carlislefiles

[carlislefiles]

you're shit talking someone who hurt you, how does he react?

joins in with too much enthusiasm. suddenly they have an FBI file, throwing in the occasional 'they were never good enough for you anyway' ╰►gojo satoru, inumaki toge, kamo choso, nanami kento, shiu kong, takuma ino, yuji itadori, kaminari denki, kirishima eijiro, midoriya izuku, sero hanta, takami keigo, bokuto kōtarō, hinata shōyō, kuroo tetsurō

lets you rant, listens silently, then offers to handle it (vague) ╰►fushiguro toji, geto suguru, sukuna ryomen, aizawa shota, bakugo katsuki, shinso hitoshi, todoroki touya

makes you reflect on your actions with socratic questions, now you’re both spiraling. ╰►fushiguro megumi, ijichi kiyotaka, yuta okkotsu, amajiki tamaki, shigaraki tomura, todoroki shoto, sawamura daichi, tsukishima kei

[carlislefiles]

goodnight dash :]

exigent circumstances | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, kamo choso, kong shiu ╰►you were theirs—once. and maybe that should’ve been enough. but time’s a cruel thing, and distance doesn’t make the heart grow anything but restless. now you're just the ghost in their playlists, the contact they never delete, the dream they still wake up reaching for. they're trying to move on, really. but they see you everywhere. and god help them—they want you back. 13.4k words

a/n: ladies if a man ever does something that makes you want to break up with him...do it and don't take him back. however, this is not real life, so enjoy <3 also!! before anyone asks, I know I usually include nanami in these kinds of headcanons, but bsffr you would never break up with that man. I kinda feel the same about suguru, but I get a lot of requests to include him more in my posts, so I tried :] warnings: toxic relationships, kissing, cussing, mental health, eating habits. writing suguru in a way that isn’t at least vaguely yandere is hard for me, but I tried my best!! shiu's kind of giving stalker as well.......ignore pls....or don't if you're into that sort of thing.....

the breakup hadn’t been amicable, per se. there were no screaming matches. no shattered plates, no cruel words hurled like knives across the room. that wasn’t toji. not anymore. maybe a younger version of him—one with more hair-trigger rage and less to lose—would’ve made a scene. but this version? the one that had you in his bed, in his arms, in his life? he didn’t yell. he didn’t beg. he didn’t stop you. and that might’ve hurt more than if he had. because toji wasn’t a complete asshole. not to you. not really. he just…couldn’t be what you needed. and worst of all, he knew it.

he loved you. that wasn’t the problem. the problem was—he didn’t know how to show it. couldn’t accept it when it was offered. love wasn’t a language he spoke; it was one he flinched from. one he turned his back on. so when you left, he let you go. and somehow—somehow—he’s still living with that. if you ask him how, he won’t be able to give you an answer.

he’s always been a prideful man. it’s the closest thing he has to a constant. pride was what kept him standing after every job that should’ve killed him. what kept his back straight even when it felt like the weight of the world had settled between his shoulder blades. what drove him to perfect the art of surviving. of staying just dangerous enough to keep everyone at arm’s length, and just charming enough to keep someone like you in his bed. but pride is a fatal flaw. one day, it’ll be the reason he dies.

you knew that about him. you knew what he was when you started sleeping with him. he never pretended to be anything else. he was a killer, a ghost, a name spoken in half-whispers and urgent hushes in criminal circles. he lived on the edge of ruin, always one wrong move away from bleeding out in a stairwell somewhere. assassins don’t live safe lives. they don’t fall into routines, and they sure as hell don’t do domesticity. so maybe that’s what drew you in at first. maybe it was the thrill, or the way he flinched when you patched him up. maybe it was how he softened just a little—almost imperceptibly—when you made him dinner or let him sleep longer than he meant to.

you didn’t fall in love with what he did. you fell for the rare slivers of vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. you just wanted to love him. that’s it. simple. stupid. human. you wanted to cook for him, care for him, wrap his wounds and hold his hand while he drifted off to sleep. but toji didn’t love himself. chances are, he never would. and as much as you tried to tell yourself that your love could be enough—just maybe—it wasn’t.

he never let you take care of him. you’d bring him leftovers from that place he liked, and he’d wrinkle his nose and say he wasn’t hungry. you’d run him a bath and he’d pretend not to notice. you’d cuddle up beside him in bed and whisper that you loved him, and he’d grunt. or nod. or roll over. at first, it was almost…endearing. the gruffness. the tough guy routine. you could see through it. you knew him—better than he knew himself, sometimes. that scared him. made him shut down. push you away. maybe that’s what hurt most. not that he didn’t love you because he really did, in a way he never had with anyone else. but that he wouldn’t let himself accept your love.

it was a rainy night when it all fell apart. you knew he was just getting off a job. you hadn’t heard from him in hours, which wasn’t unusual. radio silence was part of the deal. but something told you—something nagging and insistent—that he’d need patching up tonight. so you went over. you packed a small kit. some bandages, antiseptic, painkillers. the leftovers were still warm in your bag. comfort food. nothing special. just something small to say, I care about you. I want you to eat. I want you to rest.

when you let yourself into his apartment, he was already there. shirt off, bruised, bloodied knuckles, maybe something fractured in his shoulder from the way he was favoring it. he looked exhausted. and fuck, he looked beautiful. even now. especially now. but you knew that look in his eyes before he even spoke. that cold, hardened thing. the wall slamming down.

"I told you not to come by tonight.” that was how it started.

you tried not to take it personally. you were used to this version of him—the one who needed space after a job. the one who pushed before he could be pulled. you sat down the food, offered to help him clean up. he said he’d handle it himself. you moved to tend to his wounds anyway, and he swatted your hand away. not hard, but enough to make you freeze. "I said I'll handle it.”

your jaw clenched. the room felt colder than it had when you’d walked in. “you haven’t eaten all day,” you said, a quiet offer laced in concern.

“I'm not hungry.” the same damn routine. but tonight, it wasn’t just frustrating. it was heartbreaking.

he was digging in deeper. not softening. not melting beneath your presence like he usually did. you tried—god, you tried—but it was like slamming into a wall over and over and pretending you weren’t bleeding. finally, you stepped back. "I can’t help someone who won’t help themselves.” you hadn’t planned to say it. but once it was out there, hanging in the air between you, you couldn’t take it back.

toji blinked. that hit harder than any punch he’d taken tonight. “is that what you think I am?” his voice was low, rough, disbelieving. “some helpless fucking case?” and he was. so obviously, he was, but the last thing he wanted was your pity. 

“no,” you said, and meant it. "I think you’re scared. I think you’re used to being alone. I think being loved makes you feel like you’re going to lose something.” he didn’t answer. didn’t blink. didn’t move. you reached for the bag by the door. “if you don’t wanna be loved, I won’t force it on you, fushiguro.” you didn’t even call him toji. that was how he knew it was over. the door clicked shut.

he didn’t move for a long time. eventually, in true toji fashion, he punched something. the wall closest to him. the drywall cracked, groaned under the force of his fist. his knuckles split open again. he didn’t even flinch. he didn’t sleep that night. and when he finally picked up his phone to call you—because fuck, he needed to—you didn’t answer. you didn’t answer the next time he called. or the next. or the one after that. eventually, he gave up. he’s never been good at chasing things. not people, not dreams, not feelings. but you—you made him want to try. still, he let you go. 

but he didn’t let go of worrying. he made shiu check in. quietly. casually. never anything that would alarm you. no weird shadows outside your apartment window. just enough to know you were okay. lights on. you walking to work in the early morning, head down, headphones in. cold, but well. unbothered. unreachable.

toji was breaking into fucking pieces. how did he let that happen? how did he have you—warm and real and kind—and still fuck it all to hell? he thinks about it every day. every hour. he hasn’t taken a job since. can’t. not like this. he knows if he tried, he’d get his ass handed to him. his head and heart are still on the floor of his kitchen from the night you walked out. they haven’t gotten up since.

"if you don't wanna be loved, I won't force it on you, fushiguro." it echoes in his head a billion times a day. fushiguro. you hadn’t called him toji. and you hadn’t been angry. you’d been hurt. and that’s so much fucking worse. anger he could take. he was used to anger. he knew how to fight that. but this—this soft heartbreak in your voice, this quiet grief, this sadness… it gutted him. you weren’t yelling. you weren’t blaming him. you were hurting for him. and because of him.

when he finally goes back to work, he keeps it simple. easy. safe. safe in a way toji fushiguro has never been. bodyguard gigs. escorting some teen sorcerer to-and from schools. roughing up punk kids who harass girls outside clubs. low-stakes shit. nothing that would get him killed. nothing that would leave him too bloodied for reflection.

you never asked him to quit. not once. not even when he showed up at your door with busted ribs and a slash across his chest. you never demanded it. but maybe you should have. toji thinks you deserved better. more. everything. and if he couldn’t be it then, he’ll try now. even if he never gets you back, he’ll try. because it’s what you’d want for him. and now, all he wants is what you want.

you told him once that you just wanted to love him. that all you wanted was to make him happy. and the fucked-up part is: you did. you made him happy in a way he never thought possible. and he squandered it.

he doesn’t eat much these days. works out like a lunatic. trains until he can’t think. runs until his lungs scream. anything to keep from feeling. he goes to bed early. wakes up before the sun. starts learning how to cook—simple things. tries to make onigiri. burnt the rice the first time. it stuck to his hands. didn’t know you had to wet them first. he still ate it. didn’t taste like much. not the food. just…memories. you laughing in the kitchen, your hands wet, the rice perfect. he remembers you patting the little triangle into place, offering it to him like it was a love letter made of carbs. he goes to the store and buys a case of your favorite soda. downs it while it’s cold. doesn’t taste it either. he tastes you. the memory of you. what it felt like to be loved. and despite how hollow he feels, how gutted and aching and fucking lost—he’s getting better. slowly. quietly. imperceptibly. maybe not whole. but better. 

he thinks about you and what you’re doing now. you weren’t really the boyfriend type. even with toji, date night usually consisted of takeout on his couch. so at least there was that: the knowledge that, even if you had moved on—as much as it fucking ached to think that—you probably weren’t dating anybody else. shiu says he hasn’t seen anyone at your place, but who knows. well, toji knows. knows you. he thinks back to the things you said. he helps himself now. loving himself might be pushing it, but he’s learning to swallow that pride-shaped lump in his throat. take care of himself. maybe, maybe, maybe. maybe you’d have him back. 

he texts one night, late. he’s drunk; you’re probably asleep. hey. he doesn’t expect a response. he watches typing bubbles appear next to your contact info. disappear. reappear. and then they go away, and they don’t come back. 

it comes to a head on a too-bright sunday morning in june. two full months since he last saw your face. he’d thought about running into you at the store. on the street. at that little ramen place you liked. but you’ve been ghost quiet. no texts. no calls. no sighting. for all he knew, you’d moved on. irony is, he hadn’t had a single thought that wasn’t about you since you left. your cooking. your perfume. your stupid cotton sleep shorts. the way you smiled at him like you saw through all the shit and liked what you found anyway. he’s walking down the street, half-asleep. planning to buy rice and seaweed and maybe, if he’s feeling brave, some umeboshi. he’s getting the hang of onigiri now.

that’s when he sees you. just—walking. headphones in. face soft and faraway. you’re not going to work—it’s sunday, and you're dressed casual. you’re headed toward a little shop that sells coffee grounds and handmade mugs. you used to drag him there once a week. called it your “coffee church.” you look peaceful. you look like you’ve moved on. and toji, idiot that he is, considers hiding. ducking into an alley. pretending he’s not there.

but then—your eyes meet his. it’s not dramatic. no gasp. no stumble. just a slow blink, a slow breath, and a look that crawls over him like you’re taking him in from scratch. like maybe you forgot just how good he looked. and yeah, the caveman part of him roars a little at that. she’s looking at me. she likes what she sees. my girl.

but the rest of him? the human part? the part you once held in your hands so gently? he just feels sad. pathetic, maybe. but that’s the word. he wants to cry, almost, and it’s so fucking embarrassing. he’s standing awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. which is rare for toji. he’s all swagger and confidence on a good day. this is not a good day.

“...toji,” you say.

flat. noncommittal. but hey—at least it’s toji and not fushiguro. two months, and all you have to say is his name. he gives you a little nod. casual. like this isn’t the moment his entire world shifts back into orbit. “hey.” silence. you look like you could walk away. he wouldn’t stop you. he’d let you go again, even if it kills him.

but then—“wanna walk with me?” he asks. you hesitate.

he shrugs. “just…a few blocks. I won’t talk your ear off.” and you agree. and toji loses his fucking mind. you’re here. you’re real. you’re alive and well and in front of him. not a dream. not a memory. not a cruel, waking hallucination. his chest squeezes so tight he thinks this might be what a heart attack feels like. he’s pretty sure you just looked at him like you used to. soft. sweet. a little amused. like you saw him—not the body count, not the paycheck, not the devil-may-care smirk he wore like armor. you looked at him like you remembered.

and he panics. internally, at least. externally, he’s trying very hard to stand still and look cool, which is ironic because inside he’s already on his knees, forehead pressed to the fucking pavement, begging you to forgive him. he’s scrambling through every sentence he rehearsed in the mirror. all the words he’d never said right the first time. please. I didn’t mean to push you away. I didn’t know how to let you love me. I'm trying. I've changed. I still—he moves before he realizes it. a step forward. his arm halfway raised. his mouth opening around the start of that well-crafted apology—"I don’t want apologies, toji.” your voice stops him cold. soft. firm. unshaking.

and maybe it’s not anger in your voice—but it’s not yearning either. you cut the legs out from under him with four words, and he stands there, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, caught in the spotlight of his own regret. all that buildup. all those speeches. all that pain, coiled tight in his chest. and you don’t want apologies. you want something else. and toji has no idea if he’s capable of giving it. but god, he’s going to try.

you walk side by side. it’s quiet. easy. tense, but not painful. “I'm not…trying to push anything,” he says after a few minutes. "I just… been thinkin’ about you. a lot.” you don’t respond. just let him keep going. "I fucked up. I know that. didn’t even try to say I didn’t. I wasn’t good to you. not how I should’ve been.” he rubs the back of his neck. avoids your eyes. looks almost… boyish, for once. "I never really learned how to let someone love me. not until you. and by the time I figured out what that felt like…I'd already ruined it.” the sidewalk stretches out in front of you like a lifeline. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t expect you to.

“I've been workin’ on it,” he says quietly. “on… me. not for anyone else. just… if I ever got the chance to see you again, I wanted to be better. not just say it—do it.” he looks at you now. eyes soft. vulnerable. none of the sharp edges you used to cut yourself on. "I don’t know if you’d ever…want me again. but I'd be good to you. if you did.” your throat feels tight. the sun is warm on your face, but your eyes sting. “and if not,” he adds, “that’s okay. just glad I saw you again. you look good.” it’s not okay, but he can’t say that. he can’t force you to care. he doesn’t have to. 

you stop outside your building. look up at the steps. you could walk up them right now. close the door on this chapter again. it would be safe. logical. expected. but love isn’t logical. and neither is hope. you turn. eyes on him. no invitation. just possibility. the door doesn’t latch behind you. and that’s enough.

toji stands frozen. a long, slow ache blooming in his chest where all the sharp things used to be. you left the door open. you. left the door open. he doesn’t think. doesn’t weigh it. doesn’t ask what it means. two strides and he’s following. the stairwell light flickers. you’re one step up, just far enough away to still leave him behind. he reaches for you—your wrist, soft and sure in his palm—and you turn. eyes wide. lips parted. surprise written across your face like you didn’t expect him to chase you. like you didn’t know he still would.

and then he kisses you. not sweet. not slow. like he’s trying to breathe you in before the door closes after all. one hand grips your waist. the other steadies him against the wall. he pours it all into the press of his mouth—everything he can’t say. sorry. please. don’t go. not again.

you gasp once, but your hands are already sliding up his chest, curling into his jacket. you kiss him like you never stopped. maybe you didn’t. when he pulls back, it’s barely. his breath trembles. your nose brushes his. you’re still close enough to ruin him. "I love you,” he says, barely a whisper. raw. wrecked. your eyes widen. and fuck, that kills him. that surprise. like you didn’t know. like he ever made you doubt it. he wants to gut himself. carve out the parts that ever let you feel that unloved.

but you don’t look away. you stare back at him like you’re seeing something new. or maybe something old. something forgotten. you don’t say it back. not yet. you don’t have to. your hand lifts. fingers press to his chest. not pushing. just grounding. you glance toward the door—still ajar. just enough. then back to him. you nod once. and he gets it.

geto didn’t do casual. that was never on the table. not with you—not with anyone. and certainly not with the two of you together. at least, he wouldn’t have used that word. you wouldn’t either. but still—relationships didn’t come naturally to you. they didn’t come naturally to suguru either, maybe, but he wore them like they did. like muscle memory. like he’d practiced in secret until he could do it flawlessly. you tried not to let that make you envious.

but he was just so good at loving you. he texted before grocery runs to ask if you needed anything. he remembered every birthday. every soft anniversary. even things you didn’t celebrate. he left bouquets of your favorite flowers in the kitchen each week without fail. always the right colors. always the right stems. he drove you everywhere. kept your fridge stocked. learned how you took your coffee.

and he never expected anything in return. he did these things like breathing. like loving you was second nature to him. your love for him was never in question. not really. but returning that love—mirroring it—felt like trying to dance in shoes two sizes too big. awkward. sloppy. off-tempo.

suguru dated like someone who knew you long before he ever kissed you. like the romance was inevitable. fated. and maybe that’s what scared you. the inevitability. the certainty. because now, you felt like you had to perform. to be on all the time. to earn what he gave so freely.

you tried to explain it once—quietly, in his car. he’d driven you home after dinner, parked outside your building. his fingers loose on the wheel. the engine idling low beneath the hum of cicadas. “it just feels like I'm constantly…behind,” you said, eyes on your lap, hands twisting in your sleeves. “like you’re already halfway through a thought I haven’t caught up to yet. like I'm supposed to be someone I'm not.”

he blinked, slow. “is that something I've made you feel?”

“no.” and that was the worst part. “that’s the problem.” because suguru’s love was gentle. steady. unrelenting in its patience. and all you could give back was effort. small thank-you texts. an awkward smile when he brought you coffee. a hand reaching for his beneath the table—sometimes. when you remembered. you didn’t move like a girlfriend should. you didn’t wake up and feel at home in someone else’s arms. you never had.

but suguru did. he was home. he was always all in. “I'm not trying to make you earn it,” he said then, turning toward you. his voice was so soft it hurt. “you’re not behind. or broken. or whatever story your head is telling you. you’re just… you. that’s all I want.” and you believed him. you really did. but love doesn’t land when you’re made of broken receivers.

a week later, he brings it up. you're curled on his couch, full and sleepy after dinner. he’d made jasmine rice—your favorite. the apartment still smells like garlic and toasted sesame. your phone is somewhere deep in your bag. for once, you’re not thinking about it. and then he says it. lightly. offhand. like it’s a logical next step. "I was thinking,” he begins, “maybe you should move in.” you freeze. you don’t gasp, don’t act dramatically shocked. but you go still. and when he sees it—that flicker of fear you didn’t hide fast enough—his smile falters."I mean,” he adds gently, “only if you want to. I just thought… we already spend most nights together. it might make things easier. more…natural.”

natural. there’s that word again. you nod too quickly. “yeah. maybe.” and that’s where it ends. you don’t talk about it again that night. but something in you cracks open, quiet and trembling—and it doesn’t close again.

you start counting his kindnesses. like tally marks. like debt. you keep wondering when he’ll stop. when he’ll see how clumsy you are with soft things. when he’ll finally realize: you love him. but you don’t know how to be someone who deserves him.

it’s late. raining. your sleeves are soaked through by the time you buzz his apartment. he answers in sweatpants and no shirt. eyes bleary with sleep and something like worry. “hey,” he says. instantly awake. “what’s wrong?”

you take a breath. you’ve already decided. "I can’t do this anymore.” the look on his face is devastating. you try again. "I don’t think I know how to be loved like this.”

he steps forward, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “you don’t have to know how,” he says. “you just…are. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not asking you to change.”

"I know.” your voice is raw. “that’s why it’s worse.” because he deserves someone who says yes when he asks her to move in. someone who doesn’t flinch at long-term. someone who doesn’t look at his love like it’s a test they’re bound to fail. "I love you, suguru,” you whisper. “but I think I'm just going to keep hurting you if I stay.”

he shakes his head. his voice cracks. “you’re not hurting me. this—” he gestures helplessly, “this is what hurts.” then his hand lifts, just a little. not to hold you. just to remind you: I'm still here. you take a step back. he falters.

this is how you leave a man who would never leave you. not with shouting. not with slammed doors. but with too much silence. with fear so old and rooted that even love can’t pull it loose. you think of the woman who will come after you. she’ll be open. easy. warm. she’ll say yes. she’ll laugh easily. kiss him in the cereal aisle. she’ll never make him doubt. he’ll move on. eventually. and you’ll always wonder if he loved her the same way he loved you. quietly. fully. with everything.

your hand finds the doorknob. he doesn’t stop you. but just before it clicks behind you, you hear it. soft. almost swallowed. your name. that’s all. you close the door before you can turn back.

suguru tries to give you space. tries. but geto suguru doesn’t do anything halfheartedly, least of all love. he was all in from the first moment. the moment you looked at him like he wasn’t too much. like he wasn’t a man with too many ghosts in the passenger seat. he’d fallen fast and hard—and even now, weeks later, he still feels like he’s falling. only now, the landing is gone. he doesn’t understand it. not fully. he’s tried to walk himself through it, a hundred times over, pacing the floor of his apartment in the early hours of the morning. you were in his arms. in his life. in his fucking bed. you were his. so what scared you away?

he doesn’t want to blame you, so he blames himself. he always has. maybe it was asking you to move in—maybe that was the moment it all shifted. that wasn’t supposed to be pressure. that was supposed to be comfort. that was supposed to be him saying: you don’t have to do this alone anymore. he just wanted you close. wanted to know where you were when it rained. wanted to see you there when he got home. wanted to kiss your temple in the morning and not watch you slip out the door like a ghost. but now? now he’s alone. with his silence. with his certainty. because suguru’s not confused about how he loves you. he’s just broken over the fact that it wasn’t enough to make you stay. he doesn’t reach out at first. respects the boundary. tells himself it’s better this way. that maybe you need time, maybe space will do what words can’t. but it eats at him. the not-knowing. the quiet. you’re like a song stuck in his teeth. a scent in his sheets that refuses to fade.

he tries not to text. fails. types and deletes messages by the dozen. thinks them, but doesn’t send them. you okay? did you eat today? are you cold at night without me there? instead, he checks in through your friends. nothing direct. just soft, careful questions. how’s she doing? is she okay? she’s still going to work, right? they’re kind. some of them know the truth. some of them don’t. one of them tells him, “honestly...I thought you broke up with her.” he almost laughs. almost. that would’ve been easier. cleaner. at least then he could hate himself for something he did.

but no. this was worse. you left because he loved you too much. because you didn’t know how to accept that love. that thought guts him. he should’ve seen it. should’ve known. you’d always been a little hesitant when he praised you. always stiffened when he touched your face too tenderly. always flinched when the compliments came too close to your ribs. he thought you were just shy. or slow to trust. he didn’t realize it was you. your head. your story. that old lie, the one that clung to your bones like rot: I don’t deserve this. god, he’s furious with himself. how did he not dig deep enough? how did he not notice that the woman he loved more than anything was still looking for reasons not to be loved back?

it’s a long couple of weeks. he doesn’t take care of himself. doesn’t really sleep. stares at the messages he never sends. works half as hard, trains twice as much. his body aches. not nearly as much as his chest. he sees you once. from across a busy intersection. you’re walking with a coworker, maybe a friend. someone smiling at you, telling you a story. you’re nodding. but you’re not there. your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. your shoulders are hunched forward like you’re bracing for a hit. you still walk like the world expects too much from you and you’re afraid to disappoint it.

and suguru realizes: you’re not okay. you’re not better off. you’re surviving. not living. just like him. and that breaks something in him all over again. because he let you walk away thinking you were the problem. thinking you’d hurt him by leaving. when really, all he’s ever wanted was to love you in a way that made you feel safe. not cornered. not small. not wrong. and now he wonders if you’re curled up on your couch, pretending you're okay. eating less. sleeping worse. pushing yourself too hard. telling yourself it’s what you deserve.

and it makes him want to scream. because no. no, you don’t. you deserve everything. every flower. every hand held. every quiet night with someone who loves you fiercely and doesn’t make you earn it. you deserve him. and he's going to prove it. but not with flowers. not with soft words. not with a love so loud it scares you all over again. he’ll do it gently this time. he’ll knock before coming back. and he’ll wait for you to open the door. and you open the door for him.

it’s a well-timed flu that breaks the ice. he’d texted a few times—half-hearted replies from you, then nothing. but when you finally call, he doesn’t even let it finish ringing before he’s answering with a breathless, “hey.”

it hits fast. a fever that lays you out like a truck hit you. skin hot, bones aching, room spinning. you tell yourself it’ll pass. that you can sleep it off. but by morning, you’re worse. dizzy when you try to stand. your hands won’t stop shaking. you can’t think straight. you don’t remember pressing call, but suddenly, you’re whispering his name into the receiver like it’s a prayer.

and he answers. “it’s okay,” he says immediately, steady and calm. “I've got you.” he’s there twenty minutes later. you hear the key in the lock—his key, the one you never asked for back—and then he’s in the doorway, rain in his hair, jacket dripping, eyes scanning until they land on you, curled and sweating on the couch like something wilting. “jesus,” he breathes, kneeling beside you, palm to your forehead. “you’re burning up.” you try to sit up. you don’t make it. he catches you like he always does. “you should’ve called sooner.”

you want to say I didn’t think you’d come. but all you manage is a whisper: “didn’t know who else to call.”

he doesn’t blink at the mess. doesn’t flinch at your clammy skin or the sweat-soaked blankets. he just sets his bag down and gets to work. suguru doesn’t move with panic—he moves with purpose. “let’s get you into something clean, okay?”

you nod, barely conscious. he undresses you slowly, carefully, his eyes on your face the whole time. soft apologies leave his mouth when you wince. he finds your favorite sleep shirt, pulls it gently over your head, smooths the fabric over your spine like he’s memorizing you again. not with hunger, with reverence. he changes the sheets one-handed while the other keeps you steady, propped against his side like something precious. he works fast, efficient. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he would, wouldn’t he? he’d do this every day if it meant being near you. you spill tea and he doesn’t blink. just steadies your hand, presses the mug back to your lips. “it’s the good kind,” he murmurs. your kind. the one from that little store across town. he’s kept some in his bag.

later, when your fever spikes again, he’s already ready—cool cloth pressed to your temple, thumb stroking gently down the bridge of your nose. when you start to shiver, he crawls into bed behind you, wraps himself around your body like armor. you make a small sound in your sleep and his hand spreads over your stomach, warm and wide and grounding. “you don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “just rest.” and you do. you drift, wake, drift again. every time, he’s still there.

you catch him watching you once, just after the fever breaks. you’re pale, eyes glassy, but when they meet his, something cracks in his chest. his breath shudders. “missed you,” he says, quiet as a confession. you don’t answer. just reach for his hand. weak, but steady. he squeezes back. you’re miserable. fragile. barely holding together. and he’s never looked more whole. not because you’re suffering—god, never that—but because even now, even after everything, you still chose him. still called. and he came. of course he came.

you wake to light. soft, gray morning light bleeding through the curtains—quiet and cool. you're warm, dry, and blanketed in the stillness that only follows a fever. your head no longer feels like it’s splitting open. you can breathe again. your mouth tastes like sleep and medicine. your first thought: better.

the second: he’s still here. suguru is sitting at the edge of the bed, back to you, scrolling through his phone. he’s changed—probably sometime in the early hours—but everything else about him is the same. still close. still watching over you. you shift beneath the covers. he turns immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to stir. “how do you feel?” he asks, voice low, soft around the edges.

you hesitate. because now that your mind is clear, so is the guilt. the shame. the clarity that always comes after a storm—seeing the wreckage, realizing what you've done. who you let in. how much you still want him. “I'm okay,” you say, barely above a whisper. “thank you.” he nods. you push yourself up slowly. “you should go home.” he blinks—slow, confused. “you’ve been here for two days,” you say, forcing a lighter tone. “you must be exhausted. go sleep in your own bed. I'll be fine.”

his brow pulls just slightly. “you want me to leave?” 

you don’t answer. because you don’t. but having him here—loving you so gently, so completely—only reminds you of what you gave up. what he could have had if you weren’t so twisted up inside. “it’s okay,” you say, eyes locked on the blanket in your lap. "I can take care of myself now. you don’t have to keep doing this.”

his voice is calm, sure. "I want to.”

you shake your head. “that’s not the point.”

"I think it is.”

you exhale. “you shouldn’t have to take care of someone like this. someone like me.”

that hits him. he’s quiet. his hands curl slightly in his lap. his jaw tightens, then eases.

“you’re not a burden.”

you flinch. "I didn’t say I was.”

“you didn’t have to.” silence. heavy. close. you don’t mean to cry. but the tears come anyway—quiet, slow, unwelcome. you swipe at them fast, but he notices. of course he does. he shifts closer, still not touching. just steady. present. “you don’t have to be perfect for me to stay,” he says, gentle and resolute. “you don’t have to be better first. you don’t have to earn this. I'm not here because I should be. I'm here because I love you.”

you shut your eyes. hard. "I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“then let me stay,” he says. “let me love you the way I want to. let me be here—even if it’s slow. even if it’s hard. even if you’re scared out of your mind. I'm not leaving. not unless you tell me to.” you finally look at him. he looks tired. he looks beautiful. he looks like he’s never been more certain of anything. you open your mouth. to argue. to apologize. to give some noble, fractured reason why he shouldn’t do this to himself. but before you can speak, he reaches out—gently bracketing your hands in his. “no more pushing me away. not for my sake. that’s not your job.”

your lip trembles. “you don’t know what you’re asking.”

"I do,” he says. “and I want all of it.”you collapse into him before you can change your mind. he catches you instantly, pulls you into his chest, arms locking tight around you like he’s anchoring the both of you. you feel his breath stutter. one hand slides into your hair. the other rubs soft, slow circles into your spine. he’s shaking too. he missed you. god, he missed you. and now that he has you again—this time—he’s not letting go.

your relationship with gojo is fun. that’s how most people would describe it. hell, that’s how you would describe it. he’s the life of the party. mr. fun. mr. loud-laughs-and-bad-jokes. everything with him is light, fast, full of motion. and you love that about him. you do.

you’ve known mr. perfect a long time.

but you’re in love with satoru. the man underneath. the one he barely lets anyone see.

and sometimes—only sometimes—you catch glimpses.

like now.

he’s lying on the couch in full daylight, arm slung over his eyes like a magician halfway through a disappearing act. he hasn’t moved in hours. the tv is on mute. his water bottle is unopened. his phone keeps buzzing.

you know what this is. he’s having one of his migraines—the kind he pretends he doesn’t get. the kind that slips in after too many days with infinity up. the kind that only hits when he forgets to be invincible.

you stand in the doorway, watching.

then you pad across the room, sit gently beside him.

“satoru.”

his arm stays where it is. “m’fine.”

“you’re not.”

“sure I am,” he says, voice light. dismissive. that fake-casual tone he’s mastered over the years. but it doesn’t land. it sounds like a lie. like a tired echo from someone who’s always supposed to be okay.

you’re quiet for a moment. then you say, “you can take it off. with me.”

he hesitates. then lifts his arm, just a little, to look at you. his eyes are bloodshot. his smile is faint. "I don’t know how.”

it’s the closest thing to a confession he’s ever given you. and it shatters something in your chest.

but it doesn’t change anything.

later, you’re washing dishes. he’s pretending to help—towel tossed over one shoulder, phone in hand, dry plate in the other. he keeps showing you dumb tiktoks. keeps laughing like he’s okay.

and you keep smiling, because that’s what you do. you perform together. that’s the deal.

but halfway through a plate, your smile cracks. and he notices.

“hey,” he says gently. “what’s going on?”

you shake your head. “nothing.”

“come on. don’t go quiet on me now.”

you dry your hands. lean against the counter. “do you ever turn it off?” you ask. “the jokes. the mask. the perfect guy act.”

he blinks. like the question caught him off guard. like no one’s ever asked.

“not really,” he says, after a pause. "I don’t think people would like what’s underneath.”

"I would.”

silence. thick. sharpened at the edges.

“would you?” he asks, voice suddenly low, stripped of charm. “even if it’s not fun anymore?”

you meet his eyes. “I'm not asking you to be miserable. I'm asking you to be real.”

“I'm trying,” he says. his voice cracks. and that’s how you know: he means it. he really does. but he’s terrified. he doesn’t know who he is without the shine. doesn’t know if there’s anything under all that glow still worth loving. and you’re just so tired of waiting for him to trust you with it.

that night, you sit at the edge of the bed. he’s quiet. legs stretched in front of him, back hunched like he’s trying to take up less space. like even his body knows how heavy his name is. you reach for his hand. he lets you take it. "I don’t want to break up with you, satoru,” you say. satoru, never gojo. never.

he laughs—small, humorless. “but you’re going to.”

you nod. "I don’t know what else to do.”

he doesn’t argue. no grand gestures. no sparkly, last-minute charm. he just presses your hand between both of his. holds it like it’s the last thing anchoring him here. “you could stay,” he says, exasperated. pleading, even.

"I can’t, satoru. not if it’s not real.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

you close your eyes. "I don’t want sorry. I want you.”

"I don’t know how to be him.”

"I know.” you lean forward, kiss his temple. one last touch. one last mercy. you leave before sunrise. quietly.

it’s hard to hide. gojo tries. god, he tries. he cracks the same jokes. wears the same shades. laughs too loud, too early in the morning, like if he can just be enough, no one will notice the hollow ringing in his chest. but it’s different now. forced. empty. a shell of joy. everyone sees it.

you used to be everywhere—tucked against his side during late-night hangouts, teasing him over mispronounced takeout orders, dragging him outside to look at stars he pretended not to care about. now you’re just…gone. quietly. no blow-up. no ugly goodbye. just a clean vanishing act. and the absence is deafening. shoko doesn’t ask. nanami doesn’t ask. even yuuji, bless him, doesn’t ask. but they all know.

the migraines come more often now. he doesn’t mention them. just disappears—locks himself in his apartment, blinds drawn, phone face-down, fists curled against his temples like pressure might keep you from slipping through his fingers a second time. there’s no one to tell him to put his blindfold back on. no one to scold him for overusing those bright, beautiful eyes. he stares at the sun anyway. punishment. self-inflicted. as if your absence wasn’t already sentence enough. sometimes, he falls asleep in yesterday’s clothes. on top of the blankets. phone clutched like a lifeline, screen cold against his cheek, waiting—for a text that never comes. you don’t reply. you don’t even leave him on read anymore.

but he still leaves voicemails. never long. never dramatic. just soft little echoes of you: “hey. saw this tree on my run this morning. leaves are turning. thought you’d like it. you always got weird about fall, remember?” “you made me start drinking coffee like you. less sugar. I get it now. it’s honest. doesn’t try too hard,” "I miss you. every day. even the good ones. especially the good ones.” he doesn’t know if you listen. sometimes, he calls just to hear your voicemail greeting. you still haven’t changed it. you sound happy in it. that’s the part that kills him most. he texts too. not memes anymore. not anything funny. photos. snippets of a life that keeps happening without you: a sunrise over the skyline, a flyer for a new cat café that made him think of you, his hand wrapped around your mug—the girly ceramic one with the little strawberries. you hated how cute it was. he never let you throw it out. “sunrise wasn’t as pretty as you,” “the mug’s still here. not washing it until you come get it,” “did you ever finish that book you were reading?”

no replies. not even read receipts. still, he sends them. because what else is he supposed to do? he doesn’t date. doesn’t flirt. doesn’t try. wouldn’t be fair. he’s not over you. he’s not even out of the wreckage. he thinks about the night you left. not the tears. not the silence. just the moment you said his name—satoru, not gojo, not babe, not anything easy or playful. just satoru, like you were begging him to be real, just once. and he couldn’t. not fast enough. not deep enough. so you left. and it didn’t just break his heart. it ruined him.

you were the one person who didn’t care that he was the strongest. who didn’t love the spectacle. who stayed when the glitter faded and his smile cracked. who saw him—bone-tired and bright-eyed and broken—and still wanted him anyway. and he couldn’t meet you there. he couldn’t show up. and now you’re gone.

it’s been a month. a month without your voice. without your laugh echoing through his apartment. without your toothbrush next to his, your fingers in his hair, your presence anchoring him to something real. he starts showing up late to meetings. stops wearing matching clothes. eats poorly or not at all. his sunglasses sit untouched on the dresser. his phone stays glued to his hand, never ringing.

shoko notices first. starts bringing coffee again—the way you used to. sometimes it’s bitter on purpose. sometimes there’s a muffin. she never stays long. just enough to look at him and leave aspirin like a warning. suguru lingers longer. he brings groceries. rearranges the fridge. cooks one night, flips through channels on the tv until satoru sinks beside him like gravity’s gotten stronger. another time, he leaves two tickets on the table. they go unused. no one pushes. but they see it. he’s a dying star now—still bright, if you squint. still warm. but folding in on himself.

it gives way at a party. shoko’s house. too many drinks, too many eyes, too much noise. satoru slips away. orders a car. doesn’t remember the ride. remembers your building, though. the numbers on your door. the way your name still makes his heart bruise.

you answer on the third knock. barefoot. tired. not surprised. not quite angry. just done. he tries to smile. tries to speak. the words come wrong. slurred. too much or too little. he ends up on his knees, face pressed against your stomach like it might hold him together.

you sigh. frustrated. your hands twitch toward your temples. “satoru.”

he grins. lopsided. broken. “hi.”

“you can’t just do this.”

"I know.”

“you don’t just crawl back when you're lonely.”

“I'm not lonely,” he says, then winces. “okay. I'm very lonely. but that’s not why I'm here.” 

you cross your arms. “then why?”

he blinks slowly, lips parting. his chest heaves with the weight of it all. then—"I took it for granted.” his voice breaks on the word it. “you. us. I thought you’d always be there. like the sky. like—like air. I didn’t know I was suffocating without you until I was.” you scoff. but it’s soft. familiar. he hears the exasperation, but also the crack in your armor. he stumbles forward. trips over nothing. collapses to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist like a drowning man clawing at land. “I'll change,” he breathes, face buried in your stomach. "I swear. just—let me come home. I'll be better. I am better. I—hic—I'm your satoru. I'll be whatever you need.” you sigh. loud. frustrated. your hands move automatically to your temples like you’re trying to rub away the fact that this is happening.

but when his shoulders shake, when you realize he’s crying—actual, hot, humiliating tears soaking through your shirt—you curse under your breath. and then your fingers are in his hair. soft. soothing. so familiar that he melts. he breathes in sharp, wrecked, and exhales against your shirt like it’s the first clean breath he’s taken in weeks. you guide him to the couch. he’s heavy and clumsy, mumbling something into your shoulder about missing your laugh, your smell, your hands.

later, he’s on your couch. mumbled apologies fading into sleep. a blanket draped over him. water and tylenol on the table. you watch his chest rise and fall. then go to bed. in the morning, he wakes up slow. the worst hangover of his life. the apartment smells like your shampoo.you walk out in pajama pants. a tired look in your eyes. he sits up, wincing. you don’t speak. just pour two mugs of coffee. set one down in front of him without comment. he drinks it. bitter. familiar. no declarations. no more begging. just your knee bumping his under the table. and for the first time in thirty-one days, he breathes.

the next weeks aren’t perfect. but they are real. you're sitting on a bench in the park. his hand resting over yours. no crowd, no noise. he doesn’t perform. just sits, quiet and present. when you ask what he’s thinking, he opens his mouth. closes it. looks at your hand instead. you nod. that’s enough. suguru throws another get-together. normally, satoru would be the first to arrive. this time, he texts: “not coming. think I need to stay in.” he brings home your favorite takeout. doesn't explain. just climbs into bed beside you, your bowls in your laps, your toes tangled under the blanket.

one day, he gets a migraine. he doesn’t hide. texts you. “head’s bad today. can you come over?” you do. you sit beside him on the bed, fingers in his hair, lights low. he drifts off with your hand in his, the pain dulling at the edges. another night, he burns dinner so bad the smoke alarm screams. you find him waving a towel, swearing like it’s personal. you laugh. he sulks. you eat cereal in bed. later, when the lights are off, and your breathing is steady, he whispers into the dark: “I'm scared. that I'll mess it up.” you find his hand. squeeze once. he doesn’t say anything after that. just holds on. a little tighter. he’s still scared. he still shines too bright sometimes. still stumbles over the parts of himse

no one expected you and choso to become what you did. you were a sorcerer. quiet. capable. always exhausted. always moving like there was something chasing you—not just curses, but time, regret, grief. you’d seen too much too young. lost more than you could count. you didn’t love easily. didn’t trust easily. but choso made it feel…possible. he wasn’t like the others. not polished or loud or charming in the usual way. he was awkward sometimes. a little too still, a little too intense. but he listened. he remembered. he cared.

not just the big things. the little ones. the way you liked your tea. the way you twisted your hair when you were lying. the sound of your breathing when you slept, and how to match it so you’d feel safe even in dreams. he was gentle in a world that didn’t know how to be. he didn’t flinch at your scars. didn’t blink at your worst days. he just loved you—completely, without performance, like it was instinct. and you? you tried to let him in. you really did.

there were nights when you curled into his side, listening to his heartbeat like it might steady your own. afternoons where the world slowed down long enough to believe this could last. moments when you looked at him and thought: maybe I could stay. he made a home out of silence and small comforts. he was steady hands and slow mornings. a warm meal waiting for you after missions. a forehead kiss and, please be careful. you didn’t have to talk much. he always knew. and maybe that was the problem. because choso saw you too clearly.

he could tell when you hadn’t slept. when you were lying. when something inside you had splintered and you were trying to keep the pieces from showing. he asked you once, gently, what scared you more—dying, or watching someone else die because of you. you couldn’t answer. not then. maybe not ever. and then the missions got harder. the injuries worse. you started staring too long at your own reflection, wondering if the person in the mirror was someone you still recognized.

and slowly—without realizing it—you started pulling away. at first, he just thinks you’re tired. he’s seen the way the work drains you—how long the missions are, how bloody they get, how quiet you are after you come back. so when you stop texting him goodnight, when you stop leaning into his touch, when you stop meeting his eyes for too long, he gives you space. the kind of space he thinks love is supposed to give.

choso doesn’t know much about relationships. he’s lived long, but not lived much. this is his first time being in love like this. romantic love. tender love. terrifying, breathtaking, warm-in-the-chest love. and you’re the first person he’s ever wanted to give that to. at first, he doesn’t have the language for it. but he learns fast. he learns that you like to sleep with the window cracked, even in winter. that you can’t fall asleep unless you hear him breathing next to you. that you hate your laugh but he thinks it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

he learns that love is quiet. it’s showing up. it’s bringing back your favorite food even when you didn’t ask. it’s not touching you until you reach for him first. it’s watching your favorite movie just to memorize the parts that make you smile. his love for you is total. it makes him nervous—every time you touch him, every time you look at him like he matters. he didn’t know he could be something soft. someone needed. he wakes up next to you some mornings and has to remind himself it’s real. and then you start pulling away.

it’s small at first. less physical touch. less eye contact. fewer I love yous—and when they come, they sound strained, like you’re saying them through a wall. he doesn’t know what to do. he panics in that quiet, internal way. his thoughts spiral. did he say something wrong? did he stop doing something he was supposed to be doing? is this just part of being human—losing things? he tries harder. tries cooking more, touching more, remembering more. he texts you twice if you don’t answer the first time. he leaves little notes around your apartment when he knows you’re too tired to talk. he doesn’t ask you what’s wrong because he’s scared of the answer.

and then, one night, you give it to him anyway. you sit him down. you’re calm, your tone measured—too measured. you tell him that it’s not him, it’s you. that your life is too heavy. that the work has taken too much. that you don’t know who you are anymore and it’s not fair to drag him down with you. you tell him you’re scared of losing him. that love like this isn’t meant to last for people like you. that it’s better to cut it off now before it hurts more later. he listens. because that’s what he always does—he listens when it hurts.

and then, quietly, softly, he asks, “did I do something wrong?” and when you say no, that this is just how it has to be, he nods. but his heart drops out of his chest and lands somewhere he can’t reach. because this love—his first—wasn’t something casual. it wasn’t something he expected or planned for. it was everything. it was you.

but if keeping you means hurting you…if his presence is too much, even if he doesn’t understand why…then he’ll do the hardest thing he’s ever done. he’ll let you go. he walks away slowly. like something ancient inside him is dying all over again. his hand lingers on your doorframe longer than it should. when he finally leaves, he doesn’t look back. and you don’t stop him. but when the door clicks shut, the silence that follows is unbearable. for both of you. because love like this doesn’t just vanish. it stays. it lingers. and for choso—who finally found something beautiful in a world that never gave him beauty—there’s no forgetting. only missing.

choso doesn’t understand. he replays your words over and over, trying to make them make sense. you left because you were afraid of losing him. that’s what you said. but what does that even mean? is loving someone not worth the risk of hurting? was he…not worth it? he doesn’t know. he tells himself you just need time. space. that once the fear passes—once the exhaustion wears off, once you remember what you had—you’ll come back. you’ll knock on his door, eyes tired, voice soft, ask him to hold you like you always used to. he checks his phone too often. trains harder than he needs to. lingers at the places you used to be, half-expecting you to turn the corner, scolding him for spacing out. you always noticed when his mind wandered. 

but a week passes. then another. you’re not at the training dojo. you don’t show up to the weekly meetings with yaga. you don’t text. don’t send word. you’ve taken on mission after mission, burning through cursed spirits like you're trying to outrun something—maybe even him. he hears it from someone else. that you’re barely sleeping. that you’ve refused help. that you’ve come back injured more than once and insisted you were fine. it doesn’t fix anything. it doesn’t fill the space you left behind. you're not coming back to him, and that knowledge seeps into his bones like a poisonous molasses. 

the ache doesn’t come all at once. it starts as a hollowness. a missing mug on the kitchen counter. an extra toothbrush that never got packed. a hoodie you forgot—he keeps it folded, untouched, like you might need it someday. he still buys your favorite snacks when he’s out. sees them on the shelf and grabs them without thinking. they sit unopened in his cabinets like artifacts. he doesn’t sleep well. his dreams are scattered—flashes of you in his arms, half-formed words that dissolve when he wakes. he reaches out instinctively in the dark sometimes, and his hand closes around nothing. it’s more than heartbreak. it’s devastation. it’s confusion. 

choso’s never felt this before. this missing that sits under his skin like rot. this constant pressure in his chest, like he’s halfway through crying but the tears never come. he doesn't understand why he can't just get over it. you left. you said goodbye. you made the choice. so why does he still feel like he’s the one who failed? he doesn’t talk about it. not really. not in full. he just gets quieter. 

he stops going to the markets with his brothers. he doesn’t eat much. doesn't listen to music. doesn’t really live—just exists in the spaces where you used to be. because you taught him how to love. and then you left. and now he doesn’t know where to put all of it—the warmth, the instinct, the want. it has nowhere to go. it just folds in on itself and festers. 

every time he closes his eyes, he hears your laugh. the one you let slip when you forgot to hold yourself together. the one that made his chest feel like it might split open with joy. he’d do anything to hear it again. even once. he still hopes you’ll come back. that’s the worst part. not that he lost you. but that some small, desperate part of him still thinks he hasn’t. that maybe one day, you’ll show up again—tired and frayed at the edges, finally ready to be held. finally ready to stop running. finally ready to let yourself be loved the way he always wanted to love you. but until then, he waits. and the waiting becomes its own kind of grief.

he hears it late. a mission gone wrong. you, unconscious. bleeding out. shoko worked on you for hours. ijichi’s shirt stained with your blood. words like internal damage and nearly didn’t make it swirl around him like static, but only one thing matters: you're alive. barely. but alive. he goes to you. the med bay is quiet, lit in that sickly way only hospitals and sorrow know. half the lights are off, but the ones still burning are too bright. the place smells sterile and wrong.

and there you are. sitting upright in the hospital bed, knees pulled to your chest, blanket clutched in your fists like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. your eyes are unfocused. dull. tired in a way he’s never seen. you don’t see him right away. you’re smaller like this. fragile. faded. when you do look up, it’s slow. disbelieving. you don’t say anything. neither does he.

he just walks to you. each step deliberate. each breath heavier than the last. he stops at your bedside. you stare at him like you don’t know if you’re dreaming. like maybe you are. maybe this is another version of the nightmare. but he doesn’t fade. he’s here. and for a long time, that’s all either of you can manage—breathing in the same space again. then, his voice. low. barely there. “did you stop loving me?”

your breath catches. your whole body stutters. then, sharp and immediate: “no.” it guts him. that no—not hesitant, not thoughtful, just pain-soaked and instinctive. you look down like you regret everything except saying it. and that’s enough. he exhales. shoulders heavy. his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them—hold you, fall apart, both.

you don’t look up. he doesn’t push. he just kneels. sinks to the ground beside your bed like gravity has claimed him. his head drops forward. his fingers hover near yours but never touch. his breathing is uneven now. tense. quiet. there are no more words. just a long, aching silence between you, where everything you both wanted to say—I missed you. I was scared. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t know how to stay without breaking—exists without sound.

then, finally, your hand moves. to his hair. tentative. familiar. you curl your fingers through it the way you always did when you couldn’t sleep. and he breathes again. not fully. not freely. but enough. you don’t ask him to stay. you don’t have to. he pulls the chair closer, sits beside you. doesn’t let go of your hand all night. and when you fall asleep, his thumb is still brushing over your knuckles like a promise.you wake to the sound of quiet breathing and the gentle pressure of a hand still holding yours.

choso hasn’t moved much. he’s watching you. not startled, not relieved—just there, like he never left, like he never meant to in the first place. the light through the blinds is soft. not quite dawn. you’re tired in every sense of the word. body, mind, heart. everything aches. but somehow, it’s easier to breathe than it was yesterday. you sit up. he does too. the blanket slips from your shoulder; he fixes it. your eyes flick toward him. you don’t ask why he’s still here. you know.

later, you’re sitting at his place. it’s quiet. cleaner than you remember. or maybe it’s just emptier, and you notice that now.

he doesn’t press you to talk. doesn’t ask for explanations. just brings you tea in a mug he never got rid of, the one you used to claim even though it was chipped and ugly. you stare at it for a long time before taking a sip. he watches you from across the table, posture still, gaze unwavering. his mind is racing. you love him. you said you did. so why did you go? he’s scared too. of course he is. he’s always been scared. of loss. of blood. of watching something good die in his hands. but that fear made him want to hold you tighter. tuck you into his chest and keep you safe. your fear made you run. he doesn’t understand. but he wants to.

you speak eventually. few words. quiet. careful. like you’re placing glass on a shelf that might collapse. something about how loving him made you feel like you had something to lose again. something that made death real. how you were afraid that if it ended, you wouldn’t survive it. and how you left because you wanted to hurt less. choso listens. he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t nod too fast or reach for you too soon. he takes it in. you love him, and it terrified you. that’s all he needed to hear. that fear—he knows it. he's lived in it. but now, it doesn’t push him away from you. it pulls him closer. he thinks about how easily you could’ve died. how close he came to losing you without even having the chance to fight for you. that won’t happen again. 

you don’t speak. you just breathe. shallow, uncertain. your hands are folded in your lap, your shoulders hunched like you’re preparing for impact even now, even after everything. but choso doesn't let you float away. he sees it—the drift in your eyes, the way you keep slipping out of the moment, already retreating into that place where love is dangerous and endings are inevitable.

so he moves. not rushed. not shaking. he stands, takes two steps forward, and gently pulls you to your feet. your balance stumbles for a half-second, caught off guard—but his arms are already around you. warm. solid. steady. they lock around your shoulders like something anchoring. not desperate. not crushing. just real. your face presses into his chest. his heart is loud. not panicked—alive. he buries his nose in your hair. and everything slows down. he holds you like you’re the answer to every question he didn’t know how to ask. like if he lets go, you’ll be gone again. like this is the first moment he’s truly breathed in weeks. his hands splay against your back, not moving. not coaxing. just tethering. here. now. still.

you don’t say anything. you just lean into him. let him carry the weight. let him stay. and he does. because love isn’t loud. it’s this. it’s arms around your body when your mind starts to slip. it’s holding you here. with him. where you’re safe. where you’re home.

you weren’t supposed to be anything to each other. shiu was your handler. your point of contact. your superior. you were a weapon. clean, efficient, silent. the kind the criminal world likes best—sharp enough to kill, disciplined enough not to question why. it was never personal. not at first.

the missions were brutal. bloody. he sent you out and watched you come back half-alive. you’d give him your debrief like a soldier giving up a secret, every word delivered through grit teeth and bruised lungs. he rarely said much in return. just nodded. lit a cigarette. filed the report. but over time, things changed. he started waiting up. he started noticing the way you walked when you were favoring an injury. the way your voice went flat when a mission had gone worse than expected. the way you never sat with your back to the door.

you noticed, too. how he always had painkillers on hand. how he stocked your favorite drink without ever asking. how he stood just a little too close when someone tried to intimidate you. no confessions. no declarations. just long nights spent in low-lit rooms. fingers pressed to bandaged skin. the heavy silence that came after both of you had killed something that day. the intimacy was quiet. dangerous. fragile in a way neither of you acknowledged. it wasn’t love. not officially. not until it was. and by then, it was too late.

you’d been wanting out for months. the fatigue had crept in slowly—bone-deep, soul-deep. a crack in your armor that widened with every mission. every kill. every body. it wasn’t the blood that did it. it was the feeling—the numbness after. the knowledge that you'd become everything you swore you wouldn't.

you stopped recognizing yourself. and the worst part? shiu saw it happening. he watched it take root in you. the dread. the weariness. the self-disgust. but he didn’t try to talk you down or sweet-talk you into staying. because he couldn’t. he knew the job better than anyone. he was part of it. you were part of it. it was a machine, and he didn’t know how to live outside of it.

so when the mission went bad—really bad—he wasn’t surprised when you broke. you came back covered in blood that wasn’t yours. limping. glassy-eyed. he patched you up in silence. tended to your wounds like he always did. you flinched when he touched your ribs. he noticed. said nothing. the room smelled like alcohol and metal. your eyes didn’t meet his once. he knew something was ending. he just didn’t know how soon.

you didn’t leave with ceremony. just a note on his desk. no explanation. no goodbye. just a few short lines, scrawled in your rough, clinical handwriting. I can’t keep doing this. don’t look for me. I won’t be back; you’ll survive this. 

that was it. when he read it, he didn’t react. not outwardly. he finished his cigarette. closed the file on the desk. and stared at the chair where you used to sit during briefings, a towel slung over your neck, blood drying on your collar.

you were gone. and he knew—really knew—that you weren’t coming back. no one walks away from a life like this easily. unless they’ve already decided they’re willing to die for the chance to be someone else.

he gives it a week. not because he believes you’re coming back. but because that’s how long it takes to get your file pulled. where you were last seen. what apartments have utilities in your name. credit card traces. a parking ticket. it’s not hard.

you moved to a quiet neighborhood. the kind of place where people smile at you in the elevator. where nothing explodes and no one bleeds out in the stairwell. the building is nicer than your old one. big windows. soft lighting in the halls. a security system that’ll never notice him. you’ve probably been saving for a while. probably made this plan months ago. that part guts him the most. you were leaving the entire time you were still in his bed. still kissing him goodbye before missions. still telling him to pick up milk on his way home.

and now he’s just a phantom, watching from the street. every night, he sits in his car across from your building. engine off. cigarette lit. the cherry glows dim in the dark while he watches your window. you leave your lamp on late. always have. sometimes it’s a book in your hands. sometimes just you, curled in a blanket with nothing but your thoughts. he watches until the light goes out. then sometimes longer.

you got a job. a desk. a building full of civilians who don’t know your name used to be whispered in the dark by people who were afraid to die. he finds out you’re a low-level assistant. coffee runs. schedule coordination. filing paperwork in triplicate. he bets you hate it. you hate being told what to do. you hate small talk. you hate fluorescent lights and cheap coffee and 9 a.m. meetings.

but you’re there. every day. trying. so he makes sure it’s worth it. your manager’s a prick. shiu makes one visit—low voice, direct eye contact, a hand on the guy’s desk and the tiniest flash of steel. two weeks later, you’re promoted. shiu never considers calling you; telling you.  he doesn’t want thanks. doesn’t want credit. he just wants you to have something good. even if it’s not him. plus, he doesn’t think you’d answer if he called. 

he doesn’t sleep much anymore. drives the city in loops. makes toji take more jobs so he has something to do with his hands. something that isn’t reaching for someone who isn’t there. he schmoozes clients. drinks too much. smokes too much. stops going to the convenience store across from his place. the hot dog cart. the diner. your ghost is everywhere.

he thought you’d been soft for him. gentle. yourselves, in whatever stolen pieces you were allowed. he thought maybe you weren’t just fucking each other for the thrill or for comfort. he held you when you were too tired to stand. cooked for you. rubbed your shoulders until you fell asleep. he let you into his home. his life. the parts no one else ever got. and you gave him a sticky note.

toji makes fun of him a lot. rolls his eyes when shiu ignores calls. cackles when he sees him watching your window like a man mourning something he never named. "didn’t know you went for the sentimental ones,” toji smirks. shiu flicks ash onto the sidewalk. doesn’t answer. because you are obviously not the sentimental type, and maybe he wasn’t sentimental before you. maybe he didn’t believe in attachment. or softness. or permanence. but you ruined that.

you left, and now there’s a you-shaped crater in every part of his routine. and shiu kong—cold, composed, professional—lets himself ache. not in the ways people see. but in the silence. in the nights spent staring at a lamp across the street. in the cigarettes that never taste like anything anymore. and the worst part is—he’s not even angry. he’s just empty.

he doesn't expect to get you back. you’d have left the opportunity open for him if you’d wanted to rekindle. you hadn’t. it’d been radio silence for a whole season.  that’s not why he watches. not why he checks your window at night, not why he listens for your footsteps on the stairs or tracks your walk to the station. you look okay. tired, some days. stressed. but… okay. you smile sometimes. even laugh. he can live with that. he doesn’t like it. but he can survive it. as long as you're breathing. whole. not bleeding out on some stairwell while he fills out paperwork and pretends he never cared.

he was never going to come back. not really. not until he saw the man. some fucking co-worker, shoulder to shoulder with you at the café near your office. laughing too loud. leaning too close. asking something that makes your mouth tilt—half-amused, half-caught off guard.

you don’t say yes. but you don’t say no. and that’s what breaks it. not the light in your window. not the sticky note. this. the idea that someone else might be trying to earn a version of you they didn’t bleed for. that someone might get to touch you—softly, clumsily, like they haven’t memorized your scars. it’s stupid. it’s petty. it’s enough.

he’s at your door before he can talk himself out of it. leaning against the frame like he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick. cigarette clamped between his lips, fingers twitching. the air is cold. his chest is colder. you answer in pajama pants and an oversized shirt, blinking against the hallway light.

you look surprised. not angry. and that’s almost worse. because it means you didn’t think he would come. and he can’t figure out if he’s insulted…or if you’re right. you don’t ask why he’s here. not at first. you just step aside. he walks in like it’s muscle memory.

different layout. same furniture. all new energy. everything smells like lavender and clean laundry now. it makes him want to set something on fire. he paces once. doesn’t sit. flicks ash into the sink because that’s the closest thing to control he has left. he doesn’t ask how you are. he asks about the guy. low. sharp. is it serious? are you seeing him? are you fucking him?

you flinch. the calm dissolves. and now, now, you’re angry. not because he asked. not even because he showed up uninvited. because it’s been ninety days. because he said nothing. because he let you go—like it didn’t kill him—and now he’s jealous?

now? it spirals in silence. the room heavy with all the words neither of you said when it might’ve mattered. he wants to apologize. he doesn’t. he wants to take it back. he can’t. so he just stands there. breathing too hard. looking at you like you might be the last thing that still makes sense to him.

you wait. and when he doesn’t move, you ask—quiet, bitter: “why are you here?” he doesn’t answer right away. just crushes the cigarette in the sink. stares at the cherry as it dies.

then finally, voice rough: “because I had to know if you meant it.” meant the leaving. meant the silence. meant that three months of an empty bed was what you wanted. because shiu can take a lot. but he can’t take not knowing. he doesn’t say anything else. doesn’t ask for you back. 

he just looks at you, stripped down to nothing but need—raw, rotted, and quiet. the kind of hurt a man like him doesn’t know how to name. and waits. shoulders tense. jaw locked. ash on his fingertips and desperation in the way he’s breathing, like each second without you is an open wound. you should kick him out. kick his ass. kick something. you don’t.

instead—three steps. three steps across the kitchen and your fingers curl into his collar and you kiss him. hard. furious. starving. your chapstick smears across his mouth, warm and tinted and all over the cigarette taste he never bothers to hide. he tastes like cloves and burnt sugar and memory. like home. he makes a low, rough sound—guttural—and then he’s kissing you back like he’s drowning. one thick hand wraps around your waist, the other spreads wide across your spine, pulling you in like he’s afraid you might vanish again. he kisses you like you’re a secret he wasn’t supposed to learn—but can’t stop repeating. he kisses you like the world ended yesterday and you’re the only thing left worth saving. he kisses you like he’s praying and you’re the only god that ever answered. he kisses you like you're a promise he’s terrified to break.

you ache for him in a way that’s sickening. god, it’s been too long. too many nights alone. too many mornings pretending you didn’t miss him. you don’t know how you ever walked out the door. you don’t know how you ever looked at this man and thought I'll survive without him. you won’t. you can’t.

but the kiss breaks—like glass under pressure. reality crashes back in, cold and clean and cruel. your breath catches, mouth dragging away, body trembling. "I can’t—” you choke. "I can’t come back, shiu. I can’t be that girl again.” your voice cracks. your hands drop. your eyes blur. you never cry. and here you are, breaking open. 

and shiu—hard, cold, untouchable shiu—drinks it in like water. this. this is what he came for. not sex. not closure. not revenge. this. your truth. your honesty. the part of you that still wants him but doesn’t know how to live with it. he leans in. nose brushing yours. and he shakes his head—slow, firm, final.

“you don’t have to be her,” he murmurs. rough, barely a whisper. "I just want you.” just you. not the weapon. not the girl who followed orders. not the one who could gut a grown man without blinking. just you. head tucked under his chin. bare and breathing. soft only for him. his arms slide around you like steel. you melt. and he holds you. the cigarette burns out in the sink behind him. and for the first time in months, the bed won’t be cold tonight. because you’re here. and you’re his again.

[carlislefiles]

exigent circumstances | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, kamo choso, kong shiu ╰►you were theirs—once. and maybe that should’ve been enough. but time’s a cruel thing, and distance doesn’t make the heart grow anything but restless. now you're just the ghost in their playlists, the contact they never delete, the dream they still wake up reaching for. they're trying to move on, really. but they see you everywhere. and god help them—they want you back. 13.4k words

a/n: ladies if a man ever does something that makes you want to break up with him...do it and don't take him back. however, this is not real life, so enjoy <3 also!! before anyone asks, I know I usually include nanami in these kinds of headcanons, but bsffr you would never break up with that man. I kinda feel the same about suguru, but I get a lot of requests to include him more in my posts, so I tried :] warnings: toxic relationships, kissing, cussing, mental health, eating habits. writing suguru in a way that isn’t at least vaguely yandere is hard for me, but I tried my best!! shiu's kind of giving stalker as well.......ignore pls....or don't if you're into that sort of thing.....

the breakup hadn’t been amicable, per se. there were no screaming matches. no shattered plates, no cruel words hurled like knives across the room. that wasn’t toji. not anymore. maybe a younger version of him—one with more hair-trigger rage and less to lose—would’ve made a scene. but this version? the one that had you in his bed, in his arms, in his life? he didn’t yell. he didn’t beg. he didn’t stop you. and that might’ve hurt more than if he had. because toji wasn’t a complete asshole. not to you. not really. he just…couldn’t be what you needed. and worst of all, he knew it.

he loved you. that wasn’t the problem. the problem was—he didn’t know how to show it. couldn’t accept it when it was offered. love wasn’t a language he spoke; it was one he flinched from. one he turned his back on. so when you left, he let you go. and somehow—somehow—he’s still living with that. if you ask him how, he won’t be able to give you an answer.

he’s always been a prideful man. it’s the closest thing he has to a constant. pride was what kept him standing after every job that should’ve killed him. what kept his back straight even when it felt like the weight of the world had settled between his shoulder blades. what drove him to perfect the art of surviving. of staying just dangerous enough to keep everyone at arm’s length, and just charming enough to keep someone like you in his bed. but pride is a fatal flaw. one day, it’ll be the reason he dies.

you knew that about him. you knew what he was when you started sleeping with him. he never pretended to be anything else. he was a killer, a ghost, a name spoken in half-whispers and urgent hushes in criminal circles. he lived on the edge of ruin, always one wrong move away from bleeding out in a stairwell somewhere. assassins don’t live safe lives. they don’t fall into routines, and they sure as hell don’t do domesticity. so maybe that’s what drew you in at first. maybe it was the thrill, or the way he flinched when you patched him up. maybe it was how he softened just a little—almost imperceptibly—when you made him dinner or let him sleep longer than he meant to.

you didn’t fall in love with what he did. you fell for the rare slivers of vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. you just wanted to love him. that’s it. simple. stupid. human. you wanted to cook for him, care for him, wrap his wounds and hold his hand while he drifted off to sleep. but toji didn’t love himself. chances are, he never would. and as much as you tried to tell yourself that your love could be enough—just maybe—it wasn’t.

he never let you take care of him. you’d bring him leftovers from that place he liked, and he’d wrinkle his nose and say he wasn’t hungry. you’d run him a bath and he’d pretend not to notice. you’d cuddle up beside him in bed and whisper that you loved him, and he’d grunt. or nod. or roll over. at first, it was almost…endearing. the gruffness. the tough guy routine. you could see through it. you knew him—better than he knew himself, sometimes. that scared him. made him shut down. push you away. maybe that’s what hurt most. not that he didn’t love you because he really did, in a way he never had with anyone else. but that he wouldn’t let himself accept your love.

it was a rainy night when it all fell apart. you knew he was just getting off a job. you hadn’t heard from him in hours, which wasn’t unusual. radio silence was part of the deal. but something told you—something nagging and insistent—that he’d need patching up tonight. so you went over. you packed a small kit. some bandages, antiseptic, painkillers. the leftovers were still warm in your bag. comfort food. nothing special. just something small to say, I care about you. I want you to eat. I want you to rest.

when you let yourself into his apartment, he was already there. shirt off, bruised, bloodied knuckles, maybe something fractured in his shoulder from the way he was favoring it. he looked exhausted. and fuck, he looked beautiful. even now. especially now. but you knew that look in his eyes before he even spoke. that cold, hardened thing. the wall slamming down.

"I told you not to come by tonight.” that was how it started.

you tried not to take it personally. you were used to this version of him—the one who needed space after a job. the one who pushed before he could be pulled. you sat down the food, offered to help him clean up. he said he’d handle it himself. you moved to tend to his wounds anyway, and he swatted your hand away. not hard, but enough to make you freeze. "I said I'll handle it.”

your jaw clenched. the room felt colder than it had when you’d walked in. “you haven’t eaten all day,” you said, a quiet offer laced in concern.

“I'm not hungry.” the same damn routine. but tonight, it wasn’t just frustrating. it was heartbreaking.

he was digging in deeper. not softening. not melting beneath your presence like he usually did. you tried—god, you tried—but it was like slamming into a wall over and over and pretending you weren’t bleeding. finally, you stepped back. "I can’t help someone who won’t help themselves.” you hadn’t planned to say it. but once it was out there, hanging in the air between you, you couldn’t take it back.

toji blinked. that hit harder than any punch he’d taken tonight. “is that what you think I am?” his voice was low, rough, disbelieving. “some helpless fucking case?” and he was. so obviously, he was, but the last thing he wanted was your pity. 

“no,” you said, and meant it. "I think you’re scared. I think you’re used to being alone. I think being loved makes you feel like you’re going to lose something.” he didn’t answer. didn’t blink. didn’t move. you reached for the bag by the door. “if you don’t wanna be loved, I won’t force it on you, fushiguro.” you didn’t even call him toji. that was how he knew it was over. the door clicked shut.

he didn’t move for a long time. eventually, in true toji fashion, he punched something. the wall closest to him. the drywall cracked, groaned under the force of his fist. his knuckles split open again. he didn’t even flinch. he didn’t sleep that night. and when he finally picked up his phone to call you—because fuck, he needed to—you didn’t answer. you didn’t answer the next time he called. or the next. or the one after that. eventually, he gave up. he’s never been good at chasing things. not people, not dreams, not feelings. but you—you made him want to try. still, he let you go. 

but he didn’t let go of worrying. he made shiu check in. quietly. casually. never anything that would alarm you. no weird shadows outside your apartment window. just enough to know you were okay. lights on. you walking to work in the early morning, head down, headphones in. cold, but well. unbothered. unreachable.

toji was breaking into fucking pieces. how did he let that happen? how did he have you—warm and real and kind—and still fuck it all to hell? he thinks about it every day. every hour. he hasn’t taken a job since. can’t. not like this. he knows if he tried, he’d get his ass handed to him. his head and heart are still on the floor of his kitchen from the night you walked out. they haven’t gotten up since.

"if you don't wanna be loved, I won't force it on you, fushiguro." it echoes in his head a billion times a day. fushiguro. you hadn’t called him toji. and you hadn’t been angry. you’d been hurt. and that’s so much fucking worse. anger he could take. he was used to anger. he knew how to fight that. but this—this soft heartbreak in your voice, this quiet grief, this sadness… it gutted him. you weren’t yelling. you weren’t blaming him. you were hurting for him. and because of him.

when he finally goes back to work, he keeps it simple. easy. safe. safe in a way toji fushiguro has never been. bodyguard gigs. escorting some teen sorcerer to-and from schools. roughing up punk kids who harass girls outside clubs. low-stakes shit. nothing that would get him killed. nothing that would leave him too bloodied for reflection.

you never asked him to quit. not once. not even when he showed up at your door with busted ribs and a slash across his chest. you never demanded it. but maybe you should have. toji thinks you deserved better. more. everything. and if he couldn’t be it then, he’ll try now. even if he never gets you back, he’ll try. because it’s what you’d want for him. and now, all he wants is what you want.

you told him once that you just wanted to love him. that all you wanted was to make him happy. and the fucked-up part is: you did. you made him happy in a way he never thought possible. and he squandered it.

he doesn’t eat much these days. works out like a lunatic. trains until he can’t think. runs until his lungs scream. anything to keep from feeling. he goes to bed early. wakes up before the sun. starts learning how to cook—simple things. tries to make onigiri. burnt the rice the first time. it stuck to his hands. didn’t know you had to wet them first. he still ate it. didn’t taste like much. not the food. just…memories. you laughing in the kitchen, your hands wet, the rice perfect. he remembers you patting the little triangle into place, offering it to him like it was a love letter made of carbs. he goes to the store and buys a case of your favorite soda. downs it while it’s cold. doesn’t taste it either. he tastes you. the memory of you. what it felt like to be loved. and despite how hollow he feels, how gutted and aching and fucking lost—he’s getting better. slowly. quietly. imperceptibly. maybe not whole. but better. 

he thinks about you and what you’re doing now. you weren’t really the boyfriend type. even with toji, date night usually consisted of takeout on his couch. so at least there was that: the knowledge that, even if you had moved on—as much as it fucking ached to think that—you probably weren’t dating anybody else. shiu says he hasn’t seen anyone at your place, but who knows. well, toji knows. knows you. he thinks back to the things you said. he helps himself now. loving himself might be pushing it, but he’s learning to swallow that pride-shaped lump in his throat. take care of himself. maybe, maybe, maybe. maybe you’d have him back. 

he texts one night, late. he’s drunk; you’re probably asleep. hey. he doesn’t expect a response. he watches typing bubbles appear next to your contact info. disappear. reappear. and then they go away, and they don’t come back. 

it comes to a head on a too-bright sunday morning in june. two full months since he last saw your face. he’d thought about running into you at the store. on the street. at that little ramen place you liked. but you’ve been ghost quiet. no texts. no calls. no sighting. for all he knew, you’d moved on. irony is, he hadn’t had a single thought that wasn’t about you since you left. your cooking. your perfume. your stupid cotton sleep shorts. the way you smiled at him like you saw through all the shit and liked what you found anyway. he’s walking down the street, half-asleep. planning to buy rice and seaweed and maybe, if he’s feeling brave, some umeboshi. he’s getting the hang of onigiri now.

that’s when he sees you. just—walking. headphones in. face soft and faraway. you’re not going to work—it’s sunday, and you're dressed casual. you’re headed toward a little shop that sells coffee grounds and handmade mugs. you used to drag him there once a week. called it your “coffee church.” you look peaceful. you look like you’ve moved on. and toji, idiot that he is, considers hiding. ducking into an alley. pretending he’s not there.

but then—your eyes meet his. it’s not dramatic. no gasp. no stumble. just a slow blink, a slow breath, and a look that crawls over him like you’re taking him in from scratch. like maybe you forgot just how good he looked. and yeah, the caveman part of him roars a little at that. she’s looking at me. she likes what she sees. my girl.

but the rest of him? the human part? the part you once held in your hands so gently? he just feels sad. pathetic, maybe. but that’s the word. he wants to cry, almost, and it’s so fucking embarrassing. he’s standing awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. which is rare for toji. he’s all swagger and confidence on a good day. this is not a good day.

“...toji,” you say.

flat. noncommittal. but hey—at least it’s toji and not fushiguro. two months, and all you have to say is his name. he gives you a little nod. casual. like this isn’t the moment his entire world shifts back into orbit. “hey.” silence. you look like you could walk away. he wouldn’t stop you. he’d let you go again, even if it kills him.

but then—“wanna walk with me?” he asks. you hesitate.

he shrugs. “just…a few blocks. I won’t talk your ear off.” and you agree. and toji loses his fucking mind. you’re here. you’re real. you’re alive and well and in front of him. not a dream. not a memory. not a cruel, waking hallucination. his chest squeezes so tight he thinks this might be what a heart attack feels like. he’s pretty sure you just looked at him like you used to. soft. sweet. a little amused. like you saw him—not the body count, not the paycheck, not the devil-may-care smirk he wore like armor. you looked at him like you remembered.

and he panics. internally, at least. externally, he’s trying very hard to stand still and look cool, which is ironic because inside he’s already on his knees, forehead pressed to the fucking pavement, begging you to forgive him. he’s scrambling through every sentence he rehearsed in the mirror. all the words he’d never said right the first time. please. I didn’t mean to push you away. I didn’t know how to let you love me. I'm trying. I've changed. I still—he moves before he realizes it. a step forward. his arm halfway raised. his mouth opening around the start of that well-crafted apology—"I don’t want apologies, toji.” your voice stops him cold. soft. firm. unshaking.

and maybe it’s not anger in your voice—but it’s not yearning either. you cut the legs out from under him with four words, and he stands there, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, caught in the spotlight of his own regret. all that buildup. all those speeches. all that pain, coiled tight in his chest. and you don’t want apologies. you want something else. and toji has no idea if he’s capable of giving it. but god, he’s going to try.

you walk side by side. it’s quiet. easy. tense, but not painful. “I'm not…trying to push anything,” he says after a few minutes. "I just… been thinkin’ about you. a lot.” you don’t respond. just let him keep going. "I fucked up. I know that. didn’t even try to say I didn’t. I wasn’t good to you. not how I should’ve been.” he rubs the back of his neck. avoids your eyes. looks almost… boyish, for once. "I never really learned how to let someone love me. not until you. and by the time I figured out what that felt like…I'd already ruined it.” the sidewalk stretches out in front of you like a lifeline. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t expect you to.

“I've been workin’ on it,” he says quietly. “on… me. not for anyone else. just… if I ever got the chance to see you again, I wanted to be better. not just say it—do it.” he looks at you now. eyes soft. vulnerable. none of the sharp edges you used to cut yourself on. "I don’t know if you’d ever…want me again. but I'd be good to you. if you did.” your throat feels tight. the sun is warm on your face, but your eyes sting. “and if not,” he adds, “that’s okay. just glad I saw you again. you look good.” it’s not okay, but he can’t say that. he can’t force you to care. he doesn’t have to. 

you stop outside your building. look up at the steps. you could walk up them right now. close the door on this chapter again. it would be safe. logical. expected. but love isn’t logical. and neither is hope. you turn. eyes on him. no invitation. just possibility. the door doesn’t latch behind you. and that’s enough.

toji stands frozen. a long, slow ache blooming in his chest where all the sharp things used to be. you left the door open. you. left the door open. he doesn’t think. doesn’t weigh it. doesn’t ask what it means. two strides and he’s following. the stairwell light flickers. you’re one step up, just far enough away to still leave him behind. he reaches for you—your wrist, soft and sure in his palm—and you turn. eyes wide. lips parted. surprise written across your face like you didn’t expect him to chase you. like you didn’t know he still would.

and then he kisses you. not sweet. not slow. like he’s trying to breathe you in before the door closes after all. one hand grips your waist. the other steadies him against the wall. he pours it all into the press of his mouth—everything he can’t say. sorry. please. don’t go. not again.

you gasp once, but your hands are already sliding up his chest, curling into his jacket. you kiss him like you never stopped. maybe you didn’t. when he pulls back, it’s barely. his breath trembles. your nose brushes his. you’re still close enough to ruin him. "I love you,” he says, barely a whisper. raw. wrecked. your eyes widen. and fuck, that kills him. that surprise. like you didn’t know. like he ever made you doubt it. he wants to gut himself. carve out the parts that ever let you feel that unloved.

but you don’t look away. you stare back at him like you’re seeing something new. or maybe something old. something forgotten. you don’t say it back. not yet. you don’t have to. your hand lifts. fingers press to his chest. not pushing. just grounding. you glance toward the door—still ajar. just enough. then back to him. you nod once. and he gets it.

geto didn’t do casual. that was never on the table. not with you—not with anyone. and certainly not with the two of you together. at least, he wouldn’t have used that word. you wouldn’t either. but still—relationships didn’t come naturally to you. they didn’t come naturally to suguru either, maybe, but he wore them like they did. like muscle memory. like he’d practiced in secret until he could do it flawlessly. you tried not to let that make you envious.

but he was just so good at loving you. he texted before grocery runs to ask if you needed anything. he remembered every birthday. every soft anniversary. even things you didn’t celebrate. he left bouquets of your favorite flowers in the kitchen each week without fail. always the right colors. always the right stems. he drove you everywhere. kept your fridge stocked. learned how you took your coffee.

and he never expected anything in return. he did these things like breathing. like loving you was second nature to him. your love for him was never in question. not really. but returning that love—mirroring it—felt like trying to dance in shoes two sizes too big. awkward. sloppy. off-tempo.

suguru dated like someone who knew you long before he ever kissed you. like the romance was inevitable. fated. and maybe that’s what scared you. the inevitability. the certainty. because now, you felt like you had to perform. to be on all the time. to earn what he gave so freely.

you tried to explain it once—quietly, in his car. he’d driven you home after dinner, parked outside your building. his fingers loose on the wheel. the engine idling low beneath the hum of cicadas. “it just feels like I'm constantly…behind,” you said, eyes on your lap, hands twisting in your sleeves. “like you’re already halfway through a thought I haven’t caught up to yet. like I'm supposed to be someone I'm not.”

he blinked, slow. “is that something I've made you feel?”

“no.” and that was the worst part. “that’s the problem.” because suguru’s love was gentle. steady. unrelenting in its patience. and all you could give back was effort. small thank-you texts. an awkward smile when he brought you coffee. a hand reaching for his beneath the table—sometimes. when you remembered. you didn’t move like a girlfriend should. you didn’t wake up and feel at home in someone else’s arms. you never had.

but suguru did. he was home. he was always all in. “I'm not trying to make you earn it,” he said then, turning toward you. his voice was so soft it hurt. “you’re not behind. or broken. or whatever story your head is telling you. you’re just… you. that’s all I want.” and you believed him. you really did. but love doesn’t land when you’re made of broken receivers.

a week later, he brings it up. you're curled on his couch, full and sleepy after dinner. he’d made jasmine rice—your favorite. the apartment still smells like garlic and toasted sesame. your phone is somewhere deep in your bag. for once, you’re not thinking about it. and then he says it. lightly. offhand. like it’s a logical next step. "I was thinking,” he begins, “maybe you should move in.” you freeze. you don’t gasp, don’t act dramatically shocked. but you go still. and when he sees it—that flicker of fear you didn’t hide fast enough—his smile falters."I mean,” he adds gently, “only if you want to. I just thought… we already spend most nights together. it might make things easier. more…natural.”

natural. there’s that word again. you nod too quickly. “yeah. maybe.” and that’s where it ends. you don’t talk about it again that night. but something in you cracks open, quiet and trembling—and it doesn’t close again.

you start counting his kindnesses. like tally marks. like debt. you keep wondering when he’ll stop. when he’ll see how clumsy you are with soft things. when he’ll finally realize: you love him. but you don’t know how to be someone who deserves him.

it’s late. raining. your sleeves are soaked through by the time you buzz his apartment. he answers in sweatpants and no shirt. eyes bleary with sleep and something like worry. “hey,” he says. instantly awake. “what’s wrong?”

you take a breath. you’ve already decided. "I can’t do this anymore.” the look on his face is devastating. you try again. "I don’t think I know how to be loved like this.”

he steps forward, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “you don’t have to know how,” he says. “you just…are. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not asking you to change.”

"I know.” your voice is raw. “that’s why it’s worse.” because he deserves someone who says yes when he asks her to move in. someone who doesn’t flinch at long-term. someone who doesn’t look at his love like it’s a test they’re bound to fail. "I love you, suguru,” you whisper. “but I think I'm just going to keep hurting you if I stay.”

he shakes his head. his voice cracks. “you’re not hurting me. this—” he gestures helplessly, “this is what hurts.” then his hand lifts, just a little. not to hold you. just to remind you: I'm still here. you take a step back. he falters.

this is how you leave a man who would never leave you. not with shouting. not with slammed doors. but with too much silence. with fear so old and rooted that even love can’t pull it loose. you think of the woman who will come after you. she’ll be open. easy. warm. she’ll say yes. she’ll laugh easily. kiss him in the cereal aisle. she’ll never make him doubt. he’ll move on. eventually. and you’ll always wonder if he loved her the same way he loved you. quietly. fully. with everything.

your hand finds the doorknob. he doesn’t stop you. but just before it clicks behind you, you hear it. soft. almost swallowed. your name. that’s all. you close the door before you can turn back.

suguru tries to give you space. tries. but geto suguru doesn’t do anything halfheartedly, least of all love. he was all in from the first moment. the moment you looked at him like he wasn’t too much. like he wasn’t a man with too many ghosts in the passenger seat. he’d fallen fast and hard—and even now, weeks later, he still feels like he’s falling. only now, the landing is gone. he doesn’t understand it. not fully. he’s tried to walk himself through it, a hundred times over, pacing the floor of his apartment in the early hours of the morning. you were in his arms. in his life. in his fucking bed. you were his. so what scared you away?

he doesn’t want to blame you, so he blames himself. he always has. maybe it was asking you to move in—maybe that was the moment it all shifted. that wasn’t supposed to be pressure. that was supposed to be comfort. that was supposed to be him saying: you don’t have to do this alone anymore. he just wanted you close. wanted to know where you were when it rained. wanted to see you there when he got home. wanted to kiss your temple in the morning and not watch you slip out the door like a ghost. but now? now he’s alone. with his silence. with his certainty. because suguru’s not confused about how he loves you. he’s just broken over the fact that it wasn’t enough to make you stay. he doesn’t reach out at first. respects the boundary. tells himself it’s better this way. that maybe you need time, maybe space will do what words can’t. but it eats at him. the not-knowing. the quiet. you’re like a song stuck in his teeth. a scent in his sheets that refuses to fade.

he tries not to text. fails. types and deletes messages by the dozen. thinks them, but doesn’t send them. you okay? did you eat today? are you cold at night without me there? instead, he checks in through your friends. nothing direct. just soft, careful questions. how’s she doing? is she okay? she’s still going to work, right? they’re kind. some of them know the truth. some of them don’t. one of them tells him, “honestly...I thought you broke up with her.” he almost laughs. almost. that would’ve been easier. cleaner. at least then he could hate himself for something he did.

but no. this was worse. you left because he loved you too much. because you didn’t know how to accept that love. that thought guts him. he should’ve seen it. should’ve known. you’d always been a little hesitant when he praised you. always stiffened when he touched your face too tenderly. always flinched when the compliments came too close to your ribs. he thought you were just shy. or slow to trust. he didn’t realize it was you. your head. your story. that old lie, the one that clung to your bones like rot: I don’t deserve this. god, he’s furious with himself. how did he not dig deep enough? how did he not notice that the woman he loved more than anything was still looking for reasons not to be loved back?

it’s a long couple of weeks. he doesn’t take care of himself. doesn’t really sleep. stares at the messages he never sends. works half as hard, trains twice as much. his body aches. not nearly as much as his chest. he sees you once. from across a busy intersection. you’re walking with a coworker, maybe a friend. someone smiling at you, telling you a story. you’re nodding. but you’re not there. your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. your shoulders are hunched forward like you’re bracing for a hit. you still walk like the world expects too much from you and you’re afraid to disappoint it.

and suguru realizes: you’re not okay. you’re not better off. you’re surviving. not living. just like him. and that breaks something in him all over again. because he let you walk away thinking you were the problem. thinking you’d hurt him by leaving. when really, all he’s ever wanted was to love you in a way that made you feel safe. not cornered. not small. not wrong. and now he wonders if you’re curled up on your couch, pretending you're okay. eating less. sleeping worse. pushing yourself too hard. telling yourself it’s what you deserve.

and it makes him want to scream. because no. no, you don’t. you deserve everything. every flower. every hand held. every quiet night with someone who loves you fiercely and doesn’t make you earn it. you deserve him. and he's going to prove it. but not with flowers. not with soft words. not with a love so loud it scares you all over again. he’ll do it gently this time. he’ll knock before coming back. and he’ll wait for you to open the door. and you open the door for him.

it’s a well-timed flu that breaks the ice. he’d texted a few times—half-hearted replies from you, then nothing. but when you finally call, he doesn’t even let it finish ringing before he’s answering with a breathless, “hey.”

it hits fast. a fever that lays you out like a truck hit you. skin hot, bones aching, room spinning. you tell yourself it’ll pass. that you can sleep it off. but by morning, you’re worse. dizzy when you try to stand. your hands won’t stop shaking. you can’t think straight. you don’t remember pressing call, but suddenly, you’re whispering his name into the receiver like it’s a prayer.

and he answers. “it’s okay,” he says immediately, steady and calm. “I've got you.” he’s there twenty minutes later. you hear the key in the lock—his key, the one you never asked for back—and then he’s in the doorway, rain in his hair, jacket dripping, eyes scanning until they land on you, curled and sweating on the couch like something wilting. “jesus,” he breathes, kneeling beside you, palm to your forehead. “you’re burning up.” you try to sit up. you don’t make it. he catches you like he always does. “you should’ve called sooner.”

you want to say I didn’t think you’d come. but all you manage is a whisper: “didn’t know who else to call.”

he doesn’t blink at the mess. doesn’t flinch at your clammy skin or the sweat-soaked blankets. he just sets his bag down and gets to work. suguru doesn’t move with panic—he moves with purpose. “let’s get you into something clean, okay?”

you nod, barely conscious. he undresses you slowly, carefully, his eyes on your face the whole time. soft apologies leave his mouth when you wince. he finds your favorite sleep shirt, pulls it gently over your head, smooths the fabric over your spine like he’s memorizing you again. not with hunger, with reverence. he changes the sheets one-handed while the other keeps you steady, propped against his side like something precious. he works fast, efficient. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he would, wouldn’t he? he’d do this every day if it meant being near you. you spill tea and he doesn’t blink. just steadies your hand, presses the mug back to your lips. “it’s the good kind,” he murmurs. your kind. the one from that little store across town. he’s kept some in his bag.

later, when your fever spikes again, he’s already ready—cool cloth pressed to your temple, thumb stroking gently down the bridge of your nose. when you start to shiver, he crawls into bed behind you, wraps himself around your body like armor. you make a small sound in your sleep and his hand spreads over your stomach, warm and wide and grounding. “you don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “just rest.” and you do. you drift, wake, drift again. every time, he’s still there.

you catch him watching you once, just after the fever breaks. you’re pale, eyes glassy, but when they meet his, something cracks in his chest. his breath shudders. “missed you,” he says, quiet as a confession. you don’t answer. just reach for his hand. weak, but steady. he squeezes back. you’re miserable. fragile. barely holding together. and he’s never looked more whole. not because you’re suffering—god, never that—but because even now, even after everything, you still chose him. still called. and he came. of course he came.

you wake to light. soft, gray morning light bleeding through the curtains—quiet and cool. you're warm, dry, and blanketed in the stillness that only follows a fever. your head no longer feels like it’s splitting open. you can breathe again. your mouth tastes like sleep and medicine. your first thought: better.

the second: he’s still here. suguru is sitting at the edge of the bed, back to you, scrolling through his phone. he’s changed—probably sometime in the early hours—but everything else about him is the same. still close. still watching over you. you shift beneath the covers. he turns immediately, like he’s been waiting for you to stir. “how do you feel?” he asks, voice low, soft around the edges.

you hesitate. because now that your mind is clear, so is the guilt. the shame. the clarity that always comes after a storm—seeing the wreckage, realizing what you've done. who you let in. how much you still want him. “I'm okay,” you say, barely above a whisper. “thank you.” he nods. you push yourself up slowly. “you should go home.” he blinks—slow, confused. “you’ve been here for two days,” you say, forcing a lighter tone. “you must be exhausted. go sleep in your own bed. I'll be fine.”

his brow pulls just slightly. “you want me to leave?” 

you don’t answer. because you don’t. but having him here—loving you so gently, so completely—only reminds you of what you gave up. what he could have had if you weren’t so twisted up inside. “it’s okay,” you say, eyes locked on the blanket in your lap. "I can take care of myself now. you don’t have to keep doing this.”

his voice is calm, sure. "I want to.”

you shake your head. “that’s not the point.”

"I think it is.”

you exhale. “you shouldn’t have to take care of someone like this. someone like me.”

that hits him. he’s quiet. his hands curl slightly in his lap. his jaw tightens, then eases.

“you’re not a burden.”

you flinch. "I didn’t say I was.”

“you didn’t have to.” silence. heavy. close. you don’t mean to cry. but the tears come anyway—quiet, slow, unwelcome. you swipe at them fast, but he notices. of course he does. he shifts closer, still not touching. just steady. present. “you don’t have to be perfect for me to stay,” he says, gentle and resolute. “you don’t have to be better first. you don’t have to earn this. I'm not here because I should be. I'm here because I love you.”

you shut your eyes. hard. "I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“then let me stay,” he says. “let me love you the way I want to. let me be here—even if it’s slow. even if it’s hard. even if you’re scared out of your mind. I'm not leaving. not unless you tell me to.” you finally look at him. he looks tired. he looks beautiful. he looks like he’s never been more certain of anything. you open your mouth. to argue. to apologize. to give some noble, fractured reason why he shouldn’t do this to himself. but before you can speak, he reaches out—gently bracketing your hands in his. “no more pushing me away. not for my sake. that’s not your job.”

your lip trembles. “you don’t know what you’re asking.”

"I do,” he says. “and I want all of it.”you collapse into him before you can change your mind. he catches you instantly, pulls you into his chest, arms locking tight around you like he’s anchoring the both of you. you feel his breath stutter. one hand slides into your hair. the other rubs soft, slow circles into your spine. he’s shaking too. he missed you. god, he missed you. and now that he has you again—this time—he’s not letting go.

your relationship with gojo is fun. that’s how most people would describe it. hell, that’s how you would describe it. he’s the life of the party. mr. fun. mr. loud-laughs-and-bad-jokes. everything with him is light, fast, full of motion. and you love that about him. you do.

you’ve known mr. perfect a long time.

but you’re in love with satoru. the man underneath. the one he barely lets anyone see.

and sometimes—only sometimes—you catch glimpses.

like now.

he’s lying on the couch in full daylight, arm slung over his eyes like a magician halfway through a disappearing act. he hasn’t moved in hours. the tv is on mute. his water bottle is unopened. his phone keeps buzzing.

you know what this is. he’s having one of his migraines—the kind he pretends he doesn’t get. the kind that slips in after too many days with infinity up. the kind that only hits when he forgets to be invincible.

you stand in the doorway, watching.

then you pad across the room, sit gently beside him.

“satoru.”

his arm stays where it is. “m’fine.”

“you’re not.”

“sure I am,” he says, voice light. dismissive. that fake-casual tone he’s mastered over the years. but it doesn’t land. it sounds like a lie. like a tired echo from someone who’s always supposed to be okay.

you’re quiet for a moment. then you say, “you can take it off. with me.”

he hesitates. then lifts his arm, just a little, to look at you. his eyes are bloodshot. his smile is faint. "I don’t know how.”

it’s the closest thing to a confession he’s ever given you. and it shatters something in your chest.

but it doesn’t change anything.

later, you’re washing dishes. he’s pretending to help—towel tossed over one shoulder, phone in hand, dry plate in the other. he keeps showing you dumb tiktoks. keeps laughing like he’s okay.

and you keep smiling, because that’s what you do. you perform together. that’s the deal.

but halfway through a plate, your smile cracks. and he notices.

“hey,” he says gently. “what’s going on?”

you shake your head. “nothing.”

“come on. don’t go quiet on me now.”

you dry your hands. lean against the counter. “do you ever turn it off?” you ask. “the jokes. the mask. the perfect guy act.”

he blinks. like the question caught him off guard. like no one’s ever asked.

“not really,” he says, after a pause. "I don’t think people would like what’s underneath.”

"I would.”

silence. thick. sharpened at the edges.

“would you?” he asks, voice suddenly low, stripped of charm. “even if it’s not fun anymore?”

you meet his eyes. “I'm not asking you to be miserable. I'm asking you to be real.”

“I'm trying,” he says. his voice cracks. and that’s how you know: he means it. he really does. but he’s terrified. he doesn’t know who he is without the shine. doesn’t know if there’s anything under all that glow still worth loving. and you’re just so tired of waiting for him to trust you with it.

that night, you sit at the edge of the bed. he’s quiet. legs stretched in front of him, back hunched like he’s trying to take up less space. like even his body knows how heavy his name is. you reach for his hand. he lets you take it. "I don’t want to break up with you, satoru,” you say. satoru, never gojo. never.

he laughs—small, humorless. “but you’re going to.”

you nod. "I don’t know what else to do.”

he doesn’t argue. no grand gestures. no sparkly, last-minute charm. he just presses your hand between both of his. holds it like it’s the last thing anchoring him here. “you could stay,” he says, exasperated. pleading, even.

"I can’t, satoru. not if it’s not real.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

you close your eyes. "I don’t want sorry. I want you.”

"I don’t know how to be him.”

"I know.” you lean forward, kiss his temple. one last touch. one last mercy. you leave before sunrise. quietly.

it’s hard to hide. gojo tries. god, he tries. he cracks the same jokes. wears the same shades. laughs too loud, too early in the morning, like if he can just be enough, no one will notice the hollow ringing in his chest. but it’s different now. forced. empty. a shell of joy. everyone sees it.

you used to be everywhere—tucked against his side during late-night hangouts, teasing him over mispronounced takeout orders, dragging him outside to look at stars he pretended not to care about. now you’re just…gone. quietly. no blow-up. no ugly goodbye. just a clean vanishing act. and the absence is deafening. shoko doesn’t ask. nanami doesn’t ask. even yuuji, bless him, doesn’t ask. but they all know.

the migraines come more often now. he doesn’t mention them. just disappears—locks himself in his apartment, blinds drawn, phone face-down, fists curled against his temples like pressure might keep you from slipping through his fingers a second time. there’s no one to tell him to put his blindfold back on. no one to scold him for overusing those bright, beautiful eyes. he stares at the sun anyway. punishment. self-inflicted. as if your absence wasn’t already sentence enough. sometimes, he falls asleep in yesterday’s clothes. on top of the blankets. phone clutched like a lifeline, screen cold against his cheek, waiting—for a text that never comes. you don’t reply. you don’t even leave him on read anymore.

but he still leaves voicemails. never long. never dramatic. just soft little echoes of you: “hey. saw this tree on my run this morning. leaves are turning. thought you’d like it. you always got weird about fall, remember?” “you made me start drinking coffee like you. less sugar. I get it now. it’s honest. doesn’t try too hard,” "I miss you. every day. even the good ones. especially the good ones.” he doesn’t know if you listen. sometimes, he calls just to hear your voicemail greeting. you still haven’t changed it. you sound happy in it. that’s the part that kills him most. he texts too. not memes anymore. not anything funny. photos. snippets of a life that keeps happening without you: a sunrise over the skyline, a flyer for a new cat café that made him think of you, his hand wrapped around your mug—the girly ceramic one with the little strawberries. you hated how cute it was. he never let you throw it out. “sunrise wasn’t as pretty as you,” “the mug’s still here. not washing it until you come get it,” “did you ever finish that book you were reading?”

no replies. not even read receipts. still, he sends them. because what else is he supposed to do? he doesn’t date. doesn’t flirt. doesn’t try. wouldn’t be fair. he’s not over you. he’s not even out of the wreckage. he thinks about the night you left. not the tears. not the silence. just the moment you said his name—satoru, not gojo, not babe, not anything easy or playful. just satoru, like you were begging him to be real, just once. and he couldn’t. not fast enough. not deep enough. so you left. and it didn’t just break his heart. it ruined him.

you were the one person who didn’t care that he was the strongest. who didn’t love the spectacle. who stayed when the glitter faded and his smile cracked. who saw him—bone-tired and bright-eyed and broken—and still wanted him anyway. and he couldn’t meet you there. he couldn’t show up. and now you’re gone.

it’s been a month. a month without your voice. without your laugh echoing through his apartment. without your toothbrush next to his, your fingers in his hair, your presence anchoring him to something real. he starts showing up late to meetings. stops wearing matching clothes. eats poorly or not at all. his sunglasses sit untouched on the dresser. his phone stays glued to his hand, never ringing.

shoko notices first. starts bringing coffee again—the way you used to. sometimes it’s bitter on purpose. sometimes there’s a muffin. she never stays long. just enough to look at him and leave aspirin like a warning. suguru lingers longer. he brings groceries. rearranges the fridge. cooks one night, flips through channels on the tv until satoru sinks beside him like gravity’s gotten stronger. another time, he leaves two tickets on the table. they go unused. no one pushes. but they see it. he’s a dying star now—still bright, if you squint. still warm. but folding in on himself.

it gives way at a party. shoko’s house. too many drinks, too many eyes, too much noise. satoru slips away. orders a car. doesn’t remember the ride. remembers your building, though. the numbers on your door. the way your name still makes his heart bruise.

you answer on the third knock. barefoot. tired. not surprised. not quite angry. just done. he tries to smile. tries to speak. the words come wrong. slurred. too much or too little. he ends up on his knees, face pressed against your stomach like it might hold him together.

you sigh. frustrated. your hands twitch toward your temples. “satoru.”

he grins. lopsided. broken. “hi.”

“you can’t just do this.”

"I know.”

“you don’t just crawl back when you're lonely.”

“I'm not lonely,” he says, then winces. “okay. I'm very lonely. but that’s not why I'm here.” 

you cross your arms. “then why?”

he blinks slowly, lips parting. his chest heaves with the weight of it all. then—"I took it for granted.” his voice breaks on the word it. “you. us. I thought you’d always be there. like the sky. like—like air. I didn’t know I was suffocating without you until I was.” you scoff. but it’s soft. familiar. he hears the exasperation, but also the crack in your armor. he stumbles forward. trips over nothing. collapses to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist like a drowning man clawing at land. “I'll change,” he breathes, face buried in your stomach. "I swear. just—let me come home. I'll be better. I am better. I—hic—I'm your satoru. I'll be whatever you need.” you sigh. loud. frustrated. your hands move automatically to your temples like you’re trying to rub away the fact that this is happening.

but when his shoulders shake, when you realize he’s crying—actual, hot, humiliating tears soaking through your shirt—you curse under your breath. and then your fingers are in his hair. soft. soothing. so familiar that he melts. he breathes in sharp, wrecked, and exhales against your shirt like it’s the first clean breath he’s taken in weeks. you guide him to the couch. he’s heavy and clumsy, mumbling something into your shoulder about missing your laugh, your smell, your hands.

later, he’s on your couch. mumbled apologies fading into sleep. a blanket draped over him. water and tylenol on the table. you watch his chest rise and fall. then go to bed. in the morning, he wakes up slow. the worst hangover of his life. the apartment smells like your shampoo.you walk out in pajama pants. a tired look in your eyes. he sits up, wincing. you don’t speak. just pour two mugs of coffee. set one down in front of him without comment. he drinks it. bitter. familiar. no declarations. no more begging. just your knee bumping his under the table. and for the first time in thirty-one days, he breathes.

the next weeks aren’t perfect. but they are real. you're sitting on a bench in the park. his hand resting over yours. no crowd, no noise. he doesn’t perform. just sits, quiet and present. when you ask what he’s thinking, he opens his mouth. closes it. looks at your hand instead. you nod. that’s enough. suguru throws another get-together. normally, satoru would be the first to arrive. this time, he texts: “not coming. think I need to stay in.” he brings home your favorite takeout. doesn't explain. just climbs into bed beside you, your bowls in your laps, your toes tangled under the blanket.

one day, he gets a migraine. he doesn’t hide. texts you. “head’s bad today. can you come over?” you do. you sit beside him on the bed, fingers in his hair, lights low. he drifts off with your hand in his, the pain dulling at the edges. another night, he burns dinner so bad the smoke alarm screams. you find him waving a towel, swearing like it’s personal. you laugh. he sulks. you eat cereal in bed. later, when the lights are off, and your breathing is steady, he whispers into the dark: “I'm scared. that I'll mess it up.” you find his hand. squeeze once. he doesn’t say anything after that. just holds on. a little tighter. he’s still scared. he still shines too bright sometimes. still stumbles over the parts of himself he doesn’t understand. but he’s learning. slowly. bravely. and he’s real now. finally, finally real.

no one expected you and choso to become what you did. you were a sorcerer. quiet. capable. always exhausted. always moving like there was something chasing you—not just curses, but time, regret, grief. you’d seen too much too young. lost more than you could count. you didn’t love easily. didn’t trust easily. but choso made it feel…possible. he wasn’t like the others. not polished or loud or charming in the usual way. he was awkward sometimes. a little too still, a little too intense. but he listened. he remembered. he cared.

not just the big things. the little ones. the way you liked your tea. the way you twisted your hair when you were lying. the sound of your breathing when you slept, and how to match it so you’d feel safe even in dreams. he was gentle in a world that didn’t know how to be. he didn’t flinch at your scars. didn’t blink at your worst days. he just loved you—completely, without performance, like it was instinct. and you? you tried to let him in. you really did.

there were nights when you curled into his side, listening to his heartbeat like it might steady your own. afternoons where the world slowed down long enough to believe this could last. moments when you looked at him and thought: maybe I could stay. he made a home out of silence and small comforts. he was steady hands and slow mornings. a warm meal waiting for you after missions. a forehead kiss and, please be careful. you didn’t have to talk much. he always knew. and maybe that was the problem. because choso saw you too clearly.

he could tell when you hadn’t slept. when you were lying. when something inside you had splintered and you were trying to keep the pieces from showing. he asked you once, gently, what scared you more—dying, or watching someone else die because of you. you couldn’t answer. not then. maybe not ever. and then the missions got harder. the injuries worse. you started staring too long at your own reflection, wondering if the person in the mirror was someone you still recognized.

and slowly—without realizing it—you started pulling away. at first, he just thinks you’re tired. he’s seen the way the work drains you—how long the missions are, how bloody they get, how quiet you are after you come back. so when you stop texting him goodnight, when you stop leaning into his touch, when you stop meeting his eyes for too long, he gives you space. the kind of space he thinks love is supposed to give.

choso doesn’t know much about relationships. he’s lived long, but not lived much. this is his first time being in love like this. romantic love. tender love. terrifying, breathtaking, warm-in-the-chest love. and you’re the first person he’s ever wanted to give that to. at first, he doesn’t have the language for it. but he learns fast. he learns that you like to sleep with the window cracked, even in winter. that you can’t fall asleep unless you hear him breathing next to you. that you hate your laugh but he thinks it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

he learns that love is quiet. it’s showing up. it’s bringing back your favorite food even when you didn’t ask. it’s not touching you until you reach for him first. it’s watching your favorite movie just to memorize the parts that make you smile. his love for you is total. it makes him nervous—every time you touch him, every time you look at him like he matters. he didn’t know he could be something soft. someone needed. he wakes up next to you some mornings and has to remind himself it’s real. and then you start pulling away.

it’s small at first. less physical touch. less eye contact. fewer I love yous—and when they come, they sound strained, like you’re saying them through a wall. he doesn’t know what to do. he panics in that quiet, internal way. his thoughts spiral. did he say something wrong? did he stop doing something he was supposed to be doing? is this just part of being human—losing things? he tries harder. tries cooking more, touching more, remembering more. he texts you twice if you don’t answer the first time. he leaves little notes around your apartment when he knows you’re too tired to talk. he doesn’t ask you what’s wrong because he’s scared of the answer.

and then, one night, you give it to him anyway. you sit him down. you’re calm, your tone measured—too measured. you tell him that it’s not him, it’s you. that your life is too heavy. that the work has taken too much. that you don’t know who you are anymore and it’s not fair to drag him down with you. you tell him you’re scared of losing him. that love like this isn’t meant to last for people like you. that it’s better to cut it off now before it hurts more later. he listens. because that’s what he always does—he listens when it hurts.

and then, quietly, softly, he asks, “did I do something wrong?” and when you say no, that this is just how it has to be, he nods. but his heart drops out of his chest and lands somewhere he can’t reach. because this love—his first—wasn’t something casual. it wasn’t something he expected or planned for. it was everything. it was you.

but if keeping you means hurting you…if his presence is too much, even if he doesn’t understand why…then he’ll do the hardest thing he’s ever done. he’ll let you go. he walks away slowly. like something ancient inside him is dying all over again. his hand lingers on your doorframe longer than it should. when he finally leaves, he doesn’t look back. and you don’t stop him. but when the door clicks shut, the silence that follows is unbearable. for both of you. because love like this doesn’t just vanish. it stays. it lingers. and for choso—who finally found something beautiful in a world that never gave him beauty—there’s no forgetting. only missing.

choso doesn’t understand. he replays your words over and over, trying to make them make sense. you left because you were afraid of losing him. that’s what you said. but what does that even mean? is loving someone not worth the risk of hurting? was he…not worth it? he doesn’t know. he tells himself you just need time. space. that once the fear passes—once the exhaustion wears off, once you remember what you had—you’ll come back. you’ll knock on his door, eyes tired, voice soft, ask him to hold you like you always used to. he checks his phone too often. trains harder than he needs to. lingers at the places you used to be, half-expecting you to turn the corner, scolding him for spacing out. you always noticed when his mind wandered. 

but a week passes. then another. you’re not at the training dojo. you don’t show up to the weekly meetings with yaga. you don’t text. don’t send word. you’ve taken on mission after mission, burning through cursed spirits like you're trying to outrun something—maybe even him. he hears it from someone else. that you’re barely sleeping. that you’ve refused help. that you’ve come back injured more than once and insisted you were fine. it doesn’t fix anything. it doesn’t fill the space you left behind. you're not coming back to him, and that knowledge seeps into his bones like a poisonous molasses. 

the ache doesn’t come all at once. it starts as a hollowness. a missing mug on the kitchen counter. an extra toothbrush that never got packed. a hoodie you forgot—he keeps it folded, untouched, like you might need it someday. he still buys your favorite snacks when he’s out. sees them on the shelf and grabs them without thinking. they sit unopened in his cabinets like artifacts. he doesn’t sleep well. his dreams are scattered—flashes of you in his arms, half-formed words that dissolve when he wakes. he reaches out instinctively in the dark sometimes, and his hand closes around nothing. it’s more than heartbreak. it’s devastation. it’s confusion. 

choso’s never felt this before. this missing that sits under his skin like rot. this constant pressure in his chest, like he’s halfway through crying but the tears never come. he doesn't understand why he can't just get over it. you left. you said goodbye. you made the choice. so why does he still feel like he’s the one who failed? he doesn’t talk about it. not really. not in full. he just gets quieter. 

he stops going to the markets with his brothers. he doesn’t eat much. doesn't listen to music. doesn’t really live—just exists in the spaces where you used to be. because you taught him how to love. and then you left. and now he doesn’t know where to put all of it—the warmth, the instinct, the want. it has nowhere to go. it just folds in on itself and festers. 

every time he closes his eyes, he hears your laugh. the one you let slip when you forgot to hold yourself together. the one that made his chest feel like it might split open with joy. he’d do anything to hear it again. even once. he still hopes you’ll come back. that’s the worst part. not that he lost you. but that some small, desperate part of him still thinks he hasn’t. that maybe one day, you’ll show up again—tired and frayed at the edges, finally ready to be held. finally ready to stop running. finally ready to let yourself be loved the way he always wanted to love you. but until then, he waits. and the waiting becomes its own kind of grief.

he hears it late. a mission gone wrong. you, unconscious. bleeding out. shoko worked on you for hours. ijichi’s shirt stained with your blood. words like internal damage and nearly didn’t make it swirl around him like static, but only one thing matters: you're alive. barely. but alive. he goes to you. the med bay is quiet, lit in that sickly way only hospitals and sorrow know. half the lights are off, but the ones still burning are too bright. the place smells sterile and wrong.

and there you are. sitting upright in the hospital bed, knees pulled to your chest, blanket clutched in your fists like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. your eyes are unfocused. dull. tired in a way he’s never seen. you don’t see him right away. you’re smaller like this. fragile. faded. when you do look up, it’s slow. disbelieving. you don’t say anything. neither does he.

he just walks to you. each step deliberate. each breath heavier than the last. he stops at your bedside. you stare at him like you don’t know if you’re dreaming. like maybe you are. maybe this is another version of the nightmare. but he doesn’t fade. he’s here. and for a long time, that’s all either of you can manage—breathing in the same space again. then, his voice. low. barely there. “did you stop loving me?”

your breath catches. your whole body stutters. then, sharp and immediate: “no.” it guts him. that no—not hesitant, not thoughtful, just pain-soaked and instinctive. you look down like you regret everything except saying it. and that’s enough. he exhales. shoulders heavy. his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them—hold you, fall apart, both.

you don’t look up. he doesn’t push. he just kneels. sinks to the ground beside your bed like gravity has claimed him. his head drops forward. his fingers hover near yours but never touch. his breathing is uneven now. tense. quiet. there are no more words. just a long, aching silence between you, where everything you both wanted to say—I missed you. I was scared. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t know how to stay without breaking—exists without sound.

then, finally, your hand moves. to his hair. tentative. familiar. you curl your fingers through it the way you always did when you couldn’t sleep. and he breathes again. not fully. not freely. but enough. you don’t ask him to stay. you don’t have to. he pulls the chair closer, sits beside you. doesn’t let go of your hand all night. and when you fall asleep, his thumb is still brushing over your knuckles like a promise.you wake to the sound of quiet breathing and the gentle pressure of a hand still holding yours.

choso hasn’t moved much. he’s watching you. not startled, not relieved—just there, like he never left, like he never meant to in the first place. the light through the blinds is soft. not quite dawn. you’re tired in every sense of the word. body, mind, heart. everything aches. but somehow, it’s easier to breathe than it was yesterday. you sit up. he does too. the blanket slips from your shoulder; he fixes it. your eyes flick toward him. you don’t ask why he’s still here. you know.

later, you’re sitting at his place. it’s quiet. cleaner than you remember. or maybe it’s just emptier, and you notice that now.

he doesn’t press you to talk. doesn’t ask for explanations. just brings you tea in a mug he never got rid of, the one you used to claim even though it was chipped and ugly. you stare at it for a long time before taking a sip. he watches you from across the table, posture still, gaze unwavering. his mind is racing. you love him. you said you did. so why did you go? he’s scared too. of course he is. he’s always been scared. of loss. of blood. of watching something good die in his hands. but that fear made him want to hold you tighter. tuck you into his chest and keep you safe. your fear made you run. he doesn’t understand. but he wants to.

you speak eventually. few words. quiet. careful. like you’re placing glass on a shelf that might collapse. something about how loving him made you feel like you had something to lose again. something that made death real. how you were afraid that if it ended, you wouldn’t survive it. and how you left because you wanted to hurt less. choso listens. he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t nod too fast or reach for you too soon. he takes it in. you love him, and it terrified you. that’s all he needed to hear. that fear—he knows it. he's lived in it. but now, it doesn’t push him away from you. it pulls him closer. he thinks about how easily you could’ve died. how close he came to losing you without even having the chance to fight for you. that won’t happen again. 

you don’t speak. you just breathe. shallow, uncertain. your hands are folded in your lap, your shoulders hunched like you’re preparing for impact even now, even after everything. but choso doesn't let you float away. he sees it—the drift in your eyes, the way you keep slipping out of the moment, already retreating into that place where love is dangerous and endings are inevitable.

so he moves. not rushed. not shaking. he stands, takes two steps forward, and gently pulls you to your feet. your balance stumbles for a half-second, caught off guard—but his arms are already around you. warm. solid. steady. they lock around your shoulders like something anchoring. not desperate. not crushing. just real. your face presses into his chest. his heart is loud. not panicked—alive. he buries his nose in your hair. and everything slows down. he holds you like you’re the answer to every question he didn’t know how to ask. like if he lets go, you’ll be gone again. like this is the first moment he’s truly breathed in weeks. his hands splay against your back, not moving. not coaxing. just tethering. here. now. still.

you don’t say anything. you just lean into him. let him carry the weight. let him stay. and he does. because love isn’t loud. it’s this. it’s arms around your body when your mind starts to slip. it’s holding you here. with him. where you’re safe. where you’re home.

you weren’t supposed to be anything to each other. shiu was your handler. your point of contact. your superior. you were a weapon. clean, efficient, silent. the kind the criminal world likes best—sharp enough to kill, disciplined enough not to question why. it was never personal. not at first.

the missions were brutal. bloody. he sent you out and watched you come back half-alive. you’d give him your debrief like a soldier giving up a secret, every word delivered through grit teeth and bruised lungs. he rarely said much in return. just nodded. lit a cigarette. filed the report. but over time, things changed. he started waiting up. he started noticing the way you walked when you were favoring an injury. the way your voice went flat when a mission had gone worse than expected. the way you never sat with your back to the door.

you noticed, too. how he always had painkillers on hand. how he stocked your favorite drink without ever asking. how he stood just a little too close when someone tried to intimidate you. no confessions. no declarations. just long nights spent in low-lit rooms. fingers pressed to bandaged skin. the heavy silence that came after both of you had killed something that day. the intimacy was quiet. dangerous. fragile in a way neither of you acknowledged. it wasn’t love. not officially. not until it was. and by then, it was too late.

you’d been wanting out for months. the fatigue had crept in slowly—bone-deep, soul-deep. a crack in your armor that widened with every mission. every kill. every body. it wasn’t the blood that did it. it was the feeling—the numbness after. the knowledge that you'd become everything you swore you wouldn't.

you stopped recognizing yourself. and the worst part? shiu saw it happening. he watched it take root in you. the dread. the weariness. the self-disgust. but he didn’t try to talk you down or sweet-talk you into staying. because he couldn’t. he knew the job better than anyone. he was part of it. you were part of it. it was a machine, and he didn’t know how to live outside of it.

so when the mission went bad—really bad—he wasn’t surprised when you broke. you came back covered in blood that wasn’t yours. limping. glassy-eyed. he patched you up in silence. tended to your wounds like he always did. you flinched when he touched your ribs. he noticed. said nothing. the room smelled like alcohol and metal. your eyes didn’t meet his once. he knew something was ending. he just didn’t know how soon.

you didn’t leave with ceremony. just a note on his desk. no explanation. no goodbye. just a few short lines, scrawled in your rough, clinical handwriting. I can’t keep doing this. don’t look for me. I won’t be back; you’ll survive this. 

that was it. when he read it, he didn’t react. not outwardly. he finished his cigarette. closed the file on the desk. and stared at the chair where you used to sit during briefings, a towel slung over your neck, blood drying on your collar.

you were gone. and he knew—really knew—that you weren’t coming back. no one walks away from a life like this easily. unless they’ve already decided they’re willing to die for the chance to be someone else.

he gives it a week. not because he believes you’re coming back. but because that’s how long it takes to get your file pulled. where you were last seen. what apartments have utilities in your name. credit card traces. a parking ticket. it’s not hard.

you moved to a quiet neighborhood. the kind of place where people smile at you in the elevator. where nothing explodes and no one bleeds out in the stairwell. the building is nicer than your old one. big windows. soft lighting in the halls. a security system that’ll never notice him. you’ve probably been saving for a while. probably made this plan months ago. that part guts him the most. you were leaving the entire time you were still in his bed. still kissing him goodbye before missions. still telling him to pick up milk on his way home.

and now he’s just a phantom, watching from the street. every night, he sits in his car across from your building. engine off. cigarette lit. the cherry glows dim in the dark while he watches your window. you leave your lamp on late. always have. sometimes it’s a book in your hands. sometimes just you, curled in a blanket with nothing but your thoughts. he watches until the light goes out. then sometimes longer.

you got a job. a desk. a building full of civilians who don’t know your name used to be whispered in the dark by people who were afraid to die. he finds out you’re a low-level assistant. coffee runs. schedule coordination. filing paperwork in triplicate. he bets you hate it. you hate being told what to do. you hate small talk. you hate fluorescent lights and cheap coffee and 9 a.m. meetings.

but you’re there. every day. trying. so he makes sure it’s worth it. your manager’s a prick. shiu makes one visit—low voice, direct eye contact, a hand on the guy’s desk and the tiniest flash of steel. two weeks later, you’re promoted. shiu never considers calling you; telling you.  he doesn’t want thanks. doesn’t want credit. he just wants you to have something good. even if it’s not him. plus, he doesn’t think you’d answer if he called. 

he doesn’t sleep much anymore. drives the city in loops. makes toji take more jobs so he has something to do with his hands. something that isn’t reaching for someone who isn’t there. he schmoozes clients. drinks too much. smokes too much. stops going to the convenience store across from his place. the hot dog cart. the diner. your ghost is everywhere.

he thought you’d been soft for him. gentle. yourselves, in whatever stolen pieces you were allowed. he thought maybe you weren’t just fucking each other for the thrill or for comfort. he held you when you were too tired to stand. cooked for you. rubbed your shoulders until you fell asleep. he let you into his home. his life. the parts no one else ever got. and you gave him a sticky note.

toji makes fun of him a lot. rolls his eyes when shiu ignores calls. cackles when he sees him watching your window like a man mourning something he never named. "didn’t know you went for the sentimental ones,” toji smirks. shiu flicks ash onto the sidewalk. doesn’t answer. because you are obviously not the sentimental type, and maybe he wasn’t sentimental before you. maybe he didn’t believe in attachment. or softness. or permanence. but you ruined that.

you left, and now there’s a you-shaped crater in every part of his routine. and shiu kong—cold, composed, professional—lets himself ache. not in the ways people see. but in the silence. in the nights spent staring at a lamp across the street. in the cigarettes that never taste like anything anymore. and the worst part is—he’s not even angry. he’s just empty.

he doesn't expect to get you back. you’d have left the opportunity open for him if you’d wanted to rekindle. you hadn’t. it’d been radio silence for a whole season.  that’s not why he watches. not why he checks your window at night, not why he listens for your footsteps on the stairs or tracks your walk to the station. you look okay. tired, some days. stressed. but… okay. you smile sometimes. even laugh. he can live with that. he doesn’t like it. but he can survive it. as long as you're breathing. whole. not bleeding out on some stairwell while he fills out paperwork and pretends he never cared.

he was never going to come back. not really. not until he saw the man. some fucking co-worker, shoulder to shoulder with you at the café near your office. laughing too loud. leaning too close. asking something that makes your mouth tilt—half-amused, half-caught off guard.

you don’t say yes. but you don’t say no. and that’s what breaks it. not the light in your window. not the sticky note. this. the idea that someone else might be trying to earn a version of you they didn’t bleed for. that someone might get to touch you—softly, clumsily, like they haven’t memorized your scars. it’s stupid. it’s petty. it’s enough.

he’s at your door before he can talk himself out of it. leaning against the frame like he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick. cigarette clamped between his lips, fingers twitching. the air is cold. his chest is colder. you answer in pajama pants and an oversized shirt, blinking against the hallway light.

you look surprised. not angry. and that’s almost worse. because it means you didn’t think he would come. and he can’t figure out if he’s insulted…or if you’re right. you don’t ask why he’s here. not at first. you just step aside. he walks in like it’s muscle memory.

different layout. same furniture. all new energy. everything smells like lavender and clean laundry now. it makes him want to set something on fire. he paces once. doesn’t sit. flicks ash into the sink because that’s the closest thing to control he has left. he doesn’t ask how you are. he asks about the guy. low. sharp. is it serious? are you seeing him? are you fucking him?

you flinch. the calm dissolves. and now, now, you’re angry. not because he asked. not even because he showed up uninvited. because it’s been ninety days. because he said nothing. because he let you go—like it didn’t kill him—and now he’s jealous?

now? it spirals in silence. the room heavy with all the words neither of you said when it might’ve mattered. he wants to apologize. he doesn’t. he wants to take it back. he can’t. so he just stands there. breathing too hard. looking at you like you might be the last thing that still makes sense to him.

you wait. and when he doesn’t move, you ask—quiet, bitter: “why are you here?” he doesn’t answer right away. just crushes the cigarette in the sink. stares at the cherry as it dies.

then finally, voice rough: “because I had to know if you meant it.” meant the leaving. meant the silence. meant that three months of an empty bed was what you wanted. because shiu can take a lot. but he can’t take not knowing. he doesn’t say anything else. doesn’t ask for you back. 

he just looks at you, stripped down to nothing but need—raw, rotted, and quiet. the kind of hurt a man like him doesn’t know how to name. and waits. shoulders tense. jaw locked. ash on his fingertips and desperation in the way he’s breathing, like each second without you is an open wound. you should kick him out. kick his ass. kick something. you don’t.

instead—three steps. three steps across the kitchen and your fingers curl into his collar and you kiss him. hard. furious. starving. your chapstick smears across his mouth, warm and tinted and all over the cigarette taste he never bothers to hide. he tastes like cloves and burnt sugar and memory. like home. he makes a low, rough sound—guttural—and then he’s kissing you back like he’s drowning. one thick hand wraps around your waist, the other spreads wide across your spine, pulling you in like he’s afraid you might vanish again. he kisses you like you’re a secret he wasn’t supposed to learn—but can’t stop repeating. he kisses you like the world ended yesterday and you’re the only thing left worth saving. he kisses you like he’s praying and you’re the only god that ever answered. he kisses you like you're a promise he’s terrified to break.

you ache for him in a way that’s sickening. god, it’s been too long. too many nights alone. too many mornings pretending you didn’t miss him. you don’t know how you ever walked out the door. you don’t know how you ever looked at this man and thought I'll survive without him. you won’t. you can’t.

but the kiss breaks—like glass under pressure. reality crashes back in, cold and clean and cruel. your breath catches, mouth dragging away, body trembling. "I can’t—” you choke. "I can’t come back, shiu. I can’t be that girl again.” your voice cracks. your hands drop. your eyes blur. you never cry. and here you are, breaking open. 

and shiu—hard, cold, untouchable shiu—drinks it in like water. this. this is what he came for. not sex. not closure. not revenge. this. your truth. your honesty. the part of you that still wants him but doesn’t know how to live with it. he leans in. nose brushing yours. and he shakes his head—slow, firm, final.

“you don’t have to be her,” he murmurs. rough, barely a whisper. "I just want you.” just you. not the weapon. not the girl who followed orders. not the one who could gut a grown man without blinking. just you. head tucked under his chin. bare and breathing. soft only for him. his arms slide around you like steel. you melt. and he holds you. the cigarette burns out in the sink behind him. and for the first time in months, the bed won’t be cold tonight. because you’re here. and you’re his again.

[carlislefiles]

for the night owls :]

penpal | itadori yuuji ╰►it's just one summer. but...it's not just one summer. it's a whole three months, thirteen weeks, away from you. he finally has you, and now he's gonna give you up. but he finds that being away from you, while miserable and lonely and awful, does have its appeals. like the lovely, heartfelt letters you write him, and the sweet, knowing packages you mail him. the facetime calls that go on for hours. missing you is awful, but it's a bittersweet kind of ache. one he feels thankful to have. 5.4k words

a/n: this has been sitting pretty in my drafts for a while now. I like it a lot, but for some reason I've convinced myself it's not that good. not fishing for compliments, just genuinely don't know how I feel about it, so I hope you guys like it. and thank you to the anon who requested a yuuji fic, you inspired me to finally post this bad boy. semi-canon compliant, but I don't think the students actually get a dedicated summer break, so just pretend with me here :] I was lowkey shitting on megumi in parts of this fic...was not my intention, but it kinda comes off that way my bad. warnings/what to expect: fluff, kissing, cussing.

yuuji had known you for two years. he’d been in love with you for most of them, though he only got to call you his about a year in. you came to jujutsu tech like some serene little storm—not loud or messy like him, but quiet in your devastation. you weren’t flashy, but you were competent. focused. what you lacked in raw cursed energy, you made up for with an almost religious discipline. the way you trained—morning runs before class, late nights on the field until your knuckles bled, the way your hands shook from exhaustion but you never stopped—he’d never seen anything like it.

you volunteered for every mission. you never hesitated. you were the first out the door and often the last one back. gojo sent you on solo missions all the time, which made yuuji anxious in the beginning, until he saw just how capable you really were. it wasn’t jealousy, not really. that wasn’t his nature. he didn’t burn with envy—he just brimmed with admiration. reverence. he wanted to take care of you, not because he thought you needed it, but because he needed to do it. you were the kind of person who made him want to be more than he was.

he’d probably had a crush on you since the moment you met. and now, a year into dating you, he could still hardly believe his luck. he could talk for hours about how beautiful he thinks you are. write novels about the freckles scattered across your cheeks and shoulders like constellations. sonatas on the softness of your skin, especially in late spring when the uniform sleeves rolled up and your skin went golden and red from the sun. you made his heart ache in the most devastating, beautiful way. and he told you that. often.

he liked to joke about how he “tricked” you into falling for him, as if it hadn’t been the most careful, patient, sincere pursuit of his life. it started small—compliments slipped in between classes, during missions, after sparring. he always noticed when you styled your hair differently, or wore a new outfit when you and kugisaki went shopping. he was subtle, at first. quiet about it. you didn’t pick up on his feelings, not right away. you were too practical. too oblivious. you brushed off his compliments. squinted at him suspiciously when he offered to carry your training gear. tilted your head like a confused puppy when he gushed about you to gojo-sensei.

yuuji was nothing if not persistent. fushiguro, predictably, had no patience for any of it. “just tell her how you feel,” he’d grumble, usually while icing some injury he got in sparring. which was rich, coming from fushiguro—who’d been nursing an epic crush on a certain second-year for much longer than he’d ever admit.

but yuuji knew better. you didn’t like surprises. public affection made you uncomfortable. if he told you everything all at once, you’d fold into yourself and pull away. so instead, he built his love for you slowly. brick by brick. invited you to movie nights. asked you to study in his dorm (after cleaning it obsessively first). stayed up just to wait for you to come home from missions and pretend he was “just grabbing a snack,” ramen packet already boiling. he became your shadow. your biggest fan. a lovesick puppy who knew exactly who he wanted. and eventually, something shifted. his compliments didn’t go over your head anymore—they landed. you started to smile at him longer. laugh at his jokes. sit next to him without prompting. share an airpod on walks. choose his dorm to study in, instead of kugisaki’s or your own. you opened up like a sunrise—slow and soft, but radiant.

your dorm became his favorite place on earth. to anyone else, it might’ve looked boring—neutral tones, soft blankets, piles of books. but to yuuji, it was like stepping into your chest and hearing your heart beat. quiet. warm. steady. he saw you in it. the small comforts you clung to in a world that had given you so few. the little signs of a person trying to build something gentle, even when the world kept asking for violence. he wanted to be that place for you. and slowly, you started letting him.  you let him brush your hair from your face after training. let him curl around you like a shield after a long, bruising mission. let him rest his head in your lap while you read to him, your voice soft and low, stumbling over the occasional word, especially when he stared up at you with that look in his eyes.

you never had a moment. no confessions. no breathless declarations in the rain. it just...shifted. somewhere along the way, you stopped pulling away from his affection. started leaning in. started trying. not because you felt like you had to, but because something in your chest cracked open and yuuji had rushed in to fill it like sunlight.

it wasn’t easy. it didn’t come naturally. love never had, not for you. not like it did for him. where yuuji loved in color—bright, bold, full-bodied—you loved in grayscale. yours was a quieter thing. but no less real. it made you feel naked, sometimes, the way he looked at you. the way he touched you without hesitation, like he was sure you wouldn’t break. the way he praised you without wanting anything in return. affection still made your skin prickle some days. made your chest tighten like your body couldn’t quite accept that this was safe. that he was safe.

but you gave it anyway. a hand on his shoulder. a thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. a quiet I missed you when he returned from missions. you couldn’t mirror his joy, his ease with the language of love—but you found your own dialect. one he understood perfectly. you let him into your space. your life. your rituals. he learned to love your quiet. you learned to love his noise. and somewhere in the middle, you fell for him. not in a rush, not in a whirlwind. but in soft, unshakable steps. one foot after the other. you showed up. that was your way of loving. not loud. not immediate. but steady. enduring. the kind of love that doesn't shout—but never leaves. yuuji never asked you to be anyone else. and that’s what made it so easy to try.

now, with the sun climbing higher and the days stretching long and hot, summer has arrived. and for the first time, he won’t be spending it with you. not a week or two apart. a whole summer. you’re headed home to see family. yuuji’s staying in tokyo with gojo and fushiguro. he’ll finally get to see this mansion fushiguro’s always grumbling about. you’ll be on opposite ends of the country. no surprise movie nights. no dorm room reading. no you. last summer, you’d stayed at the school for the summer. your family wasn’t the sentimental type. they’d sent you off to become a better sorcerer. but yaga had set up renovations to take place over the summer. so going home was just the sensible decision. fushiguro had annoyedly claimed the offer was open, but kugisaki wasn’t going. so you politely declined, you didn’t want to impose. 

you seem unbothered, serene as always, just like you are before missions. you promise to call, and he knows you mean it, despite the fact that he knows you don’t like phone calls. but that doesn’t stop the dread in his chest. the hollowness behind his smile. he tries to act like it’s fine. that he’s fine. but god, he’s gonna miss you. 

the train ride out to gojo’s house—sorry, gojo’s mansion—is quick. he lives just on the other side of tokyo, far enough out that everything slows down, quiets, turns rural. but you're taking a bullet train across the country. practically a world away. yuuji knows you’ll be fine. he’s seen you pin grade 1 sorcerers in a matter of seconds. watched you exorcise curses blindfolded and bound just for the challenge. he’s seen you survive things that should’ve left scars, and still come home with that same calm steadiness, as if you’d just run errands instead of dancing with death. but he worries anyway. he can’t help it. he downloads an audiobook on his phone—something dense, something you’d picked. the same one you’re listening to on your train ride. he texts you when something happens in the plot that grabs him, and you respond, just wait. it gets even better.

he asks where you’re sitting. back of the train, you text. he facetimes immediately, hopeful the quiet section means you won’t be overheard. you’ve got earbuds in and you speak soft and low, barely above the hum of the train. he misses you already, and he says so. he tells you about his short trip to gojo’s. how fushiguro ignored him the entire way there. you smile faintly—your relationship with fushiguro is... testy at best. there’s mutual respect, no question. you’re both composed, private, precise. but the difference is: you love yuuji without shame. quiet, but complete. fushiguro... well. he loves like it’s a secret. like it's something to be embarrassed about. you never talk about it. but it's there. yuuji pretends not to notice. you’re his two best friends, and you make it work.

he asks what your plans are when you get home. he wants to know about your family. your town. where you come from. a little coastal village outside of okinawa. you tell him it’s small—fields instead of skyscrapers. you grew up with dirt under your nails and windburn on your cheeks. your family isn’t loud. not physically affectionate. but the love’s there. just in your language. small, quiet, hard to spot unless you know what you're looking for.

your mother makes your favorite dinner the night you return. your sisters insist on sleeping in your room, one on either side. they barely touch you, but they’re close, and that’s enough. they want to hear everything about yuuji. all about him. you show them pictures. tell them about how he leaves little notes in your textbook margins, how he walks you to class even when it’s out of his way. about how he makes you laugh, really laugh. the kind you feel in your ribs. “he sounds so nice,” one of them says. 

“he is,” you reply. you miss him, too. you just don’t say it out loud.

the next morning, you wake to three texts from yuuji. you reply to each one individually. he responds immediately. he’s up early—he knew you’d be awake. your conversations trickle in all day, a stream of consciousness that stretches like a string between you, humming with tension and sweetness. each message is a little love letter to the long, hot summer you’re spending apart. you keep busy—your days are full. chores. catching up with family. reading. card games at the kitchen table. you blink, and a week is gone. one down. twelve to go.

on the final night of the week, you sit at the small desk in your room. you pull out a blank sheet of paper and pick up your pen. and you begin to write. you write about everything. the pink tulips you repotted and set on the windowsill—they reminded me of your hair. the tabby cat you see every morning on your run around the property. the summer storm that rolled through the second night, drenching the ground and leaving everything smelling new. the dumplings you made with your mom, how you got flour in your hair and on your nose and she laughed, really laughed, for the first time in a while. you write about the paintings you did with your little sister—hers a pink unicorn, yours the sky, both ridiculous and beautiful in their own way. the two books you’ve already finished. how you miss him. how you even miss fushiguro’s grumbling. how you miss the taste of his overcooked ramen and the crooked grin he gives you when he tries to flirt and fails spectacularly. the two scars he lets you kiss each night before bed. his beautiful, expressive eyes. you’re not desperate enough to say you miss gojo-sensei. not yet. but you’re getting there.

you print out photos with your polaroid camera. one of the cat. one of the dumplings. the flowers. your paintings. the books. and finally—inevitably—a photo of yourself. you in his favorite red hoodie, the one that’s soft and stretched out and smells like him no matter how many times you wash it. it’s yours now. he saw you in it once and never asked for it back. you slip the pictures and the four-page letter into a thick yellow envelope. the next morning, you stop by the tiny convenience store in town. you find some spicy nori snacks, a box of matcha pocky. add them in. seal it. you drop it off at the post office without ceremony and go on with your day. 

that night, you facetime. you don’t say anything about the package. he tells you how pretty you look. how lovely you are in his hoodie, flushed from a day in the garden. his voice is soft, reverent, like he’s seeing a dream and doesn’t want to wake up. you threaten to hang up the call. he grins and moves on. tells you about the new bruise on his arm—courtesy of gojo’s bright idea to use a basketball during baseball practice. he swung, connected, and got flattened by the rebound. you shake your head. you miss him. but honestly, you're glad you’re not at gojo’s house. a couple of days later, a package arrives on gojo’s doorstep. 

it hits him like summer sun on bare skin—sudden, bright, and a little overwhelming. the package shows up one lazy afternoon, thick air curling through the open windows of gojo’s place. the cicadas are loud. there’s something sweet in the air, like peaches or sun-warmed grass. gojo drops it on the kitchen counter like it weighs nothing, flipping through a magazine as he says, offhandedly, “hey. something came in from okinawa.”

fushiguro, halfway through slicing into a watermelon, raises an eyebrow. “who do you know from there?” but yuuji’s already moving—no, tripping over the side of the couch like it’s trying to keep him from the counter. a graceless tumble. he doesn’t care. because he knows. you. it’s from you. that’s who he knows in okinawa. that’s who he’s been thinking about every minute of every day since you left.

the package is plain. no stickers, no doodles. you’re not sentimental like that. but yuuji opens it like it’s made of glass, like the contents inside are too precious for fast hands. his fingers shake a little. inside, a few things sit nestled gently together, and suddenly his throat is tight. spicy nori. he’s never had it, but you must’ve remembered that. he’d mentioned it once—months ago, maybe. a craving, a curiosity. you remembered. matcha pocky. his favorite. he stares at it for a moment, like maybe if he looks long enough, it’ll explain how you know him so well it makes his chest ache.

and then photos. they look random. but he knows they’re not. they’re fragments of your days. slivers of moments he wasn’t there for. a garden. a messy dumpling attempt. a painting. a cat. he doesn’t need the stories behind them. it’s enough that you sent them. that you wanted him to see. and then—the one that knocks the wind out of him. you. at your desk. wearing his red hoodie and your pajama pants. your hair down, natural, soft the way he always tells you he loves it. you're making a little face at the camera—cheeky, just barely a smirk. like you knew if you didn’t include a photo of yourself, he’d pout about it for a week. and you were right. he would’ve. but now you’ve gone and outsmarted him again. now he’s staring down at this picture like it holds the answer to every question he’s ever asked about love.

finally—finally—he notices the letter. four pages, all in your handwriting. folded with a kind of neatness that’s distinctly you. he reads it too fast the first time, eyes skipping, hungry for everything. has to go back, start again, slow down. some of it he’s heard before, through facetime. little updates. passing mentions. but there’s so much more here. so much softness. so much you. he laughs out loud when you mention watching human earthworm 3 with your sisters. “they hated it,” you wrote. "I loved every second.” he presses a hand to his chest. god, he wishes he’d been there. you write about listening to his favorite song during one of your runs. you say it felt like he was there with you. and he can’t even handle how his stomach flips at that—like the laws of space and time bend for a second just to let him be close to you.

you mention your hair again. how when you’re not constantly out on missions, you can finally take the time to wash it and let it do its thing. he’d noticed, of course. could tell from the photo. but the fact that you thought to explain it to him? that you wanted him to know? he has to stop reading for a second. his vision’s gone a little blurry. because this letter—it’s not flowery. it’s not full of declarations or clichés. it’s not romantic in the way some people would call romantic. but it’s a love letter. god, it is. it’s so you. attentive. specific. steady. you miss him, and you say so. but more than that—you see him. you know him. and you care. deeply. completely. without needing to shout it. he reads the last line three times over before he can breathe again. "I love you, yuuji ♡”

he presses the letter to his chest and lets his head fall back against the couch. he’s quiet for a long moment. the summer breeze ruffles the corner of the letter. someone says something in the other room—maybe gojo, maybe fushiguro—but yuuji doesn’t hear it. his whole world, right now, is inside that envelope. and you’re not even trying. that’s the thing that wrecks him. you’re just being yourself.

he calls you immediately—eyes still suspiciously glassy, voice slightly too upbeat.

"umm, what is thisss?" he says, holding the opened package up to the camera like you might not recognize it. “you’re way too nice, baby. this is literally the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

you blink at him, chewing a piece of ice absentmindedly. "what is?"

"this!" he rattles the package, then points dramatically to the letter like it’s a handwritten declaration of sainthood.

"oh. that?” you say, frowning. “that was nothing.”

you’d honestly forgotten you sent it.

it had taken you half an hour to throw together. less than 1000 yen. you’d picked up the snacks while buying shampoo. you’d stuck in the letter because the envelope felt too light. you’d printed the picture because you figured he’d whine otherwise. it wasn’t much.

but he’s gushing. twenty whole minutes. you can barely get a word in. he’s complimenting your handwriting like it’s calligraphy. he’s pointing out specific phrases from the letter and repeating them back to you in a dreamy voice. he’s asking if the cat from your run has a name yet.

eventually you settle into your usual facetime routine—quiet, warm, full of long pauses that don’t feel empty. your mother calls you down for dinner. normally, you’d say goodbye and hang up.

but tonight, you don’t.

you just…carry him with you. down the stairs, to the kitchen. your sisters have already eaten. your plate is waiting for you under cling wrap in the fridge. you heat it up, sit at the counter, and start eating with the phone propped against the sugar canister.

you barely say anything for the first five minutes. just the soft clinking of utensils, the occasional sigh.

“do you want me to leave you be?” yuuji asks gently.

you look up, surprised. “no. I don’t want to eat by myself.”

it’s not a big declaration. you say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

but to yuuji, it might as well be a marriage proposal.

because he remembers you two years ago. the girl who used to apologize for having freckles. who stiffened at compliments. who lived curled up in the corners of her dorm like a ghost. and now you want to share your dinner with him across two time zones.

he doesn’t say any of that. he just smiles and goes to grab his own food. he makes fushiguro come eat too, plates already lukewarm from gojo’s microwave. he sets the phone in the center of the table like a centerpiece.

you ask megumi how he’s doing. if he’s ready to kill gojo yet.

"I am always ready to kill gojo,” he deadpans. but it’s half-hearted. you all know the truth.

you talk about what you want to do when you’re back on campus. yuuji lights up.

“let’s add kugisaki to the call!”

you do. she’s annoyed at first, claims she’s busy. but she stays. and suddenly it feels like another night in the dorms. like you're not scattered across japan, separated by obligation and summer heat. for a little while, it just feels like home.

—

the next day, yuuji sets out to write you back. he opens to the first page with the same energy he once reserved for exam questions or curse exorcism strategies. serious business. except…he struggles. a lot. your letter was perfect. it had felt effortless. this? this is like trying to write a poem in a thunderstorm.

but once he stops trying to match you, and starts writing like himself, everything spills out. he writes about the baseball-basketball hybrid gojo invented. (“it’s dumb. I'm obsessed. we play everyday.”) he tells you how he and megumi tried to cook that soup recipe you mentioned. he describes the exact moment the fire alarms went off and how gojo’s first words when walking into the smoky mess were “you guys better not be cooking something healthy.” he tells you about the kyoto girl megumi is clearly in love with, and how you need to help orchestrate something. “maybe he can trick her into dating him. worked for me.” he thanks you for the spicy nori. “it was amazing. buy some more. facetime me when you try it!” he compliments your hair. rants about it, really. summer humidity is a miracle, and your hair is living proof. he asks for pictures of the ocean. says you must be able to see it from your family’s house, or at least on your morning run. says he wants more pictures of your paintings—especially the pink unicorn one your sister did, which he describes as “abstract and terrifying and amazing.” he asks for more pictures of you, too. “one is a total disservice. I deserve at least five. maybe ten.”

and then, because it feels right, he says it. over and over again. I love you. I love you. I love you. the words tumble out. not in some neat little line, but smeared across paragraphs, tucked between snack reviews and bad doodles. they’re everywhere. just like he is. just like you are, in his world. the letter is a mess. his handwriting is a disaster. ink is smudged. words are misspelled. there are crossed-out sentences and strange margin notes. he’s doodled a weird little version of you in his hoodie with stars around your head. he’s drawn a cat that looks more like a potato. he loves it. he knows you’ll love it too.

he doesn’t have a polaroid, which is tragic. he makes a note to buy one. but he still manages to include something tangible—a couple bags of tea from gojo’s pantry that he’s pretty sure you’ll like. (if not, you’ll bully him, and he’s fine with that.) he puts hearts all over the envelope. big ones. lopsided ones. he considers sealing it with a kiss, then decides that’s weird, then does it anyway. he sends it off the next morning. and with it, he sends the part of him that hasn’t stopped missing you since the second you left.

it spirals, gloriously, hilariously, heart-wrenchingly from there. the rest of the summer becomes an exchange of laughter folded into letters, fingerprints smudged onto snack packages, love woven into bubble wrap and twine. you trade days the way people trade baseball cards. one sweet little offering at a time.

yuuji sends you candy bars from the corner store with scribbled notes like “tastes weird. tell me if I'm crazy.” he includes half-baked recipes clipped from magazines, fully aware he’ll never pull them off. you try them. you lie and say they’re amazing. (“don’t worry, I didn’t burn the soup. unlike some people.”) you send him a miniature basketball plushie because he will not shut up about gojo’s cursed frankenstein sport. he opens the package like it’s a sacred relic, then immediately facetimes you to introduce it to the world. “this is mikey. he’s our son now.” he gives it a place of honor on his pillow. fushiguro scoffs and sighs for a full ten minutes. you make matching bracelets. twine and a little metal charm you found at a beach stand. you keep one. mail the other. he acts like he made it, flashing it dramatically on every facetime call. “check out this artisan craftsmanship.” you let him have it.

one afternoon, you call and he’s asleep. megumi answers, caught somewhere between suspicion and resignation. the air between you two is awkward, delicate. you don’t say much. until you grin and say, “go get a permanent marker.” megumi blinks. then smirks. yuuji wakes up to a full mural on his cheek and something profane scrawled across his forehead. he groans, squinting into the camera. but you're cackling. megumi’s barely holding it together. he can’t be mad. not even a little. he receives more pictures from you. candid, sleepy, sunlit. some with your sisters, some with your fingers half-covering the lens. one of you holding a seashell to your ear like a dork. he sets them on his nightstand in the guest room like they’re family heirlooms. sometimes he looks at them before bed and just whispers, “you’re so cool,” like a man cursed by affection.

he makes you explain your hair routine in painstaking detail. wants brand names. ratios. “like, how wet is your hair when you use the curl cream?” he’s convinced that if he studies your methods, his hair will someday be as majestic. you’re losing your mind. he’s so serious about it. it’s infuriating. you love it. he sends you postcards from tokyo with captions like “wish you were here (i mean you practically live here but still)”. you keep them all in a shoebox under your bed. there’s already too many to count. you start watching movies “together.” he’ll call, and you’ll sync up your streaming services like you’re detonating a bomb. “3...2...1...play.” the audio never lines up perfectly. the subtitles sometimes glitch. but it doesn’t matter. you talk through the whole thing anyway.

and it’s...gross. sickening, even. soft and sappy and too gentle for a world that rarely is. but it’s yours. built slowly, lovingly, from nothing more than stamps and signal bars and the occasional haunted snack box. and it matters. because you didn't used to believe in this kind of thing. and yuuji—yuuji believed in you even when you didn't believe in yourself. he made room for you. made space for this. for love. for warmth. for something that doesn’t sting when it touches you.

he still misses you, of course. but it’s different now. not aching and hollow. it’s…sweet. soft around the edges. like the kind of longing you get for a favorite song, or the smell of your mom’s cooking when you’re away. he thinks about you every morning. every night. every time he passes that stupid unicorn drawing or tightens the bracelet on his wrist. he misses you. but he’s grateful to miss you. because missing you means he has you. and that is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

—

he’s jittery. he’s always jittery, sure, but this is different. yuuji’s not just bouncing his leg—he’s halfway to vibrating out of his skin. the entire bullet train ride he’s cracking knuckles, chewing on the corner of his lip, refreshing your last text like it might suddenly change and say “surprise! I'm here early! come get me now!” it doesn’t. you said your train left at 3:00am. brutal. typical you—always the cheap ticket, always the one who makes do without complaint. you don’t mind early mornings or sore backs. he minds for you. his ride is short. unfairly so. which means he gets to be alone in his dorm for a few hours with all this energy and nowhere to put it. he bugs kugisaki within twenty minutes of unpacking. fushiguro? emotionally exhausted, allegedly. but yuuji knows better. fushiguro loved hanging out with him this summer. he’ll never say it, but he’ll miss yuuji’s endless talking, his stupid pool games, his bad movie taste. they’ll both pretend otherwise.

yuuji’s a livewire. can’t sit still. he finally channels it into decorating, if you can call it that. every picture you mailed him gets stuck on the wall in a wild, crooked constellation—no rhyme or reason, just instinct and affection. the letter drawer gets a place of honor in his nightstand, already worn from being opened and reread too many times. then he gets mischievous. he grabs mikey, the plush basketball, and heads to your dorm. he’s plotting. you’ll come in later and find the plush sitting on your pillow, possibly with a dramatic note about “co-parenting.”

he knocks, ready to annoy kugisaki into letting him in. but the door swings open—and it’s you. you, with that sly, soft look on your face, like you know exactly what you’ve done. "I was waiting for you to come up here,” you say. “wasn��t sure you would.” liar. your train hadn’t left at 3:00am. you’d found a late-night deal, and you took it.  you’d been here since last night.

and yuuji? he short-circuits. he doesn’t freeze—yuuji itadori never freezes—but he ignites. he barrels through the doorway like a storm surge, lifts you off your feet, spins you around like some cheesy k-drama protagonist who’s waited thirteen weeks for this moment. (which he has.) he tucks his face into your neck and inhales. he missed this—your perfume, your shampoo, your skin. he missed you. his lips find every freckle like they’re dots on a map he’s finally coming home to. he squishes your cheeks in his palms and baby-talks at you like he’s trying to imprint your face onto his soul. which, to be fair, he probably is.

you endure it with only mild suffering. arms loose around his shoulders. a soft grumble of, “okay, okay, yuuji…” but you don’t pull away. when he finally sets you down, your hands come up—gentle—and you press your lips to the matching scars on either side of his eyes. a habit now. something quiet and reverent, like you’re acknowledging everything he’s been through without saying a word. then you look at him. just…look. wide, steady eyes. hair undone. that calm, quiet sort of smile that he’s never been able to resist. "I missed you too, yuuji.” 

and that’s it. that’s the sentence that breaks the dam. he’s kissing you again, not even properly—just barely-there little pecks over your cheeks, your temple, your hands, your eyelids, whispering things like “you’re so pretty, holy crap,” and “I'm so lucky, I'm so stupid lucky,” and "I love you, I love you, I love you.”

you’re calm. he doesn’t know how. he’s been vibrating with anticipation for thirteen weeks and you’re just…serenely unpacking, like he didn’t just get metaphorically hit by a train. but that’s who you are. steady. quiet. warm in a way that sneaks up on him. he decides, right then, next summer he’s going with you. nakijin or bust. you don’t argue. you just nod. he wraps around you like ivy as you organize your desk. follows you like a puppy while you reset your dorm. it’s not hot—there’s a breeze drifting through the cracked window, and a hint of fall in the air. soon there will be class schedules and curfews and missions and real life.

but for now, it’s this. just this. warmth and laughter and the smell of your perfume on his shirt. and sometimes—just sometimes—when things settle again and days start to pass like normal, yuuji finds himself missing what it felt like to miss you. because even that was beautiful. even that was yours.

[carlislefiles]

I love ur headcanons n I was thinkin that the jjk guys as your exes would make for a good prompt if u were lookin for ideas :)

love love love this, thank you and your genius mind anon 🙏🏼 this is tomorrow's post :]

[carlislefiles]

penpal | itadori yuuji ╰►it's just one summer. but...it's not just one summer. it's a whole three months, thirteen weeks, away from you. he finally has you, and now he's gonna give you up. but he finds that being away from you, while miserable and lonely and awful, does have its appeals. like the lovely, heartfelt letters you write him, and the sweet, knowing packages you mail him. the facetime calls that go on for hours. missing you is awful, but it's a bittersweet kind of ache. one he feels thankful to have. 5.4k words

a/n: this has been sitting pretty in my drafts for a while now. I like it a lot, but for some reason I've convinced myself it's not that good. not fishing for compliments, just genuinely don't know how I feel about it, so I hope you guys like it. and thank you to the anon who requested a yuuji fic, you inspired me to finally post this bad boy. semi-canon compliant, but I don't think the students actually get a dedicated summer break, so just pretend with me here :] I was lowkey shitting on megumi in parts of this fic...was not my intention, but it kinda comes off that way my bad. warnings/what to expect: fluff, kissing, cussing.

yuuji had known you for two years. he’d been in love with you for most of them, though he only got to call you his about a year in. you came to jujutsu tech like some serene little storm—not loud or messy like him, but quiet in your devastation. you weren’t flashy, but you were competent. focused. what you lacked in raw cursed energy, you made up for with an almost religious discipline. the way you trained—morning runs before class, late nights on the field until your knuckles bled, the way your hands shook from exhaustion but you never stopped—he’d never seen anything like it.

you volunteered for every mission. you never hesitated. you were the first out the door and often the last one back. gojo sent you on solo missions all the time, which made yuuji anxious in the beginning, until he saw just how capable you really were. it wasn’t jealousy, not really. that wasn’t his nature. he didn’t burn with envy—he just brimmed with admiration. reverence. he wanted to take care of you, not because he thought you needed it, but because he needed to do it. you were the kind of person who made him want to be more than he was.

he’d probably had a crush on you since the moment you met. and now, a year into dating you, he could still hardly believe his luck. he could talk for hours about how beautiful he thinks you are. write novels about the freckles scattered across your cheeks and shoulders like constellations. sonatas on the softness of your skin, especially in late spring when the uniform sleeves rolled up and your skin went golden and red from the sun. you made his heart ache in the most devastating, beautiful way. and he told you that. often.

he liked to joke about how he “tricked” you into falling for him, as if it hadn’t been the most careful, patient, sincere pursuit of his life. it started small—compliments slipped in between classes, during missions, after sparring. he always noticed when you styled your hair differently, or wore a new outfit when you and kugisaki went shopping. he was subtle, at first. quiet about it. you didn’t pick up on his feelings, not right away. you were too practical. too oblivious. you brushed off his compliments. squinted at him suspiciously when he offered to carry your training gear. tilted your head like a confused puppy when he gushed about you to gojo-sensei.

yuuji was nothing if not persistent. fushiguro, predictably, had no patience for any of it. “just tell her how you feel,” he’d grumble, usually while icing some injury he got in sparring. which was rich, coming from fushiguro—who’d been nursing an epic crush on a certain second-year for much longer than he’d ever admit.

but yuuji knew better. you didn’t like surprises. public affection made you uncomfortable. if he told you everything all at once, you’d fold into yourself and pull away. so instead, he built his love for you slowly. brick by brick. invited you to movie nights. asked you to study in his dorm (after cleaning it obsessively first). stayed up just to wait for you to come home from missions and pretend he was “just grabbing a snack,” ramen packet already boiling. he became your shadow. your biggest fan. a lovesick puppy who knew exactly who he wanted. and eventually, something shifted. his compliments didn’t go over your head anymore—they landed. you started to smile at him longer. laugh at his jokes. sit next to him without prompting. share an airpod on walks. choose his dorm to study in, instead of kugisaki’s or your own. you opened up like a sunrise—slow and soft, but radiant.

your dorm became his favorite place on earth. to anyone else, it might’ve looked boring—neutral tones, soft blankets, piles of books. but to yuuji, it was like stepping into your chest and hearing your heart beat. quiet. warm. steady. he saw you in it. the small comforts you clung to in a world that had given you so few. the little signs of a person trying to build something gentle, even when the world kept asking for violence. he wanted to be that place for you. and slowly, you started letting him.  you let him brush your hair from your face after training. let him curl around you like a shield after a long, bruising mission. let him rest his head in your lap while you read to him, your voice soft and low, stumbling over the occasional word, especially when he stared up at you with that look in his eyes.

you never had a moment. no confessions. no breathless declarations in the rain. it just...shifted. somewhere along the way, you stopped pulling away from his affection. started leaning in. started trying. not because you felt like you had to, but because something in your chest cracked open and yuuji had rushed in to fill it like sunlight.

it wasn’t easy. it didn’t come naturally. love never had, not for you. not like it did for him. where yuuji loved in color—bright, bold, full-bodied—you loved in grayscale. yours was a quieter thing. but no less real. it made you feel naked, sometimes, the way he looked at you. the way he touched you without hesitation, like he was sure you wouldn’t break. the way he praised you without wanting anything in return. affection still made your skin prickle some days. made your chest tighten like your body couldn’t quite accept that this was safe. that he was safe.

but you gave it anyway. a hand on his shoulder. a thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. a quiet I missed you when he returned from missions. you couldn’t mirror his joy, his ease with the language of love—but you found your own dialect. one he understood perfectly. you let him into your space. your life. your rituals. he learned to love your quiet. you learned to love his noise. and somewhere in the middle, you fell for him. not in a rush, not in a whirlwind. but in soft, unshakable steps. one foot after the other. you showed up. that was your way of loving. not loud. not immediate. but steady. enduring. the kind of love that doesn't shout—but never leaves. yuuji never asked you to be anyone else. and that’s what made it so easy to try.

now, with the sun climbing higher and the days stretching long and hot, summer has arrived. and for the first time, he won’t be spending it with you. not a week or two apart. a whole summer. you’re headed home to see family. yuuji’s staying in tokyo with gojo and fushiguro. he’ll finally get to see this mansion fushiguro’s always grumbling about. you’ll be on opposite ends of the country. no surprise movie nights. no dorm room reading. no you. last summer, you’d stayed at the school for the summer. your family wasn’t the sentimental type. they’d sent you off to become a better sorcerer. but yaga had set up renovations to take place over the summer. so going home was just the sensible decision. fushiguro had annoyedly claimed the offer was open, but kugisaki wasn’t going. so you politely declined, you didn’t want to impose. 

you seem unbothered, serene as always, just like you are before missions. you promise to call, and he knows you mean it, despite the fact that he knows you don’t like phone calls. but that doesn’t stop the dread in his chest. the hollowness behind his smile. he tries to act like it’s fine. that he’s fine. but god, he’s gonna miss you. 

the train ride out to gojo’s house—sorry, gojo’s mansion—is quick. he lives just on the other side of tokyo, far enough out that everything slows down, quiets, turns rural. but you're taking a bullet train across the country. practically a world away. yuuji knows you’ll be fine. he’s seen you pin grade 1 sorcerers in a matter of seconds. watched you exorcise curses blindfolded and bound just for the challenge. he’s seen you survive things that should’ve left scars, and still come home with that same calm steadiness, as if you’d just run errands instead of dancing with death. but he worries anyway. he can’t help it. he downloads an audiobook on his phone—something dense, something you’d picked. the same one you’re listening to on your train ride. he texts you when something happens in the plot that grabs him, and you respond, just wait. it gets even better.

he asks where you’re sitting. back of the train, you text. he facetimes immediately, hopeful the quiet section means you won’t be overheard. you’ve got earbuds in and you speak soft and low, barely above the hum of the train. he misses you already, and he says so. he tells you about his short trip to gojo’s. how fushiguro ignored him the entire way there. you smile faintly—your relationship with fushiguro is... testy at best. there’s mutual respect, no question. you’re both composed, private, precise. but the difference is: you love yuuji without shame. quiet, but complete. fushiguro... well. he loves like it’s a secret. like it's something to be embarrassed about. you never talk about it. but it's there. yuuji pretends not to notice. you’re his two best friends, and you make it work.

he asks what your plans are when you get home. he wants to know about your family. your town. where you come from. a little coastal village outside of okinawa. you tell him it’s small—fields instead of skyscrapers. you grew up with dirt under your nails and windburn on your cheeks. your family isn’t loud. not physically affectionate. but the love’s there. just in your language. small, quiet, hard to spot unless you know what you're looking for.

your mother makes your favorite dinner the night you return. your sisters insist on sleeping in your room, one on either side. they barely touch you, but they’re close, and that’s enough. they want to hear everything about yuuji. all about him. you show them pictures. tell them about how he leaves little notes in your textbook margins, how he walks you to class even when it’s out of his way. about how he makes you laugh, really laugh. the kind you feel in your ribs. “he sounds so nice,” one of them says. 

“he is,” you reply. you miss him, too. you just don’t say it out loud.

the next morning, you wake to three texts from yuuji. you reply to each one individually. he responds immediately. he’s up early—he knew you’d be awake. your conversations trickle in all day, a stream of consciousness that stretches like a string between you, humming with tension and sweetness. each message is a little love letter to the long, hot summer you’re spending apart. you keep busy—your days are full. chores. catching up with family. reading. card games at the kitchen table. you blink, and a week is gone. one down. twelve to go.

on the final night of the week, you sit at the small desk in your room. you pull out a blank sheet of paper and pick up your pen. and you begin to write. you write about everything. the pink tulips you repotted and set on the windowsill—they reminded me of your hair. the tabby cat you see every morning on your run around the property. the summer storm that rolled through the second night, drenching the ground and leaving everything smelling new. the dumplings you made with your mom, how you got flour in your hair and on your nose and she laughed, really laughed, for the first time in a while. you write about the paintings you did with your little sister—hers a pink unicorn, yours the sky, both ridiculous and beautiful in their own way. the two books you’ve already finished. how you miss him. how you even miss fushiguro’s grumbling. how you miss the taste of his overcooked ramen and the crooked grin he gives you when he tries to flirt and fails spectacularly. the two scars he lets you kiss each night before bed. his beautiful, expressive eyes. you’re not desperate enough to say you miss gojo-sensei. not yet. but you’re getting there.

you print out photos with your polaroid camera. one of the cat. one of the dumplings. the flowers. your paintings. the books. and finally—inevitably—a photo of yourself. you in his favorite red hoodie, the one that’s soft and stretched out and smells like him no matter how many times you wash it. it’s yours now. he saw you in it once and never asked for it back. you slip the pictures and the four-page letter into a thick yellow envelope. the next morning, you stop by the tiny convenience store in town. you find some spicy nori snacks, a box of matcha pocky. add them in. seal it. you drop it off at the post office without ceremony and go on with your day. 

that night, you facetime. you don’t say anything about the package. he tells you how pretty you look. how lovely you are in his hoodie, flushed from a day in the garden. his voice is soft, reverent, like he’s seeing a dream and doesn’t want to wake up. you threaten to hang up the call. he grins and moves on. tells you about the new bruise on his arm—courtesy of gojo’s bright idea to use a basketball during baseball practice. he swung, connected, and got flattened by the rebound. you shake your head. you miss him. but honestly, you're glad you’re not at gojo’s house. a couple of days later, a package arrives on gojo’s doorstep. 

it hits him like summer sun on bare skin—sudden, bright, and a little overwhelming. the package shows up one lazy afternoon, thick air curling through the open windows of gojo’s place. the cicadas are loud. there’s something sweet in the air, like peaches or sun-warmed grass. gojo drops it on the kitchen counter like it weighs nothing, flipping through a magazine as he says, offhandedly, “hey. something came in from okinawa.”

fushiguro, halfway through slicing into a watermelon, raises an eyebrow. “who do you know from there?” but yuuji’s already moving—no, tripping over the side of the couch like it’s trying to keep him from the counter. a graceless tumble. he doesn’t care. because he knows. you. it’s from you. that’s who he knows in okinawa. that’s who he’s been thinking about every minute of every day since you left.

the package is plain. no stickers, no doodles. you’re not sentimental like that. but yuuji opens it like it’s made of glass, like the contents inside are too precious for fast hands. his fingers shake a little. inside, a few things sit nestled gently together, and suddenly his throat is tight. spicy nori. he’s never had it, but you must’ve remembered that. he’d mentioned it once—months ago, maybe. a craving, a curiosity. you remembered. matcha pocky. his favorite. he stares at it for a moment, like maybe if he looks long enough, it’ll explain how you know him so well it makes his chest ache.

and then photos. they look random. but he knows they’re not. they’re fragments of your days. slivers of moments he wasn’t there for. a garden. a messy dumpling attempt. a painting. a cat. he doesn’t need the stories behind them. it’s enough that you sent them. that you wanted him to see. and then—the one that knocks the wind out of him. you. at your desk. wearing his red hoodie and your pajama pants. your hair down, natural, soft the way he always tells you he loves it. you're making a little face at the camera—cheeky, just barely a smirk. like you knew if you didn’t include a photo of yourself, he’d pout about it for a week. and you were right. he would’ve. but now you’ve gone and outsmarted him again. now he’s staring down at this picture like it holds the answer to every question he’s ever asked about love.

finally—finally—he notices the letter. four pages, all in your handwriting. folded with a kind of neatness that’s distinctly you. he reads it too fast the first time, eyes skipping, hungry for everything. has to go back, start again, slow down. some of it he’s heard before, through facetime. little updates. passing mentions. but there’s so much more here. so much softness. so much you. he laughs out loud when you mention watching human earthworm 3 with your sisters. “they hated it,” you wrote. "I loved every second.” he presses a hand to his chest. god, he wishes he’d been there. you write about listening to his favorite song during one of your runs. you say it felt like he was there with you. and he can’t even handle how his stomach flips at that—like the laws of space and time bend for a second just to let him be close to you.

you mention your hair again. how when you’re not constantly out on missions, you can finally take the time to wash it and let it do its thing. he’d noticed, of course. could tell from the photo. but the fact that you thought to explain it to him? that you wanted him to know? he has to stop reading for a second. his vision’s gone a little blurry. because this letter—it’s not flowery. it’s not full of declarations or clichés. it’s not romantic in the way some people would call romantic. but it’s a love letter. god, it is. it’s so you. attentive. specific. steady. you miss him, and you say so. but more than that—you see him. you know him. and you care. deeply. completely. without needing to shout it. he reads the last line three times over before he can breathe again. "I love you, yuuji ♡”

he presses the letter to his chest and lets his head fall back against the couch. he’s quiet for a long moment. the summer breeze ruffles the corner of the letter. someone says something in the other room—maybe gojo, maybe fushiguro—but yuuji doesn’t hear it. his whole world, right now, is inside that envelope. and you’re not even trying. that’s the thing that wrecks him. you’re just being yourself.

he calls you immediately—eyes still suspiciously glassy, voice slightly too upbeat.

"umm, what is thisss?" he says, holding the opened package up to the camera like you might not recognize it. “you’re way too nice, baby. this is literally the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

you blink at him, chewing a piece of ice absentmindedly. "what is?"

"this!" he rattles the package, then points dramatically to the letter like it’s a handwritten declaration of sainthood.

"oh. that?” you say, frowning. “that was nothing.”

you’d honestly forgotten you sent it.

it had taken you half an hour to throw together. less than 1000 yen. you’d picked up the snacks while buying shampoo. you’d stuck in the letter because the envelope felt too light. you’d printed the picture because you figured he’d whine otherwise. it wasn’t much.

but he’s gushing. twenty whole minutes. you can barely get a word in. he’s complimenting your handwriting like it’s calligraphy. he’s pointing out specific phrases from the letter and repeating them back to you in a dreamy voice. he’s asking if the cat from your run has a name yet.

eventually you settle into your usual facetime routine—quiet, warm, full of long pauses that don’t feel empty. your mother calls you down for dinner. normally, you’d say goodbye and hang up.

but tonight, you don’t.

you just…carry him with you. down the stairs, to the kitchen. your sisters have already eaten. your plate is waiting for you under cling wrap in the fridge. you heat it up, sit at the counter, and start eating with the phone propped against the sugar canister.

you barely say anything for the first five minutes. just the soft clinking of utensils, the occasional sigh.

“do you want me to leave you be?” yuuji asks gently.

you look up, surprised. “no. I don’t want to eat by myself.”

it’s not a big declaration. you say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

but to yuuji, it might as well be a marriage proposal.

because he remembers you two years ago. the girl who used to apologize for having freckles. who stiffened at compliments. who lived curled up in the corners of her dorm like a ghost. and now you want to share your dinner with him across two time zones.

he doesn’t say any of that. he just smiles and goes to grab his own food. he makes fushiguro come eat too, plates already lukewarm from gojo’s microwave. he sets the phone in the center of the table like a centerpiece.

you ask megumi how he’s doing. if he’s ready to kill gojo yet.

"I am always ready to kill gojo,” he deadpans. but it’s half-hearted. you all know the truth.

you talk about what you want to do when you’re back on campus. yuuji lights up.

“let’s add kugisaki to the call!”

you do. she’s annoyed at first, claims she’s busy. but she stays. and suddenly it feels like another night in the dorms. like you're not scattered across japan, separated by obligation and summer heat. for a little while, it just feels like home.

—

the next day, yuuji sets out to write you back. he opens to the first page with the same energy he once reserved for exam questions or curse exorcism strategies. serious business. except…he struggles. a lot. your letter was perfect. it had felt effortless. this? this is like trying to write a poem in a thunderstorm.

but once he stops trying to match you, and starts writing like himself, everything spills out. he writes about the baseball-basketball hybrid gojo invented. (“it’s dumb. I'm obsessed. we play everyday.”) he tells you how he and megumi tried to cook that soup recipe you mentioned. he describes the exact moment the fire alarms went off and how gojo’s first words when walking into the smoky mess were “you guys better not be cooking something healthy.” he tells you about the kyoto girl megumi is clearly in love with, and how you need to help orchestrate something. “maybe he can trick her into dating him. worked for me.” he thanks you for the spicy nori. “it was amazing. buy some more. facetime me when you try it!” he compliments your hair. rants about it, really. summer humidity is a miracle, and your hair is living proof. he asks for pictures of the ocean. says you must be able to see it from your family’s house, or at least on your morning run. says he wants more pictures of your paintings—especially the pink unicorn one your sister did, which he describes as “abstract and terrifying and amazing.” he asks for more pictures of you, too. “one is a total disservice. I deserve at least five. maybe ten.”

and then, because it feels right, he says it. over and over again. I love you. I love you. I love you. the words tumble out. not in some neat little line, but smeared across paragraphs, tucked between snack reviews and bad doodles. they’re everywhere. just like he is. just like you are, in his world. the letter is a mess. his handwriting is a disaster. ink is smudged. words are misspelled. there are crossed-out sentences and strange margin notes. he’s doodled a weird little version of you in his hoodie with stars around your head. he’s drawn a cat that looks more like a potato. he loves it. he knows you’ll love it too.

he doesn’t have a polaroid, which is tragic. he makes a note to buy one. but he still manages to include something tangible—a couple bags of tea from gojo’s pantry that he’s pretty sure you’ll like. (if not, you’ll bully him, and he’s fine with that.) he puts hearts all over the envelope. big ones. lopsided ones. he considers sealing it with a kiss, then decides that’s weird, then does it anyway. he sends it off the next morning. and with it, he sends the part of him that hasn’t stopped missing you since the second you left.

it spirals, gloriously, hilariously, heart-wrenchingly from there. the rest of the summer becomes an exchange of laughter folded into letters, fingerprints smudged onto snack packages, love woven into bubble wrap and twine. you trade days the way people trade baseball cards. one sweet little offering at a time.

yuuji sends you candy bars from the corner store with scribbled notes like “tastes weird. tell me if I'm crazy.” he includes half-baked recipes clipped from magazines, fully aware he’ll never pull them off. you try them. you lie and say they’re amazing. (“don’t worry, I didn’t burn the soup. unlike some people.”) you send him a miniature basketball plushie because he will not shut up about gojo’s cursed frankenstein sport. he opens the package like it’s a sacred relic, then immediately facetimes you to introduce it to the world. “this is mikey. he’s our son now.” he gives it a place of honor on his pillow. fushiguro scoffs and sighs for a full ten minutes. you make matching bracelets. twine and a little metal charm you found at a beach stand. you keep one. mail the other. he acts like he made it, flashing it dramatically on every facetime call. “check out this artisan craftsmanship.” you let him have it.

one afternoon, you call and he’s asleep. megumi answers, caught somewhere between suspicion and resignation. the air between you two is awkward, delicate. you don’t say much. until you grin and say, “go get a permanent marker.” megumi blinks. then smirks. yuuji wakes up to a full mural on his cheek and something profane scrawled across his forehead. he groans, squinting into the camera. but you're cackling. megumi’s barely holding it together. he can’t be mad. not even a little. he receives more pictures from you. candid, sleepy, sunlit. some with your sisters, some with your fingers half-covering the lens. one of you holding a seashell to your ear like a dork. he sets them on his nightstand in the guest room like they’re family heirlooms. sometimes he looks at them before bed and just whispers, “you’re so cool,” like a man cursed by affection.

he makes you explain your hair routine in painstaking detail. wants brand names. ratios. “like, how wet is your hair when you use the curl cream?” he’s convinced that if he studies your methods, his hair will someday be as majestic. you’re losing your mind. he’s so serious about it. it’s infuriating. you love it. he sends you postcards from tokyo with captions like “wish you were here (i mean you practically live here but still)”. you keep them all in a shoebox under your bed. there’s already too many to count. you start watching movies “together.” he’ll call, and you’ll sync up your streaming services like you’re detonating a bomb. “3...2...1...play.” the audio never lines up perfectly. the subtitles sometimes glitch. but it doesn’t matter. you talk through the whole thing anyway.

and it’s...gross. sickening, even. soft and sappy and too gentle for a world that rarely is. but it’s yours. built slowly, lovingly, from nothing more than stamps and signal bars and the occasional haunted snack box. and it matters. because you didn't used to believe in this kind of thing. and yuuji—yuuji believed in you even when you didn't believe in yourself. he made room for you. made space for this. for love. for warmth. for something that doesn’t sting when it touches you.

he still misses you, of course. but it’s different now. not aching and hollow. it’s…sweet. soft around the edges. like the kind of longing you get for a favorite song, or the smell of your mom’s cooking when you’re away. he thinks about you every morning. every night. every time he passes that stupid unicorn drawing or tightens the bracelet on his wrist. he misses you. but he’s grateful to miss you. because missing you means he has you. and that is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

—

he’s jittery. he’s always jittery, sure, but this is different. yuuji’s not just bouncing his leg—he’s halfway to vibrating out of his skin. the entire bullet train ride he’s cracking knuckles, chewing on the corner of his lip, refreshing your last text like it might suddenly change and say “surprise! I'm here early! come get me now!” it doesn’t. you said your train left at 3:00am. brutal. typical you—always the cheap ticket, always the one who makes do without complaint. you don’t mind early mornings or sore backs. he minds for you. his ride is short. unfairly so. which means he gets to be alone in his dorm for a few hours with all this energy and nowhere to put it. he bugs kugisaki within twenty minutes of unpacking. fushiguro? emotionally exhausted, allegedly. but yuuji knows better. fushiguro loved hanging out with him this summer. he’ll never say it, but he’ll miss yuuji’s endless talking, his stupid pool games, his bad movie taste. they’ll both pretend otherwise.

yuuji’s a livewire. can’t sit still. he finally channels it into decorating, if you can call it that. every picture you mailed him gets stuck on the wall in a wild, crooked constellation—no rhyme or reason, just instinct and affection. the letter drawer gets a place of honor in his nightstand, already worn from being opened and reread too many times. then he gets mischievous. he grabs mikey, the plush basketball, and heads to your dorm. he’s plotting. you’ll come in later and find the plush sitting on your pillow, possibly with a dramatic note about “co-parenting.”

he knocks, ready to annoy kugisaki into letting him in. but the door swings open—and it’s you. you, with that sly, soft look on your face, like you know exactly what you’ve done. "I was waiting for you to come up here,” you say. “wasn’t sure you would.” liar. your train hadn’t left at 3:00am. you’d found a late-night deal, and you took it.  you’d been here since last night.

and yuuji? he short-circuits. he doesn’t freeze—yuuji itadori never freezes—but he ignites. he barrels through the doorway like a storm surge, lifts you off your feet, spins you around like some cheesy k-drama protagonist who’s waited thirteen weeks for this moment. (which he has.) he tucks his face into your neck and inhales. he missed this—your perfume, your shampoo, your skin. he missed you. his lips find every freckle like they’re dots on a map he’s finally coming home to. he squishes your cheeks in his palms and baby-talks at you like he’s trying to imprint your face onto his soul. which, to be fair, he probably is.

you endure it with only mild suffering. arms loose around his shoulders. a soft grumble of, “okay, okay, yuuji…” but you don’t pull away. when he finally sets you down, your hands come up—gentle—and you press your lips to the matching scars on either side of his eyes. a habit now. something quiet and reverent, like you’re acknowledging everything he’s been through without saying a word. then you look at him. just…look. wide, steady eyes. hair undone. that calm, quiet sort of smile that he’s never been able to resist. "I missed you too, yuuji.” 

and that’s it. that’s the sentence that breaks the dam. he’s kissing you again, not even properly—just barely-there little pecks over your cheeks, your temple, your hands, your eyelids, whispering things like “you’re so pretty, holy crap,” and “I'm so lucky, I'm so stupid lucky,” and "I love you, I love you, I love you.”

you’re calm. he doesn’t know how. he’s been vibrating with anticipation for thirteen weeks and you’re just…serenely unpacking, like he didn’t just get metaphorically hit by a train. but that’s who you are. steady. quiet. warm in a way that sneaks up on him. he decides, right then, next summer he’s going with you. nakijin or bust. you don’t argue. you just nod. he wraps around you like ivy as you organize your desk. follows you like a puppy while you reset your dorm. it’s not hot—there’s a breeze drifting through the cracked window, and a hint of fall in the air. soon there will be class schedules and curfews and missions and real life.

but for now, it’s this. just this. warmth and laughter and the smell of your perfume on his shirt. and sometimes—just sometimes—when things settle again and days start to pass like normal, yuuji finds himself missing what it felt like to miss you. because even that was beautiful. even that was yours.

[carlislefiles]

my shayla, my pookie baby, my first fic 😭😭❤️🥹

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.

[carlislefiles]

.....how would y'all feel...if I.....hypothetically posted something that wasn't really an organized, actual fic.....but was actually just like 20k words of nanami and his black cat!girlfriend......is that something we think we might maybe potentially want???....or would y'all like it better if I actually like....turned it into a real fic and gave it a plotline and some direction....be honest!! it would include a reader that would have a specific personality, just so you know. like I've still written it in second person pov, self-insert style, but she's got her own stuff goin on if that makes sense.

[carlislefiles]

reblog for the late-night crowd, enjoy <3

meet not-so-cute | fushiguro toji, fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►sorcery aside, how might you two meet? what organic ways do you cross paths? and how long will he allow this little meet-cute to go on before he asks you out? 6.7k words

a/n: hello!!! this was actually a request I got in my inbox and I had a lot of fun writing it, so thank you anon :] super fun idea, I thought. I included more characters than I usually do because a lot of the headcanons are shorter than usual. I kind of lost the plot with some of these. meet cute is kind of an umbrella term that I loosely followed for these headcanons. one day, I should go more in depth into my writing process with these, but basically, I usually try and make them as individualistic as possible, so each character feels like it's own oneshot. I did still try to do that with this, but I tried not to focus too much on length. I wanted these to be short and sweet. hope you like them <3 warnings: mentions of murder/death, cussing, kissing, use of my singularly detested term "y/n."

megumi thrived in the university library. three evenings a week, like clockwork, he clocked in at 4:00 and out at 9:00. no noise, no drunk roommates, no sweaty basement parties—just the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of old paper. it was quiet. predictable. he liked that. he didn’t like much else about university. the loudmouths, the frat boys, the posturing. but the library? the dewey decimal system? that was his sanctuary.

he’d seen all kinds pass through. coughing stem majors who hadn’t slept in three days, loud econ guys using the back tables to scam freshman girls into dates, study groups that dissolved into tinder swiping. occasionally someone genuinely cool wandered in, someone who treated the books with care, read for pleasure, maybe even respected the quiet rule. but those people were rare.

which is why you stood out. he was mid-shelving—a tattered copy of the brothers karamazov in hand, scowling because who the hell willingly read dostoevsky in college—and then there was your voice. “is that the brothers karamazov?” he blinked and turned. you stood a few feet away, clutching your backpack strap like you’d been walking the aisles for a while.

“uh,” he glanced at the cover. “yeah. it is.”

you lit up. lit up. “I've been looking for that forever! I thought it was checked out or something.” and then you were smiling at him—really smiling—and he was malfunctioning.

“uh—yeah, it was. but it’s back now. I mean—obviously.” he handed it to you before his brain could sabotage him any further. you took it like it was a gift from the gods.

“thank you,” you said, so sincerely it made his heart squeeze. “seriously.”

he opened his mouth to say something, anything clever or smooth, but what came out was: “you’re welcome.” flat. useless. he was great at this. you wandered off before he could embarrass himself more, and he stood there for a moment longer than necessary, trying not to look like he’d just seen a mythological creature. it should have ended there, but it didn’t.

he finished shelving the rest of his cart and was heading back up front when he saw you again, tucked into a table in the back corner. a warm cup of tea beside you. laptop open but ignored. three books sprawled out: two obviously your own, littered with tabs and notes and your handwriting in the margins. but the one in your lap? that was the brothers karamazov. you were flipping through it like it was the most engrossing thing on earth. your glasses were slipping down your nose. you pushed them up absently. you looked soft. focused. smart.

megumi refilled his cart and wandered toward your table under the flimsy excuse of returning some books nearby. how had he never seen you before? he lived here. he breathed this place. and yet—you were new. fresh. gorgeous. he slowed his walk, pretending to skim the titles on his cart as he passed you. he saw the pen twitching in your hand as you hesitated over the library book. “you can—you can write in it, you know?” he said quietly, hoping he didn’t sound like a total creep.

you looked up, startled. then you smiled. “isn’t that considered vandalism?”

he gave the smallest smile back. "I won’t tell.”

you laughed, and megumi felt something uncoil in his chest. like maybe he wasn’t going to die alone after all. “I'm y/n,” you said, casually. “you work here?”

“yeah,” he replied, straightening a little. “megumi.”

“nice to meet you, megumi,” you said, and he nearly floated off the floor. you chatted. about the book. your major (literature, he was right). the annoying freshmen who always talked too loud. it was easy. natural. he didn’t feel like an awkward lump of bones for once.

then your phone buzzed. you glanced at it and winced. “shoot, I've got a meeting. I gotta go.” he nodded, trying not to look visibly crushed. “I'll be back tomorrow, though,” you said, smiling again. "I like it here.” you left with the book hugged to your chest, and megumi spent the next hour thinking about ways to casually die and be reborn as someone cool.

the next day, he wasn’t supposed to work. but his coworker, yuuta, owed him a favor, and megumi was suddenly very motivated to collect. you walked in right on time. cardigan today. worn jeans. hair up, soft tendrils falling around your face. you looked like you belonged in the pages of the very novels you read. effortlessly poetic.

megumi had gone full nerd. he’d pulled a few other books from the stacks—ones he thought you’d like. similar authors, maybe some translations. he told himself it was just good customer service. he caught your eye and walked over, awkwardly offering the books like a cat dropping a dead bird at someone’s feet.

you beamed. “you brought me more?”

he shrugged, face heating. “thought you might like them.”

you motioned to the seat across from you. “well then. you should stay and tell me which one to read first.” he sat. you talked. again. books and music and weird professors and the best study spots on campus. it was casual and fun and somehow flirty in a way that didn’t make him want to crawl into a hole. you were honest. kind. ridiculously smart. he was trying not to fall in love on the spot.

eventually, you glanced up from your tea. “so, megumi,” you said slowly. “you ever hang out outside the library?”

he blinked. “sometimes?”

you laughed. “would you want to? like—with me?”his brain short-circuited. but his mouth worked faster. “yeah. yeah, I'd like that.” you smiled, and he liked that.

toji knew this hit was going to be a bitch. rich politician. high-end steakhouse. twice as many bodyguards as brains. shiu had warned him—these weren’t the type of guys you take out clean. no, they came with backup, surveillance, and bulletproof everything. but toji wasn’t losing to a security system. he was losing to a guy built like a refrigerator. they’d gone two rounds already. the alley behind the restaurant was littered with blood, broken glass, and toji’s pride. this last bodyguard was a tank—fast, brutal, and apparently immune to concussions. toji wasn’t about to admit defeat, but the bruises forming on his ribs were saying otherwise.

he was about to cut his losses, pull a classic “abort and call shiu like a little bitch” move, when—crack. the sound was sharp and final. something heavy slammed into the back of the guard’s skull. he dropped. toji hit the ground too—knees giving out, breath ragged, knife still clenched in his fist.

you were standing over him. tall. calm. a black bodysuit clinging to you like shadow. hair pulled back. tire jack still raised in your hands like you’d done this before. like this wasn’t even your first alleyway knockout of the evening. toji blinked up at you, bloody and blinking, heart pounding from the fight—or maybe not just the fight. “…huh.”

you arched a brow. “that all you’ve got to say?”

"I usually have a better opener, but I'm concussed,” he grunted, propping himself up on one elbow.

your eyes dropped to the blood on his shirt. “looks like more than a concussion.”

he smirked. “still breathing, aren’t i?”

you didn’t laugh, but something about your mouth twitched. like you were tempted to. like you’d enjoy it if he kept talking. “you alright?” you asked, voice too casual for the situation.

“peachy.”

“good.” you turned away. “because I'm not carrying you.”

he let out a short laugh—painful, but real. “didn’t realize I was your type.”

“you’re not.” that shut him up.

but not in a bad way. no, it lit something up behind his ribs. he liked women who could kill him—liked them more when they didn’t fawn or fuss. you were the opposite of delicate. you didn’t even offer him a hand. toji leaned against the alley wall, watching you disappear through the side entrance like smoke. you didn’t look back.

by the time he made it to the other side, limping and pissed, the hit was done. clean. efficient. bullet to the skull in the bathroom. silenced. silent. he was halfway to sulking in the shadows when you emerged again—cool and composed, slipping a pistol into your waistband like you’d just clocked out of a shift at the office.

the client was already waiting, briefcase in hand. “name?” you didn’t hesitate. you tell him. he hands over the money. toji clenched his jaw. six figures. gone. and then—you brushed past him. no smug grin, no lingering glance. just a whisper of perfume and your fingers ghosting briefly over his chest.

he didn’t even register it at first. just stared after you as you vanished into the night like you belonged to it. three minutes later, he was slouched in the passenger seat of shiu’s car, grumbling and cursing and trying to find a position that didn’t make his ribs scream. “you look like shit,” shiu said, not looking up from the road.

“feel worse.” toji shifted—and felt something odd in his inner pocket. he fished it out. thick envelope. heavy. inside: the cash. most of it. he stared. then pulled out the folded slip of paper tucked beside the bills.

shiu whistled. “guess someone felt sorry for you.”

“you know her?” he asked, casually. too casually.

shiu shrugged. “seen her around. heard good things. tell me if she’s looking for work—I'd hire her in a heartbeat.” toji didn’t answer.

later that night, after the stitches and the cursing and the bottle of whiskey, he found out where you lived. two days later, half the cash was back in your mailbox—stuffed in an unmarked envelope. along with a slip of paper of his own. toji. xxx-xxx-xxxx.

the next morning, you found it. you rolled your eyes. smirked. called the number. “hope you’re not just looking for a thank-you,” you said.

on the other end of the line, toji’s voice was rough and amused. “nah. I'm asking if you’re free friday. wear something that won’t get blood on it.” cute. in a criminal sort of way.

gojo satoru was beloved. that was just a fact. teachers liked him because he was smarter than he let on. students adored him because he was charming, funny, and hot enough to make skipping class feel worthy of the punishment. waitresses at his regular spots knew his order, his quirks, his usual table. baristas at the corner café? knew him by name and drink.

which was why, when the to-go cup handed to him tasted like battery acid and death, he blinked. “what the hell—” he muttered, peeking into the cup. black coffee. no sugar. no cream. just three shots of death with ice.

he turned back to the counter just as you stepped up. hoodie sleeves too long, voice soft as you said: “sorry, I think there was a mix-up. this…isn’t mine.”

he took you in with one glance. pretty. like really pretty. the kind of pretty that made his brain go a little sideways. “actually,” he said, stepping up beside you, flashing a grin like it belonged on a billboard, "I think I've got your drink.”

you turned your head, eyes wide. blinked up at him. that was when it hit him. you weren’t giggling. or playing with your hair. or leaning into the flirtation. you looked…startled. a little confused. blushing, yeah—but more out of discomfort than delight.

“I'm so sorry,” you said, placing the actual sugary masterpiece he’d ordered back on the counter and pushing the black coffee his way. "I didn’t even look. that’s on me.” it wasn’t. he knew it wasn’t. but you were still taking the blame like it was second nature. his gaze flicked to a lone backpack at a corner table. your table.

“well,” he said, picking up both drinks, “seems like fate wants us to chat.” you looked horrified. and then he was walking, sliding into the seat across from your things before you could protest. you hesitated. stared. but eventually followed. sat slowly, unsure. gojo leaned his chin into his hand, sipping his coffee—your coffee—and pretending not to wince. “this is evil,” he said conversationally. “are you okay? do you hate yourself?” you didn’t laugh. just looked at him, expression flat.

conversation came easy for him. he asked about your major. your music taste. your hair routine. the specific reason you were drinking a war crime in a cup. your skincare. your favorite color. how you felt about pancakes. you answered with as few syllables as possible. you weren’t shy—you just didn’t care. you weren’t flattered. you weren’t amused. you weren’t impressed. 

it drove him insane. because gojo was used to being liked. he was used to being the sun, and people orbiting him with giddy smiles and heart eyes. but you? you had no orbit. you had gravity. heavy and still and unmoved. you didn’t need to be charmed. you weren’t looking for anything. least of all him. he loved that.

after the twentieth question in under five minutes, you set your pen down. “what’s your goal here?” you asked bluntly. “are you just really bored or something? because I don’t have time for this.”

gojo blinked. grinned wider. “let me take you out.”

you stared. “like…on a date?”

“mm-hmm.”

“why?”

“because you’re beautiful, clearly immune to my overwhelming appeal, and I like a challenge.” he lifts your cup. “I'll take you somewhere they serve things better than this war crime in a cup. there's this place uptown—prix fixe, white tablecloths, the whole shebang.” he gives you the name of the restaurant he has in mind. 

you blink again. “dinner at that place costs more than my laptop.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I'll cover it.”

you raised your eyebrows. “there’s zero chemistry here.”

“you think so?” he asked, cocking his head. “because I feel a spark.”

“there’s no spark.”

“there will be,” he said confidently. “eventually. you’ll see.”

“no,” you say, quick. not sharp, but not hesitant either. “no, thank you.”

there’s a beat. a breath. he deflates—not dramatically, just slightly. like he expected it. like this was how it was always going to go. “fair enough,” he says. he leans back in his chair, looks up at the café lights with something too soft for someone wearing sunglasses indoors. then he looks at you again. “I'll be here tomorrow. same time. I'll get your drink. still think it’s gross, though.”you huff—almost a laugh, almost—and stand. you don’t say yes. you don’t say no. and gojo watches you walk out like he’s watching a star slip below the horizon. because maybe you didn’t want his fancy dinner. but you still might want him. and he’s got time.

it starts with a dare. a dumb one. your friends are three shots in and bloodthirsty for chaos. loser has to kiss a stranger. that’s the rule. you lose. you pick someone fast—because thinking about it too long will make you chicken out—and the first person you lock eyes with is a boy in a grey hoodie, laughing with friends near the kitchen. he's cute. sweet-faced. his smile looks like sunshine distilled. takuma, your friends tell you his name is. 

you walk over. "hey," you say, tapping his arm gently. "weird question. can I kiss you?"

he blinks. "huh?"

"I lost a bet," you explain, already wincing. "and the consequence is kissing a stranger. you’re very cute. but I totally get it if you don’t want to—"

"no, no—it’s okay!" he blurts, eyes wide and pink creeping up his neck. "I mean—uh. sure. if you're okay with it."

you grin. “okay. I'll be quick.” except you’re not. because as soon as your hands fist in the front of his hoodie and you pull him down, it spirals fast. the kiss is hot. messy. decidedly not pg. someone somewhere yells for you to “get a room!” and then laughs fade into static as your mouth moves against his.

he tastes like mint and strawberry soda. his lips part and yours follow. he grips your waist like he might float off otherwise. it lasts a lot longer than fifteen seconds. when you pull back, you’re breathless. his eyes are glassy. you smile—bashful now. “thanks,” you say quietly. and then you’re gone, swept back into the crowd like a fever dream.

takuma doesn’t even catch your name. but he thinks about you constantly. your perfume haunts him. warm, floral, clings to the fabric of his hoodie like ghostly fingers. he wears the same sweatshirt three days in a row. maki notices. “seriously?” she asks on day four, watching takuma sniff his sleeve like a lovesick freak. “you kissed one stranger. let it go.”

“I'm trying,” takuma mutters, curled on the couch. “it’s not working.”

he replays it in his head at least twice an hour. the way your lip caught between his. the breathy little sound you made. the way you smiled—soft and kind, like you were shy even after that feral, earth-shattering kiss. he’s down bad. and he knows it.

the next weekend, there’s another party. takuma throws it, mostly because he’s hoping, maybe…and there you are. in a different outfit, with different friends, but unmistakably you. you see him before he sees you, and when your eyes meet, you freeze. like a deer caught mid-escape. then you’re stumbling over.

“oh my god,” you say. “hi. I—I didn’t know this was your apartment again. I didn’t mean to just like—last week—if that was weird or—”

takuma shakes his head fast. “it wasn’t weird. at all. I mean, it surprised me, but, uh. in a good way.”

you pause. blink. “really?”

“really,” he says. then, braver: “I've actually been hoping I'd run into you again.”

your breath catches. “oh.”

“and, um,” he adds, scratching the back of his neck, “if you're not doing anything tonight, maybe we could actually hang out? like talk. you know. with our mouths off each other.”

you laugh, cheeks warm. “yeah. I'd like that.”

you spend the whole night on the couch together, feet tucked up, drink forgotten on the side table. he asks you everything—your major, your favorite movie, whether you like cats or dogs more, whether you’ve always been this quiet.

you remind him of nanami. a little guarded. thoughtful. reserved. not cold, just self-contained. but unlike megumi, you don’t scoff at everything hopeful. you listen with wide eyes and small nods. takuma finds himself talking more than usual, because you actually make him feel heard. and you surprise him, too. you say dry, clever things that make him snort into his cup. you have this crooked smile that sneaks out when you least expect it.

he’s officially toast. by the end of the night, he doesn’t want to say goodbye. “so…” he says, hands nervously wringing together. “would you wanna go out sometime? like a real date. somewhere I can impress you.”

you raise an eyebrow. “are you planning on kissing me again?” you say, as if you weren’t the one who kissed him in the first place. 

"I mean—only if you want—”

you laugh. "I was hoping you would.”takuma’s face goes red. he beams. “then yeah. I'd really like that.” and he means it. he likes you, a lot. and he’s already planning ways to prove it.

shiu’s on his way to work. not the kind of work that comes with a suit and 401k. the kind that involves shady offices, burner phones, and blood in the back seat if fushiguro doesn’t show up on time. he’s either heading downtown to his dingy little hideout or sitting curbside waiting for a client to bring the kind of mess no one else wants to clean up.

he doesn’t see exactly how it happens. one second he’s turning at a green light, and the next a shiny black tesla is gunning it across two lanes like it’s trying to break the sound barrier. and then—crash. metal. glass. crunch. his car takes the brunt of it. slams into the tesla, and somehow still clips you too.

he jerks forward with the impact. the seatbelt leaves a nasty burn across his chest. his baby—hot rod, his beautiful, custom-tuned, low-riding sweetheart—is groaning from the front end. hood buckled. front bumper dangling. engine coughing like it’s on its last breath. he’s pissed. he’s out of the car before the airbags deflate, already stalking toward the tesla like he’s going to drag the driver out through the window.

but then—you're already there. apologizing. repeatedly. like it was your fault. and the asshole in the tesla is loving it. he’s rubbing his neck, already prepping for the insurance scam, and smirking down at you like you’re a wounded puppy. “it’s alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, all fake charm and condescension.

shiu sees red. he steps in, all six-foot-something of muscle and rage, shoves tesla guy back with a hand to the chest. “you kidding me?” he snaps. “she wasn’t at fault here. you blew the light. you were speeding.”

tesla guy protests, something about his neck and a green light. shiu silences him with a glare. he knows his type—slick, greasy, and probably calls his mother’s maid “toots.” not happening. meanwhile, your car’s got a scratch and a ding, tops. his car? getting towed away in pieces. and still—you’re turning to him, soft and apologetic, offering your insurance info like you had anything to be sorry for.

he grabs your arm, not rough, but firm. directs you gently but unmistakably away from the mess. “don’t apologize,” he says, voice low. “not to that dickhead. you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you blink up at him, startled. he really gets a good look at you for the first time. you’re…pretty. real pretty. a little disheveled from the crash, still in work clothes. kind, clearly, even to people who don’t deserve it. that kind of kindness doesn’t survive long in his world. “you headed somewhere?” you ask, glancing at the wreckage of his car as it’s hooked to the tow.

“work,” he says, automatically.

“want a ride?” you offer. "I just got off a night shift. I'm free.”

he hesitates. his line of work isn’t…civilian-friendly. but you don’t need to know what’s behind the unmarked door he’s getting dropped off at. it’s just a ride. no big deal. and besides—he doesn’t like the thought of letting you disappear just yet. so he accepts.

it’s been a long time since shiu kong has ridden shotgun. but your car? it’s spotless. immaculate. it smells like you—floral, soft, sweet in a way that clings. the steering wheel is pink. there’s a little plush charm hanging from the mirror. it’s all so not his style. but he likes it anyway. you drive with one hand on the wheel and the windows cracked. talk a little, laugh quietly. you don’t ask too many questions. he likes that.

then your car pulls into his lot. you hesitate. the building is sketchy. unmarked. windows tinted, graffiti peeling. a place people walk past fast with their heads down. you glance at it, then at him. but you don’t ask. you just say, “want me to come back and get you when you’re done?” he stares at you for a moment. surprised. you don’t know him. you don’t owe him.

but you’re looking at him like you want him. like you see him—and you’re not scared. or maybe you should be, and that just makes him want you more. he shakes his head. “won’t be necessary. I'll have the car thing handled tonight.” shiu without a car is like a shark without teeth. just wrong.

but before he gets out, he pauses. glances at you, hand on the door handle. “give me your number,” he says.

you blink. “what for?”

he shrugs, casual. “just ‘cause I don’t need a ride…doesn’t mean I don’t wanna see you again.” you smile. kind. a little wary. but you hand over your number anyway. and shiu kong, criminal consultant and part-time getaway driver, walks into his back-alley office already planning when he’s going to call you.

nanami works in finance. suits. deadlines. numbers that won't stop blinking at him. hiromi higuruma’s law firm shares the building. their companies partner often—legal and financials always tangled—and nanami’s walked the same halls as their employees more times than he can count.

you, though. you’re new. he’s seen you a few times. usually with your nose buried in a stack of paperwork, always moving with purpose. paralegal, he’d guess. he catches snippets—your name in passing, your voice on late-night calls echoing through the stairwell. you’re polite, focused. never unkind, but busy. too busy to notice anyone else. which is fine. he prefers to observe anyway.

it's late. the building is near-empty. everyone’s gone home except the usual suspects—higuruma still holed up in his office across the hall, nanami finalizing projections with an exhausted sigh, and you, curled up on the floor of the breakroom surrounded by documents, legal pads, and a cold, half-eaten sandwich. a storm rages outside. not just rain—sheets of it. thunder that rattles the glass. nanami packs up around 9:45. he pulls on his coat, briefcase in hand, and steps into the hallway right as you do.

you’ve got your hood pulled up and your tote bag slung over one shoulder. he nods at you out of habit. polite. respectful. his hand already on the door handle when he sees you hesitate, peering through the glass at the torrential rain. you sigh. adjust your coat. mumbling something about the mile-long walk to the station. nanami pauses. “pardon me,” he says, voice even. “are you headed toward the station?”

you look up at him, surprised. “yeah. I'm just hoping I don’t get struck by lightning on the way there.”

he doesn’t laugh. but the corner of his mouth quirks. “I'm parked out back. I'd be happy to offer you a ride.”

you hesitate. he sees it. but your eyes soften as you take him in: the tailored coat, the neat briefcase, the calm, steady presence of a man who never raises his voice and always holds the elevator door. “…you sure?” you ask. "I don’t want to be a bother.”

“it would bother me more,” he says, “to watch you walk through that storm.”

you blink. then smile. small. grateful. “alright. thanks.” he leads you to his car—a sleek, black luxury sedan. immaculate interior. smells faintly of cedar and clean laundry. he opens the passenger door for you, of course. it’s quiet for a moment once you're inside. the rain patters against the roof like static. you glance around, a little sheepish. “nice car.”

“it gets me where I need to go.”

“still. very…bond villain of you.”

that earns a ghost of a smile. “hopefully less villainous.”

you chat lightly on the way. he learns that you're not from the city. that you’re working while putting yourself through night classes. that you're tired—he can see that—but proud. you ask him what it is he actually does, because finance sounds like a broad umbrella.

he tells you. you listen. actually listen. it’s simple. it’s nothing. but it’s been a long time since someone has looked at him like you do. interested, engaged, without a trace of performance. he pulls into the station, and for a second neither of you moves. “thanks again,” you say, finally unbuckling your seatbelt.

“of course.” then you’re gone. rushing through the rain toward the platform, hood up again. nanami watches you go, hand still on the gearshift, mind curiously quiet.

but after that night, nanami is…resolved. he’d like to get you back in his car. but this time, for dinner. somewhere quiet. classy. you in a nice dress, him with his sleeves rolled to the forearms. maybe afterward, he’d take you to that little dessert café he only ever goes to on sundays. maybe, eventually, he’d take you home. not just a ride. a night. a morning after.

the thought surprises him. the intensity of it more than anything. he doesn’t act on impulse. never has. but he asks hiromi about you—just once. casually. hiromi doesn’t buy it for a second. “you?” he says, raising a brow. “since when do you flirt?”

"I wasn’t flirting.”

hiromi laughs. “alright. sure.” nanami doesn’t respond. but he’s thinking about you again before he even leaves the office.

two weeks pass. late nights. brief glances. passing hellos. it doesn’t rain again—until it does. a quiet friday, near closing time. thunder rolling in low and steady like a warning. he finishes his work deliberately late. watches the sky darken through the high windows. waits. and when you appear in the lobby, your coat too thin and no umbrella in sight, he’s already there. already standing beside you. already holding the door open with quiet expectation.

“it’s raining again,” he says. "I can give you a ride.”

you blink up at him, surprised. “oh—really? that would be… really nice, actually. thank you.”

you step into the car, brushing water from your sleeves. he turns the heat on a little higher, makes sure your seat warmer is on. you compliment the vehicle absently—something about how it smells nice, or how clean it is—and he simply says thank you. he says he’d be happy to drive you home, not just to the station. you assure him he doesn’t have to. he insists. 

the drive is mostly quiet. comfortable. your voice cuts through every now and then, soft and curious. you ask about the building he works in, if he likes the coffee on the third floor, how long he’s known hiromi. normal questions. friendly ones.

and nanami, steady as ever, answers all of them. carefully. thoughtfully. when he pulls up in front of your apartment, you start unbuckling, murmuring another round of gratitude. but before you go, he says, without looking over, “I'd like to see you outside the office sometime. if that’s something you’d be open to.”

there’s a pause. a small, confused silence. “like—help with something for work?”

his hand stills on the steering wheel. “no,” he says. “just dinner. if you’d like.”

you stare at him for a second. then smile, a little sheepish. “oh. um. sure. yeah, that sounds…nice.”

nanami nods once. keeps his expression neutral. but after you close the door and disappear into your building, he lets out a quiet breath—just a little longer than necessary—and smiles, just a little softer than usual.

sukuna doesn’t usually wander the human world. it's tedious. soft. full of noise and smell and weak little creatures with short lives and even shorter memories. but today, he’s feeling… strange. restless. so he ends up in a museum, which is somehow worse and better at the same time—like walking through a graveyard of things he already buried.

he’s passing through a wing on ancient warfare when he hears your voice. “—and this particular design was popularized during the late kamakura period, though its origins likely trace back to—”

“that’s incorrect,” sukuna says flatly.

you glance over at him. “I'm sorry?”

he steps closer, hands tucked into the sleeves of his coat, eyes scanning the blade behind the glass. “the craftsmanship. that curve. the hamon. it predates kamakura.”

you arch a brow. “well, most scholars disagree.”

he shrugs. “they’re wrong.”

you smile tightly. “and how would you know?”

"I was there.”

there’s a pause. then you laugh, a single breath through your nose. “you were there. in the thirteenth century.”

“earlier.”

you blink. “right.”

he doesn’t elaborate. you don’t ask. the middle schoolers you’re touring shuffle awkwardly, sensing something off, and you keep moving with a practiced ease. sukuna follows. silently, at first. then he speaks again when you pause in front of a replica scroll. “that’s not how it looked.”

you sigh. “let me guess. you were there, too?” you think you’re playing into some theatrical joke. of course he wasn’t there…right? right? 

he hums. “not there. but I remember who drew it.”

you give him a sideways look. “well, if I'm getting all of this wrong, feel free to take over.”

"I would, but your delivery’s not terrible.” you don’t realize that’s a compliment. you just nod, like you’ve decided he’s one of those eccentrics who know a lot and talk a lot more. 

the kids leave, eventually. ushered out by a second staff member. but sukuna stays. you glance back and find him still behind you, hands clasped, eyes sweeping the room. “you’re not part of the tour,” you say.

“I'm aware.”

“then why are you still here?”

he shrugs again. “nothing better to do.” that’s not true. he’s killed for less boredom than this. but you…you’re interesting. not because you’re beautiful, though you are. not because you’re clever, though you are. but because you’re confident. steady. you stand in front of him like you don’t realize what he is—or maybe like you don’t care. either way, it fascinates him. 

you make another offhand remark about a historical treaty and he corrects you again. it’s barely even a correction. just a detail. a preference. he knows you’re not wrong. he just likes disagreeing with you. you glance over, amused now. “do you have a degree in this or something?”

“something like that.”

you roll your eyes, good-natured. “well, if you are a reincarnated warrior from a thousand years ago, you could at least be a little less smug about it.” he doesn’t smile. doesn’t correct you. you’re only human. maybe ninety years if you're lucky. you don’t know what it means to be alive forever. you wouldn’t believe him if he told you. so he doesn’t. he reigns himself in.

“what’s your name?” you ask eventually, still half-suspicious. he lies. gives you a simple one. something borrowed. you nod. “well, thanks for the impromptu history critique, I guess.”

“I'll be back,” he says, almost without meaning to.

you snort. “try not to heckle the next time.”

he watches you walk away—back through the staff hallway, badge clipped to your belt, keys jingling in your hand. he watches the way the museum lights flicker just slightly as you pass. he reminds himself that he doesn’t like humans. but maybe you’re not like most. 

he returns two days later. lingers near the entrance like a shadow. you notice him immediately, lips twitching in some combination of fondness and exasperation. “you again?” you say, meeting him halfway.

“you never corrected the kamakura exhibit,” he replies.

you roll your eyes. “let me guess. still wrong?”

he nods. then, after a beat: “there’s another museum. less modern. more...accurate. you should see it.”

you hesitate, trying to gauge if this is another one of his strange quirks or an actual invitation. “you want to take me to a museum?” you ask.

“to set the record straight,” he says. “nothing else.”

nothing else. not the way he wants to see how you light up when you talk about things you love. not the way your voice sounds when you're unsure but keep speaking anyway. not the way he could maybe—just maybe—show you things no one else can.

you tilt your head. “alright. but if you start arguing with the exhibits again, I'm leaving you in the feudal era.” he doesn’t smile. not quite. but his eyes burn a little brighter.

yuuji waltzes into the er like it’s a casual wednesday. arm bleeding, shirt clinging to his skin, and a cocky little grin that’s doing a poor job of masking the fact that he’s very much in pain and maybe just a little dizzy. he did not mean to get this hurt. he also did not mean to walk into the trauma bay and immediately fall in love.

but there you are. clipboard in hand, blue scrubs, hair tied up, calm as a monk. you glance up at him and blink like, oh great, another idiot. and yuuji? he’s a goner. full-body, soul-leaving-the-chat goner. you’re beautiful. so beautiful it makes his teeth hurt. like, he thinks he might be bleeding more just to get your attention a little longer. and you’re cool. collected. you haven’t even smiled once and he already wants to marry you.

“looks deep,” you murmur, taking his vitals. your hands are gentle. professional. efficient. you don’t even flinch at the mess of his arm.

he tries to play it cool. “yeah,” he says. “you should see the other guy.” you don’t laugh. not even a pity smile. okay. fair. he’s bombing. but he can recover. 

you pull on gloves and start prepping the tray. “you need stitches. a lot of them.”

“sweet,” he says, because his brain is goo and he doesn’t know how to talk to pretty girls when he’s not also actively leaking blood. “do you do this often?”

you glance at him again, dry. “stitch people? it’s kind of my job.” right. yes. obviously. cool cool cool.

he shuts up for a bit while you clean the wound, staring at the ceiling and trying not to faint. from blood loss. or how close your face is. either/or. she has really nice eyes, he thinks. is that creepy? probably. don’t say anything about her eyes, man. don’t do it. don’t be that guy. you lean in closer to check his pupils with a tiny penlight, and yuuji’s stomach flutters like he swallowed a whole nest of butterflies. he can feel your breath on his cheek. smell your shampoo. his brain whites out for a second.

“you feeling lightheaded?” you ask, scribbling something down.

yes. because you exist. “nope. all good,” he croaks.

you’re stitching now. he winces. “sorry,” you murmur.

“no, no. it’s cool. you’re doing amazing. like, if I ever get injured again—which statistically I probably will—could I request you?” you glance at him like you're not sure if he’s joking. he is. but also, he’s not. and then he starts blatantly staring at you while you work. he can’t help it. he’s trying to memorize your face. commit this moment to memory. you in your element, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed in a way that makes his chest hurt.

you finish the last stitch and start taping gauze. “all done,” you say.

already? he sits up too fast and wobbles. you steady him with one hand. he’s in love. “do I get a sticker or something?” he asks, a little dazed.

you raise a brow. “do you want a sticker?”

“I'd keep it forever.” and there it is—a tiny laugh. barely a breath. but it counts. it’s the greatest sound he’s ever heard. he wants it as a ringtone. you start typing something into the chart on the monitor, clearly wrapping up, and yuuji panics. fast. “actually, uh—wait. I think I'm still a little lightheaded.”

you pause, peer over your shoulder. “you stood up fine.”

“yeah, but like, internally. I'm dizzy. maybe nauseous. blurry vision. could be internal bleeding.”

you squint. “from a forearm laceration?”

he nods, very serious. “anything’s possible. medical mysteries happen all the time.”

you sigh, come back over with your stethoscope. “alright, dr. house. let’s check you again.” he lets you, thrilled to be buying more time. you check him. everything’s normal. his pulse is a little fast, but that might be from the way you're touching his wrist. “ino,” you say slowly. “you’re fine.”

"I might throw up,” he tries.

“you won’t.”

he pouts. “can’t I just like…hang out here for a bit? make sure I don’t collapse outside?”

your lips twitch. “the waiting room’s that way.”

he winces. “so cold.” you’re already back at the chart again, wrapping things up for real this time. and now he’s desperate. time’s running out. so he blurts, “do you wanna maybe go out sometime?” silence. you glance at him over your shoulder, amused. exasperated. fond, somehow.

you don’t say yes. but you don’t say no, either. just shake your head, smiling despite yourself. and when he’s walking out of the er, still a little loopy, he’s already planning how he might maybe get injured again next week. nothing major. just…a mild concussion. or a broken finger. something small. just enough to see you.

[carlislefiles]

i don't see much stuff of Shiu being written and if it is it's just smut THANK YOU FOR WRITING HIM LIKE THIS 😭

ahh yess!!!! I agree so hard :/ no hate to my smut-lovin friends but sometimes I just wanna do taxes and fold laundry with my man :]

[carlislefiles]

haiiiiii!!!!! I see you write for yuuji in a lot of ur headcanons and I love the way you write him!! I would absolutely devour any yuuji fic you wanted to write 🥹🥹 no pressure though, I love reading the headcanons too!

eeeek!!! this is so fun that you asked this because I've been cooking up something for a yuuji fic for a while now 🤗🤗 this is tomorrow's post!!

[carlislefiles]

meet not-so-cute | fushiguro toji, fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►sorcery aside, how might you two meet? what organic ways do you cross paths? and how long will he allow this little meet-cute to go on before he asks you out? 6.7k words

a/n: hello!!! this was actually a request I got in my inbox and I had a lot of fun writing it, so thank you anon :] super fun idea, I thought. I included more characters than I usually do because a lot of the headcanons are shorter than usual. I kind of lost the plot with some of these. meet cute is kind of an umbrella term that I loosely followed for these headcanons. one day, I should go more in depth into my writing process with these, but basically, I usually try and make them as individualistic as possible, so each character feels like it's own oneshot. I did still try to do that with this, but I tried not to focus too much on length. I wanted these to be short and sweet. hope you like them <3 warnings: mentions of murder/death, cussing, kissing, use of my singularly detested term "y/n."

megumi thrived in the university library. three evenings a week, like clockwork, he clocked in at 4:00 and out at 9:00. no noise, no drunk roommates, no sweaty basement parties—just the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of old paper. it was quiet. predictable. he liked that. he didn’t like much else about university. the loudmouths, the frat boys, the posturing. but the library? the dewey decimal system? that was his sanctuary.

he’d seen all kinds pass through. coughing stem majors who hadn’t slept in three days, loud econ guys using the back tables to scam freshman girls into dates, study groups that dissolved into tinder swiping. occasionally someone genuinely cool wandered in, someone who treated the books with care, read for pleasure, maybe even respected the quiet rule. but those people were rare.

which is why you stood out. he was mid-shelving—a tattered copy of the brothers karamazov in hand, scowling because who the hell willingly read dostoevsky in college—and then there was your voice. “is that the brothers karamazov?” he blinked and turned. you stood a few feet away, clutching your backpack strap like you’d been walking the aisles for a while.

“uh,” he glanced at the cover. “yeah. it is.”

you lit up. lit up. “I've been looking for that forever! I thought it was checked out or something.” and then you were smiling at him—really smiling—and he was malfunctioning.

“uh—yeah, it was. but it’s back now. I mean—obviously.” he handed it to you before his brain could sabotage him any further. you took it like it was a gift from the gods.

“thank you,” you said, so sincerely it made his heart squeeze. “seriously.”

he opened his mouth to say something, anything clever or smooth, but what came out was: “you’re welcome.” flat. useless. he was great at this. you wandered off before he could embarrass himself more, and he stood there for a moment longer than necessary, trying not to look like he’d just seen a mythological creature. it should have ended there, but it didn’t.

he finished shelving the rest of his cart and was heading back up front when he saw you again, tucked into a table in the back corner. a warm cup of tea beside you. laptop open but ignored. three books sprawled out: two obviously your own, littered with tabs and notes and your handwriting in the margins. but the one in your lap? that was the brothers karamazov. you were flipping through it like it was the most engrossing thing on earth. your glasses were slipping down your nose. you pushed them up absently. you looked soft. focused. smart.

megumi refilled his cart and wandered toward your table under the flimsy excuse of returning some books nearby. how had he never seen you before? he lived here. he breathed this place. and yet—you were new. fresh. gorgeous. he slowed his walk, pretending to skim the titles on his cart as he passed you. he saw the pen twitching in your hand as you hesitated over the library book. “you can—you can write in it, you know?” he said quietly, hoping he didn’t sound like a total creep.

you looked up, startled. then you smiled. “isn’t that considered vandalism?”

he gave the smallest smile back. "I won’t tell.”

you laughed, and megumi felt something uncoil in his chest. like maybe he wasn’t going to die alone after all. “I'm y/n,” you said, casually. “you work here?”

“yeah,” he replied, straightening a little. “megumi.”

“nice to meet you, megumi,” you said, and he nearly floated off the floor. you chatted. about the book. your major (literature, he was right). the annoying freshmen who always talked too loud. it was easy. natural. he didn’t feel like an awkward lump of bones for once.

then your phone buzzed. you glanced at it and winced. “shoot, I've got a meeting. I gotta go.” he nodded, trying not to look visibly crushed. “I'll be back tomorrow, though,” you said, smiling again. "I like it here.” you left with the book hugged to your chest, and megumi spent the next hour thinking about ways to casually die and be reborn as someone cool.

the next day, he wasn’t supposed to work. but his coworker, yuuta, owed him a favor, and megumi was suddenly very motivated to collect. you walked in right on time. cardigan today. worn jeans. hair up, soft tendrils falling around your face. you looked like you belonged in the pages of the very novels you read. effortlessly poetic.

megumi had gone full nerd. he’d pulled a few other books from the stacks—ones he thought you’d like. similar authors, maybe some translations. he told himself it was just good customer service. he caught your eye and walked over, awkwardly offering the books like a cat dropping a dead bird at someone’s feet.

you beamed. “you brought me more?”

he shrugged, face heating. “thought you might like them.”

you motioned to the seat across from you. “well then. you should stay and tell me which one to read first.” he sat. you talked. again. books and music and weird professors and the best study spots on campus. it was casual and fun and somehow flirty in a way that didn’t make him want to crawl into a hole. you were honest. kind. ridiculously smart. he was trying not to fall in love on the spot.

eventually, you glanced up from your tea. “so, megumi,” you said slowly. “you ever hang out outside the library?”

he blinked. “sometimes?”

you laughed. “would you want to? like—with me?”his brain short-circuited. but his mouth worked faster. “yeah. yeah, I'd like that.” you smiled, and he liked that.

toji knew this hit was going to be a bitch. rich politician. high-end steakhouse. twice as many bodyguards as brains. shiu had warned him—these weren’t the type of guys you take out clean. no, they came with backup, surveillance, and bulletproof everything. but toji wasn’t losing to a security system. he was losing to a guy built like a refrigerator. they’d gone two rounds already. the alley behind the restaurant was littered with blood, broken glass, and toji’s pride. this last bodyguard was a tank—fast, brutal, and apparently immune to concussions. toji wasn’t about to admit defeat, but the bruises forming on his ribs were saying otherwise.

he was about to cut his losses, pull a classic “abort and call shiu like a little bitch” move, when—crack. the sound was sharp and final. something heavy slammed into the back of the guard’s skull. he dropped. toji hit the ground too—knees giving out, breath ragged, knife still clenched in his fist.

you were standing over him. tall. calm. a black bodysuit clinging to you like shadow. hair pulled back. tire jack still raised in your hands like you’d done this before. like this wasn’t even your first alleyway knockout of the evening. toji blinked up at you, bloody and blinking, heart pounding from the fight—or maybe not just the fight. “…huh.”

you arched a brow. “that all you’ve got to say?”

"I usually have a better opener, but I'm concussed,” he grunted, propping himself up on one elbow.

your eyes dropped to the blood on his shirt. “looks like more than a concussion.”

he smirked. “still breathing, aren’t i?”

you didn’t laugh, but something about your mouth twitched. like you were tempted to. like you’d enjoy it if he kept talking. “you alright?” you asked, voice too casual for the situation.

“peachy.”

“good.” you turned away. “because I'm not carrying you.”

he let out a short laugh—painful, but real. “didn’t realize I was your type.”

“you’re not.” that shut him up.

but not in a bad way. no, it lit something up behind his ribs. he liked women who could kill him—liked them more when they didn’t fawn or fuss. you were the opposite of delicate. you didn’t even offer him a hand. toji leaned against the alley wall, watching you disappear through the side entrance like smoke. you didn’t look back.

by the time he made it to the other side, limping and pissed, the hit was done. clean. efficient. bullet to the skull in the bathroom. silenced. silent. he was halfway to sulking in the shadows when you emerged again—cool and composed, slipping a pistol into your waistband like you’d just clocked out of a shift at the office.

the client was already waiting, briefcase in hand. “name?” you didn’t hesitate. you tell him. he hands over the money. toji clenched his jaw. six figures. gone. and then—you brushed past him. no smug grin, no lingering glance. just a whisper of perfume and your fingers ghosting briefly over his chest.

he didn’t even register it at first. just stared after you as you vanished into the night like you belonged to it. three minutes later, he was slouched in the passenger seat of shiu’s car, grumbling and cursing and trying to find a position that didn’t make his ribs scream. “you look like shit,” shiu said, not looking up from the road.

“feel worse.” toji shifted—and felt something odd in his inner pocket. he fished it out. thick envelope. heavy. inside: the cash. most of it. he stared. then pulled out the folded slip of paper tucked beside the bills.

shiu whistled. “guess someone felt sorry for you.”

“you know her?” he asked, casually. too casually.

shiu shrugged. “seen her around. heard good things. tell me if she’s looking for work—I'd hire her in a heartbeat.” toji didn’t answer.

later that night, after the stitches and the cursing and the bottle of whiskey, he found out where you lived. two days later, half the cash was back in your mailbox—stuffed in an unmarked envelope. along with a slip of paper of his own. toji. xxx-xxx-xxxx.

the next morning, you found it. you rolled your eyes. smirked. called the number. “hope you’re not just looking for a thank-you,” you said.

on the other end of the line, toji’s voice was rough and amused. “nah. I'm asking if you’re free friday. wear something that won’t get blood on it.” cute. in a criminal sort of way.

gojo satoru was beloved. that was just a fact. teachers liked him because he was smarter than he let on. students adored him because he was charming, funny, and hot enough to make skipping class feel worthy of the punishment. waitresses at his regular spots knew his order, his quirks, his usual table. baristas at the corner café? knew him by name and drink.

which was why, when the to-go cup handed to him tasted like battery acid and death, he blinked. “what the hell—” he muttered, peeking into the cup. black coffee. no sugar. no cream. just three shots of death with ice.

he turned back to the counter just as you stepped up. hoodie sleeves too long, voice soft as you said: “sorry, I think there was a mix-up. this…isn’t mine.”

he took you in with one glance. pretty. like really pretty. the kind of pretty that made his brain go a little sideways. “actually,” he said, stepping up beside you, flashing a grin like it belonged on a billboard, "I think I've got your drink.”

you turned your head, eyes wide. blinked up at him. that was when it hit him. you weren’t giggling. or playing with your hair. or leaning into the flirtation. you looked…startled. a little confused. blushing, yeah—but more out of discomfort than delight.

“I'm so sorry,” you said, placing the actual sugary masterpiece he’d ordered back on the counter and pushing the black coffee his way. "I didn’t even look. that’s on me.” it wasn’t. he knew it wasn’t. but you were still taking the blame like it was second nature. his gaze flicked to a lone backpack at a corner table. your table.

“well,” he said, picking up both drinks, “seems like fate wants us to chat.” you looked horrified. and then he was walking, sliding into the seat across from your things before you could protest. you hesitated. stared. but eventually followed. sat slowly, unsure. gojo leaned his chin into his hand, sipping his coffee—your coffee—and pretending not to wince. “this is evil,” he said conversationally. “are you okay? do you hate yourself?” you didn’t laugh. just looked at him, expression flat.

conversation came easy for him. he asked about your major. your music taste. your hair routine. the specific reason you were drinking a war crime in a cup. your skincare. your favorite color. how you felt about pancakes. you answered with as few syllables as possible. you weren’t shy—you just didn’t care. you weren’t flattered. you weren’t amused. you weren’t impressed. 

it drove him insane. because gojo was used to being liked. he was used to being the sun, and people orbiting him with giddy smiles and heart eyes. but you? you had no orbit. you had gravity. heavy and still and unmoved. you didn’t need to be charmed. you weren’t looking for anything. least of all him. he loved that.

after the twentieth question in under five minutes, you set your pen down. “what’s your goal here?” you asked bluntly. “are you just really bored or something? because I don’t have time for this.”

gojo blinked. grinned wider. “let me take you out.”

you stared. “like…on a date?”

“mm-hmm.”

“why?”

“because you’re beautiful, clearly immune to my overwhelming appeal, and I like a challenge.” he lifts your cup. “I'll take you somewhere they serve things better than this war crime in a cup. there's this place uptown—prix fixe, white tablecloths, the whole shebang.” he gives you the name of the restaurant he has in mind. 

you blink again. “dinner at that place costs more than my laptop.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I'll cover it.”

you raised your eyebrows. “there’s zero chemistry here.”

“you think so?” he asked, cocking his head. “because I feel a spark.”

“there’s no spark.”

“there will be,” he said confidently. “eventually. you’ll see.”

“no,” you say, quick. not sharp, but not hesitant either. “no, thank you.”

there’s a beat. a breath. he deflates—not dramatically, just slightly. like he expected it. like this was how it was always going to go. “fair enough,” he says. he leans back in his chair, looks up at the café lights with something too soft for someone wearing sunglasses indoors. then he looks at you again. “I'll be here tomorrow. same time. I'll get your drink. still think it’s gross, though.”you huff—almost a laugh, almost—and stand. you don’t say yes. you don’t say no. and gojo watches you walk out like he’s watching a star slip below the horizon. because maybe you didn’t want his fancy dinner. but you still might want him. and he’s got time.

it starts with a dare. a dumb one. your friends are three shots in and bloodthirsty for chaos. loser has to kiss a stranger. that’s the rule. you lose. you pick someone fast—because thinking about it too long will make you chicken out—and the first person you lock eyes with is a boy in a grey hoodie, laughing with friends near the kitchen. he's cute. sweet-faced. his smile looks like sunshine distilled. takuma, your friends tell you his name is. 

you walk over. "hey," you say, tapping his arm gently. "weird question. can I kiss you?"

he blinks. "huh?"

"I lost a bet," you explain, already wincing. "and the consequence is kissing a stranger. you’re very cute. but I totally get it if you don’t want to—"

"no, no—it’s okay!" he blurts, eyes wide and pink creeping up his neck. "I mean—uh. sure. if you're okay with it."

you grin. “okay. I'll be quick.” except you’re not. because as soon as your hands fist in the front of his hoodie and you pull him down, it spirals fast. the kiss is hot. messy. decidedly not pg. someone somewhere yells for you to “get a room!” and then laughs fade into static as your mouth moves against his.

he tastes like mint and strawberry soda. his lips part and yours follow. he grips your waist like he might float off otherwise. it lasts a lot longer than fifteen seconds. when you pull back, you’re breathless. his eyes are glassy. you smile—bashful now. “thanks,” you say quietly. and then you’re gone, swept back into the crowd like a fever dream.

takuma doesn’t even catch your name. but he thinks about you constantly. your perfume haunts him. warm, floral, clings to the fabric of his hoodie like ghostly fingers. he wears the same sweatshirt three days in a row. maki notices. “seriously?” she asks on day four, watching takuma sniff his sleeve like a lovesick freak. “you kissed one stranger. let it go.”

“I'm trying,” takuma mutters, curled on the couch. “it’s not working.”

he replays it in his head at least twice an hour. the way your lip caught between his. the breathy little sound you made. the way you smiled—soft and kind, like you were shy even after that feral, earth-shattering kiss. he’s down bad. and he knows it.

the next weekend, there’s another party. takuma throws it, mostly because he’s hoping, maybe…and there you are. in a different outfit, with different friends, but unmistakably you. you see him before he sees you, and when your eyes meet, you freeze. like a deer caught mid-escape. then you’re stumbling over.

“oh my god,” you say. “hi. I—I didn’t know this was your apartment again. I didn’t mean to just like—last week—if that was weird or—”

takuma shakes his head fast. “it wasn’t weird. at all. I mean, it surprised me, but, uh. in a good way.”

you pause. blink. “really?”

“really,” he says. then, braver: “I've actually been hoping I'd run into you again.”

your breath catches. “oh.”

“and, um,” he adds, scratching the back of his neck, “if you're not doing anything tonight, maybe we could actually hang out? like talk. you know. with our mouths off each other.”

you laugh, cheeks warm. “yeah. I'd like that.”

you spend the whole night on the couch together, feet tucked up, drink forgotten on the side table. he asks you everything—your major, your favorite movie, whether you like cats or dogs more, whether you’ve always been this quiet.

you remind him of nanami. a little guarded. thoughtful. reserved. not cold, just self-contained. but unlike megumi, you don’t scoff at everything hopeful. you listen with wide eyes and small nods. takuma finds himself talking more than usual, because you actually make him feel heard. and you surprise him, too. you say dry, clever things that make him snort into his cup. you have this crooked smile that sneaks out when you least expect it.

he’s officially toast. by the end of the night, he doesn’t want to say goodbye. “so…” he says, hands nervously wringing together. “would you wanna go out sometime? like a real date. somewhere I can impress you.”

you raise an eyebrow. “are you planning on kissing me again?” you say, as if you weren’t the one who kissed him in the first place. 

"I mean—only if you want—”

you laugh. "I was hoping you would.”takuma’s face goes red. he beams. “then yeah. I'd really like that.” and he means it. he likes you, a lot. and he’s already planning ways to prove it.

shiu’s on his way to work. not the kind of work that comes with a suit and 401k. the kind that involves shady offices, burner phones, and blood in the back seat if fushiguro doesn’t show up on time. he’s either heading downtown to his dingy little hideout or sitting curbside waiting for a client to bring the kind of mess no one else wants to clean up.

he doesn’t see exactly how it happens. one second he’s turning at a green light, and the next a shiny black tesla is gunning it across two lanes like it’s trying to break the sound barrier. and then—crash. metal. glass. crunch. his car takes the brunt of it. slams into the tesla, and somehow still clips you too.

he jerks forward with the impact. the seatbelt leaves a nasty burn across his chest. his baby—hot rod, his beautiful, custom-tuned, low-riding sweetheart—is groaning from the front end. hood buckled. front bumper dangling. engine coughing like it’s on its last breath. he’s pissed. he’s out of the car before the airbags deflate, already stalking toward the tesla like he’s going to drag the driver out through the window.

but then—you're already there. apologizing. repeatedly. like it was your fault. and the asshole in the tesla is loving it. he’s rubbing his neck, already prepping for the insurance scam, and smirking down at you like you’re a wounded puppy. “it’s alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, all fake charm and condescension.

shiu sees red. he steps in, all six-foot-something of muscle and rage, shoves tesla guy back with a hand to the chest. “you kidding me?” he snaps. “she wasn’t at fault here. you blew the light. you were speeding.”

tesla guy protests, something about his neck and a green light. shiu silences him with a glare. he knows his type—slick, greasy, and probably calls his mother’s maid “toots.” not happening. meanwhile, your car’s got a scratch and a ding, tops. his car? getting towed away in pieces. and still—you’re turning to him, soft and apologetic, offering your insurance info like you had anything to be sorry for.

he grabs your arm, not rough, but firm. directs you gently but unmistakably away from the mess. “don’t apologize,” he says, voice low. “not to that dickhead. you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you blink up at him, startled. he really gets a good look at you for the first time. you’re…pretty. real pretty. a little disheveled from the crash, still in work clothes. kind, clearly, even to people who don’t deserve it. that kind of kindness doesn’t survive long in his world. “you headed somewhere?” you ask, glancing at the wreckage of his car as it’s hooked to the tow.

“work,” he says, automatically.

“want a ride?” you offer. "I just got off a night shift. I'm free.”

he hesitates. his line of work isn’t…civilian-friendly. but you don’t need to know what’s behind the unmarked door he’s getting dropped off at. it’s just a ride. no big deal. and besides—he doesn’t like the thought of letting you disappear just yet. so he accepts.

it’s been a long time since shiu kong has ridden shotgun. but your car? it’s spotless. immaculate. it smells like you—floral, soft, sweet in a way that clings. the steering wheel is pink. there’s a little plush charm hanging from the mirror. it’s all so not his style. but he likes it anyway. you drive with one hand on the wheel and the windows cracked. talk a little, laugh quietly. you don’t ask too many questions. he likes that.

then your car pulls into his lot. you hesitate. the building is sketchy. unmarked. windows tinted, graffiti peeling. a place people walk past fast with their heads down. you glance at it, then at him. but you don’t ask. you just say, “want me to come back and get you when you’re done?” he stares at you for a moment. surprised. you don’t know him. you don’t owe him.

but you’re looking at him like you want him. like you see him—and you’re not scared. or maybe you should be, and that just makes him want you more. he shakes his head. “won’t be necessary. I'll have the car thing handled tonight.” shiu without a car is like a shark without teeth. just wrong.

but before he gets out, he pauses. glances at you, hand on the door handle. “give me your number,” he says.

you blink. “what for?”

he shrugs, casual. “just ‘cause I don’t need a ride…doesn’t mean I don’t wanna see you again.” you smile. kind. a little wary. but you hand over your number anyway. and shiu kong, criminal consultant and part-time getaway driver, walks into his back-alley office already planning when he’s going to call you.

nanami works in finance. suits. deadlines. numbers that won't stop blinking at him. hiromi higuruma’s law firm shares the building. their companies partner often—legal and financials always tangled—and nanami’s walked the same halls as their employees more times than he can count.

you, though. you’re new. he’s seen you a few times. usually with your nose buried in a stack of paperwork, always moving with purpose. paralegal, he’d guess. he catches snippets—your name in passing, your voice on late-night calls echoing through the stairwell. you’re polite, focused. never unkind, but busy. too busy to notice anyone else. which is fine. he prefers to observe anyway.

it's late. the building is near-empty. everyone’s gone home except the usual suspects—higuruma still holed up in his office across the hall, nanami finalizing projections with an exhausted sigh, and you, curled up on the floor of the breakroom surrounded by documents, legal pads, and a cold, half-eaten sandwich. a storm rages outside. not just rain—sheets of it. thunder that rattles the glass. nanami packs up around 9:45. he pulls on his coat, briefcase in hand, and steps into the hallway right as you do.

you’ve got your hood pulled up and your tote bag slung over one shoulder. he nods at you out of habit. polite. respectful. his hand already on the door handle when he sees you hesitate, peering through the glass at the torrential rain. you sigh. adjust your coat. mumbling something about the mile-long walk to the station. nanami pauses. “pardon me,” he says, voice even. “are you headed toward the station?”

you look up at him, surprised. “yeah. I'm just hoping I don’t get struck by lightning on the way there.”

he doesn’t laugh. but the corner of his mouth quirks. “I'm parked out back. I'd be happy to offer you a ride.”

you hesitate. he sees it. but your eyes soften as you take him in: the tailored coat, the neat briefcase, the calm, steady presence of a man who never raises his voice and always holds the elevator door. “…you sure?” you ask. "I don’t want to be a bother.”

“it would bother me more,” he says, “to watch you walk through that storm.”

you blink. then smile. small. grateful. “alright. thanks.” he leads you to his car—a sleek, black luxury sedan. immaculate interior. smells faintly of cedar and clean laundry. he opens the passenger door for you, of course. it’s quiet for a moment once you're inside. the rain patters against the roof like static. you glance around, a little sheepish. “nice car.”

“it gets me where I need to go.”

“still. very…bond villain of you.”

that earns a ghost of a smile. “hopefully less villainous.”

you chat lightly on the way. he learns that you're not from the city. that you’re working while putting yourself through night classes. that you're tired—he can see that—but proud. you ask him what it is he actually does, because finance sounds like a broad umbrella.

he tells you. you listen. actually listen. it’s simple. it’s nothing. but it’s been a long time since someone has looked at him like you do. interested, engaged, without a trace of performance. he pulls into the station, and for a second neither of you moves. “thanks again,” you say, finally unbuckling your seatbelt.

“of course.” then you’re gone. rushing through the rain toward the platform, hood up again. nanami watches you go, hand still on the gearshift, mind curiously quiet.

but after that night, nanami is…resolved. he’d like to get you back in his car. but this time, for dinner. somewhere quiet. classy. you in a nice dress, him with his sleeves rolled to the forearms. maybe afterward, he’d take you to that little dessert café he only ever goes to on sundays. maybe, eventually, he’d take you home. not just a ride. a night. a morning after.

the thought surprises him. the intensity of it more than anything. he doesn’t act on impulse. never has. but he asks hiromi about you—just once. casually. hiromi doesn’t buy it for a second. “you?” he says, raising a brow. “since when do you flirt?”

"I wasn’t flirting.”

hiromi laughs. “alright. sure.” nanami doesn’t respond. but he’s thinking about you again before he even leaves the office.

two weeks pass. late nights. brief glances. passing hellos. it doesn’t rain again—until it does. a quiet friday, near closing time. thunder rolling in low and steady like a warning. he finishes his work deliberately late. watches the sky darken through the high windows. waits. and when you appear in the lobby, your coat too thin and no umbrella in sight, he’s already there. already standing beside you. already holding the door open with quiet expectation.

“it’s raining again,” he says. "I can give you a ride.”

you blink up at him, surprised. “oh—really? that would be… really nice, actually. thank you.”

you step into the car, brushing water from your sleeves. he turns the heat on a little higher, makes sure your seat warmer is on. you compliment the vehicle absently—something about how it smells nice, or how clean it is—and he simply says thank you. he says he’d be happy to drive you home, not just to the station. you assure him he doesn’t have to. he insists. 

the drive is mostly quiet. comfortable. your voice cuts through every now and then, soft and curious. you ask about the building he works in, if he likes the coffee on the third floor, how long he’s known hiromi. normal questions. friendly ones.

and nanami, steady as ever, answers all of them. carefully. thoughtfully. when he pulls up in front of your apartment, you start unbuckling, murmuring another round of gratitude. but before you go, he says, without looking over, “I'd like to see you outside the office sometime. if that’s something you’d be open to.”

there’s a pause. a small, confused silence. “like—help with something for work?”

his hand stills on the steering wheel. “no,” he says. “just dinner. if you’d like.”

you stare at him for a second. then smile, a little sheepish. “oh. um. sure. yeah, that sounds…nice.”

nanami nods once. keeps his expression neutral. but after you close the door and disappear into your building, he lets out a quiet breath—just a little longer than necessary—and smiles, just a little softer than usual.

sukuna doesn’t usually wander the human world. it's tedious. soft. full of noise and smell and weak little creatures with short lives and even shorter memories. but today, he’s feeling… strange. restless. so he ends up in a museum, which is somehow worse and better at the same time—like walking through a graveyard of things he already buried.

he’s passing through a wing on ancient warfare when he hears your voice. “—and this particular design was popularized during the late kamakura period, though its origins likely trace back to—”

“that’s incorrect,” sukuna says flatly.

you glance over at him. “I'm sorry?”

he steps closer, hands tucked into the sleeves of his coat, eyes scanning the blade behind the glass. “the craftsmanship. that curve. the hamon. it predates kamakura.”

you arch a brow. “well, most scholars disagree.”

he shrugs. “they’re wrong.”

you smile tightly. “and how would you know?”

"I was there.”

there’s a pause. then you laugh, a single breath through your nose. “you were there. in the thirteenth century.”

“earlier.”

you blink. “right.”

he doesn’t elaborate. you don’t ask. the middle schoolers you’re touring shuffle awkwardly, sensing something off, and you keep moving with a practiced ease. sukuna follows. silently, at first. then he speaks again when you pause in front of a replica scroll. “that’s not how it looked.”

you sigh. “let me guess. you were there, too?” you think you’re playing into some theatrical joke. of course he wasn’t there…right? right? 

he hums. “not there. but I remember who drew it.”

you give him a sideways look. “well, if I'm getting all of this wrong, feel free to take over.”

"I would, but your delivery’s not terrible.” you don’t realize that’s a compliment. you just nod, like you’ve decided he’s one of those eccentrics who know a lot and talk a lot more. 

the kids leave, eventually. ushered out by a second staff member. but sukuna stays. you glance back and find him still behind you, hands clasped, eyes sweeping the room. “you’re not part of the tour,” you say.

“I'm aware.”

“then why are you still here?”

he shrugs again. “nothing better to do.” that’s not true. he’s killed for less boredom than this. but you…you’re interesting. not because you’re beautiful, though you are. not because you’re clever, though you are. but because you’re confident. steady. you stand in front of him like you don’t realize what he is—or maybe like you don’t care. either way, it fascinates him. 

you make another offhand remark about a historical treaty and he corrects you again. it’s barely even a correction. just a detail. a preference. he knows you’re not wrong. he just likes disagreeing with you. you glance over, amused now. “do you have a degree in this or something?”

“something like that.”

you roll your eyes, good-natured. “well, if you are a reincarnated warrior from a thousand years ago, you could at least be a little less smug about it.” he doesn’t smile. doesn’t correct you. you’re only human. maybe ninety years if you're lucky. you don’t know what it means to be alive forever. you wouldn’t believe him if he told you. so he doesn’t. he reigns himself in.

“what’s your name?” you ask eventually, still half-suspicious. he lies. gives you a simple one. something borrowed. you nod. “well, thanks for the impromptu history critique, I guess.”

“I'll be back,” he says, almost without meaning to.

you snort. “try not to heckle the next time.”

he watches you walk away—back through the staff hallway, badge clipped to your belt, keys jingling in your hand. he watches the way the museum lights flicker just slightly as you pass. he reminds himself that he doesn’t like humans. but maybe you’re not like most. 

he returns two days later. lingers near the entrance like a shadow. you notice him immediately, lips twitching in some combination of fondness and exasperation. “you again?” you say, meeting him halfway.

“you never corrected the kamakura exhibit,” he replies.

you roll your eyes. “let me guess. still wrong?”

he nods. then, after a beat: “there’s another museum. less modern. more...accurate. you should see it.”

you hesitate, trying to gauge if this is another one of his strange quirks or an actual invitation. “you want to take me to a museum?” you ask.

“to set the record straight,” he says. “nothing else.”

nothing else. not the way he wants to see how you light up when you talk about things you love. not the way your voice sounds when you're unsure but keep speaking anyway. not the way he could maybe—just maybe—show you things no one else can.

you tilt your head. “alright. but if you start arguing with the exhibits again, I'm leaving you in the feudal era.” he doesn’t smile. not quite. but his eyes burn a little brighter.

yuuji waltzes into the er like it’s a casual wednesday. arm bleeding, shirt clinging to his skin, and a cocky little grin that’s doing a poor job of masking the fact that he’s very much in pain and maybe just a little dizzy. he did not mean to get this hurt. he also did not mean to walk into the trauma bay and immediately fall in love.

but there you are. clipboard in hand, blue scrubs, hair tied up, calm as a monk. you glance up at him and blink like, oh great, another idiot. and yuuji? he’s a goner. full-body, soul-leaving-the-chat goner. you’re beautiful. so beautiful it makes his teeth hurt. like, he thinks he might be bleeding more just to get your attention a little longer. and you’re cool. collected. you haven’t even smiled once and he already wants to marry you.

“looks deep,” you murmur, taking his vitals. your hands are gentle. professional. efficient. you don’t even flinch at the mess of his arm.

he tries to play it cool. “yeah,” he says. “you should see the other guy.” you don’t laugh. not even a pity smile. okay. fair. he’s bombing. but he can recover. 

you pull on gloves and start prepping the tray. “you need stitches. a lot of them.”

“sweet,” he says, because his brain is goo and he doesn’t know how to talk to pretty girls when he’s not also actively leaking blood. “do you do this often?”

you glance at him again, dry. “stitch people? it’s kind of my job.” right. yes. obviously. cool cool cool.

he shuts up for a bit while you clean the wound, staring at the ceiling and trying not to faint. from blood loss. or how close your face is. either/or. she has really nice eyes, he thinks. is that creepy? probably. don’t say anything about her eyes, man. don’t do it. don’t be that guy. you lean in closer to check his pupils with a tiny penlight, and yuuji’s stomach flutters like he swallowed a whole nest of butterflies. he can feel your breath on his cheek. smell your shampoo. his brain whites out for a second.

“you feeling lightheaded?” you ask, scribbling something down.

yes. because you exist. “nope. all good,” he croaks.

you’re stitching now. he winces. “sorry,” you murmur.

“no, no. it’s cool. you’re doing amazing. like, if I ever get injured again—which statistically I probably will—could I request you?” you glance at him like you're not sure if he’s joking. he is. but also, he’s not. and then he starts blatantly staring at you while you work. he can’t help it. he’s trying to memorize your face. commit this moment to memory. you in your element, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed in a way that makes his chest hurt.

you finish the last stitch and start taping gauze. “all done,” you say.

already? he sits up too fast and wobbles. you steady him with one hand. he’s in love. “do I get a sticker or something?” he asks, a little dazed.

you raise a brow. “do you want a sticker?”

“I'd keep it forever.” and there it is—a tiny laugh. barely a breath. but it counts. it’s the greatest sound he’s ever heard. he wants it as a ringtone. you start typing something into the chart on the monitor, clearly wrapping up, and yuuji panics. fast. “actually, uh—wait. I think I'm still a little lightheaded.”

you pause, peer over your shoulder. “you stood up fine.”

“yeah, but like, internally. I'm dizzy. maybe nauseous. blurry vision. could be internal bleeding.”

you squint. “from a forearm laceration?”

he nods, very serious. “anything’s possible. medical mysteries happen all the time.”

you sigh, come back over with your stethoscope. “alright, dr. house. let’s check you again.” he lets you, thrilled to be buying more time. you check him. everything’s normal. his pulse is a little fast, but that might be from the way you're touching his wrist. “ino,” you say slowly. “you’re fine.”

"I might throw up,” he tries.

“you won’t.”

he pouts. “can’t I just like…hang out here for a bit? make sure I don’t collapse outside?”

your lips twitch. “the waiting room’s that way.”

he winces. “so cold.” you’re already back at the chart again, wrapping things up for real this time. and now he’s desperate. time’s running out. so he blurts, “do you wanna maybe go out sometime?” silence. you glance at him over your shoulder, amused. exasperated. fond, somehow.

you don’t say yes. but you don’t say no, either. just shake your head, smiling despite yourself. and when he’s walking out of the er, still a little loopy, he’s already planning how he might maybe get injured again next week. nothing major. just…a mild concussion. or a broken finger. something small. just enough to see you.

[carlislefiles]

part two for this coming soon for everyone who asked :] glad y'all liked it!!!

domesticated | nanami kento ╰►nanami was born to be a husband—measured, attentive, impossibly good with his hands—but more than that, he was born to be your husband. he keeps a bullet journal, folds your laundry with surgical precision, and makes you tea just the way you like it. and as sure as you are that he’s perfect, he’s still determined to prove it to you, every single day. 7.3k words

a/n: a couple nights ago, I plagued my dash with thoughts of housewife!nanami and I will continue to do so forever and ever. if there are no nanami stans, I'm dead...but who am I kidding, there will always be nanami stans. gonna have to fight all of you for my man :[ also I'm thinking of doing a part two to this.....maybe like a sunday type vibe where reader has the day off....let me know your thoughts on that. warnings: embarrassing amounts of fluff, kissing, cussing, brief allusions to sex.

the alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. sharp. it always does. nanami never changed it, never wanted to. that hour—early, quiet, untouched—was his. a small thing, a leftover ritual from a life that used to feel like it belonged to someone else. once, it meant gritting his teeth, dragging himself into suits and subways and glass towers built by people who didn’t even know his name. another day. another spreadsheet. another serving of silent resignation to a world that didn’t care. it’s hard to believe he lived like that. harder still to believe he accepted it.

he doesn’t like to think much about the man he used to be before he met you. it’s not that he’s ashamed—he knows those years carved him into the man he is now. and now, well...now he’s yours. and that changes everything. because back then he was exhausted. hollowed out. sore in places he didn’t know could ache. and now...

now he’s something else entirely. now he’s a teddy bear stuffed with love and golden light. now he’s weightless, floating from room to room with no burden but joy. now he’s a sunbeam slicing through dusty blinds—warm, unhurried, soft at the edges. now he’s a worn sweatshirt straight out of the dryer. the favorite. the one that always gets picked. now he’s a breath finally released. a pause between footsteps. the part of the song that makes you close your eyes. now he’s a well-read book with creased spines and scribbled margins—flawed, loved, and endlessly reread.

he’s happy. deeply, undeniably happy. the kind of happiness he used to believe was just propaganda. nobody was really this content, were they? and yet. and yet. and yet. nanami kento is living proof.

he moves to shift under the blanket, but then he remembers: you’re here. pressed close. your arms looped around him, soft and certain. you’re holding him—again. and he lets you. he's always been a big spoon kind of man. still is sometimes. there’s something steadying about it, something protective. now though, he indulges you. indulges himself, too. years ago, maybe a younger version of him might’ve thought being held like this made him look weak. that version of him was a fool. now, being cradled by your smaller frame feels like the highest honor. a sacred trust.

he has irrational fears sometimes—irrational but persistent. little thoughts that creep in at 6:02 a.m. when the world is quiet enough to let them whisper. that maybe you’ll leave one day. for someone else. someone who knows your favorite candle scents without being told. someone who cooks your comfort foods without asking. someone who loves you the way nanami does. but those thoughts don’t last long. they can’t.

because every morning, no matter how you fell asleep or what kind of day you had, nanami wakes up like this: in your arms. somewhere in the middle of the night, without fail, you always roll over and reach for him. it’s never intentional. it’s never showy. it’s just instinct—your body choosing him over and over again. and it sparks something in him every single time. besides, nanami doesn’t think anyone else could love you like he can. not really. he’s made it his life’s work. his calling. and no one else gets to touch that.

you’re still asleep. peaceful. you’ll stay that way for at least another thirty minutes if he lets you. he always tries to. sometimes you stir, bleary-eyed and half-dreaming, whining for him to stay just a little longer. and every single time, he does. without hesitation. he’ll curl back around you, press slow kisses into your hairline, trace half-shapes against your back through the fabric of your sleep shirt.

he’ll watch you. just for a little while. just until the next breath, the next blink, the next alarm. because there is no word—no language—for the way he feels about you when the light is just beginning to bleed into the room and your arms are wrapped around him like he’s your home.

he would stay there forever. but duty calls. eventually, he has to slip out of your arms. you make a soft noise of protest in your sleep, half-whine, half-murmur, and he stills for a moment—just to watch your face settle back into peace. then he tugs on a worn t-shirt and pads downstairs, still in the pajama pants you love so much.

the infamous ones. the soft navy plaid pair, a little threadbare at the waistband, stretched just enough in all the right places. you claim they’re evil. you swear they cast a spell on you. you’ve clung to his back like a koala over them, muttered threats into his neck, taken full bites out of his shoulder muscle, a woman possessed. he claims he wears them because they’re comfortable. “worn in,” he says with a shrug. but the truth? nanami is a simple man. a man of taste. and if wearing a particular pair of pajama pants means you ogle him like he’s a limited edition photo card, then yes—he will wear them every damn morning for the rest of his life. is it so wrong to enjoy being desired by your wife?

he never really considered himself…attractive. he knew what he looked like. tall. built. decent face. good hair, on good days. but that wasn’t rare. plenty of men fit that description. what made him special? according to you? everything. you say he’s ‘the hottest man in the entire fucking world.’ and while nanami still finds that declaration hard to believe, your constant, shameless, adoring attention has slowly started to rewire something inside him. he doesn’t flinch at compliments anymore. doesn’t second-guess the way you look at him like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. he’s learning to believe it. to believe you.

the kitchen is still dark when he steps in, and he keeps it that way for the most part—only flicking on the light above the stovetop. you’re a deep sleeper, but he’s always careful. gentle. quiet. always respectful. the espresso machine kicks to life with a low whirr, a noise that would’ve startled you awake in the beginning. now? you’ve learned to tune it out. it’s part of the soundtrack of your mornings. a promise in mechanical form.

before nanami, your mornings were bleak. he knows. he’s seen the evidence. you used to crawl out of bed like it was punishment. pour bitter, watery coffee into a chipped mug and pretend it helped. eat a protein bar that tasted like packing material. maybe a questionable piece of fruit if you were feeling ambitious. lunch, if it existed, was often cold leftovers. a bag of chips. a vending machine soda. nanami clocked those bad habits early on. but it wasn’t until you lived together that he could finally do something about them.

now, breakfast is an event. your coffee is never just coffee—it’s the best thing you’ve tasted that day. every morning. he experiments. plays with flavors like he’s crafting love letters in liquid form. homemade blueberry syrup. chocolate cold foam. cinnamon and nutmeg dusted on top just the way you like. he’s memorized your preferences, your allergies, your little quirks. he rarely makes something you don’t like. not just because he’s perfect, but also because he pays attention.

most mornings, he keeps things simple—something warm, something satisfying, something you can eat quickly but meaningfully. a sit-down breakfast is non-negotiable. even on your busiest days, he insists on it. you protest sometimes. you’re in a rush. but he always slows you down. this morning, he’s feeling a little indulgent. leftover homemade butter. pancakes, fluffy and warm. chocolate spread. whipped cream. a handful of fresh berries arranged just so, like a café plate.

you’re going to whine. complain. say he went overboard again, that he doesn’t need to spoil you like this. that you would’ve been fine with toast. he won’t have it. spoiling you is his mission. his hobby. his calling. the high he chases every day. the utter bliss it gives him, knowing he's taking care of you and satisfying you, is like a narcotic. no, better than drugs. nobody even needs drugs, he thinks. they just need a wife. too bad he has the best one, huh?

he moves around the house like a whisper. clean. efficient. at ease. the space is warm, soft, lived-in. he decorated, of course. you squealed when you saw it—pointed out the little touches that screamed nanami. the minimalism, the elegance, the occasional absurd indulgence (like the handcrafted ceramic fruit bowl that cost more than your cart battery when it fizzled out). he cleans constantly. you praise him constantly for it. you love the fresh sheets, the gleaming sink, the way he folds the towels just right.

he doesn’t care much about the structure itself. but what it represents? that matters. this is a home. one he built with you. one he wakes up in and thanks the stars for. he’s had money. he’s lived in a penthouse before—cold, glassy, and forgettable. but this house? this ordinary, wonderful house? this is the dream.

and speaking of dreams—he still can’t believe how lucky he got with yours. you work for a media group. graphic design. a career he could never do, but one he respects deeply. you make good money. more than he ever did. and that doesn’t bother him. not even a little. if anything, he’s proud. stupidly, ridiculously proud. you could afford to work less. but you love what you do. you light up when you talk about projects and deadlines and clients who “get it.” he loves that. loves you.

whatever makes you happy. that’s his mantra. his north star. happy wife, happy life. happy wife, happy life. happy wife. happy wife. happy wife. and you are happy. endlessly. still, he questions it sometimes. your happiness. it creeps in on the stairs as he heads back up with a warm mug of tea. iced coffee is coming—it’s non-negotiable, your fuel—but it’s not warm, and you are always so cold in the mornings. cold and grumbly, buried beneath the covers like a goblin in a hoard of soft blankets, protesting life and light and everything in between.

he gently shakes you awake. a groan. a flail. you throw the covers over your head and threaten to go feral. if you don’t get up now, you’ll be rushing. he knows it, and so, as gently and patiently as ever, he coaxes you into sitting. there’s a quiet apology in the way he touches you—soft fingertips at your wrist, a thumb brushing your temple. he presses a kiss to the crease between your eyebrows, then ghosts his lips over your eyelids like a benediction. 

this used to trouble him. all of it. when he first moved in, this—you—was a source of constant, gnawing doubt. if waking up early made you this miserable, then you shouldn’t do it. he would’ve kept working every day of his life if it meant you could sleep in forever. his pretty, sleepy, grumpy wife. as long as she was happy. but he knows now. that’s not what you want. not what you need. and nanami is good—painfully good—at knowing the difference.

you sit in bed, blinking slowly. your hair a mess. his warm presence anchoring you like gravity. it’d be so easy to curl back up and drift off again. but you can’t. you won’t. you’ve got things to do, and you’re already shifting upright. your eyes open—and there he is. the love of your life in the flesh, holding your favorite tea in one hand and looking at you like you invented sunrise.

you’re a strange pair, really. half your life is spent in a slow, sweet argument about how incredible the other one is. you tell nanami he’s everything. he tells you you’re perfect. you shower him with praise; he worships the ground you walk on. it’s silly. it’s true. it never gets old.

he hands you the tea without a word. ginger and lemon, naturally. you curl your knees up to your chest and sip, bleary-eyed, not ready to speak yet. he just watches you, something aching and fond tugging at the corners of his mouth. then he moves around the room—quiet but efficient. he flips on soft lamps, avoiding the harsh overhead light you hate. of course he remembers that. he remembers everything.

“what do you have going on today?” he murmurs, his voice the low, calm timbre that makes you feel safe even in chaos. you mumble something about a meeting—ceo of another media group, something high-profile. they want you to design a billboard. then you’ll be in your office most of the day. there’s that frustrating nonprofit commission you’ve been chewing on. you sigh, already tired. but excited, nonetheless.

nanami already knows all of this. of course he does. but he still asks. because he wants to hear you say it. you’re not naturally forthcoming. you’d rather listen than talk, and rambling feels like overstepping. you get embarrassed. feel like a burden. he adores when you ramble. top five favorite things. maybe number one.

your voice, soft and lilting like a melody. the way your brow scrunches when you explain something complicated. the unfiltered rage you hold in your soul for adobe. that one coworker who “should legally be banned from computers.” your excitement over color theory. your pride in your designs. if he didn’t ask, you wouldn’t say it. so he asks. every morning. every night. every chance he gets. just to hear you talk. just to make you smile.

eventually, you slip out of bed, tea finished, and make your way to the bathroom. your morning routine is precise. mouthwash, brushing, flossing, double-cleansing, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen. like a dance you’ve rehearsed. nanami watches, leaning in the doorway, equal parts enchanted and reverent. he loves this about you. these little rituals. these ways you care for yourself.

yes, he lives to care for you. would happily do everything for you. but he treasures these moments when you do it for yourself, too. and you’re used to his affection by now. at least, mostly. he’s worn down your flustered protests, your half-hearted deflections. even when you mumble “you’re being too nice,” cheeks pink, he never stops. there’s no such thing as “too nice” for you. you deserve everything. he’ll give you everything. and then he’ll find a way to give you more. for now, he settles for a kiss on your cheek.

he stays nearby while you do your hair and makeup. watches, quietly admiring, as you transform. he finds something unspeakably beautiful in it—this act of femininity, of self-care, of artistry. it stuns him, every time. you’re so pretty. and he gets to watch. (he’ll watch you at events, too. galas. weddings. fundraisers. you, dolled up and radiant, chatting easily with someone across the room—and he just stares. eyes full of nothing but awe. “you are so beautiful,” he’ll say for the billionth time. "I could stare at you all day.”)

when you finish, you meet him in the closet. he’s already dressed—business casual, of course. slacks, loafers, a soft button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm, collar open just enough to make your heart skip. he doesn’t wear the full suits anymore, not unless the occasion demands it, but the polish is still there. he can’t help it. decorum is in his blood.

he’s laid your clothes out on the bench by the mirror. slacks, a soft t-shirt, your favorite warm cardigan. comfortable, professional, just the right amount of cozy to help you survive a long day. you smile a little at the sight. he always remembers what you like—what makes you feel like you.

and then, the final touch—he pulls your heels down from the shelf. the black iriza pumps with the red soles. you don’t even have to ask. he kneels without a word, sliding them onto your feet with a reverence that makes your chest ache. his hands move with the same tenderness he uses to handle fine china or you when you're sick—like the smallest gesture carries all the love in the world. he meets you at your lips. it’s not quite chaste, but not quite enough to start anything either. a kiss meant to ground you. linger. set the tone for your day.

you give him a peck on the cheek in return and step back. he watches as you grab your purse, a cute little thing that holds next to nothing. “doesn’t it match my shoes perfectly?” you coo, spinning once in the mirror. nanami nods solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching. indulging you, as always. adoring you, as always. indulgent; smitten. pleased. you say that he spoils you with his praise. but you’re not spoiled. not to him. you’re treasured. treated as you should be.

back in the kitchen, you raise an eyebrow at the breakfast. you shoot him a mock-glare and sit down. no protests today. not out loud, anyway. you’re feeling pampered again; overindulged. and you’re sure he’s done too much. but you know better than to say it—because if you do, you’ll get The Lecture™. the one where he insists this is nothing, that you deserve every sunrise, every meal, every ounce of tenderness he can possibly offer. that spoiling you is the bare minimum, and it’s his honor to do it.

so today? you just eat. quietly. gratefully. and nanami watches, content beyond words. this—you—are all he’s ever wanted.

breakfast is a sweet, simple ritual—one of nanami’s favorite parts of the day. a quiet, shared slice of time before the world starts demanding things from the two of you. he’s already eaten (he always eats early), so while you sit at the bar, nibbling through your pancakes and trying not to rush—because you know it bothers him—he turns to your lunch. some days it’s leftovers. on those days, he makes you vow—swear on our marriage, he’ll say with a solemn expression—that you’ll microwave it properly, and actually eat it. but today, you’re in luck. today, he’s making your current hyperfixation meal: a stacked sandwich, piled high with all your favorite toppings, neatly layered on his homemade focaccia.

nanami was always a good cook. phenomenal, really. but his bread? his bread should be on display in glass cases, under soft lighting, guarded by museum security. he doesn’t share his recipes—what would be the point? no one could replicate them anyway. sourdough, ciabatta, baguette, rosemary focaccia. every loaf tailored to your tastes. he bakes for you more than he eats it himself now—not because he doesn't enjoy it, but because he enjoys you enjoying it so much more.

your reactions are what he lives for. the way your eyes widen like you’ve just tasted heaven. the soft, delighted groan that leaves your throat after the first bite. the dramatic proclamation that this one is the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your life, even if you said the same thing yesterday. he shrugs off the praise on the outside, but inside, it settles warm and heavy in his chest. he stores it away. cherishes it.

once the sandwich is wrapped and tucked lovingly into your lunch tote, it’s time for nanami’s least favorite part of the morning—sending you off to work. he heads out to the garage to turn on your car. always does. makes sure the seat warmers are on, the vents are blowing gently, not too cold. stepping into your car always makes him a little dizzy—it’s the smell. concentrated amounts of you. your perfume, your lotion, your very presence soaked into the upholstery. it’s intoxicating.

he lingers there for a moment, eyes closed, just breathing you in. but there’s still time left in the routine, and he won’t waste it. you’ve finished rinsing your plate in the sink by the time he’s back inside. he tuts disapprovingly as he comes up behind you. “what did I say about doing the dishes?” he murmurs, already plucking it from your hands.

you pout up at him, mock wounded. “can’t help it. felt like contributing to society today.”

“unacceptable,” he replies dryly, kissing your cheek. “that’s my job.” you don’t fight him. you know better. nanami’s house rules are immovable forces of nature.

he double checks that your wallet is tucked into your little purse, the one that holds absolutely nothing of practical value but “matches your shoes so well,” as you put it. he slings it over your shoulder, leads you out the door, opens the car for you. you stop him there. plant him against the frame of the door. grip his collar and pull him down into a kiss that curls his toes. and then, wickedly, as his lips part just slightly, you drag your tongue over his bottom lip and murmur against it: “oops. must’ve had some whipped cream on me still.”

he stares at you like you’ve punched him in the brain. pink starts crawling up his neck, staining his ears, his cheeks. his lips part again, just barely, like he might ask for more. you only giggle, smoothing your thumb across his flushed jaw before pressing one last kiss to his lips. every time you touch him like this, it’s as though he’s starved for it. like the barest flicker of attention from you has to sustain him for weeks. like he still can’t believe you’re real.

you shower him in love and kisses and praises, and he soaks it all up like he’s afraid one day, you might run out. as if being loved by someone like you is a miracle he hasn’t earned, but somehow still gets to wake up to every morning. once, nanami read a quote that said, "I don’t argue with my wife’s decisions—because I'm one of them.” it was supposed to be a joke, but it was the god-honest gospel truth to nanami. he considered framing it. tattooing it on his arm. maybe carving it into the headboard. because you choosing him? that’s a daily gift he never takes for granted.

he watches you slip into your car, watches the way your hand waves lazily as you reverse out of the driveway. watches until your taillights disappear down the street. and then he lingers in the cold morning air just a little longer. the scent of your perfume still clings to his shirt. the ghost of your kiss tingles on his lips.

eventually, he shakes it off. there’s bread to make. floors to sweep. emails to answer. he’s got things to do. just as he’s locking the door behind him, something catches his eye on the kitchen counter. your lunch. you’d forgotten it. of course you did. he exhales slowly through his nose, already imagining the soft lecture he’ll give you later about rushing and forgetting things and the vital importance of eating lunch. but for now, he just picks it up with a quiet sigh and a shake of his head. looks like he has lunch plans after all.

—

the rest of nanami’s day, much like his morning, is timed—methodical, efficient, and executed with care so precise it almost feels reverent. early on in this new dynamic, when you had finally—finally—worn him down enough to convince him to quit his job, nanami had struggled with an unshakable guilt. he felt…lazy. like he wasn’t contributing to your shared life. as if quitting the corporate world had somehow made him lesser.

you had nearly smacked him across the head when he confessed that. nanami kento? lazy? not contributing? he was the single most productive person you had ever met. you reminded him, loudly and passionately, that not every contribution needed to be measured in income or tasks completed. that there was deep, meaningful work in taking care of the life you'd built together. that he had always deserved softness, too.

he still had his moments of doubt. but now, he channeled them into what he could control. order. care. precision. he kept a bullet journal—the kind that could convert a disorganized soul on sight. it was pristinely kept: straight lines, color-coded tabs, neat boxes to check off with a smooth black pen. unlike your own journal, which was...more interpretive in nature. your diary had concert tickets and fruit stickers tucked between pages, long-winded odes to nanami’s biceps scrawled next to rants about fictional characters and lipstick swatches. his was a blueprint for the day. yours was a fever dream. and yet he loved it—loved you—so deeply he didn’t dare change a thing.

his emotions didn’t need pages. he had you. his heart belonged in the way he folded your socks. today’s list was written last thursday. he’s already ahead of schedule. he starts upstairs, stripping the bed of sheets and the three extra blankets you required to feel comfortable. he throws them in the washer with your favorite lilac-scented detergent. he preps the next load before the first one even starts, separating laundry with care bordering on scientific. the previous night’s load, already dry, is folded and put away with mechanical precision. your blouses are ironed, sleeves crisp and ready for the week ahead.

while in the closet, he notices a pair of your heels—scuffed. he doesn’t hesitate. out comes the polish and buffer. by the time he’s done, they’re immaculate. he dusts the bedroom. cleans the bathroom. reorganizes your skincare and makeup for ease of access. the candle in there—burnt down to a stub—is replaced with one of your favorites: citrus and basil, a fresh brightness even in the dead of winter. the paperback on your nightstand, left open and face-down with its spine bent (a sight that used to make him wince), is now neatly bookmarked and placed beside your pillow.

nothing escapes him. every corner of your shared home is touched by his hands, cleaned and maintained and tended to with quiet, devoted affection. he doesn’t consider it "work." this is care. this is love, made manifest in folded sheets and citrus wax. 

he moves to the kitchen next. washes the breakfast dishes. wipes the counters. sprays lavender mist into the air and lights another candle. before he met you, before he moved in with you, nanami never imagined living like this. his concept of a “successful life” was sterile and metallic—money, penthouse, cold glass towers. but the first time he stepped foot into your place, with its stained-glass lamps and chaotic blanket nests and dangerously excessive candle collection, something in him shifted. this wasn’t just a place to live. it was a home. and now, it was his home. and just like he took care of his wife, nanami took care of his home.

later, he works out. of course he does. it keeps him grounded, focused, sane. you fawn over the results with a delight that still manages to surprise him, like you don’t expect him to blush anymore when you bite your knuckle and ogle his arms. he runs in shorts that you once called “illegal” and a t-shirt that sticks to his back. sometimes he runs shirtless. not in public. he has standards—and no audience but you is worth the scandal.

saturdays are his favorite. when you run with him, taunt him, throw yourself on his sweaty back with zero shame. when you lick salt off his collarbone and call him “dangerously edible.” he laughs. he’s also suffering. in a good way. he shakes the thoughts away. focus.

he heads to the farmer’s market, cloth bags in hand, route already planned in his head. he stops by the bakery stand to talk flour ratios and rises with the vendor, who recognizes him by name now. he pauses at the humane society tent. doesn’t linger. you’ve been begging for a cat lately. he’s trying to stay strong. then he sees a fluffy calico curled up in a little ball. he looks away immediately. nope. not today. he is not getting a cat today. he steels his resolve and walks home. 

more laundry. more journaling. he plans meals for the week—one of his favorite rituals. he lets himself feel a little smug. everything is under control. until he walks into the kitchen and remembers. your lunchbox. still on the counter. he sighs. picks it up. you’d texted him only five minutes earlier: "I forgot my lunch :[ I was so looking forward to that sandwich.” silly, silly girl. of course he’s going to bring it to you.

he drives over with a small smile and zero annoyance. if anything, he’s grateful for the excuse. you meet him at the curb with a radiant grin, hopping into the passenger seat like he’s your getaway driver. you’ve taken off your cardigan, and your hair’s been pulled up, exposing your neck and arms and that glint in your eye that always makes his pulse skip. and the heels. those damn heels. he has to focus very, very hard to not to stare. but he does anyway. 

you devour the sandwich right there, humming your approval with every bite. he hands you the water bottle from the cupholder. “drink,” he says gently.

you groan, “ugh, why do you have to be so responsible all the time, kento?” but you’re smiling, and he’s helpless against it.

he shrugs. “one of us has to be, sweetheart.”

you make a pleased little sound and lean against his shoulder. he allows himself to bask. twenty minutes in your presence is enough to refill him for the rest of the day. you’re a goddess, and he’s your humble servant. he’ll take crumbs. he’ll take your leftover lip gloss and soft laughter and “accidental” thigh brushes when you shift in the seat. you kiss his cheek before hopping out. he doesn’t start the car until you’re out of sight.

he turns to the passenger seat. it still smells like your perfume. then he sighs, spots the lid to your water bottle left sitting in the cupholder, and smiles. old habits die hard. you will forget something everywhere you go. he’ll scold you about rushing later. for now, he’s just happy.

when nanami returns to the house, it’s still home—but still, without you in it, it feels hollow in a way he tries not to think too deeply about. the air is quiet. still. you’d only just kissed his cheek twenty minutes ago, but already, he misses you. he tells himself not to dwell. still, the ache settles low in his chest, familiar and persistent. he doesn’t like being idle, not when he starts thinking too much. not when his thoughts turn to things he doesn’t want to name—irrational worries about not being enough, about you waking up one day and deciding this isn’t what you need anymore. you work so hard, after all. you make things happen. you move the world. and he...keeps the spice rack alphabetized.

you’ve never said anything to make him feel this way. on the contrary—you’re painstakingly kind, endlessly reassuring. you’d never be disappointed in him. never shame him for slowing down, for stepping back, for choosing a life that’s softer, more deliberate. but old wounds whisper, and nanami is a man who has always been his own harshest critic.

what he doesn’t understand—what you’ve tried to tell him a hundred times in a hundred ways—is that you need him now. that somehow, you lived an entire life before him, but you can’t remember how. that your husband taking care of you, anticipating your every need, keeping your life from falling apart in all the ways you don’t have time to see—that’s what gets you through the day. how did you ever survive without him? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t let himself linger on that either. instead, he works.

he deep-cleans the stovetop and the oven, scrubbing every crevice with focused determination. he pulls out the spice rack and reorders it—alphabetically, then by cuisine, because he’s a perfectionist and you love that about him. he’s printed custom labels for everything: cinnamon (ceylon), smoked paprika (hungarian), za’atar (imported). he wipes down the insides of drawers, then fixes the loose one that’s been catching lately. he replaces the kitchen faucet filter and oils the front door hinges. updates the home maintenance log tucked neatly into a drawer.

by the time he starts prepping sourdough, the sun’s slanted low across the floor. it filters through your stained-glass lamp and turns the kitchen gold. this recipe’s new—something he found in a baking forum he checks occasionally. different hydration ratio, different shaping method, new blend of flours. a hint of citrus in this one, something he knows you’ll love. it won’t be ready until tomorrow—good sourdough can’t be rushed—but he smiles as he preps it. he can already picture you breaking off a piece with your fingers, humming in approval. the thought alone makes him light up. nanami is quietly, blissfully happy. and he has you to thank for that. and thank you he will.

he starts dinner next—something you’d offhandedly mentioned craving earlier in the week, half-asleep, your voice muffled against his chest. you probably don’t even remember saying it. he does. of course he does. he listens like that. cares like that. knows you like that.

he times it perfectly. dinner will be hot and plated at exactly 5:30 p.m.—early, yes, but nanami insists on an early evening for your sake. he wants you in bed by 9:00 sharp on weeknights. you hate mornings. you don’t need to be more sleep-deprived. not if he can help it.

now, finally, he allows himself to sit. he sinks into the couch with a book—something dense and intellectually satisfying, a translated work of eastern european literature with tiny font and no chapter breaks. he’s got one of your throw blankets draped over his lap, soft and mismatched against the clean, minimal lines of the living room. he reads. he also checks your location. not obsessively. just...periodically. casually. he tells himself it’s practical. safety-oriented. (he’s lying. he just misses you.) he checks the time. he reads a little more. checks again. his finger taps the edge of the page, eyes drifting to the soft glow of his screen. you’ll be home soon.

he’s stirring the soup on the stove when he hears the garage door shut, then the sound of the front door opening. “namiii, m’home,” you call, voice lilting through the house. it makes his chest ache, in the best way. you sound so lovely. so tired. so his. he could cry, just from the way you say his name. and silly girl—he already knew you were home. he clocked it the second you left the office. still, he abandons the pot on the stove and strides to the front hall.

he meets you at the door, takes your purse from your shoulder and hangs it neatly. then he bends down and kisses you until your knees go soft and your sighs melt right into his mouth. you always make those sweet, airy noises when he kisses you first, like you’re surprised every time. he could do this for hours. sometimes, he does. but for now, he pulls back and drops to his knees—again—a quiet echo of this morning’s ritual. he slips your heels off, cradles them delicately in his hands, and then lifts you into his arms before you can protest. you squeal, whining with a sleepy pout, "I can walk up the stairs, nami…”

you always call him that when you’re sleepy. he loves it. but still—he just clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “let me.” he’ll take care of everything for his billionaire wife. after all, you’ve made him the happiest little househusband in the world. he’d do anything for you.

he sets you down gently in the bedroom, tucks your shoes into their rightful place in the closet, and fetches your favorite comfy clothes. you’re starfished on the bed, face-down, groaning into the freshly washed sheets like they’re heaven. he starts the shower—hotter than he can stand, just how you like it—and presses a kiss to your temple.

“dinner will be ready when you’re done,” he murmurs. he loves when you’re freshly showered. loves knowing he’s taken care of you, start to finish. you work so hard. you give so much. and now, he gets to make you clean and full and soft.

sometimes you eat at the table. on warm nights, out on the balcony. when you’re sick or sad, he brings dinner to the bed and ignores how it messes the sheets. he’ll wash them again anyway. but tonight? tonight, you’re affectionate. you tell him you missed him. that it didn’t matter that you saw him at lunch—because you missed him before that, and after that. you curl up in his lap while you eat. spoonfuls of warm soup, every bite met with praise: so good, incredible, he’s a genius, a chef, a miracle worker.

this is the part of the evening where you praise him endlessly. he used to try and cut you off, tell you he was just doing what needed to be done. that you deserved it. that it wasn’t a big deal. he doesn’t stop you anymore. not when your voice is that sweet. not when you pepper kisses across his face and tell him how good the house smells, how excited you are for tomorrow’s bread, how you need a vacation just to spend every waking second with him. you call him handsome, strong, perfect. you say you’re desperately, stupidly, irremediably in love with him. he squirms. he blushes. but you’re not teasing. you never are. that’s what makes it worse. you’re sincere. honest. brutally so. and you won’t let him wriggle out of your arms without hearing it.

after dinner, while he’s still tucked into the chair, you slip away—quiet as a mouse but not quiet enough. you make it all of five minutes into doing the dishes before he appears in the doorway, arms folded, already displeased. he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to. he walks over, firm but unhurried, and before you can launch into your rehearsed defense—“just a few plates, I promise, nami, let me help—”—his hand closes gently around your arm and turns you. you barely register it until your cheek is pressed into his chest, until his warmth surrounds you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed. 

and just like that, you’re undone. your shoulders slump. your arms go limp. your whole body sighs in defeat—but it’s a sweet kind of surrender, the kind that only he can pull from you. all at once, you're smaller. sleepier. soft and warm and in love. he smells like spices and soap. the soft cotton of his shirt holds your temple. his fingers are moving slowly across your back, soothing little circles. you cling to him out of habit, cheek smooshed against his sternum, the tension melting from your limbs.

“this is a dictatorship,” you mumble. he hums. noncommittal. he knows it is. you’ve called it that before.  “you’re gonna get burnt out,” you say, quieter now, words thick with sleep and guilt. “you’re gonna wear yourself out doing everything…”

his chin rests against the top of your head. "I won’t.”

“you could let me do some things,” you say, even softer. "I can wash a dish, y’know. fold a towel. vacuum. occasionally.”

his arms tighten just slightly around you, like he’s afraid you’ll try to wriggle away. "I know you can,” he says. “but I like doing this for you.” you try to argue again, but he shushes you gently with a kiss to your hairline. “let me take care of you,” he whispers. “just tonight.” it isn’t just tonight. you both know that. but you nod. because the truth is, you don’t want to fight him on it. not really.

it’s his devotion that tames you. his steadiness. his quiet pride in being the one you trust enough to collapse into. and it always gets you like this—pliable, drowsy, obedient in a way you aren’t for anyone else. you press your forehead harder into his chest like you’re trying to fuse into him. and oh, how he loves that. how he craves it. he rocks you slightly as he finishes the dishes. you stay wrapped around him the whole time, arms slung around his waist, your head bobbing with every slow sway. the sounds of running water and clinking porcelain fade into a background lullaby. rosy-cheeked. hair slightly tangled. a sleepy, beautiful mess. “you’re gonna spoil me,” you murmur, avoiding his loving gaze. 

he brushes a speck of dust off your collarbone, kisses your temple. “that’s the plan.” you huff and roll your eyes and…you believe him. because with nanami, love isn’t loud. it’s offered. it’s kneeling to take off your shoes. it's soup on the stove and tea by the bed and holding you steady when you’re too tired to hold yourself up. it’s never asking you to earn it. and your soft, trusting surrender? that’s the gift you give him back.

he lifts you up onto the counter like a child, still damp from your shower, skin warm and lotioned, hair pulled back, fuzzy socks on your feet. he cleans the kitchen around you while you swing your legs, watching him. he preps your coffee setup for tomorrow, gets out your favorite breakfast tea. he thrives in this.

and the whole time, you tell him everything. your meeting. the nonprofit update. the best and worst parts of your day. he listens, attentive and quiet. he sees your tiredness and tries not to let guilt creep in. this is what you want. what makes you happy. you’ve told him that a million times.

you go on a walk. the sun is still hanging on, soft and golden. you ask about his day now. he tells you—about the farmer’s market, the old man he chatted with, the cat he saw loitering around the humane society’s tent. you beg for the cat. promise him the world if he lets you bring it home. he almost gives in. he will, eventually. “...I'll think about it,” he says. he’s been thinking about it. he’s always thinking about what you want and how he’ll find a way to give it to you. 

back home, you smell like lilacs and wind. he heads upstairs to grab your book and favorite blanket while you brew tea. normally he’d insist on doing it for you, but you’re focused, content, and he can’t bear to interrupt. you bring him a cup of his usual—unsweetened chamomile. yours is sugared and creamy, bright and warm. just like you, he thinks. you hand him his cup with a smile that nearly undoes him.

then you both tumble to the couch, legs tangled. your feet over his lap. book in hand. forehead resting on his shoulder. you read like that for a while. your eyes start to close. eventually, you whine—don’t wanna go to bed yet, wanna spend more time with him. but he’s heard this before.

he takes your cups to the sink and guides you to the bedroom—not carrying you, not tonight. you’d fuss and push at him, and he doesn’t want to risk the tears. you cry sometimes when you’re too tired and he overwhelms you with love. he can’t take that. it breaks him. so he’s gentle. calm. steady.

he changes into your favorite pajama pants and cradles you close. your hair is dry now. he runs his fingers through it. presses kisses to your temple. whispers sweet little things. how much he loves you. how proud he is. how you’ve given him everything he never dared hope for. you always say he does more for you than you do for him. he ignores that. he doesn’t believe it. you give. every day. every hour. and he will spend the rest of his natural life giving it all back.

he’ll make you sourdough french toast in the morning. ginger-lemon tea. it’ll be a new day, and it will be good. he holds you tight as you fall asleep, tracing your back exactly how you like. you’re out within minutes. he stays awake just a little longer, arms around you, nose tucked into your hair. when the alarm goes off in the morning, your arms are wrapped around him. just like always.

screaming crying throwing up. nanami is my husband, I scream as they carry me back to my white, padded room.

[carlislefiles]

meet cute with yuuji and any of your other favorites would be sooooo good I just know it, you turn the simplest stuff into like the best writing ever

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo ily <3

I agree, very cute idea :] this is tomorrow's post, thanks anon!

[carlislefiles]

domesticated | nanami kento ╰►nanami was born to be a husband—measured, attentive, impossibly good with his hands—but more than that, he was born to be your husband. he keeps a bullet journal, folds your laundry with surgical precision, and makes you tea just the way you like it. and as sure as you are that he’s perfect, he’s still determined to prove it to you, every single day. 7.3k words

a/n: a couple nights ago, I plagued my dash with thoughts of housewife!nanami and I will continue to do so forever and ever. if there are no nanami stans, I'm dead...but who am I kidding, there will always be nanami stans. gonna have to fight all of you for my man :[ also I'm thinking of doing a part two to this.....maybe like a sunday type vibe where reader has the day off....let me know your thoughts on that. warnings: embarrassing amounts of fluff, kissing, cussing, brief allusions to sex.

the alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. sharp. it always does. nanami never changed it, never wanted to. that hour—early, quiet, untouched—was his. a small thing, a leftover ritual from a life that used to feel like it belonged to someone else. once, it meant gritting his teeth, dragging himself into suits and subways and glass towers built by people who didn’t even know his name. another day. another spreadsheet. another serving of silent resignation to a world that didn’t care. it’s hard to believe he lived like that. harder still to believe he accepted it.

he doesn’t like to think much about the man he used to be before he met you. it’s not that he’s ashamed—he knows those years carved him into the man he is now. and now, well...now he’s yours. and that changes everything. because back then he was exhausted. hollowed out. sore in places he didn’t know could ache. and now...

now he’s something else entirely. now he’s a teddy bear stuffed with love and golden light. now he’s weightless, floating from room to room with no burden but joy. now he’s a sunbeam slicing through dusty blinds—warm, unhurried, soft at the edges. now he’s a worn sweatshirt straight out of the dryer. the favorite. the one that always gets picked. now he’s a breath finally released. a pause between footsteps. the part of the song that makes you close your eyes. now he’s a well-read book with creased spines and scribbled margins—flawed, loved, and endlessly reread.

he’s happy. deeply, undeniably happy. the kind of happiness he used to believe was just propaganda. nobody was really this content, were they? and yet. and yet. and yet. nanami kento is living proof.

he moves to shift under the blanket, but then he remembers: you’re here. pressed close. your arms looped around him, soft and certain. you’re holding him—again. and he lets you. he's always been a big spoon kind of man. still is sometimes. there’s something steadying about it, something protective. now though, he indulges you. indulges himself, too. years ago, maybe a younger version of him might’ve thought being held like this made him look weak. that version of him was a fool. now, being cradled by your smaller frame feels like the highest honor. a sacred trust.

he has irrational fears sometimes—irrational but persistent. little thoughts that creep in at 6:02 a.m. when the world is quiet enough to let them whisper. that maybe you’ll leave one day. for someone else. someone who knows your favorite candle scents without being told. someone who cooks your comfort foods without asking. someone who loves you the way nanami does. but those thoughts don’t last long. they can’t.

because every morning, no matter how you fell asleep or what kind of day you had, nanami wakes up like this: in your arms. somewhere in the middle of the night, without fail, you always roll over and reach for him. it’s never intentional. it’s never showy. it’s just instinct—your body choosing him over and over again. and it sparks something in him every single time. besides, nanami doesn’t think anyone else could love you like he can. not really. he’s made it his life’s work. his calling. and no one else gets to touch that.

you’re still asleep. peaceful. you’ll stay that way for at least another thirty minutes if he lets you. he always tries to. sometimes you stir, bleary-eyed and half-dreaming, whining for him to stay just a little longer. and every single time, he does. without hesitation. he’ll curl back around you, press slow kisses into your hairline, trace half-shapes against your back through the fabric of your sleep shirt.

he’ll watch you. just for a little while. just until the next breath, the next blink, the next alarm. because there is no word—no language—for the way he feels about you when the light is just beginning to bleed into the room and your arms are wrapped around him like he’s your home.

he would stay there forever. but duty calls. eventually, he has to slip out of your arms. you make a soft noise of protest in your sleep, half-whine, half-murmur, and he stills for a moment—just to watch your face settle back into peace. then he tugs on a worn t-shirt and pads downstairs, still in the pajama pants you love so much.

the infamous ones. the soft navy plaid pair, a little threadbare at the waistband, stretched just enough in all the right places. you claim they’re evil. you swear they cast a spell on you. you’ve clung to his back like a koala over them, muttered threats into his neck, taken full bites out of his shoulder muscle, a woman possessed. he claims he wears them because they’re comfortable. “worn in,” he says with a shrug. but the truth? nanami is a simple man. a man of taste. and if wearing a particular pair of pajama pants means you ogle him like he’s a limited edition photo card, then yes—he will wear them every damn morning for the rest of his life. is it so wrong to enjoy being desired by your wife?

he never really considered himself…attractive. he knew what he looked like. tall. built. decent face. good hair, on good days. but that wasn’t rare. plenty of men fit that description. what made him special? according to you? everything. you say he’s ‘the hottest man in the entire fucking world.’ and while nanami still finds that declaration hard to believe, your constant, shameless, adoring attention has slowly started to rewire something inside him. he doesn’t flinch at compliments anymore. doesn’t second-guess the way you look at him like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. he’s learning to believe it. to believe you.

the kitchen is still dark when he steps in, and he keeps it that way for the most part—only flicking on the light above the stovetop. you’re a deep sleeper, but he’s always careful. gentle. quiet. always respectful. the espresso machine kicks to life with a low whirr, a noise that would’ve startled you awake in the beginning. now? you’ve learned to tune it out. it’s part of the soundtrack of your mornings. a promise in mechanical form.

before nanami, your mornings were bleak. he knows. he’s seen the evidence. you used to crawl out of bed like it was punishment. pour bitter, watery coffee into a chipped mug and pretend it helped. eat a protein bar that tasted like packing material. maybe a questionable piece of fruit if you were feeling ambitious. lunch, if it existed, was often cold leftovers. a bag of chips. a vending machine soda. nanami clocked those bad habits early on. but it wasn’t until you lived together that he could finally do something about them.

now, breakfast is an event. your coffee is never just coffee—it’s the best thing you’ve tasted that day. every morning. he experiments. plays with flavors like he’s crafting love letters in liquid form. homemade blueberry syrup. chocolate cold foam. cinnamon and nutmeg dusted on top just the way you like. he’s memorized your preferences, your allergies, your little quirks. he rarely makes something you don’t like. not just because he’s perfect, but also because he pays attention.

most mornings, he keeps things simple—something warm, something satisfying, something you can eat quickly but meaningfully. a sit-down breakfast is non-negotiable. even on your busiest days, he insists on it. you protest sometimes. you’re in a rush. but he always slows you down. this morning, he’s feeling a little indulgent. leftover homemade butter. pancakes, fluffy and warm. chocolate spread. whipped cream. a handful of fresh berries arranged just so, like a café plate.

you’re going to whine. complain. say he went overboard again, that he doesn’t need to spoil you like this. that you would’ve been fine with toast. he won’t have it. spoiling you is his mission. his hobby. his calling. the high he chases every day. the utter bliss it gives him, knowing he's taking care of you and satisfying you, is like a narcotic. no, better than drugs. nobody even needs drugs, he thinks. they just need a wife. too bad he has the best one, huh?

he moves around the house like a whisper. clean. efficient. at ease. the space is warm, soft, lived-in. he decorated, of course. you squealed when you saw it—pointed out the little touches that screamed nanami. the minimalism, the elegance, the occasional absurd indulgence (like the handcrafted ceramic fruit bowl that cost more than your cart battery when it fizzled out). he cleans constantly. you praise him constantly for it. you love the fresh sheets, the gleaming sink, the way he folds the towels just right.

he doesn’t care much about the structure itself. but what it represents? that matters. this is a home. one he built with you. one he wakes up in and thanks the stars for. he’s had money. he’s lived in a penthouse before—cold, glassy, and forgettable. but this house? this ordinary, wonderful house? this is the dream.

and speaking of dreams—he still can’t believe how lucky he got with yours. you work for a media group. graphic design. a career he could never do, but one he respects deeply. you make good money. more than he ever did. and that doesn’t bother him. not even a little. if anything, he’s proud. stupidly, ridiculously proud. you could afford to work less. but you love what you do. you light up when you talk about projects and deadlines and clients who “get it.” he loves that. loves you.

whatever makes you happy. that’s his mantra. his north star. happy wife, happy life. happy wife, happy life. happy wife. happy wife. happy wife. and you are happy. endlessly. still, he questions it sometimes. your happiness. it creeps in on the stairs as he heads back up with a warm mug of tea. iced coffee is coming—it’s non-negotiable, your fuel—but it’s not warm, and you are always so cold in the mornings. cold and grumbly, buried beneath the covers like a goblin in a hoard of soft blankets, protesting life and light and everything in between.

he gently shakes you awake. a groan. a flail. you throw the covers over your head and threaten to go feral. if you don’t get up now, you’ll be rushing. he knows it, and so, as gently and patiently as ever, he coaxes you into sitting. there’s a quiet apology in the way he touches you—soft fingertips at your wrist, a thumb brushing your temple. he presses a kiss to the crease between your eyebrows, then ghosts his lips over your eyelids like a benediction. 

this used to trouble him. all of it. when he first moved in, this—you—was a source of constant, gnawing doubt. if waking up early made you this miserable, then you shouldn’t do it. he would’ve kept working every day of his life if it meant you could sleep in forever. his pretty, sleepy, grumpy wife. as long as she was happy. but he knows now. that’s not what you want. not what you need. and nanami is good—painfully good—at knowing the difference.

you sit in bed, blinking slowly. your hair a mess. his warm presence anchoring you like gravity. it’d be so easy to curl back up and drift off again. but you can’t. you won’t. you’ve got things to do, and you’re already shifting upright. your eyes open—and there he is. the love of your life in the flesh, holding your favorite tea in one hand and looking at you like you invented sunrise.

you’re a strange pair, really. half your life is spent in a slow, sweet argument about how incredible the other one is. you tell nanami he’s everything. he tells you you’re perfect. you shower him with praise; he worships the ground you walk on. it’s silly. it’s true. it never gets old.

he hands you the tea without a word. ginger and lemon, naturally. you curl your knees up to your chest and sip, bleary-eyed, not ready to speak yet. he just watches you, something aching and fond tugging at the corners of his mouth. then he moves around the room—quiet but efficient. he flips on soft lamps, avoiding the harsh overhead light you hate. of course he remembers that. he remembers everything.

“what do you have going on today?” he murmurs, his voice the low, calm timbre that makes you feel safe even in chaos. you mumble something about a meeting—ceo of another media group, something high-profile. they want you to design a billboard. then you’ll be in your office most of the day. there’s that frustrating nonprofit commission you’ve been chewing on. you sigh, already tired. but excited, nonetheless.

nanami already knows all of this. of course he does. but he still asks. because he wants to hear you say it. you’re not naturally forthcoming. you’d rather listen than talk, and rambling feels like overstepping. you get embarrassed. feel like a burden. he adores when you ramble. top five favorite things. maybe number one.

your voice, soft and lilting like a melody. the way your brow scrunches when you explain something complicated. the unfiltered rage you hold in your soul for adobe. that one coworker who “should legally be banned from computers.” your excitement over color theory. your pride in your designs. if he didn’t ask, you wouldn’t say it. so he asks. every morning. every night. every chance he gets. just to hear you talk. just to make you smile.

eventually, you slip out of bed, tea finished, and make your way to the bathroom. your morning routine is precise. mouthwash, brushing, flossing, double-cleansing, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen. like a dance you’ve rehearsed. nanami watches, leaning in the doorway, equal parts enchanted and reverent. he loves this about you. these little rituals. these ways you care for yourself.

yes, he lives to care for you. would happily do everything for you. but he treasures these moments when you do it for yourself, too. and you’re used to his affection by now. at least, mostly. he’s worn down your flustered protests, your half-hearted deflections. even when you mumble “you’re being too nice,” cheeks pink, he never stops. there’s no such thing as “too nice” for you. you deserve everything. he’ll give you everything. and then he’ll find a way to give you more. for now, he settles for a kiss on your cheek.

he stays nearby while you do your hair and makeup. watches, quietly admiring, as you transform. he finds something unspeakably beautiful in it—this act of femininity, of self-care, of artistry. it stuns him, every time. you’re so pretty. and he gets to watch. (he’ll watch you at events, too. galas. weddings. fundraisers. you, dolled up and radiant, chatting easily with someone across the room—and he just stares. eyes full of nothing but awe. “you are so beautiful,” he’ll say for the billionth time. "I could stare at you all day.”)

when you finish, you meet him in the closet. he’s already dressed—business casual, of course. slacks, loafers, a soft button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm, collar open just enough to make your heart skip. he doesn’t wear the full suits anymore, not unless the occasion demands it, but the polish is still there. he can’t help it. decorum is in his blood.

he’s laid your clothes out on the bench by the mirror. slacks, a soft t-shirt, your favorite warm cardigan. comfortable, professional, just the right amount of cozy to help you survive a long day. you smile a little at the sight. he always remembers what you like—what makes you feel like you.

and then, the final touch—he pulls your heels down from the shelf. the black iriza pumps with the red soles. you don’t even have to ask. he kneels without a word, sliding them onto your feet with a reverence that makes your chest ache. his hands move with the same tenderness he uses to handle fine china or you when you're sick—like the smallest gesture carries all the love in the world. he meets you at your lips. it’s not quite chaste, but not quite enough to start anything either. a kiss meant to ground you. linger. set the tone for your day.

you give him a peck on the cheek in return and step back. he watches as you grab your purse, a cute little thing that holds next to nothing. “doesn’t it match my shoes perfectly?” you coo, spinning once in the mirror. nanami nods solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching. indulging you, as always. adoring you, as always. indulgent; smitten. pleased. you say that he spoils you with his praise. but you’re not spoiled. not to him. you’re treasured. treated as you should be.

back in the kitchen, you raise an eyebrow at the breakfast. you shoot him a mock-glare and sit down. no protests today. not out loud, anyway. you’re feeling pampered again; overindulged. and you’re sure he’s done too much. but you know better than to say it—because if you do, you’ll get The Lecture™. the one where he insists this is nothing, that you deserve every sunrise, every meal, every ounce of tenderness he can possibly offer. that spoiling you is the bare minimum, and it’s his honor to do it.

so today? you just eat. quietly. gratefully. and nanami watches, content beyond words. this—you—are all he’s ever wanted.

breakfast is a sweet, simple ritual—one of nanami’s favorite parts of the day. a quiet, shared slice of time before the world starts demanding things from the two of you. he’s already eaten (he always eats early), so while you sit at the bar, nibbling through your pancakes and trying not to rush—because you know it bothers him—he turns to your lunch. some days it’s leftovers. on those days, he makes you vow—swear on our marriage, he’ll say with a solemn expression—that you’ll microwave it properly, and actually eat it. but today, you’re in luck. today, he’s making your current hyperfixation meal: a stacked sandwich, piled high with all your favorite toppings, neatly layered on his homemade focaccia.

nanami was always a good cook. phenomenal, really. but his bread? his bread should be on display in glass cases, under soft lighting, guarded by museum security. he doesn’t share his recipes—what would be the point? no one could replicate them anyway. sourdough, ciabatta, baguette, rosemary focaccia. every loaf tailored to your tastes. he bakes for you more than he eats it himself now—not because he doesn't enjoy it, but because he enjoys you enjoying it so much more.

your reactions are what he lives for. the way your eyes widen like you’ve just tasted heaven. the soft, delighted groan that leaves your throat after the first bite. the dramatic proclamation that this one is the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your life, even if you said the same thing yesterday. he shrugs off the praise on the outside, but inside, it settles warm and heavy in his chest. he stores it away. cherishes it.

once the sandwich is wrapped and tucked lovingly into your lunch tote, it’s time for nanami’s least favorite part of the morning—sending you off to work. he heads out to the garage to turn on your car. always does. makes sure the seat warmers are on, the vents are blowing gently, not too cold. stepping into your car always makes him a little dizzy—it’s the smell. concentrated amounts of you. your perfume, your lotion, your very presence soaked into the upholstery. it’s intoxicating.

he lingers there for a moment, eyes closed, just breathing you in. but there’s still time left in the routine, and he won’t waste it. you’ve finished rinsing your plate in the sink by the time he’s back inside. he tuts disapprovingly as he comes up behind you. “what did I say about doing the dishes?” he murmurs, already plucking it from your hands.

you pout up at him, mock wounded. “can’t help it. felt like contributing to society today.”

“unacceptable,” he replies dryly, kissing your cheek. “that’s my job.” you don’t fight him. you know better. nanami’s house rules are immovable forces of nature.

he double checks that your wallet is tucked into your little purse, the one that holds absolutely nothing of practical value but “matches your shoes so well,” as you put it. he slings it over your shoulder, leads you out the door, opens the car for you. you stop him there. plant him against the frame of the door. grip his collar and pull him down into a kiss that curls his toes. and then, wickedly, as his lips part just slightly, you drag your tongue over his bottom lip and murmur against it: “oops. must’ve had some whipped cream on me still.”

he stares at you like you’ve punched him in the brain. pink starts crawling up his neck, staining his ears, his cheeks. his lips part again, just barely, like he might ask for more. you only giggle, smoothing your thumb across his flushed jaw before pressing one last kiss to his lips. every time you touch him like this, it’s as though he’s starved for it. like the barest flicker of attention from you has to sustain him for weeks. like he still can’t believe you’re real.

you shower him in love and kisses and praises, and he soaks it all up like he’s afraid one day, you might run out. as if being loved by someone like you is a miracle he hasn’t earned, but somehow still gets to wake up to every morning. once, nanami read a quote that said, "I don’t argue with my wife’s decisions—because I'm one of them.” it was supposed to be a joke, but it was the god-honest gospel truth to nanami. he considered framing it. tattooing it on his arm. maybe carving it into the headboard. because you choosing him? that’s a daily gift he never takes for granted.

he watches you slip into your car, watches the way your hand waves lazily as you reverse out of the driveway. watches until your taillights disappear down the street. and then he lingers in the cold morning air just a little longer. the scent of your perfume still clings to his shirt. the ghost of your kiss tingles on his lips.

eventually, he shakes it off. there’s bread to make. floors to sweep. emails to answer. he’s got things to do. just as he’s locking the door behind him, something catches his eye on the kitchen counter. your lunch. you’d forgotten it. of course you did. he exhales slowly through his nose, already imagining the soft lecture he’ll give you later about rushing and forgetting things and the vital importance of eating lunch. but for now, he just picks it up with a quiet sigh and a shake of his head. looks like he has lunch plans after all.

—

the rest of nanami’s day, much like his morning, is timed—methodical, efficient, and executed with care so precise it almost feels reverent. early on in this new dynamic, when you had finally—finally—worn him down enough to convince him to quit his job, nanami had struggled with an unshakable guilt. he felt…lazy. like he wasn’t contributing to your shared life. as if quitting the corporate world had somehow made him lesser.

you had nearly smacked him across the head when he confessed that. nanami kento? lazy? not contributing? he was the single most productive person you had ever met. you reminded him, loudly and passionately, that not every contribution needed to be measured in income or tasks completed. that there was deep, meaningful work in taking care of the life you'd built together. that he had always deserved softness, too.

he still had his moments of doubt. but now, he channeled them into what he could control. order. care. precision. he kept a bullet journal—the kind that could convert a disorganized soul on sight. it was pristinely kept: straight lines, color-coded tabs, neat boxes to check off with a smooth black pen. unlike your own journal, which was...more interpretive in nature. your diary had concert tickets and fruit stickers tucked between pages, long-winded odes to nanami’s biceps scrawled next to rants about fictional characters and lipstick swatches. his was a blueprint for the day. yours was a fever dream. and yet he loved it—loved you—so deeply he didn’t dare change a thing.

his emotions didn’t need pages. he had you. his heart belonged in the way he folded your socks. today’s list was written last thursday. he’s already ahead of schedule. he starts upstairs, stripping the bed of sheets and the three extra blankets you required to feel comfortable. he throws them in the washer with your favorite lilac-scented detergent. he preps the next load before the first one even starts, separating laundry with care bordering on scientific. the previous night’s load, already dry, is folded and put away with mechanical precision. your blouses are ironed, sleeves crisp and ready for the week ahead.

while in the closet, he notices a pair of your heels—scuffed. he doesn’t hesitate. out comes the polish and buffer. by the time he’s done, they’re immaculate. he dusts the bedroom. cleans the bathroom. reorganizes your skincare and makeup for ease of access. the candle in there—burnt down to a stub—is replaced with one of your favorites: citrus and basil, a fresh brightness even in the dead of winter. the paperback on your nightstand, left open and face-down with its spine bent (a sight that used to make him wince), is now neatly bookmarked and placed beside your pillow.

nothing escapes him. every corner of your shared home is touched by his hands, cleaned and maintained and tended to with quiet, devoted affection. he doesn’t consider it "work." this is care. this is love, made manifest in folded sheets and citrus wax. 

he moves to the kitchen next. washes the breakfast dishes. wipes the counters. sprays lavender mist into the air and lights another candle. before he met you, before he moved in with you, nanami never imagined living like this. his concept of a “successful life” was sterile and metallic—money, penthouse, cold glass towers. but the first time he stepped foot into your place, with its stained-glass lamps and chaotic blanket nests and dangerously excessive candle collection, something in him shifted. this wasn’t just a place to live. it was a home. and now, it was his home. and just like he took care of his wife, nanami took care of his home.

later, he works out. of course he does. it keeps him grounded, focused, sane. you fawn over the results with a delight that still manages to surprise him, like you don’t expect him to blush anymore when you bite your knuckle and ogle his arms. he runs in shorts that you once called “illegal” and a t-shirt that sticks to his back. sometimes he runs shirtless. not in public. he has standards—and no audience but you is worth the scandal.

saturdays are his favorite. when you run with him, taunt him, throw yourself on his sweaty back with zero shame. when you lick salt off his collarbone and call him “dangerously edible.” he laughs. he’s also suffering. in a good way. he shakes the thoughts away. focus.

he heads to the farmer’s market, cloth bags in hand, route already planned in his head. he stops by the bakery stand to talk flour ratios and rises with the vendor, who recognizes him by name now. he pauses at the humane society tent. doesn’t linger. you’ve been begging for a cat lately. he’s trying to stay strong. then he sees a fluffy calico curled up in a little ball. he looks away immediately. nope. not today. he is not getting a cat today. he steels his resolve and walks home. 

more laundry. more journaling. he plans meals for the week—one of his favorite rituals. he lets himself feel a little smug. everything is under control. until he walks into the kitchen and remembers. your lunchbox. still on the counter. he sighs. picks it up. you’d texted him only five minutes earlier: "I forgot my lunch :[ I was so looking forward to that sandwich.” silly, silly girl. of course he’s going to bring it to you.

he drives over with a small smile and zero annoyance. if anything, he’s grateful for the excuse. you meet him at the curb with a radiant grin, hopping into the passenger seat like he’s your getaway driver. you’ve taken off your cardigan, and your hair’s been pulled up, exposing your neck and arms and that glint in your eye that always makes his pulse skip. and the heels. those damn heels. he has to focus very, very hard to not to stare. but he does anyway. 

you devour the sandwich right there, humming your approval with every bite. he hands you the water bottle from the cupholder. “drink,” he says gently.

you groan, “ugh, why do you have to be so responsible all the time, kento?” but you’re smiling, and he’s helpless against it.

he shrugs. “one of us has to be, sweetheart.”

you make a pleased little sound and lean against his shoulder. he allows himself to bask. twenty minutes in your presence is enough to refill him for the rest of the day. you’re a goddess, and he’s your humble servant. he’ll take crumbs. he’ll take your leftover lip gloss and soft laughter and “accidental” thigh brushes when you shift in the seat. you kiss his cheek before hopping out. he doesn’t start the car until you’re out of sight.

he turns to the passenger seat. it still smells like your perfume. then he sighs, spots the lid to your water bottle left sitting in the cupholder, and smiles. old habits die hard. you will forget something everywhere you go. he’ll scold you about rushing later. for now, he’s just happy.

when nanami returns to the house, it’s still home—but still, without you in it, it feels hollow in a way he tries not to think too deeply about. the air is quiet. still. you’d only just kissed his cheek twenty minutes ago, but already, he misses you. he tells himself not to dwell. still, the ache settles low in his chest, familiar and persistent. he doesn’t like being idle, not when he starts thinking too much. not when his thoughts turn to things he doesn’t want to name—irrational worries about not being enough, about you waking up one day and deciding this isn’t what you need anymore. you work so hard, after all. you make things happen. you move the world. and he...keeps the spice rack alphabetized.

you’ve never said anything to make him feel this way. on the contrary—you’re painstakingly kind, endlessly reassuring. you’d never be disappointed in him. never shame him for slowing down, for stepping back, for choosing a life that’s softer, more deliberate. but old wounds whisper, and nanami is a man who has always been his own harshest critic.

what he doesn’t understand—what you’ve tried to tell him a hundred times in a hundred ways—is that you need him now. that somehow, you lived an entire life before him, but you can’t remember how. that your husband taking care of you, anticipating your every need, keeping your life from falling apart in all the ways you don’t have time to see—that’s what gets you through the day. how did you ever survive without him? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t let himself linger on that either. instead, he works.

he deep-cleans the stovetop and the oven, scrubbing every crevice with focused determination. he pulls out the spice rack and reorders it—alphabetically, then by cuisine, because he’s a perfectionist and you love that about him. he’s printed custom labels for everything: cinnamon (ceylon), smoked paprika (hungarian), za’atar (imported). he wipes down the insides of drawers, then fixes the loose one that’s been catching lately. he replaces the kitchen faucet filter and oils the front door hinges. updates the home maintenance log tucked neatly into a drawer.

by the time he starts prepping sourdough, the sun’s slanted low across the floor. it filters through your stained-glass lamp and turns the kitchen gold. this recipe’s new—something he found in a baking forum he checks occasionally. different hydration ratio, different shaping method, new blend of flours. a hint of citrus in this one, something he knows you’ll love. it won’t be ready until tomorrow—good sourdough can’t be rushed—but he smiles as he preps it. he can already picture you breaking off a piece with your fingers, humming in approval. the thought alone makes him light up. nanami is quietly, blissfully happy. and he has you to thank for that. and thank you he will.

he starts dinner next—something you’d offhandedly mentioned craving earlier in the week, half-asleep, your voice muffled against his chest. you probably don’t even remember saying it. he does. of course he does. he listens like that. cares like that. knows you like that.

he times it perfectly. dinner will be hot and plated at exactly 5:30 p.m.—early, yes, but nanami insists on an early evening for your sake. he wants you in bed by 9:00 sharp on weeknights. you hate mornings. you don’t need to be more sleep-deprived. not if he can help it.

now, finally, he allows himself to sit. he sinks into the couch with a book—something dense and intellectually satisfying, a translated work of eastern european literature with tiny font and no chapter breaks. he’s got one of your throw blankets draped over his lap, soft and mismatched against the clean, minimal lines of the living room. he reads. he also checks your location. not obsessively. just...periodically. casually. he tells himself it’s practical. safety-oriented. (he’s lying. he just misses you.) he checks the time. he reads a little more. checks again. his finger taps the edge of the page, eyes drifting to the soft glow of his screen. you’ll be home soon.

he’s stirring the soup on the stove when he hears the garage door shut, then the sound of the front door opening. “namiii, m’home,” you call, voice lilting through the house. it makes his chest ache, in the best way. you sound so lovely. so tired. so his. he could cry, just from the way you say his name. and silly girl—he already knew you were home. he clocked it the second you left the office. still, he abandons the pot on the stove and strides to the front hall.

he meets you at the door, takes your purse from your shoulder and hangs it neatly. then he bends down and kisses you until your knees go soft and your sighs melt right into his mouth. you always make those sweet, airy noises when he kisses you first, like you’re surprised every time. he could do this for hours. sometimes, he does. but for now, he pulls back and drops to his knees—again—a quiet echo of this morning’s ritual. he slips your heels off, cradles them delicately in his hands, and then lifts you into his arms before you can protest. you squeal, whining with a sleepy pout, "I can walk up the stairs, nami…”

you always call him that when you’re sleepy. he loves it. but still—he just clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “let me.” he’ll take care of everything for his billionaire wife. after all, you’ve made him the happiest little househusband in the world. he’d do anything for you.

he sets you down gently in the bedroom, tucks your shoes into their rightful place in the closet, and fetches your favorite comfy clothes. you’re starfished on the bed, face-down, groaning into the freshly washed sheets like they’re heaven. he starts the shower—hotter than he can stand, just how you like it—and presses a kiss to your temple.

“dinner will be ready when you’re done,” he murmurs. he loves when you’re freshly showered. loves knowing he’s taken care of you, start to finish. you work so hard. you give so much. and now, he gets to make you clean and full and soft.

sometimes you eat at the table. on warm nights, out on the balcony. when you’re sick or sad, he brings dinner to the bed and ignores how it messes the sheets. he’ll wash them again anyway. but tonight? tonight, you’re affectionate. you tell him you missed him. that it didn’t matter that you saw him at lunch—because you missed him before that, and after that. you curl up in his lap while you eat. spoonfuls of warm soup, every bite met with praise: so good, incredible, he’s a genius, a chef, a miracle worker.

this is the part of the evening where you praise him endlessly. he used to try and cut you off, tell you he was just doing what needed to be done. that you deserved it. that it wasn’t a big deal. he doesn’t stop you anymore. not when your voice is that sweet. not when you pepper kisses across his face and tell him how good the house smells, how excited you are for tomorrow’s bread, how you need a vacation just to spend every waking second with him. you call him handsome, strong, perfect. you say you’re desperately, stupidly, irremediably in love with him. he squirms. he blushes. but you’re not teasing. you never are. that’s what makes it worse. you’re sincere. honest. brutally so. and you won’t let him wriggle out of your arms without hearing it.

after dinner, while he’s still tucked into the chair, you slip away—quiet as a mouse but not quiet enough. you make it all of five minutes into doing the dishes before he appears in the doorway, arms folded, already displeased. he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to. he walks over, firm but unhurried, and before you can launch into your rehearsed defense—“just a few plates, I promise, nami, let me help—”—his hand closes gently around your arm and turns you. you barely register it until your cheek is pressed into his chest, until his warmth surrounds you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed. 

and just like that, you’re undone. your shoulders slump. your arms go limp. your whole body sighs in defeat—but it’s a sweet kind of surrender, the kind that only he can pull from you. all at once, you're smaller. sleepier. soft and warm and in love. he smells like spices and soap. the soft cotton of his shirt holds your temple. his fingers are moving slowly across your back, soothing little circles. you cling to him out of habit, cheek smooshed against his sternum, the tension melting from your limbs.

“this is a dictatorship,” you mumble. he hums. noncommittal. he knows it is. you’ve called it that before.  “you’re gonna get burnt out,” you say, quieter now, words thick with sleep and guilt. “you’re gonna wear yourself out doing everything…”

his chin rests against the top of your head. "I won’t.”

“you could let me do some things,” you say, even softer. "I can wash a dish, y’know. fold a towel. vacuum. occasionally.”

his arms tighten just slightly around you, like he’s afraid you’ll try to wriggle away. "I know you can,” he says. “but I like doing this for you.” you try to argue again, but he shushes you gently with a kiss to your hairline. “let me take care of you,” he whispers. “just tonight.” it isn’t just tonight. you both know that. but you nod. because the truth is, you don’t want to fight him on it. not really.

it’s his devotion that tames you. his steadiness. his quiet pride in being the one you trust enough to collapse into. and it always gets you like this—pliable, drowsy, obedient in a way you aren’t for anyone else. you press your forehead harder into his chest like you’re trying to fuse into him. and oh, how he loves that. how he craves it. he rocks you slightly as he finishes the dishes. you stay wrapped around him the whole time, arms slung around his waist, your head bobbing with every slow sway. the sounds of running water and clinking porcelain fade into a background lullaby. rosy-cheeked. hair slightly tangled. a sleepy, beautiful mess. “you’re gonna spoil me,” you murmur, avoiding his loving gaze. 

he brushes a speck of dust off your collarbone, kisses your temple. “that’s the plan.” you huff and roll your eyes and…you believe him. because with nanami, love isn’t loud. it’s offered. it’s kneeling to take off your shoes. it's soup on the stove and tea by the bed and holding you steady when you’re too tired to hold yourself up. it’s never asking you to earn it. and your soft, trusting surrender? that’s the gift you give him back.

he lifts you up onto the counter like a child, still damp from your shower, skin warm and lotioned, hair pulled back, fuzzy socks on your feet. he cleans the kitchen around you while you swing your legs, watching him. he preps your coffee setup for tomorrow, gets out your favorite breakfast tea. he thrives in this.

and the whole time, you tell him everything. your meeting. the nonprofit update. the best and worst parts of your day. he listens, attentive and quiet. he sees your tiredness and tries not to let guilt creep in. this is what you want. what makes you happy. you’ve told him that a million times.

you go on a walk. the sun is still hanging on, soft and golden. you ask about his day now. he tells you—about the farmer’s market, the old man he chatted with, the cat he saw loitering around the humane society’s tent. you beg for the cat. promise him the world if he lets you bring it home. he almost gives in. he will, eventually. “...I'll think about it,” he says. he’s been thinking about it. he’s always thinking about what you want and how he’ll find a way to give it to you. 

back home, you smell like lilacs and wind. he heads upstairs to grab your book and favorite blanket while you brew tea. normally he’d insist on doing it for you, but you’re focused, content, and he can’t bear to interrupt. you bring him a cup of his usual—unsweetened chamomile. yours is sugared and creamy, bright and warm. just like you, he thinks. you hand him his cup with a smile that nearly undoes him.

then you both tumble to the couch, legs tangled. your feet over his lap. book in hand. forehead resting on his shoulder. you read like that for a while. your eyes start to close. eventually, you whine—don’t wanna go to bed yet, wanna spend more time with him. but he’s heard this before.

he takes your cups to the sink and guides you to the bedroom—not carrying you, not tonight. you’d fuss and push at him, and he doesn’t want to risk the tears. you cry sometimes when you’re too tired and he overwhelms you with love. he can’t take that. it breaks him. so he’s gentle. calm. steady.

he changes into your favorite pajama pants and cradles you close. your hair is dry now. he runs his fingers through it. presses kisses to your temple. whispers sweet little things. how much he loves you. how proud he is. how you’ve given him everything he never dared hope for. you always say he does more for you than you do for him. he ignores that. he doesn’t believe it. you give. every day. every hour. and he will spend the rest of his natural life giving it all back.

he’ll make you sourdough french toast in the morning. ginger-lemon tea. it’ll be a new day, and it will be good. he holds you tight as you fall asleep, tracing your back exactly how you like. you’re out within minutes. he stays awake just a little longer, arms around you, nose tucked into your hair. when the alarm goes off in the morning, your arms are wrapped around him. just like always.

screaming crying throwing up. nanami is my husband, I scream as they carry me back to my white, padded room.

[carlislefiles]

HAIII HELLOO i love your fics so much ??? like holy moly the way you can write everyone so well and in character is amazing, its so great to finally find an account that posts consitently and DOESNTTTT make nsfw of minors !!!!!

like it honestly amazes me how all your fics/hcs are so in depth and i find myself giggling over your fics... esp the megumi ones...

i dont even know why i made an ask i just adooore your writing sm and i hope people have told you that because you deserve it !!!! i love how you make these super rare aus and tropes theyre so giggle worthy istg ???? DONT GET ME WRONG I LIKE THE CANON AUS BUT i would choose barista x customer over just the normal sorcerer au anyday hehe..

ANYWAYS KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK !!! i would love to see more megumi hcs/fics + rare RARE tropes in the future becauuuuuse you are feeding me omg !!! ilysm have a good day/night i just wanted to let you know about this !!! ⸜(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)⸝

hello hello!! you are genuinely so nice!! I love getting messages like this in my inbox :] I'm always trying to write fun stuff and write things that I like, so it makes me so happy to see that other people are liking it, too. barista x customer...is dangerously close to a wip that I have in my drafts rn....so that's kind crazy ;) canon aus are fun and I probably should write more of them honestly, but I love my random aus, too! I will definitely keep it up :] I've been kind of falling behind recently, but I'm hoping to get back to daily posting or at least like every other day, we'll see!! lyt you are the nicest ever, thank you so much <3

[carlislefiles]

how does he react to you crying over something really stupid?

matches your energy always, if you’re upset he’s upset, however he reassures you painstakingly that it’s ok and that he’s not disappointed or mad at you ╰►gojo satoru, hiromi higuruma, ino takuma, kamo choso, itadori yuuji, amajiki tamaki, kaminari denki, kirishima eijiro, midoriya izuku, takami keigo, todoroki natsuo, bokuto kōtarō, hinata shōyō, kuroo tetsurō, oikawa tōru

very protective, has a real responsibility kink when it comes to you, needs to know how to fix it, how to make it better ╰►fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, ijichi kiyotaka, nanami kento, yuta okkotsu, aizawa shota, ida tenya, sero hanta, shinso hitoshi, todoroki shoto, matsukawa issei, sawamura daichi, ushijima wakatoshi

“why the fuck are you crying?” said affectionately.  ╰►fushiguro toji, inumaki toge, kong shiu, sukuna ryomen, bakugou katsuki, shigaraki tomura, todoroki touya, tsukishima kei