuuji.”

“Fine, fine! Just checking. Wait, do you have – “

“I use it to follow recipe pages and food blogs. Let’s move on.”

“So, from what I’m seeing here, Ryo-ri’s fans are mainly girls who like this image he puts out of being … you know. Like a playboy, a guy who doesn’t take things seriously, but nice at the same time. The persona is … the guy who’ll steal a girl’s heart and move on quickly, but she can’t have bad feelings towards him, because he’s not an asshole? It’s why he also has fans who are guys. They kinda want to be like him and they feel his lyrics. You get what I’m saying?”

Nanami hummed thoughtfully. “I think so. And this is what’s called … a fuckboy?”

Yuuji snorted loudly.

“That word sounds so wrong coming from you. Not exactly. Guys who get called that can be flaky and do dumb stuff, but Ryo-ri’s got the right balance. He’s got the ‘naughty, but chill’ vibe.”

“I see. And do you think this makes him more or less likely to be responsible for the disappearances?”

The words sobered Yuuji, who sat back, a warm feeling filtering into his chest. As much as he had found it difficult to get along with the taciturn ex-salaryman to begin with, his view had changed a lot over time. Nanami was the epitome of a responsible adult, his stern exterior hiding just how kind and patient he was, especially with students. There were times like these, when he would ask for Yuuji’s opinion in such a straightforward manner that it made the boy want to prove himself even more, to show that he could also be an exemplary sorcerer.

“Umm, I think it means we should watch him carefully at the concert. If he is involved, I’m not sure he’d be so … obvious about it? He’s not super high profile, but he’s getting there. If his fans are disappearing, that looks bad for him. I … I think maybe there’s something else to this too.”

Nanami nodded slowly.

“All right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Yuuji spent the rest of the ride watching some of Ryo-ri’s live performances on YouTube and searching for the specific songs where the girls would join him on stage. In between, he did some other stalking.

“Hey, hey, Nanamin. Guess whose IG I found?”

A small chime sounded from Nanami’s pocket.

“Yuuji – “

“That’s my invite. Don’t ignore your precious nephew!”

“My profile isn’t that interesting. How did you find me, anyway?”

“I checked who Gojo-sensei follows. And, I mean, there’s only one person who’d call himself ‘Gruyère_Ghostbuster’ – “

“Don’t say that out loud.”

“And hey! Your profile is cool! It’s not just food, Nanamin. You’ve got such awesome nature photos and wait … are these videos of yourself cooking? I recognise that watch! Are you making rolled eggs here? And oooh … you’ve got puppy videos?”

The weather was perfect, the sky bright and clear, the normal obscuring fog of the city conspicuously absent. The air still carried a chill and Yuuji wrapped his red scarf closer around his neck. They had parked some distance away from the open-air venue where the concert would take place and were now steadily making their way in that direction, soaking in the sights and sounds of Akihabara.

Yuuji was carrying a bag of manga he had bought at a nearby store and chattered amiably about the recent story arc. Nanami followed a few paces behind, nodding along to Yuuji’s remarks. On the surface, they looked every bit the ordinary uncle and nephew. Only someone who knew exactly what to look for would note the way the boy sometimes shifted his body to observe people better or the way the older man’s eyes would flit sharply back and forth beneath the sunglasses.

Thus far, there had been nothing overtly suspicious in the area, besides the low-grade cursed spirits that showed themselves at intervals. After some time, they found themselves at the venue which adjoined a hotel and conference centre. The centre itself housed quite a variety of functions, with a spa, restaurants and various stores catering to a wealthier clientele. Nanami took the lead, passing through the security checkpoint at the hotel. Yuuji trotted nervously after him, half expecting a security alarm to start blaring because of what he knew was strapped to the older sorcerer’s back.

Nothing happened. Nanami turned his head slightly.

“Cursed energy can also be used to conceal things.”

“Ha. Cool. I guess I gotta learn that sometime. Where are we going, by the way? The concert will be out that way, but I know it’s still early …”

“We have VIP tickets, remember. That means we get access to any of the services here and hotel rooms close to the concert venue. I’m sure you’re hungry, so let’s get something to eat first.”

Nanami began to make his way to the upper levels of the centre. Yuuji followed, sticking close to his mentor. As confident and easy-going as the teen usually was, there was an air of opulence and rarified luxury here that was starting to make him feel small and very out of place. Looking around, he could see executives in expensive suits talking on their phones and people carrying shopping bags with hideously expensive name brands emblazoned on the front. He glanced down at his sneakers and discreetly tried to rub off a scuff mark against the back of his leg before glancing over at Nanami. The tall man showed no sign at all of slowing down, his stride elegant and assured, looking every bit as if he belonged in this setting. People parted ways to allow him to pass.

Eventually, he led them to what looked like a high-end steakhouse. The maître d’ stepped forward, his eyes roving intimidatingly over the two, and Yuuji was tempted for a minute to mutter apologies, scamper off and order a cheap slice of pizza somewhere. A firm hand on his shoulder stilled him and he felt a small sense of reassurance assert itself as Nanami’s deep voice sounded above his head, explaining that they had a reservation.

By the time they reached the table, Yuuji’s excitement was back.

“Wow! Look at the view from up here!”

“Hmm. A good view over the stadium. See that? That’s the stage where Takashima will be performing.”

“Ahh, so that’s why you chose this place.”

“Indeed. Reconnaissance. That, and the steak here is superb. We can see them work on putting up the stage props. That way, we’ll sense if anything deliberate is happening behind the scenes.”

With that, the sorcerer began to study the menu. The meal was, unsurprisingly, a fantastic experience. Nanami ordered them a selection of starters, steak for mains (with a carefully selected wine pairing for himself) and the most delicious chocolate dessert Yuuji had ever tasted. When they were done, the pink-haired boy sat back and sighed.

“How come we get to do all of this? Do the higher-ups really approve all the costs?”

Nanami sipped his wine before replying.

“Depends. If a proper motivation is provided, there’s no reason for them to refuse. Of course, this requires us to fill out a series of detailed documents that most jujutsu sorcerers don’t bother with.”

“But not you?”

“Have you forgotten my previous profession? Form-filling is my speciality. My paperwork is nothing less than exceptional and thorough. There is always solid evidence of what I need. If it is not approved, I log an official query that requires a lengthy board meeting and an extensive review of all documentation.” The corner of Nanami’s mouth crooked up in a small, rare smile. “It’s been some time since any of my requests were denied. Let it never be said that I’m not compliant.”   

Yuuji grinned in return and raised his glass of juice.

“Kanpai, Nanamin.”

There had been no sign of anything unusual during their late lunch and by the time they made their way down to the concert, the lower levels were already swarming with people. Looking around, Yuuji saw, unsurprisingly, that most of the crowd consisted of young women. They were chattering and laughing loudly, and everywhere he looked he saw faces alight with excitement. Contrary to the atmosphere that was growing around them, Yuuji’s concern spiked. There was potential danger lurking somewhere, and it would be difficult to detect in such a large mass of people.

Nanami steered him through the crowd to a separate entrance where fewer people had queued. This was the entry-point for those with VIP tickets. They were soon through the checkpoint and were directed by various ushers up a winding staircase to a wide outdoor box that spanned an entire floor. Although sheltered from the elements, the box projected overhead towards the stage, offering a perfect view of where the performance would take place. They took their seats, scanning their surroundings carefully. Thus far, there had still been no sign of elevated cursed energy.

“Yuuji, remember why you’re here.”

“Oh, right!”

Springing up, the youngster made his way around, using the allowance Nanami had given him to buy some merch and snacks from the vendors that were stationed against the back of the VIP box. He began to slowly make a circuit, pausing now and then to start casual conversation with others who were also making purchases. Soon enough, his friendly and open personality had drawn a few others into his orbit, and he compared merch, exchanged contact details, introduced people to his awesome ‘uncle’ and even found himself invited to an online fan-club of Ryo-ri’s. Eventually, he made his way back to Nanami.

The older sorcerer had been casually sipping a coffee, eyes taking in the stage and the members of the audience who had been filling into the main area below. He glanced up as Yuuji took his seat.

“Anything?”

“Nothing so far. Everyone seems pretty normal.”

“All right. When the performance starts, you focus on the stage. I’ll check the audience.”

A lesser-known girl band opened the concert, the energy of their performance doing a lot to hype up the crowd. Yuuji played his part very convincingly, shouting encouragement and applauding loudly. Nanami bit back a smile when he noticed that others were taking their cue from his lively ‘nephew’. The first act was followed by another group and then there was a slight lull, a sense of building anticipation as the main performance drew near.

“There he is,” Nanami muttered, as Ryo-ri bounded onto the stage to a cacophony of high-pitched screams and thunderous applause. The idol hitched up his baggy jeans and swaggered from one end to the other, delivering a series of compliments to his ‘beautiful’ audience and blowing a kiss that made some of the girls in the front row look like they were about to pass out in ecstasy. Ryo-ri started with what Yuuji recognised as the biggest hit from his second album, a high energy dance number that really got the crowd on its feet.

The pink-haired teen threw himself into his own act, starting up a glow-stick dance routine in the front row that the people around them soon joined in. Nanami shifted awkwardly. As much as he had encouraged Yuuji to act the part of the excited nephew, he should have foreseen how it would make him look in comparison. The girls behind them were quick enough to catch on, because they were soon shoving their extra glow-sticks into Nanami’s hands and encouraging him to get on his feet too. Yuuji turned and snorted with laughter.

“Just follow my lead, Nanamin! It’s easy, see?”

As he waved the glow-sticks around his head and turned on the spot, Nanami’s profound sense of existential horror soon settled into detachment as he went through the motions. He was just glad that Gojo wasn’t here to witness this debacle. Soon enough, it was time for the anticipated lottery announcement. Ryo-ri made a show of pulling a piece of paper from a large bowl that had been carried onto the stage and read the number of the winning ticket. One of the women in the front row screamed in excitement and the crowd parted to allow her entry to the stage. Burly security guards did a quick check of her person before showing her through. Yuuji slowed down his routine, pausing to take a sip of water and munch on a handful of popcorn, his eyes glued to the stage. Nanami used this momentary lull to mutter the word “bathroom” and make his way to the end of the VIP box. Here, the sorcerer paused, eyes scanning the crowd carefully through his dark glasses.

The young woman, presumably one of the secretly vetted members of the talent agency, climbed onto the stage. Her hand was placed over her mouth and her eyes shone with glistening disbelief as Ryo-ri took her hand and twirled her around, dropping her softly into a plush seat that someone had brought up at some point. She was certainly a good actor. The idol began to sing a crooning ballad, one of his more popular slow-paced songs, as he danced languidly around her. Nanami frowned as he began to sense a change in the crowd’s mood. On the surface, people were hooting and cheering at the display, but there were undercurrents of negative emotion that had begun to rise like a miasma over some portions of the audience. There could be no mistaking the general feeling.

Jealousy. Resentment. Longing.

What the sorcerer had not expected was the strength of the emotion being exhibited. Was it like this at every performance with an idol in high public demand?  

Not quite.

Ryo-ri was pretty avant-garde in his approach to gaining popularity. Nanami recalled what Yuuji had mentioned earlier in the car, about how the idol was not afraid of presenting an image that was quite risky in the Japanese entertainment industry. Inviting a fan on stage was not a common practice and it was understandable, judging from the sensations Nanami was getting from the audience. But then, this was what sold tickets and drew fans into a never-ending circle of unfulfilled desire. The sorcerer allowed his mind to sink into that meditative state that allowed him to spread his senses even further, more receptive to slight changes in cursed energy. As unpleasant as the sensation was, sickly sweet with underlying bitterness brushing against the edge of his mind, he observed the swathe of people below him with unerring focus.

Ryo-ri had upped the ante of his performance, twirling strands of the ‘lucky’ woman’s hair around his finger, gyrating sensually in front of her before dropping to his knees at her feet, one hand brushing gently across her ankle. Nanami felt distaste rise in his throat as the poisonous thrum of envy from the audience grew further. Those happy faces and the applause were so deceptive, considering the hidden depths of emotion some were allowing to fill their hearts, overflowing into the space around them.

And then, he felt it.

The swell of negative emotion grew like a wave, the spike of cursed energy at its peak so sharp and subtle, like a blade honed so fine that it passed painlessly across the skin, leaving blood blooming in its wake. Across the way, Nanami saw Yuuji mask his own reaction admirably, a tiny pause in his energetic waving as he sensed it too. Scanning the crowd, Nanami frowned as the minute trace of cursed energy was lost under the current of emotion once more. With a small signal to Yuuji to stay where he was and observe, the sorcerer made his way quickly and quietly down the stairs to the security check point. Here, people could move between the VIP box and the general area freely, as long as they displayed their pass when they returned.

He emerged into the crowd, the sights, smells and sounds assailing him, tugging at his awareness like a petulant child. Focusing ahead, Nanami began trawling, edging his way slowly and meticulously forward. Glancing up he saw Yuuji take a break from dancing and lean nonchalantly against the railing, sipping an iced drink, alert to what was happening on stage. Shoulders brushed and slid across his, Nanami’s height allowing him a fairly good view over the majority of the people around him.

And so it was that he felt it again, that sharp, tingling touch of poison, dangerous and chemical on the tongue, like the scent of paint-thinner that hung in the air of empty buildings. He turned towards the source, concealed eyes searching through the throng of people. Something was definitely here. Something cunning, something with a sinister awareness that slid away from the edges of one’s perception. Feeling the tension coil within his frame, Nanami pressed on.

Ryooo – riiiiii. Ryoutaaaaa. Ryo. Ryyyyo.

It rolls so nicely off the tongue. So sweet, so sweet. A sticky fruit candy on a hot summer’s day.

He’s up there, for all of us to see. Our eyes are crawling all over him, like many, many spotlights. How precious he is. Precious as a little pearl.

He’s definitely better than all the others. Gino was a looker, oh yes, but … there was something missing. That innocent little boy act? It got old so, so quickly. Yawn. And Kiko was great too, but then he couldn’t handle the fame and went away for a while. Ick. So uncool. But Ryooooo-riiiiii. Oh, Ryo-ri. He’s … different. He owns the stage.   

His hair is shiny as tinsel under those lights, and his eyes! Oh, his blue eyes are focused and so, so dreamy. And look, look at his shirt. So translucent with sweat. Delicious.

Ryooutaaaaa. Why won’t he look this way? It’s so unfair. If he could just see me … maybe he’d be the one who wouldn’t be able to look away. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Tiny little trickles of sweat, from his brow and upper lip. How nice if he could wipe it away and smile, right into my eyes, with that look. That look. The one in his photos, the one that makes me feel so … present. So solid. Oh yes, Ryo-ri is perfect. He’ll do.  

Last month, his sneakers were orange. Orange! Imagine, such a bright, garish colour. But Ryo-ri makes it work, somehow. He always looks so tasty. Nobody can pull off orange shoes like Ryo-ri.

But, but, what’s this? Who? Who’s here?

Is someone here to stop me? I won’t let that happen. Who is it? They can try, hahahaha! Nobody has stopped me before and they won’t now.

Wait … something’s different. Something is searching. Careful now. This doesn’t feel like anything good. I feel eyes, but different. And a presence. A strong one. Who, who is it? Where? Careful.

There! I see him. He’s coming this way. I can’t let him … who is this anyway? How dare he. I want to crush him like a stupid little bug. Like that bitch on stage, that ugly, lying, cheating, stupid, stupid, stupid little bitch. Both of them.

He’s coming closer. No, no, I can’t let this happen. Careful. Don’t get angry. Don’t let him find us.

He’s here! He’s right here. Something’s not … he’s dangerous! Get away! He’s turning this way! I can see his face! He’s … oh.

Oh.     

[mossterunderthebed]

my baby Yuuji is so feral 💖

[zarameraki]

♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧ 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮'𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱'𝘀 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 ♡₊˚⚜️・₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 mdni 𖥔 sukuna is a mafia kingpin 𖥔 teasing grumpy x sunshine 𖥔 pregnancy trope 𖥔 he'll burn the world for you 𖥔 "my wife" 𖥔 he's a great dad 𖥔 mentions of miscarriage 𖥔 mentions of physical and sexual assault 𖥔 mention of parental death 𖥔 major fluff 𖥔 sexual content 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 he loves eating you out 𖥔 anal play (yup.) 𖥔 last warning: mdni!

: ̗̀➛ words: 6.0k

: ̗̀➛ notes: no bc i love you all so much. it's insane how much you guys have supported my toji fanfic & and my nanami fanfic. i'll def be writing a part two to both of those masterpieces (yes i have self-confidence). as someone who's always imagined sukuna as a mafia leader, i decided to say fuck it and write it. please leave a comment, like, and reblog! thank you & ily. enjoy! (p.s. pregnancy trope>>>)

You never thought you'd be married to Sukuna Ryomen, let alone carrying his kid again. Yet, four years deep into this forced marital mess, thanks to your father owing a hefty debt to the kingpin of the underworld crime syndicate, here you were.

“Look at you, Mrs. Ryomen, radiant as ever!” chirped one of your husband’s associate's wives. You had studied a name list last night, but it all escaped your memory after you passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Sukuna wasn’t keeping a hawk's eye on you like he used to when you first stepped into the public eye. Gone were the days of his glares if you messed up a name. Never once had he laid a finger on you at home, despite your assumption that forgetfulness would earn you a beating.

“Thank you." You forced a smile at the woman, your patience waning as the mayor's birthday party stretched on. It was almost the end of the night, and your feet were protesting from traipsing around in flats. All you craved at that moment was your bed, pronto.

The woman and her husband attempted to capture Sukuna's lukewarm attention through political discussions and expressing gratitude for the illegal artillery shipments from your husband's syndicate. They made no effort to acknowledge your existence by his side.

Your hand rested on your belly, a mere eight months into your pregnancy—a new personal record. The first time you conceived, Sukuna demanded an heir, and you willingly agreed, knowing that the child would provide some distraction in the expansive estate that felt like a cage. Unfortunately, at the two-month mark, you experienced a miscarriage.

Feeling Sukuna's knuckles lightly tapping your back, you straightened your posture momentarily, only to slouch again almost instantly. It was futile. The discomfort of your swollen and cramped belly made it nearly impossible to maintain a poised demeanor in the midst of the party.

Disobeying Sukuna meant facing inevitable death, a fact well understood in his dangerous domain, and you had never dared to challenge that.

"Let's go," Sukuna said, cutting through the incessant chatter of the couple. He didn't grasp your hand, only your fragile wrist, a gesture you didn't mind. Yours was not a typical love; he, Sukuna Ryomen, a most feared monster in the criminal underworld, and you, a sacrificial lamb, a trophy collected three years ago, a means to his heir.

"I'm sorry," you whispered as you exited the venue, heading towards the limousine surrounded by fifteen armed guards under Sukuna's command. "I'm so sorry—"

"Get in the car." He held the door open for you, signaling his guards to disperse and take their positions in the Jeeps parked behind.

Silencing yourself, you cautiously settled into the back seat, and Sukuna joined you, slamming the door with force. His anger was discernible, and the memory of that night, losing your second unborn child to a kidnapping, plagued your dreams. You were uncertain if the nightmares were about Sukuna's wrath upon finding you or the horrors his enemies inflicted on you during your 48-hour captivity.

Sukuna noticed your struggle with the seatbelt and contorted his body toward you. Your fingers released their grip on the belt, allowing him to pull it taut and secure it snugly around your midsection. Click. He withdrew, distancing himself from your face that had been mere inches away.

“Tedious fucking party, anyway,” Sukuna grumbled, his left ankle casually perched on his right kneecap. He always adopted a specific posture, his elbow leaning against something, cheek resting on his knuckles, and his narrow eyes a rich brown that could almost pass for a deep shade of red. He exuded an unrelenting air of intimidation.

"I agree," you unintentionally voiced your thoughts, earning a sidelong glance from him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

His attention barely lingered on you as the car roared to life. You breathed a sigh of relief, stretching out your legs and leaning your head back against the seat's shoulder. Your palm absentmindedly traced circles on your belly. Goosebumps peppered your skin from the frigidness in the car, stirring an involuntary shudder.

"Turn on the heater," Sukuna ordered the driver in his smooth, languid baritone.

"Yes, sir."

As warmth gradually surrounded the backseat, you hummed a small "Thank you" and closed your eyes, enjoying a few moments of peace.

Disorientation clouded your senses, and you dispelled it by rubbing your eyes and using your knuckles to prop yourself against the headboard. A couple of contractions ripped through your gut, causing you to groan and hiss through gritted teeth.

The enormous room was devoid of Sukuna, its black silk sheets hinting at the luxury covering you. The fireplace casted a warm glow, and a soft, dim golden light spilled from the lamp onto the floor.

In the first year of your marriage and pregnancy, your bedroom was located three doors away. You were tended to by on-site nurses and doctors, surrounded by an entourage of maids for company. Days were spent aimlessly wandering the estate, occasionally crossing paths with one of Sukuna's mistresses, their curious smirks evident as they exited his room.

The second year brought a subtle shift. You still slept alone, but now there was a surprising addition of joining Sukuna for dinner. Positioned diagonally from him, an air of restrained silence hung above your head. Yet, between the utensils clattering and quiet chewing, Sukuna's glances toward you and your five-month-old belly revealed your anticipation for the impending arrival of your child.

One of your maids had been instructed to lure you into a private conversation in the back garden, and before you could react, a group of men clad in black drugged you and forcibly removed you from the cage, which in that cruel moment felt like a sanctuary.

Most details of the monstrosities forced upon you in that warehouse have been compressed by your mind—the merciless physical and sexual assault endured for hours. They callously bragged that raping Sukuna's Ryomen's wife was a personal victory, cackling like bloodthirsty hyenas as you bled from your legs. In the thick of your suffering, you lost your second child in a pool of your own sweat and feces.

When Sukuna discovered you, when he annihilated every man along with their bloodlines, you were left as a mere shell of a woman, practically lifeless. You've existed as a walking corpse for quite some time now. Following that dreadful night, you attempted every conceivable means to end your own life—drowning, leaping out of windows, creating a makeshift noose from bed sheets and tying them around balcony railings, teetering on the edge—but every attempt proved useless. Sukuna consistently interfered at the last minute, sweeping in and enveloping you in his arms as you wept until unconsciousness claimed you for days.

Therapy provided some relief, as did the medications. Sukuna heightened security measures tenfold, keeping only those workers who served during his father and grandfather's reigns. He moved your belongings into his bedroom, sleeping by your side with a gun beneath his pillow. There were times when you would doze off in the library while reading, only to wake up in his room.

Two years seemed like an eternity in the slow process of healing, both physically and mentally, from the torment that had befallen you. Stepping into the garden was a reminder of the progress you had made, yet the hope that blossomed in your womb now filled you with a different kind of fear.

You needed your baby. Even if it meant risking your own life during childbirth. The only thing that mattered was the precious life you carried within you, and as long as your baby took that first breath, you'd welcome death with open arms.

Sukuna's bedroom door creaked open, revealing his presence.

Mink-colored tendrils of hair obscured his eyes, disheveled from their usual spiked stance. The stark white of his dress shirt was marred by the unmistakable stains of someone else's blood, and a gun dangled casually from his grasp. In the subdued lighting, his facial markings, inked tattoos designed to mask the scars of his tormented childhood, appeared more ominous than ever.

Without acknowledging your ogling, he briskly entered his bathroom.

You slipped back under the covers, pulling the comforter up to your chin, soothing the sharp twinges in your belly. The rhythmic sounds of his shower served as a background melody. Sukuna took an eternity to freshen up, nearly two hours passing before the door finally creaked open. You had kept a close eye on it, lost in your own world and trying to ignore the persistent contractions. No complaints, though – you were at the eight-month mark, and this baby was determined to make its entrance into the world.

Draped in a sleek black silk robe, Sukuna strolled toward his side of the bed, his eyes locking onto yours. "Why are you still awake?" He tilted his head as if studying an unfamiliar creature. He always regarded you with a curious interest, unearthing some new revelations about you.

"Cramps," you whispered in the dimness, even though the first rays of morning sun began to seep through the curtains.

Sukuna strolled to his side of the bed, lifting the comforter to settle down. "Do you take any medication for it?"

You shook your head. "I don't want to take any risks."

"So you're just going to endure the night with a migraine?"

Your husband seemed oblivious to the concept of cramps. He hadn't bothered to educate himself about your pregnancy or even familiarize himself with basic menstrual cycle terminology. You hesitated to bring attention to his title and position, but he was, after all, born from a woman.

How could he not know?

"Answer me," Sukuna demanded, fixing you with a cold, indifferent gaze. How could two simple words carry such a heavy, intimidating weight? Your entire body shuddered, and you swore you felt your child kick in response to his attitude, causing you to clench your teeth.

"Cramps . . . are something women experience during their period and pregnancy. They're sharp, unpredictable pains in your gut and back," you explained, finding a position that eased the cramps and calmed your baby. "It's worse when you're pregnant—like someone attached a taser to your body without a switch to turn it off."

Sukuna's brow furrowed, and he seemed pissed off as if he held a vendetta against cramps. "Will it have any consequence on the baby?"

You were really trying to be patient. “The baby is the reason why.” 

He ran his hands wearily down his face, casting a stern gaze at the ceiling, his breath quickening. "Is there any way to relieve the pain? Besides medication?"

“Well,” you said slowly, “when I first started menstruating, my mother used to place a warm rubber bottle on my stomach.” The recollection of nights spent groaning, tossing, and turning with your hand clutching your stomach brought a smile. After her passing in high school, you found yourself managing the household, dealing with your drug-addicted father, and taking care of yourself all on your own.

"Come here."

Startled, you shifted your focus to your husband, who raised the comforter like a makeshift tent with one arm. "You don't have to—"

"Come here."

With caution, you edged closer, lying flat and holding your breath. Sukuna propped himself up on one elbow, resting his temple on his knuckles while adjusting the blanket up to your neck. His left hand glided up your sweater and settled on your swollen belly.

An immediate sense of relaxation cocooned you, your eyes closing as warmth radiated from his palm onto your skin. The sensation passed through to your child, who quit kicking within seconds, seemingly recognizing their father's touch. It dawned on you that Sukuna hadn't touched you since you conceived, and you hadn't realized the volume of your misery and longing until this moment.

"Feeling better?"

"Mm-hmm." You nestled your face close to his neck. All you managed to whisper, your voice tinged with brokenness, was, "Please, don't let go."

Sukuna responded only with silence.

You'd woken up screaming bloody-mary.

The security team and maids hurried into the bedroom, their eyes widening at the sight of blood staining your clothes and darkening the black sheets. In a swift response, the doctor and her team of nurses rushed in while Uraume, Sukuna's trusted aide, calmly called for your husband from a corner of the room.

In the heat of your excruciating screams, five nurses attempted to guide your breathing and encourage you to follow a pattern. Guards carefully lifted you into a sitting position, and Uraume decisively cleared the room of all men. The doctor swiftly removed your sweatpants and panties, covering your lower region with a sheet, and instructing you to push.

Your body felt numb, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, and a black vignette closing in on your vision. Your head swayed left and right, on the verge of dropping if not for Uraume's unwavering support. Despite the intensity of your grip, they held steady, their only reaction being a stream of muttered curses amid the chaotic scene.

"I can't—Uraume—"

"You will, Mrs. Sukuna. You have come this far. Giving up now is not an option."

"I don't want to die," you whispered akin to a prayer.

"You won't," they softly replied. "He won't allow it."

Uraume, a silent figure from the past, now stood by your side, offering support and encouragement. The connection with them had been minimal, limited to the formalities of a marital contract signing. They had simply muttered, “He’s not half as evil as they say,” to you before packing up the papers and leaving you in the room with Sukuna.

The room buzzed with affirmations, reassuring you that they could see the baby's head and urging you to push with each breath.

The sound of the baby's cries stirred you awake.

You snapped to attention at the sweet, reassuring sound, realizing that your baby was close to arrival—alive and ready to face the world. Following two heartbreaking miscarriages and the pain endured as Sukuna's wife, the bearer of his lost children, you were finally on the cusp of welcoming motherhood.

"Two more pushes!" The doctor's voice cut through the air.

"AGH!" A guttural growl escaped your throat as you grappled with the harsh sensations. Your body trembled, and waves of fiery discomfort overflowed through your core as you exerted yourself to bring your baby into the world.

"Come on," Uraume whispered. "You can do this, Mrs. Ryomen."

You let out a powerful cry and strained with effort, bringing forth new life. The baby and you were crying at the exact wavelength, competing against who could be louder. The nurses and attendants, familiar faces from your previous pregnancies, clasped their hands in prayer for a safe delivery. Tears of relief streamed down your face as you pushed for your own well-being.

"Blanket!" the doctor urgently called out, prompting a nurse to rush over with a soft cream blanket. "Push!"

With a final, determined push, the weight lifted suddenly.

The slippery sensation of delivering the child and the immediate release of pressure left you slumping against Uraume's shoulder. As they laid you down, the doctor directed the staff to tend to you while the baby's cries filled the air.

The doctor approached through your hazy sight and gently laid your newborn on your chest. Overwhelmed with emotion, you showered your baby with kisses, tears of joy streaming down your face. Your little one was here. They were finally here.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Ryomen," the doctor announced as the cries of your newborn gradually faded into the background. "It's a girl."

You drifted into unconsciousness.

The soft cadence of Sukuna's voice filtered through the foggy boundaries of sleep, causing you to slowly come back to life.

“Why is this brat refusing to sleep?” you heard your husband grumbling.

With a laborious effort, you rubbed your eyes, summoning the strength to lift your head from the comfort of the pillow. The scene unfolded before you—Sukuna, the most feared criminal, pacing at the foot of his bed, cradling your crying newborn daughter in his arms, unsure of how to handle his little foe.

"What do you want? Food? You don’t have any teeth yet, little miscreant."

"Sukuna . . ." you whispered, a gentle plea for attention.

Your husband's gaze snapped in your direction, relief washing over his features as he realized you were conscious. "Thank fuck." Moving swiftly, he approached and took a seat at the edge of the bed.

His brown-reddish eyes lingered on the delicate scene unfolding before him—the intertwining of your index finger with your daughter's tiny, rattling fist. A calming magic seemed to stem from your touch, instantly soothing the cries to soft sniffles.

"Already playing favorites, I see," he remarked with a teasing tone, a wry smile on his lips.

"I have to feed her." Your voice was hoarse from the relentless screaming during the delivery. A series of deadly wheezes followed when you coughed, frightening your baby once more. Her cries started again, blending with the impatient curses of her father.

He gently placed her in the cradle, his strength used to prop you up against the headboard. The room carried the scent of coconut soap, your body freshly washed, the sheets beneath you brand-new. You were also dressed in a new set of panties and a nursing bra.

"Are you sure you have enough nutrients in your body to feed her?" Sukuna asked, holding your baby girl as you unclipped the front left cup. Rather than wasting your breath on a response, you focused on helping your daughter latch onto your nipple.

You winced once she caught it, then melted back as she started drinking. “I’m fine,” you finally answered. “Body . . . hurts.”

"No shit. You pushed an eight pound baby out of you." Despite the crude sarcasm in his tone, Sukuna tenderly caressed his knuckles over his daughter's cheek.

"Did you want . . . a girl?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, adjusting your baby onto your lap. "I assumed you'd prefer a boy as an heir."

"I'm not my father," he declared, putting an end to the conversation. "She's got your eyes."

Your daughter gazed up at you with a curiosity remarkably similar to yours. You smiled down at her, grateful she had made it. Grateful that Sukuna wasn't throwing a tantrum over the gender of your child but instead cupping the top of his baby girl's head and brushing his thumb across her forehead.

“You got a name for her?” Sukuna asked.

“Yes, but we can brainstorm if you don’t—”

“You carried the child, you birthed her, you will name her. Whatever it is, I agree.”

Something dead stirred inside your chest. Swallowing hard, you shared the chosen name, "Nobara."

He nodded in approval, and as he pronounced her name, Nobara responded with a wailing cry. "Her tantrums will be the fucking death of me." Sukuna took her into his arms again.

"Support the back of her head and rub her back. She needs to be burped," you advised.

He grunted but followed your instructions. Moments later, a tiny burp from Nobara made you chuckle, earning a slight eye roll and a hint of a smile from him.

"I'll take the next few weeks off to help you recover from the aftermath and the stitches," he announced, rising and walking towards his work desk, where he settled into a large leather chair, cradling your newborn.

You nodded appreciatively, easing yourself down.

"Oh, before I forget," Sukuna mentioned as you settled into bed, "I've arranged a new doctor for you."

“Did you fire the last one?”

“I fired at her, yes.”

Your eyes widened. "What? Why would you—? What?"

He shrugged, cradling the back of your newborn's head. "She suggested an additional stitch for you. Said it would make things 'tighter' down there for me."

Your face flushed. “So . . . you killed her?”

"Yes," he confirmed, his gaze fixed on you with those penetrating eyes, "I don't need a mere doctor questioning whether I'd still enjoy having sex with my wife after she gave birth to our child."

“But . . . you have mistresses. Don’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “I had mistresses up until . . . ”

Up until the kidnapping.

Sukuna never spoke of the crime after he’d saved you. Instead, he expressed his commitment through actions: sleeping beside you, teaching you how to handle a handgun, keeping a protective arm around your waist at social gatherings. Occasionally, you swore you felt him run his fingers through your hair as you slept.

"I wouldn't mind if you did," you admitted, a voice inside contradicting your words. "Given what my body has been through, I would find myself repulsive for pleasure, too. I understand if you feel disgusted."

Sukuna halted the gentle strokes on your daughter's back and straightened up. "What the fuck did you just say?"

An icy shiver ran through you, momentarily numbing the pain. "I-I just assumed—"

"You know, you make a lot of assumptions about me, wife. It gets under my fucking skin that you'd ever believe I could raise a hand on you. Day and night, every hour and minute, even now, in your presence, my mind is consumed with ways to kill the fear that's taken root in you.” He was infuriated yet vulnerable, with Nobara sleeping peacefully on his shoulder. “Everyone I’ve ever met has done nothing but fear me like I’m a curse on their soul, and while I’m flattered of the monster they’ve painted me out to be, I refuse to let my wife and daughter see me in that light. Do I make myself clear?"

You . . . nodded. 

“And for your information, I had mistresses up until I married you.”

You took in a sharp breath, processing the confession. "But those women—"

"Spies," he clarified, his voice low and steady. "They operate undercover in my clubs, keeping an eye out for potential threats. I haven't fucked anyone since the day I put that ring on your finger." He offered a small, almost imperceptible apology to your baby for cursing.

"Oh."

All you ever heard were twisted stories about the Sukuna Ryomen, a young man who, against all odds, slaughtered his own father to ascend the throne of the underworld criminal realm. Whispers spoke of a chilling childhood, where a mother's desperate attempt to suffocate her son in his sleep. The scars etched into his skin, concealed beneath a tapestry of dark markings, bore witness to the brutal initiation rites inflicted by vengeful uncles. In his domain, everyone prayed to see him buried six feet under.

Which is why you felt sympathy for your husband. He was lonely. Too lonely. Despite all the riches and influence surrounding him, he was stuck in a fortress where danger lurked around every corner. He had no friends, no one he could truly confide in—except perhaps Uraume. Opening up about his emotions wasn't in his nature. He kept the tough exterior, convinced that being a monster, a curse, was the only path to earning respect and recognition.

But just now, when had cut himself open in front of you and bled a human color, he was Sukuna. Your husband. The one who just became a father. A man wrapped in a comfortable robe with his hair combed down and his skin clean of dirt and blood as he held his daughter, as he gazed at you like you two were the only people meant fighting for in his treacherous world.

Sukuna noticed your silence, tuned in to your steady breaths, and lowered his lashes. "You'll ask me to touch you. Not just for the sake of having another child but for your own pleasure. If I'm not around and you need me, you will call, and I'll rush home. If this little brat gives you any trouble, I'll handle it. Hell, maybe I'll let her in on a bit of the family business for a head start."

"No," you murmured, absorbing everything he'd just said. "Not now. I want her to enjoy a proper childhood."

"Is that a demand?" Sukuna tilted his head slightly, another method of asserting authority. Yet, after all he'd shared about dropping everything for you, about making love to you, the fear in you started to dissolve bit by bit.

"Yes," you affirmed. "It's a demand."

A small smirk played on Sukuna's lips as he rose from his spot, circled the bed, and settled down beside you, with Nobara resting peacefully on his chest. Summoning all your strength, you turned to run your fingers over your baby's soft cheek and tiny, parted lips.

“She sleeps like you, Mr. Ryomen.”

“Sukuna,” he corrected, his arm covering his eyes as he breathed with a slightly open mouth. “My wife will call me Sukuna.”

Teasingly, you asked, “Is that a demand, Sukuna?”

His arm shifted low, and his reddish-brown eyes softened, stealing your breath. “Only from my wife and daughter.”

You smiled, closing your eyes. “Goodnight, Sukuna.”

In response, he wrapped his strong arm around you, pulling you close to his side, his two girls snuggled against his body.

In the beginning, you knew you didn't belong in the hell Sukuna ruled. Your father's mistakes, pilfering drug shipments and peddling them locally, had sealed both his fate and yours. With thoughts of fleeing the disgrace your father brought upon your family, you had started packing, desperate to escape the clutches of your old man.

The following night, Sukuna and his henchmen barged into your cramped apartment, wreaking havoc on every piece of furniture. Rocking in the corner of your room, Sukuna casted his shadow over you like the God of Death, bathed in your father’s blood.

Crouching down to your eye level, he tipped your chin up, leaving a splotch of blood. He used the collar of your sweater to wipe it away. In a hushed confession, you revealed the hidden drugs under the sink and floorboards, along with your father's buyer list folded in the cereal boxes. Sukuna grinned and ordered his underlings to retrieve the concealed items. Then, the chilling question hung in the air: "Are you going to kill me, too?"

"I'm tempted," Sukuna replied, "but not to kill you." His gaze fixated on your left hand, and he raised it, studying your ring finger. "You will pay for your father's crimes with your life." He held your hand in front of your face. "You will take my last name." His smirk widened, revealing perfect teeth. "Isn't that the cruelest form of death, love?"

Unconsciousness claimed you then, but after seven years of marriage, enduring unimaginable hardships, and finally welcoming a baby into the world, your answer was clear. The true torment wasn't caused by the man you once perceived as a monster but rather by his enemies.

"How am I supposed to know if Mr. Munchkin wants more tea? He's a fucking stuffed toy. Can't talk, you know?"

"Sukuna," you warned, perched on the armrest while busy crocheting baby socks for your little one on the way.

Nobara, wielding a rubber, squeaky hammer, stood up from her seat, giving her father a bonk on the head each time he let out a curse. And you often heard the squeak of the hammer around the house.

Nobara's tiara was slightly askew, frustration evident in her curled lips and bared teeth. She was growing increasingly irritated with her father's lack of understanding about the rules of her tea party. "Mr. Munchkin wants tea, Papa. Give him tea! Give him tea! Give him—"

"Fine, I surrender. Here, you little bastard. Take the whole fu—damn pot." He shoved the plastic teapot towards Mr. Munchkin, a well-loved cat stuffed toy you had gifted Nobara on her last birthday. "Happy?"

"Cup," she insisted, pointing at the tea cup in front of Mr. Munchkin.

Sukuna sighed and poured the water from the kettle into the pink plastic cup.

"Me too," Nobara added, settling back in her kiddie chair. Sukuna had barely taken his seat before she had him on the floor. "Hurry!"

"May I pour for the other toys first, Your Highness?"

"Not toys. Friends."

Sukuna shot you a helpless glare, eliciting a chuckle from you. He filled the table with tea, and Nobara, holding her small cup, clinked it with her father's, followed by her collection of stuffed animals. Sukuna reluctantly mimicked the gesture. Instead of sipping the tea, he downed it like a shot.

“Papa!”

“Sukuna, come on.”

There wasn’t any winning with his girls.

Sukuna reluctantly poured himself another cup, sipping it with an air of royalty that mirrored a princess. Despite his resistance to the make-believe tea party, you couldn't ignore the genuine affection he showed toward his daughter. He would nod attentively when one of the stuffed animals "spoke," laughed along with Nobara, and even beautified himself with a glittering tiara, a feathered pink scarf, and deep purple-painted nails.

Sukuna was, without a doubt, a fantastic father. It came as no surprise that Nobara's first word was 'Brat.'

That night, you kissed your daughter goodnight and tucked her into her bed. Sukuna joked that he’d spent every last bit of his wealth decorating the brat’s room, filling it with the latest toys, and stacking her closet with whatever clothes she laid her finger or eyes on. She was truly the princess of her father’s heart.

"She's asleep," you informed him.

"I'll give her a kiss in a minute. Just need to finish this," Sukuna replied, pouring over his documents.

Letting out a sigh, you shuffled over, rolled back his chair, and settled onto his lap. He continued reading as you wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your cheek on his shoulder, peering at him through your lashes.

"I want you," you murmured.

Sukuna paused, lowering his gaze to meet your cheeky smile. "Later."

"It's late."

"I have to finish—" He halted as you began kissing his neck, moving up to his jaw and cheeks, tracing the contours of his face tattoos.

"Please, Sukuna," you whispered near his ear.

How could he refuse you anything when you appeared so stunning, radiating with the joy of expecting another child in your four-month-old belly?

“Take off your robe and get on the bed. Spread your legs for me.” He gave your ass a little smack as you happily skipped away, shedding your clothes and clearing the bed to settle in. With a grin, you opened your legs, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Sukuna stood up from his seat, loosening his robe as he did. He sighed, watching the moisture forming between your legs. Pregnancy seemed to heighten your lusts, and Sukuna was always ready to fulfill your needs.

“What pretty, wet cunt,” he whispered softly, leaning in to kiss your chest, trailing down to your stomach, your hips, your calling clit. 

Over the years, you realized Sukuna enjoyed pleasuring you more than the opposite. He feasted on you like a starved man, whether it happened in the back of the limo, in a guest room during a party, or just minutes before a crucial meeting in his office. He insisted it was his way of relaxing, often pleading with you to spend a full hour on his face as he ate you out and drank every drop of your release. It had turned into a daily routine for him. And for you.

“Oh, Sukuna, yes, yes. Right there—ah!” Your back arched off the mattress when his tongue drove into your hole, flicking and exploring your clamping walls. His mouth was latched to your pussy, sucking it in, his cheeks hollowing rapidly. Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips voluntarily grating against his face, his sharp nose rubbing over your swollen clit. 

Sukuna drew back as you came down with a muted cry behind your hand and lapped at the flow of your juices pouring out of you. His lips shone as he leaned over and gently kissed you, allowing you to taste yourself from his tongue. “If I don’t fuck you now, I will die.” 

“Hurry, then.” 

Sukuna pushed himself inside you, and that first wave of pleasure hit you so strongly that you sank your nails in his back and cried out heavenwards. He groaned and grunted, thrusts growing speed, his plump balls smacking against your ass. You loved that he fucked harder, faster, driving you to the brink of ruination. 

After you'd healed from Nobara's birth, he would always make sure to get at least ten orgasms from you. From midnight to early morning, he'd fuck you in every possible position. But his favorite was always missionary, where he could have his eyes on you, writhing and whimpering beneath him, telling him it’s too much, he's too thick, all while using your heels to draw him in even closer.

Sukuna curled his arm around your waist and sat you up on his lap, thrusting up into you as you coiled yourself around his neck. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Your cunt was made for me, love. Your cunt was fucking made for me.” His hand threaded to the back of your head, grasping your hair and drawing your face back so you were looking him in the eyes without wavering, without bowing your head. He needed to know you didn’t fear him when he fucked you like this. It was an unspoken check-in, and when you smiled drunkenly, only then did he let you return to embracing him. 

“Are you close?” you whispered. 

“Not yet. I want to come in your ass.” 

You shivered despite how scalding and sweaty your bodies were. “Do it.” 

“Yeah?” 

You nodded. “Please.” 

Sukuna dragged you off his cock so you could get on all-fours, raising your ass up for him. He’s only ever been in your sacred spot a handful of times but never finished himself inside it. It appeared that tonight you were both a little extra spellbound.

Mounting himself behind you, Sukuna unfurled your ass and spit on his fingers, stroking the puckered hole. He gathered the creamy liquid dripping out of your pussy to lubricate the spot. His middle finger stretched you out, followed by his ring fingers, pushing in and out until he knew for sure you were prepared for him. 

Sukuna’s steel-hard cock pushed into your tiny hole. The sight of it expanding to swallow his girthy size almost made him come right there and then. He started to move in sluggish movement, grabbing onto your waist. His hips cruised, brushing against your ass, making you impatient and push yourself back. 

“Understood.” He chuckled and dug his nails into your skin, dragging out to the tip and shoving himself inside. Your face pressed into your pillows, crying and trembling as he abused your asshole non-stop. “You’re taking me so well, my love. Oh, fuck, fuck.” He rutted into you like a beast, claiming your body, rubbing your clit from the front, spanking your ass, brandishing you over and over again. 

You both snapped in unison. 

Sukuna sagged over your spine as he bucked in every last bit of his sloppy seed. His lips kissed your shoulder blades, holding you up by one arm. Gently, he pulled out, his cock growing floppy until you flipped onto your back, hair sticking to your sweaty, flushed face, belly slightly swollen, your tits larger in size, his release mingled with yours seeping out from your holes. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he whispered, cupping your face like he didn’t just fuck your soul out of you. That smirk you’d come to love appeared on his lips. You reciprocated back, stretching out your arms so he could lean down and kiss you sweetly on the lips and cheeks and toss in a praise or two for what a good girl you were as he slid into you again, slower and more intimate with his game. “I fucking love you, Y/N.” 

You smiled against his lips that continuously whispered the three beautiful words and said, “I love you, too, Sukuna,” before sealing it with a long, lasting kiss.

[fics-lovebot]

jujutsu kaisen fic recs pt. 3

main masterlist - jjk fic recs pt. 1 - jjk fic recs pt. 2

· · ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

these are my personal favs, so pls reblog if you like any of my recs❤️

yuji finds out gojo has a family - ( @kingkonoha ) fluff, lowkey angst, hubby!gojo, dad!gojo, so,,, this made me cry, i love yuji sm he deserves the world :( this is part two and it also made me crY MY MF EYES OUT :))))))))

can´t stop drinking - ( @kingkonoha ) ANGST, death, blood, dad!gojo, husband!gojo, mentions of wanting to die, a curse kills you and your son allegedly but in reality the elders had lied to him all these years, part 2 made me fucking crying

lambent - ( @xo2dee ) kinda fluffy, true form!sukuna, pregnant!reader, heian era customs, hubby!sukuna, a lil cannibalism, THIS NEEDs A KDRAMA

paparazzi´s pov - ( @rayveneyed ) fluff, award winning actor!sukuna, singer!oc, he likes messing around with supermodels but then the both of them meet at a fashion show, next thing you know oc got an anklet with his initials in garnet AÑDLJSÑFDLJ i really like this, would love to see a longer version

mangoes - ( @sttoru ) fluff, pregnant!reader, hubby!sukuna, tru form!sukuna, SOOO CUTEE, this acc had me giggling and kicking my feet

nanami drabbles - ( @sugurizz ) pwp, pls yall readdd part 2 and part 3, its crazyy

fifteen minutes - ( @roseglazedlens ) nanami smut. “Say that again. Louder. Can’t hear shit with the sound of my dick slapping into your cunt.” that´s all I have to say, your honor

protective - (@kingkonoha ) headcanon, hubby!kento, my man my man my man my man i love thissss

the horniest - ( @arminsumi ) gojo smut, ITS SO GOOOOOOOOOODDDDDD, he´s horny af, pussy drunk, obsessed, borderline crazy for that wap

phone calls - ( @kingkonoha ) slice of life, hubby!gojo, dilf!gojo, his wife and his daughter are his only priority, this is so sdkfjskdjfh :´( i love it

jock bf!yuuji - ( @tteokdoroki ) smut, fluff, all-star jock!yuuji, weird gf!reader, college au. one thing about me, i LOVE jock!yuuji. READ THIS AS WELL PLEASSEE

In denial - ( @rosesaints ) smut, sub!yuuta, "he doesn’t believe that it’s real until you’re actually sinking down onto his cock" period.

protective hubby - ( @slttygeto ) teacher!suguru, pregnant wife oc, it´s cutee

focus - ( @arminsumi ) suggestive, flirty!geto, tutor!geto, “you’re doing so good for me… keep going.” I HATE ITTTTT, i would fold like a mf lawn chair bitch OOF

wap - ( @tonycries ) smut, going in raw for the first time. i caNNOT EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE HOW GOOD THIS IS JUST PLEASEEE GO READ IT

warm heart pastry - ( @cckaisen ) text, fluff, crack, first of all,,, i love yuji, second of all satoru REALLY needs help, and third of all WHY IS INUMAKI ALWAYS ON SOME SHIT??? lmaooooo

love struck - ( @xxsabitoxx ) fluffy, ex-fuckboy!satoru, he´s experiencing love for the first time :((((( IT´S SO CUTEEEEEEEEEE

love dumb - ( @arminsumi ) gojo fluff, blurb, you make him lose his composure, can´t even focus bc you´re over there existing, someone should make a longer version of this! so good

will always be yours - ( @nezuscribe ) smut, fluff, so basically toji only does rough sex, doggy style being his fav, but when it comes to you he prefers the loving-face to face-intense eye contanct type of sex (more like love making) bc being with you makes him feel ten different emotions at once :) DÑFLJSLDFJ

ridin dirty?! - ( @screampied ) smut, mechanic!toji, the beggining had me giggling and blushing sdlfhlsjh, he´s too fucking cocky lmao, writing his number on her asscheeks and stuff

losing his mind - ( @daisynik7 ) smut, dom!reader, hubby!kento, sub!kento, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, WHEEEEEEEEW, 10000/10, now this is new

his protégé - ( @augustinewrites ) fluff, slice of life, fiancé!kento, dinner time with yuuji, it´s so wholesome :´)

insecure bully!gojo - ( @saetoru ) angst, lil fluff, he´s a bully and he´s in love, but its not enough. part 2

best of the best - ( @saetoru ) smut, fwb! satoru, big sHIT talker omg, he lit asks you to be his gf wHILE he´s making you cum,,,,,best bf ever tho

[sixeyesonathiel]

02 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : literally on my knees begging pls read chapter 1 first for maximum reading experience. there is like a HUGE plot twist at the end of the chapter that is already established her TvT

previous. | series masterlist. | next.

monday resumes with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of ceramic mugs in the faculty room, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee, chalk dust, and something that feels like quiet defeat. outside, the sky hangs gray and unmoved, the windows trembling slightly with each passing gust of wind.

it’s half-past noon when satoru gojo steps in, the door clicking softly behind him, muffling the corridor’s distant echoes. he’s carrying something oddly tender in his hands, a sight that instantly unravels the usual rhythm of the room.

not a wrinkled conbini bag. not the metallic hiss of a boss coffee can opened like a lifeline. but a bento box—neatly packed, wrapped in a faded cloth patterned with delicate cherry blossoms, their pink outlines worn by time and weather.

nanami glances up from his paper, pen halting mid-sentence. his expression doesn’t change, but his brows twitch in the faintest of furrows. utahime, tea halfway to her lips, lowers her cup with a small clink and a narrowing of her eyes.

they watch as satoru lowers himself into a seat, movements loose but not without tension, fingers still curled protectively around the bento like it might vanish if he lets go.

“that’s not expired gas station food,” nanami deadpans, voice clipped, tone edged with disbelief. “who are you, and what have you done with gojo?”

utahime leans in, head tilted slightly. “did you actually cook something, satoru?”

he blinks slowly at them, eyes unreadable behind reading glasses perched low on his nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent glare. he tilts his head just a fraction and lifts the lid.

a puff of steam escapes, curling lazily upward. the smell of soy-glazed meat, tamagoyaki, and freshly steamed rice spreads through the room, rich and nostalgic, like something remembered from a childhood he’s not sure he had. his stomach answers with a loud growl, breaking the moment with comic timing. nanami snorts softly, hiding it behind his knuckles.

“some woman just gave it to me on the street,” satoru mutters, poking at a carrot carved into a sakura petal, its edges too precise for a rushed job. “told me to eat it and walked away.”

utahime’s mouth falls open. “and you’re just… going to eat something a stranger gave you? without question?”

“guess so,” he says, already taking a bite.

the room quiets.

his chewing slows. his eyes narrow slightly, as if tasting something beyond the food—a memory, maybe, or a question. he swallows, blinking once.

“holy shit,” he breathes, still chewing. then another bite. and another.

his chopsticks move with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about food—it’s desperate, almost grateful. he eats like someone who forgot what care tastes like, who’s been living on sugar and spite for so long he didn’t notice the ache. the table trembles as he scrapes the last of the rice, his posture uncoiling. his shoulders dip, jaw softening, the invisible weight he’s been carrying melting with each bite.

nanami watches in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but decides not to.

“so you’re accepting mystery bentos now,” he finally says, dry as dust. “that’s… new.”

satoru hums, licking a smear of sauce from his thumb with a languid motion that’s somehow both careless and deliberate.

utahime leans toward nanami, whispering too loudly, “i haven’t seen him eat like that in months.”

he pretends not to hear her, but there’s something in the set of his mouth, a faint upturn, that betrays him. he doesn’t speak. he just lets it linger.

when the bell rings, satoru walks down the corridor with a step lighter than usual. it’s not a bounce—too subtle for that—but there’s an ease to it, like gravity’s loosened its grip. his hands are shoved in his pockets, fingers tapping absently against his thighs. a student passing by flinches when their eyes meet through his reading glasses, but satoru just offers a half-smile, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

in the classroom, something shifts.

the students sense it immediately. heads turn. whispers ripple like wind over water. he’s here, really here—not just a body in the room, but alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. his white hair catches the gray light filtering through the windows, glowing like a halo, though the strands are as messy as ever, sticking out at odd angles like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway.

he begins the lesson with a smirk, marker squeaking against the board as he scratches out an equation. his reading glasses slip down his nose, and he pushes them up with a finger, the motion lazy but oddly endearing. halfway through explaining derivatives, he draws a lopsided circle, then pauses, squinting at it like it’s personally offended him.

a student giggles. “sensei, is that a heart?”

he tilts his head, glasses glinting. “huh,” he murmurs. “guess it is.”

he doesn’t erase it. instead, he draws another, this one even sloppier, and a third that’s barely a shape at all. the class snickers, and he leans back against the desk, arms crossed, smirking wider.

“hearts are just broken circles, anyway,” he says, tone airy but laced with something heavier, like a truth he didn’t mean to let slip. “kinda like how this equation breaks down into simpler parts. see?”

he taps the board, and the lesson flows on, his hands gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with a rhythm that pulls the students in. they’re not just listening—they’re with him, laughing when he fumbles a marker, nodding when he explains a tricky concept with a metaphor about digimon evolving. a girl in the back raises her hand, hesitant, and he answers her question with such clarity that her shoulders relax, her smile small but real.

the rain starts mid-lesson, a soft patter against the windows that matches the scratch of pencils. satoru glances outside, his smirk softening into something quieter, like he’s remembering the woman with the umbrella, the one who stood over him in the park and didn’t say a word. his fingers tighten briefly around the marker, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe, or longing—crossing his face before he shakes it off.

“alright, you gremlins,” he says, clapping his hands. “pair up and solve the problems on page 47. don’t make me regret trusting you.”

the room hums with movement, and satoru weaves between desks, glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of so many bodies. he stops by a quiet student, a girl whose notebook is a mess of eraser marks. he kneels beside her, elbows on his knees, voice low and patient as he traces the problem with a finger, drawing invisible shapes in the air.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, tapping her pencil. “break it down like one of those hearts. simple parts, yeah?”

she nods, murmuring, “thanks, sensei.”

he gives her a smile—not his usual smug grin, but something soft, almost shy. “just had a good lunch,” he says, then adds, more to himself, “weird, right?”

the bell rings, and the students spill out, their chatter echoing down the hall. satoru lingers, erasing the board with slow, deliberate strokes, the hearts disappearing last. he adjusts his glasses, the lenses catching a stray beam of light, and hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic.

by sunset, the school is emptying, the halls a hollow echo of footsteps and muffled laughter. satoru returns to the faculty room, swinging his bag over one shoulder like a kid playing hooky. his hoodie’s stained with chalk dust, his hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it during class.

“you seem… chipper,” nanami notes, not glancing up from his grading.

satoru yawns, arms stretching overhead until his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “must be food poisoning. giving me euphoria or something.”

nanami snorts, a rare crack in his stoicism. “normal people don’t get this happy about food poisoning.”

“who said i was normal?” satoru tosses back, slipping out the door with a lazy salute.

outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. the city hums—car horns, footsteps, the rhythmic blink of crossing signals. satoru notices things tonight: the pink haze of sunset smearing across glass buildings, the way his sneakers squeak on the damp pavement, the faint warmth still lingering in his chest from that damn bento.

he looks both ways before crossing, a small victory for someone who’s been flirting with death all week. he hums the digimon theme, louder now, earning a side-eye from a salaryman hurrying past. satoru just grins, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

he catches his reflection in a shop window—white hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, the faintest upturn to his lips. he doesn’t look away, just tilts his head and murmurs, “not bad, gojo. not bad.”

outside his apartment, a moving truck idles, the driver smoking lazily by the curb. satoru doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy fumbling with his keys, pulling out a candy bar instead. he sighs, tries again, and finally gets the door open.

inside, the apartment greets him with stillness, the kind that presses against the skin. he slips off his shoes with a muted thud, tosses his jacket over the couch, and spots the bento box on the counter, empty but clean. he rinses it again, fingers lingering on the faded cherry blossoms, the cloth soft and worn under his touch. he sets it to dry beside the sink, movements careful, almost reverent.

tonight’s dinner is instant ramen, the steam curls around his face, fogging his glasses, and he doesn’t bother wiping them, just eats with a slurp that’s louder than necessary.

he settles on the couch, legs folded under him, digimon flickering across the screen. his eyes grow heavy halfway through the second episode, the theme song looping in his head like a lullaby. he thinks about the bento, the woman’s sharp voice—eat it—and the way her eyes burned with something he can’t name.

by the time sleep takes him—mouth slightly open, glasses slipping down his nose, breath even—the crease in his brow has faded. the warmth from earlier simmers in his chest, a quiet ember that refuses to go out.

he sleeps through the night.

satoru wakes before his alarm.

no sharp trill slices through dreams today; there’s nothing to cut. his lashes flutter open, slow and cautious, like he’s scared to break something fragile. the ceiling looms above his modest apartment, morning light sneaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across his pale face and the silver mess of his hair. strands jut out, wild and defiant, like they’re staging a revolt while he sleeps. but today—no storm rages in his chest. no ghosts lurk behind his eyes. rested. the word tastes weird, like a candy he forgot he liked.

he groans, stretching until his joints crack, arms flopping back to the bed. a yawn bursts out, raw and boyish, bouncing off the walls. his bare feet slap cold tiles, each step dragging him from sleep’s quiet grip. in the kitchen, the bento box sits on the counter, empty and clean, its faded cherry blossom cloth folded neat as a secret. he stares too long, eyes narrowing like it might spill gossip. yesterday’s gift lingers—not just here, but in the soft twist of his stomach. his gut growls, pissed off. he tries toast. it burns instantly.

he sighs—sharp, dramatic—watching the edges curl like scorched lies. he chomps it anyway, grimacing at the bitter crunch, each bite a small act of defiance. his eyes flick to the bento box. it’s sacred now. stupid, maybe. but sacred.

return it? probably. if he sees you again.

he snatches his bag, yanks a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt, and swings the door open—then freezes. you’re there, mirroring him from your doorway, clutching a tote bag like it’s a shield.

the hallway goes still. a breeze slinks through an open window, ruffling his hoodie and tugging a strand of your hair loose. it falls across your face, and you don’t fix it.

“you!” satoru blurts, pointing like he’s in a bad drama, his sleeve slipping to reveal faint scars like faded stars. his reading glasses—teetering on his nose—slide down, but he’s too busy gawking. his blue eyes, wide and bright, lock onto you, sparkling with surprise and a pinch of glee.

you flinch, spine snapping straight, fingers digging into your bag until your knuckles go white. your eyes dart from his face to your door, then back, wide and betrayed, like the world just pulled a fast one. “what the—why are you here?” you snap, voice sharp but wobbling, a flush creeping up your neck as you scowl.

“i live here,” satoru says, stepping forward, hair swaying like silver seaweed in a current. he squints at your door, then at you, like you’re a riddle he didn’t ask for. “wait. you live here now? next door?”

your jaw clenches, arms crossing, bag swinging like a pendulum. “yeah, so?” you huff, all prickly defiance, but your eyes flicker—panic, guilt, something. you moved in to keep him alive, to stop whoever wants him dead, and now he’s here, grinning like he’s got no enemies, and it’s screwing with your head. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing this.

“…guess we’re neighbors,” you mumble, softer, your name slipping out like an afterthought. it lands between you, small and real, like a coin tossed in the dark.

he blinks, then nudges his glasses up with a finger, lazy but precise. “right,” he says, fishing in his bag until he pulls out the bento box. he holds it out, both hands, like it’s a holy offering, his smile crooked and sheepish, dimple winking. “your food saved my life yesterday. or at least my tongue.”

you stare at the box, then at him, scowl deepening as your face burns. “you looked like you needed something real,” you mutter, snatching it. your fingers graze his, a quick jolt like static, and you jerk back, clutching the box to your chest like it’s evidence. “don’t make it weird, okay?”

he tilts his head, mischief flashing in his eyes. “you been watching me eat?”

“no!” you bark, too loud, eyes popping wide as the flush hits your cheeks like a tidal wave. “i just—i saw you at the convenience store, alright? you were chewing like it was a death sentence.”

a beat. silence hums, loud as a heartbeat.

then he laughs—bright, sudden, spilling out like a burst pipe. he tips his head back, the sound pinging off the walls, glasses slipping again. his eyes linger on you as the laugh fades, softening to a smile that’s too warm, too real. “well,” he says, backing away with big, goofy steps, hands in his pockets, “see you around, neighbor.”

you nod, lips twitching into a grimace you can’t quite call a smile. the moment stretches, thin and strange, then snaps as you both turn, heading opposite ways. your heart’s pounding, and you hiss under your breath, “idiot. why’s he gotta be so… alive?”

satoru nearly walks into traffic on his way to work. he’s replaying the hallway—your scowl, your flustered snap, that loose strand of hair—when a horn blares, yanking him back. he stumbles, arms flapping like a startled bird, glasses fogging from his own panicked breath. “shit,” he mutters, then chuckles, picturing your disapproving glare. it keeps him on the sidewalk. the green man blinks on, and he struts across, grinning like you’re watching.

in the classroom, his students clock the socks right away. one’s black, grim as a funeral. the other’s neon yellow, a cartoon frog peeling off like it’s done with life. “sensei,” a girl up front says, head tilted, “you good?”

“never better,” he shoots back, flashing a grin so bright it startles him. he adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the gray light from rain-streaked windows, and dives into the lesson. chalk squeaks on the board, his hands dancing, explaining integrals with a digimon metaphor that makes no sense but lands anyway. he draws lopsided stars next to equations, then a heart he doesn’t erase, smirking when a kid groans.

“stars are just hearts with extra points,” he says, winking. “like bonus lives. keep up.”

he drifts between desks, rain tapping the windows like a soft drum. the classroom hums, warm with bodies, his glasses fogging slightly. he kneels by a boy struggling with a problem, voice low, patient, tracing the equation in the air. “you’re close. don’t let it scare you. it’s just numbers playing hide-and-seek.” the kid nods, and satoru’s smile is soft, fleeting, like he’s caught himself off guard.

mid-lesson, he glances outside, rain blurring the courtyard into a gray smear. your face flashes—sharp voice, flushed cheeks, clutching that bento like it’s a bomb. his fingers snap the chalk, a tiny crack echoing. the class snickers, and he tosses the pieces with a theatrical sigh. “too strong for this chalk,” he says, winking, but his chest tightens, like he’s swallowed a question he can’t ask.

faculty meeting’s a snooze. principal yamamoto drones about the new nurse, voice flat as old soda. satoru doodles—spirals, clouds, a tiny umbrella with your initials scratched beside it. he freezes, pen hovering, then scribbles it out, heart ticking like a bomb. nanami jabs him when yamamoto tosses a question his way.

“what? sorry, i’m thinking about…” he almost says your name, catches it, grins. “lunch.”

utahime squints, suspicious. “you’re weirder than usual. and that’s a lot.”

“low blood sugar,” satoru declares, whipping out a crumpled chocolate bar like it’s a sword. he unwraps it with flair, foil crackling like a bad radio, and scarfs it in three messy bites, cocoa smearing his thumb. he licks it off, ignoring utahime’s grimace, the room smelling of cheap chocolate and damp coats.

evening finds him at your door, fist raised, heart thumping like a stubborn drum. the hallway’s quiet, but he catches a hum from your place—kettle, maybe, or soft footsteps. it’s warm, domestic, and it twists his gut. he hesitates, fingers twitching, then drops his hand.

“not tonight,” he mumbles, slinking back to his apartment, steps heavy, like he’s hauling his own doubts.

his kitchen’s a disaster—takeout boxes piled like a drunk architect’s dream. he stares, something shifting, and starts clearing, wiping the counter until it shines. he grabs a dusty cookbook, spine soft as old leather, and flips to miso soup. he squints at the ingredients, glasses slipping. “who keeps dashi on hand?” he grumbles, ordering ramen instead.

he slurps noodles with loud, obnoxious gusto, broth splashing his hoodie. he wipes it with a sleeve, chuckling, the silence humming—not empty, but waiting, like a held breath. he thinks of you—your scowl, that electric touch, the way you snapped like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for. he laughs, a soft puff, and grabs his phone, scrolling digimon clips until his eyes droop.

sleep isn’t kind.

a nightmare unravels—suguru’s laugh, sharp as glass, shoko’s voice twisting into static. blood on his hands, warm and slick. he bolts awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving like he’s outrun death. his glasses sit crooked on the nightstand, glinting in moonlight.

satoru remembers the hit. why he hired an assassin. the blood.

he feels sick for grinning today. he lies there, hollow, staring at shadows crawling the ceiling. night presses his chest, heavy as a tide.

how many days left?

why do i want more?

meanwhile, you pace your apartment, the bento box glaring from the counter like it’s got dirt on you. you moved in to protect him—some jerk put a hit on a guy who wears frog socks and burns toast, and you decided he’s worth saving. but now he’s next door, grinning like he’s untouchable, and it’s messing with you. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing the job. yeah.

“stupid,” you hiss, shoving the box in a drawer like it’s a crime scene. your heart’s racing, and you hate it—hate his laugh in the hallway, hate how his glasses make him look… human. you grab a knife, chop vegetables with vicious precision, each slice a wall against your feelings. you’re not here to care. you’re here to keep him breathing.

sleep skips you. you’re too busy listening for his steps, wondering who wants him dead, and why you’re so hellbent on stopping them.

wednesday begins with a mess.

satoru tosses and turns all night, long limbs tangling with the sheets in a restless war against sleep. sweat beads on his temple, and half-formed mutters slip from his lips as nightmares bleed into half-waking haze. by the time he finally dozes off, the sky pales with dawn, the world outside exhaling into morning.

the alarm screeches, but it barely grazes him. only when sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting across his face like a blade, does he bolt upright with a panicked gasp. his eyes dart to the clock. late.

he lurches out of bed, white hair a chaotic halo, sticking out like he’s been zapped. his movements jerk, a frantic dance of urgency—papers flutter to the floor like dying leaves as he shoves them into his bag. mismatched socks—one black, one with a faded pikachu barely clinging to life—peek from beneath hastily tied sneakers. his shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other flapping loose, billows as he sprints through his apartment.

no time for breakfast. no time for teeth. no time for mirrors. he’s a hurricane of chaos, long legs eating up space in reckless strides.

but then he sees you.

you stand at the bus stop, the calm in his storm, arms folded so tightly your knuckles gleam white, fingers twitching like you’re strangling your own nerves.

your eyes flick up at his ragged footsteps, narrowing into a glare that’s half disdain, half something softer you don’t mean to let slip. your hair catches the breeze, a strand falling across your cheek, and you huff sharply, swatting it away with a scowl. your spine stiffens, but your eyebrow twitches, betraying a flicker of amusement you’d never admit.

he skids to a stop, sneakers squeaking on damp pavement. his chest heaves, heart pounding like a war drum. he tugs at his shirt, a futile attempt to look less like a walking disaster, and runs a hand through his hair, only making the static worse. his reading glasses, perched crookedly on his nose, glint in the gray light.

“morning, neighbor,” he mumbles, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. it wavers under your piercing stare, like he’s been caught stealing.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to sprint to a bus stop,” you mutter, voice dripping with mock indifference, hiding the fact you’ve seen him stumble through life for days. your gaze rakes him, unimpressed. “you look like you got dressed in a blender.”

he lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses slipping further. “yeah, well, mornings and i aren’t on speaking terms.”

you scoff, arms tightening, turning away like he’s a problem you don’t have time for. “not my problem,” you say, but your fingers twitch again, betraying the lie.

the bus rolls up with a hiss, packed and humid, reeking of overbrewed coffee and cloying perfume. somehow, in the crush of commuters, you end up side by side, your shoulder brushing his with every lurch. satoru flinches each time, like your touch is a live wire, his glasses fogging slightly from his own unsteady breath.

“where you headed?” he asks, voice cracking, like the question sneaks out without permission.

“your school,” you say, flat and clipped, eyes fixed on the window.

he blinks, glasses catching the light. “wait, my school? why?”

you open your mouth, then—

a jaywalker darts across the road.

the driver curses. brakes scream. the bus lurches violently.

satoru pitches forward with a yelp, his head smacking the seat bar with a dull thunk. his glasses slide halfway off, dangling precariously, and his bag spills, papers scattering like confetti across the grimy floor.

“ow,” he groans, dazed, one hand clutching his forehead, the other fumbling for his glasses. his hair flops into his eyes, a silver mess, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might apologize.

your head whips to the window, eyes narrowing to slits, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. the jaywalker’s already gone, swallowed by the city, but your glare tracks the empty street like you could hunt him down with sheer will.

your jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line, and the air around you crackles with a lethal edge, like you’ve already planned his demise in fifty different ways. a nearby commuter shifts away, clutching her purse.

satoru, still rubbing his head, catches your expression and freezes. “whoa,” he mutters, voice soft with awe. “did you just… glare that guy into next week?”

“i didn’t do anything,” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. but then you grab his arm, yanking him back into his seat with a strength that makes his eyes widen, his breath hitching. your grip lingers a second too long, firm and unyielding, before you let go like he’s burned you.

he stares, mouth half-open, as you lean in, your hand reaching up—slow, deliberate—to sweep his bangs aside. your fingers hover over the forming bruise on his forehead, your brow furrowing just enough to betray your worry. your touch is light but practiced, like you’ve patched up worse wounds in darker times.

“sit still,” you mutter, voice rough, laced with irritation you don’t mean. your eyes flick over the bruise, then away, like looking too long might unravel something.

he obeys, too startled to move, his heart tripping over itself. the closeness hits him like a punch—your breath warm, your fingers cool, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the bus’s stale air. his hands hover uselessly, not sure where to land, and his glasses fog again, blurring you into a soft-edged dream. he swallows, throat bobbing, and thinks, she’s kinda cute when she’s mad. then panics, cheeks flushing, because what the hell, brain?

“you’re really bad at not dying,” you say, pulling back, your scowl deeper now, like his survival’s a personal offense.

he laughs, a nervous, flustered sound, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger. “thanks for, uh… keeping my skull intact.”

“don’t make it a habit,” you shoot back, crossing your arms so tightly your knuckles whiten again, your lips pursing like you’re biting back something softer.

the bus groans to a stop, the moment shattering. satoru scrambles to gather his scattered papers, stuffing them into his bag with all the grace of a toddler. you step off first, not looking back, your posture rigid but your fingers twitching like you want to turn around.

“so… why my school?” he asks, jogging to catch up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement. his hair flops with each step, and he adjusts his glasses, still crooked.

“not exactly visiting,” you say, voice cool, eyes fixed ahead. “i’m the new school nurse.”

he stops dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “wait, what?” his voice cracks, eyes wide behind his lenses. “you were just my neighbor yesterday! now you’re—what, saving kids from paper cuts?”

“life happens,” you say, shrugging, but your tone’s sharp, like you’re daring him to question it.

he blinks, then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, his dimple flashing. “so i’ll see you every day now?” his voice’s too eager, too bright, and he catches himself, flushing deeper, ears pink as he tries to backtrack. “i mean, that’s—uh—convenient. for the students. who need… band-aids and stuff.” he rubs his neck, glasses slipping again, his smile wobbling between flustered and thrilled.

you stare, unimpressed, your scowl deepening as you mutter, “i didn’t move here for you, idiot.” your voice’s sharp, but your cheeks flush faintly, and you turn away, steps quickening like you could outrun your own lie.

satoru trails after you to the principal’s office, heart thudding, his bag swinging wildly. he keeps stealing glances, catching the way your hair sways, the way your fingers twitch like you’re fighting the urge to look back. he’s rattled, grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t even care.

by lunch, he shows up at the nurse’s office, balancing two sandwiches in one hand, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. he leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but missing by a mile—his hair’s still a mess, his shirt untucked, and his glasses are smudged, one lens catching the light.

“brought you something,” he says, holding out a sandwich, his voice softer, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here. “they’re not expired. i checked. twice.”

you sigh, long and suffering, but take one, your fingers brushing his just enough to make him flinch again. “you’re gonna be a pain, aren’t you?” you mutter, scowling, but your eyes soften for a split second as you unwrap the sandwich, inspecting it like it’s a trap.

he plops into a chair, unwrapping his own sandwich with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb. “just being neighborly,” he says, grinning, then launches into a story about a student who tried to “solve” a math problem with a drawing of a dragon. his hands wave, glasses slipping, and his voice sparkles, filling the tiny office with warmth. you eat in silence, glancing at him more than you mean to, your scowl softening despite yourself.

mid-story, you reach out, almost without thinking, brushing a stray strand of his hair back. your fingers linger near his temple, tracing the bruise’s faint purple edge. your touch is light, deliberate, but your expression’s pure irritation, like his injury’s a personal insult.

satoru freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. his breath hitches, and his heart does a clumsy flip, like it hasn’t gotten the memo to stay calm. the room feels smaller, the air thicker, and he swears he feels your pulse through your fingertips.

a beat. two.

the bell rings.

he jolts, nearly launching his sandwich, crumbs flying like tiny comets. “shit—i gotta—uh—class!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, his bag catching on the chair and nearly toppling it.

he stumbles out, still clutching his sandwich, and walks straight into the doorframe with a loud thunk. “i’m fine!” he calls over his shoulder, voice cracking, before disappearing down the hall, his ears burning red.

the afternoon passes in a haze. he keeps touching the spot where your fingers lingered, a goofy grin creeping onto his face every time. his students notice, whispering among themselves.

“sensei, do you have a girlfriend?” a girl asks, grinning like she’s cracked a code.

satoru chokes on air, flailing for his chalk. “no! definitely not! absolutely not!” he sputters, glasses fogging as his face turns crimson. the class erupts into laughter, and he tries to laugh it off, but his hand strays to his temple again, brushing the bruise like it’s a talisman.

nanami passes by, pausing to give him a slow, pointed look. “just be careful, gojo,” he says, voice dry. “you’ve been… fragile lately.”

the word sticks, echoing in his head. fragile. he forces a laugh, tossing his hair back. “me? indestructible,” he says, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, and his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.

when the final bell rings, he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess. the school empties, halls echoing with fading footsteps, and he drifts back to the nurse’s office, heart ticking like a countdown.

“taking the same bus home?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but betrayed by the way his glasses slip again.

you nod, grabbing your bag, your scowl firmly in place. “don’t make it weird,” you mutter, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his just enough to make his breath catch.

the walk to the bus stop is quiet, easy, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. satoru’s sneakers squeak, his hair flops with each step, and he hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic. on the bus, he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately this time, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“you mentioned knives earlier,” he says, voice light, like he’s testing the waters. “weird hobby for a nurse.”

“i like craftsmanship,” you say, eyes unreadable, voice sharp but steady, your fingers twitching like you want to grab something—maybe him, maybe your own nerves.

he chuckles, low and warm, his glasses fogging again. “you’re full of surprises,” he says, and the delight in his voice is unmistakable, like he’s found a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.

at the apartment building, we pause at our doors, the hallway dim and quiet. satoru’s bag swings at his side, his hair catching the faint light from a flickering bulb.

“thanks for, y’know, making sure my brain didn’t leak out my ears this morning,” he says, tilting his head, his smile soft but teasing, dimple flashing.

“be more careful,” you snap, but your hand twitches toward him, like you want to check his bruise again. you catch yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets, your scowl deepening as you turn away. “i’m not your babysitter.”

he laughs, bright and unfiltered, the sound bouncing in the empty hall. “where’s the fun in that?” he calls after you, slipping inside his apartment. the door clicks shut, and he leans against it, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing like a kid who’s just dodged a bullet.

the kitchen gleams from last night’s cleaning, a rare island of order in his chaotic world. the bento box is gone, but its warmth clings to his chest, a stubborn spark. he stands there, stomach growling, and eyes the counter like it’s a battlefield. instant ramen’s on the menu again—his sad, familiar crutch, the fuel of a guy who’d scarf gas station sushi and call it a meal. but something shifts tonight, a tiny crack in his routine.

he grabs a packet from the cupboard, plastic crinkling under his fingers, and sets water to boil. the pot hisses, steam curling up, fogging his glasses as he hovers over it like a nervous chef.

your face flashes in his mind—your scowl, your careful touch, the bento’s carved carrots and tamagoyaki that tasted like care. his hand pauses, hovering over the ramen, and he glances at the fridge. there’s a single egg, tucked in the back, a forgotten relic from some optimistic grocery trip.

he snatches it, cracking it against the counter with a dramatic flourish, like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. the shell splits clean, and he drops the yolk into the broth, watching it bloom like a tiny sunrise, white threads swirling in the heat.

“look at me, adulting,” he mutters, grinning, his voice light but tinged with something heavier. the egg’s not much—not your bento, not a meal you’d nod at—but it’s something. a nod to the warmth you shoved into his hands, the care you hid behind a scowl.

he stirs the pot, the egg weaving into the noodles, and the steam carries a richer scent—not just salt and starch, but something almost nourishing. his mind drifts to his usual diet: expired soda, burned toast, candy bars wolfed down in faculty meetings. a pang hits, sharp and unfamiliar, like he’s waking up to how he’s been daring death to catch him. this egg, small as it is, feels like a middle finger to that. a choice to stick around.

he eats on the couch, legs folded, digimon flickering across the screen. the ramen’s hot, the egg silky, and he slurps with obnoxious gusto, broth splashing onto his hoodie.

he wipes it with a sleeve, grinning like a kid who’s gotten away with something. his thoughts keep slipping—to your lethal glare, your electric touch, the way you muttered “sit still” like he’s a puzzle you don’t want but can’t ditch.

“i’m in so much trouble,” satoru says to the empty room, voice warm with delight, glasses slipping as he tips his head back. the bruise on his forehead pulses faintly, a reminder of your fingers, and he touches it, smiling like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to keep.

sleep wraps him gently tonight, a soft haze. dreams flicker—your face, sharp and soft, your scowl melting into something he can’t name. when he wakes, the bruise doesn’t ache as much, and the egg’s warmth lingers in his chest, a quiet promise of tomorrow’s chaos.

tag list : @raendarkfaerie @inoluvrr @miizuzu @lolightrealm @whytfisgojosohot

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

[unintentionalseductress]

Masturbating After Kento's Death

Just had a really depressing idea and now I'm about to make everybody's problem.

Picture masturbating for the first time after Nanami's death. It's been a few months and though you're grieving him you're still a young woman with needs.

So you sigh, thinking you're in an ok headspace, it's just masturbating after, it's not like you're with another man. You pull out the trusted little vibrator, throw on some lube, and get to work.

It's going great, pleasure humming into your little bud and folds, but then unbidden, you feel fingers, thick, calloused fingers on your clit and the sound of a Kento's hot breath murmuring in your ears.

"You're so pretty my love, using your toy, but how about I take over from here?"

Your eyes fly open, all pleasantness gone, feeling like you had been hit in the stomach. You try to keep up the pleasant buzz but it's gone, overwhelming sadness filling your body, hot tears leaking out of your eyes as you curl into a ball and sob.

Remembering the warmth of his body and the way his touch made you come alive, his lips on yours, the snug feeling of his cock inside you as you made love.

It was more than the sex, it was the raw emotion behind it, that deep satisfaction that can only come from being with someone you loved deeply.

It was gone. He was gone, buried in the cold earth and you were here, a live woman in the flesh, unable to do anything without him.

All your joy, your pleasures, were gone.

Any semblance of being a normal person ever again died with him, and right now, you wished you were gone too.

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

[kumasakka]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ LOOK OF LOVE !

ft. how they look at you , various characters , based on songs.

　୨୧ no. 1 party anthem.

they look at you like they’re in love — it's not only love. it's the deep feeling of wanting go along with you, the path of life. growing old together. you two are one. they want to sink deep into your love and affection while you sink in their solace and warmth.

"please let me drown in your love until death. but even so, not even death can separate us."

BLLK. ISAGI YOICHI , YUKIMIYA KENYU , BACHIRA MEGURU , KUNIGAMI RENSUKE , KARASU TABITO , nanase nijiro, bunny iglesias , otoya eita.

WBK. SUO HAYATO , UMEMIYA HAJIME , TSUGEURA TAIGA , TSUBAKINO TASUKUA , KIRYU MITSUKI , HIRAGI TOMA , SAKAKI SEIRYU , TOGAME JO , KAJI REN.

JJK. GOJO SATORU , NANAMI KENTO , ITADORI YUJI , KUGISAKI NOBARA , FUSHIGURO MEGUMI , ZENIN MAKI , TODO AOI , HIGURUMA HIROMI , HAIBARA YU , IORI UTAHIME , MIWA KASUMI , JUNPEI YOSHINO , CHOSO, FUSHIGURO TOJI , muta kokichi , tsukuma yuki , sukuna.

　୨୧ way of life.

they look at you like you're his air to breathe, their only way to live. without you, the world isn't same anymore. as if you're their god in their eyes. they want to be a part of you and never let go. they want to hold your hand, wrap their arms around your body, kiss your lips softly.

"without you I'm dead, full of struggles and chaos I cannot describe. will you honour me with your presence and time?"

BLLK. ALEXIS NESS , WC!KUNIGAMI RENSUKE , MIKAGE REO , ITOSHI SAE , HIORI YO, KIYORA JIN , CHIGIRI HYOMA , karasu tabito.

WBK. SUGISHITA KYOTARO , KAJI REN, SHUHEI SUZURI , ENDO YAMATO , SAKAKI URYU , S1!TOMIYAMA CHOJI , TAKIISHI CHIKA , sakaki seiryu.

JJK. OKKOTSU YUTA , FUSHIGURO TOJI , SUKUNA , GETO SUGURU , CHOSO , GOJO SATORU , ZENIN MAI , MUTA KOKICHI , ZENIN NAOYA , KAMO NORITOSHI , miwa kasumi.

　୨୧ cupid's chokehold.

they look at you like they got trapped. in a positive way. they want to be in your presence all the time, feel your touch and share your pain. they didn't expect to fall for someone, but they did — they fell for you. they’ll be forever trapped in your divine allure, they’re at your mercy.

"hurt me soft, love me hard. I don't care. just stay here with me."

BLLK. MICHAEL KAISER , BACHIRA MEGURU , NAGI SEISHIRO , ITOSHI RIN , BAROU SHOEI , KURONA RANZE , oliver aiku , shidou ryusei.

WBK. NIREI AKIHIKO , ENDO YAMATO , TAKIISHI CHIKA , togame jo , tomiyama choji.

JJK. FUSHIGURO MEGUMI, CHOSO , OKKOTSU YUTA , ZENIN MAI , SUKUNA , INUMAKI TOGE, zenin maki , zenin naoya , iori utahime , yoshino junpei.

© 2025 kumasakka — do not plagiarize , copy , modify , translate our work !

[floatyflowers]

Things Platonic Yandere Fathers! JJK characters would say to you (Gojo Satoru/Sukuna/Nanami)

Gojo Satoru

"You're the only reason I haven't burned this world to ash, kiddo. So why would you ever want to leave my side?"

"They hurt you? Tell me their names. No one lays a finger on my child and walks away smiling."

"I'm the strongest, remember? Which means I get to choose what’s best for you. Even if you hate me for it."

"You don’t need friends. You have me. I'm fun, hilarious, powerful, what more could you want?"

Ryomen Sukuna (reincarnated reader)

"Tch. You think I would let you go through this life without me watching over you? You were mine long before you were even born again."

"You can try to run, brat, but not even death can keep me from you. I have killed for less than someone breathing near you."

"You carry my blood, no one else deserves to touch you. They so much as look wrong at you, and I’ll carve their eyes out."

"You're not weak like them. You're mine. I made you strong. You will not dishonor that by defying me."

Kento Nanami

"This world is far too cruel. I won’t allow it to steal your light. If that means I must dirty my hands… then so be it."

"You're a child, and children shouldn't bear burdens. Leave everything to me...even your choices."

"When I say it's dangerous, it is. Trust me. I don't say these things to scare you, only to keep you safe."

"I didnt sacrifice everything for you to grow up and throw yourself into harm's way. Stay close. That’s an order."

[rahuratna]

Ikemen Kaisen

Chapter 2: Come into my Parlour

Cross posted!

Summary: A cursed spirit develops a massive crush on the 7:3 sorcerer while he's on a mission. Trapping him in its unique otome game domain, the spirit soon discovers that its bitten off a lot more than it can chew with this particular jujutsu sorcerer ...

Content: Humour, fluff, crack, otome game satire, Nanami has Rizz with a capital 'R', the first year trio obtaining front row seats to this absolute shitshow.

It had been there, for just a minute. Something tangible that had fled when he was frustratingly close. Nanami blew out a small, exasperated breath and continued his steady evaluation of the crowd before heading back up to the VIP box. Maybe a bird’s eye view might reveal something telling once again. The feeling of uneasiness did not leave him, though. If anything, the sensation of wrongness, of eyes with ill intent tracing over his form, grew stronger. Nanami had not reached the status of Grade 1 jujutsu sorcerer without listening to his instincts. Ignoring that inner voice was a surefire way to get killed in this profession.

Yuuji was now seated and making a show of wiping his brow and re-hydrating. The young sorcerer-in-training had done a commendable job of keeping track of the stage. He waved to Nanami when he caught sight of him.

“Nanamin! Do you want some candy floss?”

“I’ll pass, Yuuji. But you can hand over that soda.”

Sipping from the soggy paper straw, Nanami turned to observe their surroundings as Yuuji leant toward him and spoke in quieter tones.

“It’s not Ryo-ri. I’m sure of it. I watched him like a hawk the whole time he was up there. Especially when he called that girl on stage. There was nothing weird going on at all. The cursed energy spike was someone from the audience.”

“Someone or something.” Seeing Yuuji’s concerned look, Nanami shook his head. “If it was a person, I would have found them.”

“Wait, you’re saying it’s a cursed spirit?”

“Likely. The cursed energy was very subtle, definitely sensory in nature. It didn’t seem particularly strong, but raw strength is not always an indication of how dangerous something is.”

“It’s not? That’s not what Gojo-sensei said.”

“With all due respect, Gojo-sensei is the last person you should take your assessment of caution from. The entity, whatever it was, must have picked up that I was searching for it. There’s a level of awareness at work here that should always make one careful. “

Suitably chastised, Yuuji nodded. “Okay, okay, I get it. So what do we do now?”

“There’s something else I should mention too. Since I’ve been down there … I’ve been feeling a sensation of watchfulness. Of something waiting.”

The boy’s eyes widened slightly. “Is … is it …”

“Probably. But I can’t be certain. So, what do you think we should do, Yuuji?”

The boy sat up straighter, eyes taking in the crowd that was now thinning as people made their way back out of the venue.

“I wanted to say, maybe wait for everyone to leave and then search for cursed energy traces … “

“But?”

“But if you sensed something … waiting, then the girl who went on stage is priority, right? Even if we scared off whatever was here tonight, it might be waiting for an opportunity to strike. She could still be in danger.”

Nanami felt that small twinge of pride, yet again.

“Exactly so. She’s currently backstage, meeting with Takashima as part of her supposed package. We’ll place her under surveillance and won’t let her out of our sight until we’ve established that she is at no risk of being targeted.”

“But Nanamin … “ Yuuji still looked worried. “You said that the cursed spirit may be … aware. Intelligent, like those ones we met before. Won’t it just wait until it’s sure we’ve left and then go get her?”

“That’s correct, Yuuji. Which is why our surveillance isn’t just a means to keep her safe. We’re hoping that she baits the spirit out, somehow. The emotion this cursed entity may feed off is the heavy envy that was coming from the audience. That’s probably why it was difficult for us to identify. Spirits are harder to detect when in the overwhelming presence of the very emotions that birth them. Remember that. Away from the crowd, and with a single-minded purpose, it may be much easier for us to track and isolate.”

Yuuji nodded, eyes alight with renewed determination.

“Roger that!”

Nanami and Yuuji hung around the VIP box until the young woman who had been taken backstage to meet Ryo-ri exited. If they hadn’t been paying attention, she would have flown completely under their radar. The flowing, vivid green tresses had obviously been a wig, because her natural hair was short and dark. Her clothes had also disguised her athletic build. Yuuji put her down as a professional stage performer. She had a distinctly disgruntled look on her face, certainly a far cry from the tearful ecstasy she had shown during the concert earlier. Nanami rose, nonchalantly discarding the soda can and gestured to Yuuji to follow.

She was obviously in something of a hurry, her grumpy demeanour translating to a quick, impatient stride. They followed her at a safe distance, watching as she made her way through the conference centre main exit and out into the same street they had walked along earlier. After a short distance, she pulled her phone from her bag and began to text rather aggressively, then took a sharp turn and entered a Seven-Eleven nearby. Yuuji took initiative and popped into the store behind her. As he browsed the shelves, he glanced over her shoulder and saw that she was texting someone from her agency, judging from the symbol in the profile picture. He read the messages for as long as discretion was possible before moving past.

She’s pissed off because Ryo-ri didn’t even bother to meet her after the concert. And it sounds like she’s not too happy with the agency for the arrangement either.

Choosing a random packet of crisps off the shelf, Yuuji glanced out the window to where Nanami stood on the pavement a short distance away. The sorcerer was on a call and a deep frown was marring his brow. Once Yuuji was out in the street, Nanami turned to him with a displeased expression.

“Dang, what did Gojo-sensei do now?”

“How did you – never mind,” Nanami sighed heavily. “He’s received an urgent summons from Kyoto. He was supposed to be overseeing a training exercise for Fushiguro and Kugisaki. They’ll be joining us on our mission instead.”

“Oh! I mean, the more people, the better right? They’re both strong – wait. I see what this is,” Yuuji grinned. “He’s got you for babysitting duty.”

Nanami’s eyebrow twitched.

“I’m not denying that those two are capable students. They’ll be a help, no doubt. And as much as I prefer to keep to a specific course of action, I suppose this is unavoidable. Having said that, I can’t abandon our current target.”

The young woman they were tailing had now stepped out of the store and had resumed her walk. Yuuji nodded sharply.

“Understood, Nanamin. I’ll head to the station to pick up Kugisaki and Fushiguro.”

“You remember the tracking app we installed on our phones? I’m turning mine on right now. Use it to find my location once they’re with you.”

“Right!”

Now this. This was heavenly.

Fuck Ryo-ri. A sad, little boy like that, shaking his crotch at every other bitch on stage? What could he possibly offer? No, no, no. I won’t settle for that. How could I be so … blind. This. This is what it’s all about.

Now, just look. Here, in his natural habitat, we see an absolute S-tier, top class, prime specimen of a man. Look. Just look.

From the moment he turned to face me in the crowd, I knew. It must be fate. That chiselled face, that aristocratic nose, that firm mouth and that chin. Oh, that beautiful strong chin, just waiting for a feminine finger to trace its outline. Clean-shaven, too. Just imagine what he looks like, shaving in the morning. Standing at his sink in his vest and underwear, running the blade along his throat …

Oh my. I mustn’t get too excited, oh no. Earlier, I tried to measure how broad his shoulders are and I’m sure he sensed me. Heehee. Speaking of which … sigh. When he shrugged off that coat a short while ago …  

That. Ass.

Goddamn. Praise the celestial craftsman who moulded those exquisite cheeks. Wasn’t there a poem like that? Where did I hear it before? Strange. Something about ‘did he who make the lamb make thee?’ Oh! That poem.

Well, this tiger can bite me any old time. So tall, too. And his hair … like spun gold. So perfect. Look how it moves as he walks. It’s like every time he takes a step, the cherubs of the wind are blowing each strand gently back into place. This is … a real man. His essence is all man. The way he was taking charge of that pink-haired boy and looking after him too, ohhhh. Daddy material, absolutely so.   

And his walk! Ohhhhhh. His walk! So confident. I just know he’s big down th - wait. I mustn’t let my focus slip. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. There’s no better opportunity than this! Now, where did I put that phone … here it is!

Oi, bitch, pick up.       

Once Yuuji had left, Nanami had resumed the surveillance on the young agency employee. She was certainly putting in the miles today and her path had taken her away from the main thoroughfares to a less populated area downtown. Here, there were no fancy coffee shops and brightly lit boutiques. Most of the stores didn’t even put out signs to advertise their wares. Many of them were situated on the bottom floor or basement level of run-down apartment blocks. Nanami noticed that the woman’s pace had slowed somewhat, and that she would sometimes check her phone before moving on.

Is she looking for directions? Where to?  

The agency she belonged to was nowhere in the vicinity and she looked like she was a little unfamiliar with this area, so she was definitely not going home.

Even though the evening was chilly, the coat Nanami wore was a little too heavy for such prolonged walking, so he shrugged it off and slung it over his arm. The moment he did, something began to feel … off. There it was again, that eerie sensation of being watched. Of alien eyes crawling over his form. Was the cursed spirit here already? That certainly hadn’t taken very long. He took a breath and relaxed his muscles, allowing his awareness to filter into his surroundings. It was something he had learned in his younger days as a sorcerer, this release of tension before expecting an attack. It helped one be more reactive to danger from any direction.

And then, the woman’s phone rang. She answered hastily, irritation colouring her tone. Nanami stepped into a narrow alleyway nearby, close enough to listen in.

“Hi, yes, it’s me. I’m … yes, I’m on my way. Excuse me, but are the directions you gave correct? It’s just, I’m somewhere downtown, and I don’t really know any reputable agencies in this area. No, no, I’m not … listen. Yes, I’m interested in the audition, but I – oh. Well, all right then, I’ll be there shortly.”

An audition? Here?

Nanami was instantly on high alert. Something was very wrong. Even if she was contacted for an audition, this area was not likely to house some kind of performance art studio. Furthermore, the disappearances of the other girls had been kept under wraps by law enforcement and their own agencies, to prevent public panic. So she wouldn’t be aware of the danger she was in.

She’s been lured here. But by whom? Is this really a cursed spirit? Is it advanced enough to put into motion a plan like this? That would make it –

Nanami had just managed to rip the blade from its holster underneath his sweater before the domain expansion engulfed him and the woman, a shockingly subtle rush of cursed energy that barely rippled the surface of reality. There was no mistaking what it was, however. If the spirit did not possess high levels of cursed energy, like he had deduced earlier, then maybe he could break through with sheer brute force. He raised his blade, energy flaring to life in powerful currents beneath his skin, bringing it down in a heavy, measured slash.

The borders of the domain rippled before annealing in softly glowing edges. Nanami dashed forward, skidding to a halt beside the unconscious form of the young performer. He took up a defensive stance, eyes narrowing as he took in their surroundings.

“Show yourself.”

The voice that answered was surprisingly young and girlish, a slight lisp accenting certain words.

“You want to see me?”

“This is your domain. You’ll have to show yourself sooner or later.”

“Welll … all right then. If you ask like that.”

A form stepped from the shadows. Shadows that had not been present a short while ago.

“Welcome. I – “

Before the spirit could finish its sentence, Nanami had swung his sword in a horizontal arc, slicing the apparition in two.

“Who do you think you’re dealing with? Show yourself. I won’t be fooled by illusions.”

There was a short period of silence. The fabricated walls of the domain around them began to shudder, changing form. Nanami frowned as he picked up the sensory feedback from all around him. As he thought, this spirit was certainly driven by strong, uncontrolled emotion. His attack had made it … happy? And why was the domain itself so resilient, considering that this spirit definitely did not have a great deal of raw cursed energy and power? Where was it drawing its strength from?

He pushed one foot out, nudging into the slumped form of the young woman lying on the ground beside him. He had to keep track of her if a fight was on the cards. Instantly, the emotions reflecting from the domain around him changed to something distinctly less … pleasant.

“What is she to you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That girl. There, on the ground. What is she to you?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question. All you need to know is that I will not let any harm come to civilians.”

“Oho. So that’s it. You are indeed an … upright man.”

Nanami had encountered a great many cursed spirits in his time, but there was something about the sibilance of those last words that made his hair stand on end. The domain was rapidly changing now, in a twisting, disconcerting manner that was dizzying to watch.

“First, let’s take things to a more … intimate setting. This place feels so exposed.”

Gritting his teeth, Nanami felt his legs root themselves to the spot, entirely not within his control. Something large and dark was rushing toward him and he leaned back, flicking his sword out in a fine, controlled line along the wall of the alleyway behind him. It was all he had time for before weightlessness took his limbs and darkness claimed his mind.

“Guess I’m stuck with you two goons. As always.”

Nobara unwrapped a chocolate bar and took a large bite. Beside her, Megumi scowled.

“I’m the one who should be saying that.”

“I said it first, buttface.”

“Your maturity never fails to amaze me.”

Yuuji looked up from his phone and offered a warm grin.  

“Let’s hurry guys. Nanamin’s signal hasn’t moved for a while now, so he must be staking out already.”

Nobara sighed.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this show on the road. But, hey! Why do you always get to go with Nanami-sensei? He’s so cool and responsible, unlike some teachers.”

They had already passed the Seven-Eleven where Nobara had purchased her chocolate for a quick snack. They were now making their way to the spot downtown where Nanami’s signal on the app blinked in stationary silence. Yuuji’s grin turned positively devilish as he turned to the brown-haired girl who strode quickly beside him.

“I mean, I didn’t choose Nanamin. Gojo-sensei assigned me to him. But yeah, going on missions with him definitely has its perks.”

He left the statement hanging, prompting Nobara to squint suspiciously at him.

“Eh? What kind of perks are we talking about?”

“You know the details of the mission right?”

Megumi frowned. “Of course we know. There’s some idol whose fans are disappearing. And the ones hired to get on stage with him are being targeted. What’s your point, Itadori?”

“Oh, just … I got to go to the concert and vibe for a bit. Nanamin got us VIP pass tickets, so we were up in the special box. And – “

“Now, just one minute,” Nobara’s expression had turned rather frightening. “You attended the actual concert?”

“Hell yeah. And I got lots of souvenirs and merch. Nanamin gave me an allowance, like always. I mean, it’s not like we were just having fun. I had to monitor Ryo-ri and talk to people. You know, network, just in case. For anything suspicious. Oh, and we went to Forty-two West – “

“The grill place?” Megumi interrupted, his own face morphing into something murderous. “The famous one that got all those five-star reviews?”

“Yeah! The same. Nanamin said we had to go because it gave us a good view of the stage set-up. But I’m not complaining. That trio of chocolate dessert was –“

Yuuji realised he had gone a step too far when his collar was roughly grabbed from both sides by his irate classmates. Nobara was fuming.

“You’re winin’ and dinin’ with Nanami-sensei while we’re trudging around the shittiest areas of Tokyo eating instant ramen that Gojo-sensei makes us buy ourselves?

“Even my shikigami get treated better.”

“Oi, oi, it’s not my fault Nanamin prefers the finer things – “

“Well then, I’m gonna put in a request for next time. I’ll make you stay with Gojo while Nanami-sensei takes me to the best nail salon and all those cute boutiques. And feeds me, too.”

“Now you’re making yourself sound like one of my shikigami.”

“Guys.”

The flat urgency in Yuuji’s tone brought them out of their small spat. They had arrived near the narrow alleyway where Nanami had encountered the cursed spirit earlier. Megumi and Nobara were instantly on alert, the traces of cursed energy subtle, but unmistakeable. And even if they hadn’t detected that, the phone with a shattered screen on the pavement was enough to give them pause. Yuuji gingerly picked it up, examining it from all angles. This definitely wasn’t Nanami’s phone. The small stickers looked familiar, though, and his eyes widened.

“This is that girl’s phone. The performer who went on stage with Ryo-ri!”

Megumi gritted his teeth. “So they were both attacked?”

“Looks like it.”

Nobara began to do a small circuit of the area, peering into the alley with close attention.

“Hey. Check this out.”

The two boys came to crouch beside her.

“What’s that?”

“This damage has traces of cursed energy, but I think it’s Nanami’s. Look at the marks here.”

Yuuji drew in a quick breath.

“The way those bottles and boxes are cut … “

“Yeah. They’re divided in a seven-three ratio. He’s letting us know he was still alive and maybe mobile when the curse took him.”

Megumi’s brow darkened.

“If this cursed spirit was powerful enough to capture Nanami, then shouldn’t we call for back-up?”

Yuuji stood abruptly.

“There’s no time. If we wait for back-up to arrive … I have no idea what could happen in the meantime. We’ve got to go in and do what we can. Isn’t that what sorcerers' have to do, even when they’re lacking in numbers and experience?”

Nobara nodded firmly. “For once, I agree with Itadori.”

Megumi sighed and straightened. “You’re right. But I think you’ve both missed something important.”

“Eh?”

“Itadori, how have you been tracking Nanami all this time?”

“What? By the app, obviously.”

“And you think a spirit or curse user, strong and smart enough to take them both, would just let you track Nanami’s phone?”

“Oh … “

Nobara hissed out a frustrated breath. “It wants to lure us in, huh?”

“If it knew Itadori was with Nanami, then that’s possible. I’m gonna send a message to Gojo just in case, and then we head in.”

This is so exciting! Now that the bitch is out of the way, I can focus on what’s important. That kid is on his way because of hot stuff’s phone tracker, but wait, wait … I didn’t expect two more to be with him. Hmmm. That’s fine. It makes no difference. Once they enter my domain, they’ll have no choice but to follow the rules. And maybe this handsome knight in shining armour will be more … receptive to my requests when they are present. Hahahahaha. How sweet it will be!

How sweet, yes, yes. Even sweeter? I get to finally see his eye colour when he wakes up! He was wearing those shades the whole time, but now … whoops! I’ve stolen them.

Hmm. Hmm. Oh, his hair! It’s so soft! I can’t … oh, this little undercut is so lovely. So cute. A jujutsu sorcerer, huh? Scarrrry. Hehe. But that wouldn’t make me change my mind at all. Oh no. It’s worth it. This power will be just what I need. He’ll be just what I need, forever and ever.

A powerful sorcerer like this … wait. Wait. Imagine what he’s built like? Oh, oh, he just gets even better. Imagine the definition he has under all that – he’s waking up! He’s opening his eyes! They’re … oh.

Oh.

Beautiful. Oh, wow. They’re upturned, just a little at the ends and, and, they’re hazel? Qwjecknblaargh …. Focus! He’s awake! I must not pass out from his magnetic stare. Breathe.

When Nanami came to, it was not in a setting he had expected. He was lying next to a lake, on a thick picnic blanket, a picturesque sunset adorning the horizon. He was instantly on high alert, reaching for his sword which, predictably, wasn’t there.

“Oh, come now. You won’t be needing that. I’m not going to harm you.”

That breathy, girlish voice sounded somewhere behind him and he spun around, bending his knees, muscles taut and ready to react. The cursed spirit had finally taken on a more tangible form. A woman’s form, quite short and delicately built, chestnut hair falling in long cascades on either side of its face. It wore a pastel pink shift dress and its feet were bare. The most telling features were the eyes. There were no eyes. Just a shadowed region, beneath straight brown bangs.

“What do you want?”

“Straight to the point, huh? All right then. I want you.”

Nanami, sensing no immediate violent intent, straightened, but kept his senses alert.

“If you mean my life, please don’t assume that it’ll come easily.”

The spirit giggled.

“You’re so silly! No, no. No, no, no, no. Not at all. This is my domain, as you can see.”

“I gathered that much. Where’s the woman from earlier? What have you done with her?”

There was a distinct pout on the spirit’s face. It sighed petulantly.

“I thought you might ask that. Here.”

It waved a hand and a small window appeared in mid-air. It expanded until the ‘room’ beyond became visible. The stage performer, still unconscious, reclined in a large chair in a dingy space with dust covers over the furniture and the blinds drawn.

“Go on. If you reach through, you can touch her. That way you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

Stepping forward carefully, keeping the spirit in the periphery of his vision, Nanami placed his hand through the shimmering window. His fingers came into contact with the inert warmth of the girl’s wrist. There was a steady pulse there. He withdrew his hand and turned to the spirit.

“All right. I’ve confirmed that the civilian is safe. You can tell me right now what you plan to do.”

The spirit smiled coyly and brought something out of its ‘pocket’. It stroked a finger over the sleek, dark cover of Nanami’s phone.

“Ah, but it’s no fun if I don’t have help with my plans. So, I’ve managed to get a hold of this. Your dear little student and his friends are on their way to search for you. I’ve guided them helpfully into my domain. I think things will be more entertaining when they get here.”

Nanami gritted his teeth, but paused, choosing his words carefully. This spirit seemed to be fond of conversation. Maybe even willing to be distracted by it.

“The students have nothing to do with this. You said you wanted me. Well, here I am, and I’m certainly not going anywhere. I’m aware that domains like this one have rules. Why don’t you leave them out of it and enlighten me.”

The spirit gave another delighted laugh.

“Oh, you’re just … wonderful. As I thought. No, I won’t let them go. But I will tell you the rules. Such fun rules too! Maybe you’ll even learn to like them. I need you to play a game with me. Nothing violent, of course, or very physical. Well, maybe a little physical.” There was that spine-chilling giggle again. “Your students are even allowed to participate and help you along! Precious little helpers, just for you. The game is all about choices. I’m going to present you with scenarios, just some harmless make-belief, you understand? You have to play the role I choose for you, and then make the correct choices. Choosing options will eventually get you to the next scenario. And every correct choice gives me a massive energy boost. That is the nature of the game in my domain. But beware! Making the incorrect choices, or attempting violence against me, will alter the next scenario. If you keep making incorrect choices, you’ll end up with a bad ending. And a bad ending means …”

The spirit snapped its fingers and the window to the dark room beyond grew wider. Nanami clenched his fists. The girl from earlier was not the only occupant. At least five other dark shapes lay in various poses on the uncovered items of furniture around the room. The other abductees.

“They’re also under my control, you see. And for every bad ending you get, one of them goes poof! But don’t worry, I’m kind. I won’t harm your students in that way.”

Nanami turned slowly back to the spirit.

Kind?

As unfathomable as it sounded, there was a tone of sincerity, almost warmth, in the spirit’s voice. As if it really, really believed that killing others, but not Nanami’s students, was an act of kindness. As long as he had been in the business of exorcising spirits, Nanami had developed a certain instinct about how to deal with specific types of curses. A sort of unerring sixth sense about how to deal maximum damage when handling them; getting to the heart of their true nature through their weaknesses. Something, perhaps his own innate technique, was telling him that there was an exploitable crack in the armour here.

“I see. That is kind of you.”

The spirit immediately beamed, for all it didn’t have eyes to express emotion with. The dark window disappeared, and the sunset took on an even rosier hue.

“I knew you’d see things clearly!”

“Tell me more about this game. Most importantly, what happens when the game ends?”

“Don’t worry about the students. They’ll be safe and wake up somewhere. If you don’t get any bad endings, all the civilians will be returned safely too. But they won’t remember anything that happened to them.”

“And me?”

“I can’t tell you that yet. Will that be a problem?”

Nanami considered for a moment before shaking his head firmly.

“No. I don’t care much what happens to me. As long as you give me a binding vow, as we sorcerer’s call it, that you’ll let them go when the time comes.”

The spirit’s smile grew impossibly broad, and it let out a small, dreamy sigh.

“You’re … really something, Mister Sorcerer. Or should I say, Nanamin. I checked your student’s chat with you and that’s such a cute nickname!”

Nanami twitched slightly at the moniker, but did not react otherwise.

“Call me whatever you want. But please make that vow.”

“Of course! Anything for you.”

Stretching one hand out, the spirit waggled its fingers. Cautiously, Nanami held out his hand and they grasped each other by the wrist. The spirit was fully corporeal, at least in its domain, the flesh beneath his fingers firm and human-like. A shudder seemed to pass through the spirit as he made contact. They spoke the words of their contract and, within the confines of this domain, those terms were made binding. Nanami let go and stepped back.

“All right. Now will you give me some information as to the nature of these game scenarios?”  

“You mean you haven’t guessed already?”

“No, I’m quite at a loss as to what they could be.”

The spirit clapped its hands and laughed.

“Why, they’ll be romantic, of course!”

“… Romantic?”

“Yes! A truly tingling tale of true love and fated lovers. The universe may conspire mischievously to keep them apart, but their honest, raw emotions will prevail over all! At least, as long as you get the good ending.”

Nanami was silent for a bit. He seemed to be thinking deeply, but in reality, this information had completely thrown him. If he understood correctly, this spirit wanted him to perform some kind of … romantic roleplay with it? Had he been mistaken? He had been operating under the assumption that this spirit had be born of the envy and resentment felt by the idol’s audience, but what was this all about then? It couldn’t be. But then again, even the most experienced sorcerers had come up, eventually, against spirits that defied their existing knowledge and instincts. Taking a breath, Nanami looked up.

“Romantic scenarios. Understood. I’ll play my part accordingly.”

“Eh?” It was the spirit’s turn to be caught off guard. “You agree just like that? I thought you’d at least resist the idea.”

“I have no reason to. If the lives of civilians are at stake, then I, and my students, will perform whatever role you assign to us to the best of our ability.”

Nanami reached up and, in a controlled motion, smoothed back his hair. He lifted his sweater slightly and tugged on the empty harness for his blade, snapping it back into place before neatly rolling up his sleeves. He faced the spirit and folded his arms.

“I am ready for you.”

Something crimson and wet dripped from the spirit’s nose. It hurriedly mopped it up with the back of its wrist.

“Ah, er, well. Let me prepare a few things and I will … be back soon.”

The window behind it opened and it scurried through. Nanami raised an eyebrow.

Was that blush part of the act?

[admiringlove]

part one || part two || part four tw: mentions of burns, grievous injury, death, suicide ideation, etc. post shibuya au. a/n. can be read as a standalone, but i'm doing this as a mini-series.

[09:14] . . .

nanami kento hates this.

he has been home for three weeks now. twenty-one days of stillness so thick it settles into the walls like dust. twenty-one nights where the air feels too heavy, too quiet, where time passes in a hush, like the house itself is holding its breath. three weeks of watching you move around him with tireless grace, every second stitched together by your hands—your footsteps, your touch, your voice, the only things that keep him tethered to the reality he can barely stand to look at.

you do everything. you do too much.

you help him eat when his fingers tremble, help him bathe when the act of standing feels like too much, guide him to the bathroom with a steadiness that makes his stomach twist. you clean him. you lift him. you speak to him softly, with gentle words and careful smiles, never letting your voice crack, never letting him see just how exhausted you are.

and he lets you.

not because he wants to. not because he believes he deserves it. but because he can’t do anything else.

he hates it. he hates that you never flinch, that you never grimace, never complain—not even when you're helping him through the most humiliating moments, the ones where he can’t even raise his arms enough to pull a shirt over his head, the ones where he has to ask you for help to piss.

he watches you hold his shame like it's a secret between you. watches you kneel beside the tub with your sleeves rolled up, washing the burn-scarred skin of his back, as if it’s a holy thing. watches the way you press cool compresses to his shoulder, whispering words that mean nothing and everything. it would be easier if you screamed. if you cried. if you threw something against the wall and shouted that you couldn’t do this anymore.

but you don’t.

instead, you smile. not the smile he used to know—the bright, full one that stretched across your face and made his chest swell with something soft and dangerous—but this new one. thin. quiet. a shadow of what it was. and still, you wear it like armor.

you say his name so gently. you carry him without complaint. you wake before him every morning and fall asleep long after he does, sitting beside his bed in silence, brushing your thumb along his bandaged hand like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

he knows it now. maybe he’s always known it, deep down.

you’re not doing this out of pity. not out of duty, or guilt, or some noble sense of compassion.

you’re doing this because you love him. and somehow, that makes everything worse.

because kento doesn’t feel worthy of love anymore. not like this. not when he can’t even stand on his own two feet. not when his body feels foreign to him, like a cage he can’t escape. not when every movement reminds him of what he’s lost. not when he sees himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize what’s left.

he thinks, maybe, it would’ve been easier if he had died. if his last words—you take it from here—had been exactly that: a parting gift. a permission. a surrender.

because he knows you would have survived. he knows it would have broken you, shattered you, dragged you through hell—but you would have kept going. you would have healed in time. become someone new. found joy again, even if it took years. even if it was only in small, quiet ways.

that future feels kinder than this one.

kinder than being rolled through the threshold of your shared home in a wheelchair, burns still healing, body still aching, watching you press a kiss to the top of his head like it’s all okay.

kinder than being the weight you carry now, day after day, without ever setting him down.

"hey, you're growing a beard," you say softly, almost absently, as you collect his empty breakfast plate. the clink of ceramic against ceramic is gentle, as if you're afraid even the dishes might startle him. "you want a shave?"

kento doesn't look at you. not immediately. instead, he lowers his gaze to the blanket draped over his lap, where the faded cotton is bunched up slightly from how his legs shift, restless. he knows what you're remembering when you ask—knows the picture in your mind without needing to see it. because it's in his too.

he remembers it all. the sun bleeding into your shared room like something divine, soft golden light spilling over the bedsheets like melted honey. he remembers the curtains billowing from the morning breeze, linen fluttering like they were dancing just for you. he remembers the way you used to sit on top of him, legs straddling his hips, bare thighs warm against his stomach, your fingers coated in shaving cream as you smoothed it over his jaw with more reverence than necessary.

back then, you did it because you could. because he let you. because you liked the way he looked at you through the cream, all soft-eyed and patient, like he belonged to you in every way that mattered.

but that version of him—the one who could lift you, kiss you, hold you steady while you leaned close with a blade and a smirk and your sleep-creased pajamas—that man is gone. and this new version, the one who can’t even stand without assistance, who still winces when he shifts too fast or breathes too deep, cannot bear the thought of you kneeling in front of him again. not like that. not when everything between you has shifted into a quiet kind of grief neither of you will name.

"uh, it's fine," kento says, voice so low it nearly gets swallowed by the morning silence. his eyes stay fixed on the folds of the blanket, the lines of his fingers, the dullness of his knees beneath cotton.

"you sure?" you ask, glancing over your shoulder from the sink, where you're already running water. your tone is too careful, the kind reserved for glass things with cracks too deep to fix.

he nods slowly. once. doesn't look up.

and that’s the end of it.

you don’t push. you never do. and he wishes, briefly, violently, that you would. just once. that you’d say something sharp, anything to shake him out of this state. but you only turn back around, wash the plate, and carry the silence like it's just another thing you’ve chosen to carry—for him.

when you're done washing the dishes, you dry your hands on the old kitchen towel—the one that’s permanently damp no matter how often you change it—and walk back toward him. your steps are quiet, deliberate. as if loudness might somehow snap the delicate thread holding the morning together. you hover beside him for a second, the air between you heavy with something unsaid, before you ask, in a voice so careful it almost sounds like a memory, “do you wanna go somewhere today? the park, maybe. the mall?”

kento doesn’t look at you. just lowers his gaze to his trembling hands, pale against the dark fabric of the chair’s arms. his fingers curl slowly, like he’s still not used to the effort, like every movement is rehearsed but not yet mastered. “no,” he says, shaking his head. the word is small, too small for a man like him. it floats between you like a leaf in water—weightless, but still heavy with meaning.

you don’t move. not right away. just watch as he pushes himself away from the breakfast table, his fingers fumbling against the metal, weak and worn. and you wait. because maybe this time you’ll say something. maybe this will be the moment you snap—tell him that he should go outside, that fresh air might help, that being stuck in here, in this “stuffy” house that’s turned into a shrine for everything he used to be, isn’t doing either of you any good.

but you say nothing. you only stand there, hands folded against your stomach, knuckles tight, watching him wheel himself slowly—agonizingly—toward the living room. his back is straight, but the shake in his shoulders betrays him. and still, he doesn't ask for help. not even once.

he rounds the corner. you watch his figure pass, just a sliver of him disappearing down the hallway. he’s so slow, so deliberate, like even this—this attempt at independence—is a punishment he’s giving himself.

you stand in the doorway of the kitchen, the dish towel still clutched in your hand like some useless symbol of peace. you watch as he reaches your bedroom door, hands trembling against the wheel, pushing through the frame. he doesn’t tell you where he’s going. doesn’t thank you for breakfast.

and when he closes the door—too hard, maybe on purpose—kento swears he hears it.

that tiny intake of breath from you, soft and sharp all at once.

he swears he hears you flinch.

and as he sits there, in the quiet that feels too loud, in the stillness that scrapes at his ribs like broken glass, kento lets his eyes drift upward. to the wall. to the soft, cream-colored paint above the bed you both used to curl into like vines, tangled and warm and content.

his gaze settles on the photos. the ones you insisted on putting up, one by one, like sacred relics. you'd fought for that wall, not with anger, but with that gentle insistence that always seemed to win him over. back then, you’d smiled—hands on your hips, heart in your throat—and told him that you didn’t want to walk into this room and ever feel sadness. not when the world already offered more than enough of it. not when you could build something that pushed back against it.

you'd said, “this wall is going to be a home for all the things that make us happy. every milestone. every memory.” and he’d nodded, not because he fully understood, but because he trusted the way your voice trembled when you spoke about joy.

so you’d filled it. slowly, over the years. framed your first date, that one with the rainy sky and the overcooked noodles. framed your wedding, where his tie was crooked and your eyeliner had smudged from crying during your vows. you’d even framed that hideous, grainy picture from high school—the one where his hair hadn’t been cut in months and he was scowling at the camera. and he let you. god, he let you. he even smiled when you kissed the glass after hanging it up.

now, kento looks at it, and something in him collapses.

his throat tightens. his chest burns, not from the wounds or the healing skin, but from something worse. from the unbearable weight of love. from the way it grips him by the collar and doesn't let go.

his face crumples. the tears come fast, angry and soft all at once, trailing down his cheeks in silence before the sobs make it impossible to hold them back. he’s crying. not carefully, not quietly, but like it’s the only thing he’s capable of doing now. his body shakes. the sharp sniffs echo in the room. his vision blurs, but the photographs don’t disappear.

he doesn’t think about the pain anymore—not the itching of raw, pink skin or the way the bandages pull at his nerves. not the dull ache of muscles unused and healing too slowly. not the way his hands still tremble from weakness. all of that fades, is nothing compared to this. to what he feels now.

he can only think of you.

of how tired you must be. of how you smiled as you helped him button his shirt this morning, even though your hands were shaking. of how you sat beside him last night, reading a book aloud even though your voice was hoarse. of how you’d kissed his temple and told him it would be okay, when everything inside him screamed otherwise.

he cries harder. because you didn’t sign up for this. and he knows it. you were meant for something softer. something gentler than this. and yet here you are, anchored to him by love or duty or something in between, and he can’t tell which hurts more—that you’re still here, or that he sometimes wishes you weren’t.

he sobs like a man who has nothing left to give, except for the wreckage of what he used to be.

his hands tremble. not the kind of tremble that comes from weakness alone, but the violent, aching kind—shaking born from rage and humiliation and grief too long kept inside. it starts in his fingers, curls through his palms, climbs up his arms until his whole body is unsteady, quivering like a snapped wire. he clenches the wheels of the chair so tightly his knuckles flash white beneath fragile skin.

then he moves. pushes. forces. not gently, not carefully, but with the full, brute force of desperation. of hatred for this chair, this room, this body that refuses to feel like his own anymore. the muscles in his thighs scream, the burns along his back pull taut, but kento grits his teeth. he stands.

it's shaky. it's pathetic. it's barely anything. but he stands.

he's breathing hard, like he's run a mile. sweat beads at his brow, catching against the curve of a healing wound near his temple. his chest heaves. and before he can fall, before he can even think—his eyes lock onto it. that photo. the one from high school. the ugliest one of them all.

you love it, he knows. you love the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way his scowl didn’t hide the curve of his cheekbones. you call it nostalgic. soft. formative.

he calls it disgusting.

his bandaged hand reaches out, trembling, half-dead and aching, and grabs the frame from the wall. his fingers slip, the glass slick against gauze and sweat, but he grips it hard. and then—

he throws it.

the crash is loud. glass shatters like a scream against the bathroom door. the frame splinters, shards raining down across the floor, over the threshold, across the rug you'd chosen together.

he stands there, panting. hands shaking. body sagging under the weight of it all. he doesn’t cry. not now. now he’s just fire. bitter and barely breathing.

and seconds later, you're there.

you burst into the room like a storm breaking through silence, wild-eyed and breathless, hair still damp from the shower, your hands half-raised as if to catch him, steady him, stop time itself.

"are you okay?" your voice is high, almost shrill, choked with panic. "are you hurt? what—what happened?"

your chest rises and falls so fast it aches to look at you. your bare feet crunch softly on broken glass as you step forward, and he flinches, just once, at the sound. because now it’s real. now you’ve seen it—this ugliness inside him, this rot.

and he's hurting you.

but you don’t move closer just yet. you don’t touch him or reach out. instead, your hand floats to your mouth in slow disbelief, your fingers trembling like his were just moments ago, and you gasp.

not a sound of fear this time. not worry. something softer. awed. and your eyes go wide—not with terror, but something else entirely. something almost holy.

your gaze doesn’t drop to the shattered frame on the floor, to the mess, to the ruin. instead, you look up at him. truly look. like you haven’t in weeks. like you’re seeing him for the first time again. and he watches your face shift—so gently it makes his heart twist.

that smile. god, that smile.

the one you wore at the altar, tears glistening under your lashes, hands trembling as you slipped the ring onto his finger. the smile you gave him when he first brought you coffee at work, still in his pressed shirt and tie, nerves hidden behind the straight line of his mouth. the one you gave him in the middle of a fight, when you both knew you’d find your way back. the one he never thought he’d see again—not like this.

“ken,” you breathe. and his name from your lips feels like a benediction. a prayer. a rebirth. “you’re standing.”

he blinks at you, dazed. “what?”

his voice cracks, and he frowns, lips parted in disbelief, his whole body still humming with pain and exertion. he doesn’t look at his legs—because how could he possibly be standing?

but you point. slowly, like you’re scared if you say it too loud, it’ll vanish. like this is a dream.

you point at his knees, at the empty wheelchair beside him, the faint tremble of his calves where they bear the weight of him.

“you’re standing,” you say again, and your voice breaks on the second word. “on your own.”

and kento looks down.

and finally, he sees.

he is.

his legs are shaking, his balance is off, every inch of him feels like it could collapse any second—but he’s not on the chair. he’s not being held up by anything but himself. it’s not much. it’s not heroic. it’s not graceful.

but it’s real. he’s standing.

and when he looks up at you again, your smile’s still there—shining and tear-struck and full of so much love that it splits something open inside him. something he thought had already been reduced to ash.

“there’s glass on the floor,” he murmurs, voice soft, like it’s already breaking. “y-you stepped on glass.”

his eyes dart to the sharp glittering pieces scattered across the hardwood, to the broken frame lying face-down by the door, the photo inside half-visible—his hair in it a disaster, your face blurry from laughing too hard. he remembers hating it. he remembers how you’d refused to take it down.

“i threw the ugly photo,” he says. “at the bathroom door.”

you blink at him, then glance down, and for a second he swears you’ll yell. or worse, cry. but then you look up again, eyes warm, and you say, “in case you didn’t notice,” with a lilt that almost sounds amused, “i’m wearing bunny slippers. the ones i forced you to buy me. the cinnamoroll ones.”

your voice trembles on the last part—not from sadness, but from restraint. you’re trying not to let it crack.

he looks down at your feet. the ridiculous white and blue slippers with floppy ears and little pink cheeks. the ones you made him buy at two in the morning in some grocery store that had no business selling such things. you’d worn them the night you moved in with him. you wore them the first night you made dinner together. you wore them when you danced to no music in the kitchen.

“oh,” he breathes.

and then he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t know what to say. so he waits.

he waits, like he used to wait at train stations with flowers in hand. he waits like he did that first night he told you he loved you, eyes on your lips, terrified of what might come next. he waits like he did in the hospital bed, praying—that you wouldn't leave. that you'd stay by his side.

he waits, yearningly. aching.

hoping you’ll come closer. hoping you'll ignore the mess on the floor, and just reach for him. hoping you’ll step around the broken pieces and press yourself to him like you used to, head on his chest, arms around his waist. hoping you'll remind him that he still gets to be touched, still gets to be held, still gets to be yours.

you take one step. then another. and for a moment, he forgets about the burns, the pain, the way his legs shake beneath him like twigs in a storm.

because you’re here. and you’re walking toward him.

and when you place your head on his chest, finally, finally resting your cheek against him like you've been dying to do for weeks, your ears catch the thump of his heart—loud, steady, alive. his arms, uncertain at first, slowly wrap around you, one settling against your back, the other trembling but determined at your waist. he sighs, deep and full of relief. something unspoken in him settles.

“will you give me a shave?” he asks, voice low, breath stirring your hair.

you blink up at him, eyebrows raised, lips twitching. “i thought you didn’t want one.”

you say it with that teasing lilt he remembers from quieter mornings—back before the world turned sharp around the edges. and for a moment, it feels like nothing ever broke.

he breathes out a sound that almost resembles a laugh. his eyes soften, tender, threaded with affection. “i always want one,” he says, “if it’s you.”

you narrow your eyes, already stepping into the joke like second nature. “you have other people giving you shaves, nanami kento?”

he shakes his head, dry as ever. “ah, yes. i’m cheating on you with gojo.”

you gasp, hand flying dramatically to your chest. “how could you? with gojo of all people?”

“he insisted. said he had the better razors.”

you snort, half-laughing into his chest. “he uses a hair straightener on his clothes when they get too wrinkly. he doesn’t get to talk about razors.”

kento smiles then—really smiles—and something in the air shifts. the heaviness lingers, yes. the pain, the fear, the grief of what almost was—they don’t disappear. but they take a step back. they let the warmth through.

you squeeze him a little tighter. he leans into you a little more.

“go sit in the bathroom,” you say, grinning now. “i’ll be there in five minutes. and i’m using the aftershave that smells like that cinnamon candle you hate.”

“i deserve it,” he murmurs, voice light.

you kiss the underside of his jaw, just where the stubble begins to grow, and smile. “yeah,” you say, pulling away, “you kinda do.”

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[lovegasmic]

MY STRANGE ADDICTION

──── . curse!toji fushiguro + sorcerer fem!reader  

 𝜗𝜚 mdni◞ slight dub con just at the beginning ◞ handcuffed sex◞ breeding kink◞ mild pussy slapping ◞ name calling : slut ◞ petnames: princess, angel , good girl. rewritten and reposted . ★ taglist

“I will be alright”

you had grinned at Nanami that one afternoon, his usual calm face held a slightly concerned look, surprisingly still present on even though you were already miles away from where goodbyes were exchanged.

“it's a low rank curse, it should be fine”

but it really wasn’t.

the report mentioned some passersby’s warning over a strange metal clanking sound in a nearby abandoned building, —nothing out of the ordinary really, adding to the faint, almost imperceptible cursed energy found in the surroundings everyone agreed it was some low rank curse doings.

yet an eerie feeling was palpable left and right, coldness digging deep into your bones and making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

much against your initial perception, the curse didn’t attack, and instead, it cornered you into a windowless floor, much obviously the building was still on construction due to it’s bare walls and floors where it hid in the dark, like a predator hunting its prey, and much to your disadvantage, you were the latter.

the rapid and loud thumping of your heart rang in your ears, slightly muffling the startling voice the curse held, although you didn’t expect for it’s first words to be “you’re way too pretty to be a sorcerer”

“huh?!” jaw slack —from what it seemed— he, chuckled at your body’s automatic response, feeling your stomach drop at the deep and manly voice resonating through the walls and hallways.

you swallow hard “what the fuck does that mean?”

the curse laughed again, shifting in his place to take a step, two steps closer to the moonlight light coming from the wall opening and reflecting on the floor, one that barely got to show a portion of his shadow.

“what i’m saying is...” the voice came from your back, startling you enough to steal a gasp before it moved again, “...I would hate for a pretty thing like you to get killed so easily”

“if someone is dying today, that's you” you spoke, fake confidence helping you cope with what could possibly be your imminent death. this curse wasn’t one to mess with, you were certain.

“hm?” he smirks, “why don’t we test that out?” he whispers in your ear, and a second later, you’re on the floor, not giving you time to react to the inhuman speed the curse possessed, will definitely sport a couple of bruises later on from the hit and a makeshift handcuff that held onto your wrist, it’s coldness and weight reminding you of metallic chains.

“let me go” you grit, and much to your disgust, your mouth going dry the moment the curse got into the light didn’t help, hating to admit a slight throb in your pussy —and shoulders, due to the awkward position, laying barely propped up by your elbows.

he was terribly hot, dark tight shirt clinging on his broad chest and disappearing underneath gray joggers that only fueled your dirty thoughts.

“stop squirming, you have nowhere to go right now” his laugh echoes as loud as his shoes click right before your pity form, coming to your height dark pupils, almost fully engulfing the color of his irises and matching messy hair falling on them.

you had to earn time, strike a stupid conversation or anything that could win you some time until anyone came to your rescue after noticing the long absence, but the man smirked down at you in such a mischievous way you couldn’t help and try to push on his chest, screaming internally when the tall wall of muscle didn’t even budge, and instead, wrapped his fingers around your ankle.

“don’t touch me!” you half shout, both at the surprise of his movements, and the slight shiver engulfing your body from the calloused fingertips coming in contact with the bare skin right here your pants raised.

there’s a tsk coming from his lips right before sliding his huge hand across your leg, slowly enough for you to stop him, yet your body remained still, frozen against the cold marble floor.

“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

he whispers in your ear, leaning close enough into your ear until nothing but a breeze could separate his lips from your skin.

“fuck you” you hiss, empty words not matching the way you pliantly let the man, curse, touch you, both hands resting on your thighs, your waist, snaking a single thumb across the side of your covered breasts that rise and fall with each harsh breathing.

“that’s what I plan on doing”

for the second time in the night, your head fogs at the sudden movement, knees landing roughly on the floor with a pained gasp as you stare into the wall, your back arched in a very, suggestive way towards the man.

“i bet you’re fucking wet” he chuckles, “what a slut, in this situation, really?, do you not get fucked well enough?”

lips part to talk back, anger and embarrassment burning on your face, but the fact was undeniable, now obvious to him since his rough fingertips came in contact with the crotch of your elastic pants, rubbing across your slit through the fabric, rough enough for your growing wetness to seep towards the exterior.

“fuck— naughty girl” he is very much enjoying this, palming his already hard cock through the loose fabric of his own pants. “gonna take care of you, princess, fuck you nice and good til’ that pretty head of yours goes dumb”

it’s involuntary the moan that escapes your lips, suddenly losing balance until your cheek is pressed against the cold floor. a lewd sight of your willing body all pliant for him.

“name’s Toji” he huffs, leaving a single sharp slap on your ass before shredding the cloth down along your drenched panties, enough for his thighs to come between yours and stretch them, leaving your pussy to his lustful gaze, “remember the name you’ll be screaming tonight”

the curse, or now, Toji’s words are remarked with a couple soft slaps on your throbbing clit with the tip of his cock, making your thighs twitch and whimpers escape at the sensation and disgustingly nasty sound of creamy wetness sticking.

he’s big. incredibly big and stretching you so well your breath comes out unsteady and erratic, nails digging against your own palms as to conceal the pleasure you’re currently feeling, something no one has ever made you feel before.

“T-toji...” you whine for the first time, deep down loving how his name felt on your lips.

“that’s right” he grunts, slowly but steadily feeding your cunt the rest of his fat cock, his own breathing coming in stuttered huffs with how tight you felt, “you’re squeezing me so fuckin’ much, you just needed a fat cock to satisfy you, isn’t that right, angel?”

“ha— ngh!” you sob, toes curling in your shoes when his heavy balls kiss your clit, and then he’s fucking you with abandon, holding onto one of your shoulders to pull your upper body up, forcing you to meet his thrusts that almost knock the air out of your lungs.

“good fuckin’ girl” Toji’s laugh resonates through the empty concrete floor, mingling alongside the wet sound your slapping flesh, it’s dark and dangerous, but still makes your cunt flutter, “do you like how I ruin your unprotected human pussy?”

for a second, your eyes cross, brain shuts and opts not to reply, deciding to keep at least a bit of dignity instead of babbling a cockdrunken nonsense that would have seeped out due to Toji’s cock continuously slamming against your sweet spot, forcing waves of slick to drool out of your slit and stain your thighs and floor, mixed with the creamy precum coating your sensitive walls.

“answer me, darling” a rough hand comes to cup your jaw, forcing your head up until his lips ghost over the skin of your cheek, hips rutting into your slit and forcing his length a bit deeper into your abused pussy.

"y-yes!, feels so good" you stutter, eyes rolled back and hair clinging to every corner of your forehead, unaware of the movement of your own hips in an attempt to fuck yourself back on him.

“good girl” Toji leaves a single chaste kiss on your cheek, taking his previous position, although this time he forces your waist to arch deeper, almost mounting you before resuming his thrusts, “gonna show you how I breed pretty girls like you”

you whimper his name in approval, completely gone while letting him use you, positively drooling onto the floor and making a mess like he’s doing with your cunt.

with a choked out sob, you cream all over his length, shaking and crying while clinging to the chains around your wrists, yet he didn’t stop, fucking the white ring of cum back into your drenched pussy.

he’s forcing your ass cheeks open, aiming for your cervix before filling your hole with thick cum that comes out with a grunt and a groan, hips rolling, grinding and forcing you to milk that load out of his tip.

you know for a fact, that after that night, you became utterly ruined for any other man. since no one could ever fuck you like the curse you were supposed to exorcise.

he leaves a sharp slap on your overflowing pussy, loud and wet enough for your mixed fluids to splatter, right on time before hearing footsteps on the first floor of the building, —perhaps your reinforcements that might take a while to reach the high floor you were currently at. and then he’s quick on his feet, untangling your bound hands while chuckling at the yelp and beautiful sight of his cum oozing from your hole.

“if you want another load, you know where to find me”

[kashverse]

𝒯he 呪術廻戦 men taking your pug for a walk

⪩⪨ ✶ implied f!reader but can be read otherwise featuring ♡ modern au! jjk boys (gojo, nanami, toji, geto, sukuna, choso) and obviously, bitsy the pug. ✿ ⪩⪨ written in memory of my pug zoey <3

walking the dog. truly, an activity built on bonding, friendship, and your boyfriend turning to god for help when you bid him and your furry companion goodbye as they embark on this supposedly peaceful journey together.

but first, let me introduce you to bitsy. bitsy, the beautiful… pug. yes, bitsy the beautiful pug, because that is the only title the fat—i mean, chubby—pug will acknowledge. call her anything else, and she will stare at you with the cold, unblinking judgment of a creature who has never once been told “no” in her entire life.

she is round. she is spoiled. she is roughly 80% attitude and 20% actual dog. her tiny, smooshed face perpetually holds the expression of someone who has seen the decline of civilization and is unimpressed. and she is the queen of this household. you are merely her humble servant, and your boyfriend? he is about to learn that walking bitsy is not just a casual stroll—it is a battle of wills. because you see, bitsy does not simply go on walks. she allows herself to be escorted. and if she does not feel like walking? well, that is a personal problem for whoever is holding the leash.

gojo satoru has tamed curses, defied death, and bent reality to his will. naturally, he assumes walking a pug will be easier than all of that. "alright, bitsy," he says, crouching in front of her, his usual cocky grin in place. "let’s make a deal—you don’t make this difficult, and i’ll let you have a treat after. sounds fair, yeah?"

bitsy, the beautiful pug, does not respond. she simply blinks at him.

"see? already a great understanding between us. i like you, kid." he ruffles her tiny head before standing up, leash in hand. "now let’s—"

bitsy sits down.

gojo blinks. "okay. funny joke. but we gotta go."

he tugs the leash slightly. bitsy remains seated, her chunky body glued to the pavement as if she has just become one with the earth itself. "go on, walk," gojo insists, pointing dramatically in the direction of the park. bitsy, ever defiant, does not so much as twitch. a normal person might have taken this as a sign to reevaluate their approach. gojo satoru? he kneels back down, getting eye-to-eye with her, his tone suddenly serious. 

"listen here, you little meatball. i’m the strongest." he taps his chest for emphasis. "i bend the laws of physics for fun. you are a 20-pound pug with breathing problems. let’s think about this logically—"

bitsy yawns. 

gojo gasps. "oh, hell no. did you just disrespect me?"

passersby slow their pace, giving wide-eyed glances at the grown man locked in a silent battle of wills with a chubby pug.

"you walk, i give you a whole bag of treats," he tries bargaining.

bitsy blinks.

"go on a short walk, and i’ll let you ride in my jacket like a little emperor."

bitsy snorts.

"go on a three-step walk, and I’ll buy you a gold-plated collar. custom engraving. real diamonds."

bitsy lifts a paw. for a split second, gojo thinks he's won—until she uses said paw to scratch her ear. 

"oh my god." gojo clutches his head. "is this how nanami feels when i ignore him?" you watch from the porch, arms crossed, while gojo grovels at the feet of a pug. this is, quite possibly, the best thing you’ve ever seen.

nanami is a man of principle. so when you ask him to take bitsy for a walk, he treats it like an obligation—not a chore, not an errand, but a task that must be done correctly. he does research beforehand. what’s the ideal walking speed for a pug? how much exercise should she get? what environmental hazards should be avoided? when he finally takes the leash, he kneels slightly, adjusting her collar to make sure it isn’t too tight.

"comfortable?" he asks.

bitsy, for the first time in her life, looks mildly impressed. then, the walk begins.

nanami maintains a steady, measured pace, keeping an eye on the pavement for anything sharp or dangerous. when he notices bitsy lagging slightly, he adjusts his speed to accommodate her tiny legs.

when they pass by a particularly sunny patch of sidewalk, he lifts bitsy momentarily to keep her paws from getting too hot. by the time they return, bitsy looks serene. satisfied. pampered. "how’d it go?" you ask.

nanami takes off his watch and wipes his hands as if he’s just performed surgery. "adequate. though i noticed some dehydration near the twenty-minute mark. i gave her some water, but I’d recommend bringing a collapsible bowl next time." you look at bitsy, who is now reclining dramatically on the couch, clearly expecting you to continue this level of service.

"you—" you point at her, "—are getting spoiled."

nanami adjusts his tie. "as you should be, if you’re cared for properly."

you glare. bitsy smirks. you have lost.

toji fushiguro is not the kind of man you expect to see walking a pug. his whole vibe—scarred, broad-shouldered, perpetually dressed like he just walked out of a street fight—does not scream "pug owner." so when you hand him the leash, he stares down at bitsy like she’s an alien. "this thing?" he gestures vaguely. "this is the dog?"

bitsy snorts.

toji sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "fine. let’s get this over with."

ten minutes into the walk, something strange happens. every male dog in the area starts losing their minds.

a german shepherd whimpers as they pass. a golden retriever pauses mid-fetch, dropping his tennis ball in shock. one particularly dramatic french bulldog flops onto his back in submission. toji stops. looks down at bitsy, then at the chaos unfolding. "what the hell is going on?" he mutters. bitsy, ever poised, continues strutting forward like she owns the streets. and then it clicks.

bitsy is not just a pug. she is a queen. the queen. these other dogs? they recognize royalty when they see it. toji watches a doberman sit his ass down just to stare reverently at bitsy.

"holy shit," he breathes. “i’m walking the goddamn dog mafia boss.” he looks down at her, suddenly understanding that this is no ordinary pug. this is a leader. and toji fushiguro? he is merely her bodyguard. by the time they return home, he’s holding the leash differently—less like a man doing a chore, and more like a man protecting an asset. "how was it?" you ask.

toji exhales. shakes his head. "i was humbled."

bitsy hops onto the couch, regal as ever. you do not ask any further questions.

geto is a reasonable man. rational, observant, always thinking three steps ahead. so when you ask him to walk bitsy the beautiful pug, he does not scoff, nor does he complain. he does, however, stare at bitsy for an uncomfortably long time, eyes narrowing in calculated suspicion.

“are you glaring at my dog?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“just… assessing.”

“assessing what?”

“whether or not this is an elaborate ploy. i wouldn’t put it past you to bring home something so unassuming, only for it to be a true menace.”

bitsy, completely unbothered, tilts her smooshed-in face up at him. geto sighs and clips on the leash. “fine. let’s go, creature.”

but here’s the thing—bitsy is smart.

at first, geto keeps his distance, walking like a man accompanying a colleague, not a pet. but soon, he starts noticing things. bitsy does not waste time sniffing every inch of the sidewalk—she knows exactly where to do her business, aiming for the most efficient spots like she’s planned her route in advance. she leads them to the best sunbathing patch in the park, where the pavement is warm but not scorching, and settles in like an old lady on her front porch. she watches passing dogs with the practiced indifference of someone who knows she is above them.

slowly, begrudgingly, geto starts to respect her.

by the end of the walk, they return in absolute silence, an unspoken agreement hanging between them. “…so?” you ask, curious. geto unclips the leash. bitsy waddles inside with all the grace of an empress.

“she’s efficient,” he says simply, rolling his shoulders like he’s just been in a tactical meeting. “i respect it.”

the way bitsy smirks at you before plopping down tells you everything you need to know.

you have one rule when sukuna takes bitsy out. do not encourage her bad habits.

you should have known better.

“did she push another dog aside to pee on the best spot?” you demand when they return. “duh.” sukuna tosses the leash onto the couch and rolls his shoulders like he just won a championship.

“did she hiss at a cat?”

“only ‘cause it was eyein’ her funny,” he shrugs.

“did you—” your voice catches as you take in the scene. sukuna is carrying bitsy—not just carrying, but holding her above his head, like a wrestler showing off a championship belt.

bitsy looks thrilled.

“you’re holding her like a WWE trophy.”

“damn right i am.” sukuna grins, utterly unapologetic. “my girl won today.”

“won what?”

“territory. respect. the goddamn sidewalk. tell ‘em, bits.”

bitsy snorts.

you groan, dragging a hand down your face.

“whatever. you can deal with her attitude now.”

sukuna smirks, tossing bitsy onto the couch where she lands like a sack of potatoes. “nah,” he says, ruffling her wrinkly head. “she’s just like me. perfect.”

choso has never fallen in love.

until bitsy.

it starts subtly. the way he adjusts her collar so it’s extra comfortable. the way he holds the leash just right, never tugging too hard. but then… then it gets worse.

bitsy, your once independent pug, has expectations now.

she cleans herself up when choso isn’t looking, wiping away snot and drool with her little paw, making sure she looks presentable for her beloved. she waits by the door when it’s time for her walk, tail wagging not for you, but for him.

and choso is worse.

he talks to her in that soft, affectionate voice he never uses with anyone else. he calls her sweetheart. he sits on the floor to be at her level. you are not proud of it, but one night, as choso cradles bitsy on the couch like she is the most delicate being in existence, you finally snap.

“i feel like a third wheel in my own relationship.”

choso looks up, confused. “huh?”

bitsy does not look up.

your eye twitches.

“you know what? never mind.”

[yunheadlings]

What will they do if they found out you were hurt by someone?

🎐summary. someone tried to hurt you behind close doors without your husband beside you. Until he found out about it when he saw you injured.

🎐tw. violence, mention of death, blood, injuries and etc.

He will definitely not hesitate to kill anybody or everybody who lays a hand on you, hurt you or even make you cry. He will hunt them down until they're nothing but a dead corpse laying somewhere on the woods or found in a riverbank.

When he found out that someone tried to hurt you, he immediately left saying something like, "I'm going out for a bit, my love," but he goes out to find and hunt the people who tried to hurt you.

He came back with blood splatter in every part of his clothes. He would reason to you that he just went out to do something and a ketchup was "accidentally" splattered all over him.

Sukuna, Toji (JJK) Scaramouche, Tartaglia, Capitano, Diluc (Genshin Impact) Doflamingo, Rob Lucci, Shamrock Figarland (One Piece) Aizen Sosuke, Ichimaru Gin (Bleach)

He would be the person who's calm on the outside but definitely feral on the inside. Anyone can say that he's mad just from the aura or tension seeping out from him.

He would shower you with questions about what happened while tending to your injuries. "I see, so they live there?" After tending to you and your injuries, he'll make you fall asleep first so you wouldn't worry if he suddenly leave to "do something"

He easily killed the people who were capable of doing that to you. He might be a calm person but don't mistake it, he's still capable of having a strong emotion such as anger.

Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento (JJK), ZHONGLI, Neuvillette, Alhaitham, Ayato (Genshin Impact) Shanks, Monkey D. Luffy, Trafalgar D. Water Law, PORTGAS D. ACE (One Piece) Byakuya Kuchiki, Kyoraku Shunsui, JUGRAM HASCHWALTH, Kurosaki Ichigo (Bleach)

[paranoiddreams]

Ch.1 - Spare Tire

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tags/warnings — allusions to death, grief, overall really angsty, assassin!toji, Nobara was adopted by Nanami, Yuji lives with his grandpa and big brother!Sukuna, mamafushiguro is mentioned (not sure if I want to give her a specific name yet), Toji is depressed, Megumi asks a lot of questions, descriptions of murder and killing, one allusion to alcohol consumption, not a lot since this is the first chapter hehe, reader is very confusing and mysterious rn but her side of the story is coming next!

WC — 3.48 k

a/n — oh my god thank you all so so much for all of the support that this series is getting so far!! Chapter one hasn’t even come out yet (until now obviously) and so many people are excited for this series like I am! This chapter is pretty angsty, but we need to hurt before the comfort 🥹 It’s also more of Megumi and Toji but the next chapter will be reader’s POV! I want to make this a story with heavy plot lines, but also with fluff that makes up for the hurt. It’s also a pretty self indulgent series since it’s my first on here lol.

Nobara’s small fingers braid strands of Megumi’s jet-black hair as Yuji spins on the swing wildly next to them. His cherry blossom colored locks are already sticking up from the tiny braids Nobara attempted to put in his hair as well, but gave up after deeming it too short.

“Have you guys ever lost your parents?” Megumi asks as he kicks the rocks below his feet. The chains of the swing holding him up creak as he slowly sways, adding onto the usual ambiance of recess.

“What? Like in the store?” Nobara asks from behind him, still working on his loose braids with her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth.

“Mmm, maybe,” he mumbles, green eyes looking up into the cloudless sky as he thinks. “I didn’t get to ask.”

“Sukuna lost me in the mall once,” Yuji chimes in, his lisp slipping through when he says his brother’s name. “He told me that if I told my grandpa then he’d lose me on purpose next time!”

Nobara clicks her tongue, shaking her head disapprovingly. “You’re both stupid—my daddy always says that I have to stay by his side when we go somewhere because someone bad could try and take me.”

Megumi shakes his head slightly, wincing when Nobara’s fingers pull a strand of his hair roughly. “I was at the car shop with my dad and a woman gave me a quarter for the gumball machine,” he explains, “I got a blue one.”

“You took the quarter?!” She suddenly shrieks, as if he had just stepped on her toes.

“Yes,” he says blankly. “She asked where my dad was, and when I told her about Betty, she said that she lost her dad.” Megumi explains, trying to remember everything the woman said with all of his might.

Yuji’s gaze snaps away from a cloud he was ogling shaped like a duck, back to Megumi. “What?! She lost him?”

“Yeah,” the boy confirms.

A short silence falls over them as Nobara finishes with trying to drain Megumi’s hair, sitting on the third swing.

“Maybe he passed away,” She sighs solemnly. “My daddy’s mom died before he adopted me.”

Yuji gasps softly. “Yeah maybe!”

Megumi shakes his head. “No, I asked her that,” he says.

Nobara pulls one of the practice braids she weaved into his hair, an angry expression on her tiny face.

“Ouch! What was that for?!”

“Why would you ask someone that? How rude!”

Megumi looks down at his old beat up shoes, a wave of embarrassment heating his face. “She said he didn’t,” he mutters.

“Then what happened?”

Nobara and Yuji both look at him in search of an explanation; but Megumi looks as if he’s searching for one as well.

“I don’t know,” he says, “we left before she told me.”

Megumi had spent the rest of the day thinking about the woman and what she could’ve possibly meant. He knew what loss was—the concept of death wasn’t lost on him. But how else could someone lose someone else?

He even asked his dad when they got home, but he was only met with an “I don’t know kid,” before he watched him disappear into the garage to work on the car.

“Maybe you can help her find him,” Yuji’s enthusiastic voice makes Megumi wince slightly.

“Maybe my dad can,” he theorizes, looking up in thought, “he said he finds people sometimes for his job…”

…

Toji’s nail beds are caked with blood and dirt, as well as the material of his sweats.

“Damn it, fuck!” He hisses under his breath. He just washed them, the memory of the journey to the laundromat still present in his mind; Megumi’s stubborn attitude, the long wait, and the stares from concerned mothers and old men.

He’s only snapped out of his temporary agitation when he hears the sound of a blaring train horn in the distance—it’s nearly sunset, which is how he knows that he’s taken way too much time on this job.

As Toji walks to the back of the abandoned building where he parked, he unstraps all of his knives and guns from his body. He opens the passenger door before throwing them inside, right under the loose floorboard. His gaze drifts to the back before closing the door, spotting Megumi’s car seat still strapped into the seat. With a sigh, he slams the passenger door closed and gets into the driver’s side, speeding off before anyone could catch sight of him.

The radio in his car doesn’t work, so the drive home is quiet, as usual. It hasn’t worked for the past 5 years, but Toji’s just never gotten around to replacing it. So he’s gotten used to the silence during morning drives to Megumi’s school, or the ride back from a bloody job worth a few weeks of food on the table.

He was never much of a music guy anyways, and funnily enough, Megumi never was either.

When Toji pulls into the driveway of his house that’s never truly felt like a home, he sighs in relief knowing that Megumi is back from school. But before he opens the front door, he takes a deep breath, ready for a usual evening home. When he does walk in though, it’s just as silent as it was outside.

“Megumi,” Toji calls out, dropping his car keys onto the kitchen table. He spots papers of math equations and grammar practice filled out next to a glass of juice in his usual spot.

“I’m home,” Toji calls out again. He steps into the hallway, the sound of his steel-toed boots echoing loudly against the tile. When he’s only met with silence again, he turns his head to look down the hall towards his son’s bedroom, beams of his yellow night light pouring through his slightly ajar door. He slowly walks over to peek his head in. But all he finds is Megumi fast asleep in his bed, his Spider-Man blanket wrapped around his little body. He’s still wearing his shoes, and his hand is dangling off the end of the mattress, but he looks just as comfortable as ever; like a grown man who’s passed out after a few too many beers. A bit of drool drips from the side of his mouth, onto the pillow under his head. His black hair is a mess around his face.

Toji doesn’t know how he could’ve created something so…small and innocent. He isn’t sure how so much good came from him. But then he catches his son in moments like these, when he’s asleep, or playing outside with his friends, and remembers that beautiful face he’s tried to forget for so long.

Some days, Toji can’t even look at him without seeing her.

…

Megumi wakes up to the sound of his dad’s heavy work boots clomping around in and out of the open garage. He rubs his eyes with his small hand before hopping out of bed and waddling sleepily out of his room.

“Daddy?” He calls out into the empty hall.

Toji peeks around the corner, coming out of the garage. “Get dressed kid,” he says, “we’re going back to the car shop.”

Megumi pulls his hand away from his droopy eyes and looks up at his dad. He looks tired, and if he had to guess, that could only mean he spent the night sitting on the back porch drinking his ‘grown-up juice’.

“Betty’s broken again?” He asks.

“Nah, we just need a spare tire.”

The little boy cocks his head to the side, emerald eyes trained on his father to try and decipher the meaning behind his words.

“Just go get dressed and we can get breakfast after, yeah?”

A rare smile creeps onto Megumi’s face and he nods his head adamantly, his messy locks falling over his eyes. He turns around and speeds down the hall towards his room, his tiny feet pattering against the tile.

Toji warms up the car as he waits for Megumi to get dressed, the garage door wide open. He hears two distant voices across the street, and when he looks up he spots the familiar blonde business man he’s lived in front of for 3 years now. His daughter, Nobara, is tugging on his coat while rambling on about something that Toji can’t make out from where he is.

Nanami’s wife walks out behind them a moment later after locking the front door. She skips over to him and kisses his cheek before picking Nobara up and putting her into the backseat of their car. The little girl’s laughter echoes through the neighborhood, along with the chirps of morning birds singing, and Toji finds himself slightly annoyed.

Does the world have to be so sunny and beautiful while he goes on feeling like he’s stuck? Did the world have to keep spinning after his crumbled right in front of him?

Nanami’s car pulls out of the driveway, the happy family waving at Toji from inside as they drive away down the road. He lets out a low sigh and unlocks his own car, just as the garage door opens.

“I’m ready,” Megumi says when he walks out in a shirt and shorts he put on quickly.

Toji helps him into the back of the car, making sure he’s strapped into his car seat tightly before getting into the driver’s seat himself. He pulls out of the driveway and into the morning sun, immediately putting his visor down to block his rusty green eyes from the rays.

“Daddy, do you remember that lady that was at the car place last time?” Megumi asks as they drive onto the main roads.

Toji’s eyes flicker up to the rear view mirror for a moment to look at his son before the face of the woman his son is referring to pops back up into his mind. He hadn’t given her a thought since that night a few days ago, when Megumi asked him about something the woman told him. But he can barely even remember what that something was since he seldom comes up for air when he drowns himself in work.

“I do,” Toji answers Megumi after a few moments of reminiscing about the woman. He faintly remembers the name y/n attached to the image of her face in his mind. “What about her, kid?”

Megumi looks out the window as he speaks to his father, watching as the traffic lights turn green and red. “I told Nobara and Yuji about how her dad was missing,” he says. “They said that I should ask you to find him for her.”

Toji’s eyes fly back up to the rear view mirror, his scarred lip twitching slightly. “What?”

“I told them that you find people for your job sometimes,” Megumi confirms, “so they said you should find that lady’s dad.”

A soft sigh fills the car, Toji running his fingers through his hair. His face is one of a father’s whose child just asked him what death is. His face carried the same expression when a 4 year old Megumi first asked him what he did for a living to put food on the table and buy his favorite animal crackers.

Toji just didn’t have the heart to tell him what he’s really doing when he’s not home. He doesn’t have it in him to look Megumi in the eyes and tell him that he kills people he only knows the names of for a couple grand.

So, he told him the least monstrous part of his profession.

“I find people.”

It was a meek response compared to the reality of things. He wishes he would have prepared more, maybe before he took the job, just so he had an answer for what he does. And maybe why. But he stopped looking for those answers a long time ago.

“I can’t just find y/n’s dad, it doesn’t work like that,” Toji says after a long pause. He doesn’t even realize the woman’s name slipped from his lips until he hears Megumi softly repeating it to himself in the back.

“Why not?” He asks, expression blank, as if the answer was owed to him.

Toji clears his throat. “Because, it just doesn’t, Megumi. Mr. Shiu gives me my…clients.”

Megumi’s ears perk at the familiar name of his father’s boss. Couldn’t his dad just save the day for once?

“Then can’t you ask Mr. Shiu to talk to her?”

Megumi just wishes that he could say anything but, “My dad finds people,” when it’s his turn to share in class. Because then, when he only manages to get confused looks in return, they ask about his mom. And he’s not sure what to say about her either.

“Can’t, kid. I only know her first name.”

Toji’s not sure why he’s even saying this; even if he did happen to know y/n’s last name he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Not even mentioning the fact that people who don’t want to be found will not be found.

“Besides,” he adds on as he pulls into the parking lot of the car shop, “she probably doesn’t want to find him.”

Megumi’s confusion only grows.

“Daddy, why? He’s her dad.”

Toji’s hit, yet again, with another question he doesn’t know how to answer without wanting to smoke a cigarette. He turns his head to look over his shoulder at the all too curious seven year old.

“Well, she’s not a kid anymore, so there’s probably a reason she doesn’t know where he is. Some people just don’t talk to their parents after a while,” he explains slowly. “I don’t.”

Megumi’s eyes widen with realization before he looks out of the car window, the sun just starting to fully rise into the sky. His little face scrunches in thought before he looks back at Toji.

“Will I talk to you when I’m older, daddy?”

A moment of silence passes through the car, sending a chill down both of their spines. The answer Megumi is looking for is one Toji is afraid to even consider.

…

The glass door of the car shop swings open, a small bell chiming as Megumi scuttles in with Toji trailing behind him. He goes immediately to the front counter to talk to a bald man with glasses, the owner of the shop, about the spare tire for Betty.

Megumi takes it upon himself to wander away as soon as the words the two men are exchanging turn into a jumble of adult words. He looks immediately for the two rusty gumball machines near the front window; and to his immense surprise, there’s already a figure standing in front of one.

He dashes towards the machines, turning his head up to look at the figure’s face. And just as he suspected, there she is.

“Oh,” it comes out almost as a question, “the gumball police are back.”

“You’re back,” Megumi retorts, pointing a small finger up at her, “y/n.”

She smiles softly, putting a hand in her pocket. “You remembered? Smart kid.”

He smiles ever so slightly, deciding to leave out the fact that his dad is the one who remembered and reminded him in the car during their conversation.

“I told my dad to find your dad,” Megumi says, tilting his head slightly as he looks up at y/n. “He said that there’s probably a reason you don’t know where he is though—because you’re not a kid, or something.”

Y/n lets out a soft laugh, a little taken aback at how much this kid remembers about their encounter just a few days ago.

“Your dad’s right, there is a reason. There’s a lot of them, actually,” she says, not really knowing why she’s explaining this to a kid. Y/n has always been a brutally honest person, but she’s never met anyone bold enough to actually match it; but now, this kid she bribed with a quarter one time knows about one of her tightly sealed secrets.

“Megumi, what did I say about running off—“

Toji, just like their last trip to the car shop, interrupts a conversation between his son and y/n, the woman who ‘can’t find her dad’.

“You again,” he boasts, as if he’d expected this, “y/n.”

“Toji,” she counters, his name falling from her lips with ease. “It is me, again.”

“You come to this shop often? Or should I be worried about you stalking me?”

Megumi looks up at his dad, a little hand tugging on his pants. He wants to ask if his dad really thinks y/n is stalking them, but when he sees his scarred lip curl into a smile, something he hasn’t seen in a while, he has his answer.

“Yeah, I’m stalking an old man and his kid,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. The same subtle smirk that Toji has on his face settles on her’s as well.

“Old man? I really wouldn’t expect a girl who’s barely an adult to determine if I’m old or not,” Toji says.

Y/n’s smirk turns into a soft smile as she shakes her head. “I can assure you, I am an adult,” she says, looking into Toji’s eyes, “and a woman, not a girl.”

He only raises a brow in response, feeling a burning sensation in his chest as she quickly snaps back at him with the same passive aggressive tone as him. By now, most women would be scoffing and walking away.

“Megumi,” Toji looks down at the now scowling boy; his conversation was yet again interrupted by his dad and he is not happy about it. “Take this,” he says before reaching into his pocket to get a quarter, “and get a gumball while I get the spare tire for Betty and put it in the trunk.”

Megumi looks up at his dad for a moment, before turning to put the quarter into the gumball machine. As he turns the metal knob he hears his dad, and y/n, walk over to the counter of the car shop.

“What a coincidence this is,” Toji says once they’re far enough away from his son, in front of the counter where he was just speaking to the owner; the bald man is still in the back of the shop looking for his tire size. “Makes me think I should ask for your number.”

Y/n mirrors Toji’s stance, huffing out a soft laugh. “Really? What exactly makes you think you need my number?”

“Because,” he says in the same unconvinced tone as her, “I’ve lived here for a while now and I’ve never seen you around.”

He says this with some truth mixed in with his sarcasm; he feels as if he’s met nearly everyone in this small part of town, and never once has he seen this woman. But now he’s run into her again, and in the same place no less. He also knows that if she even has a car, it’s not here; only his, and the owner’s are parked out front.

“But,” he continues, “this is the second time this week we’ve met.”

“Via your son,” y/n adds.

“Yes, the brat,” Toji huffs. “He’s always running off…”

“Well, if you must know,” she sighs after a moment, “I grew up here. I’m back again.”

The man’s eyes run up and down her face, searching for any sign of dishonesty; after being in his profession for as long as he has, he’s adopted the ability to tell when someone is telling the truth, or maybe only half of it. Because humans are predictable. The people around him are all the same, morally weak, copies of one another.

But Toji can tell that y/n is telling the truth—she’s not like the people he’s used to being around, she’s unlike anyone he’s met, which he believes he could bet a lot of money on despite this only being their second conversation.

Although, he can also tell there’s something that she isn’t telling him.

The two are suddenly interrupted when the sound of the owner’s heavy boots interrupt them as he returns from the back of the shop. He lays the spare tire Toji requested onto the counter, a sleazy smirk on his face as he looks between him and y/n.

Toji huffs and stares the grimey man down as he grabs the tire, before turning his head to look at her again.

“Well, y/n,” he says with a softer expression than before. “It was nice to see you—again.”

He then turns around to walk away from her, prepared to call for Megumi, who’s now tapping impatiently on the glass bowl of the gumball machine. But he stops when he hears a soft giggle followed by y/n’s voice:

“Gonna give up on my number that easily?”

Toji turns around with an incredulous smile on his face and feels something inside of him come back to life after being dead and gone what feels like centuries.

♡🏷️: @palmtreepanik0 @nina-from-317 @your-mum3000 @dahwcwb @weeezeerrss @just-lilita @averyjadedemerald @pinkhoneydrop @gina239 @tojisrealwifey @teacuup @cor-asomatum @newcina @deathrye @yoymii @evilari111 @sonakshrs @gradmacoco @edgyficuselastica @yourgirljasmine5 @Ivrndkoo @kaiparkerwifes @evilari111 @sonakshrs @llamatravel @ourfinalisation @aiahmwah @xoxoblueyy @1lastair @lavenderdaydream97 @imnotlurkingherepls @idkccdfnfz @amortsukii-writes @totallygyomeiswife @vehuzzzz @tinytinalifes @youngwizardfox if I forgot anyone I apologize!! Please let me know if you want to be on the permanent tag list in the comments below!

[gojonanami]

FIVE TIMES NANAMI WANTED TO PROPOSE BUT DIDN'T - NANAMI KENTO

✴︎ summary: nanami wanted to propose to you so many times - but it was never the right time, and then, there was no time left. ✴︎ contents: 18+ only, swearing, ANGST (major spoilers for jjk 120 (probably next week's episode, character death, exploration of grief, if you wish to avoid the major angst: stop reading after part 5), SMUT (fingering (f! receiving), oral (f! + m! receiving), panty sniffing, semi public sex, nipple play, creampie, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms), pet names (love, sweetheart), happy ending (sort of?) ✴︎ wc: 10,121 (i have a problem) ✴︎ song: the archer - taylor swift (blame laney for this)

ONE.

The first time Kento Nanami wanted to propose to you shouldn’t count. 

And it won’t because it was when he first met you — enrolled into Jujutsu Tech along with the other first years, he first laid his eyes on you at a welcome party that the soon to be menace to his sanity, Satoru Gojo, had organized. Well, he could thank Gojo for one thing it was introducing you to the room — because he may have had to find the words to ask you himself. And he didn’t know if that was possible with his tongue in knots. 

But he managed to talk to you — mostly with Haibara leading the conversation. You were reserved, at first, but he saw the spark in your eyes whenever you spoke about something you were passionate about — reading was one, one thing you both shared a love for. 

“Yeah hauling my books to Jujutsu Tech wasn’t an easy feat, I had to ask Geto-senpai to have some of his cursed spirits help me haul it up to my dorm,” 

“By the way, you still owe me lunch for that,” Geto smirks as he slips past, and the flush that settles on your cheeks is one Nanami wanted to see — again and again. 

“Aren’t the upperclassmen supposed to buy lunch?” You grumble, pouting as Gojo interjected himself, resting himself on your shoulder with his arm, making you jump. 

“Not here, here the kouhais earn their keep,” he grins, tilting his glasses down, “can you?” 

And Nanami opens his mouth to reply, irritation creeping over his senses, before you brush Gojo off, “I’ll buy you lunch, but next time, if that’s what it’s gonna cost me, I’m going to have you two haul my books by hand up those steps,” You stick out your tongue, before your arms curl around his and Haibara, “let’s have cake,” you smile at both of them, gaze lingering on Nanami, “and we can exchange book recommendations?” 

That was the moment he wanted to propose — could see himself living in a home with you, filled with both of your books lining the walls of a personal library, but your living room as well. He could see himself falling asleep beside you as you read to him, your fingers carding through his hair. 

But no, no, it was irrational, he chided himself, as he talked to you, his lips curled in a smile that had damned him from the moment he saw it. He just had met you — he had barely been ever moved by another person, much less fallen in love. And it shouldn’t happen this quickly — it only happened this quickly in books — not in real life. 

But you — he watched you and Haibara chat and laugh — you were someone that might just be the thing of books.  

~~~~ 

TWO.

The second time he wanted to propose, he didn’t care to remember. 

And he barely did. 

He remembers the facts of the mission. It was supposed to be simple — exorcise a grade 2 curse, simple enough for him and Haibara to handle by themselves. Not that they had a choice. Jujutsu Tech’s resources were already far too spread thin — Gojo himself being sent all over Japan and even overseas to handle things himself that no one should be able to. But their mission? It should have been simple — dangerous still, but simple. 

But nothing was simple when it came to curses. 

He remembers sensing the curse — the manifestation had frozen him and Haibara for a moment — their bodies taut with fear and adrenaline — but they couldn’t move. Even as the cursed spirit screeched before them, he couldn’t articulate what was happening — it was supposed to be a grade 2, it was supposed to be a grade 2, but no — this was a grade 1. 

And then it struck — Kento barely had enough time to react, but he did, pushing Haibara out of the way when it did. 

He didn’t remember much after that. 

He remembered the squelch of Haibara’s flesh, the blood seeping through his clothes, the way his body crumpled on the ground, and he remembered the next moment was the first time he landed a black flash — stunning the curse enough for him to grab Haibara and escape. 

But not enough to save him. 

Haibara had made him promise if anything had ever happened to him — he would make sure his sister wasn’t recruited to Jujutsu Tech. And he had to make the call to his family — he couldn’t bear the thought of some higher up taking advantage of their grief to manipulate another into their clutches. 

No, he couldn’t let that happen. 

And now he sat in the morgue with his body, towel covering his eyes — Geto had come and went — and now he sat waiting for the body to be examined and taken away to be burned. Burned to ash with nothing left — that was the way all sorcerers bodies were disposed of. It was if they never existed in the first place - pawns in a never ending war that would have them piled like corpses on a sacrificial pyre. 

What was the point? 

Haibara had always told him — if there was something only he could do, he would do it. And for him it was jujutsu — but wasn’t there something else? Something else for him to do that didn’t let him up like this? A body on a metal slab waiting to be incinerated. What was the point? 

Was there even a point? People lived and people died. He had lived and Haibara died, but he didn’t know why. Why or how do people live one day and disappear the next? He had seen death before but not of someone so close — someone so precious to him. And the chaos was too much for him. To be killed by another’s twisted feelings manifested into a monster — it was almost poetic if it wasn’t so fucking tragic. 

“Nanami?” And he pulls the towel from his eyes, and sees you — your eyes glassy and red tinged — tear streaks you didn’t hide well left on your face, “Nanami—“ and you don’t know what to do with yourself — as you come to him, hesitating, “can I—“ 

But he’s the one pulling you into his arms, nearly into his lap as his fingers dig into the fabric of your jacket, “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry I wasn’t there—“ your voice breaks, and it’s enough to break him — he hadn’t really cried, not around another person, but tears well at your words, as your fingers card through his hair. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for — I’m the one—“ and his voice breaks in turn, as the words stuck in his mind going round and round, until they were nearly had shattered his sanity and skull along with it, “I’m the one who couldn’t save him,” 

And you pull back to look at him with tear stained cheeks, “that’s not your fault, Nanami—“ 

“How is it not?” His words are laced with more venom that he wishes them to be, a little more bite than he wished to chew, and the hurt in your eyes was enough to make him regret speaking altogether, “I’m so—“ 

“No, it’s not your fault, Kento,” and his eyes find yours, your lips twisted in a frown, and your gaze unwavering, “I know a part of you knows that — knows that…Haibara’s death is nothing but a function of this shitty system we’ve been funneled into. Nothing more. Nothing less. And you know,” your voice grows softer, “you know Haibara wouldn’t want you blaming yourself for this. You know what he’d say?” You almost chuckle, “he’d tell you not to sweat it. To keep going. That you got it, right?” 

He gives a terse chuckle in return, shaking his head, as his head tilts into your chest again, “How do we—“ 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, you don’t need him to say more, “I don’t know how we do this without him, but we have to. We have to for him,” and your hand cups his face, tilting his chin up so he looks up at you, “together?”

And he wants to ask you then — ask you to marry him. He doesn’t know when he would get a chance. You were the only thing that made his life make sense — the only thing that made him feel okay, feel safe, for once. He was so tired of never feeling that way. And he had just lost the one other person who made him feel that way. 

He knew you wouldn’t say yes. You couldn’t. You were both so young still, still reeling from Haibara, still stuck in this system that could kill either of you at any time. But still…wasn’t that all the more reason to do it? 

But as you pulled him into another tight hug, he knew he wouldn’t last much longer in the Jujutsu world. He couldn’t — he couldn’t take another loss like this. He didn’t know if he could bear it. But as his tears wet your jacket, surrounded by you — your scent, your soft breath, your warm presence — he would try. 

He would try for you. And his eyes slid to Haibara’s body covered by a sheet — and for him. 

~~~

THREE.

“After graduation, I’m leaving,” it was a late night, a couple days before graduation that he told you. The soft pitter-patter of rain was the only thing heard from int the silence before he spoke. You laid on the foot of his bed, reading a book, while he sat cross legged at the head of it, his eyes fixed on you. 

Your gaze lifts from your book, brow furrowed in confusion, “Leaving?” 

“I can’t be a jujutsu sorcerer,” his words are as plain as always, “I can’t do it. I’m going to go to college and pursue some other line of study—“ 

And you sit up slowly, putting your book aside, and he expects protests, expects you to convince him otherwise, expects you to try and stop him, but all you ask is one question, “are you sure?” 

It catches him by surprise — as you always seemed to. He could anticipate enemy attacks, analyze their next moves five steps ahead, plan three routes of escape, and even predict what garbage will come out of Satoru Gojo’s obscene mouth, but you — you always could surprise him. 

“I am,” he finally answers softly, “this society is shit, you know that. And these past few years have shown me that the difference I make isn’t worth the toll it’s taking, especially when I’m not changing anything,” 

“Kento, you do make a difference,” your fingers find his, intertwining with ease, such ease he can’t help but think that’s what it was meant for, “you do — even if you can’t see it, I just want you to know, you do. For the people you help, even if you don’t see them, for the other sorcerers you inspire, and for me,” 

And he chuckles, “even you?” And you roll your eyes, pouting — the same pout that makes him want to lean over and kiss you until your lips are utterly ruined. 

“Even me,” you toss a pillow at him, and he catches it with ease, and you scowl playfully, “y’know i’m gonna miss you, but I’m not gonna miss that,” 

“What? My quick reflex—“ and you smack him with another pillow and giggle, the noise making his lips quirk into a smile even as you laughed at him, hands covering your lips. 

“What was that, Mr. Ratio? Your quick—“ and he’s tossing a pillow right back smacking you in the face, making his lips curl in a rare grin (though not so rare when he was with you—“ 

And you pull the pillow off, your face grim, “Oh, it’s so on—“ you’re tossing a pillow, but it’s only a diversion as you lunge for him, assumedly to mess up his hair, but he’s caught you by the wrist, his other hand around your waist as he’s gotten you pinned to the bed. 

Time stops. 

He’s breathing heavily, and you are too — from the rise and fall of your chest, but he can hardly hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. Your lips part as you look up at him — you’re dressed in your sleep clothes, a thin tank top and shorts — and it would be so easy to lean down, let his palm slide under his shirt. He sees your eyes flicker down his body the same — climbing back up before pausing at his lips. 

It wasn’t a good idea. He was leaving. You both were graduating. Who knows when he would see you again — yet, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not when this is what he wanted for so long, when he wanted you for so long. But maybe he should — maybe it would be easier, he couldn’t ask you to leave Jujutsu Tech. Just as you couldn’t ask him to stay. He knew you would stay to honor Haibara’s memory, to carry on his legacy — the one thing sorcerers could do for their fallen comrades. 

Sometimes the only thing. 

And sometimes it was the only thing they couldn’t do.  

“Kento—“ your voice pulls him from his reverie, as your fingers brush against his cheek, “are you going to hover over me forever, let me go, or…” and your teeth graze your lip, “are you going to kiss me?” 

And he’s blinking, cheeks most assuredly flushing, as your fingers graze the back of his neck, and his mouth is dry, as he looks down on you. 

But he doesn’t need to asked twice, as he leans even closer, delighting in how your breath catches, looming over him, “do you want me to kiss you?” And the telltale quirk of his lips makes you gape at him, drawing a laugh from him. 

“I hate you,” you murmur, as his lips finally brush yours, swallowing those playfully bitter words with them — and your lips are even softer than he imagined, your fingers settling themselves on the back of his neck, brushing the hair that rested there. 

And when he pulls away; his heart squeezes at the sight of your kiss ruined lips parted as you pant slightly, eyes fluttering open to look up at him as if to ask why did you stop? And he can’t help but smile. 

“It’s too bad because I love you—“ the words slip from his mouth — but he doesn’t regret it. How can he? When he might not get another chance. 

And he thinks his heart will stop at your silence again, the pitter-patter of raindrops ringing in his ears again, before your lips finally curl. 

“You love me, huh?” You’re leaning up and kissing him, lips finding his again and again — and how is it that he’s already addicted? You taste like honey, and sunshine, and something headier — sending heat warmer than liquor throughout his body that only made him crave more of you, and you finally pull away, and you’re smiling, “good thing I love you too,” 

And he can’t believe his ears, he can’t believe you love him too — all these years he thought it was one-sided, that he was deluding himself with all the times your fingers found his, your eyes met across a classroom with a smile, and the times he found himself falling asleep next to you all those nights neither of you wanted to be asleep, your arm curled around his.  

But you did. You loved him. And he loved you. 

And as your lips met again, he knew, he knew he still couldn’t ask you. Couldn’t ask you because he knew you maybe wouldn’t say no — and he couldn’t ask that of you. Not when it wasn’t what you wanted. Not when he knew you could do the good he couldn’t bring himself to do. And you would — because you were the best person he knows. 

He loves you. And therefore he had to let you go. 

But — as he lingered over you on his bed, his body hovering over his as he dragged his thumb over your red, puffy lips, before leaning down for another kiss — 

He didn’t have to let you go this second. 

~~~~

FOUR.

It’s years before he sees you again. 

It wasn’t purposeful. Not exactly anyway. 

It was just easier. Easier not to have to think of you still at the place he once was. Still fighting the same curses he would have been fighting with you. Still risking your life day in and day out. While he…he only had money to worry about. To think about. To obsess about. 

Money. Money. Money. Money. 

How was this somehow shittier than what the jujutsu world? He had considered going into a more humanitarian profession, but when his goal was to retire early, why waste time? If he wanted to help people…he glances at his phone — the one vice he allowed himself,  a picture of you that you had sent him when you got promoted to Grade 1 saved as his screensaver — he could have stayed by your side. 

No, he wanted to retire. Find himself a nice place to retire to — he hadn’t decided the exact location yet. Somewhere peaceful. With nothing but beaches and sky and sand and books for him to read, to reclaim his life page by page. But to get there — he had to slop through this shit work — making the rich richer. 

The same in the jujutsu world, and the same here as well. 

And it was one day after he had exorcised a curse from his favorite bakery’s worker, he had felt anything good — anything remotely good — in far too long. Your words rang in his ears — you make a difference. 

Was he making a difference by lining the pockets of the rich? Maybe his sorcery wouldn’t change  the world, move minds or hearts, pivot the course of history — but maybe he could have his own impact. And not feel like complete shit when he woke up every morning. 

And he wouldn’t — he knew he wouldn’t — if he could just see you smile again. Even if he could just see you again. He pulls out his phone, staring at your picture. And maybe…maybe even more. 

“Hello, Gojo? I’d like to return to Jujutsu Tech,” and he hears laughter on the other end, “why are you laughing?” 

“Kento?” You drop the pen you’re holding, as he steps into your office. And your lips are parted in surprise, your eyes fixed on his, “what are you—“ 

“I’m coming back, to Jujutsu Tech, I’m going to be a sorcerer again,” and he knows what you’ll ask, he knows you’re going to ask why — you’re going to ask him if he’s sure. And he doesn’t know how to tell you except by saying it’s because of you. 

But you don’t say anything, your chair screeches back as you get up, clattering backwards and suddenly as you’re running into his arms. Your face is buried in his chest, and he can feel the tears against his shirt, and his arms curl around you, fingers running through your hair, “I missed you so much,” you murmur, and then you look up at him, fingers tracing his cheeks, gingerly moving his glasses away, “you look tired,” 

“I am, but I’m better now,” he’s murmuring — and how is it that you send him right back to where he started, right back to where you always send him. It doesn’t even take a touch — only a glance, a whiff, a second — “I missed you too,” he adds, “a lot,” 

And you push him playfully, pouting up at him, “Could have fooled me. You barely ever called or texted me all these years. You talked more to Gojo than you did me,” 

“That’s only because that flippant idiot won’t stop calling until I pick up,” he grumbles — Gojo was the last thing he wanted to talk about in his moment — his fingers caress your cheek, tracing the line of your cheekbone, “I wanted to talk to you — I did, I just, I knew if I talked to you, I might say something I’d regret,” 

“And what would you regret saying to me?” You raise an eyebrow, and his eyes are sliding away from him. 

Asking you to come see him, asking you to leave Jujutsu Tech for him, asking you to be with him — every question that he wanted to ask, but never could. 

“It’s not important—” and your hand cups his cheek guiding his eyes back to yours, and he knew you weren’t going to let this go, “If I talked to you, I knew it would end one of three ways — one, I’d ask you to leave Jujutsu Tech; two, I’d come back to Jujutsu Tech; or three, you’d ask me one of these yourself — but I knew I couldn’t do that,” 

And your brows knit together, “Why not?” 

“Because it had to be our own decision — I couldn’t leave and you couldn’t leave, just because the other asked,” he murmurs, his gaze softening, “it wouldn’t be fair to either of us — or the other — to feel like the only reason we’re together was because of guilt or want for the other, not for ourselves,” 

You consider his words for a moment, “I would have left if you asked me,” 

“I know, and I would have come back if you had,” 

“But we didn’t,” and your fingers cup his face, “you remember what I said to you that night that we kissed?” 

And he swallows the lump in his throat, his heart rattling against his chest, “You said, you didn’t want to go further because it would only hurt more when we had to go our separate ways,” and your hand slides up his chest slowly, the other already resting against his neck, and his find their way to you — one hand holding your waist and the other cupping your cheek, “but we’re not separate anymore, are we?”  

“I hope the wait was worth it,” you smile, as both close the gap, lips meeting again and again — and you taste the same, but even better somehow — and he’s only pulling you closer, lips curled in a smile so wide that he hadn’t felt in so long, so long.

“Always, when it's you,” he murmurs against your lips, before his lips begin to trail kisses down your jaw and then your neck, his teeth brushing against your pulse, pulling a gasp from your lips, “good girl,” And he feels your knees buckle against his and he’s walking you backwards into the edge of your desk, “is anyone left on campus?” and you’re shaking your head, your eyes flitting to the door, as he makes you sit on your desk, thighs parted for him to settle between. 

“The door—” 

“Locked,” he replies, drawing back only a moment to take in the image before him — your lips red and ruined, chest rising and falling as you look disheveled at best, sexed at worst, and your eyes — your eyes swirled with lust, half lidded and desperate for his touch— “didn’t want any interruptions,” 

Just as he was. 

His fingers draw up a strand of your hair and kisses it, and your lips part, “Kento, please—” 

“Please, what, my love?” his voice is low and teasing, as his fingers peel back your jacket, pulling it off your shoulders, “you’re going to have to be more specific,” his lips find your neck, soft, wet kisses that has your body leaning into his, “I’m not a mind reader,” 

“But you are a tease,” you pout, and he only smiles, leaning down to do the thing he always wanted to — he kisses the pout off your lips, moaning lightly when your lips part for his tongue, his hands dragging down your sides, as your fingers loosen his tie, “I think you will be doing overtime with me today, Nanami-Sensei,” 

And he grunts, as your fingers free him of his tie, joining your jacket on the floor, “I’m not going to be a teacher, just a sorcerer,” his teeth graze right under your chin, nibbling, “so you’re the only sensei here — are you going to teach me what you’ve learned the last few years?” 

And you toy with the top button of his blue button-up, “Oh, I’ll teach you, Kento,” and you’re starting to undo his buttons, as he busies himself undoing yours, “the question is whether you can handle it,” 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs in reverence, and his fingers finally undo the buttons, sliding your shirt off your shoulders, eyes raking over your chest — sharp blue gaze lingering on the erect nipples poking through the fabric for your bra, “You’ve always been the one thing I can’t handle,” his mouth leans down, closing around one clothed nipple, while he teased the other with his fingers, and he delights in your gasp, the noise sending heat right down to his already aching cock, “but I’m willing to try, my love,” 

“You still love me?” You murmur, as he shrugs off his own shirt, perfect abs teasing into a v-line, all this muscle hidden under his business attire — and you knew he still must work out, and he did. He did in case he ever needed to come back — come back for you. 

“Who says I ever stopped?” His nose buried in the nape of your neck now, as his fingers teasingly snap the strap of your bra, “you smell so good, so perfect,” and his fingers undo your bra and it joins the pile of clothes growing on the floor, “there wasn’t a day I didn’t think about you — a night that i didn’t dream of you, that I didn’t want you,” 

“Kento—“ you whimper, as he tugs at your skirt, a quick glance for your nod, and he slides it down your legs, bunching at your ankles until you kick it off. Your cheeks burn as he’s kissing your way down your body, his mouth teasing the other nipple he had neglected, trailing hot kisses down your stomach, until he reaches the fabric of your panties, “I need—“ 

“Been wanting to taste this for so long,” and he’s kneeling between your parted thighs, still calloused fingers parting your plush flesh, tongue flicking over his dry lips at the sight of the dark wet patch at the crotch of your underwear. And you look down at him, eyes glazed over with unadulterated lust that is almost enough to have him cumming in his pants, “so sweet,” he’s murmuring as he noses your clothes cunt, and you jerk, as he pulls the crotch aside, “wonder if you taste as sweet as you smell,” 

“Kento—“ and his tongue drags over the length of your dripping cunt, nose bumping against your clit, as your thighs curl around him, pulling him closer, closer — “fuck—“ 

“Such a filthy mouth,” he tuts, smiling against your cunt as his tongue teases your folds, “almost as filthy as you are down here,” and his finger begins to part your walls, making your thighs shake and quake, his lips close around your clit, sucking. 

You’re a mess of moans and pants, hips grinding against his touch, as one hand tries to muffle your moans, the other is curled in his blonde locks, “taste even better than I imagined — just f’me, only for me,” You’re so close, as he parts your folds with another finger, sinking knuckle deep, as his fingers brush against that one spot that has you parting your lips in a silent moan, head thrown back — and the heat deep in your stomach is going to snap. 

KNOCK KNOCK. 

You both freeze, your cunt jerking around his fingers, as you bite your lip — maybe if you’re silent, they’ll go away— but Kento clicks his tongue, a smile on his glossy  cum covered lips, mouthing, “Speak,” and you gape at him, chest still heaving, as you shake your head, before he’s curling his fingers just right. 

Fucker. 

You hear Gojo’s voice, calling your name, “You in there?” 

You swallow thickly, meeting Kento’s gaze — he’s not backing down, “Yeah, sorry I’m in the middle of something — do you need something?” 

“I was just wondering if you heard from a certain salaryman, or should I say, ex-salaryman?” the very one that was burying his face back in your still sensitive pussy, slurping and licking, despite Gojo being right outside. 

You have to bite back your moans, swallowing them as you speak, “You mean Nana—ah—mi?” And you feel the very same sorcerer smirk against your abused cunt, a third finger finding its way inside you, “ha-haven’t heard from him, and what do mean ‘ex?’” 

You do your best at acting, but it’s hard when his mouth closes around your clit, sucking hard, as your fingers curl in his hair, biting your lip so hard, as he fucks your pussy in earnest with his fingers — how can Gojo not hear the nasty squelch of your cunt? 

“He left his job. He’s coming back to Jujutsu Tech,” and he takes a beat, “I’ll take my leave,” and he chuckles, “have fun you two, and Nanami?” You feel your face flush, “don’t be too rough with her — we need our best teacher available to teach tomorrow,” 

You hear his laugh all the way down the hall, and you’re covering your face — those fucking six eyes — but Kento’s tugging your hands away, “Pay attention to the one who’s filling you, love,” and he’s burying his face in your cunt, fucking you even harder — hitting that spot over and over, until you cum, back arching, as he’s pulling his fingers out to lap up the slick dripping from you, “delicious,” he murmurs, kissing your still sensitive clit, before he’s looking up at you — all fucked out, your chest rising and falling with every pant, your lips kiss ruined red — “and so beautiful,” 

His licks his lips clean of your cum, wiping the rest with the back of his hand, as he rises to your feet, “Kento, please,” you’re murmuring, his hands slide over your body, squeezing your hips, “I need you,” 

“What do you need—“ and his words are cut off by your fingers reaching for his buckle, the clink of the metal as you undid it, along with the button, tugging his pants and boxers down.

He hisses as his too sensitive dick slaps his stomach, your lips parting, eyes in a trance, “So pretty, Kento,” your fingers traces one of his veins to his already leaking tip, “and so fucking big,” you murmur, teasing the bead of precum on his slit, making him groan, “can’t wait to have this inside me — been waiting ten years,” 

And he’s sliding your hand away, pressing his hips flush to yours, as your legs wrap around his waist, “That long huh?” And his lips find yours again, letting you taste yourself, “and I thought I was the only one pining,” 

“So you admit you were pining for me?” And he laughs, as you smile up at him — like all the times he had hoped you would — “I had a crush from almost the moment I met you,” 

“You could have fooled me,” he presses kisses up and down your jaw, drawing a moan from both of you as he teases your puffy clit with his aching tip, “I thought you had a crush on Geto,” and you scoff. 

“Geto? So you were jealous of him — that’s why you always had that sour look whenever I studied with him,” you grin even wider, “well you had nothing to worry about - I had a crush on very gloomy boy and no one else ever caught my eye,” 

And he softly smiles, and it seems to ebb away the years — the trauma and the tiredness — and left only him, your Kento. 

“Is that right?” He asks before kissing you again, his fingers finding the back of your neck to deepen the kiss, as you moaned, muffled by his mouth, “I want—“ 

“I know, me too, please — don’t keep me waiting any longer,” and how could he refuse a request like that? 

He’s sinking into you, thick cock parting your dripping folds until he hilts himself fully in you, his fingers digging your hips — and you’re so full, too full. And you’re perfect — perfect walls wrapped around him, so warm and so tight — it’s enough for him to neatly blow his load then and there. 

But he can’t, can’t when he’s waited this long to do this. You’re whimpering, “S’good, Kento, too good,” your walls flutter around him as his hips shift lightly, “please, please move—“ his hands find your legs, lifting them higher to find a better angle, fingers digging into your soft thighs. 

And his hips slowly thrust into you, edging you with his shallow thrusts, and you’re whining, “Kento—“ 

“Look at the mess you’re making all over your desk,” he’s guiding your gaze with two fingers on your chin, making you watch where his cock is sunk into you, “taking me so well, practically swallowing me, good fuckin’ girl,” he grunts, “want it harder? Want me to fuck you?”

Your desk is already creaking under your weights and the movements, you’re nodding wordlessly, lips parted, “Kento, please, I need—“ and you watched his cock pull out only to slam back in. Your head falls back, moaning his name again and again. 

The squelch of your cunt rang in his ears over and over, as he grunts, barely keeping himself from cumming, especially when you begin to roll your hips into him, “You’re so pretty, and all mine — just mine,” and his lips find yours again, just as your walls flutter at his words, “like that? Like it when I claim you, love with my cock fucking you?” And his vulgar words only makes you tighter, and he grunts, “‘m close, sweetheart,” 

“Me too—g’nna cum—“ and his dick reaches that spot right as his thumb bears down on your clit, teasing it in circles, until you’re moaning his name as you cum. Your walls clamp down, soaking his cock, a white ring of cum around his base as he fucks you through your orgasm. 

His eyes meet yours as you do, watching your high overcome you, twitching and moaning — and he doesn’t last much longer. His hips stutter against you in shallow thrusts until he’s notching himself deep inside, groaning as he cums, hot seed painting your walls white. 

“So perfect,” he murmurs, as he kisses your sweat slicked forehead, “so good,” and he’s grunting as he pulls out, watching your mixed releases trickle out, leaking all over your desk and onto the floor. He drags his cock over your weeping cunt, watching it flutter around nothing. 

“Kento,” you murmur, gazing up at him, utterly blissed out as your lips curl, your legs slipping off his waist as he settles down on your desk, “I love you,” 

And his heart squeezes — is he dreaming? He must be dreaming — because nothing in his life has ever been so good. So wonderful. So perfect. It didn’t happen for him — it never happened for him. 

“I love you too,” he murmurs reverently, his fingers trailing over your jaw, “so much — you don’t know how much, darling,” 

“Think you can quantify it for me, Mr. Salaryman?” And he snorts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Don’t call me that,” he kisses your neck — you smelled so good, were you real? 

“Then what should I call you?” 

And he wanted to ask you then — ask you to call him your husband, to marry you, to buy that ring he had looked at from time to time when he thought about marrying you. But you just found your way back to each other — hell, he had just slept with you in your office, not even a bed. It was too soon, but — his lips curled — he was closer than he had ever been before. And he wouldn’t wait, he wouldn’t hesitate, not when it was you. He wouldn’t let you slip through his fingers. 

He smiles, “Just call me yours.” 

~~~~ 

FIVE.

Today was the day. 

He was finally going to ask. That’s what he thought when he looked at you, still in bed, bathed in the dappled sunlight let in by his parted curtains. You were still fast asleep beside him, body curled up so your body was pressed against him. He ran his fingers through your hair gently not to wake you, “I love you,” he murmurs, as opens his bedside drawer, pulling a ring box and notecard from it — and he stares at it. 

He’d ask you. He would ask you to marry him — finally take you on that vacation to Malaysia you both had talked about for too long, read all the books you both had put off, and lounge on the beach — and do much more in your hotel room. And then maybe, maybe he could ask you to retire from jujutsu. 

He had always promised himself, promised that he wouldn’t be a sorcerer when he got married. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving a family behind to mourn him — but even more than that, he couldn’t bear the thought to lose you, to call you his wife, call you his soulmate — and have you fall away from him. 

He would rather be the one to die. 

But this way — he rises, grabbing his clothes for the day, and slipping the ring and the note into his coat pocket — neither of you would have to worry about losing the other. At least to a curse. 

“Where are we going?” You giggle as he drags you along the street, packed with people, more than usual. He keeps you close, an arm wrapped around you, especially for a Wednesday evening. What date was it? He had seemingly lost track of everything he had planned. 

“It’s Halloween,” you remind him without him asking the question, “explains all costumed people and the packed streets — we should definitely avoid Shibuya — the crowds there would be insane,” 

“How’d you know—“ and you tap his forehead with a smile. 

“I could see your gears grinding, Kento,” you smile, resting your head against his shoulder, “and it’s just like you to forget it’s Halloween,” 

“Is it?” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “well good thing I have you to remind me,”

“Very good thing, and I have you to remind me about everything else,” and he nods, and you elbow him, “you don’t have to remind me of that much!”

“You were leaving the house yesterday and you forgot your wallet, keys, and purse — you almost forgot to put on shoes—“ and you’re covering his mouth his your hand. 

“How about you remind me about where we’re going?” And he smiles against your hand, before kissing it gently, pulling it from his lips and kissing the back of your hand as well, making you flush. 

“Why ruin the surprise—” and then both of your phones ring — the two of you share a dark look, glancing at your phones and seeing the same message — Emergency: veil has fallen over certain areas of Shibuya. All available sorcerers report. 

“I guess we are going to Shibuya,” you sigh, running your fingers through your hair, “we should—” 

“We should stop by the apartment — we both left all our equipment there and I need to change,” and you nod, as his fingers toy with the ring box in his pocket, a sigh stuck in his throat. When will he ever get the chance to do this right? Finally, he had worked up the nerve and this—this had to happen. 

“Hey,” you cup his cheek, a soft smile on your face, “I’m sorry our plans are falling through, and just when I was going to make you give up this secret surprise,” 

His lips curl, as his arm pulls you even closer,  “I don’t recall agreeing to give up any secrets,” and you lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet quickly turning heady — neither of you were ones for public displays — but for some reason, it just felt right. And you part, breath warming his lips with a wide grin. 

“Oh, you would have,” and he laughs, squeezing your hips, as he rests his forehead against yours, “We’ll pick this up right after we deal with this problem.” 

He nodded, leaning down to kiss you again and again, his fingers still toying with the box in his pocket. And he wanted to ask right then, just drop to his knee in the middle of this packed street full of costumed weirdos and freaks, mission be damned, jujutsu be damned — but he didn’t want to do it like this. 

He wanted it to be a time where both of you were safe, where you could celebrate without the fear of danger beating down your necks, where he could talk to you, hold you, kiss you — without fear it would be the last. Because he always wondered when it would be the last. But it wouldn’t be — he’d do anything to make it back, to finally take that step with you, the one he’d been waiting for over ten years to take. Take that vacation you both wanted with his ring on your finger, and retirement from Jujutsu around the corner. 

And he squeezes your hand, “Promise?” and you lean into him, pulling him along the street back to your shared apartment. 

“Promise.” 

~~~ 

He wouldn’t be able to keep his promise. 

That’s what kept repeating in his mind with every step he took. He couldn’t really feel much — not anymore. That special grade curse had burned him — burned half of his body to a crisp, he could barely smell the burning flesh anymore. All he could do was keep moving. Moving. Moving. Moving. 

But he didn’t want to move anymore — he was tired. So tired. He couldn’t feel much, but he could feel the weight of having to keep going, even if he didn’t want to. 

And now, he stands before a swarm of…curses? Transfigured humans? He didn’t know — he could barely see at this point out of his one remaining eye — he could barely keep it open, still drooping even as the monsters loomed before him. 

“Malaysia…Yeah, Malaysia…Kuantan would have been nice,” the recommendation he had gotten from Mei Mei when trying to decide on a vacation for you and him to take — who better to ask than the woman with all the time and money in the world, a little brother who’d take her anywhere she wished. You both had settled on Malaysia, still panning out the details of when, but he had planned to surprise you with open ended tickets for the both of you — paid extra for them, in case something came up. 

He almost chuckles. Something always came up. 

Maybe if you both had liked it enough, he’d have a private home built for the two of you — with the little library nook you always dreamed of having, finally getting around to reading the countless books you both had bought and never read, go through page by page and take back the time you both have lost. 

But right now each step felt like an eternity as he walked. 

Where was he going again? Oh yes, to help Fushiguro. And what about Naobito and Maki? What had happened to them? There wasn’t much he could do about that. 

Tired. He was so tired. I’ve done enough, haven’t I? 

Hadn’t he done enough? He thought he had done enough when he left — left it all behind like a nightmare he didn’t care to revisit. Left the loss, the pain, the anger — the curses really — all behind him, in exchange for another set — greed, money, power. What was really the best option? Had he made the right choice? 

But then he thought about you. 

Your smiles, your touch, your kisses, your laughs — all the times he spent with you — slow mornings spent reading the paper together over coffee and toast from the bakery you always went out of your way to buy his favorites from; lazy evenings spent watching movies or reading, your legs intertwined as you did, his arm around your shoulders, until you plucked the book from his fingers made it so you were only thing his eyes were on; and sleepless but perfect nights spent in each other’s arms. The many times he wanted to ask you — the one question he never got to ask you still burned on the tip of his tongue like a curse unspoken, and he knew if he spoke it now, it would be one. 

And so he did what he did best, he dispatched the curses, quick and easy. And his lips curled despite himself — at the thought of you. He could almost feel your lips on his still from earlier, the sweet scent of you instead of the smell of blood or burning flesh, he could almost see you too. 

A hand rested on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. 

Mahito stared back at him. 

Oh. Oh. 

It was over. 

I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry I can’t keep my promise. I’m sorry I can’t propose. I’m sorry I can’t marry you. I’m sorry I can’t have the life we wanted. I’m sorry I came back only to leave you with the worst curse of them all. 

“I didn’t know you were here,” Nanami says, staring back at the curse — and it reminds of that time — that time Mahito had him in his domain, he truly had resigned himself to death. Resigned himself to die — and then Itadori had come crashing in, crashing in as he did his life, saving him. Saving him by not only by his very existence as Sukuna’s vessel, but by just his sheer strength. 

That kid had really grown on him — he didn’t want him to. Not when he had the same positivity, the same smile, the same kindness…as Haibara. It was illogical. He wasn’t Haibara — he was Sukuna’s vessel, and he wouldn’t acknowledge him, he wouldn’t until he proved himself. But he’d protect him, and he would do what he could. Because being a child isn’t a sin — but perhaps, being a jujutsu sorcerer is one. 

“Yup. The whole time,” Mahito replies, lips upturned in a slight smile, “Wanna chat? We go way back, after all,” 

Nanami’s eyes shift to the floor, the muddied and bloodied tiles underneath his feet — he didn’t care to divulge his deepest feelings to a curse. There were only two people he could talk to about this — and one of them, he supposed, was now closer to his being than the other. 

Haibara, what the hell was I trying to do? He asks in his mind, not even daring to say the words aloud, I ran. Even though I ran away, I came back with the vague reason of finding the work worthwhile. 

And then he sees him. Haibara appears in front of him, patented smile on his lips, as he points south — points right at— 

“Itadori,” Mahito says, his eyes narrowing. 

“Nanamin!” his eyes wide as he takes in his state — oh, he had hoped no one would see him like this, much less Yuji. He had already been through so much, so young — hell, he had already died once. He didn’t deserve to see this. He didn’t deserve to grow up like this — to have his youth ripped away. But, did any of them deserve it? 

It was a marathon, a marathon that they found themselves in that headed only towards a pile of corpses — but each time, they had to pass the baton before they stopped. 

Could he finally stop? 

He had dropped his baton so long ago, dropped and left the track, but he knew it would be picked up by another and another and another — but it was his baton, his baton that Haibara had handed him before he died in his arms. 

No, Haibara. That’s not right. I can’t say that to him. It’ll just end up becoming a curse for him. 

But it’s a curse every jujutsu sorcerer had to bear — made to bear until there were either no curses or no sorcerers left. 

But he couldn’t regret it now. 

“Itadori,” his lips curl, smiling for the last time, “you’ve got it from here.” 

He couldn’t keep his promise to you — but he kept his one to Haibara. 

And you’d pay the price. 

~~~

This wasn’t real. Was it? 

You stood outside your shared apartment with Kento. Finally a stop to the fighting for a month for everyone to train — enough time for you to retrieve some cursed weapons you had left behind — not knowing the fight would drag on for this long. You had considering sending someone — maybe not Ijichi but someone else to retrieve them, but right now, you couldn’t bear the thought of someone else rifling through Kento’s things. Moving the things that he had placed just so — the last remnants of his life, the marks he left that proved he was there, that he lived — that he had lived. 

Lived. Past tense. And now you were still living — living in a world without him. 

You inserted your key and turned the lock, opening the door. And it did, just like it had every day. Each day you’d open it — sometimes before Kento, other days after — but each time, there was always a meal Kento had prepped or bought waiting for you. 

And this was the first time that there wasn’t. 

Not only a meal — there was no one waiting for you. Not here. 

You closed the door behind you — no longer a home, just an apartment. You needed to remember the things you needed, your mind was nowhere to be found, and fled the country when you had heard the news. You didn’t cry. Not at first. 

Yuji was the one to tell you. He shouldn’t have been the one to see it. You knew it haunted his dreams, you knew he blamed himself, you knew — because Kento had done the same. So you hugged him, let him cry silently into your shirt, comforted him the best you could — because you knew that’s what Kento would have wanted. 

He loved Yuji — he loved Ino too, and the other students all held a special place for him, but Yuji — Yuji was a special case. You knew that from the moment he had spoken about him. 

“Gojo wants me to mentor Sukuna’s vessel,” he told you one night in bed, having returned from a mission and having a drink with Gojo — not a real drink, Kento had clarified, since it had no alcohol in it — but a drink nonetheless. 

“He has a name, Kento. Itadori. He’s sweet,” you smile, you had met him and all the other first years from teaching, “he’s a good kid — very new to all of this, but he has a good heart and some good skills under his belt.” 

“A vessel for the ticking time bomb has a good heart? Glad to hear it,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair, “I don’t know — he was a normal kid two minutes ago, and now he’s running around with Gojo feeding him Sukuna’s fingers every second,” he leans back against the headrest, “what am I supposed to make of this? I’m not even a teacher,” 

“And what have you been doing with Ino?” you raise an eyebrow, “that kid is constantly after you, dogging your every step — he looks up to you. “And I know a lot of the other students do too, the ones that know you,” 

“It’s—” 

“You should do this. It would be good for you,” and he’s hesitating, “Yuji needs a sorcerer to guide him — teach him the basics that Gojo has neglected to do, and show him how a proper jujutsu sorcerer who isn’t…a special case like Gojo, operates.” 

Kento’s lips curl, “You know you can call him a moron,” 

“Why call him that when I have you to call him that for me?” you snort, “now what do you say?” 

And he eventually agreed — and it was the best decision for him. It gave him more purpose, more drive — he seemed even more fulfilled — the most you had seen him professionally fulfilled in quite some time. 

“You got it from here.” 

His last words to Yuji. You almost have to scoff at the poeticness of it all — the same words Haibara had told him. The ones he hadn’t told you for nearly a decade, until one night he had told you what he said. 

“And why didn’t you leave any words for me, Kento?” you ask the empty apartment before you, “for so long, we didn’t have each other — we couldn’t. And we finally find our way back, we finally do all the things we said we would — you’re gone, again,” your voice breaks, “I wish, I wish you were here. I wish I could see you. I wish—” and you break off. 

There’s no point for wishing for things that can’t happen. You had things to do, and little time to waste. You needed to get stronger too. You needed to be useful. You needed to fight. You couldn’t tarnish Kento’s memory, or — you look at a picture that you had taken of him and Yuji a few days before outside a convenience store you had stopped by after a mission — his legacy. 

You searched for the things you needed, placing them in cloth bags and then paper bags for easy and inconspicuous transport, but you needed to label them. You searched your apartment for a pen — but apparently you had misplaced every single one that you had — where the hell were all the pens? A question you’d usually ask Kento and he’d produce one from thin air. No matter what you lost or what you needed — he had it. 

He always had it. 

If he did always have what you needed, then maybe…you walk into the bedroom, over to his nightstand — he often kept a notebook for thoughts and notes in his bedside table so maybe—-

And there it was — a pen, but it wasn’t the pen that made you pause — it was the two things beside it. 

A notecard and a ring box. 

A ring box. 

Your hands shake, and you almost want to close the drawer. Forget you say anything. Continue with the work you’re doing. It would hurt less. 

But you can’t. You can’t. 

You reach for the notecard first, fingers shaking as you gingerly pick it up — and you can tell this wasn’t the first he had written on. You could see the indentations from his pen, this card underneath the others as he had wrote. But his handwriting was neat, yet messy at the same time — his patented half print, half cursive scrawl that he hadn’t left. 

Your legs buckle and you sit down on the edge of the bed — the side he used to sleep on, his arm wrapped around your waist, face buried in your back, his lips brushing against your skin when he finally stirred. And now it was empty. 

My love, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to ask you this. I’ve thought of ways to ask for years — I had to write it down just so I didn’t mince my words or ramble — you know I’m not one to drag out conversations. I love you. I’ve always loved you from the moment I met you — I know you’d tease me for pining for you, but I did pine for you and I’ve pined for you every second we’re apart. The other times I’ve wanted to ask you, the timing never worked out. But we have the time now, don’t we? Will you do me the honor of being your husband? I’ll spend every second making you happy, because that’s what you deserve, sweetheart. Only the best. 

And your tears splatter against the corner of the card, before you put it down, as you let your sobs overcome you, screams you didn’t know you were capable of making— you didn’t even realize it was you, until your throat began to ache. 

Why? Why? Why? 

It wasn’t real, this wasn’t happening. 

And your fingers reach for the ring box now, opening it only to feel more tears well — it was the ring you had showed him. One you had showed him one late night when it had showed up somewhere or another — you hadn’t even thought about the ring again. Until now. 

You can’t bear to touch it. You can’t. Not when he wasn’t there to pull it from its box and slip it onto your finger. And he never would be. Not until you saw him again — one way or another. 

You snap the box closed, tears slipping down your cheeks as you placed the box and card back into the drawer — noticing something else underneath — a printout? And you pull the papers out, scanning it. 

You almost sob. A trip to Kuantan, Malaysia. The trip you two had talked about for months, but never had gone on. The trip was more for Kento than it was for you — and it was for you, in a way, because what you wanted the most was to just be with him. Time was all you wished for with him — all you wanted — but you knew you could have spent every moment with him for the last ten years and it wouldn’t have been enough. 

It would never have been enough. 

“I miss you,” you speak to the ghosts that fill your mind and haunt your dreams — Kento and Yu, “I hope you’re at peace. I hope you’re lying on a beach somewhere, reading the books you wanted to read, drinking an expensive drink, and eating the bread you love — I promise, I’ll find my way to you, someday,” 

And you place the things back in the drawer, and shut it. 

For now, you had other things to do. Other people to protect, other curses to exorcise. But — you stare at the picture of the two of you on your nightstand — his love was the one curse you could never give up. 

~~

Many months later. 

You take that vacation he wanted. Packing the books he always wanted to read. Pocketing the ring he wanted to propose to you with. You’d pack a few shirts of his to wear on the beach, and maybe he would be lying beside you in spirit. You would find that beach he wanted to take you to — the one he had written down and had looked up several times while booking your trip. 

You kept the seat beside you on the plane empty but you ordered a glass of wine and a sandwich for him regardless. You know you would have ended up ordering because he likely would have fallen asleep — old man he always was. And if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was sitting in the seat beside you. 

He wasn’t dead. Not really, you think as you sit in the beach in one of his deep blue button ups thrown over your swimsuit, reading one of his books page by page, taking back the time that was stolen from him with your own — minutes and hours and days you’d wish you could take off your own and give to him. 

He was alive, he was alive as long as you were, as long as the people who he was important to were alive. And he was alive — alive in your head and your heart and your very soul. 

You read his proposal aloud as the sun sets, tears slipping down your face as you slip his ring onto your finger. And there it would stay. 

Stayed all the seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years you lived -- lived in the house you built in Malaysia when all was said and done for you in the jujutsu world, just as Kento had wanted. Stayed until you finally saw him again. Saw him standing beside Haibara, softly smiling behind him, as your eyes fluttered open as he greeted you. Lips curled in that same smile that damned you from the moment you saw it. 

“Don’t keep me waiting, love,” he smiles, the same words you had said to him, “we’ve both waited long enough, haven’t we?” 

But neither of you had to wait anymore — as you run into his arms, warm and made of flesh and blood and real, so real — you had forever now. 

✴︎ a/n: first, i'm so sorry lol. i don't know how the spirit of gege possessed me but i decided to inflict some pain. i have to thank @laneysmusings for proofing this for me and having to endure this pain. I also want to credit @/tempenensis for their post on haibara / jjk 120 that helped inspire/inform the third to last scene (but they don't like self-insert so i am not gonna tag them, but you should check out their tumblr!

✴︎ taglist: @your-local-simplol, @renawithane, @grooveandshit, @aemondseyesocket, @nitskilanara, @yunchans, @ackermanbby, @luminouslateralup, @multi-fandom3, @idktbhloley, @minteaful, @malleusmybelovedd, @lighttism, @lemonpoppy-seed, @nitskilanara, @wshwshi, @rreborn, @reyy-chanx, @kiradoki, @uroldall, @madam-milf, @elusivemoon