chatsukimi

[chatsukimi]

ʜᴇʏ ʙᴀʙʏ, ʙᴀʙʏ

featuring: gojo satoru x reader. humour + hurt no comfort. synopsis: a collection of you and gojo's voicemails/calls to each other throughout the years. masterlist

july 7th, 2006. 11:23am.

"heyy babyy, you miss me?"

cringing to yourself, you listened to your classmate, gojo satoru's, first voicemail to you. the windows were open in the classroom, summer wind blowing in. the heat was almost as annoying as the blondie's voice. gojo and geto are staying at some estate in okinawa to catch some special grade curse.

oh, and for the record, he was not your boyfriend- whatever pet names he constructed for you were his business only.

you'd tried and failed for him to stop.

"... geto says it's a huge curse we're catching. pfft. i think it's easy peasy. and-"

you heard very distinctly geto's voice hollering at gojo on the other line. pinching your lips together, you resisted a smile. what a menace, leaving his friend in the midst of battle just to send a voicemail to you.

it almost warmed your heart.

"-ok, looks like he's having trouble. aww, suguru, do i have to hang up?" a cacophony of harsh bangs and shouting later, you were furrowing your brows and gojo was back on the line. "ok, he thinks you aren't important enough to voicemail right now-"

"i never said that you stupid-"

"harsh," gojo retorted in a strangled tone right back, the faux offence grating your ears. "he doesn't think i should be calling you right now. inconsiderate." then, in a breathless whisper, he said, "call me later, mk? don't forget to congratulate your boyfriend. i expect a hero's welcome!"

the line cut short.

you texted him straight after: i am not in a relationship with you.

september 1st, 2006. 9:49pm.

"hey baby, i'm out on a mission right now. what's your favourite sweet? they've got mochi, mooncakes, and some pocky. chocolate, strawberry and cream flavoured. tell me and your beloved will bring you his war spoils."

at this point, you'd gotten used to his endearments already.

in your room, all cozied up in your blankets with a hot cup of honey-water in hand, you stared out the window, admiring the nighttime stars. somewhere out there, gojo was fighting.

"you've got to start answering my calls." you could hear him pouting so vividly it chilled you. "wanna hear your voice, baby."

his voice, you realised, was a nice accompaniment to your nighttime routine. he spoke neither too slowly nor too fast. nice and smooth too...

wait- what? you snapped out of it. no way you just complimented gojo satoru.

you dropped the phone on your bed, resolving to ignore him this time.

and the way he haunted your sleep.

may 25th, 2007. 2:00pm.

"baby baby baby, i'm this close to killing all the higher ups," satoru was mumbling against the phone, the usual smoothness of his voice sunken into callousness. you still couldn't believe he was talking to you like you're there with him; he's miles away. "a two week mission. what were they thinking?

"hmph. it's not even a curse i'm suited to." suddenly realising what he insinuated, gojo added, "easy to exorcise, of course, but so troublesome. they should've hired someone with a slower, more detective-heavy technique. they're keeping me away from you... god, are you forgetting me?"

you listened to him while standing outside a classroom at jujutsu high. geto gave you a wry smile: can't get enough of him, mm? you shot him an angry glare.

it didn't prepare you for the sound that slipped out of the phone.

a whisper.

"do you think i should?"

then you were clutching the phone to your ear, fighting the urge to put his voice on speaker to hear properly, clinging onto every word that escaped him.

"d'you think i should kill the higher ups?"

for the first time since being forced to receive gojo satoru's number, you pressed call.

"... hey bab-"

"gojo satoru," you said his name with a meaning, like you knew exactly what it was meant for, to strike him at his very core. "i like you. stop thinking about murder."

november 20th, 2018. 5:24pm.

"babe... talk to me. i'm sorry, didn't mean to get trapped in that box in the first place. it's just part of the job. it's nothing. i'm the strongest. plus, i got out just fine.

"i..." careful and slow, his tone resumed a certain responsibility. it showed that he was trying. "... should've been careful, for you. i know that now.

"just come back and talk to me."

november 20th, 2009. 6:30pm.

"babe babe babe babe baby. please..."

november 28th, 2018. 10:23pm.

"hey baby, i'm thinking of taking a break from the jujutsu world after this. let's go on a nice holiday, just you and me. god that'll be fun... m'thinkin of you on the beach." a cheeky lilt crossed his voice. "hah- just joking... maybe. hold on a little more, mk? year's nearly over. i'll pay for it all, the trip. and, well, you know what we were saying about getting married... yeah. okinawa's a pretty place, isn't it? i overheard nanami talking to his friend bout it just then actually."

december 1st, 2018. 00:58am.

"hi baby. it's late. i know. i've been busy." he paused.

silence flooded the line for about five seconds. it was as though his lungs were convulsing in bursts of breath under the weight of things unsaid. he kept quiet.

then, he was moving around, shifting uncomfortably. he wanted to end the voicemail, didn't know why he started it to begin with.

all you heard before the voicemail ended was:

"stay safe."

december 24, 2018. 4:35am.

"hey baby, i just wanna say... i love you."

you lift your hand up to your mouth, bottling the cry that aches to get out of you. the brutally familiar voice of the white haired sorcerer rasps against your ear. then he breaks out in a dazzlingly clear laughter.

"i... really do. this isn't a joke or anything. i know you know already, but i wanted to tell you." you could guess the ensuing words straight from his mouth. "i don't know if i'll win."

there it is. despite yourself, you smile, treasuring the vulnerability he's shown.

"sorry, i'm not sure why i said that. of course i'll win." you can imagine him puffing his chest out on the other line, confidence filling up his voice once more. "but maybe... in case i don't...

"we had a good run, didn't we?"

you let out a shaky breath.

yeah. we did.

"when i come back, i expect a hero's welcome. ok, babe?"

you're chuckling to yourself as he rambles on and on about kikufuku mochi and a holiday in okinawa, just him and you. no higher ups allowed. no responsibilities. you enjoy the lilt of his voice, terrifying smooth and there despite no real presence.

at last, you put down the phone. a low static drones throughout the apartment.

your photo albums collated on the cupboards, the messy unmade bed, just as you'd left it. two mugs in the kitchen. two pairs of slippers at the doorway.

your thumb drifts away from the replay button. you close your eyes, willing his stupidly annoying voice to haunt you one more time. to taunt you, to tease you, to tell you what you want to hear.

not gojo's very last voice message.

"yuta..."

you couldn't bring yourself to look up. the height, the weight, the figure. shoko had told you to prepare yourself to see the exact replica of your lover before you.

you know that is impossible... nothing could replace satoru.

your resolve is knocked out of you when you see him. only a glimpse... but the same face, same lips and nose and hair and- oh, your breath catches. same eyes. maybe you couldn't... maybe you couldn't tell the difference after all-

"y/n?"

finally you gather the courage to study him properly.

"yuta," you acknowledge.

you know for certain this is not satoru.

for your satoru had a different voice, clear and powerful as the ocean waves. your satoru spoke with purpose, the undeniable confidence he was right, always, and could not be knocked down. your satoru had a penchant he would not let go of calling you baby.

[chatsukimi]

ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

gojo satoru rarely takes his glasses off. in his own world of infinity, you suppose real life is somewhat boring.

you couldn't be more wrong.

you're sitting across from gojo, a jacuzzi separating you. he has dipped his feet into the pool of clear water, the ripples cascading to your legs. noticing them, he looks up.

the first thing he thinks is woah.

the sight of you in a bathing suit stuns him temporarily, his heart clattering faster. but he musters up a cocky smile before strolling forward, putting on his black sunglasses, imitating one of those old men in sunnies staring down at you.

"arrived early, did we?"

you hum, craning your head up. your hand finds his neck, pulling his lips onto yours with a smile.

"you got me." your fingers catch his lightless specs and pull them from his ears. "let me see you."

you don't know what you're doing to him right now. he chuckles, rubbing his nape with a hint of awkwardness, when all he wants to do is take you in right there. he's never been in a relationship before, so he doesn't know if he can check you out so freely.

"you miss me so much?" he teases, though on the inside he's screaming.

goddammit, why did you take his glasses? he forces his gaze on your face- breathtaking, yes, but hardly the only thing that's begging his attention. he tries to keep his stare minimal, yet his lips part unconsciously. he stares at the only partial alternative to satiating his want: your lips.

noticing your boyfriend's gaze, a devilish idea pops into your head.

after geto and shoko arrive, the four of you talk casually in the relaxing hot water. gojo resumes his usual cocky self. an hour or so passes before you decide to switch to the living room.

"gojo, do you know where's the bathroom? i wanna shower."

wet feet plopping in tow through the winding hallways, you feel his gaze boring into the back of your skull. but as you enter, he stops by the door. you turn around, feigning oblivious.

"can you grab me a towel?"

ever eager to please, gojo quickly strides down the hallway for a towel, while you strip and enter the shower. when he comes back, listening to the sound of water, he waits by the door.

"gojo, pass the towel," you call.

he's so glad you don't have the six eyes right now, because he can feel his cursed energy spiralling. "w-what?"

"i said, pass me the towel."

his eyes widen. hovering over the doorknob, he swallows his other thoughts, shuffling into the bathroom, one feet after another, gaze pasted onto the floor.

your hand comes out, waving as though you have no idea where he is. he shoves the object into your hand before you step out, towel wrapped around you. with that, he immediately turns to leave, but not before noticing the devious little smile on your lips, possibly from his reaction.

fuck him, he thinks.

suddenly fingers enclose on his wrist, his limitless shut off from the distraction.

"can you dry my hair?" you say, polite, and in that soft tone you know he can't say no to.

his hands stagger over your head, gripping another towel, drying this part then the next. clunky. he's never touched someone else much before, and it shows.

what entertains you most, however, is the way he's forcing his eyes on his hand and nowhere else, focusing like it's his lifetime.

"done," he mumbles.

at last, you look up at him. he's wearing an uncharacteristically stern face, clearly holding himself back.

you ask, "do you want to say something?"

fuck. him. he lets out a shallow breath. how could you stand there batting your lashes like nothing's wrong, when you're making his hands run over you, yet not in the way he wants to.

"you demon woman. you know what you're doing."

you appear to be pondering, too, what you might be thinking. one of your hands tap at his chest, the space above his heart.

"tell me. what am i doing?"

his hand holds yours, keeping it against him. "you're tempting me."

you tilt your head to the side and you swear, he chokes a little. "and who's holding back, hmmm?"

...

2 years later

"gojo satoru, where have you put my towel??" your voice screeches from the shower.

leaning beside the bathroom door, the most annoyingly handsome man croons, "i've got it right here."

"give it to me. right now."

he shakes his head to himself. you still haven't learnt your lesson, it seems. he saunters over to the shower with the fluffy white towel in his grip. your hand pokes out. he clicks his tongue.

"baby, come on out."

an automatic groan claws its way from your throat and he chuckles, finding part of your unspoken shyness endearing.

"it's nothing that i haven't seen before," he adds, as though that'll make it better.

you feel your cheeks grow hot even with the excess steam. you know if he wanted to, he could step right into the shower and join you, but satoru seems to be in a lighter mood today.

regardless, you don't anticipate the effortless way the towel encases you as you step out. he wraps the cloth around you with care, the motion simultaneously tugging you closer to him. you let out a small gasp in comfort. to that, he snickers quietly by your ear, which provokes a half scowl from you. you look like a bunny in that oversized thing.

you mutter under your breath, "how did i get stuck with you..?"

he hums in response. "you're just too lucky."

he uses another towel to dry your hair. a thought courses through your brain- it's not like it matters much, but gojo satoru is really good at what he does. once he has experience in something, it's like the talent in his body simply activates, and the smooth sensation on your scalp dissipates.

this time, however, he doesn't announce his completion. instead, he tugs you casually against his chest. his hand skilfully cups your jaw, holding your gaze against his.

it's unfair, how the sight of his blue eyes send a seering level of need into your system. your hands find his shoulders to steady yourself and the towel begins to fall.

"wanna see you," he says, his stare roaming over you, unabashedly ravenous.

and finally, with experience, he does.

[chatsukimi]

two beautiful things

fashiondesigner!geto who is renowned for his pickiness in models and the talent in his craft. according to rumour, he never makes dresses, only other clothes, because he's never found a model worthy enough to flaunt the design.

fashiondesigner!geto who, at first, dismisses you because you didn't fit his criteria of a model. pressured by his manager to meet you, he reluctantly assents.

fashiondesigner!geto who takes your measurements, skillful, his hands lingering on the precipice of a touch.

fashiondesigner!geto who invites you over for lunch to talk about your suitability for the next season, asking casually.

fashiondesigner!geto who concentrates on sketching you on his balcony, pencil tucked behind his ear. the sunlight makes him look angelic.

fashiondesigner!geto who calls you after a shoot, calls you casually his muse, and suddenly you're opening half his shows. the fashion world is at your doorstep, accusations painted on cover magazines: who is suguru's newest sweetheart?

fashiondesigner!geto who books you one afternoon to apologise for the ruckus, and ask for your forgiveness. he truly looks sincere.

fashiondesigner!geto who -for the first time in his long career- can't keep his eyes on his artwork, and instead, scan the crowd for any men staring far too long at your figure. it's childish. a blush invades his cheeks, and this realisation makes him feel like a schoolboy.

fashiondesigner!geto who waits for you at the backdoor of the louvre, leaning against the wall in his designer coat. he's brought a change of shoes so you can take off your heels after the show, and an arm so you can steady yourself.

fashiondesigner!geto who says he has a thank-you gift for your work this season. he studies your face as you accept, your fingers opening the packaging with grace.

and to you, it's the most beautiful thing: a breathtaking purple dress.

but to him it is only second best.

fashiondesigner!geto who wears a leisurely smirk the next time you walk down the runway. the cameras are blinding, but he knows you're only looking for one person in the crowd.

and he thinks to himself with a proud demeanour, his two beautiful things.

[chatsukimi]

★ ༘ * 🔭 ꜱᴛᴀʀ ☄︎ sukuna x reader

SYNOPSIS: At the crux of sophomore year, Ryomen Sukuna experiences two major turns of events. First, his acting hobby skyrockets him into sudden stardom. Second, a new contract implements onto him a dating ban which is, effectively speaking, one way to deprive him of sex. To satisfy his own needs, Sukuna strikes a deal with the inconspicuous quiet kid, not knowing that you will pave the path of his fame. warnings: nsfw (+).

#SHOOT 1: Take me to the stars scene break: perfume

#SHOOT 2: Cables scene break: say my name, heartbreaker

#SHOOT 3: Lights, Camera, Action!! scene break: backstage business

#SHOOT 4: YALE scene break: callgirl

#SHOOT 5: Private show scene break: CUT

#SHOOT 6: Beautiful nightmare scene break: make up make out

#SHOOT 7: BREAK ME & THE NEWS scene break: glory

#SHOOT 8: Star scene break: denouement

︶︶︶ 𔓕 ︶︶ ୨୧ ︶︶ ending credits

#SHOOT 9: Alain Delon

June 10th - **

[chatsukimi]

ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ

featuring: jujutsusorcerer!nanami, curse!reader, angst, breaking up. synopsis: life is too short to hold yourself back. you force a certain uptight sorcerer to learn the hard way. masterlist

nanami likes to think he has no regrets. he tells the students that he'd never had a lover, not one that lasted very long anyway. he tells anyone who asked that he is too busy in his job to date.

too busy to date a normal person outside his job, he means.

in other words, nanami likes to forget he likes a curse.

you're sitting on his couch, folding his shirts fresh from the laundry. "kento-kun!"

nanami likes to think he turns away. likes to think he goes to the kitchen to prepare his dull blade to kill you, but, recently, he's learnt that he's a liar.

you tiptoe over, examining how he runs his knife under tap water to clean off the curse residue. you had reacted better than he thought you would when you learnt he exorcised curses, probably because you were a mediocre curse yourself, not involved in the grand scheme of things.

you peer curiously over his shoulder. "that's your weapon?"

he lifts it up purposefully close to show you, but instead of shrinking away, your hands attach to its sides, gracing the cloth gently.

"woah..."

he stills. when he begins chopping up the vegetables, you're right by his side, helping him cook with rapid skill.

"careful. don't add too much salt in," he says, an uneasy monotone gracing your ears.

he doesn't look at you.

you pause on the salt, staring at him. "is something wrong?"

a flashback zips through his head, of a dying colleague, of a growing curse. mostly holding himself back, nanami lets out a long exhale. he shakes his head.

"no. i'm alright."

the atmosphere is tense under your scrutiny, probably because, for you, he would taste better than any human dish might. truthfully speaking, you only eat his food out of politesse.

'liar,' you whisper into his ear, glaring at him with an infinite amount of human hurt. "don't lie to me."

you know as well as he does.

nanami likes to think his heart doesn't clench when you reach out to hold his hand, your skin that reminiscent of that terrifying rubber feel he's constantly associated with death. you pause when he flinches away.

"nanami?"

kill them. that's your job, it's what you must do. kill them.

he murmurs lowly, "i think it's time for you to leave."

you take a step back. he doesn't move. you wait for him to chase after you while receding from him, two steps at a time.

nanami likes to think he's a serious man. likes to think he knows what's right for him and others at the most important incidences. but strip away the guise of having it all together and he realises what's most human about him is slipping through between his fingers: you.

watching you, nanami cannot think.

he's stalking towards you towards the exit. you've turned your back on him. his heartbeat tremors.

"wait-"

your voice is empty when you respond- is this what he'll remember you by?

"what, nanami?"

would nanami force you to stay? he's always been selfish in keeping you at his place, treasuring the heartfelt words, midnight slow dances, pretending the outside world didn't exist. the world which draws a distinct line between humans and curses. good and evil. but now, now nanami has to choose.

"don't go." he croaks. pathetic.

you stand there, head lowered. "why? what even am i to you?"

curse or human?

the words taste bitter in his mouth, crawling to the tip of his tongue. speak! kento, what are you doing?! speak! and in the ideal world, he says them, right there, held in your molten gaze. those three words would have you rushing back into his arms, ready to start anew. it would read like a fairy-tale.

he would be happy.

yet earth is a hell that confines him. he cannot force himself to take another step forward. you cannot force yourself to take another step back.

this is what would've always happened.

in a split second decision, you put on your shoes.

"forget me, kento," you breathe. let's pretend this never happened. "i know you hate curses getting stronger."

you cross the threshold of his door. the fantasy dissipates.

when he opens the door again, nanami looks down the corridor of his apartment complex and sees no one.

not even the curse of regret.

[chatsukimi]

ʀᴜʟᴇꜱ:

feel free to request anything

i choose what i want to write about so i may not write it

however! i try to write everything i'm given in fandoms i know; exceptions do occur

character x character ships will be posted on my ao3. character x reader fics on tumblr

time spent waiting can be quite long since i have other commitments. thanks for your patience.

[chatsukimi]

ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

featuring: protective!heian!sukuna, kindhearted!servant!reader. slight angst/hurt -> comfort. synopsis: you're sick. to your surprise, you're rescued by the man second closest to death himself. masterlist

you should've known he wouldn't come. sukuna has never set foot in the servant's headquarters in his life, let alone to chase after a sick servant. you lower your head, trying to ease the headache that has plagued you through the day.

sukuna loves his bloodshed and his gore. him and death would be good friends, you think to yourself. he wouldn't care if your body was burnt or buried, you think to yourself; wouldn't care if you died at all.

the room the others put you in is empty. ash spreads neatly over the cold floor. the scent of kibble haunts the atmosphere. it's where they put the dogs before sukuna killed them.

ever since you took care of the king of curses while he was sick, the other servants had been careful in keeping a distance from you. not in ill of heart; they're simply terrified at what you must've done to survive in your week long stay with the monster. honestly, you don't blame them.

but now when you're laying on the freezing ground, struggling to breathe, it's hard not to.

'this is where you live?'

your eyes look up. shock. then, with all the strength you can muster, you heave yourself one step away from the man at the doorway, which only serves to piss him off more.

sukuna ryomen, in all his glory, looks down at you. bending down to pick you up like a limp doll to be seated against the wall, he seems to revel in his regained strength. you can't help but feel happy for him, to have survived this fatal disease. not many men can attest to that...

then again, he is no ordinary man.

'i asked you a question.'

you nod, a small thing, barely a movement. he seems to clench his teeth.

he takes off his long white coat, flaunting a layer of dried blood, and drapes it over your shoulders.

yet it doesn't end there. he retrieves from his pocket a bottle of what looks to be a golden syrup.

you know exactly what it is.

he takes your hand and wraps it around the flask, making you hold it, sparing, not one, but two of his eyes, to stare at you, making sure you do as he commands.

'swallow.'

you shake your head. you know he's asking you to do. this is a medication is so rare for your disease that no sorcerer has found in over a hundred years. he's brought this thing of myth right to your very lips. now he's asking you to drink it, and thus take away any chance of it saving anyone else's life.

you scowl, but the tickling sensation in your throat grows stronger, eventually erupting out of your mouth in a harsh cough. you look away from sukuna.

'leave,' you whisper, weakly. 'don't wanna infect you.'

'i survived the illness already. i've developed an immunity.'

you shake your head again. you couldn't threaten your king's health with your own weakness. you just couldn't.

'i can't take this.'

he growls. without any notice, he swallows your lips in a kiss. in the momentary haze, you could hardly resist, fisting the front of his kimono to ground yourself. then, you feel something sweet, honey-ish, hit your tongue.

with his hand locked on your chin, it forces you to swallow.

you pull back, pushing him away. he groans.

he wipes his mouth, still with two eyes staring.

no... no, why did he do that?

'y-you- how? no... why did you waste it on me?' you whisper, desperately searching his face for an answer. 'i'm just a servant. you could've given it to a princess, or a scholar, or priest-'

he grabs you by the arm and forces you into his arms. its heat astounds you, and you find yourself crawling closer. a vague thumping sound seems to press against your ear-

oh. you calm your breathing.

it's his heartbeat.

alive.

'sleep in my room tonight,' he demands.

what did he say? you strain your mind, trying to replay what he said earlier. no... maybe you heard correctly.

'but i'm no concubine,' you respond, instantly.

his arm supports your waist, helping you up effortlessly to your feet. he then directs two of his eyes to the doorway, his cadence low and domineering.

'it doesn't matter.'

he leads you placidly through the servant's quarters. you notice all conversation cease at your entry, bodies dropping into a low bow. a small voice in you whispers that it's where you should be too. you tug at sukuna's arm.

'i'm only a servant, sukuna.'

you know what it looks like, a servant clutching onto a man, more god than human. a man who has slaughtered villages, blood staining the base of his kimono crimson, and turned half a province on its head, just to save you.

'whatever you are in my eyes is what you are to the world,' he states, his expression unchanging. 'if i deem you a queen, that is who you are.'

exiting the servant compound, you know you can't say no- not like you wanted to. the wide expanse of his chest is comforting.

yet however sweet this feeling remains, you can't help but gulp. perhaps this is the closest a human has ever come to courting death.

[chatsukimi]

ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ & ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ

featuring: needy!gojosatoru, childhoodfriend!gojosatoru. precious. fluff!, minute jealousy synopsis: you put makeup on your childhood best friend. you learn that he is more than you anticipated. masterlist

you think you know everything about gojo satoru. you'd seen him as a child, two years younger than you, get scolded by his parents for sending a senile sorcerer to hospital. you were there when he first activated limitless and pummelled you accidentally in the face.

safe to say, nothing surprises you anymore. not even when he teleports into your room on the night of your date without even a knock and grabs you by the shoulders to turn you and your chair around.

"oi, stop that."

you strangle him off you. he only grins.

"sure thing." he shrugs, before bending down to inspect you more closely. "what have you got on your face?"

you put the bottle of setting spray down. "makeup."

he ruffles his tousled white hair, windblown. "ah? makeup. are you meeting someone?" he grins halfheartedly, scanning your room for any changes since you last met.

"i am."

"it's about time. i've already dated loads of people," he boasts, his eyes lingering on the powder and blush on the table.

you roll your eyes. "of course you have." you lay on the finishing touches to your face. you notice him watching.

rule one about gojo satoru, when he stares, he's interested. as you grew older, it became harder under those pitch black shades of his to detect where he's staring, but when he really wants something, it's obvious.

you lift a brush. "you want me to do makeup on you?"

he shakes his head.

rule two about satoru gojo, he never says what he's thinking.

you stand up, gesturing at the bed. "sit down." without a word, the boy listens to your command, ready to try something new.

you can't say you're unhappy to try doing makeup on him. you had some spare time left and that beautiful canvas of a face is nothing but to die for. putting makeup on him would be fun.

"i'll have to take off your glasses. may i?"

he sniffs.

rule three about gojo, he pretends to hate it when people ask to take his glasses off, but he secretly likes it. you know. it makes him feel seen, more human.

"do it yourself."

you nod.

taking his sunglasses off, you revel in the familiar ocean which faces you.

another two facts about satoru is that he can't keep still and he can't stop yapping. shaking his leg in tandem with the news from his mouth, the movement makes you shoot him a frustrated glare, distracted.

half to shut him up, the other half to make him pay attention, you grip his jaw in place. your eyes lock. soon enough, he'll probably look away to inspect some other object of interest; he's known you for years, after all. nothing new.

as you work, you think to yourself.

gojo... he's really grown up, hasn't he? in careful brushstrokes, you drag the eyeliner gently to form a wing with the tip of the pen. your eyes narrowed in concentration, you haven't noticed the shallow breath which tumbles from his mouth.

"pretty."

you blink.

gojo satoru scoots closer to you, so that his gorgeous azure eyes are inches from yours. they are widened in awe.

in all these years, you can count on one hand the number of times this genius has focused on anything longer than five-ten seconds. sure, going to jujutsu high has stretched that time out slightly, but it's nothing compared to this.

you know what rule one says about his behaviour, but you couldn't believe it.

he reaches up to brush the hair from your face. unblinking, unwavering, as though memorising everything, the outline of your nose to the singular dashes which form an eyelash, he stares at you.

it is the first step from a boy to a man.

"you are... really, really, pretty."

"says you," you say, almost pushing his hands away.

he sinks his fingers against yours, clasping them in a bone-tight grip.

"you are," he asserts. "how come i've never noticed?" he mutters, furious.

um. you turn to look the other way. the heat of his stare is scalding. nevertheless, the strongest refuses to back down.

"i should've noticed, shouldn't i? and now you're all dressed up with your make-up to meet some other guy." he pouts.

truth be told, you are silenced. this is not the gojo you recognise. in a swift move, he carries you from the vanity to the bed. the display of strength startles you.

"don't go," he whines into your shoulder, shifting you with his strong arms to nuzzle himself into your chest. you did so often when you were younger but-

"stay." he pauses, letting each syllable cascade from his beautiful lips like a bell, ringing crystal clear. "stay with me."

stay with him.

you think you know everything about gojo satoru. you remember the way he begged for a break amidst his pre-adolescent training sessions. you remember the empty hallways of the gojo estate and his silent footsteps, how they left him behind to carry the world on his shoulders.

awaiting your answer, gojo feels his heart beating out of his chest. what if you leave? what if you choose your date over him? what if-

"why?"

he stares up at you again. truly shameless.

"because i want you to." he turns stern. "or else, i'll tell your friend that you didn't actually have work that day you decided to ditch her little meet-up and i'll-"

out of nowhere, a laugh breaks out of you. he frowns.

but then, you press a soft kiss on his cheek, another one on the slope of his nose, which -truth be told- didn't need the contour you'd gracefully put on it, and the strongest sorcerer in the world relaxes to your touch.

moments like these, satoru still manages to surprise you.

"i'll stay."

"promise?" he holds up a pinkie.

"come on, satoru, we're not children anymore."

his eyebrows scrunch together so you finally relent.

"ok."

you link your pinkie to his.

"promise."

getting comfortable, you shoot a text at your friend to move the date to another day.

"i knew you'd stay. you can't stand when i throw a tantrum," he suddenly begins to mumble against your skin. your eyes widen. "i know you... better than anyone..." his eyelids are dragging under the weight of sleepiness.

perhaps you didn't know everything about satoru after all.

gojo opens his eyes, seeing you fully. "i know you can't stand me being alone."

perhaps he knew more about you than you had thought possible.

on second thoughts, you grab your phone from your bedside table, typing up a message you send without a second thought.

sorry. something came up. i might not be able to meet with you next week either. thank you for your patience, but i think i've found someone who i want to stick by forever.

[chatsukimi]

i'm sick with covid but imma give u guys everything i didn't give these past few weeks. heads up

[chatsukimi]

ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ᴊᴇᴡᴇʟꜱ ♛

featuring: heianera!sukuna, royalty!sukuna. synopsis: impatient with sukuna's games, you decide to take the power for yourself. masterlist

Thinking about sukuna's power-hungry concubine...

it was a well known fact that sukuna would never wed and share his power- especially not to someone weaker.

that was why, after years under his thumb, you were planning to take the crown for yourself.

you snuck into his room after he returned, hopefully weary, from an expedition. you were not going to sit around waiting for a day which'll never come, you thought. albeit, your legs shook at the thought of him finding out about this plot, standing outside his door. deep breaths. deep breaths. you had to do this.

the first thing you noticed about his room at night was the lack of noise. no bedwarmer? you scoffed quietly. what, was he trying to be a saint now? you saw his slumbering silhouette on the bed and your heart almost stopped.

but you'd sacrifice anything to take the throne.

you crept to his side, raised the dagger and stabbed-

"do you know what you've done?" a low voice hissed. scarlet eyes shone with mirth. sukuna sat up, four strong arms raising along with.

"h-how?"

"aren't you a pretty thing." sukuna looked up at you, almost reverent. in his hand, you spotted something shiny, possibly a treasure from the village he'd brutalised. "pretty foolish, too."

you scowled. "i'm not."

"i know," he said. "you're just impatient... like me. but tell me, have you ever met a king who sleeps with four eyes shut?"

you wanted to say you'd never met a king apart from him, but that'd feed his pride too much. instead, trying desperately to get back at him, you snatched the thing he was holding, preparing to throw it at him in case he attacked.

he chuckled.

the king of curses gestured at your tight fist around the stone. "go on, curious. open up your palm."

you were hesitant at his sudden sweetness. but, understanding his own impatience and valuing your life, you pulled apart your fingers one at a time. in the meantime, he exploited your inattention to grab your arm; you toppled into his lap. the muscles in his tattooed arm flexed against your skin, flush against your waist. your terrified eyes quivered over his neck then face once you saw the rock more closely.

you forced the dagger to his throat.

his laughter cackled through your skin and bones as he kissed the blade in one slow drag.

"understood, have you?"

you pushed the dagger between his lips. before it hit his gums, he bit it with his teeth. you refused to look away, until you couldn't stand it, anymore. your fingers loosened on the weapon as it clattered to the cold floor.

"do with me as you wish- my love, my equal, my queen."

for the stone in your hand was a ring.

///

ps. to the reader who requested a work, i'm working on it- trust.

[chatsukimi]

MALEVOLENT SHRINE (#13 universes)

#1. Kiss to Kill (gore, mystery, action, serialkiller!sukuna)

#2. Beg forgiveness (soulmates)

#3. STAR (smut, rivals to lovers, college/celebrity au)

#4. (gravedigger x ghost)

#5. (the handmaid's tale au, angst)

#7. (harry potter au)

#8. (zombie-apocalypse au)

#9. (time travel au, fix it, heian!sukuna)

#10. the heartbreak project. (high school au)

#13. (hospital au, road trip, tragedy)

_____________

updates: slow- very slow. this is a project i'm embarking on across two-three years so, depending on how busy i am, i'll try to update twice a month. these will be full fics (1k-6k each part).

[chatsukimi]

ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋꜱ

featuring: touchstarved!gojo, slight enemies to lovers. synopsis: gojo satoru can't understand why he keeps wanting to spar with you... until one time, you two get a little too close. masterlist

sparring with satoru is a pain above all else. yaga has been assigning you to hand to hand combat with satoru for weeks now- a suspiciously long amount of time without switching partners.

you kick, dodge a punch, and stare up at his shameless smile. each time you come close to landing a hit, he turns on infinity, then poof! your opportunity rushes out the window.

"no techniques allowed." you grit your teeth.

"oops." he holds his hands up in a faux surrender. "sorry, forgot."

he certainly did not forget.

this time, he charges at your torso, his annoyingly long arm closing distance on your shoulder at breakneck speed. you feel the limb dislocate. you wince. using his upper hand, gojo grabs your arms and pins you to the gymnasium floor. the air is knocked out of your lungs.

he's panting, his blue eyes clambering over you, under him. like always, he's too close to you- so close you see your own figure in the reflection of his watery irises. you could lift your hand up an inch to brush the sweat from his forehead. always. way too close.

his fingers trail across your elbow up towards your collarbone- whoosh.

infinity on again. he lets out a long exhale, scrunching his eyes shut as though pained.

that's when gojo thinks he's safe.

only, he's not really.

instead of giving up, you close your hand around the infinity and pull the whole thing, gojo and his infinity, towards you. your legs drag around his hips.

his eyes widen.

your hand pushes his chest then in the brisk manoeuvre, you're on top of him.

you think you see his soul poke its head out his mouth, tipped ajar in shock.

you don't know why you do what you do next. in some depraved performance, your fingers close in on his windpipe. you don't squeeze; the imagery is enough to satisfy. snowy white eyelashes fluttering to meet your gaze, the groan echoing out from his throat, the tight strain in his chest as he breathes shallowly, letting you way too close.

"they're watching," he murmurs.

shoko and geto. fear washes over you, and you're about to let go-

his own hand closes around your wrist.

he's staring at you darkly, goading you to move.

"they're watching," he says again, his hands suddenly at your waist pulling you closer. his tongue flicks over his bottom lip.

you're almost laying on his chest, face to face with your own deadly consumption.

"how long have you been beating me up just to get this close?" you tease.

"huh?"

truly innocently desperately confused, satoru has the gall to tighten his grip, hoisting himself up until he's sitting to lean over you again- if only slightly.

"we're just sparring, aren't we?" and he's telling himself this as his nose bumps against yours. and he's lying to himself that the way he's exploring your body is an act of aggression, not an act of compulsion. "you've been playing dirty tricks on me, but i can do it better."

dirty tricks? you think you see the thought passing through his concentrated face.

unfair, unfair, unfair-

how dare you provoke him let down his infinity? who do you think you are? how could you break him down through just one touch, leave him barrelling towards you for more?

unfair, unfair, unfair-

his hand rests by your jaw, stroking up your cheek, taking his precious time.

because sparring with you is the only time satoru gets to touch you.

he forces all his common sense out of his brain as he whispers, frustration coursing through his tone, "you're weak. your form is full of openings." and he's almost kissing you-

"time out, time out." shoko's voice cuts through the haze.

you feel you two being dragged apart by shoko and geto. the latter frowns at the white haired menace who's temporarily lost his obnoxious pride, silent.

the moment is awkward for everyone except for him.

gojo cocks his head to the side, looking at geto. "we were just fighting?"

geto sighs. just fighting?

you shiver as gojo's expressionless stare sticks onto you. curious.

the fight is over already...

but then why does he want to kiss you still?

[chatsukimi]

POV. STREETRACER!TOJI asks to borrow your last name.

.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･

“What do you mean you don’t want your last name printed on your uniform?”

Toji, your trust fund racer and favourite bet, shrugs. “Already said, I won’t race with the name Zen’in.”

You sit down at your desk. It’s after school, and you and the spoiled soon-to-be college reject are sitting in the classroom.

You throw your hands up. “But why? What’s bad about Zen’in?”

“Everything,” he deadpans.

Staring at the guy for a flat five seconds, you realise he won’t change his mind, or explain himself, which you should have expected from a guy going broke despite his millionaire family.

Toji props himself up on the desk beside yours, leaning on his knees as though thinking. A few seconds pass.

He offers, “why don’t I use yours?”

“My what?”

“Your last name,” he suggests, breezing through the prospect at horrifying speed. “It works. You’re sponsoring me anyways.”

You blink twice. Delayed reaction.

“What?!” you squeak out.

Toji smirks, leaning on his palm watching you. “What?” he repeats, playing innocent. He sports a smug look in his green eyes and even bothers to scan your notebook splayed out on your desk, reading your last name out loud to himself. “Nice.”

No. Not nice. They’ll assume you're- you're- your cheeks heat up.

He looks at you, bearing a smile that's all teeth. 'We could be cousins.'

The guy even dares to pat you on the shoulder at that. You shake him off. No one at the race would believe you two are related.

"No."

'No?' he echoes, cocking his head, tempting you to speak. 'What could we be then?'

"We can be... can be..." you think to yourself, before noticing his hands landing on your shoulder, massaging them like a habit. He's sauntered over from his chair.

Comforting, but still...

Bad habit.

Your heart stutters.

Baaad habit.

"Hm?" He chuckles when he sees you realise. "What would we be?"

You swallow, the small proximity between the two of you taking your mind on a field trip; him standing behind your seat and you, fidgeting your hands under the desk like crazy.

"Nothing."

He raises an eyebrow.

"I don't think taking your last name means nothing," he presses, serious.

How is he saying this with such a straight face? You're looking anywhere in the classroom but Toji, hoping he might just drop the subject. What's wrong with his last name anyways? What is he even insinuating? Does he really-

"I don't think I'll get tired of that face in ten years' time," he states.

Toji Zen'in is a blunt guy. When he said he hates his last name, he meant it. When he says he wants yours, well, no one's calling this guy a liar, are they?

It's been a while since you started sponsoring his races, and he's grown accustomed to your face in the stands. Always too far away, though. You always have on that dispassionate expression as a gambler, as though he's one of the rest.

For once, he cannot be just one of the rest.

“I'm... not sure what you mean." Your eyes move to the sunset outside, ignoring the way you bite your lip.

He studies your face for a minute before smirking again. "You're dabbling in illegal motorsports and can't look me in the eye."

You wince.

You murmur, "well then maybe you should say directly what you mean then."

You're so cute like this, pretending you don't like him too.

He walks around the table to face you properly. All of a sudden you can imagine your name on his back as he gets into the vehicle to race, as the stands to hear the cheers of the crowd. He'd wear it well. He coughs to get your attention.

“I’m saying.” He places his hands on his hips, shrugging as he goes. “Maybe let's be married. Just one day.”

Only, he doesn't intend for it to be one day. He wants you to remember your last name on him, keep the moment in your head; he'll wear it better than anyone else.

…

It is at that moment when the times come out and the trophies are awarded that he drapes his arm around your waist. The wink he throws your way, accomplice. Spectators ask what's his name.

And this is the moment you become more than his financier or the bets you place on him to win.

He speaks it into the microphone, proud for the stadium, the world. to hear.

And this is the moment you glance up at him with more than just a shallow smile, saying 'congrats'.

The word reverberates over the race track in a powerful wave.

He spoke into the microphone and the name is yours.

pt. 1

[chatsukimi]

eternal: ten cursed fingers, born from the flame

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: sukuna x fem!reader, fluff, some angst, heianera!sukuna. pt 2.

When Sukuna enters the workshop, he is fifteen and mortal, and you are tending flames by the furnace.

Afternoon sun casts through the straw ceiling. You blink twice as you stare at the doorway. Heaving against it, a boy. Sunspots dance in your eyes.

'Please. Please, I'm dying. Help me!' he begs, and his wrists come up to strangle either side of your face, blood filling your tunic in buckets.

Brutal.

He is a curse user, you sense, his energy pouring out like his soul. You could feel it, flooding the plain room, his impending death.

You are young and what the elders say about helping strangers don't faze you. 'Put your hands in the fire.'

'No!'

His eyes are rolling back. He doesn't have much time left.

You grab his arm, dragging his doll-limp figure to the fire. You shove it into the coal.

Observing the healing, your grandfathers' words echo vaguely at the back of your head. They would come asking for it over and over again. They would chase you like immortality. But maybe, you think, maybe he would save dozens with those hands.

What preoccupies you more, though, squatting beside the boy, is the wonder alit in this stranger's face as his hands glisten back to life by the flames until what touches her is not slime and blood, but tender flesh. Bare fingers.

When he leaves, he does not tell you his name, nor ask for his whereabouts, nor thank you. He does not smile, and he gives no compensation. With the rags on his body, though, you do not think he has enough.

He does not do a lot of things, but the last thing you remember of your first meeting with this boy is that he did not say goodbye.

...

He, indeed, returns. He wears a stone carved lion mask.

'I do not think it's fair that I give you weapons for free,' you say, holding up a sceptre for the -now- man.

He chuckles. Sukuna shows you his innate technique: slash. Examining his technique for hours on end, you welded weapons with similar precision.

Through the years, he arrives later and later at the footsteps of your house during the night. He stops calling out for you from the door. Instead, appears frankly at the furnace where you sleep.

'Fuga,' he whispers, like an inside joke, against your ear- open. At first, you startled awake and nearly bashed him in the face. But you know now that despite his stoicism he is smiling under the mask, appearing on the opposite side of the room in an instant.

A little part of you rejoices at knowing this was an important man you have saved, though your fingers never touched.

You can tell from how he stands with solidifying confidence, toys with the necklace around your neck with the symbol of the Sun, Moon and Stars Squadron without ever grazing your skin, and the cursed energy blistering the summer air now greater than any sorcerer you'd met, he was great. All of the Fujiwara Clan combined does not compare.

Electricity trills under your pulse.

Ten years, he comes and goes.

You do not ask for his name. He does not ask for yours. Sometimes you catch him glancing at you in the corner of your eye, as you're tending the flames.

Years pass.

You forget his face.

You wonder, in his aftermath, if he will forget yours. One day he will get tired of the same old swords in the same old countryside home, you're sure of it. But he drives on back each time like an old man seeking immortality.

When he leaves, you stare at the designs of weapons you gave him. What great things would he achieve with those at his side? Your grandfather never tells you about any jujutsu affairs. Leave the girl to sword-making is his motto.

...

A rumour passes from ear to ear from the Southern Clans to the North. A sorcerer is tearing up villages in a one-person massacre to consume their flesh.

Every villager now inks black prayers on their carriages. Prayers to the living god.

You think, it doesn't hurt.

You, too, stick up rice paper on your windows to shield against the monster you know does not care, roaming through the woods in carnage.

...

The next time he comes, the man is wearing a demon mask.

Half his body, gone.

You push him to a chair. You kneel between his legs. Your hand hovers over his abdomen, where the flimsy stitches had failed to ease the bowels from overflowing. You frown. A flame blossoms from your palm, piecing his body back together. He clenches his teeth and watches you.

Cursed Flame: burns anything back to its prior state.

'What Special Grade curse could do something like this?'

He does not answer.

His sheer height has you sinking into your ankles in respect.

As you back away from the fire, you stumble into his chest. Your feet catch in the mat. In the times before, he had never attempted to touch you. Now his hand is tilting your head up, holding your chin, to look at his face, whom you had never seen before in full view.

You flinch.

Your exhale escapes as a gasp.

‘Are you scared?’

Now you realise what is so frightening about the demon who brutalises whole villages, consumes their flesh- living god. So, this is what thousands died seeing. You swallow, because he is beautiful, this four-eyed demon.

Before you utter a word, he leaves the room.

You whip your head around to inspect the windows. Nothing but wind howls against the house. No shadows but your own etches onto the tatami mat by the fire.

Rippling from all four directions, a voice booms: ‘bow.’

Your knees hit the ground. When he enters the room again, he stops before you. You dare not look at his feet.

The Fujiwara Clan teach their daughters well.

‘Stand.’

Is this a trick? With your head still bowed, you press onto one knee. ‘I do not feel enough to equal your presence, Ryomen Sukuna.’

He laughs.

Oh, how he laughs. So his name truly has spread like wildfire through the Clans, big and small. But something nicks at him, that he cannot see your eyes flickering with your flame, or your mouth working the irregular candy you chew, sometimes, on the job, when you feel comfortable around him. In those moments, he would get the urge to reach out and touch your shoulder, just for your reaction. Would you drop the sword to wrap those flaming hands around him so that he could feel some warmth?

'No. I tell you to rise so you rise.' You stand up. 'What's my name?'

'Ryomen Sukuna.'

'No.' He cups your face with his palm as he'd often dreamt of, when he was a teenager. As he'd often planned, when he grew older into the adult he is now. 'For you, I am Ryo.'

...

Ryo.

He likes it when you look at his face. He tells you sometimes, 'this is what you saved.' The four eyes blinking back at you.

He likes the smell of ash by your neck and often pushes his nose against your skin. An animal, you think to yourself, smiling.

Ryo, he takes what he wants, as the powerful do, so when the day comes, he says, 'come with me.' Out of nowhere.

He leads you out, facing the fields of darling grass and daffodils.

He hasn’t thought this through but he doesn't need to. He opens his mouth, ready to ask the question.

‘I can’t…’ He turns around to watch you speak. ‘... can’t bear child.’

For once, although you have denied his request, his face remains void of anger. Void of anything at all.

At twenty five years old, that’s all Sukuna knows what to want. If he cannot have the girl, then steal something else- after all, what are you worth?

‘Then give me something else.’

‘Have my flame.’ His eyes widen. You press on, ‘but you will protect me, in case my family decides to kill me. The flame is a sacred technique passed down from the family. But when I die, it will be yours.’

Without her cursed technique, she would be ostracised.

Everyone comes to the negotiation table with some line they would not cross. And Sukuna swore to never become a protector.

His mouth pronounces, ‘no.’

'Then what do you want, Ryo?'

He stares at you. He's never denied himself any pleasure in his life, but the way his heart skips a beat- it's what's made his enemies weak to be culled, what brings down great empires (love).

Surely, you would be his downfall.

He could not have you.

'Never mind. I want your Technique.'

He would live 1000 years wondering why those flames in his palms would perform in silence. He’d move them with grace to murder. He’d stare at the sparkling embers in a lake, waiting for it to shift and shape into some form without his control. He would realise, ages and eons in, that he had forgot to specify the fusion of their souls.

‘Deal.’

You were always an abnormally weak sorcerer in body. Never trained to exorcise a curse. Perhaps that’s another reason he suggested it, his one mistake. You were his to protect -no matter how he’d protest- but never were you with him again.

...

The next day, Sukuna wipes out the Fujiwara Clan in its entirety. Destroys them so badly no one recognises the corpses.

Mangled. Twisted. Broken.

He destroys the only thing that would've destroyed you.

It is that night at the beach, rain and seawater tangling your hair, you swear to kill him, the boy you saved so many years ago, even if you would be his for eternity.

Your hands tremble. You almost set fire to the sea.

...

'Ryo.' You're brushing his hair as he tips his head back to look at you, unfazed. 'Why do you do what you do?'

He hums, tangling his fingers through yours. 'Why does it matter my purpose?'

'I was just wondering.' You rub at his hands gently, the living things you saved.

Apparently disliking the silence, Sukuna speaks again. 'I do whatever I want, however I want. I have no purpose.'

When you kill him, he almost grins, as though proud. Had he always acted like this? The strange and feral monster.

'Are you ready to die now?' you ask. Some part of you still recalls the child wailing at the prospect of death.

Sukuna cackles, but before he even flinches as the sword digs through his skin and bones, he props his head before yours, kissing your lips as though playing a trick on you.

His scarlet eyes forever haunt your memory, reflecting the silver of your sword and the red of your flames.

'I'm always ready for you... ... and anyways death is not eternal.'

When the flames extinguish, you realise you had left none of him behind, but the hands. Ten cursed fingers, born and killed from the flame.

pt 2.

[chatsukimi]

ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ: (cigarettes after sex geto x reader series, angst)

I missed you & I cried, but I said that I was alright & I know it’s been awhile since I needed a distraction.

Geto Suguru drips blood onto your doorstep. It's been six years since the incident and when he sees your face, tired from having been woken up in the middle of the night, his instinct still betrays him.

'Baby, can I come in?' Closing the gap, he opens up his posture as though you'd run back into his arms.

You cower away at the mass murderer. Why is he here? The familiar stranger deflates into almost a sorrowful expression, his eyes scrutinising the living room with such concentration. Pressed against the back of the couch, your hands curl into fists.

'You're here to kill me, aren't you?' You stand up properly, letting his gaze crawl over your body. 'Do it. Make it quick.'

His voice cracks like a distant record, mumbling in the same foreign and pathetic register, '... was thinking about you...'

Oh, that makes all the difference, doesn't it? He decides he wants you again and you come rushing back to the monster.

Only, you would. It pains you that you've held those bloodied hands, that you used to tidy up his wet hair, admonishing him for not bringing an umbrella, that he's carved his touch into your very consciousness. That the lack of him haunts you still, echoed in the shock of your wide eyes. He fixes you with that stubborn stare; he knows you remember.

Once you gather your stampeding heart back into the cavity of a hollow chest, you have it in you to flinch at the barrage of cuts and scratches littering his body. They bend with his every breath.

Must hurt like a bitch, you think.

'I can leave,' he offers, an empty promise.

'No... it's OK.'

You think you see him soften. It's been years... then again, it's been years since you've seen him at all.

'Close the door. Let's get you fixed up.'

You lead him to the bathroom and sit him on a stool. He hangs his head. Studying the heavy bruises dotting his back, your fingers flutter over his skin, casting a fragile burst of reverse curse technique to mend the harm.

Rainwater dribbles quietly through the pipes.

Geto thinks of a time when he could've laughed in this instance with gritted teeth, tell you not to expend so much cursed energy on him when Shoko could, and you had to save your power for the mission tomorrow. But now all he can bank on is your weakness.

He hums as your hand accidentally brushes a wide gnash on his shoulder.

'Careful. Dunno if the curse is still there.'

You remain silent.

You have the right to be.

'Who did this to you?' You wince at the way it sounds.

Like you care.

His heart lights up at the foolish idea. It truly mirrors a dream. But this time, he can turn around and your face is right there. There.

It doesn't vanish, but it also doesn't fray into warmth.

He lets out a frustrated exhale. 'It doesn't matter.'

But it does.

'Who did you fight?' you question again.

'... a jujutsu sorcerer.'

Your leg hits a cabinet door. He forces himself to raise an eyebrow.

'And what... happened... to them?' You're drifting further from him every second.

He knows exactly what you mean, what you don't want to say aloud. Horror shifts over your face before he even speaks- it's too far gone.

'I killed him.'

See, he wants to think he has the right to feel hurt by what you do next.

Fuck. You stumble back against the sink. You close your eyes, your hand moving over your mouth to stop you from retching to the smell of blood. A sorcerer's blood. An innocent sorcerer.

Just weeks ago, he stayed up all night listening to you cry on the phone, figured that as long as he didn't speak, he wouldn't be infringing on the moral code he set for himself. The sounds of your quiet sobs still wrack his body.

He figured he was smarter at the start. During the first two-three years, at every mention of your name, he'd depart, loading onto his schedule a series of exorcisms and executions to crowd you out of his mind. He was smarter then.

Now, he simply stands there, still. He waits for you to calm yourself because he knows he has no right to do anything else.

He was yours before he was ever slave to the cause- and fuck, does that realisation destroy him. (that he ruined the first good thing in his life)

'How old...' you mutter, '... how old were they?'

One shot after another, yeah?

'Seventeen,' he murmurs, his voice still damn silky smooth.

'How could you...' you stutter out. 'How could you?'

He remains silent. You have to think for yourself, he knows. He couldn't guarantee anything if he merely disarms you with his touch.

Though it doesn't hurt to hope.

'Seventeen,' you repeat. 'I was only seventeen when you left.'

'... I...'

He finally steps forward, unable to abide by his inner rules anymore. He is losing you. A small rebellious voice in him screams, finally! This is what you deserve!

'Please.'

'Leave.'

You're trembling.

He wants to close the gap. To reassure you that everything will be OK. But if he moves further by an inch, you'll call the cops. You'll call the higher ups. You'll call Gojo. He knows you.

'No.'

'You killed a child.'

'... I know.'

He knows, don't you get it? Nothing will ever be the same.

'I'm scared.'

'I won't hurt you.'

'Won't you?'

He stops. You, the image of his sparkling adolescence, crumbling away. With every little exhale you take, he sees the line he's drawn six years ago transform into a cliffside, the rift extending into a canyon.

'Don't you know I want you?' He bows his head like a man in prayer before you.

Wet hair against your warm breath. Strong arms beside you, locking you on the bathroom counter. The bitter lips you still remember now purple in the cold.

'You're leading me on.'

'No...' Geto buries his head in the crook of your neck. '... no...'

'I don't want this,' you say. He keeps his hands on your waist. 'I don't want you.'

At that, he lets out a noise truly pathetic for the man you once knew. He looks up and his purple irises still retain their watercolour beauty from back then. He looks up and, in you, he sees a lifetime. He presses his lips against your jaw and the scene blurs.

His thumb reaches up to brush the tear away.

'I'm sorry,' Geto says. 'For you. I don't care about those... non-sorcerers, but let me take care of you one last time, yeah?'

His eyes ache with that pathetic hope. He knows the future as well as you do.

You murmur out your words in a blank haze. 'Friends. W'broke up already.'

But did you? He still remembers how he never made things concrete, in the letter he left for everyone. He never spelled out the words 'over' or 'broken up' or even 'goodbye', perhaps because he knew he'd find his way back to you... too far gone.

If one puts a stethoscope at his heart, he's sure they can hear it break.

He swallows, nodding. OK. Friends. He can do that.

Friends. He'll make it up to you, he vows to himself. That night, Geto Suguru helps you take off your slippers, getting into bed. He notices how you don't say anything as he pulls you closer, cradling you as he used to do.

Missyoumissyoumissyou.

He scrunches his eyes shut. He feels no matter how close you are to him, you're not close enough- he sees the chasm of curses between you, haunting his sleep. Each time he wakes, he takes a moment to relish in the soreness of his arms, with you in them, and presses a chaste kiss on your head.

Your touch is all he needs in the world full of nightmares.

In the morning, before he leaves, he takes a cold shower in your bathroom. He pumps some coconut scented shampoo into his palm, lathering it through his hair. Sunlight eases through the curtains in your room. He paces to your bedside and lets his hand reach for you, touch your cheek, warm. Alive.

All he needs.

Geto Suguru leaves your house in the sixth year of his defection. He swears he'll never return.

...

Because I want to do everything that you want me to To tell you the truth

I need to stay alive, so sad that I could die

It’s leading me on, every time we touch Leading me on, every time it hurts series

[chatsukimi]

ꜱᴋᴀᴛᴇʙᴏᴀʀᴅᴇʀ!ᴄʜᴏꜱᴏ

★ ☄︎ he was a skater boy, she said see ya later boy!

⤷ genre: fluff, frustration ⤷ tropes: reader fumbles, fluff, minor hurt -> comfort, popular!reader ⤷ series (jjk men as athletes)

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO who is the school's nonchalant object of desire. he doesn't realise it, how those silver-onyx piercings speckle his ears or the devil-may-care bandaids around his body that has the school in a chokehold. he doesn't realise loads of things, as you'll find out.

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO who asks you out casually after school, his hands in his pockets, half lidded eyes as he inspects you. you bristle.

you've witnessed boys handpick bouquets for you, girls write you careful love letters, but this choso hasn't tried much at all.

you reject him, thinking nothing of it.

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO who you start noticing him at the cafeteria, composed beside his friends. in class, his habit of keeping to himself, bobbing his head to some invisible tune. it's almost as though nothing happened.

at the skate park your friend drags you to because she swears you'll finally catch feelings on one of the skaters, unaware of the prior rejection, you watch him glide seamlessly over the rails in the distance.

'hey, let's go. there's nothing much to see.' you tug your friend's arm, your face burning. what if he sees you? he'll think you're spying on him.

he catches your eye as he does a trick mid-air. your breath hitches. he says nothing. the skateboard hits the ground.

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO who's standing right beside you when a guy from your class comes over, shyly.

oh no, not now....

you compel your eyes on the boy before you as the same old stunt unfolds, ignoring not the guy beside you. when the confession finishes, you kindly send the boy off with a "sorry. i'm not super interested right now". you turn around, ready to flee.

humiliated, the boy asks, "do you flirt with guys for fun then?" your heartbeat staggers (what did he just say?), and you unconsciously lean away from him. no way he said that...

"don't harass those who have no interest in you." the taller figure steps forward. "did nobody teach you better than that?" the boy squeaks something incomprehensible at the sight of choso interfering and hurries away.

"thanks."

there's a super good question doing cartwheels in your brain... why are you so flustered?

you figure that's it, you'll leave and never speak about this incident again, about to step away, until you hear a low voice rumble behind you. "that's nicer than how you rejected me." all words die in your mouth as choso eyes you, not making a move. "you gotta be meaner," he instructs. his tongue works a piece of gum.

as he skates away, too fast for you to chase, you breathe out in the hot afternoon.

"you gotta be meaner" the words float through your head.

meaner, you think. choso returns to your head, with absolutely no ill intention but that sexy nonchalant gaze roving over you, gently splitting apart.

there's only one thing stuck on your mind.

"fuckk i fumbled."

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO who's shipped with you in the weeks leading up to valentine's day. tiny conversations in class. absent-minded nods. disappearing to the skate park after school. the grade's ultimate unofficial couple... and he doesn't seem ruffled at all.

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO who teaches you how to skateboard, to the distress of your parents and friends. bruises and minor scrapes appear on your knees, contrasting your dainty baby blue shorts. it's a way to show you're his, even if unofficially.

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO who comments on your progress, the necklace you gave him tucked under his black shirt. he pats you on the back in a friendly way, too friendly.

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO who lets you grip onto him when mounting the skateboard, strands of his black hair tossed over his face concentrated on your footing.

you hold your breath. he walks you slowly down the bank of the river, sunset illuminating his beautiful beautiful features, the lean curvature of his jaw. the peace he holds with his gaze.

you suddenly say, "are you going to ask me out again?"

"no," he states. your heart drops. "no, no- no." his expression contorts from apathy to sudden desperation. you flinch away from his hold.

you're wobbling. oh no-

he skids to the ground just in time, catching you before your fall. rough baggy pants grind against the rough concrete. he's holding you with a criminal care.

"i meant, no- i didn't know you liked me like that," he says. collecting himself again, he asks, serious, "i know this isn't the best time to ask, but i hope this time you can give me a chance." his inquisitive eyes are watching for your consent. "you don't have to, of course, but... wanna grab a bite after this? i know a place."

it's the perfect time to ask.

SKATERBOARDER!CHOSO whose baggy hoodie you wear to school to the surprise of nobody but choso, himself.

"you know they're all expecting this, right?"

he looks around the hallway. "what? oh. yeah." you're about to ask what he means when he explains, 'yeah the boys know i've liked you.'

this time it's you in shock. 'since when??'

he pauses, as though pondering, himself.

'freshman year.'

maybe you're the real oblivious one at the end.

[chatsukimi]

STREETRACER!TOJI x WEALTHY!READER ('my mother's blind in one eye and she can drift better than that') ⤷ genre: sfw, fluff ⤷ tropes: reader's bf is a btch, passengerprincess!reader, trustfund!toji, caring!toji, highschool!toji, jealous!toji ⤷ series (jjk men as athletes)

STREETRACER!TOJI who skips school to street-race. you've had an eye on him ever since testing reaction times in Physical Education class, introducing him to drift back in sophomore year. he was a natural.

STREETRACER!TOJI whose life revolves around the illegal sport, catching on so swiftly soon you buy him his first car. you tell him he gets to keep it if he can win in the races.

you're half convinced he'll call you one day to tell you your baby's on fire... literal fire. but he never does- it seems he respects the trust you put in him. and he wins on your bets, so you don't question it.

STREETRACER!TOJI who's always pawing for your colourful gambling tickets (his name purchased first) and you're always removing them from his sight: beggars can't be choosers.

whatever. he never wanted to befriend the rich kid anyways.

STREETRACER!TOJI who tells you to go away right before the competition when you come to check up on him. 'you're distracting me. where's your prissy prince?' when you look at your boyfriend in the stands, he scoffs.

STREETRACER!TOJI who narrows his eyes as your boyfriend slides into the driver's seat of the car you gave him, the car with which he won the race, and begins to drive around like a little kid. no technique whatsoever. he is suddenly reminded of a scene from the movie Tokyo Drift you once forced him to watch at the beginning of showing him cars: 'my mother's blind in one eye and she can drift better than that.'

well isn’t that the perfect descriptor for your boyfriend.

STREETRACER!TOJI who doesn't speak to you for a week after he notices a scratch on the car. he's in cold disbelief. one, that you would ever let an idiot close to a fine car like that. two, that you would trust that idiot to lead you around in a relationship.

i mean, seriously, how can a guy who parks for fifteen minutes and still crosses the line pick out what you want as a gift? how can a loser ever make you happy? he'll drive you carsick. toji's not sure how you haven't gotten so already.

STREETRACER!TOJI whose heart definitely does not flutter when he sees the dinner you’ve eft beside the vehicle after a race. you've left a note too: i know you're mad about the scratch, but congrats on the win. you drove really well. i've left a share of the cash in the centre console.

when he shows up in class the next day, he doesn't return your smile. instead, he stalks all the way up to your desk, silencing the rest of the class as he drags a chair to sit down next to you.

'i thought you didn't wanna associate with me at school?'

he shrugs. 'changed my mind.'

STREETRACER!TOJI who, when your boyfriend ditches last minute from taking you back to your countryside townhouse, shows up within ten minutes of you calling him up. he arrives. running.

you start to wonder if you should've introduced him to track and field and made a new Olympic gold medallist instead.

STREETRACER!TOJI who observes the v12 aston martin, cocking his head to the side.

you admit quietly, 'i... don't know how to drive' and he sighs, pushes you to the side, enters the driver's seat, then looks at you with an impatient stare.

'what are you waiting for? get in.'

you hastily enter the passenger seat, trying to unglue your gaze from the thickness of his arm around your steering wheel, the ease of his large stature adjusting the seat to fit, exhaling slightly when it works.

'trust fund baby,' you hear him mutter.

'hey!' you speak before you realise it. 'you're also my trust fund baby.'

his eyebrows shoot up, dark stare piercing the side of your face. what did you say? you bite your lip and prays for the seat to swallow you up. why did you say that? you feel him shift in his seat, inching closer until both his hands cage your smaller frame.

'say that again..'

STREETRACER!TOJI who drives you home all night, no breaks. you listen to music and watch the stars above the dark countryside trundling past. as the scene becomes monotonous, your eyelids slowly droops close.

toji notices, immediately speeding down by the side of the highway. he walks around the side of the car, opens the door, removes his leather jacket and gently places it over your sleeping figure. his breath almost hitches when you stir.

a tiny voice in his head yelps, whipped.

it's not even his own jacket. you bought him it as celebration for his first victory and he hasn't gone a week without it since.

STREETRACER!TOJI who carefully withdraws your phone from your pocket at the end of the trip, pressing a couple digits, raising it to his ear to leave a voicemail.

'hey,' he says, 'you're the guy who can't drive, right?' any sane person knows to never insult a guy's driving skills. toji pats the hood of the car as he speaks. guess he’s not so sane then. 'now i gotta say, i'm just looking out for you, yeah? stay away from my girl. she too expensive for you.'

STREETRACER!TOJI who dreams of a day he spoils you. a day when your bets on him come to fruition, when he can say with full certainty, 'bet on me, baby. put all your trust on me'

(extra: 'did you compare me to a car??' you listen to the voicemail toji sent to your ex. toji winces. 'had to get the point across. he can't be crashing and burning shit he didn't pay insurance for.' you cross your arms. 'and how are you sure you won't drive this thing off a cliff?' 'oh baby, cause i tokyo drift')