carlislefiles

[carlislefiles]

arrangement | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento ╰►an arranged marriage is about the most cliché thing he can possibly think of, and it sounds like a terrible idea...that is, until he's actually married to you, and he can't bring himself to have any regrets. 14.9k words

a/n: you could say that this maybe got a little out of hand...but I'm not mad about it. not all of these are arranged marriages exactly, but that's the gist of it. toji's is more of a fake dating type situation, and geto's is like an arranged marriage that he, himself, arranged...so yeah. warnings: cussing, kissing. enjoy <3

fushiguro was a man of few qualities. in fact, if you asked shiu, he’d list three. he never missed a shot, he never got attached, and most importantly, for the right price, he was game for just about anything. typically, he was not in for the long con, wanted to get in, get out, and get paid. so when the job came along—pretending to be someone’s boyfriend—it was almost laughable. not his style at all. yet here he was, locked into a contract that demanded exactly that.

pretend. it was a performance he resented, a role he hated, but shiu had been patient enough to explain it to him repeatedly: this was a means to an end. not real. just business. but toji didn’t buy it—not fully. because the moment he laid eyes on you, the daughter of some scummy, power-hungry politician, it twisted something inside him he wasn’t ready to name.

you weren’t what he expected. you were old enough to navigate the world, but still naive enough to be prey. the endless attempts on your life were proof enough of that. your father, a man with enemies in every shadow, had made you a target, and toji had been hired to keep you alive until the storm passed.

he’d met your father only once—gruff, oily, desperate for protection he couldn’t buy outright. toji accepted the contract with a smirk. this one was different.

usually, he didn’t do long jobs. no dragging out, no strings attached. but the payout? it was obscene, something that promised security beyond the next paycheck—a small fortune just for keeping you breathing. that stack of cash was going to buy him a new life, one where he could afford to be indifferent about everything except what he wanted.and if pretending to be your boyfriend was the price of admission, so be it.

your first meeting was terse, clipped. toji was even more curt than usual, and shiu couldn’t help but chuckle behind his back.

“you’re really off your game,” shiu had joked later. toji had ignored him, the corners of his mouth tight.

you stood there—calm, unshaken—like you had nothing to lose and everything to prove. you were beautiful, yes. but more than that, you radiated a strange kind of quiet strength, a composure that unsettled toji in a way he didn’t expect. “thanks for taking the job, fushiguro,” you said, voice steady, no hint of fear or awe.

“toji,” he corrected sharply, cutting you off. he wasn’t fushiguro—not in this arrangement. he was toji. no room for formalities here. without waiting for a reply, he brushed past you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, bringing only the bare essentials.

goddamn it. he liked you. not in the way a man liked a woman—no, that was messy and complicated. but there was something disarming about you: your kindness, your fire, the way you didn’t flinch when he entered the room. you looked at him like he was just another obstacle to push past, and that unnerved him more than it should have.

toji made it clear he wanted distance. he stayed holed up in the guest room, insisting it was for his work. he spent hours inspecting every nook and cranny of the apartment—scanning for bugs, tracking suspicious activity, watching every visitor, every shadow.

but the truth was, it felt less like a mission and more like a sentence. because every morning, like clockwork, you were there before him, bustling in the kitchen. breakfast for two.

after a few days, you’d nailed his preferences with unsettling precision—the exact way he liked his coffee, the times he preferred to eat, even the small details like his favorite cuts of meat or the way he liked his eggs. he wanted to hate it. but the smell of your cooking, the warmth of the apartment, the sound of your soft humming as you worked—it all chipped away at his resolve.

you were as distant as he was. there was no warmth between you, no awkward stammering or false smiles. you were indifferent. and yet, that indifference drove him mad.

every day, he fought the urge to speak to you beyond what was necessary, to tease you, to make you laugh. you were so impossibly beautiful, and he wanted to see that smile break free, even just once. but you kept him at arm’s length—refusing to drop the formal “fushiguro,” insisting on driving yourself everywhere, rejecting his protective offers with a calm defiance. he wasn’t sure if you hated him, or just didn’t care.

nights were long and sleepless. toji barely closed his eyes, watching every movement in the apartment like a predator. but he noticed you didn’t sleep much either—likely haunted by the fear of waking to a blade at your throat or a gun pressed to your temple.

he could tell you rested easier since he arrived, but the tension was always there. you didn’t trust him. not really. shiu told you toji would do anything for money—risk his life, bleed, even die. but that hardly settled the gnawing doubt.

toji acted like he wanted nothing to do with you—cold, distant, biting in his sarcasm. he mocked your home décor, your pet cat, anything he could to needle you. it was a poor mask for his growing frustration. you took the jabs without flinching, without returning fire. you wore your stoicism like armor. you were thankful he was there—at least that much was true.

even without a job to keep you busy, you filled your days. you read constantly, devouring books with an appetite that surprised toji. you crocheted—something toji never expected to find charming, but watching you work the yarn through your fingers, calm and methodical, was strangely captivating.

you cooked. and you cooked well. thrilled to have someone to share your experiments with, you kept a little tally card ranking each dish by how much you thought toji liked it. reading his face was a challenge.

toji was the kind of man who’d lick his plate clean whether it was tasteless congee or the finest kimchi dumplings. but over time, you learned to notice the small tells: the flicker of raised eyebrows, the twitch of scarred lips that almost became a smile, the way he’d sometimes devour leftovers—or refuse them. when he refused, you packed the extras and brought them to nearby shelters or friends who appreciated the meals.

to keep the act going, you’d introduced him as your boyfriend. your friends were terrified of him, whispering about the intimidating figure who shadowed your life. you swore up and down he was a gentle giant.

toji, of course, thought you were a fool to leave the safety of the apartment. one of the few real conversations you had was an argument about your refusal to stay locked away like a caged animal. “I already quit my job,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to be reduced to some doll playing dress-up in one of my father’s luxury apartments.”

he admired the fire simmering beneath your calm exterior—the kind of fire he could light and feed, even if it never quite broke free. “‘forced’ to quit your job? poor thing,” he said dryly. “you act like that’s a punishment. I don’t get paid unless you survive past the election. after that, you’re free to do whatever you want.”

you didn’t listen. and he secretly loved that. he was afraid of what that meant—that he was falling for you. your calm, measured strength, your quiet rebellion. you sneaked out one morning, slipping away in the shadows just as the farmer’s market came to life nearby. toji found you—not with anger, not with a scolding, but slipping silently behind you within half an hour. his eyes scanned the crowds like a doberman on a scent, glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance your way too long.

for the first time, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the armor—something almost like care. that was when things began to shift. you were no longer just the charge, the contract, the obligation. you were becoming...a companion.

he learned the way you smiled when something amused you, how your laughter was low and genuine. he noticed the way your brows creased when you read something that caught your attention. he was no longer a stranger in your life.

if either of you had been honest, you would’ve admitted he had become something more than a bodyguard. he was your boyfriend, just like the contract had stated. he held your hand during quiet walks through the city—“to keep up appearances,” he grumbled, though no one was around to see. he steered your grocery cart, picking out the items you requested while you focused on your list. 

slowly, he became a part of your world. and maybe, just maybe, you were becoming a part of his…and that’s why, the morning you don’t wake up beside him, toji’s chest tightens with a cold, gut-wrenching panic.

gone are the days when you slipped out before dawn, tiptoeing past his guarded watch like a ghost avoiding the light. now, when you wanted to leave, you asked—sometimes even insisted—that he come with you. but this morning? there was no note, no whisper, no quiet footsteps fading down the hall. you were gone.

the ransom letter was a savage slap in the face, but what truly shattered him was how it was addressed—not to your father, not to some faceless politician, but to him. toji fushiguro. shiu drove him to the location marked on the letter, but the drive was silent except for toji’s grinding teeth and shallow breaths. when they arrived, toji didn’t hesitate—didn’t bother with pleasantries or playing along. he threatened shiu, razor-sharp voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

toji didn’t have the ransom money. hell, he never planned on handing over a single cent. his plan was razor-simple: get you out—alive. the killings were brutal, cold, almost automatic, each one a step closer to you.

when he finally found you—trembling, bruised, but breathing—everything else faded. before you could even speak, before you could protest, he scooped you up without hesitation.

“put me down,” you tried, voice shaky but determined.

“no.” his voice was low, sharp, no room for argument. “you’re not walking out of here on your own.”

you tried to push against his chest, weak but insistent. “I’m fine. really.”

he shook his head, voice cracking with something close to desperation. “doesn’t matter if you’re fine or not. I thought you were dead.” he buried his face in your hair, arms locking around you like a cage—safe, fierce, unyielding. “I’m not letting go. not until you’re somewhere safe.” your protests faltered, swallowed by the pounding of your heart and the steady thrum of his. he carried you away from it like you weight was nothing, like he was happy to be carrying it, and he was. 

the car ride home was thick with unspoken tension. shiu squirmed in the driver seat, clearly baffled by the strange dynamic between you two. toji’s eyes were dark, wild—furious and scared, all at once. he wasn’t just angry. he was terrified.

back in your apartment, everything shifted. toji was softer. he cleaned your wounds with care—gentle hands tracing away dried blood, questioning your well-being even when you insisted you were fine.

“no,” he scoffed. “you’re not fine. you’re still here because I didn't let those assholes finish the job.”

that night, he refused to let you cook, ordering in some regrettable takeout that neither of you touched with enthusiasm. he watched you like a hawk—every blink, every shiver, every quiet breath—until exhaustion finally pulled you under. when you finally climbed into bed, he didn’t leave.

“you don’t have to stay, toji. the guest room’s just twenty feet away.”

his voice was rough, low, and thick with something raw you hadn’t heard before. “yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I was twenty feet away when you got taken.” he sank into the chair you’d barely noticed before—one you kept mostly for decoration—and didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.” no explanations. no promises. just presence.

after that day, everything between you changed. toji became something more than a hired gun. he became your boyfriend—not just in name, but in every small gesture. you talked—really talked—for the first time. about his past, the ghosts he carried, the scars left by a wife he’d lost in ways no one understood. about your father, the political games, the betrayals and backstabbing that left you both hollow in different ways.

you showed him your recipe ranking card, and he smiled—rough, rare—and corrected your assessments.

“onigiri, a couple weeks ago? that was the best I’ve ever had,” he admitted, voice a little softer than usual. “make it again. please.” he’s teasing, but you don’t laugh, in fact his plea roots itself deeply and seriously in your chest. 

he bought you little trinkets—simple jewelry he wanted to see you wear, something to remind you he was here. he offered his hoodies when the nights got cold, and you accepted, feeling the warmth of something you hadn’t known you needed.

movie nights became a ritual—mostly his favorites, gory horror flicks that had you curling into his side whenever the blood spilled a little too vividly, and he teases you mercilessly, even though he secretly loves how you tuck your face against his chest like you trust him with the darkest, ugliest things.

the election came and went. your father won by a landslide, just like you both knew he would. toji was off the hook, free to retreat back to the hellhole apartment he called home—or whatever ramshackle place shiu could find for him to crash in.

but your guest room sat empty, pristine, a silent invitation. besides, life here had its perks. the soba and udon cart just a few blocks away. shiu close enough to catch him if needed. you insisted he stay. at first, it was a joke. then it became a hope.

and finally, it became something more. one night, as you rambled about the neighborhood—the quiet streets, the friendly shopkeepers, the little park bench where you liked to read—he cut you off with a kiss. soft, deliberate. the kind of kiss that said everything without saying a word. “I’m staying,” he murmured against your lips. and just like that, the guest room wasn’t empty anymore.

there were murmurs, and not the kind geto could afford to ignore.

at first, it amused him. the whispers that he’d never taken a woman before—never so much as kissed someone in earnest, never truly let another person into his personal sphere. as if he cared. as if any of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. he wasn’t here to play house. he was building a world. a new age. a godhood. but over time, the whispers festered. they didn’t remain idle gossip passed around bored followers in temple halls. no—rumor became narrative, and narrative became belief. and belief, to geto, was currency. worship was leverage. if the people started to think he was unloved, undesirable, even unworthy…well. that was bad for business.

his presence had always demanded respect, but lately it had been drawing more pity than awe. so, he considered the simplest solution: take a wife. the logic was clean. appearances mattered. to the world, he would become a man desired. a man chosen. it didn’t need to be real—he just needed a woman who looked good on his arm and knew how to smile through a lie. he could force it, if he had to. plenty of women in his ranks would drop to their knees for him without hesitation. he could choose any one of them, claim her, and that would be that. but they were...unimpressive. all of them. pretty, yes. devoted. but empty vessels. parroting back doctrine without a shred of understanding. suguru geto was not going to be associated—married—to someone who couldn't hold his gaze without asking permission.

so he remained single. untouched. unbothered. until manami pointed you out. you were not one of his. you were not a sorcerer, not even particularly spiritual. but you had just graduated with a degree in some intimidating branch of mathematics, and you carried yourself like a woman who knew things. not just facts—but people. the way your eyes scanned a room before entering. the way you paused, mid-sentence, like your mind worked in algorithms and not emotions.

you were not beautiful in the way the others were. you were devastating. geto watched you once. then again. then again. and suddenly he found himself doing something he hadn't done in years: considering. he didn’t want to kidnap you—though, in a different life, that might’ve been easier. no. if you were to be his, you had to come willingly. even if only for show. but what was he supposed to say? hello. I'm suguru geto. I run a violent, weird cult and believe most of humanity is a disease, and wish to wipe them out, you included. be my wife? hard sell.

so he softened. slowed down. approached carefully. he befriended you. as much as he could. coffee in crowded cafes. long, quiet walks filled with philosophical debates you didn’t know you’d win. you challenged him in a way that was neither aggressive nor flirtatious—it was natural. and he hated how much he liked it. you weren’t enamored with him, and that made you perfect. you weren’t trying to impress him, and that made him obsessed.

he knew it wouldn’t last. his time was stretched too thin. his followers were waiting, watching, wondering. he needed a solution. so he made you a deal. marriage. in name only. three to five years. no romance, no expectation. he would cover your expenses. you would live in his home—technically. your own room. your own space. all he asked in return was attendance. appear beside him during select gatherings. smile. nod. pretend. that was all.

you were skeptical. overthinker that you were. he liked that about you—until it made him afraid you’d say no.

then, the night of a morale-boosting celebration—one of those ornate, incense-slick parties filled with silent devotees and powerful investors—you showed up. you didn’t just walk in. you showed up. hair done up like it was sacred. a modest but stunning dress. jewelry glinting like devotion. your nails were painted. your perfume was intentional.

you approached him in full view of the gathering and—without asking—kissed his cheek. your lips lingered long enough to let the room talk. then you leaned into his ear and whispered, soft as sin: “I’ll accept your deal.” he had expected relief. instead, he felt desire. not lust. not even love. something worse—attachment. interest. a dangerous craving for something he couldn’t control.

he spent the rest of the evening parading you through the room, introducing you as his girlfriend—wife, if you corrected him, which you often did—with a quiet affection that bordered on convincing. he watched you charm donors, engage with scholars, maneuver conversations with calculated grace. you made him look like a fool in comparison, and he adored you for it.

the transition was quick. you moved into the estate. brought only what you needed. your room remained tidy. you were unobtrusive, like a guest in a museum. but your presence lingered in the air. a forgotten book on the table. a mug with lipstick at the rim. a scarf that smelled like soap and morning.

you played your role flawlessly. sat beside him with quiet loyalty. held his arm with a lover’s grace. you never slipped. not once. and the cult loved you. they bowed to you with more devoutness than they ever offered him. they brought you flowers. confided in you. hung on your words. you didn’t ask for their worship, but they gave it freely.

where geto commanded with doctrine, you ruled with kindness.

and slowly, the rumors changed. no longer was he the pathetic, untouched false prophet. no. now he was something else—something enviable. a man with a sharp, elegant wife who had chosen him. how else could he have pulled someone like you?

it was late—close to midnight. the halls of his northern shrine were quiet, flickering with the low, golden light of oil lamps. geto had wandered them without thought, seeking nothing. just movement. restless in the way only men who are too full of feeling and too empty of peace can be.

that was when he heard your voice. faint, from around a stone corner. not afraid. but strained. he paused in the shadow of a carved pillar, half-hidden, half-listening. a higher-level follower—one of the more politically useful but spiritually hollow types—stood speaking with you. no, not speaking. lamenting.

“...he’s too harsh. too rigid,” the man sighed. “I’ll be honest, the only reason I've stayed loyal to this place is because of you. you make this place livable.”

a pause. your reply came short, clipped. “thank you.” but then—colder. “that said, you misunderstand him. suguru acts out of necessity, not cruelty. if he wanted a cult full of weaklings, he’d put on a softer face. but he doesn’t. he wants people with purpose. with power. that takes force.”

geto froze. heart in his throat. you weren’t defending him out of obligation. you were…angry. angry on his behalf. “he’s not heartless,” you continued, voice steady, razor-sharp. “he’s strategic. he’s smarter than most of us combined, and the weight he carries would crush you if you tried to bear it for even a day. he’s a better man than you think.” something twisted in geto’s gut. something old and bright and dangerous. because when the man laughed lowly and leaned closer to you—too close, with a smile too familiar—it turned to a spark of rage.

“still,” the man murmured, “you could’ve done better than him.”

you stepped back. your discomfort was visible, even in your silence. you didn’t like this. you didn’t want it. that was enough. geto stepped forward, quiet as death. “go home.” the man startled. his mouth opened, closed again. geto’s presence was ice. his voice, quieter now, more final: “don’t speak to my wife again.”

there were no threats. no violence. but he left shaking. you stood stiff, looking down at your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“you didn’t,” he replied. “I did.”

but his gaze lingered, almost intimate. you had defended him. without being asked. without reward. not for appearances—but because you meant it. he left that night different than he arrived. something in him had shifted. whatever tether had been holding him back, had been convincing him this was just strategy—just performance—had frayed completely.

from then on, geto became yours in the quietest, clearest of ways. he skipped council meetings to sit with you on the back balcony, legs crossed beneath him as you braided his long hair with gentle, idle fingers. he abandoned tactical briefings just to listen to you explain some theorem he didn’t understand but loved watching you describe—so alive, so sharp. he no longer held court after dark. his evenings belonged to you.

he didn't care that his men muttered about how soft he’d become. that his enemies started whispering about how domesticated he looked. that his public image had cracked around the edges. he let it.

you were the first good thing in years that didn’t ask him to be something else. and in turn, he stopped trying to resist the pull. he watched you build a quiet life within his temple walls—still working, still learning, always hungry to understand more. you weren’t ornamental, you weren’t submissive, and you weren’t easily impressed.

you just…were. and that was enough.

he began to crave those soft weekend mornings, when he’d find you sitting alone on one of the garden benches, knees to chest, reading something complicated. your brows drawn, lips slightly parted in thought. he’d sit beside you, close but not intrusive, letting his fingers trace soft lines into the skin of your arm or thigh. a grounding ritual neither of you questioned anymore.

he picked wildflowers from temple paths and tucked them behind your ears with complete sincerity. he carried you inside when you fell asleep near the water, curled into yourself like some forgotten nymph, his coat draped over your shoulders.

he loved you. he hadn’t said it. but everyone could see it. and you? you were falling, too. gently. undeniably. it was in the way your head tilted toward him when he entered a room. the way your hands lingered longer when brushing against his. the way you now wore rings on both hands, but only one mattered.

your place in his home grew permanent in the most quiet, irreversible ways. your clothes in his wardrobe. your slippers by the door. your hum in the kitchen. your toothbrush beside his. you weren’t pretending anymore, and neither was he.

so it made perfect sense—though it still managed to break him completely—when one night, as the stars hung low over the lake and the house had gone still, you kissed him. you were brave. braver than he’d ever been. your lips were soft but certain, trembling only slightly as they pressed against his.

geto froze. and then he shattered. he kissed you back with something dangerous in his chest. hands braced on either side of you, mouth rougher now, panting against your skin. he pressed you gently against the wall, reverent but greedy, overwhelmed by how long he’d waited.

“my wife,” he groaned between kisses, as if the words hurt to say.

now that you were his—truly his, not just in title but in breath, in blood, in shared silence—geto stopped pretending he was anything less than obsessed with you. he became…possessive. not in the loud, showy way. no, he didn’t flaunt you. he didn’t drape you in diamonds or have you paraded at his side. he didn’t need to. you existed in his life, and that was enough to shatter his composure completely.

he stopped bringing you to cult gatherings as often, no longer sat you at his right hand during meetings. not because he was ashamed—god, no—but because the sight of other people bowing to you stirred something ugly in him. pride, yes, but also jealousy. they looked at you too long. they took too much from your softness.

his wife—and oh, how the title ruined him. he said it constantly. unnecessarily. gleefully. he used it to tease you, smirking with lazy smugness every time your cheeks flushed. “my wife,” he whispered as he kissed your shoulder. “my wife,” as he untied your apron in the kitchen. “my wife,” while you argued over chess strategies and he let you win anyway. it was annoying. it was adorable. you loved it.

and yet, despite his ease with you, despite the quiet comfort you brought him, geto still had moments where panic gnawed at the edges of his ribs. what if you wanted more? what if the lake and the shrine and his terrible world were not enough for you? what if you grew restless, and one day you left?

he tried to hide it, but one evening—when the sun had nearly dipped beneath the horizon and the air smelled like moss and the lake shimmered silver—he broke. you were sitting beside him on a blanket, curled against his side, wearing one of his old black robes like it belonged to you (and it did). the world was quiet. softly spinning.

“I can let you go,” he said suddenly. you looked at him, a little startled.

“if you want,” he added, slower now, like the words hurt. “you don’t owe me anything. this arrangement...I never meant for it to trap you. if you want to leave—truly—I’ll make it safe for you. I’ll fund your life for as long as you need. no one will follow. no one will stop you.”

your gaze didn't leave him. you let him finish, then reached out and took his hand, weaving your fingers through his. you leaned your temple against his shoulder. “if I wanted to leave, suguru,” you murmured, “I would've.” silence stretched between you, sweet and thick and tender. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” he didn’t reply at first. his throat closed around something too raw.

but then he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and letting himself breathe again. you could feel the way he exhaled—like the weight of the entire shrine, of the whole world, had finally left his shoulders. he held you tighter.

satoru had spent years pissing off the higher-ups, mocking them behind closed doors, disobeying orders with a smile, and tossing out their thinly-veiled demands like yesterday’s trash. they’d long grown tired of his antics, but tolerated them, because gojo was, after all, the strongest. untouchable. unmanageable. unmarried.

they’d been pushing for a union for years—someone respectable, traditional. a woman from a noble clan. quiet. pretty. powerful enough to birth the next heir of the gojo line, obedient enough to stay in her lane. it sickened him. the very thought of shackling some poor woman to the political machinery of the jujutsu world—to him—felt inherently cruel. he refused, outright and loudly.

that is, until he met you. you showed up quietly at jujutsu tech one spring, a new instructor assigned to teach close combat. fists only. you didn’t wield a flashy cursed technique. you didn’t brag or posture. you taught students how to survive with grit and knuckles and instinct.

he noticed you before he even realized he had. at first, it was just curiosity—how you held your ground in the staff meetings, how you always sat by yourself at lunch but never looked lonely. you were strong. maybe not gojo-level strong, but you moved with precision and power, and your presence commanded attention. still, what struck him most wasn’t any of that.

it was your kindness. you weren’t sweet in the obvious way. you weren’t a pushover. but there was something about you—gentle when you didn’t have to be, encouraging even on your worst days. the students adored you. nobara would go on and on about how much more she liked you than any other teacher, looking pointedly at gojo. yuuji would recount everything you’d taught him during training, as if the other first years hadn’t been there. megumi liked you, too, of course in his own secretive, soft way. 

and gojo? he was smitten. not instantly. it happened over weeks. months. you disarmed him with every passing day. he kept expecting you to hate him like utahime did. to pity him like nanami sometimes did. but you didn’t. you laughed at his jokes. called him out when he deserved it. you treated him like a person, not a weapon, not a myth.

he hadn’t planned to say anything at the next clan meeting. but when they started in again about marriage, the words just tumbled out. “wouldn’t it be hilarious if I married the new combat teacher?” he said it like a punchline. a grin tugged at his mouth. a joke. sort of. not really.

the elders pounced. unorthodox, yes—but at least it was something. they took it seriously. they liked the idea. you were respectable enough. and if this was what it took to get satoru to do what they wanted—fine. a quiet, pretty wife with discipline and strength. acceptable. they brought it up to you the next week. not as a suggestion. as an order.

gojo had never felt guiltier. he told himself—swore to himself—that if you so much as hesitated, if you looked the slightest bit hurt or uncomfortable, he’d call it off immediately. but you didn’t. you said yes. calmly. clearly. like it was just another mission. and being married to satoru gojo didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

the wedding was beautiful. lavish to the point of discomfort. you’d never been given anything like this. flowers, silks, gold-dusted food. the dress alone was enough to make you feel like a stranger in your own skin—white and flowing, clinging in all the places gojo tried so hard not to look at. he kept close to you, but not overly so—hands tucked behind his back, smiles offered gently. he didn’t want to make you feel like a prize or an ornament.

the ceremony wasn’t for you. not even for him, not really. it was for them. for the elders, for the world, for the headlines. you said yes because that’s what good sorcerers do. and gojo—well, gojo made it as bearable as possible. sweet, funny, thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect. 

then came the house. if the wedding was unsettling, his estate was something else entirely. a mansion outside the city, all glass and high ceilings, polished floors that felt too clean to walk on. he gave you the grand tour, pointing out rooms he hadn’t been in for years.

“I forgot this one even existed,” he muttered as he opened a study lined with books. “seriously, I don’t know who’s been dusting in here, but I need to give them a raise.”

the kitchens were fully staffed. cooks, assistants, spotless fridges full of delicacies you didn’t even recognize. you nearly cried. when he asked what was wrong, you couldn’t quite answer. the kindness? the extravagance? it felt too big, too much. you’d never had luxury before. never had ease.

he showed you to your room across the hall from his. you gasped softly. it was bigger than your entire apartment had been. the walls were still mostly bare, the bedframe stark—but the potential shimmered. “I’ll fill it with anything you want,” he promised. “you want books? a piano? anything. say the word.”

you laughed, and something clicked in his chest. from that moment, gojo made a quiet, private vow: he would spoil you. gently. endlessly. just because he could.

you lived together, so time together became natural. you woke up at the same time, got ready side by side. his showers were long and theatrical. your mornings were quiet and fast. you tried to help in the kitchen—couldn’t shake the guilt—but satoru stopped you every time. “I hired them,” he said softly. “they’re paid very well. let them do it for you.” you nodded, but it still sat heavy in your chest. you’d never had help before. never been allowed to relax.

but you still felt it—that looming question. why me? you weren’t from a notable clan. you weren’t docile. you didn’t bat your lashes and whisper behind silk fans. you weren’t a perfect wife.

and yet, gojo couldn’t stop watching you. couldn’t stop thinking how lucky he was to have you in his orbit. so he started to shower you in praise. a constant stream of warmth, tucked into jokes and winks and soft murmurs.

“you look radiant today, wife.”

“you’re too good to these kids.”

“your students love you, y’know? but not as much as I do.”

every compliment made your heart skip. still, after months, you felt like a guest in his home. so he asked you out on a date. “come on,” he said one evening, spinning his chopsticks. “let me take you out. one night. for real. if we’re gonna live together, we might as well know each other, right?” you hesitated. but you agreed. and the restaurant…oh, it was a mistake.

the building shimmered. the valet line alone made your stomach twist. you’d checked the menu before leaving—it cost more than a month’s groceries. you were dolled up, but you didn’t feel like yourself. this wasn’t your world. this wasn’t you.

you stood on the curb, heart hammering, sure he’d regret this the moment he saw you. and then he did see you. and gojo forgot how to breathe. god, you were beautiful. he wanted to bottle the image of you—eyes wide, shoulders drawn in shyly, that tiny uncertain smile. you didn’t know what to do with your hands. you looked like you wanted to run. and he never wanted to make you feel that way.

“you look stunning,” he said, not joking for once.

you flushed. “you don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not–I'm not saying it because I have to,” he says, earnestly, a little disturbed at the suggestion. “I’m saying it because I want to.” your embarrassment and joy at his words was too strong for you to form a response. 

dinner was…perfect. he talked too much. you listened, soft and smiling. you talked a little, about work, about your students, about your favorite kind of bento. he leaned in closer, listening like you were the most important voice in the world. and you felt it. slowly. you felt it. safe. wanted. not as an object. not as a sorcerer. but just… as you.

you laughed when he told you about a mission gone wrong—accidentally setting off a cursed trap that dyed his hair slightly green for two days. he laughed when you mimicked yuuji’s horrendous battle stance. the air between you shifted.

you felt beautiful under his gaze. he felt peace in your presence. by the time dessert came, you forgot how uncomfortable you’d been. by the time the bill came, you forgot how small you’d felt. by the time he walked you to your room that night, you forgot this had started as anything less than real.

“goodnight���satoru.” and down the hall, in a room big enough to hold his loneliness, satoru lay awake and smiled to himself. she called me satoru. like it meant something.

from the moment you said goodnight, something in gojo shifted. he stopped pretending. not just to the elders. not just to the students. to himself. whatever arrangement had brought you together was irrelevant now. because for him—fully, totally, undeniably—it was real.

he’d fallen for you. maybe slowly. maybe all at once. but it had happened. irrevocably. irreversibly. and now, he woke up each morning and counted the ways he was doomed. he told himself he’d wait. however long it took. however long you needed. because he thought—maybe, just maybe—you were starting to fall, too.

he saw it in the soft smile you gave him when he drove you to work, lingering just a second longer than necessary before getting out of the car. he saw it in the note you tucked into his coat pocket during your lunch break: “I’ll be home late, meeting with ijichi and yaga. don’t wait up <3” but of course, he waited up. you were worth losing sleep over. he saw it in the mochi balls you left in the freezer when you went on overnight missions. the ones in his favorite flavor—always yours to begin with, now his because you decided so. he saw it in how you leaned into him, instinctively, when some kyoto teacher tried to talk over you at a summit. as if his presence was the only shield you trusted.

gojo had spent his entire life being a weapon. an asset. a symbol. he’d been used, revered, feared—but never once had he been treated like someone who could be loved. until you. you made him feel gentle. and he clung to that feeling like salvation.

he took you on dates like his life depended on it. maybe it did. dinner, of course—often too fancy, always too expensive. but also quiet walks through the countryside, boots crunching on leaves, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. hikes through the mountains, where he’d tease you with sweets at the summit and watch you roll your eyes, breathless and pink-cheeked in the cold.

big sorcerer galas, where he let you coo and tsk and fuss over his migraines he’d get from not wearing his mask, massaging his temples with warm hands while whispering, “does that feel better?” god, how could you even ask that when it was the best thing he’d ever felt? he was putty in your hands, melting fast—and happily.

there were smaller dates, too. the kind that mattered more. little bookstores tucked in tokyo alleys. underground musicians he knew you liked. libraries where he’d watch you run your fingers down spines and mentally note every title you paused at.

to be loved, he realized, was to be known. so gojo satoru made it his one goal in life: to know you.

he asked questions constantly. what’s your favorite color? your favorite season? favorite book? favorite breakfast food? have you ever broken a bone? what was your worst day of high school? you answered shyly at first, then more easily. he remembered everything.

a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers appeared in your room every week. he didn’t just read your favorite book—he devoured it. then cornered you in the kitchen to discuss every plot twist like it was the most pressing political scandal of the year. your laughter sounded like home.

you were still humble. still quietly unsure. still never asked for anything. but you’d stopped flinching when he gave you a compliment. stopped shrinking when he spoiled you. you didn’t encourage it exactly—didn’t clap your hands and beg for more—but you didn’t recoil anymore either. you took his love in slow, careful sips, as if trying not to choke on it.

gojo noticed. and he cherished every bit of it. he never said it aloud, but his chest had been torn wide open and stuffed full of sunshine. if you turned off all the lights, he’d glow in the dark.

and maybe that’s why, on one chilly night, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. you were walking the gardens outside his estate. slowly. almost aimlessly. your pace had slowed to nothing. you were bundled in his jacket, too big on you, sleeves swallowed by your hands. the air was crisp. stars overhead. silence between you.

then you turned to him, voice quiet. “thank you…for this life.” he froze. you kept going. “I know you could’ve had anyone. I know the higher-ups have been trying to marry you off for years. I know I'm not…” your voice cracked. you looked away. “I just hope I've been good enough.”

satoru felt something dark and furious twist in his chest. he didn’t speak. he grabbed you. one hand cupped your cheek. the other slid around your waist. he kissed you like he’d been starving for you—because he had. you kissed like that for a long time. breathless. desperate. full of everything unsaid.

when he finally pulled back, you were dazed. warm. his forehead pressed against yours. “I asked for you.” your breath caught.

“I asked them to pick you.” his voice cracked. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid. I didn't know how else to have you.” his words poured out in a rush. “I’m sorry if it felt like a lie, I swear I didn't mean for it to. I just—I didn’t want to trick you, I just didn’t think I could ever actually deserve you. you’re so good. you make me feel—human. and I let you think you weren’t enough when really I'm the one who’s not—”

you didn’t let him finish. you grabbed his collar and kissed him again. fierce. certain. real. that was your answer. and it was more than enough. satoru couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his married life knowing you. 

ino had spent the better part of his life proving himself. becoming a grade 1 sorcerer under mentor recommendation wasn’t easy—especially not when you were once the kid with the fake glasses and something to prove. it took years of training, fighting, and swallowing his doubts like medicine. and when he finally got that promotion, that recognition? it felt good. really good. but short-lived. because the higher-ups didn’t care much for individual merit. not really. they cared about bloodlines, continuity. legacy. the survival of jujutsu society through children—preferably from the strongest, the best, the most ‘respectable’ clans.

it was gross. he knew it was gross. but still...he couldn’t deny it. that fantasy had always lingered at the edges of his mind. the dream. a sweet, beautiful wife—someone soft and kind, who called him honey and kissed him on the cheek and left sticky notes on the fridge. kids, loud and messy, who ran through the hallways with little paper talismans and toy weapons. a small home. a big one. didn’t matter. just a life—one that didn’t end with his cursed energy bleeding out on some battlefield.

he loved his job. he really did. loved helping people. loved protecting them. loved being useful. but that kind of love had a cost. and ino, even as young as he still was, could feel it gnawing at him. he was 15 when he became a first-year at jujutsu tech. since then, every second of his life had gone toward climbing the ranks. he didn’t go to parties. didn’t have dumb high school crushes or hold hands under lunch tables. didn’t go on vacations or have summers off. he had given everything to this life.

so, when the elders called him in at twenty-one and handed him a marriage file? he didn’t fight it. maybe that should’ve bothered him more than it did. maybe it would’ve, if he hadn’t opened that folder and seen you.

just a photo. a passport-style headshot. it wasn’t much. but even in that sterile little image, you were gorgeous. it kind of knocked the air out of him. he wasn’t sure if it was just the whole you’re gonna be my wife thing making him feel a little delirious, but… you looked like the kind of woman who was already out of his league, and now—somehow—he was marrying you.

the rest of the file gave him a little more context. you were the same age. same amount of years in the field. smart—really smart—according to your transcripts (which made him laugh; what did test scores have to do with being a good wife?). from a small, quiet clan, not big or flashy, but deeply respected. strong, too. you had dozens of successful missions under your belt and several commendations.

too perfect, he thought at first. like they’d just built you in a lab to be everything he’d ever wanted. maybe that was a good thing. maybe someone like you could pull him together. soften his sharp edges. keep him steady. he didn’t want to get too excited—didn’t want to start imagining too much. but… it was hard. hard not to imagine holding your hand in public. hard not to imagine brushing his teeth next to you. falling asleep next to you. maybe even…waking up next to you with his arm still around your waist. god, he was down bad and he hadn’t even met you yet.

you didn’t meet until the wedding. he hated that part. hated that this was how you had to meet. through obligation and duty, instead of something romantic. you deserved more than this, he was sure of it. but then you walked down the aisle, and all his guilt vanished. because it wasn’t dread that hit him. it was awe. it was you, you, you, you—and nothing else.

your dress was simple, elegant, and you wore it perfectly. hair down, soft curls tucked behind your ears. your expression calm and polite, even though he could tell—just from the way you kept your hands folded—that you were a little nervous. you kept your gaze down for most of the short ceremony, only glancing at him once or twice. he didn’t mind. he was looking enough for the both of you. god, he hoped you couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

the ceremony was short. civil. boring, honestly. just enough formality to appease the elders. your family didn’t come. he didn’t ask why. he didn’t have much family of his own. maybe that was for the best. it made the moment feel smaller, more intimate. quieter. like the two of you were slipping into something private and precious, away from the noise of sorcerer society.

you answered every question like it had been rehearsed. like you were saying your lines. and ino got it. you were doing what you were told. just like him. it made something in his chest ache. he couldn’t let himself get too attached. not yet. but when the ceremony ended, and your hand finally found his—light and gentle in his palm—he knew he already was.

the house was new. small, not flashy, tucked into a sleepy neighborhood on the edge of tokyo. not too far from the school, but far enough that the city buzz faded into birdsong and the occasional neighborhood dog.

it wasn’t much—two bedrooms, a little backyard, warm hardwood floors—but to ino, it felt like everything. because you stepped inside and smiled. you ran your hand along the kitchen counter and said, “this is perfect.” and you meant it.

he showed you around room by room, stumbling over his words sometimes, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager on his first date. but you… you seemed so at ease with him. more open than you had been at the ceremony. you laughed when he opened a closet and found a wasp’s nest. you gasped when you saw the backyard garden that had come with the property.

you already trusted him, somehow. that’s what it felt like. and ino was desperate to protect that.

he put all the furniture together by hand. dragged in chairs and tables, assembled bedframes with sore wrists, then unassembled them and reassembled them when you decided they’d look better in the other room. he didn’t mind. in fact, he’d never been happier to bruise his thumbs with an allen wrench.

every night that week, the two of you cooked dinner together. sometimes you sat in the kitchen and read while he worked. other nights you danced around each other in your socks, making curry and rice and bickering playfully about how spicy was too spicy. you seemed to be very fast friends. 

you didn’t know it yet—but he was already in love with you. quietly, fully. 

one night, over dishes still warm from rinsing, you told him. not in many words. just a whisper, quiet as steam rising from the sink. you hadn’t known what to expect from him. you’d been so afraid. that he would be cruel. controlling. that he’d treat you like something owned, expected things from you without asking. an heir. obedience. silence. you’d been prepared to be treated like an asset, like you always had. a sorcerer first. a woman second. a person last. you didn’t say much more. you didn’t need to. ino didn’t say anything, either. but it hit him like a curse to the chest.

first—guilt. heavy and hot in his gut. not because of anything he’d done, but because you’d been made to think your whole life would be like that. that someone like him—who wanted so badly to be good, to be gentle, to be enough—could be feared by someone like you. that someone must’ve made you believe you weren’t worth softness, safety, or kindness.

then—grief. quiet, cold. the ache of watching someone you care about shrink into themselves. the sadness of knowing you’d walked into this marriage bracing for pain. expecting commands, demands, rules, punishments. he hated that for you. hated every memory that must’ve taught you that love came with conditions.

and finally—relief. thick and sharp. like taking a breath after holding it underwater. because he could be safe for you. he was safe for you. and more than that—he wanted to be. you weren’t scared of him now. not when you sat beside him at dinner. not when you touched his hand during movies. not when you smiled sleepily at him from the couch like you weren’t afraid of anything at all.

you trusted him. and it made him want to weep with gratitude. so he didn’t speak. he just kept drying the dishes. handed them to you gently. let his fingers brush yours. and in that silence, in that fragile, wordless space—you relaxed. for the first time in your life.

and so did he. because even though takuma ino was silly and light-hearted and maybe didn’t always say the right thing, with you…he didn’t have to prove anything. he wasn’t just a sorcerer. he wasn’t just a husband by contract. he was someone who could love you, and that, he realized, was the best thing he’d ever be allowed to do.

things were perfect in a way that made takuma nervous. not the kind of nervous he got before a mission or when he had to answer to gojo or yaga. not even the kind of nervous he felt the first time you’d stood across from him at the altar, calm and unreadable while he’d practically vibrated with anxious energy. no, this was different.

this was the kind of nervous that crept in after you realized everything you wanted was already in your hands. because life had never felt this full before. this bright. this good. and he had you to thank for all of it. ino had once hoped—naively, maybe stupidly—that being married to someone strong and serious might whip him into shape. that his new wife would be strict, sharp, practical. that she’d mirror the same steely, polished professionalism expected of a grade 1 sorcerer’s spouse. maybe she’d keep his head on straight. help him level up in the ways that counted: promotions, reputation, rank. make him better.

but then you came along—and takuma forgot what he was trying to be better for. because with you, he didn’t think about sorcery at all. he didn’t think about his technique. or how long it had been since nanami had last given him a nod of approval. or how many cursed spirits he’d banished in the last six months. none of that mattered. 

all he could think about was you. how much he liked you. how soft you made him feel. how he woke up every morning wondering how he could make you smile that day—how he could earn your happiness, and keep it. he knew the nature of arranged marriages in jujutsu society. they were never designed to be tender. they were contracts. strategic. binding. and he didn’t even want to think about the consequences he’d face if you ever left him—professionally or personally. but it was never about that. not really.

he didn’t want you to stay because of the contract. he wanted you to stay because he couldn’t go back to being alone. to being half-human, half-weapon. to measuring his worth in mission reports and scars. he couldn’t stomach the idea of being someone you used to live with. someone you used to care about.

and the wildest part? you didn’t live like that. not anymore. it was subtle at first, but ino saw it. you’d come from a house of rules, strict and sharp-edged. you were disciplined to the core, trained to put others first, to perform, to be perfect. but now…you were learning how to live.

you slept in sometimes, you ate the sweets you used to avoid, you laughed at terrible puns. you took ino on suspiciously date-like outings to coffee shops and farmer’s markets, dragging him past flower stalls and baked goods, eyes gleaming like you’d never been allowed to enjoy them before. and best of all—you never treated him like a sorcerer.

you never asked about his technique. never seemed impressed by his grade or reputation. you asked how his day was. you packed his lunch and left notes. you let him talk, vent, joke, ramble. you saw him. just him. not the title. not the rank. just takuma. and it wrecked him.

one evening, you told him—quietly, hesitantly—that you were thankful. that you didn’t know how you got so lucky, ending up with someone who was kind to you. you stumbled over the words, which wasn’t like you. you were usually so composed. but you admitted that maybe…in a different life, things would be different. the marriage wouldn’t have to be fake.

the words made his blood buzz, like he'd been holding his breath for months. without thinking, he grabbed you—not harshly, just urgently. like he needed to anchor you to the ground. like he was scared you'd float away the second you said it out loud. and then, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue since the moment he met you, he said: “it was never fake for me. from the moment I saw you, none of it was fake.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed. and then, slowly, carefully, you reached out. wrapped your arms around your husband. leaned in close. and kissed him, because isn’t that what married couples do? and takuma kissed you back like he’d been waiting his whole life to be allowed to.

……

the house was louder now. a little messier. there were fingerprints on the glass doors and juice cups in the sink, toys left halfway through elaborate adventures on the living room floor. someone had drawn all over one of his mission reports in crayon. he hadn’t even been mad.

because when he looked up and saw you—hair pinned messily back, laughing in the kitchen as you tried to scoop rice into a bowl while a toddler clung to your leg—he felt something in his chest swell so big and full it was a wonder it hadn’t broken open yet.

this was his life. you and the kids. a house full of soft chaos and unshakable joy. days that started too early and ended with little bodies asleep between you, mouths slightly open, cheeks warm with sleep. he’d never been so tired. he’d never been so happy.

takuma had once believed love would cost him something. that having a family would be another weight to carry. one more duty. another thing to fail at. but he’d been so, so wrong. this—this—wasn't a burden. this wasn’t something to carry. it was the thing that carried him. being a father was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

it changed everything. his priorities. his pace. he still took missions, still wore the badge of grade 1 with quiet pride, but he said no now. he turned down the ones that felt wrong in his gut. he left the field when he was injured. he let others take the high-risk ones. because his wife—his wife—mattered more than any of it.

he watched you now from the doorway, one arm lazily braced above the frame, eyes half-lidded with love as the kids scrambled around your legs, yelling something about dinosaurs and bugs and an impending tea party. you scooped the youngest up without missing a beat, balanced them on your hip like it was second nature. it was.

and takuma thought, not for the first time, god, she’s perfect. not just beautiful, though you were that too. but good. kind. strong. warm in a way that softened the sharpest corners of his soul.

he’d once been so scared of responsibility. now he wanted it. he wanted to be your husband. their dad. he wanted to be the one who made dinner when you were tired, who helped with math homework, who kissed bruised knees and told bedtime stories that got increasingly dramatic just to hear the kids laugh.

“I ever tell you,” he said, padding into the kitchen, voice soft as he slid behind you and kissed your temple, “that this is all I ever wanted?”

you leaned into him, eyes tired but bright. “every day,” you teased.

he grinned. “good. I’m not planning on shutting up about it.” and he meant it.

because he had everything now. a home. a family. you. and takuma—once a lonely, overworked, people-pleasing sorcerer who thought praise and promotions were the only proof he was doing something right—finally understood what it meant to live a life worth protecting.

choso was new to sorcery—but even newer to being human.

when the summons arrived, a scroll sealed and stamped in the language of tradition, yuuji and gojo were quick to explain that the higher-ups loved to play god. force alliances, breed lineages, shape the next generation of jujutsu society like clay in their gnarled hands. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” gojo had said bluntly, rolling his eyes. “they’re just bored aristocrats in robes.”

but choso hadn’t said no. not because he felt obligated—he barely recognized authority as it stood—but because…well, he thought it sounded kind of nice. sweet, even. romantic. yuuji had explained marriage to him in simple terms. a lifelong bond. partnership. someone who could be your best friend. a person who chooses to love you every day. it made choso's chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

he wasn’t even sure he could reproduce. half-curse biology was a tricky thing, and he didn’t care to explore it. but still—if it was just for looks, as gojo and yuuji insisted, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. maybe he’d get to wear something nice. eat cake. smile at someone pretty. maybe he’d get to try being romantic.

yuuji was wary on his behalf. protective. he didn't want some power-hungry clan girl using choso's status to claw her way higher up the jujutsu hierarchy. but when they met you—quiet, trembling, kind—you shattered every cynical assumption they’d had. you weren’t from a flashy family. your clan was small and conservative, one that preferred tradition and silence to showy skill. you bowed politely. you smiled nervously. you never raised your voice, never met their eyes.

choso didn’t say much on the day of the wedding. he was stunned into silence, not out of fear but from sheer sensory overload. the ceremony was extravagant, as expected, but to him it felt like magic. he wore a tuxedo for the first time. had his long hair carefully styled by a jujutsu tech assistant. yuuji stood proudly beside him, trying not to cry. there was music, too. food and flowers. a big, beautiful cake.

and then there was you. he couldn’t look away from you. your dress. your skin. the way you held your breath when your eyes met his. you looked like something out of a storybook. choso didn’t know how to be subtle, so he didn’t even try. he stared. wide-eyed. awestruck. you looked like you were glowing. he told yuuji every thought that crossed his mind after. “she smells nice,” “her dress was soft-looking,” "Is it okay to think my wife is pretty?” yuuji begged him not to say any of that to your face. not yet.

the car ride back to your new home was silent. you sat stiffly beside him, your hands folded in your lap like you were bracing for impact. choso stole little glances at you—then long ones, staring openly when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

you noticed. you kept waiting. bracing. wondering when the act would drop. you’d been raised in a home where men didn’t love. they owned. where girls were groomed to say yes and smile and open their legs whether they wanted to or not. where being married meant being silent, and scared, and useful.

but choso just stood at the threshold of your new home, turning slowly, taking everything in. the wallpaper. the strange furniture. the cozy rug. he pulled out his phone and texted yuji: “do I say something now?” then he turned and gave you a smile—shy, awkward, but genuine.

you waited. your fingers trembled in your lap. you waited for the barked orders, for the dragging hand, for the crack of authority to echo through the house. but choso only asked you softly where you wanted your boxes placed. said your name like it was something delicate in his mouth.

he talked a little that first night, though he wasn’t good at it. told you he liked your hair. that he liked the house. that it was weird but fun to wear a tux. that he was sorry if he seemed strange, he just… didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. you didn’t say much in response, mostly nodded. you couldn’t believe it. couldn’t believe that this wasn’t a trap, a test, or some cruel prank.

“kamo—” you started.

“call me choso,” he interrupted gently, his gaze sincere. “please. I—I prefer that name.”

you nodded, unsure. your voice caught in your throat. you wanted to ask a thousand questions. do you know what marriage means? do you know what you’re supposed to do with me? do you know what’s expected of you—and of me?

but you said none of them. afraid that speaking the words aloud might summon the monster.

that night, you made dinner. a modest meal, more ceremony than sustenance, just something to ground yourself in normalcy. choso ate all of it. every bite. said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “yuuji once burned ramen,” he told you proudly. “he tried so hard. it was still crunchy.”

you laughed, just a little. you didn’t know it yet, but choso would hold that sound in his chest for the rest of the week. days passed. stilted. quiet. hesitant. but safe.

you began to relax in the space. your steps no longer tiptoed. you cooked more meals. choso started asking, shyly, if you’d mind packing his lunch when he left on errands. “only if it’s not too inconvenient,” he’d say. you nodded. of course, you told him. I'm here to be useful to you, choso. he didn’t answer right away. something about the way you said it unsettled him. useful? he didn’t like the sound of that. like this marriage was about what you could for for him. 

yuuji gave him advice. told him to take you out. “like a date. a real one. show her you like her.” choso brought it up clumsily. you said yes instantly—so instantly it felt like a reflex. “you don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to,” choso told you earnestly, head tilted like a confused dog. "I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

that was the moment the fog began to lift. you realized, in a single breathless moment, that choso wasn’t a monster waiting to strike. he wasn’t a master. or a soldier. or a shadowed curse. he was just a man. a little lonely. a little confused. a little smitten. a man who liked you and happened to be married to you.

"I want to,” you said. and choso’s hands shook with joy as he texted yuji, "I think she likes me now!!!!” he planned a clumsy little date. you wore something pretty and he complimented it three times before you left the house. he took you to a movie (a romcom, because you said horror was too scary), and halfway through the popcorn he whispered, “this is the best day ever.” you laughed, but he meant it.

the next week, he tried to cook for you. it went terribly. the dumplings were a mess. half-burnt, lopsided, falling apart before they even reached the plate. choso looked crushed by it—slouched at the stove, brows furrowed like he’d disappointed you. but you didn’t mind. you were quick to move beside him, murmuring a soft reassurance as you grabbed the pan, fixing what could be saved with steady hands and a bit of seasoning. you plated them neatly. made them presentable. and when he took his first bite, he looked at you like you’d performed a miracle.

there was praise in his eyes. gentle admiration. “you’re so great,” he told you, with hearts in his eyes. “you’re so good at everything.” you flinch a little at the praise, like you’re not sure what do with the weight of it on your shoulders. choso saw it—how your fingers trembled just slightly. how your eyes dropped to the floor. how praise seemed to sit heavy on your shoulders like you didn’t know what to do with it. that quiet, guilty way your shoulders curled in. he noticed how you smiled without meeting his gaze. how you moved around him like he was a fragile bomb, unsure of what might set him off. he didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong—but he knew, with the kind of certainty that sat heavy in the chest, that something was wrong.

“are you…afraid of me?” he asked, gently. the idea made him sick. the last thing he wanted was to be feared, especially by someone like whom he liked so much. “why are you always so—careful?” the question hung in the kitchen like smoke. it wasn’t an accusation. it was a genuine wonder. because he didn’t understand why someone as soft and sweet as you looked at him like he might break you.

you opened your mouth—but nothing came out at first. then you sat down at the edge of the dining table, fingers clenched in your lap, eyes wide with something older than fear. something deeper. something that lived in the bones. and you told him. not with rehearsed clarity or poetic structure—but with a raw, unraveling honesty. stammering, halting words. a truth that had been carved into you over years.

it didn’t come out like a confession. it wasn’t a story with a beginning, middle, and end. it was bits and pieces, torn at the edges. the heaviness of your silence as it cracked open into something trembling. shame. memory. fear so deeply rooted, it had shaped the way you walked, the way you thought, the way you braced yourself for touch that never came.

marriage had never meant safety to you. it meant control. obedience. pain. you’d grown up watching women disappear inside themselves, reduced to what they could provide—bodies, labor, silence. you’d watched the world turn cruel inside the walls of a home. and somewhere along the way, you had decided that love was just another kind of wound.

choso listened. still and unmoving, like if he breathed too loudly it might scare the truth back inside you.

"I'm sorry,” you said finally, a knee-jerk apology you didn’t even realize you were offering. "I'm so sorry if I ever seemed cold or distant or strange, or-or if I ever made you feel…I don’t know—I just…” you turn your head away, unable to bear the immense weight of his silent gaze. "I'm so sorry,” you whispered again, this time into the stunned quiet. "I know it’s not fair to think that of you, and I feel awful about it, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know someone like you existed.”

his jaw was tight. his eyes shined. "I don’t want you to be useful,” he said. "I just want you to be happy. if I do anything—anything—to make you feel small or scared, I want you to tell me, and I'll fix it. I'll change it. I'll stop whatever it is.” a pause. then, with a breath like a prayer: "I want to be someone who makes you feel safe.”

the change is subtle. so small it almost passes by unnoticed—but choso sees it. it’s in the way your steps don’t hesitate beside him anymore. the way you reach for his sleeve when you’re nervous. the way, when the conversation around you grows too sharp, too loud, you lean into him rather than shrinking away. once, your posture around him was all calculation: poised, perfect, prepared to endure. now it’s something gentler. closer. unafraid.

you trust him. choso can feel it in his bones. and he holds that knowledge like a precious thing—tender, breakable, sacred. he doesn’t take it lightly.

when you stumble, he catches you. he never lets you apologize for it. when an event grows too loud, too bright, too much, he doesn’t ask. he just finds your hand, leads you out, drives you home. quietly, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy for him. because it is.

he likes driving you places. likes when you sit in his passenger seat and pick the music. likes the way you hum under your breath at red lights. likes treating you to dinner—ramen, sushi, pancakes at midnight—anything you want. it’s not about being traditional. he just wants to be good to you. provide for you. make sure you never go without, not while he’s around.

you become friends—slowly, then all at once. laughter starts filling in the gaps between awkward silences. shared jokes and quiet routines. the way he always brings you tea in the morning, even if he doesn’t drink it himself. the way you always double the recipe when cooking, setting his plate down before he even sits.

he didn’t understand, not really, what the people  meant when they said “marriage.” but now he does. it’s this. this quiet companionship. this soft joy. this life. 

he still has his quirks. he’s blunt to a fault—awkward, painfully honest, and occasionally a little too literal. romance doesn’t come naturally to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. he compliments you like it’s as natural as breathing.

“you are so beautiful.” “you’re the prettiest girl I've ever seen.” "I love it when you smile.”

sometimes he’ll say it in passing. midway through folding laundry. after biting into a dumpling. while you’re brushing your hair and not even looking at him. you smack his arm with a smile. tell him not to flatter you so much. but it’s not flattery to him. he doesn’t even register it that way.

choso doesn’t know how to flirt. he doesn’t realize there’s any performance to it. he just says what he thinks, exactly as he thinks it. and that’s what gets you most of all—how sincere it is. how uncalculated. no charm, no strategy, just choso, all wide-eyed and genuine and completely unaware of what his words do to you.

you begin to soften around him like melting snow. he notices the warmth in your gaze before you do. you start sitting closer to him on the couch, letting your knees touch. you start making his favorite meals without asking. you brush lint off his collar without realizing it.

he never stops doing his part. always careful, always patient. gives you space without ever making you feel alone. when he brings you to meet yuuji for the first time, he pulls his little brother aside beforehand and tells him firmly—“no yelling.” he knows loud men rattle you. keeps you far away from gojo on principle.

you cook for yuuji often, and his grumpy little friend megumi. choso eats every meal like it’s a holiday. thanks you every time. you tell him it’s nothing, that it’s the least you can do. he always disagrees. you don’t owe him anything, he says. you never did. but it still means the world to him.

one day, you’re walking together through tokyo. it’s sunny, but not hot. crowded, but not unpleasant. you’re talking softly about the bakery you want to try around the corner when you feel it—his hand, slipping into yours. like it’s normal. like it’s always been that way. you look down, blinking. he doesn’t even seem to notice, just keeps walking like it’s the most casual thing in the world. you glance up at him, a question forming. he catches your expression and offers, plainly, “yuuji said couples do that.”

you laugh—a real one, bright and unfiltered. then you squeeze his hand and lean in, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm. he glances down at you, curious, smiling faintly. and you say, in the softest, most conspiratorial whisper—“did yuuji tell you what kissing is?” choso trips over a crack in the sidewalk. which answers your question well enough.

marriage had always been part of nanami's plan. not a romantic dream, not some wistful fantasy—but a goal, like anything else. stability. consistency. someone to build a life with. someone to go home to. someone to care for, to take care of. he never imagined love would come easy—nothing ever had—but he'd always imagined it would be real. earned. honest.

just…not like this. not arranged. not forced. not signed and sealed by the higher ups with a polite congratulations and a subtle reminder of the responsibility now placed upon his shoulders.

he put it off for years. every time the elders insisted, he declined. until gojo—with his reckless, star-bright optimism—went through with it. and somehow, shockingly, it worked for him. so nanami caved. signed his name where they told him to. said yes when they gave him your name. figured at worst, you could be companions. civil. polite. friends, even. you’d both maintain your dignity. your distance.

it didn’t have to mean anything. and then he saw you walk down the aisle. and every thread of logic in his head went up in flames.

you were breathtaking. not in the overdone, romanticized sense of the word—but truly, viscerally. the kind of beautiful that made him sit up straighter. that made his pulse spike with guilt. your dress hugged every curve like it was made to provoke him. your face unreadable, your lips soft and untouched, your eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. you looked like someone from a dream he hadn’t dared to admit he’d had. and he knew, right then, that friendship was off the table.

he was so screwed. so he did what he always does when emotions run too high: compartmentalized. stuffed it down. locked it up. told himself this was a marriage in name only. that he would be respectful. dutiful. distant. he would not touch you. he would not think about you. he would not ruin you with the weight of his own desire.

and then you spoke to him—softly, sincerely, asking if he needed anything. if there was anything you could do to make this easier on him. and you smiled at him like you meant it. like you didn’t mind being here. like maybe you were hoping for something.

and nanami felt sick. not at you—never at you—but at the situation. at the system that placed you in this position. at the knowledge that somewhere along the line, someone taught you this was your role. to ask what he needed, to offer yourself up for service like some kind of dutiful wife on day one. he told you—firmly, perhaps too firmly—that he expected nothing from you. and he meant it. but the way your face dropped still haunts him.

because you had hoped, hadn't you? not for love. not for anything improper. just for connection. for kindness. to not be alone.

you told gojo, apparently. quietly, in confidence. that you didn’t think nanami liked you. that maybe you’d done something wrong. of course gojo told him. "she feels like you don’t like her," he said, shamelessly stirring the pot. "which is crazy, 'cos she’s great."

"you’ve met her twice, gojo. and don’t talk about my wife." nanami’s voice was sharp, clipped. but the words lodged like a knife in his chest. he’d wanted to be honorable. restrained. a gentleman. but somehow you’d taken his distance as dislike. his silence as coldness. he couldn’t let that stand.

so he changed. slowly, carefully. he didn’t get any closer physically—still maintained his boundaries, still slept on the edge of the bed if you even let him in the room at all—but his efforts became more intentional. his speech softened. his tone warmed. he held doors. he asked about your day. he remembered things you said.

still, he never once commented on your appearance. not your hair, which always looked soft and neat, not your perfume, even when it made him dizzy. not your lips, even when you bit them while reading, which drove him mad. because he didn’t want you to think that was all this was. he wouldn’t reduce you to something superficial. wouldn’t treat you like a trophy. wouldn’t make you feel small.

but it was hard. so hard. because you were gorgeous. and kind. and funny, though you kept that part guarded. you were sharp-tongued and prickly and far too used to fending for yourself. you flinched under the smallest bit of praise. frowned when he complimented your cooking. got visibly uncomfortable when he opened your door or pulled out your chair.

"you don’t have to do all this husband-y stuff," you’d mutter, half-under your breath. he only smiled at that. yes, he did. you didn’t understand—this wasn’t performance. he wasn’t playing a role. he wanted to be good to you.

so he started smaller. made it subtle.

not "I bought this for you,” but "I picked up this chocolate. couldn’t finish it all, if you want some.” (he could finish it. he didn’t even like chocolate.) not "I booked you a trip,” but “there’s a train to takahama saturday morning. I remembered you said you liked coastal cities.”

you didn’t realize it was spoiling. it didn’t feel like spoiling. it felt casual. convenient. but it wasn’t. nanami had a hand in everything—softly, quietly, never drawing attention—but always thinking of you. always.

and still, you didn’t see it. because somewhere along the way, someone taught you that you weren’t meant to be treasured.

that night, on a checkered picnic blanket under low evening light, you finally told him. you didn’t look at him. you were chewing a fancy pastry he bought just for you, one you’d insisted he didn’t need to get, and between bites you murmured, like it was nothing—"I don’t really deserve any of this. you’re amazing. this whole thing feels like a joke. I mean…I'm nothing compared to you."

and nanami put his pastry down. very calmly, very clearly, he said, “don’t say that again.” you blinked. unsure if you’d heard him right. “you deserve everything,” he said. “and if you’ll let me, I'd like to be the one to give it to you.” you swallowed hard. "I know this marriage may not be the realest thing,” he continued, softer now. “but you are. you’re real. to me.” and for once, you didn’t argue.

you just looked at him. like you believed him. or maybe like you wanted to. nanami is the perfect husband, or he can be. if you’ll just let him.

you remain a bit uncomfortable, even after that. nanami can tell. you’re polite. grateful, even. but still not used to the spoiling. still flinching at the painful sweetness of his attention. like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. like you’re afraid he’ll stop.

but that only makes him more determined. he thrills at the sight of you eating sweets—how your eyes flutter closed for just a second, how you savor every bite like it’s a secret. he keeps a mental list of every flavor that makes your face light up.

he notes how you smile up at him, surprised but pleased, when he casually drops a quote from your favorite book into conversation. and how you hover near him at sorcerer gatherings—not because you have to, but because you want to.

you’re starting to like him. maybe even trust him. but not nearly as much as he likes you. as he loves you. the realization hits him quietly one evening, like most important things do. another sorcerer gala. he hates them. has always hated them. the showboating. the politics. the noise. but now…he attends them all. with you on his arm. his wife.

you, dressed in silk and sparkle, laughing under low chandeliers, letting him spin you gently on the floor like he might break you otherwise. you, with one hand in his and the other around a flute of something bubbly, looking every inch the vision you were on your wedding day.

he’s never believed in much. but “my wife” becomes scripture. biblical. he says it like a prayer. at meetings. at missions. at dinners. 

“my wife likes that brand of tea,” he says absently in meetings, pointing to the box someone brought in for the breakroom, as if it’s a credential that matters.

“my wife read that book,” he murmurs during a mission debrief when some sorcerer brings up philosophy, and then—because he can’t help himself—adds, “she said the ending was overrated, but the prose was lovely.”

he says it everywhere. your name, your title, your presence. it becomes his rhythm. his grounding. he clings to it like scripture.

my wife this. my wife that. my wife likes her soup just a little spicy. my wife hates when it rains and she doesn’t have an umbrella.

my wife once said she wanted to see fireflies again. so we’re going. end of june.

he knows you like the back of his hand. not because he memorized you like a task—but because loving you is the only thing that comes easy in a world that’s never been kind.

gojo teases him endlessly. nanami doesn’t care.

he’s proud. reverent. and somewhere along the way, you stop pulling away. start leaning in.

it’s not immediate. not dramatic. but slow. cautious. earned.

you start to accept this scary thing called love.

and then, maybe—maybe—you start to give it back.

it all falls apart (or falls together) after one of gojo’s absurd, over-the-top parties. you’d worn a sleek, fitted dress. something clingy and dark. your hair up. makeup soft and devious. you looked like danger and desire and everything he could never let himself want.

and nanami—poor, tired, utterly smitten nanami—was a little bit drunk. not much. just enough that his restraint began to crack.

you’d said something innocuous in the hallway. something about the night winding down. how your feet hurt. how you were ready to go. he didn’t even think. "you are so beautiful."

and you froze. you turned to him slowly, lips parted. eyes wide and owlish. “you think so?” you asked, quietly. like you didn’t believe it. like you couldn’t. "I thought…maybe you didn’t.” of course you thought that. he never said anything. never allowed himself to say anything. and now it hits him—how confusing that must have been. how his constant restraint had read as indifference.

and it ruins him. he fumbles through the silence, reaching for the right words. of course I think so. I always thought so. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. you seemed so unsure. so tense. I didn’t want to reduce you to that. I didn’t want you to think I married you for that. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t— you grab his jaw with both hands and kiss him. you kiss him like you mean it. like you’ve been waiting. like you know. and nanami kisses back like a man starved. like he’ll never get another chance. like he’s finally, finally allowed to touch the thing he’s been revering from afar.

from then on, he’s yours completely. he was yours before, too. you just didn’t know it. but now—now he doesn't hide it. not from you. not from anyone.

he brings you lunch during your breaks, walking all the way across campus in the middle of a meeting because he knows you forget to eat when you’re busy. he holds your hand like it’s second nature, like it was always meant to be there. he kisses your temple, your cheek, the inside of your wrist when no one’s looking.

he sleeps in your bed now. it wasn’t even a conversation. you’d dozed off after a movie on the couch, legs tangled up in his, head heavy on his shoulder—and when he carried you to bed, you tugged him down with you. he hasn’t left since.

he pulls you in every night, strong arms wrapped gently around your waist. breath warm against your neck. he mumbles half-dreamed things into your skin. sometimes it’s your name. sometimes it’s I love you. sometimes it’s just the kind of sigh that sounds like home.

he calls you his. always. because you are. and now, you let him. let him love you out loud. let him spoil you, lift the weight off your shoulders, remind you daily how precious you are. even if it still makes you blush, makes your eyes dart away shyly—he just coos and tuts and kisses your forehead like he’s got all the time in the world. and he does. because he’s not going anywhere.

you make plans for the future now. soft, easy ones. weekend trips. new paint for the kitchen. a second bookshelf. someday, maybe, a little house by the sea. you're no longer just wife and husband in name—you’re partners. best friends. completely, helplessly in love. and nanami does not take that honor lightly.

you belong to each other. that’s the difference. that’s what changed. it’s not just he calls you his. you call him yours. your person. your constant. your kento. he doesn't just love you—he lets you love him. completely. and you do.

you bring him his favorite coffee when he forgets breakfast, tug him away from his desk when he’s worked too long. you fold his ties and kiss his forehead and leave little notes in his wallet that say things like buy eggs and also I adore you. he blushes every time.

you don’t just call him your husband anymore. you call him your best friend. and he calls you his everything. because you are. and this—this life you’re building together—it’s all either of you ever could’ve asked for.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

╰►jjk headcanons

arrangement | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento ╰►an arranged marriage is about the most cliché thing he can possibly think of, and it sounds like a terrible idea...that is, until he's actually married to you, and he can't bring himself to have any regrets. 14.9k words

finals week | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, inumaki toge, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►college is hell, and finals week is the seventh circle. as much as you love your boyfriend, you can have absolutely no distractions, not when the biggest tests of your life loom over you like a raincloud full of dread and fear of failure. they don’t take to being ignored so well, and they take to you ignoring yourself even worse. 6.9k words

long distance | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuuji itadori ╰►living apart for a little while didn't seem to big a deal when it first started, but now he realizes that you've made being alone absolutely miserable and he copes...not at all. — COMING SOON

morning routine | fushiguro megumi, fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuuji itadori ╰►he is obsessed with watching you get ready; whether you’re an all-over-the-place mess, or painstakingly meticulous, he loves the little things 6.1k words

slice of life | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, ino takuma, kamo choso, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►you wouldn’t say you love being a server, but you do love tips and being able to afford rent. you also don’t mind your flirty coworker. 7.1k words

dividers by cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

slice of life | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, ino takuma, kamo choso, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►you wouldn’t say you love being a server, but you do love tips and being able to afford rent. you also don’t mind your flirty coworker. 7.1k words

a/n: guys...do any of y'all watch bistro huddy on tik tok...is this too niche...have I finally niched myself out....just let me know...I'll be here...fr though, I actually hate working at a restaurant, but this is of course, a tumblr post, and not real life!! tragically...also some of these are like funny and cutesy, and then others quite literally had me in tears writing them (nanami, hello...?) so, yeah watch out for that. also, I am well aware that this is wildly unrealistic. no warnings I don't think, besides maybe some cussing, and a singular usage of my publicly detested "y/n" unfortunately it couldn't be avoided. enjoy <3

you wouldn't say you love being a server. no one really does. it’s a chaotic mix of remembering eight drinks at once, smiling through the pain of a toddler screaming into your soul, and pretending that the tip at the end of this tunnel is worth the psychic damage. but the money’s decent, your coworkers are tolerable, and—if we’re being real—toji makes clocking in a little too easy.

he's the line cook from hell. not in the gordon ramsay "this food is trash" kind of way—though he absolutely yells like that sometimes—but more in the "how did this man get hired with zero culinary training and the attitude of a convicted felon" way. he burns at least one dish a night, calls in late more often than not, and refuses to wear a hairnet even though the manager has told him twice. and yet, somehow, he never gets fired. probably because when toji isn’t being a menace, he runs the kitchen like a finely oiled machine, barking out orders and flipping pans like he owns the damn place.

and then there’s you. sweet, stressed-out server #7. you try not to like him. you really do. but he’s got that charm, the greasy line cook appeal, the kind of hot that’s more danger than it is attraction—and you're kind of into it.

toji doesn’t flirt like a normal person. he flirts like someone who’s trying to win a bet. he’ll stare at you through the kitchen window with those unreadable green eyes, one corner of his mouth lifted like he knows something you don’t. he doesn’t say things outright; he just makes you wonder what he’s thinking.

“order up. yours is the only plate that doesn’t look like shit,” he’ll say, sliding your food onto the counter with a wink. or: “don’t let that guy on table four look down your shirt again. I'll stab him with a thermometer.” you laugh, mostly because you’re pretty sure he’s not joking.

toji’s not nice. not in the traditional sense. he makes the new host cry twice in one shift, tells the manager to shove it at least weekly, and has a permanent scowl that could curdle milk. but when you’re sweating through a double, on your fourth round of waters, and the host stand sends you four parties back to back with no remorse, toji’s the one yelling at them to “get their heads outta their asses” and “quit drowning the floor staff.”

sometimes he has leftover fries. he never offers them out loud, just slides a basket your way and raises an eyebrow. you know better than to say thanks—he doesn’t like being made a big deal of. he just likes watching you eat them, then tossing you a smirk when you catch him looking.

the other servers think you're sleeping together. you’re not. not really. there’ve been a few moments—late nights after close when you both stayed to do inventory, his hand lingering too long on your waist, your laugh a little too soft, his eyes a little too hungry—but nothing’s happened. it’s a situationship, or pre-situationship, or whatever the kids are calling it when someone wants to get under your skin but also wants to stick around for the long haul.

and the thing is? toji’s patient. maybe surprisingly so. he doesn’t push. he doesn’t ask what this is or where it’s going. he just shows up—hungover or not, late or not—and makes sure your orders come out first. he throws out a guy’s number when he catches him trying to slide it into your apron. he doesn’t even tell you, just rolls his eyes when the dude “suddenly loses his appetite.”

you don’t know what to make of him most days. you hate him when he’s yelling at the dishwasher or putting the wrong ticket in the window. but then he saves your ass on a slammed saturday by grilling a steak in under three minutes flat and smirking like he didn’t just perform a culinary miracle.

you don't love being a server. but you do love the moment when you duck behind the line after a brutal dinner rush, your arms aching and your brain fried, and toji flicks a cold soda can your way without saying a word.

he's not yours. not yet. but damn if he doesn’t act like it.

you and suguru both clock in at 5 p.m. sharp—he in his crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair tied back in a sleek ponytail; you in the same black polo and slacks, hair up in a practical bun. you don’t say “good evening” so much as you arch an eyebrow at each other across the host stand. tonight’s the night you’ve challenged each other to the monthly $100 tip-off: whoever racks up the highest tips gets the bonus. the stakes aren’t just bragging rights. you need that cash; he knows it.

7:15 p.m. you catch your first table—two businesswomen celebrating a deal. you’re charming but low-key (no geto-level razzle-dazzle), and they’re eating it up. you leave the table with a $15 tip. not bad.

geto swoops past, tossing his apron over your shoulder like a ribbon. “nice haul,” he drawls, “but those are rookie numbers.” he winks. the ladies at his table are swooning; one leaves him a $20. you grit your teeth—but you can’t help smiling when he slides the money into your apron pocket.

8:00 p.m. a trio of frat bros waltzes in. they sidle up to your section. you brace yourself for unwanted contact—hands on your waist, a “you look hot tonight” too close to your ear. before you can whirl away, suguru materializes behind them like a polite bouncer. “actually, that table’s mine,” he says, voice cool.

they blink, shift into his section—hands off you. one of them shoots you a grateful thumbs-up before stumbling away. you mouth, “thanks,” and he just grins. “protecting my girl’s turf,” he says. why do you like the way that sounds?

9:00 p.m. you’re drowning in plates. three tables triple-sat you by mistake, and there’s no end in sight. meanwhile, suguru’s section is empty, pristine. you feel a tug in your chest—guilt, annoyance, something like excitement. he strolls over, socks your hands playfully with a folded napkin, and says, “my chef back there took thirty-five minutes on that club sandwich you ordered. I went in and told them they can rediscover their souls or find a new career.” the grill staff visibly quiver.

your heart leaps—you hate that you can’t hate him. he leans in close. “sit tight,” he murmurs, “I've got a feeling about this next table.” and just like that, he’s back in action, leaving you to catch your breath.

10:00 p.m. the final round. two businessmen slide into his section; the bigger tip potential you’ve both been waiting on. you glance at him: both of you know what’s happening. you move to intercept—but suguru’s already there, slinging napkins over his shoulder with that effortless swagger. they laugh at his jokes. you fume.

your last table for the night is a college student buying dinner with tears in his eyes—tuition woes, parents sick back home. you give him a warm smile, chat him up, send the house dessert on the house. you walk away…and he leaves you a $25 tip anyway because god loves you, or something like that.

11:00 p.m. back at the host stand, you both dump your tips on the counter. $112 for you. $80 for him. he furrows his brow like you’ve just dealt him a personal blow—and that kind of look from suguru is…almost devastating.

you look back at him, triumphant. “winner.” you’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. he glances at your haul, then to his, then back to you, and—without saying a word—he slides $40 across so that his total matches yours exactly.

you jerk back, stunned. “hey!” he flips his dark hair back, flashing an absurd, infuriatingly charming smile. "I told you, I'm not about the money. I'm about you.”

your heart twists. he glances down at the pile of bills, then back at you, eyes soft. “go on home with a full tip,” he says. “and maybe, uh…celebrate?”

you swallow, stomach fluttering. “celebrate?”

“yeah.” he leans in. "I know a secret spot—if you’re up for it.”

later, you find yourself alone in the walk-in cooler. the hum of the fridge is comforting. suguru’s here, too, leaning against a shelf of bottled sodas. he grabs your hand and pulls you close, pressing your back to the chilly metal.

you laugh, breath misting. “the cooler?”

he shrugs with a wicked grin. “intimate. zero witnesses.”

your breath catches when he brushes hair from your face. his eyes are dark with something tender and wicked at once. you cup his jaw—warm, familiar. then you close the distance, lips meeting his. it’s feral and soft and utterly devastating. he tastes like salt—fries and sweat and something sweet.

suguru’s arms wrap around you, careful not to crush. “we make a pretty good team, huh?” he whispers.

you nod against his mouth. “the best.”

gojo satoru was meant to be a server.

some people find it demeaning, this job. the fake smiles, the rushed steps, the corporate chokehold of dress codes and “hospitality voice” policies. but satoru? he makes it look like an art form. he slides into it effortlessly—flirty just under the line of inappropriate, funny in the exact way that makes people feel clever for laughing, and beautiful enough that no one really minds waiting a little longer for their fries. his apron stays just a little askew, his sleeves rolled to mid-forearm like it's casual (it's not), and the blue eyes? god. the tips are ridiculous. women leave their numbers like confetti. some even ask for selfies. men stare a little too long. even old couples seem enchanted, like he’s their grandson reincarnated from a better life. he winks. he laughs. he gets away with everything. and you? you barely look up.

not because you don’t notice—please. you notice. the way his undercut drips with sweat halfway through a double, how his voice drops an octave when he’s tired, how he shoves his hair back with one hand when it starts falling into his face. you notice. but you’re not jealous. because you’re not his. maybe that’s why it doesn’t sting. not when table 9 calls him “sweetheart,” not when the hostess whispers behind the bar that she thinks he’s gonna ask for her number. because at the end of every shift, he walks out with you. matches his stride to yours in the parking lot like muscle memory. waits by the time clock just so he can clock out the same second you do. brushes against you when you're both behind the bar, too close, too long. it's never an accident.

you’ve been here longer. you’re the real vet—been through the wringer. worked through high school, stayed through college, watched tyrant managers come and go. you’ve seen uniforms change, menus rotate, bullshit policy updates emailed at midnight. you can carry four plates in one hand and argue with a guest at the same time. there’s not a single soul in the restaurant who doesn’t respect you.

and yet—satoru never treats you like a fixture. he treats you like you’re magic. every day. he compliments you like he gets paid for it. but it’s never the same thing twice. never just “you look nice.” no, satoru’s got creativity. you’ve been compared to goddesses, to perfectly folded napkins, to cinematic lighting in golden hour. “you’ve got a real victoria’s secret model vibe going for you today,” he’ll murmur, watching you reset tables. “you always do.” god, he’s such an ass.

and you hate that it makes you smile. you pretend you barely know him. call him “bluey” or “gojo” or “you, with the hair” like he’s some guy who just wandered in off the street. but you know exactly who he is. you know the way his shoulders tense after a manager talks down to him. you know he’s stopped wearing cologne on your shifts because you once wrinkled your nose and said “you smell like a department store.”

you know he fantasizes about helping you open your own place. he hasn’t told you—but you’ve seen the notes scribbled on napkins. “satoru & y/n’s all-night diner.” sometimes he’s crossed his name out. sometimes yours.

you make it so hard to read you. you’re cool. calm. no-nonsense. you come in, do your job, get out. flirtation rolls off your back like grease from the kitchen vent. but you help him. when he’s double-sat. when a big table throws a fit. when he forgets to grab a ramekin and you silently drop one next to his hand before he even asks.

you don’t say much, but you show it. and he’s obsessed with every second of it. he fell first. hard. he keeps falling. and god, he falls loud.

he flirts like a man who knows no shame, like a man who knows you’re going to marry him eventually and is just waiting for you to catch up. and you? you hold out...until the shift where the air conditioning breaks. you’re both drenched. irritated. miserable. you disappear to the back and he finds you leaning against the manager’s office door, trying to cool down with a napkin full of ice cubes. and before he knows it, he’s kissing you.

you shouldn’t be there. the office is off-limits. you’re on the clock. there’s a literal screaming baby in section three. but you kiss him back. hands in his hair. mouth on his. like you’ve been waiting. and when he finally pulls back, stunned, breathing heavy, blinking like he’s not sure if this is real—you straighten your apron, smooth your hair, and say, “if you’re late on your tables again, I’m not covering for you.” but he hears the smile in your voice.

and from that point forward? he’s ruined for anyone else. they still leave numbers. still flirt. still call him handsome. and he smiles, sure. tips are tips. but he doesn’t flirt back the same. he saves that for you. for when your eyes are tired. when your feet hurt. when you’re halfway through a double and your hands shake from too much caffeine and not enough food.

he’ll press a granola bar into your palm. or sneak you fries from the kitchen. or lean in and whisper, “ten more minutes and then you get to yell at me in the walk-in. we’ll call it therapy.” you never admit you’re falling for him, too. but he sees the way you reach for him now. the way you linger. the way your eyes follow him across the floor. and he’s not worried.

because someday—when you’re standing in your own restaurant, clipboard in hand, menu the way you want it—he’s going to be there, too. apron crooked, smile crooked, heart in his hands. satoru gojo may be made to serve, but he only ever wants to serve you.

you don’t know what divine comedy landed ino takuma behind the bar and on the line, but you’re convinced the universe has a sense of humor. he’s not a bad cook—when he remembers to turn the fryer on. he’s not a bad bartender—if you’re okay with him triple-checking a gin and tonic. and he’s not a bad guy. not even close.

just…hopeless. endearingly, aggressively hopeless.

he shows up to work five minutes early every shift, apron askew, hair still wet from a shower, shirt clinging to his chest like a cry for help. you say, “you’re early,” and he grins like he’s been awarded a medal. you say, “your fly’s down,” and he thanks you like you’re handing him the secret to life.

you flirt with him constantly. obnoxiously. strategically. you lean over the bar when he’s counting tips, press close behind him when he’s slicing lemons, tell him you’ll give him a ride home if he promises not to make you stop for gas.

he always, always, blinks at you like a confused golden retriever and goes, “oh, you don’t have to! I can walk!”

you once flat-out asked him if he wanted to fool around in your car. after your shift. in the lot. his face turned a color that shouldn't be humanly possible, and he said, “you mean like…play a game?”

a game. you considered ending it all right there in the stockroom.

but you didn’t. because for all the cluelessness, the blank stares, and the unintentional friend-zoning, ino is…wonderful. when your boss is on a rampage, yelling at staff for the busted walk-in freezer door, ino raises his hand with a sheepish shrug. “that was me. my bad. leaned on it too hard.” you know it wasn’t. he knows it wasn’t. he still takes the write-up and the lecture, and when you come close to tears afterward, he tells you it’s okay. “it’s just a warning. I got thick skin.” then he gives you a crushing hug in the alley out back and insists on buying you a gatorade with his last $3.

he always “accidentally” messes up one of your orders. “oops, I made the chicken sandwich with extra avocado and fries. I guess we can’t serve it now. you want it?” he does it with the most oblivious innocence. you’re sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. you’ve noticed.

when a customer gets too mean—someone with the audacity to snap their fingers at you, demand a refund, insult your service—ino is the first one through the kitchen doors. he storms up to the table, wiping his hands on a rag. “hey. you got a problem? cool. tell me. but you don’t talk to her like that. or any of my servers. not now, not ever. got it?”

you hear it from the dish pit. you don’t even have to see it. and when he comes back in, cheeks red, trying to play it off like he didn’t just defend your honor like a knight with a spatula, you want to scream.

“my servers,” he’d said. his. you make $10 an hour before tips, and he’s claiming you like you’re family. or worse—like you’re sacred. like he’s protecting a relic, not a girl he hasn’t realized he’s desperately in love with yet.

it doesn’t occur to him until much, much later—maybe when he’s halfway through his shift, flipping pancakes for some hungover regular, and you sneak up behind him and plant a kiss on his cheek. he stops. entirely. pan goes still. face goes red. you’re about to laugh when he turns, gently, and stares at you like he’s never really looked before.

“oh,” he says. it’s reverent. “you…you really like me?”

you blink. "I asked you to make out with me in my car. twice.”

"I thought you were joking.” he groans in pure and utter shame and tragedy. you’re telling him he missed out on the opportunity to make out with you twice? god might as well just take mercy on him and kill him now.

you can’t hold back your laughter.

he wipes his hands on his apron, then takes yours—callused, warm, soft in the way you knew they’d be. “you’re, like…amazing. you could have anyone. you could be out of here, living in a penthouse or something.”

you snort. “what, with my tips?”

but he doesn’t smile. he holds your gaze, totally sincere. “you’re the best part of this place. you’re kind and smart and funny and you remember everyone’s orders and you…you notice things. I look forward to seeing you. I—”

you kiss him again, just to shut him up. he worships you after that. carries your water bottle around like it’s precious cargo. tells anyone who tries to flirt with you that you’re spoken for—then blushes and adds, “well, not, like, officially. yet.”

he burns his hand one day because he was too busy watching you laugh from across the kitchen. you kiss it better.

he asks you—bashfully, finally—if he can take you out. “like…to a movie. or dinner. but not here. somewhere nice. you deserve nice.”

you say yes, and he lights up like someone turned on the sun. later that night, you park in the back, doors locked, seats reclined. finally. he grins at you, sheepish and eager and so dumb in the best way.

you tease him. “you sure you know what we’re about to do?”

he nods. “yeah. make out in your car. right?”

you laugh. “good boy.” and if he wasn’t devoted before, he sure as hell is now.

choso is…not good at this. at first.

his shirt’s always a little wrinkled, name tag hanging crooked, hair somehow both neat and tragically emo. he’s new. you clock it the second he opens his mouth with a soft, “hi, welcome in!” and an awkward glance at the seating chart like it’s written in ancient greek. he fumbles. a lot. tells a party of six to follow him, then panics when he realizes he only has a four-top ready. doubles up your section on accident. gets the table numbers wrong. once seated someone in the storage closet. (to be fair, the door was open.)

normally, you’d be mad. no—furious. you’ve worked here two years. this is your turf, your money, your grind. you’ve snapped at hosts for far less. but choso? choso’s different. because when he messes up, he looks so apologetic it’s like kicking a puppy. big, dark eyes full of guilt, soft voice saying, “I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” while the other servers tear into him like vultures.

but not you. no, you pull him aside, speak low and calm, point at the chart with your pen and say, “these four tables are mine. keep me steady, not slammed. focus on even rotation and don’t give me a party of eight ten minutes before close or I will cry.” and he listens. god, does he listen.

after that, he starts to figure it out. mostly because you’re the only one who takes the time to actually explain things to him. where the kids’ menus are. how to stall a wait time. why kevin is never allowed to take the patio by himself. you give him your number, say, “text me if you’re not sure what to do,” and choso nearly drops his phone trying to save your contact.

he’s scheduled five nights a week. you are too. coincidence? maybe. but he starts picking you up on the way in. says he’s just being nice. says he was heading that way anyway. his apartment is in the opposite direction, but he never mentions it.

he learns your coffee order before he remembers your last name. keeps a little note in his phone with the specifics: oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla. shows up with it when your eye twitch starts from three doubles in a row. says, “you looked tired,” like it’s a compliment. every other server treats him like a punching bag. you treat him like a person. and that difference? it shifts something in him.

he starts putting your name next to the easy tables. the regulars that tip well. the quiet couples on dates. never the frat bros. never the wine moms. he tells the loud bachelor party at the door that the wait will be an hour when there’s actually an open booth. then he sends them to kevin.

“don’t want you dealing with that,” he mutters as they stomp off. “guy looked like he calls women ‘sweetheart’ unironically.”

you raise a brow. “and what do you call women, choso?”

his ears turn pink. "I’d call you whatever you wanted me to, anything, if you liked it.” you laugh it off. he doesn't.

he never flirts outright—too nervous, too respectful—but his version of it is just as obvious. carries your food runner trays for you. offers to fold napkins with you after hours. gives you the booth in the back when you look like you're gonna cry. he’s like a one-man support system in a black button-up. the kicker is: he never asks for anything. never expects. never pushes. just stands by the host stand like a dark-haired lighthouse, watching you hustle, hoping you’ll glance his way.

and then one night—it’s late, the shift’s over, the air outside is damp and cold—he walks you to your car. says, “you looked tired,” again. soft. sweet. no coffee this time, just concern. you turn to thank him, keys jingling in your hand.

you’re not sure who moves first. maybe both of you. maybe it’s mutual. but suddenly, you’re kissing him in the dark, your back against your car, his lips trembling against yours like he’s never done this before, or at least never done it like this.

when you break apart, he stares at you like he’s dreaming. then: “can I—can I kiss you again? please?”

and how do you say no to a guy like that? you don’t. he leans in again, hands gentle but sure, breath shaky, and this time it’s deeper. this time it’s real. by the time you finally unlock your door, he’s breathless, dazed, eyes wide and reverent.

“you okay?” you ask, teasing.

he swallows hard. “you don’t understand. I've been in love with you since you explained how to rotate sections. I'm—god, I'm yours. fully. whatever you want.”

shiu is a menace behind the bar.

the type who remembers everyone’s name, favorite drink, last heartbreak, and whether or not they tip in cash. he flirts like it’s his native tongue—easy, smooth, devastating. the regulars eat it up. that bachelorette party from two weeks ago? still posting about him on instagram. that lonely professor who comes in every thursday night for a manhattan? doubled her tip after shiu called her “darling” and winked. he's untouchable. untamed. he knows it. he thrives on it.

you? you're a server. professional. efficient. apron tied tight, hair done just right, customer voice always on. you’re good at this job—great at it—and you don’t have time for his games. you’ve seen him turn it on and off like a light switch. you’re not getting caught in that. at least, you’re trying not to. dating a coworker is so cliché.

but when he leans over the bar and says your name like it’s a secret, or hands you your usual drink with just the right amount of lime, or slides you a shot after a rough double and murmurs, “just for you, sweetheart,” your stomach flips in a way it shouldn’t. because it’s not like how he flirts with everyone else. it’s softer. focused. less of a performance, more like a confession.

you ignore it. play it cool. tell yourself it’s just what bartenders do. he’s just trying to boost tips. that’s all. but shiu? he’s obsessed with you. it drives him crazy that you don’t flirt back the way everyone else does. that you give him a look when he’s sweet-talking a table of sorority girls like, really? again? that you roll your eyes at him when he’s juggling three numbers and a tequila bottle behind the bar like it’s a circus act.

you make fun of him. and he loves it.

he watches the way you tie your apron every shift—tight, efficient, crisp. watches the way you adjust your hair before a heavy section, the little details you fine-tune to maximize charm and cash. you’re just as good at your hustle as he is at his. maybe better. and that’s what gets him.

you’re not impressed. not by him, not by the attention he draws like flies to a light. and that’s why he wants you.

the thing is—he wants you in a way he doesn’t want anyone else.

sure, he’s flirted with everyone under the sun. but he’s invested in you. the real kind. he stares too long when you’re laughing with a table. leans over the counter a little more when it’s you asking for drinks. punches out on his tab to walk you to your car, tells you it’s just coincidence—he’s heading that way. he’s not.

you catch him watching you across the restaurant, and he doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t. just smirks, shrugs, goes back to rinsing glasses.

and don’t even get him started on the dishwasher. that guy? skinny little slip of a thing. always lurking by the expo window like a lovesick puppy, trying to catch your eye with his elbow grease and soft boy act. makes shiu want to snap a mop handle over his knee.

he won’t say anything outright—yet—but he starts making it clear. “don’t let dish boy waste your time, sweetheart,” he’ll murmur as you reach across the bar. “he can’t even roll silverware right.” that makes you laugh, and he’s ready to dedicate the rest of his life to hearing that again. or, “if he ever gets too clingy, just say the word. I'll toss him in the dumpster out back.” he says it like a joke. you’re pretty sure it’s not. because shiu kong may be a flirt, a charmer, and a total piece of work—but when it comes to you? he’s real. no bit. no hustle. just him. a little too protective. a little too sincere.

you think you’ve got him figured out. but then he says, quiet and low, after one too many near-kisses and casual brushes of fingers: “I'm not like this with anyone else, you know? I know you think I am, but I’m not. I don’t want your tips. I want you.” and suddenly, he doesn’t seem like such a joke after all. 

nanami does not consider himself a morning person. he wakes up early, yes. he’s disciplined. on time. efficient. but liking the mornings? no. that would imply a warmth, a softness he rarely shows.

except with you. you work the overnight shift—midnight to noon—and it’s brutal. a cursed, unspeakable schedule nobody wants. too late for night owls, too early for early birds. tips are few and far between, your body aches in odd places, and you’re so tired sometimes your thoughts blur together like batter left out too long.

nanami knows this. and he hates it. he doesn’t say that, of course. that would be unprofessional. what he does do is start showing up earlier. first it’s 6:00 a.m. then 5:30. then five sharp.

he tells himself it’s to prep the sourdough, to perfect the croissants, to experiment with a new proofing technique. but that’s not true. the truth is: he just wants to see you. those quiet hours before the sun rises? when the kitchen hums with low lights and clinking trays? that’s his favorite part of the day.

because that’s when you’re there. hair a mess. apron wrinkled. running around trying to manage a floor with three absolutely wasted/hungover customers and zero patience, always looking like you’re one plate short of a meltdown. and still, you smile at him. just for a second. a little tired thing, crooked and bashful. he treasures it like gold.

nanami doesn’t push. not you. you’ve got that twitchy, overworked thing about you—like if someone showed you real kindness, you might unravel on the spot. so he does it in ways you don’t notice.

he starts “messing up” loaves. burning the corners, cutting the top wrong, forgetting the egg wash. “guess I’ll have to get rid of this one,” he’ll say, and hand you a still-warm loaf before your shift ends. he sets timers longer than necessary when it’s your break. you’re curled up in a corner of the warmest baking room, clutching a jacket he just happened to leave there, and he quietly snoozes the alarm every ten minutes until you wake up on your own.

if a manager comes sniffing around, asking why you’re not out front, he’s unflinching: “she’s helping me with inventory. you’ll have to wait.” no one argues with nanami. not even the boss.

so you stay where you are, drinking tea from a chipped mug while he slices strawberries for tarts. he’s always inventing new desserts. says it’s for the case. for the spring menu. but you notice they all seem to feature your favorite flavors. and he always gives you the first bite. “quality control,” he says, though he never samples them himself.

once, during a late shift when you were crashing hard, he wordlessly placed a cup of fresh-ground coffee and a plate of something sweet in front of you. a honey lavender scone, still steaming. you bit into it and teared up a little bit without meaning to. he said nothing, only handed you a napkin and asked if the texture was acceptable.

and when you work yourself to the bone—when your eyelids sag and your legs barely hold you up—he appears at your side without fanfare. “I’ll  drive you home,” he says softly. you start to protest, but he’s already holding your coat out like a gentleman from another era. and when you nod, exhausted, he drives in silence, the kind that feels safe. whole. the car is warm. he keeps the heat turned up for you.

he watches you sometimes, when you’re nodding off in the passenger seat. you deserve better, he thinks. a better job. more rest. more peace. and if you won’t give it to yourself, he’ll do what he can in the spaces in between. in the extra sugar on your scone, the longer breaks, the fake orders he pretends you’re needed for. in the way he always notices when your hands are cold and slides a hot drink toward them without saying a word.

you make him soft. and though he’d never say it aloud, he’d get up before the sun every day of his life just for five more minutes with you. the thing about nanami is: he doesn’t just like you. he cherishes you. like the finest recipe he’s ever perfected—measured out in sugar, baked into something golden, and handled with the gentlest hands.

he is so much better than this place. everyone knows it. especially you. you're not even sure how someone with that much talent and that little tolerance for bullshit ends up in the back kitchen of a mid-tier casual dining restaurant, but sukuna runs that line like a war general. if war generals had tattooed forearms, eyebrow piercings, and a habit of glaring knives into the backs of lazy fry cooks.

he’s intense. immaculate knife skills. sauces that make grown men cry. meat cooked perfectly every single time. it’s the kind of skill that should have a michelin star slapped on it. and when you told him that—after he handed you a rogue slice of steak on a shift you didn’t even have time to breathe during—he just grunted. “not going anywhere ‘til you do,” he said, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing he’d ever said in his life.

but even though he’s stuck here, he’s not idle. sukuna wastes ingredients like they cost nothing—testing, tasting, refining. always for you. a little something stashed on the back shelf of the walk-in, labeled in sloppy sharpie with your name. sometimes he “accidentally” burns something (he would never, he couldn't bring himself to) just so he can slide you a replacement and watch your face light up after the first bite. and your face does light up. that’s the kicker. he memorized your palette like a quiz he studied for weeks. knows exactly how much heat you like, how much garlic is too much garlic (almost never), and what sweets will perk you up after a triple sat lunch rush.

when your perfume hits the air as you fly past the expo line, he lifts his head like a hunting dog catching scent. you rush out, plates in hand, stress in your shoulders, muttering “that took way too long” under your breath—and still, he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t have to. not when one folded arm and a sharp, deliberate glare can silence the entire kitchen. they fall into place like children lining up for recess. because when sukuna’s pissed? that’s an osha violation waiting to happen. but he’s not like that with you.

no, with you, he’s practically docile. you could walk into the kitchen mid-rush, batting your lashes and apologizing because you forgot to ring in table 12’s order and now they’re threatening to walk—and he’d just sigh, crack his knuckles, and say, “gimme five.”

you don’t even realize it—how much you have him wrapped around your finger. how he times his breaks to yours, how his chest puffs out every time you moan after biting into something he’s made, how he scowls when anyone else so much as thinks about you. you really don’t realize it until one of his line cooks makes some offhand comment—something about how you look in that skirt, how you bend when you wipe the table. and sukuna explodes. “say that again. I fucking dare you.”

it’s not subtle. nothing about him is. the kitchen goes silent. the cook apologizes. the conversation never happens again. but your name still burns in his chest.

and the customers? oh, if only they knew. sukuna doesn’t go full psycho while the nice ones are in the restaurant. no, he waits. watches from the shadows, counts the minutes, until everyone leaves but that one fucking table that always gives you grief.  “how come my girl comes back sniffling and weepy every time she deals with you, huh? she’s not serving you good enough?” he bites. they stare at him with something like awe. “tip her good and get out of here.” 

you don’t know he does this. not really. but you do notice how quiet the problem tables get on return visits. how much better your tips are from people who used to sneer at you for sport.

and behind all that big, black dog energy, there’s a softness he saves just for you. the way he presses you against the dry goods in the storage closet, one hand braced above your head, the other pulling you closer by the waist. he tastes like smoke and spice, kisses you like he’s hungry, like you’re something he made with his own two hands and he doesn’t want anyone else to have a bite.

you're breathless, lips swollen, apron askew. he leans in, brushes a thumb across your cheek.

"you good, princess?" he asks, like he didn’t just nearly ruin you against a wall. and you nod, cheeks hot, breath caught, heart doing a tap dance in your chest. you don’t call it a relationship. of course not. that would make it real. that would mean admitting what this is. but when you walk out of that closet, hair a little mussed, pulse still skipping, and sukuna’s right behind you—no one else dares to say a word.

itadori is what corporate types call a personality hire. and if anyone says it like it’s a bad thing? he just laughs. because yeah, he does have a great personality. he’s sunshine in an apron, muscles in a tight shirt, charm with a dimpled smile. grandmas give him candy. kids draw him pictures on napkins. drunk businessmen leave him hundred-dollar tips “for the vibes.” he’s a walking serotonin shot, and he knows it.

but you? you’re the real powerhouse here. you’re the puppet master behind the diner curtain. it’s your fourth year and counting, and you know everything—who to flirt with for favors, which register button unlocks the “forgot to ring it in” meal, which chef will actually make your off-menu creations if you say “pretty please.”

yuuji's jaw dropped the first time he watched you finesse a bartender into remaking a drink just because “this one had the wrong vibe.” and they did it—smiling, even. you taught him everything. took him under your wing. even tied his first apron when his hands were shaking on his first shift. he was done for immediately.

and so, he plays the long game. he plays dumb, just a little. “wait, wait, slow down—so if I bring fried pickles to table 3 before their drinks, they’ll tip better?” “you mean to tell me that table 7 always splits the check four ways?” “so, wait, the dishwasher likes sour candy, and that’s how you get your ramekins clean faster?” he knows all this like the back of his hand; had it down the very first time you told him...but he could listen to you talk for hours. watches your lips as you explain, your gloss catching the fluorescent lights. watches your eyes sparkle when you say, “c’mon, yuuji, keep up.” watches your hips sway when you saunter out with a full tray balanced like it’s a stage prop and you’re the star.

he starts showing up early. stays late. always, always ready to take your tables. that couple that never tips? done. the guy who ogles you too much? “I got it, don’t worry.” that side work you hate? “I already did it—no big deal.” your drink? already waiting for you by the soda machine. he’s even talked a manager out of writing you up once with a dumb joke and a grin. yuuji is, simply put, your bitch. and he loves it. but he’s not dumb.

he sees how you hover sometimes. how you glance over when he’s laughing with another server. how you tug on your apron strings and mumble, “I can take that table, if you’re swamped.” how your fingers brush his when you hand him silverware and your breath catches just a little.

and when your manager corners you to ask who deserves that upcoming raise? well, you don’t even blink. “yuuji,” you say. like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. and it is. he works harder than anyone. smiles through the lunch rush and stays sane through the dinner chaos. fills in for no-shows. makes customers laugh even when they’re impossible. you say his name like you’re proud. he practically floats for a week after that.

you try to pay it back—try to do his side work one night. try to scrub down the soda machine or refill the salt shakers or fold napkins. but he gently takes it all out of your hands and says, “nope. sit. I got this.”

“yuuji, seriously—”

“you work too hard. let me do it for once.” he grins. he always grins. but there's something a little different in this one. a little soft. like he's holding back something bigger. because he is. so much bigger.

he’s had to stuff his fantasies deep, deep down. the ones where you live with him, sleep in his shirts, kiss him good morning, throw popcorn at him during movie nights. the ones where you let him take care of everything. where he works and you just get to be happy. lazy. loved.

the ones where your lip gloss is smudged because he kissed it off. but for now, he lets himself dream. and when you lean over and whisper, “thanks, yuuji. you’re the best,” he swears his heart punches a hole in his chest. yeah. maybe he is a personality hire. but lucky for you, that personality is hopelessly in love.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

who lets you paint their nails?

asks for you to match the colors to their outfit, wants glitter, checks them in every mirror they pass ╰►gojo satoru, ino takuma, yuuji itadori, kaminari denki, kirishima eijiro, midoriya izuku, takami keigo, bokuto kōtarō, oikawa tōru

chill about it, half-watching TV, lets you pick the color, starts caring halfway through ╰►geto suguru, ieiri shoko, inumaki toge, kamo choso, yuta okkotsu, sero hanta, kozume kenma, matsukawa issei, hinata shōyō, sawamura daichi

acts like they’re being operated on, follows all instructions, won’t move an inch, willing is not the word to describe it, more like bent to your every will against their better judgment ╰►fushiguro megumi, hiromi higuruma, ijichi kiyotaka, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, amajiki tamaki, ida tenya, tsukishima kei, todoroki natsuo

refuses with violence (forehead flick), will not be glamorized, this is a war crime to them ╰►fushiguro toji, kong shiu, bakugou katsuki, shigaraki tomura, todoroki shoto, todoroki touya, aizawa shota, kageyama tobio, ushijima wakatoshi

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

someone to come home to | nanami kento ╰►for the first time in a long time, nanami had started to imagine a future. something domestic, something soft. you, in his kitchen. your socks on his floor. it wasn’t a dream he spoke aloud, but he felt it growing roots. it’s not that nanami can’t survive without you—he’s survived many things. it’s that everything is worse. food doesn’t taste right. his bed is cold. the silence is heavier. but when you stir, when you lean into his touch even in sleep, he knows: things can be good again. not easy. not painless. but better. and he will do whatever it takes to keep you here, with him, where life still makes sense. 13.8k words

a/n: about halfway through writing this, it dawned on me that there is genuinely no point to it...but one of the joys of writing is getting to force your selfships to dote on you, so that's exactly what I did hehehe hopefully you like it as much as I did :]

it hadn’t been a grand decision. there were no dramatics, no cinematic declarations, no final straw. just a morning like any other, a quiet sip of coffee in his overpriced penthouse, and a soft ache in his chest that had never quite gone away.

the corporate world was never meant to last. nanami had always known that. he wore the suits because they fit, not because he felt at home in them. the meetings blurred together, the deadlines grew stale, and even the money—once a seductive whisper—grew tired in his hand. he had clung to it for a while, hoping it could buy the life he wanted: breakfasts for two, slippers by the door, children’s laughter trailing through the halls like wind chimes. a wife with flour on her cheek and perfume on her wrists. nothing extravagant. just...quiet. love. stability. but the office lights were cold, and his apartment colder. the money sat untouched, meaningless without someone to spend it on. without someone to come home to. so he left.

he called gojo. begrudgingly. got reinstated. he didn’t tell anyone right away. there was no party, no “welcome back,” just the low hum of cursed energy pulsing through his fingertips again, like remembering a language you never truly forgot.

for a while, it helped. there was purpose in fighting. there was clarity in the blood and the bruises, in the moment a life was saved. sorcery was cruel, but honest. he had missed that. gojo and shoko took him out once a week—drinks, food, a movie if they could convince him. nanami went, mostly to humor them, partly because he was afraid of what he might do if he spent another evening alone. sometimes, he brought someone home. they never stayed. their perfume clung to his sheets longer than their presence ever did. it was transactional, fleeting, and each time he swore it would be the last. eventually, he stopped trying. the dates dried up. the hope did too.

he began teaching again. missions during the week, lectures on the weekends. ino became his apprentice—rough around the edges, eager, the kind of good-hearted idiot nanami begrudgingly admired. he didn’t say much. he wasn’t one for pep talks or hand-holding. but he showed up. he always showed up. when missions went south, when curses hit harder than expected, when ino needed backup—nanami was there. silent. steady.

for the first time in years, he felt useful. not just as a blade, but as a blueprint. gojo, naturally, took credit for this too. and then you arrived.

it was supposed to be ijichi giving you the tour. the man had a laminated itinerary and everything. but gojo, in all his loud, sunglasses-clad glory, intercepted halfway through and declared himself your “unofficial orientation guide.”

nanami had a list of things to do that day. a stack of mission reports to read, a student evaluation to file, a meeting with the kyoto branch. but he stopped. he stopped because he saw you. you weren’t extraordinary in a way that could be easily described. it wasn’t one thing. it was everything. the warm way you tilted your head when gojo spoke, eyes wide and curious. the color in your clothes—soft, rich tones that made the hallway seem less gray. the way you smiled, like it cost you nothing. you glowed, and nanami, long accustomed to shadows, stared longer than he should have.

later, in the teacher’s lounge—a place he rarely entered—you sat alone at the corner table, sipping tea and annotating what looked like lesson plans with pastel pens. he introduced himself. stiff. too formal. awkward, even. you smiled at him like he’d told a joke. he hadn't. “you’re nanami-san, right?” you said. “I've heard about you.” you sip your matcha. 

“have you?” he asked, bracing for whatever disaster gojo had likely shared.

“all good things,” you said with a teasing grin. “though gojo says you wouldn’t know a good time if it bit you.” nanami didn’t respond. but your laugh stayed with him for hours after.

you were…bright. unapologetically so. you decorated your classroom within the first week—posters, cozy lighting, a snack drawer that gojo discovered immediately. you knew all the students’ names before your second monday. you asked megumi about his dogs, even though he never gave you more than a nod in response. you watched horror movies just to talk to yuuji about them, even though they made you cover your eyes half the time. you didn’t just teach. you cared.

nanami didn’t understand you. not at first. you were a capable sorcerer. strong. your cursed technique was subtle but deadly. yet you kept your distance. you only went on missions when asked, and even then, you preferred ones with low risk. gojo told him why, eventually. your entire family—gone. friends, colleagues, all eaten up by the same world you refused to let consume you. you had known loss. you had learned to live beside it. and still, you smiled.

nanami began to linger more. he’d bring you your exact matcha order from the shop down the street, even though he hated the place. pack an extra snack in his bento, just in case yours got eaten. offer to accompany you on missions you didn’t need help with. you didn’t notice. or pretended not to.

gojo teased him endlessly. whispered conspiratorially about “love blooming in the rubble of battle,” earning a tired glare each time. but nanami didn’t mind. because something in him had shifted. something old, buried beneath years of quiet despair, stirred again. he didn’t know it yet—not fully—but something had begun the moment he saw you. something soft. something permanent. it would take time. of course it would. nanami was patient. and you…you were still healing. but that first day, in the fluorescent glow of the teacher’s lounge, with tea in your hand and sunlight catching in your hair—nanami allowed himself the thought. maybe I won’t end up alone.

the life you and nanami built together was something like art. it was beautiful, you were beautiful. for fear of them becoming sorcerers, you may never have a big family, but that isn’t something nanami’s terribly concerned with. you love him and that is truly, genuinely all that matters.

nanami changes. he shifts. he’s never quite the same man he was when you met him—tired and alone, barely clinging to a sense of purpose. there’s a lightness to him now, subtle but perceptible, like steam rising from a fresh cup of tea. he starts accepting invitations to faculty dinners and weekend brunches with gojo and shoko, not because he enjoys the noise, but because it means he gets to walk in beside you, hand on the small of your back, watching people do double takes. is that nanami kento with a soft smile? yes. yes, it is.

he’s still himself—structured, composed, fiercely principled. but the edges of him are rounded now, sweetened with you. he compliments ino’s performance during missions more readily, even high-fived yuuji after a particularly clean exorcism. the memory haunted him for a week. gojo was insufferable about it, miming high-fives every time he walked into a room. but even that—gojo’s endless teasing—bothers him a little less than it used to. you’d kiss his cheek, hide your smile behind your hand, and he’d let it go.

everyone at jujutsu tech knows. they talk. the whole school’s in on it, really—the way nanami hovers in the doorway of your classroom like he’s forgotten how to leave, always showing up with a fresh cup of your favorite drink or a new book you mentioned once in passing. they know how he drives you to work, how you never seem to carry your own lunch, how your coffee somehow always arrives in your hand, still hot, without you ever having to ask. they see the way he brushes your hair from your face like he’s scared to disturb a masterpiece. how his eyes soften—really soften—when he looks at you.

and you, in your bright clothes and warm perfume, your always-full candy jar and open door—you adore him right back. you leave notes in his bento box, each one folded into a little origami shape. “remember today is takuma’s birthday. <3” or “come see me on your break—I miss your face.” he keeps them. every single one. he tucks them into his desk drawer and pretends not to read them during meetings.

he’s not particularly expressive, not publicly. but when he slides your heels off at the end of the day, kissing the slope of your ankle, pressing his forehead against your shin like he’s praying—that’s when you know. when he carries your exhaustion like it’s his to bear. when you come home with a fresh bruise and he can’t stop pacing the kitchen, can’t stop thinking about how close he came to losing you. that’s how you know. he worships you, yes. but he also worries. deeply. constantly. it’s love. big, dangerous, real love.

he hates when you come back from missions hurt. even small things—cuts on your knuckles, a limp in your walk—rattle him. he bandages your wounds himself, always. his fingers are deft, precise. he takes his time with it, methodical as ever. but his mouth is tight, his eyes a little too wide. you try to make jokes, to lighten the mood. he never laughs at first. but later, when you’re curled up on the couch and he’s got you tucked beneath his arm, when he’s kissed your temple and your shoulder and your wrist, he’ll whisper something like, “don’t scare me like that again, sweetheart.” and you’ll kiss him back and promise nothing, because you both know better.

you tell him once—offhandedly, a passing comment—that you’re worried about dying young. that you’ve lost too many people, that sometimes it feels like a curse in and of itself. he doesn’t respond right away. just looks at you with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he wants to rewrite the world just to make sure it keeps you safe. that night, he holds you tighter than usual, arms wrapped around your middle, chin resting on your shoulder. he murmurs, “you won’t die before me. I won’t allow it.” and he means it.

sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night just to watch you sleep. you’re soft in sleep, peaceful in a way that hurts him a little. he touches your cheek with the back of his hand, marvels at how lucky he is to have found you—you, of all people. he kisses your forehead and thinks, this is what I was working for. this is what I was waiting for. this is it.

the other teachers notice the change in him. even ijichi, who’s too polite to comment, lets it slip once: “nanami seems…different. happier.” gojo, of course, never shuts up about it. claims full credit for your relationship, as if he didn’t find out about it from shoko, three months late, after walking in on you both sharing lunch in the faculty lounge like teenagers. he was offended that you hadn’t told him. said something like, “I'm the whole reason you two eve met, dammit, I should’ve officiated the first date!” you threw a paper cup at him. nanami looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and die.

still, gojo’s theatrics don’t matter. not really. not when nanami comes home and sees you curled up on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders. not when you wrap your arms around him like he’s the best part of your day. not when he gets to press his mouth to your pulse point and feel you exhale into his neck, like being with him is a kind of peace. and maybe it is. you made him soft, in all the best ways. and in turn, he gave you strength again. taught you to trust. to hope. to live in the present and not just the past.

some nights, after dinner, he’ll rest his head in your lap while you read aloud from whatever book you’re working through together. he closes his eyes and listens to your voice, calm and certain. your fingers card through his hair. he sighs like he’s found the meaning of life. other nights, he cooks. you sit at the kitchen counter and sip wine, kicking your feet like a kid, and he lectures you about knife safety like you haven’t survived two decades of cursed spirits and exorcisms. you smile at him and say, “yes, chef,” just to make him roll his eyes.

you joke that he’s a househusband in training. he tells you you’re not wrong. because the truth is—if he could, he’d retire tomorrow. trade missions and bloodshed for grocery lists and morning walks. he’d do it for you. only for you.

but for now, this is enough. coming home to you is enough. loving you, being loved by you—it’s more than he ever thought he’d have. he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the world to remember who he is and what he’s done. but every morning he wakes up and you’re still beside him, warm and real and breathing—and that’s how he knows he’s lucky.

it’s terrifying, how much he loves you. but it’s also the only thing in the world that’s ever made him feel truly, unquestionably awake, alive.

……

nanami had been having a good day. which, retrospectively, should’ve been the first warning. it had been one of those rare mornings when the light didn’t feel like an affront to his senses. the sun had slipped through the slats of the blinds in golden slivers, cutting across your sleeping form like god’s own paintbrush. you’d rolled into his side the moment he stirred, still half-asleep, mumbling something unintelligible before nuzzling under his chin like you always did when you didn’t want to get up. and he—stupid, stupid man—had thought this was the kind of peace that could last.

getting you to move in with him had been like negotiating a treaty with a foreign power. every reason you had not to do it came dressed in layers of self-deprecation: I don't want to be a burden; what if you get sick of me; I'm so messy you’ll hate it; you live too far from the subway—“absolutely not,” you’d muttered when he brought up driving you every day. “no way am I just going to let you chauffeur me around like I'm some high-maintenance—” he'd kissed you to shut you up. not for romance. out of frustration. out of please, for once, just let me love you the way you deserve.

and then finally—finally—one perfect day off had melted your resistance. a date that shouldn’t have been special but was: his favorite bakery, a long walk through the city just because you liked watching the people, making dinner together. you’d ended up sated and soft and nestled into him, legs draped across his lap, head buried into the crook of his neck, your fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt like you always did when you were content. that was when he’d asked again, gentle but firm. offered you pictures of the life he wanted to build with you—coming home together, never sleeping alone, no more duffle bags stuffed with half your life and shoved into school cabinets. and you’d said yes. he had not cried, not jumped for joy, not had some big dramatic reaction, though something deep and vital had cracked open in his chest. happiness, unadulterated, unbridled happiness, the kind he was sure he’d never have, never deserve, never earn, and yet here it was, being offered up on a silver platter to him. 

and now—now that life was slipping through his fingers like water. now you were in a hospital cot in the dim, fluorescent-humming basement of jujutsu tech. and nanami couldn’t breathe.

it started that morning. your name had come up during the debrief. a mission restructuring. your class with the students was reassigned—something about gojo being occupied, yaga pulling favors. you were to take a handful of students out instead. nanami had looked up sharply at that. you? on a mission with students? you barely went on missions.

you were backup. reinforcement. a historian of curses and spirits, not a frontliner. you always said there was nothing you could teach the kids in the field that gojo or nanami couldn’t teach better. but you didn’t argue, and that—that—was what left his stomach twisting. you never argued with authority, even when you should. you followed orders like it was a moral code, even if it put you in harm’s way.

and nanami hadn’t fought back. he hadn’t insisted. he had swallowed his concern like always, told himself you were capable—brilliant, even. smart enough not to make reckless decisions.

except when it came to the kids. you would never let a student get hurt. he knew—knew—without needing to be told, that you’d thrown yourself in front of yuuji when the curse blindsided him. you would have done it without hesitation, with no thought of consequence. when the call came, he was still on campus. sparring with ino. a routine day, going through the motions of a job he barely believed in anymore, until gojo appeared, white-faced and solemn. nanami had never seen gojo look like that. not even when haibara died.

he didn’t remember the sprint across campus. didn’t remember the doors he flung open or the hallways he tore through like a man possessed. just—you. there. unmoving. unhealed. pale in a way that you should never be. a sheet of gauze pressed to your side, already browning with blood. scrapes across your cheeks and temple. breathing—yes—but slow and fragile. all that light he used to complain about, the way it used to suffocate him in the best of way, that light—the sunlight in your laugh, the moonlight in your eyes, the firefly glow that clung to you like warmth—gone.

shoko’s voice was distant and cruel. “she’s been unconscious since she was extricated.” “…can’t seem to heal her…” “she’s stable for now, but—”

he didn’t hear the rest. just a buzzing roar behind his ears as his knees went numb and the world tilted sideways. this can’t happen. not to her. not to her. he didn’t speak. couldn’t. just stared. at your body. at your stillness. afraid to touch, afraid to even breathe wrong.

“she’ll stay here until we know if the curse’s residual effects wear off,” shoko said gently, dragging a metal chair to the side of the cot. “you should stay with her.” as if he had anywhere else to be.

he didn’t sit. not right away. he just stood there. rooted. staring at you like if he blinked you might disappear. and then he did sit. cold metal biting into him, grounding him in a way nothing else could. his eyes never left you. not for a second.

he didn’t know how much time passed before gojo came. he didn’t care.

gojo spoke softly, too softly, offering reassurances he had no right to give. said something about how shoko thought maybe you could go home soon. that your injuries weren’t that bad. nanami had heard enough. the growl came unbidden, low and rumbling from the back of his throat. “you can leave now, gojo.” to gojo’s credit, he didn’t argue. he just nodded, offered his help, and backed away.

once he was gone, nanami’s restraint shattered. he leaned forward, took your limp hand in both of his, and pressed your fingers to his lips like he was praying. and maybe he was.

his thumb brushed your cheek. so gently. just under the row of stitches shoko had placed hours ago. "I should have been there,” he whispered. "I should have told them no. I should have—god, I should have fought.” he was drowning. drowning in the “should haves.”

he should have noticed the debrief was off. should have told yaga he’d take the mission instead. should have followed his gut instead of silencing it. should have screamed when gojo dared to suggest your injuries weren’t bad. should have demanded more. but he hadn’t.

and now you were the one paying the price. he looked at you—your perfect face, marred by bruises and dried blood—and he hated himself. you’d been living with him for two weeks. together for half a year. six months of light and laughter and slow, soft love. and he’d let himself believe it was forever. now he could lose you.

nanami had always been composed. stoic. a man of logic. but there was nothing logical about love. there was nothing rational about watching the only good thing in your life bleed out on a cot. so he let himself fall. fell into the grief, into the guilt, into the ache. you cannot die. you cannot leave. you cannot give him heaven just to rip it away.

the tears came in slow, silent streams. he didn’t sob. he just wept, hands trembling around yours, as the weight of every choice he didn’t make crushed him. and still—still—he whispered to you. promises he couldn’t keep. deals with gods he didn’t believe in. I'll make it up to you. I swear, I'll take every mission. I'll train twice as hard. I'll do anything, just—come back to me. I'll never raise my voice. I'll never ask you for a thing you don’t want to give, I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never hurt again. and then softer, desperate: “you can’t leave me.”

the hours blurred. shoko came back once to check on you. said the curse’s effects were resisting healing, but that it wasn’t worsening. that was the best she could do for now.

nanami didn’t sleep. he couldn’t. he just sat there. hand in yours. bent over your bedside like a man keeping vigil for a lost god. and when he couldn’t hold the silence anymore, he let himself dream.

dreamed of you in his kitchen, dancing barefoot to some ridiculous song. dreamed of you, pregnant—glowing and annoyed, swatting him with a dish towel. dreamed of you kissing his bruises, muttering about how he “had to stop bleeding on the good towels.” dreamed of quiet, ordinary days. coffee. laughter. your hand in his.

he’d spent so long convincing himself he didn’t need these things. that love was a distraction. a danger. but you had made it easy. you’d made it holy. he was never going back. not if you didn’t wake up.

and still—you didn’t stir. so he sat. a man made of grief and guilt and hope. waiting for the light to come back. waiting for you.

it’s during this particularly horrific bout of self-loathing that you come to.

the room is dark—dimly lit by the blue glow of machines and the faint, flickering overhead light that someone forgot to turn off. it’s sometime in the early morning, hours before the sun even considers rising. you feel…weightless and weighted at once. dizzy. the pain is everywhere, dull and throbbing, blooming like ink in water beneath your skin. your body is heavy with ache, but your mind is cottoned over with fog.

where are you? what happened? why does it hurt so fucking bad? you let out a breath trapped in your lungs, and even that small effort sets your ribs alight.

but then—he’s there.

your eyes, fluttering sluggishly open, land on a figure beside you, a familiar silhouette haloed in sterile light. he’s hunched over you in that horrible hospital chair—spine curved unnaturally, broad back too big for something so poorly made. he’s been there for hours. days, maybe. decades, in his mind.

kento. his name flutters in your chest before it can form on your lips. you try to call out to him, but your throat is raw, dry as paper. all you manage is a whisper of breath.

he’s not even looking at you. his head is bowed, forehead resting against your knuckles, hands wrapped tightly around yours like they’re the last real thing in the world. you’re struck by the way his whole frame seems suspended, like he’s carved from tension and silence and guilt. he’s not a religious man. you know this. but in this moment, you would swear he’s praying. to you. for you. with you.

you can’t speak, so you do the only thing you can: you move. just slightly. just enough. your fingers twitch and slowly, painstakingly, your free hand lifts and brushes into his hair. his whole body shudders. at first, he doesn’t move. then he leans—leans into your touch like it’s the first kindness he’s been allowed to feel in years. his breath catches. you watch, silent and still, as his eyes open and lift to you, disbelieving.

“you…you're awake,” he breathes, like a broken hymn. “you’re alive. you’re here.”

his voice cracks on the last word. he says it again, again, again, like if he doesn’t keep speaking it into the world it might not stay true. a chant. a plea. a sacred truth. you smile at him—slow and crooked, soft with pain—but it’s real. so real. you would tell him you love him if you thought the words could make it past the gravel in your throat.

instead, your thumb moves gently to the edge of his face, brushing the damp corner of his eye. you tut quietly at him, coaxing. he leans into the touch again, trembling, blinking furiously. you’ve never seen him cry. not really. not like this.

“don’t—” he chokes. “please don’t do that. don’t be kind to me right now.” your brow furrows faintly. his hands tighten on yours.

"I should’ve protected you,” he whispers. "I should’ve been there.” you shake your head—barely, but enough—and he moves instantly, almost frantically.

“does it hurt?” he asks. “I'll get shoko, I’ll—” but he doesn’t move. he can’t move. his body is rooted beside you, eyes glued to your face like the world might fall apart if he looked away.

you squeeze his hand. “it’s okay, kento,” you rasp. “I'm okay.” you’re not. not really. the pain laces your every breath. but the way his face shatters—utterly, visibly—at the sound of your voice? you’d say it a hundred more times just to undo the devastation in his eyes.

“don’t talk,” he pleads, fussing instantly, voice low and tight. “you’re not supposed to talk yet. your throat—your ribs—darling, please.” he moves quickly but gently, fixing your blankets with shaking hands, brushing your hair from your forehead, lips brushing against your temple. his tie is loosened, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed. you’ve never seen him like this. he looks utterly undone. fragile, like glasswork.

still, he moves like a man with purpose. a man remade by grief and given a second chance. “I'll be right back,” he says finally, reluctant, like the idea of leaving you is a foreign wound. “I'll get her. and some water.” he forces himself away, fingers trailing off your wrist like it pains him to let go.

out in the hall, megumi sits hunched in a chair, face in his hands. yuuji is curled awkwardly in the corner, asleep and snoring softly. nanami pauses.

he doesn’t blame them. but he doesn’t quite not blame them either. which is ridiculously irrational, and he knows that, he parades on and on about it, how he’s the responsible adult and how it’s his job to keep the students safe. that’s your job, too, but this situation is just so fucked up, the wires are crossed in his mind, and he finds himself absurdly pissed off at anyone that isn’t you. 

he clears his throat. megumi bolts upright, wide-eyed. “i-is she—? what can we do—?”

“go find shoko,” nanami says shortly. the boy obeys without hesitation, dragging a bleary yuuji along with him. nanami finds the water cooler, fills a flimsy plastic cup, and walks slowly back. each step aches. everything aches.

when he returns, you’re trying to sit up. his heart nearly stops. “stop,” he says immediately, rushing forward, placing a steadying hand on your chest. “you’ll tear your sutures. let me—just—lay back down, please. please.”

you obey him with a frown and a sigh, lips chapped, eyelids heavy. he raises the cup to your lips. but you brush your fingers against his instead. as if he isn’t already watching you like a dying star. as if he isn’t holding the weight of you in every breath.

“I'm alright, kento. really. you don’t need to fuss.” that smile again. gentle. kind. completely unearned, as far as he’s concerned. it shatters him like glass on tile. he closes his eyes. breathes once, slow and frayed.

you don’t need to fuss.

if only you knew. if only he could explain that he no longer understands how to exist without orienting his every breath around you. that his hands only know peace when they’re on you—soothing your fevered skin, brushing your hair from your face, holding you still and here and alive. that he would gladly make a life of this. of serving you. worshipping at the altar of your continued survival. but he says none of this. he can’t. it would overwhelm you, and worse—it might frighten you.

so instead, he reaches for simplicity. for gentleness. “let me,” he whispers. just that. “please.” your lashes flutter. the silence stretches. then, a tiny nod. and he presses the water to your lips.

shoko arrives a few minutes later. she’s clinical, calm. assesses your wounds with a precision honed by necessity. your injuries are serious, but not critical. you should be okay to go home sometime this week, pending tests. she offers nanami a cot. he doesn’t hesitate.

“I'm fine here.” she doesn’t argue. but you do.

“kento. you can’t sleep in that chair again.” he opens his mouth to protest, but you beat him to it. “please,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “just…hold me. just for a little while.” and that’s it. that one word. please. it crushes him.

“okay,” he breathes, almost tenderly. “okay.”

he climbs into the cot carefully, awkwardly. it’s too small, but he fits himself around you like you were made to be there. he holds you as delicately as possible, arms tucked around your fragile form. his tie brushes your collarbone. his hands shake.

you fall asleep like that. safe. sheltered. he doesn’t. he watches you for hours, memorizing the way your chest rises and falls. the little tremble in your lashes. the blood in your hair, where he won’t touch. the soft exhale against his collarbone. he wants to scream. to cry. to rage. to protect you in all the ways he failed to. but instead, he runs his fingers through your hair. presses kisses to your crown. whispers your name like a benediction.

this will never be okay. but you’re here. and that’s enough. for now.

……

he’s awake well before you are. the lights are dimmed now, not the piercing fluorescents from the first night, but softer—still institutional, still cruel in how they flatten every warm color into gray, but gentler than before. still, they make your skin look paler than it is. waxy, he thinks. too quiet. too still. he’s already adjusted the blanket three times by the time your fingers twitch faintly in your sleep. it’s your blanket—the pale blue one with worn edges, the one you drag over the two of you on the couch, toss across your lap when grading late into the night. you claim it smells like safety, like lavender and faint detergent, but nanami suspects it just smells like home. like you.

he sent gojo for it—reluctantly, because trusting gojo with tasks that required subtlety was usually a mistake. but miraculously, gojo had returned with the blanket, one of your pillows, and—unprompted—a change of clothes for nanami himself. slacks, a soft sweater. even socks that matched.

nanami hadn’t thanked him. hadn’t said much of anything, really. just took the items with a quiet nod and disappeared into the staff bathroom to change, where the man in the mirror looked like someone else entirely.

he sits now, hunched awkwardly in that cold metal chair, the blanket tucked up to your chin. he checks your iv. again. and again. then your temperature, his hand on your forehead as though his own skin could tell him something the machines couldn’t. then your pulse, two fingers against your wrist, breath catching in his throat each time he feels the gentle thump beneath your skin. still there. still beating. still with him.

you make a soft sound in your sleep—half a whimper, half a sigh—and he’s immediately on his feet. “sweetheart,” he breathes, crouching beside the cot. “is it the pain? are you awake?” you aren’t. or maybe you are, but the drugs make it impossible to tell. your brow furrows. your lips part. but no words come.

he presses the back of his hand to your cheek. warm. too warm? he stands again, checks the drip. still flowing. still steady. he makes a note in the small spiral-bound notebook shoko left by the bed. she told him it wasn’t necessary. told him she’d be tracking your vitals. but he takes notes anyway. writes the time down every time he changes your iv, every time you so much as murmur. every breath you take feels like a gift he might forget to be grateful for.

if you were awake enough to speak, you’d probably tell him he was being ridiculous. dramatic, even. maybe you’d call him your mother hen. and when you were less loopy, less pain-stricken, he’d grumble about that. but secretly, he’d like it. secretly, he’d wear it like a badge of honor. 

you shift again. a wince this time. a full-body tremor. and nanami’s fingers twitch helplessly at his sides. he’s becoming something else in these moments—less man, more machine. more caregiver than combatant. he hasn’t thought about curses since the moment he saw you lying in that cot. hasn’t checked his phone. hasn’t gone outside. he doesn’t remember the last time he slept. or ate. or exhaled fully. his hair is a mess—no longer parted neatly, no longer combed back in that careful, corporate way. he’s raked his hands through it too many times. it clings damply to his temples now, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. he hasn’t noticed. he doesn’t care.

the rings beneath his eyes are deepening, blooming into something almost bruised. his hands shake when he pours water into your cup, when he tries to spoon soup into your mouth. but he does it anyway. asks if you're alright every fifteen minutes. asks if you need shoko, though he never knows what for.

you tell him you’re fine. over and over. that he doesn’t need to hover, doesn’t need to worry. but the very suggestion makes him laugh—quietly, bitterly. not at you. never at you. just at the absurdity of the thought.

leave you?

you’d nearly died. you'd almost—he doesn’t finish the thought. because he had. he had left. had let you out of his sight. and when he’d found you again, the light was gone from your eyes, your body broken open like a thing discarded. he can’t let that happen again. he won’t. still, you try to reason with him. always so damn calm. even when you’re pale and shaking. even when you can barely lift your head.

“kento,” you rasp, “you need to rest. please. just for a little while.” he only strokes your hair back from your face. presses your knuckles to his lips and says nothing.

when you manage to talk him into sitting for longer than a moment, into actually sitting, into letting the stress coil itself out from his spine for even half an hour—he’s the man you remember. your kento. warm and quiet. attentive, dutiful. he feeds you slowly, spoons broth to your lips like it’s the most sacred ritual of his life. he helps you sip from the straw. he adjusts your pillow, your blankets. always touching you like you’re made of porcelain. like something fragile and irreplaceable. and when he finally sees you close your eyes, when you aren’t grimacing, when your breathing is even—he reads to you.

your book had been in your school bag. he doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t really care. he just opens to the bookmarked page and reads in that soft, even voice of his. and you listen. not to the words, not really. but to him. to the cadence. to the sound of him here. you ask for distractions when the pain is too much. you ask about high school, about gojo, about silly things. what his part-time jobs were like, if he ever failed a class, what music he listened to when he was your age. he always answers. always.

but when shoko walks in, or you make a soft sound of pain, he forgets mid-sentence. snaps upright. abandons the story to check your iv, your pulse, your temperature. always cycling through the same desperate checks, always one step from panic. you try not to show how much it hurts. you try not to wince. but you’re not a good liar. not with him.

……

the first visitors arrive the next morning. yuuji and megumi come in with their shoulders hunched and their eyes wide, like boys walking into a funeral. megumi holds a bouquet of grocery store flowers that looks like it’s been clenched in a death grip the entire way down the hall. yuuji fidgets with the hem of his hoodie, eyes darting from you to the floor and back again. neither of them says a word at first. just stands there, a little awkward, a little guilty, like they’re waiting to be scolded.

nanami stiffens in the chair beside you—protective, alert. he doesn’t say anything either, just watches them with careful eyes as you blink up from the bed, tired but curious.

“stop looking at me like that,” you joke, but they both immediately avert their gaze to another part of the room. you laugh with a wince. "I didn’t say you had to completely look away.” your voice is chastising and painfully kind, all at once. 

yuuji flinches. “we almost let you—”

“don’t,” you cut him off, voice firmer now. “don’t you dare.”

his mouth opens again, some sweet, stupid apology on the tip of his tongue, but you hold up a hand—shaky, weak, but still commanding enough to silence him.

“this wasn’t your fault,” you say. “it was a bad mission. things went sideways. it happens.”

“but we—” megumi tries, probably to apologize.

“stop,” you say again, softer this time. “I'm okay.” you aren’t. not really. your body is aching and heavy and every breath feels like dragging yourself uphill, but you’re alive, and that has to count for something. and you won’t let them carry the guilt for something they couldn’t have stopped. they’re kids. brave and powerful, sure, but still learning. still vulnerable. you love them too much to let them carry this kind of weight.

they settle beside your bed eventually, yuuji on the floor, megumi in the stiff plastic chair in the corner. yuuji babbles about a new manga release, megumi interjects with his usual deadpan corrections, and for a moment, it feels normal. like any other afternoon at school. like you're not half-broken in a cot in the bowels of jujutsu tech.

nanami doesn’t say much, but he watches you. watches the way you soften when yuuji says something funny, the way your hand drifts toward megumi’s arm when he speaks. like you’re trying to remind him you’re still here. still real. they leave reluctantly, but only after you promise—three times—that you’ll be okay. nanami walks them out. thanks them. tells them it’s not their fault, though his voice is tight when he says it. he’s trying.

gojo shows up two hours later. he’s loud, of course. drops his sunglasses on your bedside table like he owns the place, immediately helps himself to the chair megumi had used. he talks nonstop—about the mission he just got back from, about the girl he met last night, about a new limited-edition dessert he insists you have to try when you’re better. nanami scowls at him. visibly. but you laugh. not much, just a huff of air through your nose. but it’s something. you let gojo ramble, let him paint the room in noise and distraction. for a little while, you don’t have to think. don’t have to feel. it helps. more than you want to admit.

ijichi comes by later with a clipboard in hand, looking entirely too official, but his voice is gentle when he asks how you’re doing. you thank him with a small smile, and the blush that covers his face is laughable. 

nobara and maki arrive together just before dinner. maki brings snacks—nothing healthy, all crunchy and salty and deeply frowned upon by any real medical professional. nobara pulls a nail polish kit from her bag and insists you need a color change, saying something about how healing faster is all about aesthetics. nanami sits quietly in the corner while they laugh, while nobara holds your wrist delicately in her hand and paints soft, even strokes of polish onto your nails.

he watches you the whole time. eyes heavy with something like awe. this, he thinks. this is who you are. this is who the world sees, who they love. you, bright and stubborn and brave. you, with paint on your fingers and silly teenage girl gossip in your mouth. even in a hospital bed, even pale and stitched and hurting—your light is blinding, and somehow, that light has chosen him. he doesn’t understand it. never has. never will. but he feels it, deep in his chest. like something precious cupped between trembling hands.

nights are harder. the chatter dies. the hallways go still. the beeping machines fill the silence, and nanami can feel the weight settle again, heavy and thick in the space between heartbeats. you don’t sleep well. too much pain. too much nausea. but you try. and he won’t speak, not at night. not when he thinks your body needs rest. instead, he holds you—gently, reverently. like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he moves too quickly. his arms cradle you, his hand moves slowly up and down your back, or across your brow, soft and methodical.

every time you grimace, he shifts. sits up. checks your forehead, your pulse, your expression. murmurs little comforts into your hair. brushes strands away from your cheeks. you grumble that it’s not so bad. insist you’re okay. but your hands clench the sheets. your body flinches when the pain creeps in, and he sees it. he sees all of it.

you try to talk, one night. try to explain. “I'm really okay,” you whisper. “it was just a mission. they go bad sometimes. it’s not going to happen again, I—”

but he doesn’t let you finish. his hand finds yours, squeezes gently. and then he shushes you—softly, but with a finality that surprises you. that shakes you. he never interrupts. never. you can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken over you. but he does now, because he can’t bear to hear it. can’t bear to let the words form. because he knows what you’ll say, and he can’t take it. not tonight. not like this.

because yes, maybe it was just a mission. maybe you are going to be okay. but he’s not. he’s still seeing you on that cot every time he blinks. still tasting the copper in the air. still hearing shoko say she couldn’t heal you, like the world was unraveling in real time. and if he lets you talk like it was nothing—if he lets you shrug it off like you always do—he’s going to break.

he wants to march to yaga right now. wants to demand you be benched indefinitely, wants to argue that he can protect you better if you never leave the apartment again. wants to keep you wrapped up in his sheets, feed you with his hands, watch over you until the end of time. but he knows you. he knows that kind of love would undo you.

you’re already skittish with affection. always have been. you flinch when it’s too much, not because you don’t want it, but because you don’t know how to carry it. because you’ve always lived like it could be taken away. so he swallows it down. all of it. every desperate, all-consuming plea to keep you tethered to him. every vow that he’d sacrifice everything just to make sure this never, ever happens again.

he just shakes his head instead. spoons another bite of soup toward your lips. says, “we’ll talk about it later. when you’re better.” and you hate it. hate how gentle he is. how good. you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. you’ve never been allowed to keep it. but he gives it anyway. over and over again. like he doesn’t know how to stop.

you hold his gaze for a long time after that. say nothing. just breathe. and then, because you don’t know what else to do, you go back to picking at the skin around your nails. he notices. of course he does. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t scold. just reaches out, warm and slow, and takes your hands in his. thumbs brushing over each knuckle, each tiny wound. his eyes fixed on your palms like they’re scripture.

and when he lifts your fingertips to his lips, presses a kiss there like a promise—you feel something in your chest give way. 

……

“you need to go home,” you tell him one afternoon, voice hoarse but insistent.

it’s been a few days. three, maybe four—it’s hard to tell in the basement infirmary with its flickering lights and recycled air, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to your hair.

he doesn’t say anything, and you know that the silence is his answer, that he’s not going anywhere. a sigh pushes out of you as you sink back into the pillow. you’re exhausted. not just from your injuries, though they still throb with a vengeance, but from the sheer weight of his concern. the way he hovers. how he hasn’t left your side. not once. it’s sweet, it’s grounding, it’s everything you love about him—but it’s also starting to crush you.

“kento,” you murmur. "I need space.”

his shoulders jerk, just slightly, like the words sting more than they should. and they do. god, they do. because he knows what you mean. he does. you’re tired. you need a real bed, a real shower, a moment where someone isn’t watching your every move in fear that you’ll fall apart. and he knows, in the rational part of his brain, that giving you that space is necessary. healthy, even.

but still—it feels like a blade slipped beneath his ribs. he says nothing at first. just stands there, silent, hands flexing at his sides. he looks like he’s preparing for battle, though the only thing he’s fighting is his own instinct to keep you within arm’s reach for the rest of time.

you sigh again. softer this time. "I didn’t start dating you so you could be my personal nurse. you know that, right?” he does. but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to be.

you reach for his hand—his big, calloused hand that has held yours through so many quiet storms—and give it a squeeze. “just a few hours,” you say. “go home. change. breathe.” he doesn’t move. you groan. “please?”

he nods, eventually. relents in that quiet way he does, where he’s clearly still calculating every possible outcome in his head. he checks your iv drip again, frowns at the number even though he knows it's fine. he checks the fluid levels, reads the monitor three times. he asks shoko a half-dozen questions she doesn’t even blink at.

“are you sure she’s okay?”

shoko gives him a look. tired. unimpressed. “if she wasn’t, I'd say so.”

“but her temperature—”

“nanami.”

he shuts up. lets her finish. but not before you have to reassure him again. again. again. until your voice is dry and your throat hurts from repeating I'm fine and I love you and you need to take care of yourself, too.

he finally leaves. you should’ve timed it.

the drive is quiet. unsettlingly so. no radio, no traffic, not even the sound of his own thoughts, really. just a dull, buzzing pressure in his ears and the thudding of his heartbeat against the steering wheel.

he pulls into the parking garage like a ghost. unlocks the door without thinking. steps inside.

and that’s when it hits him. the silence. real silence—not the kind you learn to live with on solo missions, or in hotel rooms between red-eye flights. this is the kind that aches. the kind that used to feel familiar. comfortable, even. but now—now it just feels wrong.

he walks into the kitchen. everything is where you left it. your tea mug beside the sink, your sweater folded over the back of a chair, your shoes tucked haphazardly by the door. you’ve been here. you live here. but the apartment feels hollow without your voice bouncing off the walls, without your laughter slipping down the hallway. how did he ever live like this? how did he ever live without you?

he thinks back—tries to. and he can’t. not really. not in any meaningful way. there were years here, entire years he spent alone in this space, eating bland takeout in front of the television, sleeping in a bed that felt like a coffin. he was alive, sure. working. moving. but he wasn’t living.

you changed that. you came in with your books and your perfume and your endless capacity for love and you woke him up. and now that he’s tasted that life—with you in it—he doesn’t know how to exist any other way.

he showers. doesn’t remember turning the water on. scrubs his skin until it’s raw, trying to rinse off the smell of fear clinging to him like smoke. he eats something. probably. he finds a leftover container in the fridge, heats it up, eats it with a fork he forgot to wash first. it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t taste like anything.

and then, before he can stop himself—he’s grabbing his keys again. maybe an hour has passed. maybe. he doesn’t remember the drive back. doesn’t remember parking, or walking in, or passing ijichi on the way down. he just remembers the moment he sees you again. you’re still there. right where he left you. pale, bandaged, bruised—but smiling. and it guts him.

“there you are,” you whisper.

he crosses the room in three long strides, drops into that metal chair like it’s magnetic. his hands reach for yours on instinct, gathering them in his own, cradling them like something precious. his thumbs press over your pulse points—feel the steady beat.

you’re alive.

you’re alive.

you’re alive.

you smile at him, warm and soft and devastating, like you’ve been waiting for him all day. like it hadn’t only been an hour. like you’d missed him more than you knew what to do with. that smile—so familiar, so disarming—it nearly floors him. again.

shoko is across the room, calm as ever, flipping through the chart at the end of your cot. she’s unreadable, as usual, her brow furrowed in clinical concentration. nanami watches her with held breath. as if every movement of her pen might rewrite your fate.

“good news,” you say, voice light but steady. it carries in the sterile stillness of the room. “tell him, shoko.”

shoko glances up, eyes darting between the two of you. you, bruised but smiling; nanami, rigid and terrified.

“clean bill of health,” she says. “more or less. tomorrow afternoon, you can take her home.” there’s a beat. and then the sound that escapes nanami is closer to a laugh than a breath, except it’s dry and trembling and half-choked in his throat. the weight doesn’t fall off his shoulders—it shifts slightly. just slightly.

your smile widens. you look over at him like you're not covered in bruises and fatigue, like you're not stitched up and held together by borrowed time. and he wants to crumble. because you shouldn’t be the one smiling. he should be. he should be smiling for you, beaming, cheering, crying with joy—but all he can manage is to hold your hand a little tighter, like that’ll be enough to convey everything roaring inside him.

relief. guilt. love. so much love. he still doesn’t feel like enough.

rationally, nanami knows better. he knows he did everything he could. he knows this wasn’t his fault, that you’re a sorcerer just like he is, that danger comes with the job. he knows. but logic doesn’t live in the same place that love does, and right now, they aren’t even speaking.

he follows shoko into the hallway the second she closes the chart.

“is she really okay?” he asks, voice low. urgent. “completely stable?”

shoko exhales slowly, leaning her back against the wall. “she’s banged up. but stable. her vitals are consistent, scans look clean. no internal bleeding, no residual cursed energy.”

“but the side effects from the curse—”

“will pass,” she cuts in gently. “it’ll take time. but she’s on track. nanami, she’s going to be fine.”

he nods, barely. stares at a spot on the tile like it might blink back at him. but his hands are still shaking. and his chest still feels like it’s full of broken glass.

he doesn’t answer. just looks through the window, where you’re sitting upright now, sipping water slowly. when your eyes meet his, you tilt your head, confused by his absence. he nods once and steps back inside.

it’s later now. hours, maybe. the lights are dim, and the hallway is quiet. he’s sitting next to your cot again, more calm than before, watching you pick half-heartedly at your dinner, coaxing you into at least a few more bites. you humor him. he praises you like you’ve moved mountains. you sip water. he adjusts your blanket. he takes the empty cup from your hand and sets it on the side table, brushes your hair from your eyes. all small things. but they keep his hands busy. keep his panic at bay.

when you’re settled again, tucked and warm and vaguely annoyed by how tucked and warm you are, your hand starts to move. you don’t even realize you’re doing it. your fingers are pulling at the skin around your nails. little tugs, soft scratches. it’s old muscle memory. you’ve done it for years—since school, since grief, since the first time someone you loved didn’t come home. it’s a nervous tic. you’re not even in pain right now, not exactly. but your brain is louder than your body.

nanami notices instantly. he always does. he doesn’t say anything at first. just reaches for your hands and gently pulls them into his lap, turning them over, inspecting the little raw spots forming at your cuticles. he rubs his thumb over the worst of it.

“what’s wrong?” he asks quietly.

your throat tightens. because of course he knew. of course he always knows. you swallow. blink down at your hands in his. his grip is so warm. so steady. your hands look small there. like they couldn’t possibly do the damage they’ve done.

“kento,” you start, voice cracking a little. you don’t know where you’re going with it. you just have to say something. he waits. doesn’t rush you. never rushes you. "I don’t want it to be like this,” you say eventually, the words halting. "I know this was scary for you. but...we’re sorcerers. this isn’t new. it’s going to happen again. you can’t—” you don’t get to finish.

“no,” he says sharply. too sharply. his voice cuts through the room, firm and final. you freeze. eyes wide. again, he almost never interrupts you. he thinks it’s rude, always listens, always gives you space. but this—this he cannot let pass.

he leans forward, holding your hands tighter, anchoring you both. "I went so long without you,” he says, his voice low and steady but fraying at the edges. “you have no idea. I was sleepwalking through my life. until you. you woke me up. and I can’t—” he breaks off, jaw locking. "I cannot bear the thought of losing you.” your eyes sting.

he swallows, eyes flicking to your blanket, your bandages, your still-pale face. he knows he’s said too much. been too heavy. he’s trying to back off, to keep from collapsing under the weight of how he feels. but you’ve always made it hard to hide anything. “we can talk more about it,” he says, softer now. “eventually. but for now...please. just focus on healing. and let me take care of you.” you try not to look away. you try not to flinch at the devotion in his voice. it scares you sometimes, how much he cares. how much he’s willing to care. and he knows that. he always has.

he sees you flinch. sees your eyes dart to the side. your fingers twitch like they want to go back to their habit. so he tightens his hold. not too much. not too tight. just enough. his thumbs sweep over your palms, over every callus, every scar. he brings your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers. one by one. don’t you know? don’t you know that you hold his heart in your hands, too?

……

the drive home is quiet. not peaceful, not companionable—quiet in the way cemeteries are. dutiful. heavy. nanami’s hand is a vice on the steering wheel, the other resting gently over yours where it sits limply in your lap. your fingers twitch occasionally, the only thing reassuring him you’re still with him. he glances over every chance he gets. not subtly, either. it’s shameless, obsessive, each flick of his gaze a silent prayer—are you breathing? are you grimacing? are you okay?

you don’t say much. not because you’re mad, or tired—though you are both—but because you can feel the tension radiating off of him like a heatwave. his knuckles are white. his jaw tight. and if you opened your mouth now, you might say something cruel. something like, “kento, stop looking at me like I'm going to die.” so instead, you let the silence stretch. you watch the road. you count how many times he glances your way (eleven, just between the hospital parking lot and the first red light). it’s maddening and it’s sweet, and it makes your chest feel too full and too empty at the same time.

when he pulls into the parking garage and shuts off the engine, he doesn’t move right away. just sits there, staring out the windshield like it might offer him answers. you open your mouth to insist that you can walk. you’ve been walking around the hospital fine for a day now, albeit slowly. but before the words can form, he’s already out of the car, door slamming shut behind him with more force than necessary.

you don’t even get the chance to reach for the handle. your door opens, and there he is—silent, suit wrinkled, sleeves rolled, eyes tired in a way that makes your heart clench.

“don’t argue,” he murmurs, already slipping his arms beneath you, “please.” you sigh, weakly, but don’t protest. it’s not worth it. and if you’re being honest—you don’t mind the way he holds you. like you’re something precious. like the thought of putting you down physically hurts him. he lifts you with ease, cradling you against his chest like a bride in an old painting. his suit jacket falls open and brushes your cheek. you press your nose into the lapel. he still smells like the hospital, antiseptic and stress and coffee—but beneath it, there’s still him. always him.

inside, everything feels foreign and familiar at once. the apartment is exactly as you left it—books on the coffee table, your slippers by the couch, a mug in the sink—but it feels changed. heavier. like it held its breath while you were gone. he takes you straight to the bedroom. the sheets are fresh. your blanket—the one gojo retrieved—is folded neatly at the foot of the bed. your pillow is fluffed. the curtains are drawn to keep the light soft. of course it’s perfect. of course he’s thought of everything. he lays you down with the same gentleness one might use to place flowers at a grave. his hand lingers on your shoulder. he doesn’t say anything.

you shift slightly, trying to get comfortable. he straightens the blanket around you automatically. hovers. steps back. starts to turn toward the door. “kento,” you say softly, reaching out. your fingers curl around his forearm. “stay, please.” he stills. there’s a beat. then he nods. he sits beside you on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, body tense like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. you slide your fingers from his forearm to his hand, tuck yours between his like it’s the easiest thing in the world. because it is.

you fall asleep like that—his fingers wrapped around yours, his eyes on your chest, watching every single rise and fall like they might stop at any moment. he doesn’t sleep much that night either. he sits there long after your breathing evens out, long after your fingers go slack in his. he watches the way your mouth twitches in your dreams. the furrow in your brow. the half-healed wounds peeking from beneath your collar.

he can’t stop imagining what this room would feel like without you in it. what the sheets would look like untouched, your slippers unmoved. he imagines lying in this bed alone, staring at the ceiling, begging to remember the sound of your voice. and then he gets up—suddenly, quietly—and goes to the kitchen.

he returns a few minutes later with water, your medication, and a bowl of something bland and warm. he sets it all on the nightstand, then brushes your hair back from your forehead, fingers reverent, like he’s afraid to wake you and afraid not to. he stays like that until dawn.

……

the next few days blur together.

he becomes almost a robot. a caregiver. a sentinel. there’s a schedule written on the fridge in his neat, meticulous handwriting—your meds, your meals, your bathroom breaks. he sets alarms. he stocks the nightstand with tissues and hand lotion and that lip balm you always lose. he refuses to let you lift a finger. not for water, not for food, not even to change the channel on the tv. it’s…a little much.

he helps you bathe, too. insists on it, actually, even though you argue that you can do it yourself. and maybe you can—but when his warm hands are on your shoulders, gently helping you out of your clothes, his eyes trained firmly on the tile, you realize you don’t mind. not when he’s this careful. not when his voice is soft and steady, guiding you through it like a dance.

he dresses you in one of his shirts afterward—soft and worn, down to your thighs. it smells like him. he says it’s because it’s easier than your usual pajamas. but the way he looks at you afterward, like he’s trying not to cry or fall to his knees, tells you it’s more than that.

every morning, he wakes you gently for your medication. he tries not to stare at you all the time, though he’s not entirely aware of it. when you grimace at a bite or sigh that you’re not hungry, he doesn’t push. just tuts and says, “try a little more, sweetheart,” and somehow, you always do.

you walk together, eventually. slowly. carefully. once around the apartment, then down the hall, then down the block. you pass a stray cat sunbathing on the curb and you crouch to pet it, smiling as it nuzzles into your palm—only to wince, softly, as pain shoots through your side. nanami is at your side instantly.

“that’s enough,” he says, helping you up. “we’re going back.”

“kento,” you start to protest. he doesn’t answer. just walks you home in silence, one arm around your waist, the other carrying your dignity in both hands.

at night, you curl into his side while he finishes the chapter he’d started in the hospital. you fall asleep to the sound of his voice. peaceful. content.

one evening, nestled against his chest, you murmur, “you’re my favorite version of yourself like this.”

he pauses. “like what?”

“like this. here. home.”

he exhales slowly. presses a kiss to the top of your head. doesn’t say anything. but you feel his arms tighten around you.

you don’t talk about the mission until the fifth night. the light is low. dinner is finished. your stitches itch and your chest aches, and you find yourself staring at the ceiling, heart too full to hold it in anymore. "I went on a mission when I was a teenager,” you begin. “back in school. supposed to be routine. clean. easy. but of course it wasn’t. people died. people I knew. people I…loved.” nanami looks over at you. doesn’t interrupt. “my efforts didn’t matter. not the way I wanted them to. I started taking less missions after that. until I left altogether.”

you swallow, voice soft. "I came back because I wanted to make a difference. for the kids. not for…this.”

you don’t have to say it. he knows what you mean. he’s quiet for a long time. then, "I want to stop you from ever doing anything like that again.” your throat tightens. you’d worried it would come to this. “but I won’t ever hold you back from what you want.” his voice is steady. raw. “it just…seems like maybe this isn’t what you want.” you don’t respond. not right away. not with words. but you know he’s right.

from then on, his care softens. not in quality, but in intensity. he still wakes you gently for your meds. still stocks the fridge with things you like. but the worry that once bled from him like a wound is quieter now. steadier. he’s still yours. but more than that—he’s here. not a sword. not a shield. just a man. tired and healing. loving you in all the ways he knows how. and somehow, that’s enough.

……

after two weeks, you have to come back to the school to get your stitches removed. the smell of rubbing alcohol burns at the back of your nose. nanami is at your side, of course, seated just slightly too close, his knee brushing yours every time he shifts. you can feel the nerves humming off him, like static. it’s almost funny, really. if you weren’t the one getting stitches removed from your stomach and shoulder, you might’ve teased him about it.

“you can sit back, kento,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “I'm not about to die in shoko’s office.”

he doesn’t look at you. just says, "I know,” like he’s trying to convince himself. his hands are folded in his lap, but you know the tension in them would snap bone if he wasn’t careful.

shoko walks in moments later, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable as always. she gives you a small nod, then glances at nanami. “you look like hell,” she says casually, flipping through her notes. "I thought she was the patient.” you stifle a laugh. nanami doesn’t respond.

“he’s taken to the nurse routine,” you say for him, smiling. “turns out, he’s a natural.”

“not surprised,” shoko replies. “he was the only one in our class who actually read the textbook. alright.”

the process is quick. methodical. shoko’s fingers are deft as she leans in, tweezers catching the first black thread. she doesn’t even warn you before she starts. it doesn’t hurt, not really. the healing has done its work, what little your body could manage. but you feel every motion, every gentle tug. and you feel nanami’s gaze even more—burning into your skin like a second pair of hands. he watches you like he’s memorizing the way you wince. like every flinch carves itself into his chest. you glance at him once, and it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. he’s all sharp edges and furrowed brows, eyes wide and solemn and worshipful. like this is a religious experience. like watching you be sewn and unsewn is some kind of penance.

you shift your focus back to the ceiling. any longer and you might cry—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming weight of his love.

“this curse really did a number on you,” shoko mutters as she leans in to inspect the last row of stitches. “resistant to healing techniques. scarring’s pretty deep. can’t say I've seen many like it, but you’ll be fine.”

nanami exhales. not relief, not exactly. more like a breath he didn’t realize he was holding finally escaping against his will.

shoko steps back, tugging off her gloves. “you’re free to go. rest. move slow. hydrate. try not to fall down the stairs or anything.”

you shoot her a look. “you always make me feel so special.”

"I try.” you both smile.

as you pull your shirt carefully down over the bandaged scar on your shoulder, the door swings open. of course. it’s gojo, followed by megumi and yuuji—all crammed in the narrow hallway like a fanclub waiting to meet their idol.

“hey, you’re alive!” gojo beams. "I mean, obviously. but still. nice to see it with my own eyes.”

you raise a brow. “weren’t you the one who told nanami I'd be fine the whole time?”

“yeah, well, it was mostly for his sake.” he jerks a thumb toward where nanami stands, still silent, hands now clenched at his sides. “he looked like a ghost for two days straight.”

megumi steps forward, subdued but clearly relieved. “we were worried.”

“so worried,” yuuji adds, eyes wide. “like…actually scared.”

you wave a hand. “I'm fine now. all good.”

“when are you coming back?” yuuji asks, all hope and brightness and completely unaware of the way nanami’s whole body seems to still beside you. you pause. feel his breath catch. feel the world stutter.

you smile, smooth and sweet. charming. practiced. “I'm not sure yet. still resting. maybe soon.” soon. you don’t miss the way nanami’s fingers twitch. how he leans ever so slightly forward, like he might be sick. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t breathe. just…sits with that word festering inside of him.

you finish up the visit without issue, fielding more questions, deflecting gently, laughing when gojo starts a fake countdown for your triumphant return. but nanami doesn’t laugh. not once. not even a smile. he stands behind you like a ghost, one hand on the back of your chair, too quiet for someone who usually speaks volumes just by being present. on the way home, he doesn’t hold your hand. not because he doesn’t want to, but because it’s clenched tight around the steering wheel again.

……

he tries to give you space, now. or he thinks he does. it’s laughable, honestly. he still brings you every meal, still insists on fluffing your pillows and laying out your clothes, still stands just outside the bathroom when you shower in case you slip. but he doesn’t hover. not quite. he lets you wander into the kitchen on your own. lets you reheat your tea without intervening. lets you walk the hallway once without shadowing your every step.

you notice the difference. and you know it’s not because he trusts you to be fine. it’s because he’s afraid if he touches you too much, he’ll never be able to stop.

you try to be gentle about it. you appreciate his care—god, you do. but you don’t know how to sit in that kind of love for too long without it feeling like drowning. it’s too much. too deep. you’ve spent your whole life learning how to survive on scraps, and now this man is feeding you banquets of affection and expecting you to know how to digest it.

but still, you take the walks. short ones, under his strict supervision. your bruises have faded from deep violets and angry blacks to a pale, mottled green-yellow. they no longer hurt when you move. the pain that once seized your ribs with every breath is now a dull whisper, easily ignored. the scars remain, of course. thin and pale and permanent. but they don’t ache. not anymore.

you sit beside nanami on the couch one afternoon, feet tucked beneath you, sipping miso he made from scratch. he pretends not to watch you while you eat. pretends not to study your every expression, your every twitch. “I'm fine,” you tell him, softly. he nods. doesn’t answer. you didn’t expect him to. you wonder if he’ll ever believe you again.

……

things start slow. neither of you have the heart or the energy to rush back into the routine like nothing happened. it’s not avoidance, not really—it’s caution. like life suddenly became something delicate, something to be handled with care.

he goes back to work first. it’s inevitable. responsibility clings to him like a second skin, always has. he’s needed—by students, by colleagues, by the job itself. he can’t say no to duty, even if it leaves you tangled in the sheets he’s still warmed with his body. even if it feels like leaving you behind again.

ino asks about you almost immediately. nanami deflects, of course. the usual clipped answers. she’s recovering. resting. none of your concern. we’re not here to gossip. focus on your form. but after an hour of drills and corrections, he finds himself saying something about the way you tried to pet a stray cat last week, even though you winced the whole time. how you laughed when he scolded you. how you called him insufferable and kissed his nose. he tells ino that you’re tough. that you’re smart. he doesn’t say you’re the love of his life, but he might as well have.

you return to work eventually. gradually. not with any big announcement, no fanfare or dramatic entrance. just one morning, you’re there. in your classroom. a mug of tea in hand. your name on the whiteboard in that same messy script. students blinking at the sight of you like they’re not sure if it’s real. they swarm. megumi hides it better than the rest, but yuuji hugs you too tight. nobara demands to paint your nails again. even gojo claps obnoxiously, offers you a homemade coupon for one free dinner “with the sexiest teacher on campus,” which you promptly rip in half. everything, it seems, is exactly the same. but it’s not. and nanami feels it in his marrow.

you’re here, yes. smiling, teaching, living. but he knows the scar tissue you don’t talk about. he knows what your breath sounds like when it catches in your throat as you pass by the infirmary. he knows what your eyes do when you think no one’s watching. and maybe you’re better now. physically. outwardly. but in nanami’s mind, you never fully came back. or maybe he never did. he doesn’t know.

he drives you to work each morning, without fail. waits for you at the front with a thermos of your favorite drink. drives you home every afternoon, listening with something between fascination and devotion as you recount each tiny, ridiculous detail of your day. you once told him you spent fifteen minutes mediating a fight over who took the last strawberry milk in the vending machine, and he’d nodded like you were delivering a lecture on international politics. he needs to hear it all. it makes him feel close to you. tethered to you.

he files your paperwork. reorganizes your classroom supply closet. eats lunch with you in your office every single day, knees bumping under the table. you share a sandwich and he listens to you talk through lesson plans and theory debates and new teaching methods. you say you’re trying to find joy in the little things. he thinks you are joy, and that the little things are only worth anything because they happen with you.

in some ways, it feels like everything is back to normal. but nothing is meaningless now. not a single thing. not the way your pinkie hooks around his in the hallway. not the way he watches you sleep, even when you’re fine, even when he knows you’re okay. not the way his heart clenches when he hears your voice echo down the halls. this isn’t just a relationship anymore. it’s not a phase or a fling or a soft chapter in an otherwise gray book. he’s rooted here. deeply. permanently. and he knows you are, too.

it happens without announcement.

just a quiet meeting behind a closed door—yaga’s office in the early hours of a thursday. you go alone. come back the same way. say nothing.

you fold laundry. skim your book. eat a quiet lunch. you sit beside nanami on the couch like always, lean your head against his shoulder like always. he doesn’t ask. doesn’t need to. he senses the shift—feels it like a change in barometric pressure. the air around you feels...lighter. like something heavy’s been quietly set down.

he doesn’t push. just presses a kiss to the crown of your head and lets you rest.

it isn’t until three days later that he finds out.

he and gojo are leaving a joint training session—ino’s still wiping sweat off his brow, grumbling something about pushups being a war crime—when gojo hangs back, strides lazily at nanami’s side, mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown.

“so,” he says. “she really pulled herself from active duty?”

nanami stops mid-step. turns. “what?”

gojo blinks. “you didn’t know?” nanami stares. gojo raises his hands like he’s warding off a tantrum. “not gossiping. yaga mentioned it in passing. said she turned down a mission this week. asked to be removed from field ops altogether.”

the world slows. a long breath escapes nanami’s lungs, something tight in his chest unspooling so quickly it nearly hurts. the world rights itself, slightly, softly.

gojo keeps talking. "I mean, I get it—she’s good, but that last mission was...rough. thought maybe it was a temporary thing, but she signed the paperwork. she’s out.” nanami doesn’t respond right away. his heart is a strange, uneven thing in his chest. part disbelief, part awe. gojo watches him a second longer, then squints. “she’s okay? like—actually okay?”

“physically? yes.”

“and otherwise?”

nanami’s voice is steady. “she made a choice to protect herself. she’s okay.”

gojo nods, a little softer now. “then good. that’s good.”

and—for once—gojo doesn’t push further. doesn’t crack a joke. just walks a little quieter beside him the rest of the way back. he never asked you to quit. but he’s so glad you did.

that night, nanami gets home before you. he tidies a little, starts dinner. when you walk through the door—hair tousled, cheeks slightly pink from the cold—he doesn’t even hesitate. doesn’t say a word. he meets you halfway, wraps his arms around your waist, and buries his face against your stomach, kneeling there like he’s come home from battle.

you let out a breath of laughter, your hands sliding into his hair. “what’s this for?”

he doesn’t answer at first. just holds you like he’s still afraid to let go. then: “thank you.”

you hum softly, resting your cheek on top of his head. “for what?”

“for staying.” and it’s everything.

after that, the world moves a little softer. you’re still healing in ways neither of you can name, but at least now there’s no pretending that you’re not. there’s only space—made for you, held for you, by a man who would bend the universe if it meant keeping you safe.

each night, nanami pulls you into his arms and murmurs how much he loves you. how perfect you are. how grateful he is that you came back to him. that you stayed.

you used to flinch a little. shrink beneath it. you’re still not used to the weight of being loved like this—unconditionally, unapologetically, all-consuming. but something’s changed. you don’t squirm as much now. don’t duck your head or wave him off. instead, you touch his cheek. you kiss his temple. you whisper back, I love you, too.

nanami notices. of course he does. he always does. he notices how your shoulders don’t tense when he brushes his fingers down your spine. how your breath stays steady when he worships you with words, not just touch. how you let him love you like it’s a given, not a question.

your relationship is different now. deeper. messier. more real. the bubble popped the moment he saw you bloodied on that cot. the honeymoon phase shattered the moment he thought he might lose you.

and he doesn’t miss it. not really. because what you have now is built from something harder to break. something stronger than fantasy. love forged in fire, carried on broken backs and sleepless nights and whispered devotions in the dark.

he hates that it took something so terrible to get here, but he loves you now more than he ever thought possible. and you finally let him.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

╰►jjk fics

dark content is marked with ★

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dividers by @cafekitsune

cigarette drawing (top left) by rawpixel on pinterest

[carlislefiles]

holding hands in the dark | fushiguro megumi ╰►some nights he talks in his sleep. you stay quiet, holding his hand in the dark…some nights you do just that; other nights you wake him, tell him that it’s going to be okay, that he’s going to be okay. some nights he rolls over, and pretends he isn’t wiping away tears. other nights, he believes you. but most nights, when he realizes that your hand is squeezing his, whether you’re awake or not, he squeezes back. 4.2k words

a/n: I would say that this piece reads as very self-indlugent, but honestly, writing in general is self-indulgent for me, so rarely will a finished piece not feel a bit self-indulgent to me. this feels like a quintessential megumi nightmare fic, so hopefully it's as good as some others you may have read; of course, I always appreciate interaction, but I love my ghost readers, too :)

rare is the night when you don’t find yourself tangled in megumi’s dark blue, fresh smelling sheets. you’d both lived on the campus long enough to know that the whole curfew idea was not enforced. your lives were hard enough; gojo, nor yaga would take away the precious, minute bits of comfort you could find, not when there was already so little of it. they didn’t seem to care that you found that comfort in each other, though gojo’s teasing did seem endless. it didn’t bother you, at least not like it bothered megumi. rosy cheeks, half-hearted scoffs, eyes rolling…it seemed to drive him crazy, but then in his haze of irritation, he’d catch your eyes, and instead of a grimace, you’d find a soft small. he could almost read your mind—tease us all you want, it won’t change anything. your thoughts, your mind, your still, simple presence was an anchor to him, tethering him to all that was good in his sorry, sorry world. not just when gojo decided to tease, but when things seemed, or even were, really, really bad. 

most nights, you lie awake for a long time. the intense, almost comforting silence preferable to the unpredictability sleep brings. when conscious, you choose what you remember. once you submit yourself to numbing, mindless sleep, you’re no longer in control of what your mind conjures up; memories too painful to share, too painful to even remember. megumi’s noticed this, but he’s yet to say anything. maybe he thinks it’s not his place. maybe he thinks it would piss you off. either way, he doesn’t have to say anything, his presence, his heavy, warm breath against your back, his tousled hair tickling your neck, his arm draped carelessly (not carelessly at all) over your stomach—that is more than enough. and he feels the same. tonight is quiet. no wind, no rain, no crickets, no creaking porch swing, just megumi’s lazy breathing, and maybe that’s why you fall asleep so quickly. or maybe your body is finally used to enjoying the sleep you’ve so agonizingly deprived it of now that you can actually relax. 

you wouldn’t consider yourself the sentimental type—maybe that’s why megumi likes you so much. no need to dwell on the past, not when it’s so fraught with pain, not when it hurts that much. but you find yourself thinking of one of the first nights you spent in his room often. 

you’d been in there hundreds of times: to study, to hangout with him and yuuji and nobara, to hide from yaga after screwing up a mission, to makeout on his desk chair until you were out of breath. but you’d never been in his bed. for some reason, it seemed like he didn’t want you there, but you knew better than to let this hurt your feelings. megumi was a creature of habit, and a creature of thought. if he felt a certain way about something, didn’t want you to do something, there was a good reason for it, and when he wanted you to know that reason, he’d tell you. until then, you’d let him to conclusions on his own. he was so sure you were crafted specifically and perfectly for him. no one had ever understood him quite that well, and he was confident no one else ever would. 

he didn’t attach particularly good memories to his dorm room. nightmares, lying awake at night, cold-sweat wicking into his t-shirt, being afraid, being alone. after one especially grueling day, he decided he couldn’t take it anymore. couldn’t take the silence, the painstaking loneliness, and why should he have to? you always tell him that “if you ever need anything, just ask me. please. I want you to want me,” and with pleading, sincere eyes, he believed you. he did want you; more than he’d ever wanted anything, and normally that scared him. but his fear of being alone, of waking up gasping, being just too late to save someone, trumped any nervousness he had in asking you to stay in his room.

at 9:30 he practically dragged you from the kitchen, forcing you to rush your goodnights to the other students, and trudged to his dorm, hand-in-hand. he’d texted you earlier, asking you to sleep in his dorm. you’d assumed something had happened on this mission, but patient and kind as you were, understanding of the situation, you wouldn’t force it out of him. 

he didn’t offer much when you got there, just a quiet “thanks,” and a change of clothes he tossed your way like the fabric might speak for him. the shirt smelled like him—clean detergent, something like pine—and you didn’t comment on how warm it felt, like it had just come out of the dryer. the both of you crawled into bed without the usual banter. no sleepy teasing, no shared scrolling through stupid videos, no jokingly whispered “did you lock your door?” that megumi always answered with a deadpan yes and a kiss to your temple. he was silent. curled inward. you didn’t press. you just shifted behind him, let him mold himself to your back like armor, latched onto his arm wrapped around your middle, and let the silence settle around the both of you. 

maybe that’s why you heard it. sometime in the middle of the night, when the moonlight through the blinds painted silver slats across the blanket, you woke up to the sound of his voice. not fully—your brain was swimming in that hazy, half-dream place—but enough to understand. “no—don’t go—I said stay back—” his voice was raw, like he was begging. you didn’t move at first. you weren’t sure if he was awake, if this was something he wanted you to witness. your hand was still resting on his stomach, but you stilled it. waited. you’d still been half awake, willing your eyes to fully close, forcing yourself to breathe in fours, clenching the mild headache out of your skull, so you felt a little guilty, witnessing this. "I can’t—I can’t lose—” and then he jolted slightly, not fully waking, but like his body was trying to escape whatever dream had him trapped. your hand, so slowly, so carefully, slid from his stomach to his chest. you pressed it there, gentle, warm, and you whispered, just once, “I'm here, gumi.” he didn’t open his eyes. but his breathing slowed. you stayed like that until dawn.

he was silent the next morning. got ready quickly, and rushed you over to your dorm so you could get ready too. the almost domestic quality of it pulled on his heart more than he liked. 

the worst part of his dreams is that they followed him around during the day, too. they were too vivid, too devastating, too real to be forgotten the next morning. he always remembered them. this one had been bad, though they usually were. too late to save someone, too late to save himself. picture-by-picture playbacks of deaths he’d witnessed, civilians he thought himself too weak to save. he’d voiced these anxieties to you before and sometimes you’d grab his wrists, plead with him using just your eyes, tell him that it wasn’t his fault, there was nothing more he could’ve done, that no one was mad at him—but most of the time, you’d slowly wrap your arms around him and rest your head on his chest, close your eyes and breathe deeply. "I know. I understand. I feel the same way.” your lips didn’t say those things, but your actions did. anchored. that’s how you made him feel. 

he doesn’t say anything about his nightmare, and you don’t feel the need to bring it up. and maybe you’re a little scared, worried that if you say something, he’ll clam up, stop inviting you over, stop letting you help him. as infuriating as it was, that was megumi. when you first started dating, you didn’t allow it, still didn't sometimes.

“just let it go, it’s nothing,” he choked out and you could see he was saying it through gritted teeth. blood was slowly seeping onto the carpet beneath him, long since soaked through his uniform. 

"I said sit down, fushiguro. shoko may not force you to let her heal you, but I will.” you spoke with a low, final quality that rumbled in your chest. he hated going to see shoko, having to rely on someone so constantly, having to admit to pain, to defeat, even if the mission was successful. after helping him out of his jacket, slowly cleaning his wound, meticulously taping gauze on it, and forcing him to change it every couple of hours, he decided he would go see shoko. it was too intimate, too raw, too bare. he’d rather admit weakness to shoko than to you. 

but as time went on, megumi got better at being honest with you, and you got better at letting him. if he said he was fine, you didn’t argue, even if you knew it wasn’t true. if it made him feel better to lie, then so be it. there was a line drawn, of course, you only allowed each other to become a certain amount of not fine before caving, taking turns like a seesaw. but most importantly, you trusted each other. 

it’s been a few days since that night, but something lingers. megumi hasn’t mentioned the dream. not once. not in passing, not with a joke, not even in the awkward, half-mumbled way he sometimes says things like “you helped” when what he really means is "I needed you.” you don’t ask. not because you don’t want to—god, you do—but because that night, when your hand had found his chest and your voice had cracked through whatever hell he was stuck in, something in him had…settled. and sometimes that’s enough.

still, the weight of it clings to the corners of the room. tonight, you’re back in his bed. your legs are tangled together like always, his arm casually slung around your waist like always, the room dim and hushed and safe. like always. but megumi’s not asleep. he’s tracing lazy circles over your wrist with his thumb, absent and rhythmic. the kind of touch that means I'm thinking about something I might actually say out loud. eventually. you give him time. you always give him time. you’re so fucking patient, it drives him insane. finally, he shifts behind you, voice low and gravelly from disuse. “did I…say anything weird?” his breath warms the nape of your neck. 

you don’t roll over. just blink at the shadows cast by his blinds and answer evenly, “weird? no.” a pause. then: “but you said something.” you let out a soft sigh. “you were dreaming.”

"I figured.” his fingers pause. “you said…'I'm here.'”

you nod against the pillow. “yeah.” yeah, I am here, and I'm not going anywhere, and I shouldn’t have to say that because I know you know it, but I'm gonna say it anyway. another long beat of silence. 

then he says, softer this time, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard him, "I thought you were gone. in the dream. you wouldn’t listen to me.” you close your eyes. his voice has that raw edge again, like he’s apologizing for something he couldn’t control. like he’s ashamed of needing you, even in sleep. you don’t say I'm sorry. you don’t say it was just a dream. you just reach back and take his hand in yours, your fingers weaving together like it’s muscle memory. “I'm not going anywhere,” you murmur.

another beat. then he squeezes your hand. "I know.” good. 

you wake up the next morning before him. that never happens. megumi’s always the one with an internal clock so rigid it could qualify as a cursed technique. you, usually awake far into the night, could sleep well past any alarm. but today he’s out cold, face half-buried in the crook of your shoulder, his arm still wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. you lie there for a while, letting the steady sound of his breathing lull you into something like peace. 

it’s strange, this softness. you’d never imagined you’d crave it, not like this., not when it’s so wildly, horrifyingly foreign. but with him, it feels earned. you glance over at his nightstand. his phone is face down. his alarm hasn’t gone off yet (like he even needs one). you could wake him. you don’t. instead, you shift just enough to turn toward him. his hair is a mess—like usual—and there’s the faintest crease in his cheek from the pillow. he looks younger when he sleeps, like someone who hasn’t watched too many people die. you don’t touch him, don’t dare disturb this rare moment of peace. you just watch. and maybe—just maybe—you let yourself imagine a world where this is normal. where you both get to wake up like this every morning, in a world that doesn’t punish you for finding solace in each other.

but megumi stirs before you can get too far into the fantasy. his eyes blink open slowly, bleary and half-aware. “you’re awake?”

you smile faintly. “don’t sound so surprised.” 

he hums. “it’s early.”

you shrug. “didn’t want to wake you.”

he shifts, stretches slightly but doesn’t move away from you. “that’s new.”

“you needed it,” you say simply.

he’s quiet for a while. then: “thanks.” thanks for being here, thanks for staying, thanks for everything I’ve never thanked you for. you reach up, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead. “you don’t have to thank me for that. ever.” his eyes flicker down to your hand, then back up to meet yours. for once, he doesn’t look away.

……

he’s gotten comfortable—too comfortable, he tells himself. he sleeps, almost the whole night through, without waking up, and when he finally does wake up, he can’t remember whether or not he’s had a nightmare. but, again, too comfortable. 

it wasn’t uncommon for missions to take a long time, to keep you apart for even more than a whole day. as tenacious as you both were, you soldiered on in silence. rare, if ever, was the “miss you,” text after a two-day mission. in fact, rare was it that megumi texted you ever. either he was busy with a mission or babysitting gojo, or he was with you, no need to text. but it had been four whole fucking days, and you’d texted him once, only after he had texted you first. there was a pit growing in his stomach, coiling and widening with each night he spent in your dorm—god, it smelled like you, where the fuck else was he supposed to be able to sleep?

after the first 32 hours, he’d caved. “mission going ok?” it was perfect. not too needy, but not too detached, right? making sure you were safe, without coming right out and admitting he missed you. he was weirdly proud of how good his text was at accurately conveying what he wanted it to. but anything even remotely positive vanished with your reply. 

“kind of.” 

kind of? kind of?! what the hell does that mean. he’s gonna scold your ass when you get back. don’t ever text me something like that again, when I ask about your mission tell me it’s ok. that you’re ok. if you’re not, you should’ve already called me. kind of. 

he’s standing outside the door of yaga’s office approximately 60 seconds later. 

“fushiguro? you can come in…” he says tentatively, like he’s confused. his door is open to student concerns, even if he doesn’t actually give a shit about them. 

but fushiguro can’t come in. he can hardly breath, can hardly think. kind of.  “mission. gojo’s on a mission with-with…it’s been four days. what’s going on?” if yaga knew him better, he’d pick up on the tremble that coats his voice, on the shaky quality of his hands, which are wringing each other to the point of bruises. 

“oh, well as you know, it’s a retrieval mission. you of all people should know that these things take time and —” 

“when will they be back?” he’s reigned himself back in, anchor, anchor, anchor. his voice is restrained now, his fingernails are tearing into the skin of his palm. yaga looks at him curiously. never, in all the time he’s been at the school, had fushiguro come to check in on one of gojo’s missions. 

“I'm not entirely sure. my best guess? late tonight. according to gojo-san, they’ve retrieved the cursed object. now it’s just a matter of getting it back here safely.” 

“any known injuries?” 

“nothing severe enough to mention.” megumi is gone before yaga finishes his sentence. tonight. tonight. you’d be back tonight, and hopefully not too injured that you couldn’t sleep in his bed. but, it’s like he thought. he’s gotten far too comfortable. 

……

he hears the footsteps before he sees anything. too many of them. too heavy. not yours. megumi's halfway down the hall when he spots the group—gojo leading, shoko behind, and between them…you. 

no. not you. not like this.

your body is limp in gojo’s arms, head lolled against his shoulder, blood still wet in your hair and smeared across your cheek like war paint. you're wrapped in a school-issued jacket that isn’t yours. your fingers twitch once, then go still. megumi stops in his tracks. his stomach drops. actually drops—like his body has gone cold, like gravity just gave up on holding him together. for a second, he thinks he’s going to throw up. his ears ring. everything narrows to a single, white-hot point: you’re not supposed to look like that.

you’re supposed to be walking in on your own. you’re supposed to roll your eyes when you see him, say something like, “miss me?” like you didn’t almost die. like the world hasn't shattered in your absence. but instead—you look broken. like something someone tried to put back together but gave up halfway. megumi doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly he’s there, beside the stretcher as shoko rolls you down the hall. his hand reaches out, trembling, stopping just short of touching your shoulder. he can’t bring himself to do it.

shoko’s voice is calm, brisk, she's not talking to megumi. maybe to gojo, he doesn't know. “she’s stable. internal damage is healed. I'll need an hour, maybe two, to get her pain levels down. her vitals are holding.” holding. like you’re a system being kept online. not a person. megumi feels bile rise in his throat. gojo starts to speak—something low, serious, rare—and megumi doesn’t even hear him. the words flow around him, soft and useless. explanations, apologies, something about how things got out of hand, how “she handled herself better than anyone else could’ve.” that he didn’t mean for this. that no one expected—

megumi tunes out. he’s just so fucking tired. he doesn’t care about the mission. doesn’t care about strategy or odds or what went wrong or why shoko’s voice is tighter than usual, why gojo won’t meet his eyes. all he knows is this:

you’re here. you’re home. but it’s not right.

instead, your lips are cracked and stained with blood, and there’s a gash just beneath your collarbone that gojo keeps not looking at. the air smells like antiseptic and copper, like death that hasn’t quite arrived yet. megumi clenches his fists. and he counts—one, two, three—each second dragging its feet as he waits for shoko to finish what she has to do. for everyone else to leave. for them to stop talking like it means anything. like any of it will matter if you never wake up. his fingers twitch. you’re here. you’re home. but you’re not you. and until you are, he won’t breathe right again. and he’s sure he won’t sleep, right?

the fluorescent lights hum above him—steady, sterile, unfeeling—but megumi only hears the shallow, rhythmic sounds of your breathing. at least that hasn't stopped. he keeps a careful hand on your pulse anyway, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw like he's trying to hold time still with the pads of his fingers.

you don't move.

you're warm now, though. shoko made sure of that. bandaged, stitched, healed just enough. but it's not enough. not for megumi. not when he walked into the infirmary expecting you to smile at him—tease him about how he got taller while you were gone, make some offhanded joke about gojo probably crying when he saw your injuries—and instead you’re laid out on a cot like a ghost. limp. blood crusted at your temple. 

he stood for a long time, just watching, waiting, praying. then he moves.

it's clumsy, almost pitiful, how quickly he sheds the stiffness from his body and crawls onto the cot beside you. it’s too small for the both of you, barely wide enough to hold one person, let alone two. he doesn't care. his arms go around you like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate. and then—finally—his eyes fall shut.

it isn’t that the nightmares don’t come. they try. they always try. but your body shifts, instinctively, into his. you sigh, weakly, in your sleep, and your fingers twitch against his shirt like they’re trying to curl into something familiar. megumi exhales. his whole body softens. not a sigh, not a breath—just melts. he sleeps harder than he ever has. the kind of sleep that makes hours fold into seconds. the kind that turns pain into numbness and then into nothing at all.

and when he opens his eyes again, there’s light bleeding through. and your eyes are open, too. bleary, unfocused. but on him. your fingers are entwined with his. his heart leaps so hard it hurts. "...hey," you rasp, voice scratchy and paper-thin. "I drooled on your shirt."

he lets out a sound—half a laugh, half a sob—and tucks his face into your shoulder, tightening his hold like if he lets go, you’ll vanish. "I thought you were dead," he whispers.

"still might be," you mumble, eyes closing again. "...but at least I'm warm.”

he squeezes your hand. “you idiot.” and this time, when he cries, it’s quiet. it’s careful. it’s grateful.

……

things don’t necessarily change after that. at least, not in a spoken manner. but megumi…megumi changes. there’s little stoicism left in him. he tells you he loves you, everyday, when previously that was a scarce gift given only on the rarest of occasions. but the weight of it, despite it’s increased frequency, is just as heavy. 

shoko lets you leave later that day on strict orders of rest, no missions, and gallons of water. you don’t listen. megumi does. 

later that night, he’s worried again. or rather, he never stopped worrying. but now it’s worse. and he knows that you know, but he can’t bring himself to speak. to burden you with his anxieties, not when you’re already so burdened. 

however, he knows what you’d say if you could read his thoughts. “tell me anyway.”

"I had a dream the night before you came home. you were…we were…it wasn’t enough,” and god, why does voice sound like he’s crying?

you don’t say anything right away. you’re afraid if you do, it’ll break the moment like brittle glass. that if you turn around, you’ll see him pulling back into himself, tying those heavy emotional threads into too-tight knots again. so instead, you shift just a little—enough that your back presses more firmly to his chest, that your hand finds his and gently, deliberately, intertwines your fingers.

his thumb stills against your wrist, and then it squeezes, once. like a thank you.

“you don’t have to tell me about it,” you murmur, barely audible, eyes fluttering shut. “you don’t owe me anything.”

“yes, I do. I owe you everything,” he whispers. ”and even if I didn’t, I want to tell you.”

that’s how megumi says I love you. not in words, not directly. but in truths he fights to share. in silences he breaks for you and you alone. in the way he lets you stay—stay close, stay in, stay his.

and so, with the quiet hum of safety wrapping around both of you, he begins to talk. just softly, slowly. a few words at first—names, places, what he saw, what he felt. the way your voice cut through the nightmare like a tether to the real world. the way he woke up half-choking on a sob and found himself holding you instead of air. the relief, the shame, the aching tenderness of knowing you were real and warm and right there.

and you listen. you always do. you say little, not because you have nothing to say, but because he needs this. needs your silence. needs your hand. needs you here, breathing and alive and not a ghost. by the time his words run dry, you’ve turned to face him. he looks tired—hollow-eyed and frayed—but there’s something softer about him now. he’s unfurled, just a bit. just enough.

you reach up, brushing your fingers through his hair, and he closes his eyes like it physically relieves him. “megumi?”

“hm?”

“if I die, I'll haunt you.”

his eyes open again, and you see it—his reluctant smile, small and crooked. “you already do.”

you both fall asleep that night without meaning to. wrapped up in each other, wrapped in words spoken and unspoken. you fall asleep first, this time, not before searching through the blankets for his hand. and for once, so does megumi. no dreams. no terror. just you. just peace.

dividers by @cafekitsune

header images found on pinterest from an unnamed account, message for removal or credit

[carlislefiles]

how does he feel about your pet?

he likes them more than he likes you, that's his new best friend, has an entire camera roll full of ridiculous pictures of them, dresses them up in halloween costumes, and buys them christmas presents, will be taking them in case of divorce ╰►gojo satoru, ino takuma, yuuji itadori, kaminari denki, kirishima eijiro, midoriya izuku, takami keigo, bokuto kōtarō, hinata shōyō, matsukawa issei, oikawa tōru

he values how you take care of them and he finds them cute in the same way he finds you cute, but he feels relatively neutral, sometimes gets a little jealous if you chose to cuddle them instead of him ╰►fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, hiromi higuruma, kamo choso, nanami kento, sero hanta, shinso hitoshi, todoroki natsuo, kozume kenma, kuroo tetsurō, sawamura daichi

not an animal person at all, your pet and him share a rocky, tension-filled relationship; side eyes and fighting over you, but it typically remains civil (deep down he is obsessed with them) ╰►fushiguro toji, ijichi kiyotaka, inumaki toge, kong shiu, sukuna ryomen, amajiki tamaki, aizawa shota, bakugou katsuki, ida tenya, shigaraki tomura, todoroki shoto, todoroki touya, kageyama tobio, tsukishima kei, ushijima wakatoshi

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

morning routine | fushiguro megumi, fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuuji itadori ╰►he is obsessed with watching you get ready; whether you’re an all-over-the-place mess, or painstakingly meticulous, he loves the little things 6.1k words

a/n: reader is kind of all over the place in this one, so it might not be applicable to all self-inserts mb. warnings: cussing, eating habits (but not in a negative way)...I think that's it. I love a man that's painfully obsessed with every single, minute thing his girlfriend does, and so.......here we are. enjoy <3

it takes nearly a year of dating before you sleep over at megumi’s. not because he doesn’t want you there—he does. in the quiet, desperate way he wants everything good. but his dorm is…sterile. spartan. the bed is always made, the floor always clean, his desk meticulously organized down to the direction his pens face. it’s not for show. he lives like this. he needs it like this.

your dorm, in comparison, feels like another planet. the walls are bursting with you—posters slightly peeling at the corners, handwritten notes pinned beside polaroids, a stack of annotated books threatening to topple. there’s a mug of tea gone cold on the windowsill, a cd player mid-skip, a sweater that might be his draped over the back of your desk chair. the chaos of it all unsettles him. the comfort of it? that’s what undoes him completely.

he never says so, but after the first time he sees your space—really sees it—he stops inviting you to his. keeps you on the couch in the lounge, sitting on yuji’s desk while they argue about which movie is worse (spoiler alert: they’re both terrible), curled under a throw blanket on a bench on the campus grounds…you don’t question it. you’re used to the way megumi loves: quiet and reluctant, like a secret too sacred to say out loud. he comes to your room regularly, choosing to sleep there more often than his own bed. the mess of it doesn't overwhelm him like he thought it might; if anything, it's comforting, just like your presence.

after a mission that shakes the ground beneath his feet, he slips into your bed. no words, no warning—just his body curling into yours like he’s homesick for something he can’t name. and you, still half-asleep, burrow into him like instinct. you never ask questions. you just hold him. it’s in those mornings after that megumi sees the version of you no one else does.

you're dignified by default. stoic, composed, always two steps ahead of your emotions. you keep your feelings buttoned down and folded neatly behind your eyes. but when the alarm shrieks at 6:00 am, all of that unravels.

you groan like you're being punished. a truly inhuman sound leaves your throat as you roll over and claw at the covers like a toddler protesting bedtime—but in reverse. “five more minutes,” you whine, wrapping yourself around him like a particularly needy sea creature. megumi’s already been awake for ten minutes. he’s well-rested. too well-rested. you smell like his shampoo. there’s a red line on your cheek from where you were pressed against his shoulder. he’s going insane, and you’re snoring.

when he finally peels you off him, you stumble around like you’ve never lived in your own body before. you trip over your desk chair. pull a t-shirt over your head and then realize you forgot deodorant. there’s a toothbrush hanging out of your mouth while you hop into your pants. your socks don’t match. you glare at your reflection like your own hair is personally attacking you. megumi just stands by your door, bag slung over his shoulder, watching like you’re performing high art. you are, in your own way.

you don't even notice how he stares. how his eyes track your every move, memorizing your rituals like prayers. how his lips twitch into the faintest smile when you attempt multitasking and nearly knock over your entire bookshelf. if you have time, your makeup is minimal—nothing more than a subtle enhancement. if you don’t, you mumble something about “au naturel” and try to tame your thick eyebrows with your fingers. he’s never once thought you looked anything but beautiful.

breakfast is always a surprise. sometimes a banana and a granola bar, sometimes a bagel that you throw in the toaster and forget about. sometimes just coffee—until he narrows his eyes at you, all judgment and concern, and you begrudgingly accept the yogurt he hands you. he pretends it’s not a big deal, and you pretend you’re not soft for it, and that’s the thing: he knows you. knows how you make lists in your head as you brush your teeth. knows how you always triple-check your bag before you leave, even though you’ve packed it the same way for years. knows that you’re meticulous in the field, a force in combat, and somehow still a barely-functional goblin in the mornings.

because in those chaotic, half-conscious mornings, he sees the parts of you that don’t belong to the world. the parts that are only his. and though you’ll never say it outright, when you sleep in his shirts and mouth “love you” into the hollow of his throat at midnight, megumi lets himself imagine what a life with you could look like. what it will look like, if he’s lucky enough. he’s always been quiet. always tried to need nothing, but he can no longer deny that he needs this, needs you.

toji never meant to fall in love with you. he thought you'd just be a good partner. reliable. sharp. someone who wouldn’t die and wouldn’t let him die either. that was it. simple. clean. professional.

but then, you were laughing at something during a stakeout—low and breathy, half-annoyed, half-amused—and he looked at you too long. just a second too long. and everything shifted. 

now you’re drooling on his pillow, hogging his blankets, tangling your legs with his in the middle of the night like you’ve always belonged there. like you own the place. (you do.) he wakes up before you sometimes. not always. sometimes he’ll sleep like the dead until you’re jabbing him in the ribs, sure he’s stopped breathing, well into the afternoon. but most mornings, especially when you have to leave and he doesn’t, toji’s eyes crack open just as the sky’s starting to blue.

he doesn’t say anything. just turns his head and looks at you. you’re all soft angles and slow breaths in the morning. face slack, hair a mess, limbs heavy with sleep. a far cry from the weapon you become once the day gets going. he used to think you were always on. always alert. calculated. it made him crazy, how good you were. unflinching. cold. but mornings peeled that mask right off you.

now he knows the truth: you are an absolute mess before sunrise. you roll out of bed like your bones don’t work. trudge to the bathroom half-blind, dragging your blanket with you like a child. you brush your teeth while he’s peeing and don’t even blink. he used to flinch at that kind of intimacy. used to brace for awkwardness. now? he just spits into the sink next to you and hands you a cup to rinse.

you're freezing, always, even in the summer. you steal his hoodie like you paid for it. tug it over your head with a sleepy grunt and shuffle around the apartment like a raccoon in sweats. and if he’s anywhere in the vicinity, you’re sliding your ice cube hands under his shirt without warning. he used to curse you out for that. the first few times, it pissed him off, but now? he waits for it. he wants it. it’s like a ritual. your sleepy little ambush, his warm back, your sigh of relief when his skin starts to thaw your fingers.

you don’t talk much. he likes that. if you say anything at all, it’s in a voice octaves lower than usual, cracked and rough and all kinds of sexy. a lazy, “you wan’ coffee? or jus’ water?” as you fumble with the kettle. toji doesn’t even really care, but he says yes to both just to hear you say something again.

you're utilitarian to your bones. cotton underwear, black cargos, tight long-sleeves. hair up and out of your face, braided or slicked back, always ready for a fight. you don’t like perfume, but you’re militant about deodorant. you’ve got a whole rant ready about it, and toji’s heard it at least fifteen times.

when you finally start getting serious—knife tucked into your boot, water bottle clipped to your bag, watch set five minutes fast—he’s already packed you breakfast. sometimes it’s leftovers. sometimes it’s a protein bar and an apple. sometimes it’s a whole sandwich because he knows you’ll skip lunch if things get dicey. that’s the thing about being toji’s girl: you’re never leaving the house unfed.

you grumble when he walks you to the door, squinting at the rising sun like it personally offended you. shiu’s already out front, tapping his watch like a smug little bastard.

you roll your eyes. toji does too. “dickhead,” he mutters. you smirk. and then, always, always, he says it: “call me if you need anything.”  you nod. “I mean it. help, food, ride, someone’s face punched in—call me.”

“I know,” you say. and you do.

you’re awake now—eyes sharp, movements clean, shoulders squared. the mask is back on. the girl who never misses a shot. who never runs late. who never lets anyone see her bleed. he loves her, too. but he especially loves the version of you who drools on his pillow and talks to him with your morning breath. who shuffles into the bathroom for a handful of seconds, forgetting what you even needed in there, who steals his clothes and stabs him in the kidneys with her toes under the covers. he never meant to fall in love with you. but he did. hard. and for once in his life, he’s not sorry about it.

suguru looks at you like you hung the moon with your bare hands. like the mere fact of your existence is a miracle that he’s unworthy of witnessing—but still gets to wake up to every single day. his love isn’t loud. it’s not brash or performative. no, it’s reverent. like worship. like prayer. like the kind of thing you kneel for. but don’t mistake quiet for passive—because his love is consuming. from the moment he met you, it bloomed in his chest like wildfire, and it took everything in him not to let it swallow you whole. he knew you were skittish. you flinched at dependency, floundered when anything felt too soft, too needed. so he was gentle. patient. devoted.

he chased you, but never cornered you. he adored you, but never overwhelmed. until one day… you let yourself want him back. let yourself need him. not just tolerate the idea, but cherish it. now? now you don’t just let him take care of you—you thrive in it.

mornings with suguru are quiet symphonies. always the same, whether the sun's up or not, whether there's a blizzard outside or birdsong at the window. his kisses—those feather-light things on your neck and shoulders—are always the first thing you feel. sometimes, they tickle. sometimes, they melt you. every time, they anchor you. the way he wakes you is an act of love. an offering. he murmurs sweet nothings into the shell of your ear, presses his nose to your jaw like he’s memorizing the shape of you all over again. it’s not performative—it’s ritual. because waking you up is sacred to him. he always gives you enough time. enough space. enough stillness. before suguru, you’d yank yourself out of bed like it owed you money. now, you rise slowly, curled in his arms, his warmth a tether. he makes sure there’s time for the both of you to exist together, unhurried and whole.

you hate the cold—but he kind of loves it. loves the way you cling to him in oversized sweaters and mismatched socks, trailing him like a ghost with cold feet and sleepy eyes. you wrap yourself around his middle while he brushes his teeth, lean back into his chest while you brush yours, half-asleep and adorable. he ties the back of your hoodie when the string gets stuck. he presses vitamins into your palm without a word. watching you take care of yourself has become his favorite show. doesn’t matter if your hair’s wild or your makeup’s half-finished—he watches you like you're magic. because you are.

and when you blush under the attention, flustered or a little grumbly—he only smiles. because that stage-light feeling, that spotlight you hate? he’ll soften it for you. dim it, until it just feels like a warm sunbeam you can bask in. suguru doesn’t just admire you—he tends to you. dresses you if you’re too sleepy to do it yourself. asks you quiet questions in that low morning voice of his—just to hear your sleepy replies. “how’d you sleep?” “want tea or coffee?” “you still love me, even with bedhead like this?” (he already knows the answer. he just likes the sound of you saying it.)

you used to dread mornings. used to drag yourself through them with caffeine and survival instincts. now, you’ve adopted his routine. slow. intentional. loving. breakfast is never skipped. you sit at the kitchen table in one of his hoodies while he scrambles eggs with one hand and keeps the other on your knee under the table. you talk—sometimes. sometimes you don’t. but it’s never awkward. just peaceful. familiar. and when it’s time to go? he insists on driving you. every time. even if he has nowhere to be. even if it’s an hour out of his way. even if you protest.

he shuts you up gently with a scarf wrapped around your neck, tugging it snug so it covers your mouth before you can argue. “you don’t inconvenience me,” he says, looking at you like you personally hung the stars. “you’re the whole reason i want to leave the house.” suguru geto teaches you that love doesn’t have to be chaos or ache. that needing someone doesn’t have to hurt. that mornings can be soft. that you can be soft. and every day you wake up like this, in his arms, in this bubble of quiet love—you start to believe him.

mornings with gojo are kind of a shitshow. they are not peaceful. they are not organized. they are not quiet. they’re a mess. but the kind you almost look forward to. a domestic battlefield, all tangled limbs and laughter. not elegant, but real. and weirdly sweet.

the first alarm doesn’t stand a chance. it’s silenced before it finishes the first note. gojo smacks his phone off the nightstand without opening his eyes, groaning something unintelligible as he drags you closer, burying his face in your neck like he's trying to go back in time. you're no better—clinging like your life depends on it, legs twisted around his like ivy. if one of you has to get up first, it feels like mourning.so no, you don’t get up the first time. or the second. and by the third alarm, you're already running late.

it’s chaos. blankets kicked off the bed. hair wild. clothes half-on, half-lost somewhere in the room. you’re tossing his uniform at him from across the bed while he’s in the bathroom, already wetting your toothbrush with one hand and brushing his own teeth with the other—finger-brushing, because his actual toothbrush is nowhere to be found. you don’t even question it anymore.

you swap places, brushing your teeth while he fumbles for deodorant, and he pinches your cheek like it’s some kind of reward for being cute. you swat him away. he just laughs, mouth full of foam, and then kisses your forehead anyway. two seconds later, he drops your moisturizer into the toilet. you shriek. he kisses you again before getting smacked on the hard plane of his chest.

shower time is not optional—not when you’re always getting home so late from missions or parties, one thing or another, you keep each other busy. you’re already so far behind that arguing over whose turn it is feels pointless. so you both squeeze in, barely dodging elbows and shampoo bottles, and immediately start bickering about who used the last of the conditioner (it was him). he gets soap in his eye. you nearly slip trying to rinse your face. it’s not graceful. it’s not romantic. but it’s yours. and honestly? it’s kind of perfect. you’re drying off with a towel that’s definitely damp from yesterday, grumbling softly about how he never does any laundry. 

getting ready is a two-person operation. he zips your jeans while you wrangle your mascara. you straighten his blindfold, then redo it because his “I did it cute” actually means “I did it crooked and wrong.” he brushes your hair while you slap on moisturizer (the toilet water was scrubbed off religiously), catches the jacket you toss over your shoulder without even glancing. it’s not impressive anymore. it’s just normal.

downstairs, he starts the coffee while yelling up, “don’t forget your phone again, I’m not turning around!” you shout back, “you forgot you whole ass wallet twice last week, satoru!” he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like surrender.

you throw toast in the toaster. he pulls leftover pizza from the fridge, eats it cold off the plate. you steal a bite without asking. he lets you. the toast pops and hits the floor. he shrugs and you share it anyways. there’s no such thing as a smooth exit. you’re hopping into your shoes, still tugging on your jacket, while gojo fumbles for his keys that are somehow already in his hand. and before you can open the door, he’s there, pressing you back against it, arms around your waist, nose tucked under your jaw.

“you smell too good,” he mumbles, voice muffled by your skin. “I can’t walk into school like this. I’m gonna die.”

“then maybe stop sniffing me like a bloodhound,” you mutter, but your voice is soft. you don’t actually want him to move. he kisses you once, then again, just below your ear, because he knows exactly what that does.

“we are so fucking late,” you sigh, pulling away with effort.

“we are,” he agrees, not the least bit concerned, a corner of toast still sticking out of his mouth.

you steal it. eat it. smile. because yeah, you're always late. and yeah, it’s a mess. but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. you’re together. and somehow, that’s always enough.

mornings with ino are always a little...cluttered. not in a bad way. just in a way that feels like him—shoes untied, hoodie wrinkled, a bag half-packed with yesterday’s receipts and a granola bar he forgot to eat. a little chaotic, a little late, but somehow still endearing. somehow still yours.

you, on the other hand, are his opposite in almost every way. precise. polished. the kind of woman whose alarm only has to go off once. who showers every morning without fail, who lines up her skincare bottles in order of use, who styles her hair neatly and brushes her teeth with an electric toothbrush that charges on a little glass stand. you're not uptight about it—you’re actually quite gentle—but your routine is sharp, crisp, efficient. it works for you. and, in turn, it works for him.

because even though ino is a lifelong lover of the snooze button, he's gotten better about mornings. mostly because of you. you don’t demand he change, but he wants to see you before the day pulls you both in opposite directions. he’s slower to get up—body warm and heavy with sleep—but he always rises. sometimes with a groan. sometimes with a yawn so big it makes his jaw crack. but he sits there, criss-cross on the bed, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you glide across the room, already moving through your mental to-do list.

you float. that’s how he sees it. all grace and direction, even as you’re talking out loud to yourself, running over the day’s checklist. you’ve packed your bag already, and now you’re packing his—mumbling about mission protocol and check-in times, slipping clean socks into the side pocket of his bag because he always forgets. he barely hears the words. he’s too busy watching you, soaking you in.

and then, like clockwork, he reaches out and catches you by the arm, halting your momentum with a tug that turns into a hug. a tight one. a grounding one. his arms loop around your waist, chin on your shoulder, and he pulls you into the kind of embrace that slows time. you pretend to protest—hands flailing against his chest, muttering about how tight your schedule is—but you don’t mean it. you never do. you fold into him like you were made to, nose pressed to his neck, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. he loves that he’s the only one who can get you to pause like this. that he can bring you down to earth with a single pull.

eventually, though, the moment passes. you straighten up, clear your throat, and suddenly you’re back in motion. back to telling him he cannot be late again today, nanami’s going to have his head if he strolls in like last time, and he better not forget his water bottle again either. you’re pulling his usual shirt out of the drawer—wrinkled, because it’s his, and he doesn’t fold things—and his boots are already waiting at the door. you’ve done half his prep without thinking, and he’s already halfway in love with you for the thousandth time that morning.

he gets dressed with practiced ease, catching up to your pace as best he can. you’re at the mirror now, checking your planner while sipping from your water bottle. he leans in the doorway for a moment, just watching. you’re organized in a way he’s never been, maybe never will be. and still, you’ve never tried to fix him. never tried to change the way he exists in the world. instead, you’ve just carved out space for him inside your calm, careful life. you’ve made room for his clutter, and he’s tried—quietly, earnestly—to keep from taking up too much of it.

breakfast is a shared effort. some days, you’re up earlier and you’ve already got eggs on the stove. other days, he insists on doing it, even if that just means microwaving rice and scrambling some eggs while you’re tightening your laces. there’s something primal in him—some quiet need to provide for you in any small way he can. he knows you don’t need him to, not with the way you handle yourself and the world like it’s second nature. but he wants to. just like he wants to be the one to bring you your coffee, even if you’re always the one who remembers to buy the coffee grounds. and you let him. that’s the part that gets him. you let him be messy. be flawed. be himself. you don’t organize his chaos—you just wrap your order around it. and he does the same. a little give, a little take. a quiet rhythm. a partnership.

by the time you’re both slipping into your shoes, double-checking your gear and grabbing your phones, he’s alert enough to match your stride. a little disheveled. a little behind. but not by much. just enough to still be ino. just enough to remind you that no matter how different your approaches may be, you fit together. somehow. and every time you open the door to leave, his hand finds yours. because while you’re ready for the day, he’s only ready if he’s walking into it beside you.

choso has never been a morning person. not even close. alarms were things to be ignored—suggestions at best, insults at worst. he’d been infamous for burrowing deeper into bed, refusing to get up until the last possible second. if yuuji wasn’t banging on his door, he wasn’t moving. but that was before you.

now, you sleep in his bed—your side always tucked, your phone charging at the exact same spot on the nightstand every night, your alarm set to go off at a reasonable time (not three snoozes past). and for reasons choso doesn’t fully understand but absolutely cherishes, your presence has shifted something in him. that piercing morning ringtone no longer signals agony—it signals that you’re awake. that you’re there. and that’s enough for him to stretch, groan a little, and roll out of bed.

he still isn’t graceful about it. you are. always have been. the type to wake up and start—quick to stand, quick to brush your teeth, quick to open the blinds and let the light in without mercy. at first, it threw him. you were so... together. your skincare routine looked like a ritual. your outfits were folded. you ate real breakfast and made to-do lists that had subcategories and little stars. and you loved him, this walking heap of tangled hair and forgotten socks, who lived out of a laundry basket and called cold pizza a food group.

in the beginning, it was rough. his mess got under your skin. the sheer entropy of his life felt like a direct attack on your peace. but somewhere between his sleepy mumblings and the way he always remembered your coffee just the way you liked it—even if he couldn’t remember where he put his own shoes—you adapted. you didn’t give in, didn’t lose your order, but you started distinguishing the kinds of messes. the ones that could stay. the ones that made you smile a little, because they were his. and choso, to his credit, learned too. learned which of his disasters stressed you out and which made you mutter under your breath before softening at the sight of him trying to fix it. now, mornings look different.

when the alarm rings, he’s still not thrilled—but he gets up. because you do. because he likes following you. there’s something sacred about being just one step behind you in the morning, watching you go through your routine like clockwork. he showers first, picking up the shirt you laid out for him the night before. notices how you’ve stacked his vitamins by the sink, folded a small towel just for him. he brushes his teeth lazily behind you as you do your hair, your reflection focused, brows slightly furrowed.

you’re talking. you always are in the mornings. half to him, half to yourself. running through everything you both have to do: meet with some jujutsu higher-ups, check in with yaga, lead the first years through drills, and then later, he has a solo mission. you make him swear, hand on heart and soul, that he’ll keep in touch during it—text you updates or you’ll kill him—and he nods solemnly, the toothbrush still in his mouth. you’re already scribbling the grocery list on the fridge notepad while flipping the eggs you’re somehow managing not to burn. he doesn’t understand how you do it all. how you can look so put-together with your morning voice and bedhead, still blinking the sleep out of your eyes. but he sees the details—the little imperfections that most would miss. the way you leaned into him before the sun came up, drooling a bit on his shirt (which he’d never bring up—maybe). the way you secretly liked his warmth, even if you always said you had things to do. you act like you’re immune to his mess, but he’s caught you smiling at it more than once.

he loves that. loves that his sharp-as-a-tack, painfully organized girlfriend makes time to cook him a full breakfast even when she has ten places to be. loves that you care. that your chaos isn’t external like his—it’s controlled, carefully hidden, but he knows where to look for it. and he cherishes every moment you let it show. by the time he’s dressed and ready, you’re already packing your bags. he kisses your temple, mumbles something low and grateful, something that sounds a lot like I don’t know how I got this lucky. and you roll your eyes, smack his shoulder, and tell him to hurry up, or we’ll be late again. choso is still chaos. still half a storm. but now, his favorite part of the day is waking up and realizing he gets to weather it with you.

kento isn’t really a morning person. not in the usual sense—not because he dislikes them, but because his nights are always far too long. between missions, paperwork, and the ever-looming weight of responsibility, sleep is often a luxury. still, the second his alarm so much as whispers, he’s up. responsible to a fault. you, however, are already stirring beside him.

you don’t need to be up yet. you could easily steal another hour or two. but there you are, yawning like a sleepy kitten, soft-eyed and blinking at the too-bright room. a drowsy smile pulls at your lips, and nanami covers it with his own in a kiss that lingers longer than it should, considering his schedule. “go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your cheek. but you never do.

he knows why. time with him is precious—rare, rationed like sunlight in a long winter. if it were up to you, you’d follow him around all day, clinging to his side like a koala. and if it were up to him? he’d let you. he’d carry you through the dullest meetings, the longest train rides, the most irritating bureaucracy, if it meant keeping you close.

mornings are slow, quiet things in your shared home. you pad into the bathroom after him, still half-asleep, rubbing your eyes and bumping gently into his side as you lean on him. he steadies you with a hand at your waist, fondness blooming in his chest at the sight of you so undone by sleep. it’s a side of you few people ever see. but he sees it every day, and it never fails to make him ache with how much he loves you.

you don’t talk much this early. mostly just let him murmur about the day ahead—checking in with gojo, supervising the first years, writing up reports that he knows no one will read. the mention of missions makes your body tense ever so slightly. he notices. he always notices. so he pauses. turns to you. brushes a hand along your jaw and swears, like he always does: “I’m always safe. I’ll always come home to you.” your brow relaxes. you nod, brushing your teeth with half-hearted effort, still swaying slightly with the weight of sleep. you lean against him, and he lets you, anchoring you with an arm around your shoulders as you both move to the closet. he lets you pick his suit, because he knows it perks you up. you take it seriously, even in your pajama shorts and socks with the little frills. he watches you squint at ties like you’re choosing between life and death. he says nothing, lets you have this moment, this ritual, this say in his day.

“you know,” he says, just like always, buttoning the shirt you chose, “you can sleep in. you don’t have to wake up just for me.” but you wave him off, as always. and secretly? he’s glad you don’t listen. he likes seeing you like this—sweet and docile, blinking up at him with half-lidded eyes, still caught between dreams and reality. it does something to him, knowing that he is the one you choose to wake up early for.

he watches you zone out in front of the coffee pot, you nearly nod off while washing your face, and he wraps his arms around your waist, steadying you with a low chuckle. some mornings, when time permits, he tucks you back into bed. presses kisses into your hair. tells you he’ll be back before dinner.

and then, hours later, when the chaos of the day tries to wear him thin, he opens his lunch and finds your note. scrawled in sleepy handwriting, letters just a little crooked, maybe even a smear of peanut butter at the corner.

I love you. be safe. come home to me. he reads it twice. tucks it into his jacket pocket like a sacred artifact. it stays there all day. tired or not, mornings have become nanami’s favorite, despite how he used to hate them. because you're there.

yuuji has always been a morning disaster.. in a “toothbrush hanging out of his mouth while he drools into the sink, one eye open, pants backwards, tripping over his own feet” kind of way. megumi was always the gold standard of functioning morning people. yuuji remembers those old sleepovers vividly—megumi, freshly showered and dressed, out the door by 6:45; and yuuji, still horizontal, trying to figure out how to open both eyes at the same time. they weren’t even in the same time zone. he used to think that’s just how mornings were. a battlefield. a struggle. something to survive, not enjoy.

the first time he stayed over, it was innocent—too many movies, too many snacks, both of you too tired to do anything but collapse into your bed, limbs tangled. he woke up expecting to panic, expecting the usual mad rush, the existential dread of being late.

but instead, he woke up to you. still half-asleep, your face smushed against your pillow, hair everywhere, wearing his oversized hoodie with the sleeves bunched around your hands, looking soft and warm and so painfully pretty it made his chest hurt. the sun spilled across the sheets in lazy ribbons and for the first time in his life, yuuji didn’t mind being awake too early. 

now, your room feels like a second home. maybe even his first. every inch of it is you—from the polaroids strung across your wall (many of them of the two of you, caught in grinning, blurry moments), to the sketches you doodled in class and couldn't bear to throw away if they were of him. there's the stuffed bear he won you at that fair when he definitely cheated at ring toss but still swears he didn’t. there’s the faint scent of your perfume on his old hoodie that you “borrowed” months ago and never gave back. it’s messy, but intentional. soft, but lived-in. like a physical manifestation of how he feels when you hold his hand in public—completely, irrevocably wanted. and the mornings? absolute chaos.

yuuji snoozes the alarm three times because being the big spoon is a full-time job. he likes to pretend he’s shielding you from the cruel, cold world outside the covers. it’s not heroism—it’s self-indulgent comfort.

eventually, you groan, stretch, and whine about being late. but it’s not angry. it’s not urgent. it’s familiar and funny and lazy in a way that makes yuuji smile into your shoulder. you're no better in the mornings than he is, most of the time. your hair is a battlefield, you accidentally wear yesterday’s socks more than you’ll admit, and you forget what day it is at least twice a week before your first sip of tea. but it’s all endearing. you’re endearing. especially when you make an attempt to pull it all together.

you’re both stuffing things into your backpacks, grabbing half-packed snacks, checking to make sure you didn’t your notes again. you both try to tame your appearances just enough to not look like complete disasters in front of yaga—though that never stops him from lecturing you both about punctuality like it’s a religion and you’ve committed high blasphemy.

but the chaos is beautiful. you are beautiful. and this morning mess you’ve made together? it’s everything to yuuji. he watches you comb your hair with exactly one functioning brain cell, still half in dreamland. sometimes you accidentally drinking out of his water bottle instead of your own, and when you sheepishly apologize, he just shrugs and says, “you literally used my toothbrush on accident last week, babe. we’re past the point of no return.” and you know he means it—yuuji doesn’t care about any of that. he cares about you.

every morning, without fail, he kisses you. sometimes it’s quick, sometimes it’s deep and syrupy and a little over-the-top. either way, it gets nobara groaning, waving her hands in front of her face like she’s trying to physically block out the pda. “save it for after missions,” she grumbles, bonking yuuji on the head with a textbook. but he doesn’t care. he never cares.

because there was a time, not too long ago, when he didn’t have this. when mornings were lonely and frantic and nothing special. but now he gets to wake up late and warm and in love, with someone who understands him, matches his chaos, and still somehow makes him feel like the luckiest idiot alive. you’ve integrated him into your life so effortlessly it makes his heart ache. you’re wrapped around every corner of his day. he sees you in his notes, hears you in his music, tastes you in every sweet bite you sneak into his lunchbox. and in the mornings—when he’s drowsy and soft and honest—he thinks, I never want to wake up without her again. and that thought alone? that’s enough to get him out of bed.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

weight | fushiguro toji ╰►toji carries a lot of weight on him: the weight of his job, the weight of fatherhood, the weight of his fears, the weight of his past, and the weight of himself—his flaws, his failures, his mere pitiful existence…but that weight seems to fall off, pound by agonizing pound, when he’s with you. 9.5k words

a/n: honestly, this could be misconstrued as toji just weaponizing his incompetence, but I guess all I can say is that isn't how I meant it? he's just a guy, you know? and so if you see me doing laundry and cooking for a 6 foot tall assassin in his dingy apartment...leave me alone, I'm exactly where I wanna be <3 fr though this is very heavy and much longer than I anticipated it being, talks a lot about self-worth, hating yourself, regret, grief, etc. definitely would not recommend reading if you don't feel like you're in the right headspace for that. I would probably call this angst, but there's also a lot of comfort in here!! (take a shot every time I say 'maybe...' 26 fucking times)

he doesn’t keep much. a knife. a lighter. a photo half-burned at the edges—face blurred, but he knows who it was. a bracelet that never fit his wrist, tucked in the back of a drawer. a receipt for something he tells himself he should’ve stolen, but didn’t. junk, really. clutter he should’ve thrown out years ago.

he stares at it sometimes. doesn’t touch it. doesn’t move. just…sits. breathing slow. letting the weight settle. it’s not guilt, not exactly. he doesn’t deserve that word. guilt’s for people who tried, but that doesn't stop him from feeling it often. this is more of an ache. a longing for a life he might've lived if he wasn't such a miserable piece of shit. who is he kidding? he was never going to be anything else.

before you came around, these kinds of thoughts consumed him. chewed through the meat of him every night, before he drowned himself in the last couple sips of the bottle and passed out sideways on the floor. there was no one to catch him. he didn’t want to be caught. and then you showed up; unceremoniously, with little fuss. he doesn’t remember the moment clearly—just the aftermath. the echo of your laugh in a room too dark for joy. his number in your phone, typed with his own hands, even though he swore he didn’t give it out. him, calling you weeks later when he hadn’t answered a single text, hadn’t promised a damn thing, hadn’t even given you his last name, and you still came.

he was awful to you in the beginning. touchy when he wanted something, distant when he didn’t. gone for days, sometimes weeks. didn’t text back. didn’t explain. he expected you to leave, told himself that's what he wanted. expected you to look at him and see what everyone else had: a fun mistake. a lost cause. something to be ashamed of the morning after. and maybe you did see it—but you never treated him like it. most women would've dumped his ass without blinking. moved on to the next guy who remembered birthdays and didn’t smell like musky cologne and blood. but not you. time and time again, when he resurfaced like something rotten dragged in by the tide, there you were—dry towel in hand, quiet smile, no questions. just eyes that saw right through him and still softened anyway.

he let you in. not all at once. it was small things. letting you stay the night instead of slipping out before dawn. giving you his key without saying anything. cooking once, maybe twice, when he realized you skipped dinner waiting on him. it wasn’t conscious. it wasn’t strategic. it was survival. somewhere between fuck and forget, you’d stitched yourself into the parts of him he thought were too far gone.

he still remembers the first time you crawled into his bed like you belonged there. you didn’t ask. you didn’t need to. he was sprawled out like a corpse, half-dressed, barely sober, and you just curled around him like gravity itself had finally decided to be kind. he didn’t really sleep that night—too stunned. too afraid to move, like it might’ve all been a fever dream. but you stayed. and in the morning, when you stretched and kissed his shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world, he knew something had shifted. fatally. beautifully.

he never asked you to move in. never said the words. you just stopped leaving. toothbrush in the cup. body wash in the shower. your coat hanging next to his like it had always been there. and now he doesn’t seem willing to let you leave. not ever.

not when the nights get too quiet. not when the weight in his chest flares up and threatens to tear him open from the inside out. not when he comes home limping, blood on his hands, and finds you waiting with warm food and gentler eyes than he’s ever deserved.

you’re not just something good in his life. you are his life. his whole goddamn center of gravity. and when he looks at you—really looks—he thinks: this is what the knife was protecting. this is what the bottle was numbing. this is what I almost missed. but he usually only lets himself think those things when he’s drunk, or pretending to be drunk, at least. because sober toji cannot bear that kind of responsibility...can he? he thinks, when you lean back against him in the miniature closet of his apartment, tapping your lip curiously, deciding what to wear, that maybe he can. 

and maybe he’ll always be a little fucked up. maybe he’ll always feel like a man made more from loss than love. but for once—for once—he’s got something worth staying for.

......

it’s a job. that’s it. in. out. blood on his hands, sometimes on his boots. he doesn’t blink anymore. doesn’t pause. this armor is muscle memory now. cold, quiet, efficient.

you don’t ask what he does. maybe you understand the extent of it. maybe you don’t. maybe it’s better you never say it out loud (he knows you know, you're too perceptive not to). but he sees the way you look at him when he comes home late. smell of copper still clinging to him. red scar on his cheek that wasn’t there this morning. you don’t flinch. you just hold the door open.

you make him take his shoes off. wash his hands. sit down. you talk about your day like he just came home from his nonexistent 9 to 5 day job. like he isn’t built from violence. like he’s still a man. and for a moment—just one—he forgets the weight. the blood. the cold. the armor doesn’t come off. not fully. but you make it crack. you make it crumble. and that’s more dangerous than anything he’s ever done.

he doesn’t understand it, the way you love him.

it’s not a performance. not a plea. you don’t look at him like you’re trying to fix him. you just look. like he’s already something worth looking at. like the blood under his nails doesn’t scare you. like the things he’s done aren’t rotting inside him, leaking out through the cracks. 

he’s never been gentle. doesn’t know how. not with his hands. not with his words. but you—you laugh like you don’t notice. you kiss him like you do. and it breaks him. every time.

because you see him. you see the weight, the filth, the violence stitched into his bones—and you stay. you press your fingers to the jagged parts and don't flinch. you cook him breakfast like he isn’t a murderer. you hum while you clean his wounds. you kiss his temple, not his mouth, and he thinks he might actually cry. god, how long's it been since he's done that?

he tells himself it’s weakness. that you’ll leave, eventually. you’ll see what he really is and run. but until then? he’s yours. and that’s the scariest job he’s ever had. what he doesn't fathom quite yet, is that you already know who he really is and you're staying anyways. or maybe he does know that, but he can't possibly understand it; so he won't admit it, to you or to himself.

…… 

some nights, it hits him out of nowhere.

he’ll be halfway through peeling an orange at the counter—shirtless, scarred, domestic in a way he doesn’t feel entitled to—and then he’s not. he’s back in some shitty living room, smoke curling up the wall, a tiny pair of shoes by the door, and no strength in his arms to pick them up.

he wasn’t there. not really. even when he was. too consumed with jobs, debts, the sound of screams in his ears. he knew he was messing it up in real time. watched it all slip, and chose not to stop it. it felt like the only thing he was good at—leaving. you come up behind him now, wrap your arms around his waist like you always do when you know he’s drifting. he doesn’t flinch. he lets you anchor him.

“he used to get scared of thunder,” he says, voice gravel, soft like he’s afraid it’ll shatter. “wouldn’t cry. just…sit real still. like I did.” you rest your cheek on his back, listening. "I didn’t—” he swallows, hard. "I didn’t know how to comfort him. I just told him to sleep through it. like it’d make him tough. like that’s what a good dad says.”

he turns, face unreadable, eyes hollowed by something that’s been gnawing at him for years. “he was a good kid,” he says. "I just…wasn’t a good man.”

you don’t say that’s not true. he wouldn’t believe you. you don’t try to offer him redemption, not outright. just the kind of steadiness he never had growing up, the kind of steadiness he could never offer. the kind of forgiveness that isn’t flashy. it’s just there. “what would you say to him now?” you ask quietly, thumb brushing over the scar on his side.

toji hesitates, stares at the floor like the answer might be buried in the tile. “...that I'm sorry,” he says eventually. like that'd fix anything, he thinks. “that I knew better. and I still left. and that he didn’t deserve that.” his voice cracks at the end. he clears his throat too harshly, like he’s trying to scrape the pain out of it.

you pull him down to sit, and he lets you. he sits between your legs on the floor, head bowed, shoulders too big for the shame he’s trying to fold them under. you just run your hands through his hair. “you did what you knew,” you whisper, and that's all you can say. not you did the right thing, or it's okay because that's not true and you both know it.

he closes his eyes. “doesn’t make it right.”

“no,” you agree. “but it means you'll do better.” he doesn’t respond. but his fingers curl around your ankle like a lifeline. like maybe, just maybe, there’s still time to learn what love looks like—without the leaving. and for tonight, at least, he stays. and who is he kidding? certainly not himself. for as long as you’ll have him, for as long as you allow his presence, he’ll stay. he’d never leave, not until you ask, because that’s what a good man does, right? 

the fear is the heaviest weight of all, and on nights like this, it drags him down under, and he’s so damn tired of swimming. fear of what, he doesn't quite know. fear of his past, though he thinks that sounds stupid. fear of you leaving, and that...that doesn't sound quite as silly to him. that is very, very real.

the grief comes quiet. doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t wail or scream. just settles into his bones like it’s always belonged there—grief for megumi, yes, but also grief for who he could’ve been. for the man he never got to grow into. for the kind of father he might’ve become if the world had given him just one more inch of slack, if he'd allowed himself to share instead of steal, let him give what he had instead of hoard it all to his chest; not just what little money he had, but the love he might've given, the care he might've shown.

you feel it before he even shifts. the way his body stills beneath your touch, the tight coil of muscle in his jaw, like he's holding back a scream that has nowhere to go. he doesn’t cry. of course he doesn’t cry. it’s not in him—not anymore. but you can feel the weight pressing on him, pinning him in place like a second skin.

he’s not thinking about just megumi now. he’s thinking about everything. the years spent as a blade, not a man. the people he’s killed. the blood under his fingernails that never quite washes off. the nights he should’ve slept but stayed awake because closing his eyes meant seeing their faces.

grief, regret, shame—what’s the difference anymore? it all tastes the same going down. bitter. rotting. permanent. you don’t say anything. you just lean into him, your head on his shoulder, your hand pressed flat to his chest like maybe if you’re close enough, you can keep his heart from collapsing in on itself.

"I never thought I’d live long enough to miss anything,” he mutters after a while, voice like sandpaper. “didn’t think there’d be anything worth missing.” his hand is on your thigh, holding tight—not possessive, just scared. of the dark. of the silence. of himself.

“but then you happened,” he says. “and now every time I look at you, I think about what I almost didn’t get to have. what I still don’t deserve.” the fear in his chest flares hot. ugly. alive. the vulnerability makes him nauseous. but he doesn’t look away from you. doesn’t bury it this time. just lets it sit there between you, raw and real.

and you, unshaken, still breathing next to a man the world tried to turn to ash, just whisper, “you do now.” and something in him cracks, quietly. like a storm on the horizon deciding to pass over. just this once.

……

he wakes up some mornings already braced for impact—heart hammering, mouth dry, stomach tight like he’s expecting a bullet instead of breakfast. 

but then there’s the smell of coffee. a plate on the table, still warm. the dishes in the sink—his dishes, his mess—already scrubbed clean. you don’t say anything about it. you never do. never ask him why he leaves nonperishable food out for himself everywhere, why he never eats more than a few bites, why he sometimes disappears for a day and comes back with blood on his soles and that hollow look in his eyes. you just wipe down the counter, hum softly under your breath, and hand him a fork.

he doesn’t know how to say thank you. not in words. not in the ways that count. his gratitude is jagged and half-formed, splintered beneath years of being treated like a monster, like a thing made for killing, not caring. and still, somehow, you never flinch.

he watches the way your hands move when you clean up after him. when you fold his laundry, not because he asked, but because he forgot to. when you take his hand and press it to your chest without speaking, like you know he’s about to spiral without needing an explanation.

it makes him physically ill, the way you love him. not out of pity. not out of naïveté. but wholly. steadily. willingly.

and there are nights he almost pushes you away for it. almost snaps. almost recoils. because he doesn't know what to do with love that doesn't come with strings, or shame, or screaming. but he doesn’t. he won’t. because a good man wouldn’t. and you—you—you’ve never asked him to be anything more than that. you ground him in ways he didn’t think possible. you ask nothing, demand nothing, expect nothing—and somehow that makes it worse. because now he wants to give you everything. the pieces of him still worth offering. the ones not soaked in blood.

so when his fingers twitch toward the doorknob in a moment of panic, when the air gets too tight and the guilt claws at his throat—he stops. breathes. thinks of your hands, your voice, your steadiness. and he stays. because a good man doesn’t run. and for you, he wants to be one. and with you, sometimes he thinks he can be because you’re so sure of him. so confident that he can deserve you, provide for you, earn you. some nights, you even whisper in his ear that he already has. 

……

he’s holding the knife like it’s a weapon. which—technically, it is. but probably not the way you intended when you handed him the cutting board and told him, so sarcastically it peeves him, “you’re on onions tonight, chef.”

toji stares at the onion like it insulted him. then back at you. you’re already halfway through prepping something complicated-looking with spices he couldn’t name if you offered him a million yen and a one-week head start. he mumbles something that might be a curse. might be his last will and testament. and then he starts cutting.

you don’t correct him. not when he massacres the first one. not when he holds the knife like he’s defusing a cursed object. not even when he somehow ends up slicing the onion vertically, horizontally, and diagonally all at once. you just hum along to whatever music you’ve got playing, give him a quick kiss to the jaw when you pass behind him, and toss a handful of salt into the pan like you’re dancing with it. he doesn’t understand how you do that. how you make this place—a cramped kitchen with uneven tile and a broken light—feel like sanctuary. like something holy. and how you look at him—him, of all people—with that stupid, stupid smile every time he gets something right. or wrong.

when he burns the egg, you coo like he’s a toddler. wrap your arms around his waist, press your a kiss to his bare skin—he shivers, it always tickles him—tell him, “you’re learning, baby.” he grunts. scowls. tells you to knock it off. but the tips of his ears go red and he doesn’t push you away. he can kill a man with his bare hands before breakfast. he’s outrun the best of the best. he’s been on every watchlist in japan at least once. but he can’t cook a fucking omelet without your help. and he hates how much he loves that.

because it means he gets to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, hips brushing, listening to you ramble about sauces and slicing techniques, and seasoning ratios he’ll never remember. it means he gets to clean the dishes after—not because you ask, but because you cooked, and he’s not a total bastard. not to you. it means, when you curl into him after the kitchen’s dark and clean, your belly full and your hair damp from the steam, he gets to close his eyes and pretend he’s someone else. someone who’s not just good with a knife. someone who knows what it means to make a home. even if he burns half of it along the way.

……

toji knows it’s a joke. this whole thing—the dinners, the quiet nights, the way you kiss the scar on his lip like it’s holy instead of hideous—it’s a cosmic, cruel joke. one day, you’ll wake up. you’ll blink twice. the spell will break. and you’ll see him for what he really is: pitiful, rotten, born wrong.

and you’ll leave. they all do. he doesn’t say it out loud. never has. he doesn’t have to because it lives under his skin, worms its way in between the silences. it clings to his shoulders when he watches you stir cream into your coffee or fold laundry wearing his clothes and humming along to your music that always seems to be playing. it creeps up his spine when you laugh at one of his dry, half-hearted jokes, like he’s actually someone worth listening to. and it chokes him, some nights, when he lies next to you—your head on his chest, your fingers soft on his stomach—and wonders how the hell someone like you ended up here, in his goddamn bed, with him.

you should’ve run by now. and maybe that’s what scares him the most. you haven’t. you know. you know what he’s done, what he still does. you’ve seen him, bloody and broken, dragging himself through the door after a job. you’ve kissed the bruises on his ribs. you’ve scrubbed his blood out of your towels. you’ve seen him with shiu—heard the way he talks, the shit they laugh about. you’ve stood there, gentle and glowing, while toji snarled and bristled like a guard dog when shiu smirked at you a little too long. and still, you stay.

you even made dinner for shiu once. sent him home with leftovers and told toji, “you could be nicer. he’s your friend, isn’t he?” toji had rolled his eyes and grunted something obscene, but he shut up. because whatever you say—whatever you say, whatever you say—is gospel. what you don’t see, what you can’t see, is how much that fucks him up.

because he’s not some battered stray you picked up off the street. he’s not some tragic redemption arc waiting to happen. he’s a killer. he’s toji fushiguro. and the longer you look at him like he’s worth saving, the more it feels like the air around him is thinning—like you’re pumping oxygen into his lungs with every kind word, every kiss, every goddamn meal. and he’s terrified of needing you too much. of building a whole second life out of your kindness, only to watch it collapse when you realize he’s still made of rot and regret underneath.

and yet—there’s this one night. you’re curled up beside him on the couch, watching something light and stupid. you’re both tired. comfortable. and you mutter something under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

"I wish I didn’t have so many freckles. I look like a connect-the-dots puzzle.” he stiffens.

“what?”

you wave him off. “nothing. it’s just funny, how stupid they make me look. I mean, why’d I end up with freckles head to toe and you’re like this tall, muscle pig—”

“don’t say that shit." it’s low. serious. sharp enough to cut. you blink up at him, caught off guard. he doesn’t blink. doesn’t soften. just watches you like he’s daring you to keep talking.

“toji…”

"I mean it.” his eyes are dark, hard. "I don’t wanna hear that kind of shit from you. ever. you got me?”

you soften. smile, faintly. “okay. I got you.”

but it this weight doesn't seem to settle, like his usually does when he's with you. not really. not when he’s still thinking about it an hour later, staring at your profile, at the not-so-faint dusting of freckles across your nose, at the way you bite your lip when you focus. imperfect? you? no. you’re perfect. you’re perfect.

and if he could dig into his chest and rip out every ounce of self-loathing and burn it at your feet just to deserve you, he would. he would. but he doesn’t know how. not yet.

this simple act, though, shows him a side of this relationship he didn't think he'd get the chance to see. for all your beauty, for all your saving grace, he could be right for you, too. as right as you are for him. he'll never be enough for you, nothing could ever convince him of that...but maybe you need him in ways he didn't see before. it's always been about how much he needs you, how he doesn't think he could survive this life anymore without you, as much as he's trained himself not to need anyone. you haven't. you're not afraid of needing him, of desiring him.

so he's found his new purpose: being needed by you. for some reason, as this occurrs to him with you snuggled up to the hard plane of his chest that night, softly snoring, he feels dizzy, light-headed, disoriented even though he's laying down. he feels like he's floating. he feels weightless.

……

the wind howls outside like it’s trying to claw its way in, bending the trees, rattling the walls of your apartment until they groan in complaint. the kind of storm that seeps into your bones, into your dreams, and makes it just a little harder to fall asleep. toji knows that. he’s been home for only a few hours, fresh off a hit that took longer than usual—two, maybe three days of radio silence. longer than you're used to. not longer than he’s used to, but much longer than he’s okay with being away from you. you usually fill those first moments back together with chatter—telling him about every little thing that happened while he was gone, like your voice can patch the aching silence that clings to his skin like a film of sweat.

but not tonight. tonight, you don’t speak. you don’t need to. you’ve already said everything you needed to in the shower, the warm water washing away days of grime and distance. you'd missed him. you always missed him, and something primal inside him lights up at being missed.

he never says it out loud, but it thrills him, this domesticity, this relationship of being dependent on each other. that caveman instinct, the one he pretends he doesn’t have, gnaws at his ribs like a hunger: the need to protect you, to provide, to make sure you're okay. he watches you eat like he's witnessing art, watches your eyes get heavy like he’s earned a trophy.

and god help him, he loves cleaning you. lathering shampoo into your hair like it’s sacred. drying you off, dressing you in one of his sweatshirts—hanging off your frame like a blanket—and those tiny shorts you wear to bed that he thinks are criminally short, though he'd never complain. you brush your teeth next to him and nearly fall asleep against the sink, and all he can do is watch, dazed.

he doesn’t say much. he rarely does. but when he finally crawls into bed next to you, he's a man unraveling.

toji doesn’t cuddle. that’s what he says. but here he is, wrapping himself around you like a vine, tucking your smaller frame against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as if you’re the one who’s been gone, and he’s trying to remind himself you’re real. he squeezes tighter than he should—just shy of bruising. you make a sleepy noise, more instinct than complaint, and he eases up immediately, but not much. he can’t. he needs this. needs you.

you could leave him.

that thought hits him harder than any punch he’s ever taken. you could just...decide you’re done. not with malice, not with drama. just simply, with love of course, as you do everything. you’d just slip away. like mist. like the dreams he can’t ever seem to hold on to. he presses his nose into your neck and breathes you in. you smell like his shampoo, like his soap, like a person-shaped sanctuary. he presses a kiss to the spot beneath your ear, feather-light, almost reverent. he wants to say something, but doesn’t trust his voice not to crack.

you shift against him, and it takes his breath away. just a twitch. a tiny sleepy sound. but your hand finds his where it's splayed against your waist and holds it like it's second nature. like he belongs there. you don’t even open your eyes.

sometimes, when he comes home late and you’ve already drifted off on his side of the bed, he slides in quietly, trying not to wake you. and without fail, without thought, you reach for him. groggy and half-asleep, you find him, pull him in, curl yourself around him like your body knows he’s home before your brain catches up. he doesn’t always sleep well. years of sleeping with one eye open will do that to a man. but when you pull him close like that, when you press your cheek to his chest and hum in your sleep, he thinks maybe he could unlearn that. maybe he wants to.

he’s not a romantic. never was, never will be. but this? this is romance, in its rawest, ugliest, most basest form. holding you close, letting you sleep while the wind screams outside and the whole world feels like it’s falling apart—that’s what love looks like for a man like him.

you shift again, half-waking, and mumble something into his shoulder. he doesn’t catch it all, but he hears the words “you’re home.” said with relief, like you were worried he wouldn’t be. and suddenly, he can breathe a little easier. he closes his eyes.

……

he almost dies. again.

that’s not hyperbole. you find him half-conscious in the doorway, shoulder wedged against the frame like it’s the only thing holding him upright. his jacket’s soaked with blood—his or someone else’s, you can’t tell yet—and when you lunge forward, hands shaking, toji barely reacts.

his head lolls. your hands catch it before it hits the tile. "jesus christ, toji—"

but he’s not hearing you. not really. his mouth is slack, his breathing shallow. you press your fingers to the side of his throat and feel it—there, barely—his pulse, weak and stuttering, like it’s trying to decide if it wants to keep going. you call his name again, louder this time. your hands are everywhere—his neck, his ribs, his jaw, trying to anchor him to this world—and when his eyes flutter open just enough to register your face, he flinches.

not from pain. not from the blood or the busted rib or the gash over his eyebrow. from you. like he didn’t expect you to be there. like he wishes you weren’t.

you drag him to the couch somehow, your body aching from the effort, your voice breaking as you bark orders he’s too out of it to obey. but he lets you tend to him. lets you strip off the ruined jacket. lets you clean the blood from his temple and cradle his face in your hands like it’s something fragile, something worth saving. he hates that. hates the way your touch makes him feel real. present. human. like a man with something to lose.

he lies there in the dim light, body trembling from pain or shock or the sheer effort of holding himself together, and he watches you. you, barefoot in your sleep shirt, crying softly as you press gauze to his shoulder. you, who should’ve left the first time he came home like this—broken and near-bled dry—but didn’t.

“you shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “not like this. not ever.”

you don’t answer right away. just lean in, forehead pressed to his. "I chose you, toji. I don’t just get to pick the easy parts.”

and that wrecks him. splinters him. because all he can think about—his blood still warm on your hands—is how easily he could disappear. he could do it. tonight. leave while you're sleeping, soft and unsuspecting. take some cash, take nothing, it doesn’t matter. he’s done it before. closed the door so quietly they never even knew he was gone. maybe you’d convince yourself he was a dream. just some violent little hallucination in your bed for a while. maybe that would be kinder. cleaner.

but the thought of you waking up alone makes something inside him howl. you’d cry. you’d blame yourself. you’d look in the mirror and ask what you did wrong. and that? that’s the thing that nails him to the floor.

so instead of running, he says nothing. he lets your fingers card through his sweat-damp hair. lets your lips brush the corner of his mouth, gentler than he deserves. lets you tuck the blanket around his battered frame like he’s something precious, something yours. because he is. god help him.

later that night, you fall asleep upright, curled at his side with your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder. and toji watches you, throat tight, eyes burning.

his head nearly fell off. in the literal sense. and the metaphorical one. and still—you held it steady.

he wants to weep from the absurdity of it, from the wonder. he doesn’t.

……

toji’s hand settled firmly at the small of your back, the warmth of his touch a steady anchor as he guided you through the dull hum of the apartment building’s hallways. the elevator dinged open, and you stepped inside, still blindfolded, your breath catching slightly with the mix of anticipation and nerves curling inside your chest. he was always touching you in some way or another—fingertips brushing your arm, the occasional rough palm at your shoulder—but this was different. this touch was leading, showing, promising something new.

he’d run through dozens of ways to make this moment perfect. carry you bridal style over the threshold, surprising you with a soft “welcome home.” or maybe telling you the night he signed the lease, forging your signature because he couldn't do it legally. no fuss. but in the end, he chose surprise. you’d been working all morning, tired and unaware, and he only had a limited window. shiu had helped him move everything from that shabby, hellhole of an apartment you’d shared—the one with peeling wallpaper, the creaky floors, the lingering smell of smoke and regret—into a small, weather-beaten trailer parked out back.

neither of you had much stuff, and most of the busted furniture he’d left behind. but he’d packed up the things that mattered: the pictures of you, the quiet memories wrapped in faded frames; every cooking utensil you owned, all the cleaning supplies—anything he thought you’d want to keep. it was a collection of fragments from the life you’d built together, crammed into a few boxes like a secret treasure.

now the elevator stopped. toji’s grip tightened slightly as he moved you forward. the jingle of keys sounded before the door clicked open. you still couldn’t see, but you caught the faint scent of something new, clean—unlike any place he’d ever lived before. he guided you inside, his steps steady but deliberate, careful not to rush the moment. when he finally removed your blindfold, you blinked against the flood of light, taking in the space. it wasn’t huge. small, really. you probably always wanted small. but it was clean—no stains on the floors, no moths buzzing in the corners, no stale smoke thickening the air. it smelled fresh, like new paint and hope.

your eyes darted around. the kitchen caught your breath: a real kitchen, with a working oven and microwave, a stovetop free from grime or burnt bits, counters you could actually cook on without worry. no mystery stains, no peeling tiles. it was home. yours and toji’s. and somewhere in that simple, honest space, toji was on his knees, eyes bright with something that looked like gratitude—maybe awe—that he was lucky enough to share this with you.

you walked around, taking it all in, and couldn’t help but scold him a little. “why didn’t you let me help move anything? you must be exhausted.”

his chest swelled, pride making his rough edges soften. “I did it for you,” he said, voice low. “didn’t want you busting your ass over a couple ‘a boxes.”

you unpacked slowly, quietly—unpacking wasn’t glamorous, but every box opened felt like laying down another brick in your new life. you arranged the few things you’d brought, marveling at how this place could feel so alive, so full of potential. you told toji how proud you were, not just of the apartment, but of him. how he’d made this happen, even when everything else seemed like a mess.

he stopped you before you could go on, voice firm, a little rougher than usual. “I ain’t doing nothing for you that you don’t already deserve.” you shook your head, feeling tears prick your eyes. he looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t. instead, you just stood there in that small, bright room, knowing that this—this was home. and he knew that it was because of you.

the next few days stretched long and sweet. you found it hard to leave the apartment you shared. you threw on some paint-stained overalls and a tank top, plastering the walls with broad, uneven strokes of color—rose floral wallpaper for the kitchen, bold and a little bit feminine, just like you.

toji tried to help, but there wasn’t an artistic bone in his body. his idea of decorating was hanging things where they fit and making sure the pipes didn’t leak. he grumbled a little about your wallpaper choice, but deep down, he loved it. loved how you’d made the place yours, the toaster you’d picked out, the way you’d organized everything like a promise for the future. he installed shelves, tightened screws, hooked up the stove and the fridge, always grumbling but never complaining when you asked for his help.

you bought painfully comfortable blankets for the bed, small luxury items—a tiny tv you both knew you wouldn’t use much, a new kettle because god only knows how long you’d gone without one that didn’t sputter or leak. you weren’t quite wealthy enough for this, but for the first time, that didn’t matter. this was your space. your home. no expense too small, no detail insignificant.

one evening, toji came home late from a job. something easy to make ends meet, the kind of work he’d been taking more often lately. you barely blinked at his worn boots or the grease under his nails. you liked these simpler jobs he seemed to be taking, though he was complaining about them. they pay like shit, he’d whine. but money was no longer the constant weight in the pit of his stomach. you’d unconditioned toji’s hoarding habits, slowly but surely. there was no more cash hidden under mattresses or tucked away in boots or secret cupboards. when he needed money, he knew it was there—your joint bank account, two cards that made life easier and more secure. and when the money ran low? you both made do, scrimped by a little, and nothing bad happened.

the only thing toji hoarded these days was you. you lay together in your new bedroom, soft warm lamps casting lazy light across the walls. you talked quietly, about everything and nothing—hopes, plans, memories. his hand found yours under the blankets. he traced slow circles on your skin, breathing in the way your voice filled the room, the way your laughter loosened the knots in his chest. he loved the sound of you. more than anything.

months later, the apartment still smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. but it also smelled of you and him. the scent of love, hard-earned and fiercely protected. the weight of the past was still there—heavy, yes—but it no longer dragged him down. it anchored him. you had taught him that. anchor, anchor, anchor. and this small space, these simple walls, were your anchor too. together.

……

toji steps inside, and immediately the proof of your shared life is everywhere. two pairs of shoes sit neatly by the door—his heavy boots and your delicate ballet flats—silent witnesses to the everyday rhythm you’ve built together. on the small table by the entrance, two metal water bottles stand side by side, worn but cared for, like trophies of a quiet domesticity he never expected to want.

his eyes drift to the kitchen window above the sink, where a printed photo leans against the glass. it’s from that night at the club—him, sharp-edged and fierce as always, but gazing at you with something softer, something almost sacred. you’re breathtaking, the dress painfully beautiful, your hair done up in intricate curls that frame your face like a halo. he’s not smiling, but the reverence in his eyes speaks volumes, like you’re a goddess only he can see.

the scent hits him next—a perfect mix of your perfume and his natural musk, a heady blend that clings to the air. it wraps around him like a second skin, comforting and intoxicating. he remembers leaving this morning, not even noticing the faint smudge of your lip gloss still lingering on his cheek until shiu caught it mid-tease. that bastard grinned, poking fun, but toji just grumbled, wiped it off, and let a secret smile break through. yeah, suck it sideways, shiu, he thought, I’ve got a girl who loves me at home, and you don’t.

this—this was different. it used to scare him, this softness, this intimacy. the idea of someone caring for him, of him caring back, shook him to his core. but now? he craves it. he asks when you’ll be home, not because he needs to control your schedule, but because the answer settles him. he assumes you’ll be sleeping in his bed, and when you are, the room feels whole.

at night, he plugs in your laptop without a word. he eats the lunches you make, savoring every bite like it’s a love letter. in the kitchen, the two of you stand wrapped in each other’s arms, chores forgotten in the warmth of your closeness, sharing soft kisses like secrets no one else knows. it’s not just a place. it’s a life. it’s home.

……

you don’t ask much of him. not really. toji works—hard. not the kind of job with clocks or breaks or performance reviews, but the kind that leaves blood in your mouth and bruises blooming beneath your ribs. hunting. tracking. killing. it’s brutal, and it's not without its toll. there’s a version of him—older, colder—who might’ve used that as an excuse to do nothing else. a man who would've let you clean up after him, cook for him, nurse him back to health while he rotted on the couch like a king on a crumbling throne. but not this version. not anymore.

this version keeps the living space clean. your living space. he wipes down the counters, sweeps the floors, keeps things tidy with quiet, obsessive precision. he doesn’t just help cook because he enjoys watching you zone out while you dice vegetables, even though that’s a major draw. he does it because it feels good. it feels like providing, and for the first time in his life, that word doesn’t taste sour in his mouth, it’s not just financial means. he likes knowing you’re full and warm and safe. he likes the idea of taking care of you, he relishes in it.

it took him longer than it should’ve to realize: the more time he devotes to taking care of you, the less he has to spend inside his own head. the less space regret takes up in his chest. it’s not healing, not really, but it’s something. a survival tactic that smells like lavender laundry detergent and sizzles like garlic in butter. sometimes you let him cope this way. sometimes you don’t. you’ve said it before—you’re not here to fix him. if this is how he wants to keep the darkness at bay, you’ll allow it. but you won’t let him kill himself in the process.

you find him dozing off on the couch, sprawled sideways in the dim afternoon light. not a rare sight—but it’s rare that he doesn’t immediately snap upright the second he hears your key in the lock. that worry itches at the back of your mind. you set your bag down, shoes off, quiet as can be. then you pad over and settle beside him, curling a hand around the back of his head. your nails graze gently through his scalp, soothing, grounding. it’s a lullaby touch—but instead of sinking deeper into sleep, it stirs him.

he blinks awake fast, guilt chasing the sleep from his bones. “shit,” he mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. “fuck, I forgot. I was supposed to—groceries—I'm sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I meant to—” his voice is thick with sleep, apology pouring out like a busted faucet, but he’s distracted. you’re smiling. soft and sweet, like you’re indulging a child. your fingers are still in his hair, still combing through the overgrown strands, and you’re thinking it might be time for a trim—but you don’t say it, he doesn't want to hear it. you just let him talk, even though you’re not sure he even knows what he’s saying.

you know what he means, though. he’s terrified of disappointing you. it clings to him like a second skin. not because he thinks you’ll scream, or slam doors, or walk out—but because he knows you won’t. because you’re kind to him. and that is infinitely more devastating. you keep smiling. and it guts him. why aren’t you mad? why aren’t you yelling? why isn’t this devolving into an imperfect argument, filled with bitter silence and slammed cupboards? why aren’t you leaving him—not just over the groceries, but over everything?

you hold out your hand.

“c’mon,” you say, voice light as the breeze coming in through the cracked window. “let’s go to that taco cart for dinner.”

he blinks. “but…what about…we were gonna cook. the list—the stuff you needed—”

“we’ll grab it after,” you shrug. like it makes perfect sense. and to you, it does. you reach for your bag again, grab your keys, and press his wallet into his hand. “then we’ll come home and go to sleep.” you raise a brow, giving him a look that’s more affectionate than scolding. “someone needs it.”

it’s so simple. so casual. so…domestic, it makes parts of him shrivel up in disgust. it’s sickening, in the best way. your tenderness feels like someone peeling off his armor with bare hands. not a weapon in sight. no bullets, no blades. just you. and you’re deadlier than anything he’s ever fought. not with a gun to his head or a knife to his throat, not with a target spotting him from his spot, not during any sex he’s ever had, has he felt more vulnerable, more naked than he does when you’re smiling up at him like that. 

he can’t speak. he just looks at you, bleary and stunned, like you’ve slayed him with a smile. he wants to ask—why aren’t you mad? why do you always forgive me? why are you so good to me? but you’ve told him before. when you’re brave, when you think he needs to hear it—when you just want to say it—you’ll look him in the eyes and say: because I love you, because you deserve it, because I want to. he’d begged you to stop, once. voice cracked and fists clenched, like it physically hurt to hear. but you didn’t. you never do. and though it makes him squirm, sometimes miserable, it also makes him feel—blissfully, painfully—happy. you’re already at the door now, holding it open with a look. you coming? he stands slowly. he doesn’t say a word. he would follow you anywhere.

……

the first time you ask to cut his hair, he scoffs. the second time, he ignores you. the third time, you plead—and something about the tilt of your head, the way your fingers curl around his wrist and your voice goes soft with sincerity—it breaks past whatever wall he's built around himself.

so now he’s here, in your bathroom, perched reluctantly on a low stool that still doesn't make him small. even sitting, he’s nearly your height. his knees brush against the vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like he’s trying not to look too invested. he’s not. Probably. but he lets you touch him.

your fingers start slow, carding through his thick black hair, tugging gently as you tilt his head this way and that. he grunts under his breath, but doesn’t move. not away, at least. the pads of your fingers massage his scalp as if you’ve forgotten what you came here to do, nails skimming gently, almost apologetically.

“this a haircut,” he mutters, “or a spa day?” you smile, but say nothing. you keep touching him like that—light, aimless, reverent—and he thinks maybe this is some form of slow death. or slow mercy. he can't decide. he should tell you to knock it off. to hurry up. he opens his mouth to say as much. nothing comes out.

instead, he leans into your touch, almost involuntarily. his eyes slip half-lidded. his shoulders—always so tense—lower by degrees. you haven’t even made the first cut yet, and he already feels like you’re disentangling him.

eventually, you start snipping. the sound of shears, soft and rhythmic, punctuates the silence. hair falls to the tiled floor in quiet flurries, dark strands catching the light like feathers. you move with surprising skill—no hesitation, just quiet confidence as you circle around him. he tracks you in the mirror until he doesn’t. at some point, his eyes close again.

and the strangest thing happens. he relaxes. fully, wholly, in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. your touch is so practiced, so sure. he lets himself imagine—for just a second—that he’s something soft enough to deserve this. that the hands moving through his hair aren’t just being careful. they’re being kind.

the air smells like your shampoo and your skin. you’re breathing softly, and the rhythm of it is lulling, almost hypnotic. he feels lighter already, and not just from the hair. like something else is being cut away. something heavy. something he’s been dragging around for years. you finish before he wants you to. his eyes open slowly at the sound of your voice. “all done,” you say. there’s a flicker of pride behind your smile, a quiet triumph like you’ve just completed a work of art. you point to the mirror. “what do you think?”

he looks. it’s…the same, mostly. the same rough cut he’s always worn. nothing fancy. nothing new. but there’s something about it now, something that wasn’t there before. it’s yours. you did this. with your hands, your touch, your steady love. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but the look in his eyes is molten.

“yeah,” he says, voice a little too quiet for him, almost a whisper. “looks good.”

you beam. he looks away quickly like it burns to witness you that happy over something he can’t even explain. what he doesn’t think is this: he’s had a hundred haircuts in his life. barbershops, backroom shears, blade-over-sink jobs. none of them made him feel like this. like he could close his eyes and let someone else take care of him. like it wasn’t just about cutting hair, but about cutting away the pieces of him that no longer serve him.

he doesn’t say any of that. he just sits there, feeling weightless. and when you lean in to brush the stray hairs off his cheek, he closes his eyes again—just for a moment. because this is what mercy feels like.

......

toji didn’t know shiu was dating. like—dating dating. sure, they’d both had their fair share of late-night texts and bar meetups that ended in someone else's bed. it was practically a hobby back then. occasional hookups weren’t newsworthy. temporary girls came and went. but this? a double date? toji hadn't thought shiu had it in him. hell, he hadn’t thought he had it in him. but then you slept over that first night and... that was it. like something clicked into place. like his body had been hardwired to want you there, limbs tangled in his sheets, warmth soaking into the mattress. he never looked back.

and somewhere along the way, shiu must’ve seen that. maybe he saw how you curled into toji on public benches, or how toji texted you back with uncharacteristic quickness. maybe he saw how soft toji looked when he watched you talk, like you were made of glass and starlight and he was just a guy trying to be worthy of either.

now here they all were. a table for four, a place with real lighting and menus that didn’t come laminated. it wasn’t exactly michelin-star territory, but it was definitely not their usual corner food cart with grilled meat skewers and soda cans. the place even had cloth napkins.

toji had taken a long moment to size up the woman shiu arrived with. pretty. confident. comfortable in her own skin. her nails were the kind that made clacking sounds on phone screens and held wine glasses like weapons. she kissed shiu on the cheek and adjusted his collar like she’d been doing it forever. and shiu? that cocky bastard just grinned, let her. pride throbbed through toji’s chest unexpectedly. he hadn’t realized he’d been the blueprint. not that he’d ever say that out loud.

you slid into the booth beside him, and instinctively, toji threw his arm across the back of the seat behind you. he didn’t even realize he was doing it until the waiter showed up for the third time in ten minutes—refilling your glass like it was the holy grail and completely ignoring everyone else’s. toji glared. the kind of glare that held no subtlety. he didn’t like the way the guy looked at you. didn’t like the fake smile or the way he angled his hips toward you while pretending to check on the table. toji’s hand dropped from the booth to your waist, a silent little minefield of possessiveness. you leaned into it, like it was nothing new.

"think our waiter wants to fight you," you murmured, sipping from the now suspiciously full glass.

"let him try," toji muttered. his fingers tightened slightly at your hip, like he was physically anchoring you to him.

meanwhile, you and shiu’s girl hit it off like wildfire. she was funny. you were funnier. the two of you commiserated about how the boys drove like hellspawn and never rinsed the damn dishes. you swapped book titles, music playlists, compared manicure preferences. she gasped over your new apartment and sighed theatrically about how she was begging shiu to move.

“he still lives above that loud-ass karaoke bar, right?” you asked.

“yes, and it gets worse,” she said, flicking her eyes toward shiu. “he insists he likes the ‘ambiance.’”

toji barked a laugh, low and guttural. “she’s got you pegged.” shiu rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

you kept talking. they kept listening. at some point, toji noticed he and shiu were just…watching. you two were in your own world, giggling over who knows what. your eyes sparkled under the restaurant’s soft lighting. shiu’s girl tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled at something you said. and suddenly, toji felt it—that sharp twist of how the hell did we get here?

he caught shiu’s eye across the table. they didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the silence between them was filled with mutual disbelief and unspoken realization. how the fuck did a couple of losers like us get so damn lucky? they’d been wreckage not long ago. men built from smoke and bad decisions. and now here they were—sitting in some semi-fancy restaurant with two women who loved them, who laughed and teased and didn’t look the least bit afraid of their shadows.

toji blinked slowly, like maybe this would vanish if he looked too fast. like it was all some trick of the light.

after dinner, shiu mentioned they lived nearby, and it felt natural to walk. the streets were quieter here, less chaotic than downtown. you all stopped at a late-night gelato place on the corner—just to “peek,” according to shiu’s girl. you got a small cup of chocolate hazelnut and fed toji a bite off your spoon. he pretended to scowl. you did it again just to annoy him. he let you.

shiu’s pda was subtle, but it was there. an arm draped low around her waist, thumb brushing idle circles into the curve of her hip. protective, sure. but also a little amazed. like he still couldn’t believe she existed. the four of you meandered toward their apartment, voices low and full of warmth. toji didn't talk much. he didn’t need to. the warmth of your hand in his said enough. when you got to shiu’s building, the goodbyes stretched long—talks of next time, maybe a game night, maybe cooking something weird and homemade. she hugged you tightly. you liked her. you could tell.

then it was just you and toji again, walking toward the metro. he noticed you were quieter now. the city around you was humming in a low buzz, but your steps slowed near the stairs that led underground.

“I’m happy for him,” you whispered, almost like you weren’t sure if you should say it. your voice barely carried above the city’s rhythm. toji looked down at you. your hair was blowing a little in the wind. you looked tired but beautiful. soft. still glowing from the night.

he gave a small grunt that barely masked the emotion behind it. “yeah?” he said. “me too.”

the train station lights flickered softly as you descended, the sound of your shoes echoing lightly against the stairs. he held your hand the entire time, firm and unyielding. you leaned into him, shoulder against chest, warmth on warmth. there was a time when the idea of domesticity would've made him scoff. the word itself sounded foreign—fragile, like something you could snap in half. but now? now it was everything he had. everything he wanted. and seeing it bloom in someone like shiu, someone just as wrecked and unfinished as he’d once been?

it made toji believe a little more in miracles. or at least in second chances.

that night, as the train rumbled forward and the city blurred by in streaks of yellow light, toji didn’t say much. but he held you tighter. because love like this—real love—it didn’t need words to be understood. it just needed staying power.

……

toji comes home late tonight, the kind of late that smells like dust and smoke and too many footsteps running from something worse than pain. he’s not bleeding—at least not enough to worry you—but every muscle in his body is screaming exhaustion. it’s a deep, bone-deep tired that nothing fixes except the kind of peace you wouldn’t think he deserves.

you’re there. you shouldn’t be. not with him like this, not with him angry at the world, angrier at himself, not after the day he's had. but here you are anyway, and he’s not letting the moment slip through his fingers. he grabs your wrist, hard enough to anchor his weight down, to keep from collapsing. his tall frame bows down, nearly breaking his own rules about keeping his distance, dipping his face into the curve of your neck. your scent—soft, warm, a strange kind of sanctuary—hits him like a punch he didn’t know he needed. he breathes it in, slow, like it’s the only medicine that’ll put the fire out.

you feel the weight of him as he presses you back against the doorframe, steady and relentless. it’s not just fatigue—it’s loneliness wrapped up in muscle and scars, something almost desperate. he’s letting the world fall off him here, pound by agonizing pound.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. he just holds you, steady and silent, like he’s trying to memorize the way your skin feels beneath his calloused hands. sometimes, when toji lets his guard slip, he lets you hold him—wrap your arms around his shoulders, cradle the mess of pain and pride. but not tonight. tonight, he’s possessive, almost feral in his need to claim this moment, this quiet, this fragile tether to something good.

you sink into the couch, and he lets you stay there, letting his head rest heavy against your collarbone, your heart, your existence. hours stretch out, wordless and raw. just two broken people breathing, one holding on because he’s too tired to fight, and the other holding him because somehow, that’s enough.

he’s never going to be a saint. hell, he’s never wanted to be. toji isn’t built for white picket fences or sunday morning brunches. but he’s yours and you’re his.

he can’t undo the past—not the nights he wasn’t there for megumi, not the hands that pulled triggers, not the ghosts that haunt him in the dark. he doesn’t believe in miracles, only in the small victories: better hits, higher pay, more room in his heart for this love you seem to freely give, a better ability to reciprocate it. 

it’s not about the dreams he's never given the time of day. it’s about the ones you have—the quiet kind that don’t need fancy fences or spotless lawns. and yeah, maybe that’s why, no matter how hard he tries, he’s never quite left the job. it’s the life he knows, the path he walks. but he’s learning to walk it better, with less weight crushing his steps.

he cooks now. sometimes burns the vegetables. cleans without being asked. takes care of himself, because taking care of you means being a man who’s still standing at the end of the day. because taking care of you means taking care of himself, and that's all he's ever wanted to do, really.

by god, he’ll die trying to take care of you—in every way he knows how, in every way you’ll let him.

the weight he’s carried with him for so long—the guilt, the shame, the regret—it doesn’t vanish. but around you, it loosens. just a little. like a heavy coat in the summer heat, slipping off, forgotten on the floor.

and in that quiet space, between your hands and his scars, toji finds something he never thought he could hold onto: love. love is a weight of it’s own, a kind of weight he’s more than happy to bear.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

finals week | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, inumaki toge, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►college is hell, and finals week is the seventh circle. as much as you love your boyfriend, you can have absolutely no distractions, not when the biggest tests of your life loom over you like a raincloud full of dread and fear of failure. they don’t take to being ignored so well, and they take to you ignoring yourself even worse. 6.9k words far left picture (teacup) by @nevroicastar on pinterest

a/n: can you tell that literally all I want in life is someone to be nice to me... :D anyways, this is pretty much pure fluff, reader is not taking care of herself, mentions of poor eating habits, lots of talk of academic validation, etc. so read at your own risk. as I got to the end of this, I realized that a lot of these are quite similar, so sorry about that, but when I have an idea I just kind of have to get it out, so here she is. kind of modern college au, but still within the sorcery realm???? I don’t know don’t ask. warnings: incredibly cheesy, me rambling about topics I do not understand at all (hello? theoretical geometry? didn't even know theoretical math existed?), and pure, unadultered comfort. enjoy <3

megumi knows what it’s like to seek academic validation like it’s oxygen. he wears his indifference like a badge—hood up, sleeves pushed to the elbows, bag slung low—but make no mistake: anything less than an a has him spiraling into a full-blown existential crisis. he may look composed, but internally he’s questioning his intelligence, his self-worth, the educational system, and the meaning of life in general.

so when you break down over a b- on a practice anatomy exam, he understands. doesn’t mean it doesn’t rip him apart. you never cry. never. but that night, your tears soaked into the fabric of his sweatshirt as you buried your face in his chest and whispered, “if this was the easier version, I'm dead. I'm so dead.” it wasn’t even going in the gradebook. didn’t matter. that grade haunted you.

the next morning, he wakes up alone. you beat him out of bed. that’s unheard of. he sends a text. then another.

“you at the library?” “eat something.”

no reply. eventually you respond, just not with anything he wants to hear.

“I'm gonna be really busy. maybe we should take a break until finals are over. you should hang out with yuuji.”

he scowls at the screen. as if yuuji hasn’t third-wheeled 70% of your dates. but megumi lets it go—for now. he assumes you’re just holed up in the library. he’s done the same thing. but it gets worse. you stop sleeping in his dorm, stop answering messages, stop functioning like a human being. you become a finals-week cryptid, subsisting on caffeine and sheer willpower. megumi would yell, if he didn’t know better. but he does know better. so he gets quiet. observant. subtle. he brings you real food. coaxes you into drinking water. slides his hoodie onto your shoulders when you’re shivering under the library ac. brushes your hair back with fingers that shake slightly when he realizes how tired you look. pulls the ramen cup away mid-bite and replaces it with something that didn’t come from a vending machine.

and when you cry over flashcards and whisper, “I don’t even know what a nephron does anymore,” he just starts quizzing you, reading aloud terms he can’t even pronounce correctly. he doesn’t know how you’re surviving this course. anatomy and physiology? it sounds like science hell. he hates it for you. but you don’t stop. not until finals week swallows you whole, trembling under the weight of your own expectations.

that’s when he draws the line.

your head is buried in your laptop at some godforsaken hour, eyes bloodshot and fingers twitching when—slam. he shuts your computer. “what—megumi! I was—”

toothbrush. sweatpants. his sweatshirt. he’s already dragging you to the bed, ignoring every protest as you weakly try to wiggle free. “I have to—”

“no, you don’t,” he says firmly. “you’re not studying. you’re sleeping.”

he scratches your scalp. presses featherlight kisses to the slope of your neck. hums something under his breath, steady and warm. eventually, your body gives out. you melt. and sleep like a corpse blessed by the gods. he watches you for a long while before finally letting himself rest beside you.

the next day, he waits outside the medicine building. the test is over. your scores won’t be posted for a few days. doesn’t matter. he just needs to see you. you step out, bleary-eyed and barely functioning, and he immediately pulls you into his arms. “you're never doing that to yourself again,” he mumbles into your hair.

you don’t even argue. you just nod and melt into him. and a few days later, the score is posted. you stare at your screen, stunned. an a. a solid, shining, hard-won a. and megumi just smirks like he knew it all along.

suguru graduated last spring. walked across the stage in slacks you'd picked out for him and a grin made of gold and ease. he didn’t look back. college wasn’t hard for him—it never had been. books opened for him like petals, and concepts bowed to his comprehension. it was never about the stress or the stakes. it was about the hours you'd spend curled beside him in the library, mumbling about amino acids or molecular orbitals while he stared at you like you were the sun.

back then, he'd ask you questions from flashcards, only to discard them halfway through and ask about your favorite color, your middle name, your childhood dog. he loved the way your face lit up when your brain found the answer to something hard, but he loved it even more when it lit up because of him. he wasn’t ashamed of that. he’s never been ashamed of how deeply he loves you.

but now…now, things are different. you're wrapped up in organic chemistry like it’s a vice grip. barely breathing, barely blinking. you’ve got every note and molecule memorized, and still you tell him, "it’s not enough." over and over, like a prayer, or a curse. you’ve been walking around like a ghost, and suguru sees it for what it is—devotion, desperation, and destruction all rolled into one. you say it’s just a test, but he knows it’s your everything.

and the worst part? he gets it. he gets what it’s like to build your identity on success. he just wishes you didn’t have to. because when you go missing for a whole day, when you don’t text him back or come home or answer his calls, he panics. he’s not dramatic—not usually—but you’re his, and suguru takes care of his things. so he finds you. of course he does.

you're in the back corner of the chem building, surrounded by papers and empty energy drink cans and what might be tears, though you’d never admit it. you look up when he walks in, and there’s a flash of guilt that crosses your face like lightning. it stings. “I'm so sorry, suguru,” you whisper. “but this is really, really important. I need you to leave me alone until I'm finished with this. I'm too tired and too stressed to worry about anything other than this test.”

that breaks something in him. because you’ve never made him feel like a burden. never once treated his presence like an interruption. and maybe he should’ve fought harder. maybe he should’ve scooped you up, carried you out of there like he wanted to, tucked you beneath his covers and kissed your forehead until the tension bled out of you.

but he’s selfish only sometimes, and never when it comes to your dreams.

so he lets you go. the test is four hours long. you emerge hollow-eyed, trembling, and murmuring something about how you probably failed. you don’t even cry. just breathe in, breathe out, and fall into bed without so much as a kiss. and when the grade is posted the next morning, a clean, perfect a, you don’t celebrate. don’t smile. don’t even tell him. he’s the one who finds out first. you just so relieved that it's finally over, half of you doesn't even care how you did.

he pulls you into his lap before you can protest and presses a hand to your chest like he’s checking if your heart still beats. it does, but he wants more than that. he wants you back. all of you.

so he makes suggestions. strong ones. "take a semester off," he murmurs against your temple. "or transfer. or move in with me. or all three. I'll take care of you. you don’t have to do this to yourself. you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. not when I already know how brilliant you are." you nod like you’re not hearing him, but he’s patient. he’ll wait. he’ll wait until you believe it too.

he jokes—often, obnoxiously—that he’s always known you were too good for him. that you were the prodigy and he was the pretty face. that your acceptance into medical school was the universe playing fair, because how else could the world possibly balance your brain and his everything else? but even with all that noise, gojo satoru is terrified of the way this test has eaten you alive. 

the usmle. the reaper in standardized exam form. every time he sees you, you’re either furiously annotating a textbook or passed out cold in someone’s office chair with flashcards stuck to your cheek. 

he tries everything at first. plays the doting, lovable nuisance role to perfection—stealing your laptop charger, faking existential crises that can only be soothed by forehead kisses, crawling into your lap and pretending to cry (“I need affection, babe, it’s for my health, come onnn—”). and you smile. you do. but you don’t stop. you never stop. and eventually even he has to let you go into that studying-induced blackout tunnel, even if it kills him not to be able to pull you out of it.

still, he never leaves. when your weekly date nights disappear, he sends you dumb memes and voice notes that say things like “this is what it sounds like when I cry without you here.” when you sleep in the library, he sneaks snacks into your backpack and slips hand warmers into your hoodie pockets. he’s not even sure you notice. but he does it anyway. because loving you isn’t something he tries to do. it’s something that just is. like gravity. 

the morning of the test, you’re shaking. eyes glassy, coffee untouched. it’s still dark out, and he hates how exhausted you look. you sit in the passenger seat of his car like you’ve been awake for a thousand years. he doesn’t try to make a joke. just…reaches over and tucks your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“you’re not scared I'll be disappointed in you, right?” you shake your head, barely. but the thing is, he knows you. knows how your brain works. how you work. he can’t stop your nerves—he wouldn’t dream of trying. but he can hold them with you. sit there in the thick of it, still and steady and here. because that’s what you need. and when you finally leave to go take the test, gojo satoru doesn’t move. just waits. hours tick by. he plays stupid games on his phone. he thinks about the first time he saw you cry—finals week, sophomore year, when you were convinced you’d bombed a lab report—and how this feels exactly like that, only ten times worse. but then…you come back. and the world exhales.

you’re pale. wrecked. like you’ve just survived a war. you climb into the passenger seat like someone dropped you from space, and satoru immediately swaddles you in the blanket he brought from your dorm. 

“I brought gummy bears, sliced veggies, and a literal gallon of water,” he says. “and I have an entire playlist dedicated to ‘songs that say I'm so proud of you I could cry.’” you laugh. just a little. but he hears it. “think you passed?” he asks.

“I think I survived.”

“close enough.” he drives you home like you’re royalty. like the day’s been his test too, and this—getting you back—is his only passing grade.

later, when you’re fed and clean and warm in bed, buried in layers of blankets and wearing his t-shirt, he lays beside you and grins like a fool. 

“so,” he says, “how’s it going, dr. gojo?”

you raise a brow. “excuse me?”

“I just figured, if you’re gonna be a doctor, we should share the last name. has a nice ring to it. we’ll both be hot and dangerous. power couple energy.”

“oh, I'm taking your last name?”

“obviously. babe, have you met me?”

you roll your eyes—but there’s color back in your cheeks now. a glow. that fire he fell in love with. and he grins, victorious.

because you’re back. you’re his again. and no matter what happens next—residency, stress, long nights and endless hours—satoru’s ready. he’ll carry the whole weight of the world if it means you never have to go through that kind of thing alone. 

takuma is a man of simple truths: ramen tastes better after midnight, bleach is not the same thing as laundry detergent, and you—god, you—are the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

you're a prodigy. he says that like it’s a title, not just a fact. you graduated high school at fifteen, cruised through undergrad before most of your friends even started, and now you’re gunning for a ph.d. because what else would someone like you do? you’re brilliant, born for academia. he fell for you like gravity, no question, no hesitation.

and he’s not dumb—not really—but school was never his thing. he coasted through high school on vibes and charm, then lucked into an internship with some big-deal suit named nanami. it was supposed to be temporary, but ino had that golden retriever work ethic, the kind where people give you more responsibility just because you say “sure thing!” with enough enthusiasm. it works for him. it always has.

but when it comes to you, that easygoing confidence starts to fray. because you're drowning. and he doesn’t know how to save you. your advisor says jump, and you ask how high in four languages. volunteer work, tutoring, research, a part-time job, and now the gre is looming like a thundercloud over your future. you study until your voice is hoarse from reciting terms, until your notes are smudged with highlighter ink and tears.

you rope ino into helping, and of course he says yes. he’s happy to. he makes flashcards with cartoon doodles on the back, quizzes you on vocab while you’re brushing your teeth, lets you explain abstract statistical theory to him until you both fall asleep on the couch. you look exhausted, but you smile when he calls you professor, and that’s enough. until it isn’t. until the smiles fade. until he’s helping you study alone. until you stop asking. until he’s waiting at home for a version of you who never seems to arrive.

he wants to fix it, to fix you, but he doesn’t know how to fight a battle that’s inside your own head. so he does what he can. brings you snacks at work, texts you affirmations, makes dinner even though he’s bad at it, and watches your exhaustion turn to something scarily mechanical. you stop complaining. you stop talking. you stop looking him in the eye when you leave in the morning.

then test day comes. and he's so proud. not of this behavior, of course, but of you, despite it all. he makes you breakfast, walks you to the testing center even though it's freezing, kisses your forehead and tells you you're already the smartest person in the building. when you walk away, his chest hurts with how badly he wants this to go well. it does. kind of.

you take the gre and survive it—but there’s no relief. no celebration. no breath of freedom after months of suffocating. you just...keep going. more work shifts. more hours. more silence. and ino, patient as he is, can only hold back his worry for so long.

it’s late when he says it. you’re curled into him, back to his chest, your favorite blanket tucked around both of you. he’s got one arm around your waist, the other buried in your hair, his cheek pressed to the back of your neck. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and real. “you ever think about slowing down?” silence. so long, he thinks maybe you fell asleep. 

but then—“I'm just...so tired of trying to—to….” you whisper. “I just want to be good enough.” his heart cracks open.

“sweetheart,” he breathes, and holds you tighter, “you’re already more than good enough. you’re incredible. I picked you, remember? and I'm the smartest guy I know.” that gets a breath of a laugh. barely, mostly because you know that there was never choice, never other options. takuma was gone for you the minute he met you. if anything, you picked him and he will never be able to fully articulate his gratitude.

“I mean it,” he says, fingers stroking your hip. “you don’t need to break yourself to prove anything to anyone. not to them, and definitely not to me.” that night, something shifts. he starts small. no, you can’t pick up that extra shift. no, you won’t be checking your email at midnight. yes, he is bringing you lunch and walking you home, and no, he doesn’t care if you think it’s “too much.” and slowly, the girl who once thought success meant saying yes to everything starts learning how to say no.

ino’s proud of you. he always has been. but now? now he’s proud for you. because you’re still brilliant, still ambitious—but you’re happy, too. and that's the version of you he always wanted to love.

your love is loud.

not the annoying kind of loud—though inumaki’s friends might argue that point—but the good kind. the kind that fills every quiet space. that buzzes with laughter and slams cabinet doors and yells from the shower, “do you think pluto misses being a planet?” while he's brushing his teeth. you are his voice. and you never mind being it.

you speak when professors ask dumb, intrusive questions about his muteness. you say no when he can’t afford to risk saying it himself. you make it known—loud and clear, unmistakable—that you love him. that he is enough. that he is yours.

and he doesn’t need a thousand words to love you back. he just looks at you like you hung the stars yourself. he kisses you like a prayer. he taps his fingers three times against your wrist—i love you in the language only you and he share. it’s perfect. you’re perfect. until the exams start looming.

at first, it’s small. a missed meme here, a shorter phone call there. you’re still talking, still laughing, but it’s... less. and then it gets quieter. you stop yelling from the bathroom. you stop planning your little dates. you stop talking altogether on some days—just kiss his cheek, tired-eyed, and disappear into your books.

it’s horrifying. like watching the sun flicker out.

he doesn’t doubt your love. you’d never let him. you’d carved it into the walls of his world with every grin, every “you’re mine, forever, deal with it,” every hand squeezed under the table during group dates. but he misses you. the you who would sing off-key in the car. the you who once narrated his entire grocery list in the voice of an australian accent. so he fights back. quietly. carefully. tactically.

he starts leaving you little notes:

"you’re the smartest person I know."

"your brain is hot. that’s unfair"

"I love you more than rice balls."

(and in tiny scribbles) "don’t tell salmon."

they’re everywhere. in your shoes. on your toothpaste. tucked between pages of your study guides like secret spells.

he learns how to cook, too—little meals, nothing fancy, but made with so much love it might as well be michelin-starred. he pouts dramatically when you hesitate to eat, eyes big, mouth drawn down, holding the plate like a peace offering. and you fold, always. because how can you not? not when he made it for you.

and then the test comes. that stupid fucking test that stole you from him. you ace it. of course you do. you walk out of the testing center a little dazed, a little pale, and into his arms, and he scoops you up like the national treasure you are. doesn’t say a word. just holds you. then he takes you home.

he feeds you. literally spoon-feeds you soup he made himself. he showers you, kissing waterdrops off your cheeks, washing your hair with reverence like you’re something holy. he lays you down in bed and kisses your forehead, your knuckles, your stomach, your spine. worships you without ever saying a word. and bit by bit, your spark returns. you tease him again. you dance while brushing your teeth. but here’s the thing: now he watches for the signs. watches closely. a little too closely, maybe—but he’s not letting that darkness steal you again.

so when he sees you looking so tired again? he tugs your sleeve and hands you a note: no fading. I need your noise. and you read it, smile, and say, “you’ll never get rid of me that easy.” thank god.

choso is not a school guy. never has been, never will be. he goes because he has to, because society demands it and his scholarship requires it. but it’s never going to be his thing. he floats through most of his classes like a ghost—half-there, earbuds in, hoodie pulled over his head. a b+ on a paper is a win in his book, even if the professor writes "needs revision" all over it. who cares. life’s short. he’d rather be sleeping.

you, on the other hand, care. you care so much. about everything. you’re his high-strung, teeth-gritting, color-coded, always-scheduling, never-late girlfriend. and god, does he adore it.

he loves how strict you are. loves how you wake up at 6:00am every day without fail. loves the way you brush your teeth for exactly two minutes, three times a day. loves that you have a salad every tuesday and the exact same pasta order every thursday. you’re sharp edges and ticking clocks and perfect routines, and he—chaos incarnate—thrives under your rule. you keep him functioning. you’re the reason he knows when to register for classes, the reason he turns in assignments on time, the reason he eats meals that didn’t come from a vending machine.

you're the reason he's even passing. but that stupid, stupid theoretical geometry class…it drives you nuts. not slowly. not like a spiral, like most things. no—this class is like a wrecking ball to your entire system. you hate it. you say it constantly. “it’s not even real math,” you groan. “it’s just concepts. I can’t work with concepts. I need problems. I need solutions.”

at first, choso thinks it’s kinda cute. your little rants. the way you scowl at the textbook like it personally offended you. he tries to encourage you with little pats on the back, forehead kisses, sitting on the floor next to your desk with his laptop so you’ll stay focused while he scrolls through reddit and tells you about cursed fan theories. but then, the changes start.

you stop brushing your teeth three times a day. you forget to make lunch on tuesdays. your planner—your beautiful little planner that he once saw you cry over when you accidentally spilled coffee on it—starts collecting dust. you cancel date night. you forget date night existed. you study through dinner, through sleep, through entire days, and suddenly, choso’s the one asking you when your assignments are due. you are unraveling. and choso is helpless.

he tries to support you. follows you to study sessions like a sleepy, loyal puppy, clutching your coffee order and not understanding a single damn word of what you’re talking about. he doesn't get theoretical math. he barely gets regular math. but he tries. he watches youtube videos meant for third graders. he makes flashcards—incorrect ones, half the time—but he hands them to you with such innocent hope in his eyes that you pretend they’re helpful just to kiss him on the cheek.

he never once asks you to stop. never once says, “you’re scaring me,” or “you’re making yourself sick.” but he wants to. so badly. you’re not sleeping. you’re thinner. you smell like stress and highlighters. you apologize all the time, say you miss him, say you’ll fix it soon. but nothing fixes.

so he adapts. he picks up your slack. makes you breakfast, even if it’s just a granola bar and a post-it that says "please eat. you’re gonna ace it. also I miss you :/." does your laundry and folds it wrong and puts your shirts in the wrong drawer but he tries. he doesn’t even complain when you forget to text him back for a day and a half. he just sends a message like, “love you. proud of you. text me when you remember I exist!!” it sounds so needy and passive aggressive, but it’s not, it’s just choso, who so genuinely wants you to remember that you’re not alone. 

it breaks his heart when you reply, “I always remember. I just hate myself for not being better.” he refuses to let you carry that weight.

so when you cry the night before the exam, whispering, “what if I fail? what if I'm just not smart enough?” he kisses your temples and says, “then we drop out and open a donut shop. we’ll sell those cinnamon ones you like. you’ll do the math. I'll man the fryer.” you pass with flying colors. because of course you do. you’re brilliant and capable and too hard on yourself.

and the moment you do, choso sits you down and says, as gently and lovingly as a man with no boundaries or math comprehension can, “never again.” he means it. no more sacrificing your joy for a grade. no more skipping meals for numbers. no more breaking the routines that make you feel safe, secure, you. and you agree. you apologize again, of course you do, but he cuts it off with a kiss. he doesn’t want apologies. he wants his girl back.

you vow to never take another theoretical math class again—would rather switch majors, hell, switch schools. and choso vows to guard your schedule, your wellbeing, your sanity with the same devotion you once used to guard his grades.

because sure, he doesn’t care much about school. but he cares about you. and you? you’re the only constant he never wants to theorize. you’re the equation he solved the moment he met you. and he’s never letting you fall out of balance again.

at first, you wouldn’t let him help. you couldn’t. not because you didn’t need it—you did. badly. but need was dangerous. need led to reliance, and reliance led to disappointment, and you’ve never known anything but disappointment in the end. so you met every one of nanami’s gentle offerings with a hiss, a cold shoulder, a stiff spine and a scoff. you didn’t want kindness. you didn’t trust it. and yet—he stayed.

with his quiet voice and his tired eyes and his soft cashmere sweaters. with his thoughtful meals and perfectly timed cups of tea. with his ability to sit in silence and not make it feel like you were doing something wrong. nanami showed up for you over and over again, until you stopped flinching at the idea of someone showing up at all.

he’s older. settled. solid in a way that feels unreal to you. while you burn the candle at both ends and run yourself into the ground over essays and projects and unrelenting deadlines, nanami clocks out at 5:00, makes dinner at 6:00, and asks you if you’d like to come over for dessert like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

at first, you declined. then you said maybe. and then one night, you cried on his kitchen floor over a c in a class you hated, and he held you like it didn’t ruin his shirt or his night or his impression of you because, in all honesty, it only ruined his shirt; nothing more.

you started staying over. not all the time. not enough to leave your toothbrush next to his. not enough to cancel the lease on your overpriced apartment you barely use. you’re still scared. still stubborn. but god, does he make it hard to stay guarded. nanami treats you like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever loved. not fragile—just precious. important. he has rules, quiet ones, and most of them are about you. you don’t skip meals. you don’t stay up past 1:00am. you don’t berate yourself over an 89.7 instead of a 90.

sometimes you listen. sometimes you argue. sometimes he finds you passed out on your laptop at 3:00am, and you feel his disappointment like a knife, but he never scolds you. never raises his voice. he just picks you up, tucks you in, presses a kiss to your temple and says something like, “you don’t have to do this alone.” and you don’t. that’s the worst part. you don’t. you have him. but sometimes your brain forgets that. especially this semester. this hellish, soul-draining, motivation-murdering semester that chewed you up and spit you back out into another one before you even caught your breath. nanami watches it happen in real time. watches you stop coming over. stop answering calls. stop eating the banana bread he baked with you in mind.

you’re not resting. you’re not sleeping. you’re not you. it scares him. not that he’d ever say it aloud. but it kills something in him every time you say, “I'm fine,” and he knows you’re lying. it’s like you’ve forgotten everything he taught you. so, he tries again. he doesn’t lecture. he never begs. but he texts. “are you eating today?” “my place is quiet. come nap.” “I miss you. you don’t have to talk. just be here.”

and finally, finally, finals end. and he takes you. scoops your burnt-out, hollow-eyed body from the wreckage and makes it his personal mission to bring you back to life. you sleep for almost a full day the first night at his place. when you wake up, he’s sitting in the armchair across from the couch, reading, glasses low on his nose. he just says, “welcome back,” and doesn’t comment on the dried tears on your cheeks.

every day of break, he softens you. with warm breakfasts and long baths and small, safe silences. with his hand on the small of your back and the quiet strength in his presence that says I've got you. eventually, it happens. the breakdown you’ve been avoiding for weeks. it’s late. you’re curled into his side, finally eating real food again, finally existing again, and you whisper, "I'm sorry. I shut you out. I didn’t mean to. I just...I don’t know how not to. I thought I was better, I—"

he doesn’t let you finish. just pulls you close and says, “you are better. you’re just tired. and I'm here.” you cry. you hate that you cry. but he doesn’t. he’s kissing your forehead, brushing your hair behind your ear, murmuring, “you’ve never hurt me. I only hurt when you’re hurting.” and that’s the moment you remember why you let him in at all. because he’s steady. because he’s not scared of your sharp edges. because where others left, nanami stayed. and when he suggests you take fewer credits next semester, your gut reaction is guilt, shame, refusal.

but he just raises an eyebrow and says, “you’ll still graduate in time. and even if you don't—I'm not going anywhere.” you believe him. for once in your life, you believe someone. so you drop the extra class. you leave a toothbrush at his place. you take a deep breath for the first time in months. and nanami—your warm, unwavering constant—watches you come back to yourself, bit by bit, every day. and he doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it every time he looks at you: no one can love you like I do. and that is the most beautiful thing I've ever had the privilege of. 

sukuna doesn’t do the boyfriend thing. not really. he’s hot, he’s untouchable, he’s slept with half the campus and ghosted the other half. he’s not the kind of guy who remembers anniversaries or asks how your day went or makes soup when you’re sick. or at least—he wasn’t. until you. you, who never asked him to be anything other than what he already was. you, who looked him in the eye, rough edges and all, and said “I don’t need to fix you.” you meant it. you still mean it. but he changed anyway. because disappointing you? hurting you? even by accident? that’s the one thing he can’t stomach. not now. not when he’s ruined so many things and somehow still got lucky enough to have you.

so when you start falling apart, he notices. it starts with a couple of weirdly average grades—an 85% on a midterm you were supposed to crush, a 7/10 on a quiz you studied hours for. you brush it off, but he sees the way it eats at you, worms its way into your confidence. you start staying up late, later, all night sometimes. your routine crumbles. you’re skipping meals. walking home alone in the dark. crawling into his bed after midnight and thinking he doesn’t notice. he notices.

and at first? yeah, he thinks it’s cute. in a stupid, masochistic way. you care so much. for what? a grade? a professor’s approval? you're a writer—an incredible one. he’s read your stories, soaked in your words, memorized whole passages of shit you’ve barely shared with anyone else. you don’t need a degree to prove you’re brilliant. you already are. but then it stops being cute. then it starts hurting. because now you’re not just tired. you’re hollow. you’re not just busy. you’re gone. and he can’t fucking stand that.

so he inserts himself. shamelessly. aggressively. shows up to the library with your favorite takeout. forces you to eat. pulls you out of your chair and into his lap like it’s his god-given right. covers your mouth with his hand when you protest, glaring at you through crimson eyes as he mutters, “you’re done for the night.”

and when you whine, “I'm not even close to being finished, kuna,” he just kisses the top of your head and doesn’t give a shit. “flunk out,” he says into your hair. “drop out. who cares? I'll handle everything.” he means it. every single word. if you never worked again, if you never lifted a finger again, he wouldn’t mind. in fact, he might prefer it. because sukuna has never believed in much—not school, not rules, not people—but he believes in you. always has. so he tightens his grip around your schedule. limits your study hours. makes you sleep. crushes you against his chest each night so you can’t wiggle away. when your friends text, “come study with us!” he replies for you: “she’s busy. fuck off.”

and it helps. a little. he keeps you from slipping too far. but even with his arms around you, you're still unraveling, whispering, “I don’t think I can do this,” like it’s some shameful confession. then the test comes. and you pass. not just pass—you crush it. top of the curve. feedback glowing. you’re shaking when you tell him. laughing in disbelief, wide-eyed and breathless, “I don’t know how it happened, it’s a miracle, I don’t—kuna, I thought I was going to fail—”

and sukuna, mr. I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-grades, who’s said a hundred times he doesn’t care if you pass or fail or burn the whole damn school down—he cares.

because that smile? the one on your face now, bright and radiant and real? that smile is what he does this all for. that smile is the closest thing to heaven a man like him will ever get. so he just shrugs and pulls you into his lap again, buries his face in your shoulder. “miracle my ass,” he grumbles. “you’re just a fucking genius.”

yuuji isn’t the best at school, but that doesn’t make him stupid—he’s sharp in all the ways that matter, intuitive, emotionally intelligent, loyal to a fault. still, academics were never where he shone brightest, and he knows that, accepts it with a shrug and a grin and a “hey, at least I'm trying.” and he is trying. not for some future career, not because he cares about grades or accolades, but because he wants to be good at something the way you’re good at everything. because when he looks at you—so graceful under pressure, so sharp and composed and somehow still soft with everyone around you—he wants to measure up. he wants to keep pace, even if he stumbles more than he’d like. even if half the time he’s just hanging on by the skin of his teeth.

you’ve always been kind to him about it. never made him feel slow, or behind, or less. you’re good like that—gracious in ways that disarm people, a born favorite, beloved without even trying. professors pull you aside to thank you for participating in class discussions. classmates email you asking for help. you’ve got this gentle gravity to you, this rare balance of competence and compassion, and it makes people trust you instantly. yuuji most of all.

but this semester, something shifted. you cut back on your work hours after landing an academic scholarship—because of course you did, you're brilliant—and decided, for reasons he still doesn’t entirely understand, to nearly double your course load. “I just wanna graduate a little faster, yu,” you said with that breezy smile, brushing it off like it was nothing, like your daily planner wasn’t already choked with color-coded breakdowns and your tote bag wasn’t already sagging with books and half-empty energy drinks. and at first, he believed you, because you’ve never lied to him before. you’re honest, almost to a fault. but it didn’t take long before that soft shell of composure started to crack.

you started sleeping less, studying more. the calls you used to answer right away now go to voicemail. the “good morning” texts he used to get by 7:30 are coming in hours late, if at all. you haven’t been to his apartment in over a week. and sure, you’re still managing—somehow you’re still getting the work done—but you’re so tired, and it’s not the kind of tired sleep can fix. he can see it in the way your voice shakes when you ask for an extension, even though the professor gives it without question. he hears it in the pause before you say “I'm okay,” like you’re trying to convince yourself. and it kills him. because you’re the strong one. the one who holds everything together. if you’re falling apart, then what hope does he have?

but here’s the thing—yuuji's tired, too. no one really notices, because he doesn’t complain. because he doesn’t let himself slow down. because his instinct, always, is to carry the weight alone if it means someone else gets to breathe a little easier. but he’s burning out right alongside you, pulling back-to-back all-nighters and forgetting to eat, pretending he’s fine because you need him to be. that’s who he is. that’s who he’s always been.

and when finals week finally ends—when the tests are done and the caffeine shakes wear off and the dark circles under both your eyes start to fade—he decides, without hesitation, that it’s over. no arguments. no compromises. you’re taking the summer off. you’re going to gojo’s beach house with megumi and the rest of the crew. you’re going to sleep until noon and eat things that don’t come in plastic wrap and learn what it means to do nothing again. and he is not letting you back into a course load that chews you up and spits you out just so you can cross the stage a semester earlier.

he doesn’t say it angrily. he says it quietly. like a vow. like a promise. because if anyone deserves to rest, it’s you. and if anyone’s going to make sure you actually do it, it’s him.

“you’re not weak for being tired,” he says one night, the two of you curled up on his bed, your body half-draped over his, your limbs heavy like you’re finally allowing yourself to feel just how exhausted you really are. “you work harder than anyone I know. and I know a lot of people who punch curses for a living.”

you huff a tired laugh against his chest, but it sounds more like a sigh. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

“I just…I thought if I could do it all now, if I could push through a little more, I could get to the good part faster. you know? the part where I've made it.”

he runs his hand over your back, gentle, rhythmic. “babe, you already made it. you're already everything. the rest is just paperwork and deadlines and weirdly specific formatting rules.”

you don’t respond for a long moment, and he can feel your breathing shift, feel the guilt brewing behind your silence, the way you stiffen just slightly like maybe you're trying not to cry. so he keeps going, softer now, slower.

“and hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up so you’ll look at him, “just because I couldn't fix this doesn’t mean I don’t see how hard it’s been. you don’t have to pretend for me, okay? I know it hurts. I know you’ve been running on empty. you don’t have to carry that alone.”

“but you’ve been tired too,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your own concern. “I haven’t even been there for you—”

“yes, you have,” he says, without letting you finish. “you always are. even when you think you’re not.”

he kisses your forehead then, like he’s sealing in every word. and it isn’t grand. it isn’t dramatic. but it’s real. it’s soft. it’s everything he’s been holding onto and everything he wants to give you now—space to fall apart, and space to rest, and the kind of love that doesn’t ask for anything back but lets you collapse into it anyway.

“you and me, okay?” he says into the silence. “all summer. rest, movies, megumi absolutely tearing gojo to shreds, eating until we feel sick. we deserve that. you deserve that.”

and this time, you believe him. not because you’re magically okay. not because the burnout vanishes. but because yuuji’s holding it with you, both hands open, no expectations, no shame—just love.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

not gory at all, very very true he’d unzip his chest like it’s nothing. fold you up like laundry and tuck you right in, very very very true

i do think he fantasizes of just . fitting you between his ribs so he knows u are warm and safe always. there is no safer place for you than inside of him

[carlislefiles]

will they let you to come in the bathroom if they're taking a shit?

listens to you talk about your day as you sit on the counter, completely unfazed that he's quite literally shitting (absolutely shameless, takes you everywhere) ╰►fushiguro toji, gojo satoru, ino takuma, inumaki toge, yuuji itadori, aizawa shota, kaminari denki, kirishima eijiro, shinso hitoshi, takami keigo, bokuto kōtarō, hinata shōyō, kuroo tetsurō, matsukawa issei, oikawa tōrufu

thought it was weird at first that you wanted to continue talking to them while they used the bathroom, but hey, if you don't care, they don't care ╰►hiromi higuruma, ieiri shoko, kamo choso, nanami kento, yuta okkotsu, midoriya izuku, sero hanta, kozume kenma, sawamura daichi

takes them months, if not years, and they're never fully chill with it, but whatever makes you happy...right? sometimes, when they're really going through it, they still kick you out (how evil :/) ╰►fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, kong shiu, shigaraki tomura, todoroki touya, ushijima wakatoshi

absolutely never happening, doesn't even entertain the idea, prays for the day you stop asking ╰►ijichi kiyotaka, sukuna ryomen, amajiki tamaki, bakugou katsuki, ida tenya, todoroki shoto, kageyama tobio, tsukishima kei

dividers by @cafekitsune

[carlislefiles]

╰►carlislefiles' account info howdy guys! I used to post under a different account, so if you see some similar stuff, I probably am reposting it from my old page ccarlislecc! I have a second blog called @callhercarlisle but it's mostly just reposts as of now :]

I don't write very much smut, so please keep this in mind when reading and requesting, however some of my content can be kind of dark. I write for jujutsu kaisen mostly, but often think about writing for my hero academia and haikyuu.

if you're looking to navigate my blog, here's how! | jjk fics | jjk headcanons | jjk smaus | mini headcanons |

all of the artwork you see on my blog was made by me unless stated otherwise; my dividers are also self-made or (as otherwise stated) by @cafekitsune

requests are always open, and I love to hear from you, but I'm not always quick to answer them...send them anyways <3

please do not copy, paste, modify, translate, or use my work in any way without my explicit consent, and unless provided you do not have my consent to repost my works anywhere else | carlislefiles ©

[carlislefiles]

first fight | gojo satoru ╰►you and your boyfriend, gojo, never fight. it's like your whole schtick. you love each other sooooo much that nothing is ever important enough to argue over. sure, you get annoyed with each other, but you're both adults who love each other very, very much. nothing is worth jeopardizing your relationship over, and you're both perfectly capable of having mature conversations with one another. it drives his students crazy, how gojo pulled such a 10/10 and how you never fight, your relationship is just perfect. until it isn't. until you tell gojo the one thing he never thought you'd say, the last thing he ever wanted to hear from you. 3.8k words

a/n: I love disgustingly, sickeningly, disturbingly in love couples, because what do you mean people actually experience true joy and unconditional love??? anyways, this deals with some self-esteem issues, insecurities, etc. from both parties, some are more physical, others are more mental. just want y'all to know that I love you, even though I don't know you, because you all deserve that :)

you arrive at jujutsu high in the same car every morning, the same soundtrack playing, the same thermos passed between your hands. gojo insists that coffee tastes better when it’s made by you, even though he’s the one who set the timer on the machine at 6:00 a.m. sharp. you just roll your eyes and let him say it, because he looks at you like you’ve just invented the concept of caffeine.

everything about the two of you is too much.

you walk through the school like you were born holding hands. you teach separate classes, sure, but somehow you still manage to be in the same rooms at the same times, overlapping missions and sparring demos and paperwork like you planned it. which—okay—you did. kind of.

lunch is shared. not in the “sitting across from each other like normal people” way, but in the “you’re eating from his bento and he’s picking the mushrooms out of yours” kind of way. shoko once joked that if she took one of your lunches and swapped it with the other, you’d both starve out of muscle memory.

gojo didn’t even deny it. he just said, “honestly? probably true.”

and somehow, you make it work. him with his chaotic, oversized presence, and you with your quiet steel. it’s like watching a thunderstorm fall in love with a garden. beautiful. slightly horrifying. weirdly functional.

the students, of course, are suffering.

“do they ever fight?” nobara asks one afternoon, watching you flick a piece of eraser at gojo’s head during a grading session.

“they don’t even disagree,” megumi mutters. “it’s like they’re possessed.”

“they’re just in love,” yuuji says with a dumb little smile, arms behind his head. “it’s sweet.”

“it’s unnatural,” nobara grumbles. "I saw them high-five after a kill last week. who does that?”

“they make up little handshakes,” megumi adds darkly, like he’s sharing a war crime. “one for every type of curse. I've seen it.”

you two are oblivious, or maybe just immune. gojo’s got one leg thrown over your chair, bent over your shoulder as you work through lesson plans, humming some off-key pop song into your ear. you tap his nose with a pen when he gets too loud. he steals your glasses and wears them dramatically until you threaten to break his fingers. everyone assumes it’s a joke. (it’s not.)

even utahime has given up. "I hate him slightly less when you’re around,” she admitted once, after a mission. “don’t quote me. I'll deny it.”

“quoting it,” gojo chirped, already grinning like a child who’s won the spelling bee. “printing it. framing it.”

she almost cursed him on the spot.

and nanami—well. nanami sighs a lot these days. "I assume you’ve figured out how to file joint mission reports by now,” he says without looking up, already anticipating gojo’s attempt to dump his paperwork on him.

“oh, we file jointly,” gojo replies with a smug little smirk. “she writes, I supervise.”

“she works,” nanami corrects. “you annoy.” but nanami doesn’t say much else, and he doesn’t really have to. you know he doesn’t hate it as much as he pretends to. the two of you get the job done. your students are thriving. you and gojo—well. you don’t fight. you just don’t.

there’s never been a reason to. you annoy each other, sure, and he leaves his socks on the floor and you use his fancy hair stuff without asking, and sometimes you both forget that not every disagreement has to become a twenty-minute philosophical debate—but none of it matters. none of it’s important. nothing is ever more important than each other.

and everyone knows it. you’re the couple. not just a couple. the couple. the blueprint. the “they’re so gross it’s kind of beautiful” pair that makes everyone feel like maybe love is possible, if you just find the right balance of infuriating and perfect.

the first time you attend one of the sorcerer galas together, it feels like a fairytale.

gojo’s tux is crisp and sleek, his blindfold replaced with thin designer sunglasses that let his smirk gleam underneath. you wear black satin with a slit that teeters on the edge of scandalous, and he damn near short-circuits trying to pick his jaw off the floor. you aren’t fond of crowds, not fond of being seen, but you do it for him. for your boyfriend. for the strongest.

“damn, baby,” he breathes into your neck that night, one hand on your waist, the other around a champagne flute. “do you want me to get assassinated? ‘cause you’re killing me.” you laugh. your heart glows. you stay close to his side all night, tucked under his arm like his favorite secret.

the second gala is a little harder.

the hair takes longer. the heels are higher. the dress clings tighter. it’s blue this time, and gojo whistles when you walk out of the bathroom. but he doesn't notice how long you took to put on your eyeliner. how many times you changed the part in your hair. how much of your dinner you didn’t eat. you stay quiet. smiling. you know how to play the part.

he keeps you close again, proudly introducing you to a blur of other sorcerers and cursed clan heirs and political figures whose names all sound the same. you hold your glass delicately and shake their hands and say all the right things. you don’t notice when you start holding your breath.

by the tenth event, it’s a routine. you wake up with your stomach in knots. you force yourself to eat something light. you do your makeup, wash it off, and do it again. you think about skipping it. you think about canceling. you know he'd say yes, bend to your every whim, probably even comfort you if you asked to stay him. you think about asking him to go alone. but he’s so happy when he talks about you. when he holds your hand and introduces you as his person. when he leans over during a speech to whisper, “if you weren’t here, i’d be asleep under the dessert table.”

you’re his anchor in a room full of masks and monsters. and god, you try. you try so hard.

you wear the tight red dress, even though it makes you feel like you’re stuffed into someone else’s skin. you suck in your stomach. you smile at the compliments that don’t feel real. you nod along to conversations you don’t understand. you rest your hand on satoru’s chest like it belongs there, even when you want to disappear into the floorboards. you do your job. you perform. but the thing about performance is that it’s exhausting. and eventually, even the strongest burn out.

it happens on the way home. you’re riding in the passenger seat, skin prickling, heart thudding like it’s run five miles without you. your hair is pinned perfectly. your lipstick hasn’t smudged. your hands are shaking in your lap, the ocular headache you have right now is blurring your vision, and satoru doesn’t see it because he’s humming under his breath to the radio, one hand on the wheel, the other already reaching for yours like always.

you pull into the lot. the engine cuts. he gets out first, stretches dramatically, then opens your door with that lazy, dazzling grin. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he says, extending a hand. “let’s get you out of those murder weapons and into something cozy.” right, heels. torture devices.

but you don’t move. not right away. your eyes don’t meet his. and then you climb out of the car, slowly, shakily, the sound of your heels against the pavement almost too loud in the night.

he notices it then—the way your fingers fumble with your clutch, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re bracing for impact. your lip trembles. your eyes are bloodshot, glassy and wet. you're crying.

his heart skips so violently he thinks for a second it might’ve stopped altogether. “hey—hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice shifting into panic-soft, the way it only gets when you're sick or hurt. “what’s wrong? what happened? did someone—did I—?”

he takes a step toward you, and your breath catches.

your arms wrap around yourself. your chin drops to your chest. "I can’t do this,” you whisper, and it’s not dramatic, not a plea—it’s just...honest. defeated. tired. 

gojo's entire world narrows to the space between you. the space that, for once, isn’t shrinking.

he doesn’t understand it yet—not fully—but the panic starts to rise. because his girl, his perfect girl, his one-in-a-billion miracle who never asks for anything, who has stood beside him through missions and injuries and political bullshit and nightmares—you’re crying. right here. dressed like a goddess and shaking like a leaf. and for the first time in a long time, he has no idea how to fix it.

……

you make it up the stairs in silence. gojo unlocks the door like muscle memory, eyes on you the whole time, one hand still ready to catch your elbow, your waist, anything. just in case. just in case you fall. just in case you run.

you don’t do either. you step inside, and the door clicks closed behind you. the red dress is suffocating now. your shoes pinch like punishment. the golden light of your apartment feels wrong—too bright, too cozy. like you’re tainting it just by existing here, dressed like this, breaking like this.

“I'm sorry,” you say suddenly, too fast, too quiet. satoru blinks. you won’t look at him. "I know I'm being dramatic. I just—I just can’t do it anymore. I'm so tired.”

he’s next to you in a second, hands gentle but firm as he guides you to sit on the edge of the bed. kneels in front of you, big hands on your knees, eyes frantic behind his sunglasses. “talk to me,” he says softly. “please. tell me what’s wrong, baby. tell me what I can do.”

you shake your head. “it’s not you,” you whisper. “it’s me. I mean—god, that sounds stupid. I just—I can’t keep doing these things. the events. the meetings. the fake smiling and fake laughing. I know they’re important to you. I know I'm supposed to be...whatever I am to you. a partner. a face. something pretty on your arm.”

he flinches at that. you don’t notice.

"I keep trying to be enough. I keep thinking, maybe if I wear the right dress, or say the right thing, or pretend I'm not awkward and shy and fucking uncomfortable in my own skin—maybe I'll feel like I deserve to be there. next to you. with you.”

his voice is soft, low, trembling. “you do deserve—”

"I don’t.” you don’t raise your voice. you don’t need to. the words come out like a knife’s edge. like a breath you’ve been holding for months. "I don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “I'm not pretty enough. I'm not confident. I'm not exciting or charming or strong. I'm not anything.” not anything compared to you, but you aren’t quite brave enough for that yet. or maybe you are and you’re worried he’s the one that’s not brave enough. 

satoru’s hands tighten on your knees. “that’s—baby, that’s ridiculous. you’re—” he laughs, like it’s absurd, like it’s a joke. “you’re gorgeous. you’re funny and smart and—”

“I'm not, satoru.” the sound of his name stops him cold. you only ever call him that when something’s wrong. "I know you love me,” you say. “and I love you so, so much. but I feel like I'm waiting for the moment when you wake up one day and realize what everyone else already knows. that I'm not good enough for you. that I never was. that you deserve someone...better. someone funnier, someone prettier. someone who can actually handle this world you live in. someone more like you.”

and that’s it. that’s the line. the one thing you never should’ve said. the thing he’s been waiting—terrified—to hear. because he’s always known you’d leave him. not because you’d stop loving him. no. because you’d stop loving yourself. because you’d look in the mirror and only see the ways you think you fall short, and you’d believe them. because he’s spent every damn day of your relationship thanking the stars you even looked at him twice—and now you’re here, thinking he’s the one who’s out of your league.

like your love isn’t the first real thing he’s ever had. like he doesn’t spend every waking moment terrified he’ll mess it up.

the silence is heavy. you don’t look up. you can’t. because if you do, if you see the look on his face—the hurt, the disbelief, the heartbreak—you’ll crumble.

and you can’t fall apart now. you’re already too far gone.

satoru says nothing. for once, he says nothing.

you don't know what to do with that. you brace yourself for an argument, a denial, a joke—something. but the silence wraps around you like a blanket just a little too heavy. it's not punishing. it’s not cold. it's aching. and when he moves—when he stands and reaches for your wrists—it’s slow and reverent.

you flinch, just slightly. you think he’s going to hug you. you brace for it. and you think—don’t. please don’t. because if he hugs you now, you’ll crumble. you’ll drown in it. in how good it feels. how wrong it feels. how unearned.

but he doesn't pull you in. he turns you around. guides you across the room with hands light on your back. and before you know it, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, your red dress riding above your knees.

he’s still taller than you. even like this. and then—you freeze. because he starts taking out the pins in your hair. one by one. slow. delicate. like you’re made of spun glass. like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he pulls too hard.

it’s the most careful he’s ever been. you usually just claw them out with a groan, drag a comb through, and fall into bed. but satoru’s fingers are sure, gentle. reverent.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

then come the makeup wipes—cool against your cheeks, your lips, your lashes. he doesn’t scrub. he doesn’t rush. he just erases—soft and patient and tender. the face you wore tonight, the mask you built so carefully, peeled away in layers. one wipe. then another. then another.

and still, he says nothing. but there's a tiny smile growing on his lips. not amused. not teasing. content. because the woman on this counter—bare-faced, heavy-limbed, emotionally wrecked—is his. and that alone is enough to undo him. he finishes the last swipe, tosses the wipe into the trash, and sets both hands on either side of your thighs on the counter. close. steadying himself. like if he doesn't hold onto something, he might spin off the earth.

"I don’t know how deep this thing runs,” he says finally. quiet. low. barely above a whisper. “and I won’t pretend I can fix it in a night.” you blink. swallow. nod. “but I need you to hear this. really hear me.” his voice is steady. soft, but unshaking. “maybe there is someone out there who looks better on paper. someone more suited to the job. someone who would’ve made sense in a perfect little sorcerer marriage. someone the higher-ups would’ve picked for me. but the second I met you—” he breathes out through his nose, like it still stuns him, “—the second I met you, that version of me—the one who ends up with someone else—died.”

you blink hard. he presses on.

“you’re not my arm candy. you’re not my accessory. you’re not here to make me look good or fit into some mold. if that’s what I was meant to have…god, I never would’ve subjected you to that, to the whole performance of it. I'm so sorry that you’ve been feeling like that this whole time.” you exhale. shaky. but the tears slow.

“and yeah, I'm loud. I'm obnoxious. I'm exhausting. I was told my whole life that I was too much, and I believed it—until I met you. you never once made me feel like I was too much. you just...let me be. let me love you.” you nod. tiny. barely.

“and now you’re the one who thinks you’re not enough, and I swear to you—on my life, on everything I am—you are. you are. maybe we’re both a mess, but if that’s true, then we’re the only kind of mess I want to be. you and me. no masks. no roles. just us.” 

and finally, finally, your tears stop. you breathe in, and it lands. it sinks in like rain into dry soil. like something alive. something healing. you slide off the counter. unzip your dress, slow. you grab an oversized shirt from the drawer. toss it on. you pull out a pair of sweatpants and hand them to him without a word.

he changes, quietly, mirroring you. and then you both sit. on the bed. cross-legged. until you climb into his lap like it’s instinct. like your body knows where it belongs. your fingers trace the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, his lips. and you look at him like he is holy. like you’re not worthy—but you want to be. and gojo—satoru—melts.

he’s not the strongest sorcerer in the world. he’s not special. not here. not in this room. not with you looking at him like that. he’s just yours. yours. yours.

you breathe, trembling. “I'm sorry.” he opens his mouth. you keep going. “I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know that’s the thing you hate hearing. I know it’s what they’ve always told you. that you’re too much, too strong, too untouchable, and I used it against you, even if I didn’t mean to. I just—i didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear I didn’t. I love you so much I—”

“hey,” he whispers, hand sliding up your back. “hey.” you stop.

"I get it. I do.” his hand moves in slow circles. "I know what it’s like. to feel like you’re not enough. I know exactly what that voice in your head sounds like. I hear it every time I look in the mirror.” you press your forehead against his. he kisses the corner of your mouth. “maybe we’re not perfect,” he says. “but I know we’re enough. enough for ourselves, and enough for each other. and I've never asked you to be enough, I just want you to be with me. that is enough.”

you nod. you don’t trust your voice. you curl into him. let the rhythm of his breath soothe you. let his fingers write love letters into your spine. and then—through the snot and salt and stifled giggle—you whisper: “is this our first fight?”

satoru groans dramatically. "I hope not. if it is, we’re already terrible at it.” you snort. he grins. “but,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “it damn well better be our last.”

satoru is not stupid enough to think that this is solved, that he's perfectly put you back together and that you'll never feel another insecurity ever again. if you were at a point this low, in which you thought he was something to deserve, and even worse that you somehow didn't...that's not something that will be magically changed by a couple of compliments in one evening.

but that doesn't change the fact that he's trying, and that he'll continue to try. to make you see yourself in the way that you see him, in the way that he sees you. perfect, beautiful, everything all at once.

……

the next morning is…normal. which is to say, it’s perfect.

you wake up tangled in limbs, mouth dry, vision blurry, and feet sore. gojo’s hair is a catastrophe. your shirt is on backwards. neither of you cares. he kisses your nose and groans, “babe, I love you, but if you don’t get off my arm in the next ten seconds I will have to gnaw it off like a wild animal.”

you snort. “aren’t you into the wild animal thing?” 

he grins like it’s the cleverest thing he’s ever heard, even though it’s so, so stupid and probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said. “down, girl.” 

it’s the same routine. brush teeth together, jostling elbows. you steal his shirt. he steals your breakfast. he fake-gasps like it’s a betrayal. you threaten his life. he says, “as long as it’s in your arms, baby.”

there's a little weight there, that wasn't yesterday morning. you both carry it on your shoulders, but at least you're not carrying it on your own anymore, satoru thinks. he's more than happy to carry it with you.

you drive together. park crookedly. link pinkies the whole walk into the school. take your usual spot on the bench by the vending machine. except now—it’s not just routine. it’s not autopilot. every moment feels intentional. you do everything together, but now you feel it.

every sip of shared coffee. every brush of fingers. every sideways glance in a too-long meeting. every dumb joke from yuuji that makes you laugh just a little too loud.

and speaking of which—yuuji stares at the two of you from across the courtyard as you sit on a bench, sharing a smoothie like that’s a completely normal thing for two fully grown adults to do. yuta, nobara, and megumi watch too, with something more akin to disgust. 

yuta squints. tilts his head. “hey, do they ever fight?”

megumi sighs like he’s aged thirty years. “don’t ask.”

"I mean, they must fight. but they’re like, weirdly in sync about it. maybe they fight in their minds. like telepathically. like—maybe they’re fighting right now,” yuuji says animatedly. 

nobara socks him in the ribs. “shut up, rom-com boy. some of us are trying to enjoy the one healthy relationship in this entire war-torn hellscape.”

yuuji wheezes. “oof. I'm just saying—they make fighting look like flirting.”

"that's because they probably are flirting, you dumbass. gojo finally got a girl and he's never gonna stop talking her up," megumi says, because he knows way too much about your relationship. gojo tells him much more than he'd ever like to hear.

gojo, across the yard, sticks his tongue out and flashes a peace sign without even turning around. you don’t even notice. just sip the smoothie again. business as usual.

gojo doesn’t show up to any major events with you for a while. he goes alone sometimes—just enough to keep the higher-ups off his back—but even then, he’s ghost-like. there. visible. but untouchable.

the public misses his usual flare. the loud suits. the outrageous jokes. the smug charm.

he saves all that for you, now. and then—one day—he brings you. you don’t dress up. you don’t pile on the makeup or style your hair into something that takes three rounds of heat damage and an exorcism to hold. you just throw on the linen sundress he always stares at a little too long. (it’s the one he once called “a religious experience.” you told him to shut up. he told you it was too late, he’d already ascended.)

your hair is down. soft. natural. windswept from the drive. you slapped on some makeup at 6:00 a.m. that morning and didn’t bother touching it up. and to him—you look like a dream. not the kind that fades when you wake up. the kind that follows you. that clings. that changes you.

you don’t talk to any of the council members. you don’t need to. you talk to him. you talk to the students. you let ino talk your ear off about his promotion, and you smile like you mean it—because you do. you’re proud of him. you’re present. you’re glowing.

and the council members do look your way. they glance, whisper, measure. but gojo doesn’t even let it start. one look from him—one icy flash of his eyes, a fraction of his power slipping out like a cold wind—and the room resets. no one says a word. you are not a weakness. you are not a mistake. you are not a prop on his arm. you are the axis his world spins around. you laugh at something he says—head tilted back, unguarded, radiant—and he thinks: I could give her the world. every inch of it. and still want to give her more. because you’re happy. you’re not grinning for the crowd, not posing for a photo. you’re happy. and that is more than enough.

dividers by @cafekitsune