fandomaya

[fandomaya]

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ just some emotional damage via praise and love because i’m pretty sure nanami is not protected from that

nanami is brushing his teeth when you sidle up beside him in the mirror, stretch your arms overhead, and sigh like a sleepy cat.

“you’re very handsome, you know,” you murmur, voice low and scratchy with sleep.

he blinks at you through the mirror.

you blink back. grin.

“what was that?” he asks, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

“i said you’re handsome.”

he stares for one more second—and then leans over the sink and spits, lingering a second longer than necessary to keep his expression in check.

“why?”

“…why are you handsome?”

“no, why would you say that?”

you raise an eyebrow. “because it’s true?”

he rinses out his mouth like he’s trying to scrub the embarrassment off his tongue. “you can’t just—say things like that. in the morning. while i’m brushing my teeth.”

“i literally woke up and felt overcome with love for your stupid face.”

he covers his face with one hand.

“you don’t like being complimented while you’re… minty?”

he sighs. “i’m not prepared for this level of sincerity at 7am.”

“what is your preferred time for me to express how stupidly in love with you i am?”

“never,” he mutters. “or at least after coffee.”

you lean in, cheek against his bicep, watching him in the mirror as he rinses his toothbrush. “i like your laugh lines.”

“they’re wrinkles.”

“they’re hot.”

he drops the toothbrush. “stop.”

“you have excellent forearms, by the way.”

“what does that mean?”

“and your shoulders? criminal. you should be fined.” your hands fall off of them as he steps away to go get dressed.

“i’m leaving.”

“i’ll miss you desperately, lover:”

he stares at you from the doorway like he’s rethinking his entire identity. then, very slowly, he walks back over and takes your face in his hands.

“listen,” he says seriously. “you can’t just… emotionally ravage me before I’ve had a chance to emotionally armor myself.”

“that sounds like a you problem.”

“it is a me problem.”

you grin. “does it help if i say i’m proud of you and think you’re amazing and love the way you always fold the laundry just how i like?”

his expression crumples.

he buries his face in your neck.

“stop,” he says, muffled. “this is damaging.”

“do you need me to—”

“no. no more compliments. not until at least lunch.”

you giggle, wrapping your arms around his waist. “deal. but at noon, i’m telling you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

he sighs against your skin. “i’ll prepare accordingly.”

[fandomaya]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ when you’re too sick to care for your baby, nanami brings her to the office strapped to his chest—calm, efficient, and completely unfazed as he gives presentations with a pacifier on his tie and a baby on board.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this is ridiculous i’m warning you

nanami doesn’t even flinch when you croak from under the covers, voice raw and pitiful: “ken, i can’t—i think i have a fever, and she won’t stop crying unless i’m holding her.”

your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. you look like a ghost of yourself, half-sunken into your nest of tissues and blankets, hair a disaster, eyes glazed and watery. the baby’s red-faced and sniffling too, sprawled across your chest like a little heater, tiny fists grasping your shirt like she knows you might try to hand her off.

nanami, standing in the doorway, calmly adjusts his watch.

“i’ll take her.”

you blink. “you… you have three meetings today.”

“and now i have three meetings with a baby,” he says, already crossing the room like a man with a mission.

you can’t even protest properly before he’s kneeling beside the bed and gently peeling her off you, expertly switching to his papa voice — warm and low, as if he’s de-escalating a tiny, fussy hostage situation.

“there we go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then yours. “we’ll manage. rest. you know what medicine you should take. call me if you need anything.”

ten minutes later, he’s at the front door in his usual tan coat, baby carrier strapped securely to his chest like she’s a very warm, very giggly piece of office equipment. she’s wearing one of those obnoxiously frilly headbands you swore you’d never put on her — but she screamed when he tried to take it off, and he’s not here to pick battles today.

diaper bag over his shoulder. bottle packed. pacifier clipped neatly to his tie. hair combed, shoes polished, baby securely swaddled and babbling.

“don’t let the interns try to hold her,” you wheeze weakly from the hallway.

“i would rather die,” he replies without missing a beat.

as he walks out, you hear him murmur to her, “no loud commentary during the finance report. we must suffer through it in dignified silence.”

cut to: the morning finance meeting, 9:01 a.m., in a fluorescent-lit conference room downtown.

the projector is humming. spreadsheets fill the screen. half the team is slumped in various degrees of caffeine withdrawal.

nanami kento walks in, perfectly on time, baby on his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t apologize. he walks straight to the head of the table, clicks open his laptop, adjusts the projector, and begins speaking with the same calm, measured cadence he always uses—

except this time, there’s a tiny foot sticking out of the carrier, gently bumping his blazer.

“moving into Q3,” he says, clicking to the next slide, “we’re forecasting a moderate increase in asset reallocation—”

the baby lets out a soft, inquisitive coo.

nanami glances down at her, gives a very small nod, and says to the room, “correct. the Q3 projections are, in fact, unfortunate.”

silence.

well—almost silence.

from somewhere near the coffee machine, an intern tries to whisper, “is that a—?”

nanami turns his head fractionally. just enough to shut it down.

“yes. she’s here in lieu of her mother, who is unwell. please direct all questions to me or her, depending on the topic.”

no one questions it.

she doesn’t cry, not even once. in fact, she seems thrilled. she clutches his tie like it’s her personal emotional support ribbon and waves her tiny hand every time someone shifts in their chair. at one point, she lets out a high-pitched giggle, and nanami simply pauses mid-sentence, gently pats her back, and continues like nothing happened.

someone tries to make eye contact and smile at her—

she beams and throws her toy at them.

nanami takes back the toy and sighs, “don’t encourage her. she’ll never stop.”

the entire time, he keeps presenting with his utmost precision, occasionally glancing down at her to tuck the headband back into place or swap her pacifier like he’s been doing this his whole life.

he wraps up right on time.

“any further questions?”

dead silence.

even the regional manager just gives a tight nod. no one wants to risk being shamed by a baby.

—

back home, it’s late afternoon when the door creaks open.

you’re still buried in blankets, half-delirious and clinging to a half-empty box of tissues. you blearily lift your head at the sound of keys in the bowl.

nanami walks in with the same exact expression he had when he left: calm, unreadable… except there’s a little extra softness at the corners of his eyes.

the baby is still strapped to his chest. fast asleep now, one hand gripping his tie, the other curled against his collarbone. she’s drooling slightly. he hasn’t removed the headband.

“she was very well-behaved,” he says quietly. “arguably more professional than half the team.”

you laugh — or try to, but it comes out as a croaky wheeze.

he crouches beside you, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “how are you feeling?”

“like death.” he nods and kisses your cheek.

you glance over at the baby. “how was she, really?”

“chatty,” he says, straight-faced. “opinionated about quarterly earnings. but otherwise excellent.”

he lifts her hand gently, unhooks her fingers from his tie.

“you’re insane,” you whisper.

he leans in to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.

“efficient,” he corrects.

then, after a beat—

“also… she now technically works in accounting.”

you blink. “what?”

he shrugs.

“someone handed her a spreadsheet. she drooled on it. that’s more than my latest intern did today.”

you laugh again, properly this time.

he finally unstraps her, carefully settling her into the bassinet. she doesn’t stir — not even when he tucks her blanket in with military precision.

you lie there watching him move quietly around the apartment, sleeves rolled up, tie chewed, hair slightly out of place, and realize:

papa nanami could take over the world with a baby strapped to his chest and a pacifier in his pocket, and he’d still be home in time to fold the laundry.

[fandomaya]

satoru absolutely baby talks you when you’re sick.

not in a mocking way. no. this is full-blown softie satoru, disgusting levels of wife guy activated, baby voice on max, coddling you like you’re the most precious, fragile little thing in the universe—and not because he thinks you’re weak, but because it’s the one time you let him get away with it without putting up your usual walls.

because you’re sick. hot forehead, flushed cheeks, big watery eyes that blink up at him like you’re seeing god—or worse, like you might actually cry if he leaves the room. like you need him. and honestly? that does something to him. wrecks him, even.

and you do need him. you’re fevered, shivering, curled up in bed in one of his oversized shirts, your hair a mess, nose stuffy, brain thoroughly fried. your fingers twitch like you want to reach for him but can’t be bothered to try, lips parted in a weak sigh as you breathe through your mouth. your usual bratty, mouthy, too-proud-for-help self? gone. obliterated. absolutely bulldozed by the flu. all that’s left is a miserable little lump of a wife who clings to his sleeve like a koala and mumbles, “’toru… i feel like a soggy towel…”

his whole body stills. there’s a twitch in his brow, like his heart has physically clenched. his lips part, just a little, before curling up in the softest grin. eyes soften behind pale lashes—just a hint of red at the corners from how tired he is too—but none of that matters. not when you’re looking up at him like that. the corner of his mouth tugs upward, not in amusement—but in something far gentler. reverent, even. and then god. he melts. instantly. his heart shatters into a million pieces and reforms just to explode again.

“awww, my poor widdle baby,” he coos, already pressing a kiss to your damp forehead. his breath is warm, his nose brushing yours. “does my soggy towel need her soup? wanna be spoon-fed by the hottest nurse in the world?”

you don’t even roll your eyes. you nod. actually nod. sluggish, dazed. and then flop into his arms like dead weight, forehead nudging his neck, skin hot against his collarbone. you let him hold you like you’re made of glass.

he almost cries. really. because you’re letting yourself be coddled. cuddled. taken care of. no sass. no biting remarks. just tiny, pitiful sniffles and pouty faces and your arms wrapping around his waist like he’s your anchor. like you don’t want him to go anywhere. like you can’t function without him.

and satoru eats that up like it’s a feast.

“you want juice, angel? how about some water? apple slices? forehead kisses every ten minutes? medicine with a kiss as a chaser?”

“mmm… apple. but peeled…” you whisper, voice small and hoarse, eyes half-lidded and glossy.

“of course, peeled! only the finest fruits for my fevered little dumpling,” he gasps, hand dramatically on his chest like he’s been knighted for a sacred quest. there’s a shine in his eyes—something starry, something stupidly in love.

he tucks you in like a burrito, tugs the blankets up to your chin, and then scoops you onto his lap because apparently that’s where you sleep best. his fingers comb through your hair, slow and tender, while your cheek rests limp against his shirt. he puts on your comfort show, even though you barely keep your eyes open long enough to register the sound.

he hums something soft—tuneless and low—while cradling you like a fevered woodland creature. his tone dips lower when he leans in again.

“do you still love me even if i’m gross and sweaty and my nose is red?” you mumble, lips wobbling, brows pinched like the thought genuinely upsets you.

his hand smooths along your cheek. “i love you way more,” he says instantly. “you’re my sweaty, sniffly soulmate. cutest germ gremlin i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re lying…”

“baby, i would kiss your snotty nose right now if you asked.”

there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it—like it’s a vow. and he means it. he’d do it without hesitation, wouldn’t even flinch. because if it’s you, there’s no such thing as gross. not when he’s this stupidly in love. not when every part of you, even at your messiest, makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and never let go.

you groan into his shirt, muffled and pitiful, and he grins like you just serenaded him.

“who’s the most handsome man in the world?” he asks out of nowhere, fingers curling behind your ear, brushing tenderly as if coaxing the answer out. his voice dips low, honey-sweet and just a little smug. not because he expects the answer—no, he needs it. his entire self-worth depends on your silly little validation right now.

“you are,” you mumble, cheeks squished slightly against his chest, nuzzling closer without shame.

his fingers twitch where they cradle your skull. his whole face lights up like a sunrise. pale lashes flutter, and his pupils dilate like he’s just been told he won a lifetime supply of you.

“louder.”

“toruuuuu… it’s you…”

the pleased little noise he makes is downright sinful. his lashes flutter shut as he closes his eyes in smug bliss, and he tilts his head back like he’s soaking in the warmth of your praise. if he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“that’s right,” he beams, practically preening, fingers now stroking under your chin. “say it again. for my health.”

“you’re the handsomest… in the whole world… even when your hair’s stupid…”

he gasps, clutching his chest with a hand like you just shot cupid’s arrow straight through it. “rude and true. i’ll take it.”

his heart is doing somersaults. he’s convinced there’s never been a more fulfilling moment in his life. not the promotions, not the accolades, not even the recognition. just this—this feverish little version of you, croaky and honest and too tired to pretend you’re not as in love with him as he is with you.

he whispers the dumbest, softest shit while holding you against his chest like you’re something sacred. calls you every pet name in the book and then invents new ones on the spot: baby, sweetheart, princess, dumpling, snugglebug, fever bean, coughy cake, angel face mcsweats-a-lot.

you blink up at him between fits of sleep, lips parted like you want to say something else—but all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper. his hand smooths over your spine again, touch featherlight.

“what was that, baby?” he whispers.

“love you…” you murmur, eyes falling shut.

his heart flips. flips, spirals, and lands in a fucking somersault.

he kisses your temple and you go quiet.

and when you finally pass out, nose smooshed into his collarbone, snoring faintly like the most adorable little gremlin, he exhales like it’s the best moment of his life. like the universe aligned just for this. like his purpose has been fulfilled. his hand never stops moving—stroking your spine, combing your hair, tracing shapes into your shoulder blade beneath the fabric of his shirt.

he lives for clingy, soft, unguarded sick-you. because even though he adores the bratty, sharp-tongued, little menace version of you that picks fights and flicks him on the forehead and makes him earn every kiss—this version? this sleepy, dependent little furnace wrapped in blankets and his love? she needs him.

and satoru loves being needed. loves being the one you reach for, even when you’re half-delirious. especially when you’re half-delirious.

he leans down again, voice barely audible now.

“rest up, baby,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your clammy forehead. “you’ll feel better soon. and then i’ll go back to being emotionally bullied by my beloved wife.”

[fandomaya]

. ۫ᯓᡣ𐭩 jjk cast ✧ gn reader ˚₊‧꒰ა kisses gone wrong ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

˖ ꯴ ⌇ how wrong could kissing your favourite sorcerers go? well.

໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Satoru Gojo ⌇ exploded all the lightbulbs in the house the second your lips met his. his defense? “babbyyy, I haven't seen you all week.” as he's slumping over you like he didn't just subject you both to darkness for the night. still trying to get more of your kisses and turning your head to him all needy. “now gimme more before I blackout all of tokyo.”

໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Suguru Geto ⌇ kissed him when you found him all slumped over his desk. immediate “bleugh! sugu —" what the fuck was that? the taste of curses of course. he apologised that he couldn't get to his gum in time before you decided to show him some lovin'. “so tell me, how'd your first curse taste?” with that shiteating grin that told you he wasn't really sorry.

໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Shoko Ieiri ⌇ why did you think turning her head while she was mid smoke and kissing her was a good idea? you were trying to be all sexy and mysterious but now you're coughing your lungs out and she's gently rubbing your back even with the teasing smile on her face. "what - the fuck is in those things!" she'd only chuckle. "my will to live, horrendous I know." before she smooched your cheek.

໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Kento Nanami ⌇ he was sooo tired from work and your kisses relax him more than anything. you greeted him at the door with a smooch and felt him ease into you, then limp — and before you know it you're stumbling back trying to hold his weight toppling over you with panicked yelps. "nanami! hey hey!" he'd wake up quickly with a jolt and quickly brace both of you, frazzled, confused, before you manage to drag him to bed.

໒꒱ ‧₊˚ Ryomen Sukuna ⌇ tried to be all cute and sly, straddled him on his throne and kissed him with a feral heat that he immediately returned. hands on your hips yanking you closer, pressing him up into you but then . . . seems his second mouth got a bit too excited. "uh —" you pulled back to watch the second tongue wriggling on your tummy and wetting your shirt with kisses. sukuna was just about ready to die.

© 𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 . no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised

[fandomaya]

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ finally decided to post something hehe

ex-military! nanami who left the service because there was nothing left of him in it—just orders and ache and blood that didn’t wash off, no matter how hard he scrubbed.

ex-military! nanami who moves to a quiet part of the city, keeps his head down, works construction jobs, likes using his hands for things that build rather than break.

ex-military! nanami who has a scar that stretches jagged down his the left side of his face to his torso, old shrapnel near his ribs, bullet wounds on his shoulder and thigh. he doesn’t talk about them, but they hurt when it rains.

ex-military! nanami who visits the same tiny cafe every morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp. black coffee. no sugar. no cream. he always tips well. says little. the staff calls him “sir” until you show up.

ex-military! nanami who meets you because you’re new at the counter, bright smile, humming to yourself, and you mess up his order—give him a caramel macchiato by accident and call him “darling” out of habit.

ex-military! nanami who stares at the drink, stares at you, and doesn’t correct you. not about the name, not about the coffee. he drinks it anyway. comes back the next day. you do it again. he doesn’t stop you.

ex-military! nanami who is fascinated by how you talk with your hands, by how you remember customers’ pets’ names, by how you laugh even when your feet hurt and the espresso machine is spitting steam like a monster.

ex-military! nanami who starts lingering a little longer, taking his coffee at the bar, watching you scribble dumb little drawings on to-go cups for kids. you offer to draw him too. he says no. you do it anyway. it’s a stick figure with glasses and a tie. he keeps the cup.

ex-military! nanami who doesn’t know what to do when you ask what he used to do. he says “contract work” and changes the subject. you don’t press. you just say, “sounds intense,” and give him a muffin on the house.

ex-military! nanami who watches you dance behind the counter to music you think no one hears. your joy is so loud it drowns out the ghosts in his head.

ex-military! nanami who walks you home one night when your shift ends late. no questions. just a steady presence beside you. you chatter the whole way and he listens like it’s the only thing he’s good at anymore.

ex-military! nanami who doesn’t flinch when you touch his hand. doesn’t flinch when you see his scars. doesn’t speak when you kiss them—just closes his eyes like you’re rewiring something inside him that’s been broken too long.

ex-military! nanami who can’t believe you love him. don’t you see what i’ve done? his body says. don’t you see what i carry?

and you smile like sunrise and say, “i see you.”

ex-military! nanami who starts sleeping through the night again. because of you. because of the way you breathe beside him. because of the way you pull him into the light like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

ex-military! nanami who loves you like a silent vow. fiercely. quietly. fully. not because you saved him, but because you reminded him he was worth saving.

[fandomaya]

nanami is taking me out lol 😭😭😭

[fandomaya]

“happy father’s day,” you murmur, slipping your arms around gojo’s waist from behind.

he’s halfway through shoveling a spoonful of strawberry ice cream into his mouth and pauses mid-bite.

“huh?” he mumbles, turning slightly in your arms with a mouthful and furrowed brow. “baby, you know we don’t have kids, right? unless you’ve been hiding a baby somewhere i don’t know about?”

you roll your eyes. “i know, dumbass.”

he pouts. “so why’re you saying—”

you just point with your chin across the courtyard.

he follows your gaze.

there, lounging like a band of chaotic little gremlins, are yuuji, megumi, and nobara, bickering over popsicle flavors. maki’s sitting on the bench beside them, trying not to smile as panda pokes fun at toge for something, who just responds with a flat “salmon.”

satoru looks, then looks again.

then his eyes widen behind his sunglasses, lips parting just slightly. “oh.”

you nod. “yeah.”

he turns fully in your arms, ice cream long forgotten, the softest smile blooming across his face—bright and fond and achingly proud.

“they’re kids,” he says quietly, “they’re my little kids.”

“exactly,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “you taught them how to fight, how to survive. how to live. they’re still here because of you.”

he blinks a few times. doesn’t say anything.

just watches as yuuji leans back and laughs so hard he nearly tips over, megumi catching him by the collar without looking. nobara shoves them both and gets dragged into the pile.

maki shakes her head. panda sighs. toge just laughs.

a tiny, watery chuckle escapes satoru’s chest.

you nudge him gently. “you’re not just their sensei. you’re their… you know. their person.”

he leans into your forehead and breathes in slow. “you’re gonna make me cry,” he says, voice cracking a little.

“good,” you smile, wiping under his glasses.

he kisses you, sweet and slow, and then pulls back to yell at the kids, voice suddenly obnoxiously loud—

“hey! none of you got me a card?! what kind of disrespect—megumi, stop pretending you don’t care, you’re my grumpy little son—”

megumi groans. nobara throws a napkin at him. yuuji waves enthusiastically and screams, “HAPPY DAD’S DAY, SENSEI!”

and gojo beams so hard it looks like the sun broke loose from the sky and settled in his chest.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ i guess i’m a little late but happy father’s day gojo!! ily pls come back home

[fandomaya]

Nanami Kento was not getting old. He wasn't. He was not. Forty-five wasn't old.

"Oi! Nanamin! I'll take the left!"

A grown man's voice that still somehow didn't suit Yuuji. A ghost of an image flickered across Kento's mind; a memory; a boy, superimposed over a man.

"Alright. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Meet me in the middle of the lower corridor. We've cut off its exit routes, now."

Kento watched Yuuji leap down a set of stairs that were no longer stairs; their crumbled wreckage structureless, as though the Curse that had befallen the building was akin to a landslide.

The raggedy old block had needed demolishing for years, anyway, such an eyesore, what was city planning doing with his taxes...but perhaps a nice restaurant? No, something else, but not a club, so noisy and there's enough racket from the kids around this city anyw--

Kento stood. He definitely didn't suppress a groan. He definitely didn't grumble at the blood-clot dust on his knees, and trousers that he only ironed that morning and the crease that was perfect and I haven't even had a chance to read my newspaper, ridiculous, senior management these days, should write a letter of complai--

Kento reached the lower corridor. His blood was acid in his lungs. He coughed, dry. He looked left, and right, and left again. He looked down. His shoelace was untied. He tutted. He knelt down. That was his first mistake.

ROAR! THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER

"Nanamin! Move!"

Kento stood on a dice roll; and broke. The pain was excruciating. He must have been stabbed by a thousand knives, Christ, can't move I can't move like an old man like--

"Oh my-- my god, my back--"

"NANAMIN!"

"My back, Yuuji-- my back--"

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

All of the curtains in the house were drawn. Nanami Kento couldn't be seen like this. You crept closer to him, where he stewed on his back on the sofa like a wounded lion. His head turned away, sour and sulking; though, not for you, you knew.

"Hey. Brought you some tea. A little snack. I went to the store. They didn't have the pastries you liked, they said some guy got there just before I did, but I got--"

A scoff. "Why have they always run out? I go in there every day, half the time they haven't got them, and half the time they're stale, and the other half--"

"--that's three halves, my love--"

"--and another thing--"

"--oh my god, Kento, you're like an old man--"

"Don't say it." Silence, stewing again. You opened your mouth to bicker back, and Kento turned to you, so petulant that you had to bite back a laugh. "Don't."

Kento cleared his throat. He straightened his tie. You could not possibly laugh at his indignity, still dressed as if he would still be going back to work in his sorry state.

There was a knock at the door. As you shot Kento one more look of exasperated affection, and headed to the door, he called out in thinly-veiled panic.

"No visitors today, thank you!"

"What, you gonna get up and stop me? Or throw them out? Please."

Critical hit. Silence. Then: "That was uncalled for."

You laughed. You opened the door. Yuuji stood there, grinning.

"How's the old man holding up?"

A grumble from the sofa ("I'm not old!"). You bit your lip in mirth.

"He's as expected. They ran out of his pastries."

Yuuji held up a paper bag, and gave it a shake. "Yeah, they did. Wonder who bought them?"

A yell from the living room.

"Is it Yuuji? Tell him to come back another time."

"When?"

"Never."

"But he's brought you a hot water bottle. And a new newspaper. And some of your pastries."

"Oh. Oh, well then...send him in."

[fandomaya]

you’ve been skipping meals.

toji sees it. doesn’t say shit at first. not his style. he’s not some nosy asshole who’ll ask what you ate for lunch or remind you to drink water every five seconds.

but he’s not blind either.

your face is thinner. hoodie swallowing you up more than usual. wrist bones sharper. you pick at food like it’s poison, sip coffee like it’s a meal.

he clocks it. every time.

and he lets it slide. once. twice. five times. maybe you’re just stressed, maybe it’ll pass.

but tonight, he watches you open the fridge. stare inside like you’re trying to convince yourself. standing there like if you focus hard enough, the hunger’ll go away.

he leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“you gonna eat somethin’ or just keep lyin’ to yourself?”

you freeze.

“i’m not lying,” you mumble.

he raises a brow. “yeah? fridge’s been full for three fuckin’ days.”

“i just.. haven’t been hungry.”

“bullshit.”

you flinch at that. he’s not here to coddle.

he pushes off the wall, walks over, closes the fridge for you. slow. quiet. heavy.

“you think i don’t notice?” he mutters. “you think i don’t see how your hands shake? how you ‘accidentally’ forget dinner, leave shit on your plate, say you ate earlier when i know you didn’t?”

you try to look away. he grabs your chin, not rough, just firm. makes you look at him.

“you think i’m stupid?”

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

he clicks his tongue. lets go of your face. looks tired now, but not angry. just... done with the lies.

“i used to do the same shit,” he admits. voice low. “back when i fought for cash. had to stay a certain weight. thought starving meant control. strength.”

he laughs once, bitter.

“all it did was fuck me up. made me weak. angry. sick.”

you’re quiet. too quiet. eyes glossy. he hates that look on you.

“you got shit going on? fine. but don’t starve yourself over it. don’t treat your body like the enemy. it’s not.”

you still don’t say anything, just blink too fast. and when your shoulders start to shake, he finally pulls you in. arms wrapping around you, solid and warm.

you don’t cry. not really. just breathe against his chest like you haven’t breathed in days.

he holds you tighter.

“you don’t gotta talk,” he mutters into your hair. “not now. just don’t fucking lie to me. alright?”

you nod against him.

“good. now come sit your ass down.”

you do. legs tucked under you on the couch while he throws something together in the kitchen. nothing fancy. just enough to put something in your stomach.

he sets the plate in front of you. sits down next to you. doesn’t say a word while you eat, just stays close. hand on your thigh. grounding.

when you hesitate mid-bite, guilt creeping up your throat, he taps the side of your knee.

“don’t overthink it. it’s jus’ food. ain’t good or bad. it’s fuel.”

you nod again. quieter this time.

and when you’re done, when your plate’s empty and your shoulders finally drop, he kisses your temple.

“you’re not broken,” he says. “don’t act like you are.”

and somehow, you believe him

♡—————♡—————♡—————♡

A/N: i got the inspo from @sugussugar :>

[fandomaya]

Sukuna swore that he would never EVER have children as he sees them as annoying little crybabies, yet here he is, trying to get his daughter to eat a spoon of baby food.

He tried so many methods, not a single one worked, not even the ‘here comes the airplane’ method. He got so frustrated, why won’t this little brat just take a bite? He swear he was growing white hairs from stress at this point.

And then, you came back from grocery shopping. You looked around for Sukuna, and once you saw him, it was chaos all around. Baby food everywhere, spilled water, a stressed Sukuna, and your little girl sitting on her high chair, giggling at him, almost like she’s making fun of him.

“You little brat—you think you could get away with this? Tch, bet you’d do the same to your mother.” He said as you approached the two, a smirk on your face as you were amused by his stressed expression.

“What’s wrong, kuna? Can’t even convince our little girl to eat her food?”

“Tch, like you can do better, bet she’d throw a tantrum at you like she did to me.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes and crossed his arms.

You took the baby food and spoon from his hands, scooping a fair amount of baby food and bringing it to your daughter’s lips, Sukuna expected for her to throw the spoon away from your hand, but instead, she ate it!

“No fucking way..you’re just lucky..Give me the fucking baby food..” He snatched the jar away from you, attempting to feed her once again, but nope! She did take it, but immediately spit it everywhere! Especially against his face.

You laughed at what you say, dying out of laughter as you saw your husband’s face, all covered in baby food and spit.

“Ahahaha! Look at you—! Jeez I’m gonna grow a six pack if I keep laughing like this!”

Sukuna stayed quiet, wiping his face with a towel before facing you, he looks like he was planning something.

He scooped you two up easily, one arm carrying you with no problem, while your daughter was in the other arm. “You damn brats, always the fucking cause for my white and grey hairs..”

Sukuna then carried the two of you to the bedroom, placing the both of you on the bed, daughter in the middle while you’re at the left side of the bed, his body big enough to cuddle the both of you.

Even though he sounded angry and pissed off, he still loved the both of you, and nothing else was gonna change that, even if the two of you were gonna be the death of him.

a/n: omgggg i love dad!kuna AU so much 🤭 He’s so girl dad coded to be honest, and he really loves his wifey and daughter no matter if it kills him xD Sukuna and his daughter have beef with each other i swear

© YeonaYearns 2025 Do not repost.

[fandomaya]

𓍼 you and kento need to be up early today. some urgent meeting he’s grumbling about, and you’ve got your own work deadline looming.

but neither of you wants to move, tangled in the soft cocoon of blankets, the winter chill outside making the bed feel like heaven, the alarm keeps ringing, but you’re both too sleepy, too comfortable, and too stubborn to face the day.

“kento..” you mumble your voice thick with sleep, face half buried in the pillow. “turn it off.” you swat blindly toward the nightstand, missing the snooze button by a mile, and the noise drills on.

nanami groans his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest, his warmth seeping into you. “not movin.” he mutters his breath hot against your neck.

“you do it.” his blonde hair’s mussed, sticking up in soft spikes, his usually sharp brown eyes half lidded and hazy, you whine, a soft, petulant sound, squirming in his hold, your legs tangled with his.

“noooo, you’re closer.” you protest, nudging his shoulder your body melting back into him, too cozy to fight, the alarm screeches again, and you both groan in unison, a tired, grumpy harmony.

“fuckin’ thing.” nanami grumbles his hand fumbling across the nightstand knocking over a water glass before he slaps the snooze button, blessed silence falling.

he sighs, heavy and relieved his arm flopping back around you, pulling you flush against him, his lips brushing your shoulder. “five more minutes.” you hum, sleepy and content, nuzzling into his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek.

[fandomaya]

''My daddy!" your daughter squeals, her tiny hands grabbing at Sukuna’s sleeve as she tugs with all her might, her little face scrunched in fierce determination.

"No, my daddy!" you shoot back with mock seriousness, yanking on his other arm with equal intensity.

Sukuna, seated on the couch with his arms stretched out like he's being crucified by love, with a rainbow unicorn bandage is stuck to his forehead. Why? No one knows. His crimson eyes remain glued to the TV screen but he’s not really watching anymore, quietly accepting his fate.

He doesn't say anything, though there’s the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

''My daddy gives me more kisses'' your daughter declares, raising the stakes with wide, victorious eyes.

You gasp. “Traitor!” you chime in playfully, gripping his other arm and pretending to pout. “I saw him first!”

"Unbelievable," he murmurs under his breath, eyes glancing between the two girls tugging on him like he's a prized teddy bear.

Your daughter tugs harder, giggling. “S' Mine Papa forever!”

You gasp in mock betrayal. “What?! I give him goodnight kisses! And make his tea!”

“I draw him pictures!”

“I keep him warm at night!”

Sukuna finally exhales and tilts his head back against the couch. “I should’ve stayed a curse.”

You and your daughter both throw yourselves against him in an instant, wrapping him in tiny arms and grown-up affection. He lets out a low, exaggerated groan but doesn’t move he just melts quietly into your combined warmth.

The room is filled with you and your daughters giggles high-pitched, unfiltered, contagious, Sukuna’s arms slide around the two of you, one large hand gently cradling your daughter’s back, the other resting over your waist.

Silently complaining like a grumpy old man, lips pressed in that familiar irritated line

And despite the complaining, he doesn’t push either of you away.

All rights reserved © 2025 ksuojelly. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[fandomaya]

—Doomed by the narrative

❥ Why JJK men wouldn't last in a relationship

❥ Gojo, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna

❥ SATORU GOJO

He'd always thought that your relationship was a means to an end. it's not like he doesn't love you, gods no. It's just he had also never thought you two would last as long as you thought it would.

He could never see himself growing old with you. At least, thats what he’d like to say.

In truth, sometimes he’d sit quietly, let himself daydream about a future. The day he’d get wrinkles and he’d kiss yours, cook a smaller breakfast— light and easy, less sugar than when he was younger, before drinking coffee together in the backyard. But he never let himself think about it too much, lest he fool himself into believing it could happen.

There was always this quiet undercurrent, something just beneath the glittering surface of his charm, his teasing smiles, the way he wrapped himself around you like a koala. But Satoru Gojo was the strongest. And the strongest was nothing if not alone.

Maybe you knew that, in some suppressed part of your mind.

He knew it, better than anyone.

Satoru Gojo had a habit of deflecting whenever you’d ask about the future. Something disguised as a joke, something to tease you. But never to answer the question. You’d ask about what plans he had for the two of you, and he’d reply, “Awww~ Thinking that far ahead already? You must love me soo much! Hmmm?~” Right before covering your face in kisses and tickling you, leading you to screech and try to run away— Making you forget what you had asked him in the first place.

He never stopped moving. With the way he flitted from mission to mission, country to country, night after restless night without him beside you. You’d wake up and he was already getting dressed, giving you a quick kiss before going out. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about you. If anything, it was the opposite.

He cared so much, so deeply, it scared him. And Gojo wasn’t used to being scared. Power came easy. Strength was a fact. But loving someone? Choosing someone and staying? That was a whole different battlefield.

He tried of course. But it was just once. One time he let himself be comfortable, one time he let his guard down again. That one time made him realize that he’d have to be vulnerable with you–-- And he couldn’t afford that. Not when your life was on the line too.

Satoru Gojo was born with too much power, too many expectations, too many ghosts clinging to his heels. He was a man meant to die young or live long enough to lose everything. And he knew it. He carried it in his bones, in the way he touched you with hands that never lingered quite long enough. He spoke in half-promises. He held you like you were real and fragile and already gone. Like he had already lost you.

To him, you were always temporary. You were a life raft in a sea of blood. Fleeting, necessary, but never permanent. His reason for keeping you around was selfish. For him. To keep him company. Something fun to distract from his inevitable end. He was a weapon, through and through.

Satory Gojo could never be human with you. 

In the end, he really wasn’t.

❥ KENTO NANAMI

He settled for you. It's not like he doesn't love you, don't get me wrong, it's just that he doesn't love you in the way you love him— You were easy to love, handed to him on a silver platter. You practically threw yourself at him when he was just being nice. Polite. 

He pitied you, really. You could've had better standards. Maybe given him a chase for your love. Make him earn it.

Maybe that's why he chose to settle for you, because you were easy. Because it was quick.

Nanami had always felt like his life was sand falling through his fingers, he felt like he needed to actually live it. And quick. He knew his years on this world as a sorcerer wouldn't be long, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take this chance.

A year after the two of you met, he married you.

Marrying you seemed like the obvious choice to him, he wanted to settle down and have a family anyway. He'd support you through your problems, but not because he loved you, not because he deeply cared for you, but because it was his responsibility. That's what you are to him. Someone to protect, someone to take care of. Not someone to love so deeply that it would have him on his knees.

A year into your marriage with Nanami Kento, the cracks started to show. The perfect paradise that he had set up to keep you with him for longer, shattered.

He overworked himself, for you and our future children, he’d mutter before leaving for work. Nanami would be stressed, coming home late and collapsing into bed. You'd offer to give him some relief, some loving after a month or so of a stagnant bedroom, and he brushed you off like another chore. Later, he gave you flowers and an apology. But he never brought up the subject again. Neither did you.

He prioritized work and it became even worse when he had switched careers— One that he didn’t even tell you about. Nanami was secretive about it. And every night where you’d ask him, his answers would be more vague and different than the last.

You accused him of cheating, tears flowing down your face while he stood stoic in the doorway. Then he sighed. Tired. As if this was a chore.

He comforted you, reassured you that his loyalty lies with you. And yet it all sounded rehearsed, fake. A customer service level performance to soothe you into being calmer. This happened again and again and again and again.

At some point, you couldnt take the secrets anymore. The tired and still feeling of the cold band on your finger feeling like an actual chain rather than the grapevines and flowering start of the relationship.

In the end, you divorced him. Nanami tried to take it to marriage therapy, but after getting shut down once, he simply accepted the fact that you could not love a man that never loved you in the first place.

A few months later, you get a letter from his lawyer saying that he had given everything under his name to you. 

❥ TOJI FUSHIGURO

It wasn’t that Toji didn’t care. He just didn’t care enough to change.

It worked for a while. The fire, the thrill. The sex was good- great, even. Violent in its affection, like he didn’t know how to be soft but wanted to try.

The first time you brought it up, it was quiet– mindless. A gentle, “Hey, could you not leave your weapons all over the place?” as you picked up a blade half-hidden under the couch cushions. Toji had smirked and shrugged, like it was endearing. “Part of the décor, baby,” he said with that cocky grin, pressing a kiss to your temple like it would smooth over the issue.

You laughed, then. You actually laughed. But that laugh started getting harder to find.

It wasn’t just the weapons. It was the blood. The bruises. The fact that he’d vanish for three days without so much as a text or a warning, come home with some half-assed excuse and the stench of blood still clinging to him like a second skin. You knew what he was. Who he was. You weren’t naïve. You didn’t walk into this thinking Toji Fushiguro was some nine-to-five kind of guy with a clean conscience.

Still, you thought— hoped, really, that being with you might pull some of that recklessness back. That love, whatever version he had for you, might temper the edge just a little. But Toji wasn’t the type to be tempered. He was a blade through and through. Cold steel, sharp and uncompromising.

“I just worry,” you told him one night, tired, not even mad anymore— just drained. He’d come home limping, one hand pressed against a wound that looked deeper than he let on, and he was already halfway to raiding the fridge like it was any other night.

“I didn’t die, did I?” he clicked his tongue, cracking open a beer. “What’re you nagging for?” Sharp. Irritated. Like your concern was some bug buzzing in his ear.

Toji hated being told things. That was the real issue. Because he didn’t see it as concern. He saw it as control. And he'd be damned if he let himself be controlled. Every reminder to rest. Every note to clean up after himself. Every request to maybe not take jobs that had a 70% chance of disembowelment. 

He took it all the same way— a leash being thrown around his neck. One all too familiar.

He started snapping more after that. Leaving earlier. Coming back later. You’d find yourself alone more often than not, curled up on the couch, the only proof of his existence a trail of blood-streaked bandages in the bathroom and the faint scent of gunpowder in the air.

You asked him once, annoyed, but you realized too late that you were afraid of the answer–- if he even wanted to be in a relationship.

He gave you a look like you'd asked if grass wanted to be green. “I like fucking you. That not enough?”

You loved him. You really did.

But love wasn’t supposed to feel like sitting on a time bomb, praying it wouldn’t go off while you slept. Wasn’t supposed to drain you as you tried to help him, all the while that help was barely doing anything.

“You want someone domestic,” he said, voice low as he lit a cigarette on the balcony, not even looking at you. “Go find some salaryman, yeah? Someone who’ll do chores with you on Sundays.”

“I want you,” you said.He finally looked at you, eyes flat. “No. You want me different.”

❥ SUKUNA RYOUMEN

He does not know how to love. And while he is fully capable to learn, to choose to love you–- He won’t.  Learning how to love would take him years, if not your entire lifespan to do. Even then, it will be the farthest thing from perfect. Obviously, you never expected Sukuna to love you the way you loved him.

Not with softness. Not with kind whispered words. Before you even loved him, you knew he was different.

You tried, anyway. Gods, you tried.

You were patient with his sharp edges, learned how to navigate his moods like one learns the tides— when to speak, when to listen, when to walk away and let him burn himself out. But you’d still flinch when he’d get mad, yell and reach to break something. The wall, the table— never you, though. 

Not yet, some semblance of self preservation whispered to you.

Still, Sukuna was an untamable storm anyway. You’d act ‘wrong’ and suddenly its your fault that his mood turned sour. You had to walk on eggshells around him, that, or you’d have to quite literally scream your heart out. Fights could last days, weeks. 

Your life with him would be a ticking time bomb, an angry, dangerous man always lingering in your home. And you’d be stupidly naive to think that he’d never raise a hand against you.

Sukuna doesn’t do love. He knows how to tear hearts out of chests, not listen to them beat.

Sukuna was not built to cradle anything he could crush. And you, you would be so easy to destroy. Too easy.  A flick of his wrist, a punch, anything he’d put a sliver of effort into and you would die. He’d thought about it. 

How to kill you. 

The few times he thought about it, something uncomfortable always ate at his chest. But every single time, curiosity also nipped at him. Would you crumble just how he thought you would? Would your bones really crack that easily? 

Would your blood stain him too? Eventually?

The answer is yes. It does.

Masterlist

Ive had this in the draft cave for A MONTH. A MONTH I tell you.

[fandomaya]

𓂃 kento x pregnant!reader

the first time your husband got serious mad at you was him cathing you carrying heavy things

kento’s at the grocery store, picking up ingredients for dinner—he’s been insistent on cooking lately, fussing over your nutrition like it’s his mission, you’re supposed to be resting, per his strict orders, but the nursery’s half finished, and the clutter’s driving you nuts.

a box of baby clothes sits by the door heavy with donations from friends, and you figure you can handle it, just one box, up the stairs, no big deal, you’re pregnant, not helpless.

you’re halfway up arms straining, the box wobbling, when the front door opens. “i’m back.” nanami calls but it cuts off sharp when he sees you, the grocery bags hit the floor with a thud and he’s at the stairs in two strides, his face a mask of disbelief.

“what the hell are you doing?” he snaps, his voice low, edged with something you’ve never heard.

you freeze, the box slipping, and he’s there, taking it from you, his hands firm but careful, setting it down with a heavy thump. “kento—” you start but he cuts you off, his voice rising, still controlled but trembling with restraint. “are you trying to hurt yourself?” he says, his words sharp, each one a blade.

“or the baby? because that’s what you’re doing, carrying this—this—up the damn stairs when i told you to rest.” he gestures at the box, his jaw clenched, his hands flexing like he’s holding back from shaking you or the world.

“im fine.” you say, defensive, stepping back, your hand on the railing. “It’s just a box, kento, im not fragile.” your voice is steady, but your heart’s racing, startled by his intensity, the way he’s looking at you like you’ve betrayed him.

“not fragile?” he repeats, his voice dropping. “you’re six months pregnant, and you’re hauling heavy shit like it’s nothing. do you have any idea what could happen? a fall? strain? you think im out here buying groceries for fun while you risk—” he stops, exhaling hard, running a hand through his hair, his composure cracking.

“you’re not fine. you’re reckless.” the word stings, and you bristle, your own anger flaring. “reckless?” you say, your voice rising. “im trying to help, kento. i can’t just sit around doing nothing while you treat me like im made of glass. im pregnant, not useless.”

his eyes narrow, and he steps closer, his presence towering, not threatening but overwhelming. “im not treating you like glass.” he says, his voice low, tight. “im trying to keep you safe, you and our kid. you think i want to come home and find you hurt? or worse?” his voice cracks on the last word, and you see it—the fear behind the anger, the way his hands tremble, the way he’s holding himself together.

you soften, your anger faltering, but you’re still stubborn, crossing your arms. “i didn’t think it was a big deal..” you say, quieter, looking away, your hand resting on your belly.

“i just… i wanted to do something.” nanami exhales, long and shaky, his shoulders sagging, and he steps closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “its a big deal to me.” he says, his hand hovering near your arm, hesitant, like he’s not sure you’ll let him touch you.

“don’t do that to me again. please.” his forehead presses to yours, his breath warm, unsteady, and you feel the weight of his fear, his love, in that simple touch.

[fandomaya]

Boyfriend Toji who was a bit confused when you stopped cuddling him.

You’d usually go to sleep with all of your limbs wrapped around him, if it was even possible since he was much larger than you. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he hated whatever this was. Why weren’t you on top of him? Why weren’t you snoring on his chest? To say he was confused was one way of putting it, in reality he was annoyed when he didn’t feel your weight on top of him.

“S’to hot” you’d say, reminding him you were now in the summer, and rolling over onto your own side of the bed, it was comfortable and firm, not sunken in as much as your boyfriends since theres only one of you sleeping on your side.

It was rare for you to sleep without physical contact with your boyfriend, you were needy even in your sleep, needing to be close to him in everything you do.

So “what the fuck is this?” He thought.

“So? Why’s that stopping you from sleeping on me.” He said with a grunt, half awake, annoyed, missing your presence even if it was burning hot in your shared apartment.

You only groan in annoyance and curl up a bit, if you were awake enough, you’d roll your eyes.

How could he not be hot like that?

With a swift motion, before you can even realize he’s grabbing you gently and placing you ontop of him before lazily reaching over and turning on the fan next to your bed.

“This better doll?, ‘cus I can’t sleep without ya”

A small grin formed across your lips, softly replying.

“Mhm.” As you got comfortable on his chest again, slowly drifting back to sleep, the cool breeze putting you at ease. You hated being hot. Toji knew that, but he wouldn’t sleep without you despite being able to handle the heat.

You both got your beauty sleep that night.

Au. this was my first ever freaking post , im tired and wanted to post

TAGS; #sfw #drabble #toji #Sfw!!!

[fandomaya]

ⓘ husband!toji fushiguro

—

your husband, toji, stumbling home, drunk as a skunk, only to find you already asleep in bed. he cuddled close, murmuring, "be m-my wife... marry me... yeah?" you smiled, sleepy, and said, "i am your wife, toji." he blinked, sobering slightly. "you are?" he asked, genuinely surprised. you chuckled, your eyes still heavy with sleep. "mhmm," you murmured. "then marry me again," he mumbled, his hand tightening around you, "gonna make you my wife twice." you giggled, "only if you promise to never wear those ridiculous striped socks again." he opened one eye, a sleepy frown furrowing his brow. "hey! those are my lucky socks!" he protested weakly. you laughed softly, kissing his cheek.

the next morning, toji woke up with a throbbing head and the smell of pancakes. he found you in the kitchen, humming softly as you finished cooking. he crept up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your hair. "morning, wife," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "you smell amazing." you laughed, turning to kiss him. "how's your head?" you asked, handing him a mug of coffee. "like someone replaced my brain with a bag of gravel," he mumbled, leaning against the counter, his eyes half-closed. "thanks, beautiful," he murmured, taking a large gulp. then, he pulled you closer, his lips finding yours in a soft, tender kiss when a small, grumpy megumi, with a bedhead, marched in. "that's gross," he muttered, grabbing himself a pancake. toji couldn't help but smile. he knew megumi wouldn't have interrupted if he didn't secretly want some of your attention, too.

—

[fandomaya]

synopsis:- Once Hollywood’s most elusive star, Y/n L/n finally tells the truth behind her seven high-profile marriages. Each husband loved her deeply, but she never loved them back. There was only one person who truly had her heart. It's time for the world to know.

pairing:- Toji Fushiguro, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, Choso Kamo, Shiu Kong, Gojo Satoru, Sukuna Ryomen, Shoko Ieiri x Actress!reader

warnings:- bittersweet romance, fluff, underage drinking, mentions of age gaps, brief mention of drugs but no usage, bisexual reader

🌺:- Based on the book 'The Seven Husbands Of Evelyn Hugo'.

dividers by @uzmacchiato, header by me

Prologue

The journalist sits at the edge of her seat. She balances a recorder between her fingers as if it's sacred.

“Why now?” she asks.

You smile softly, the kind that had once launched a thousand headlines.

You are draped in silk the color of emeralds, perched in your sunlit balcony in Manhattan. The city roars beneath you, but the world above the 36th floor is silent, as a shrine to your memory.

“Because I want the world to know the truth before the stories turn me into someone I never was.”

The journalist swallows. “And the husbands? There were seven, right?”

You stare at your wine glass, then turn to the city skyline.

“They all loved me,” you say. “But I could only ever love one person.”

Toji Fushiguro — The Husband of Ambition

Toji was the first man who made you feel like you could own the world.

You were twenty and on the cusp of stardom, balancing studio contracts and midnight shoots.

He was older, not by much, but with the confidence only a man who had lived through his own storms could carry.

You met him at an industry party, adorned with borrowed jewels and sipping drinks you weren't old enough to order.

He didn't gawk. He didn't flatter. He only asked what you wanted most, and you answered without thinking. “Everything.”

He just nodded and said, “Then let's get it.”

You didn't marry him for love. You married him for power. A silent pact between two people who knew the rules of the game.

With him, you learned how to navigate rooms full of executives, how to turn whispers into offers, and how to walk away with twice what they'd thought you would accept.

He worshipped the ambition in you. You admired the precision in him. It worked.

Till it didn't.

Because when he began to want the quiet life, you realized you'd only just begun wanting more.

You left with no bad blood, no tears. He just kissed your temple and said, “You were always destined to outgrow me.”

You never denied it. You never looked back.

Kento Nanami — The Husband of Safety

Nanami was everything you were not.

Grounded. Still. Thoughtful.

Where your world was champagne-soaked and forever on fire, he was your island of peace.

You met at a charity gala.

You wore Dior. He wore a suit two seasons too old.

He didn't know who you were. That intrigued you more than it should have.

Nanami didn't chase the spotlight. He cared about real things, like inner-city scholarships and rebuilding libraries.

He listened when you talked. And when you confessed that you sometimes woke up wondering who you were behind all those roles, he said, gently, “Then let's figure it out together.”

You married him in Copenhagen, in a room filled with candles and whispers. It was the quietest, kindest wedding you ever had.

He loved you without condition. You tried to return it, but it wasn't fair. You felt yourself shrinking, not because of him, but because you couldn't be yourself in a world that asked you to slow down.

He deserved more.

You divorced with long hugs and no accusations.

You still send him cards every New Year.

He still writes back.

Suguru Geto — The Husband of Art

Geto was wild.

Not in the way the tabloids imagined, though. No drugs, no scandals. But in how fiercely he believed in creation.

He saw art in broken windows, city smog and the silence between scenes.

You met at an indie film screening where your name was listed as a surprise guest. You could feel his stares on you the whole time.

He cornered you afterwards, and said, “You're wasting your time doing blockbusters. You have something bigger in you.”

You had laughed in his face.

A month later, you accepted a role in his passion project.

It was the best work of your life.

You married him in a crumbling church turned art gallery.

He wore a linen suit. You wore black. He spent an hour whispering his vows in your ear.

He didn't care about your fame, but he loved your mind. The way you dismantled scripts, reassembled characters and turned pages into people. He made you feel seen beyond the red carpets.

But love, the kind you needed, the kind you longed for, was never part of it. Not with him.

He needed a muse. You just needed something real.

You walked away one October, barefoot in the rain. He didn't run after you. He didn't beg you to stay. He watched you go with a cigarette between his lips and said, “You'll win an Oscar for your pain.”

And you did.

You never learned about the way his tooth chipped from kissing the TV screen when you won.

Choso Kamo — The Husband of Softness

You met Choso on a rooftop.

It was a cast party, and he wasn't cast. He was someone's cousin, someone's friend. But he held up a polaroid camera and asked if he could take your picture.

You said yes.

He mailed it to you three days later. No return address. Just a handwritten note saying, ‘You looked like peace.’

He was a painter, but he rarely sold his work.

You found his apartment one day, canvases staked to the ceiling, most of them unfinished. “I paint to feel, not to show,” he had smiled then.

You loved that.

You married him because with him, peace felt desirable. You learned to breathe again. Sunday mornings became sacred. You bought groceries together. You walked dogs you didn't own.

But the world missed you. And you missed it.

Choso never asked you to choose. But he didn't follow you back either.

You kissed him goodbye at a train station.

He gave you one of his paintings. It was one of you both.

You never hung it, you couldn't find it in yourself to do it.

It lives in your closet, wrapped in linen with his scent still clinging on faintly to it.

Shiu Kong — The Husband of Convenience

You married Shiu for control.

He was a studio executive. Ruthless. Calculated. Always in the right room at the right time.

You had been passed over for a role you were born for. Shiu had the power to fix that.

So you offered a deal.

Marriage. Two years. Full press coverage. A clean glossy image. You needed the narrative. He needed the distraction.

It was sterile, respectful, even fun in its own way.

You attended galas together, kissed in front of cameras and laughed over takeout.

He never expected more. You never pretended.

When the time came, you held a press conference with matching smiles. “Too busy schedules,” you had sniffed. With your pretty smile and picturesque melancholy, everyone believed you.

You never loved Shiu. But you respected him.

And for him, that was enough.

Satoru Gojo — The Husband of What-ifs

He was the most famous man in the world when you met.

A model turned actor turned producer, with icy hair and eyes like camera flashes.

He flirted shamelessly. You ignored him completely.

It didn't last.

You co-starred in a romcom which became a cultural phenomenon.

The chemistry on-screen bled off-screen.

Your first kiss was scripted. Your second wasn't.

You married in secret in Italy, drunk off red wine and endorphins.

Gojo made you feel as if life could be one long and beautiful take.

He was chaotic, adoring and impossible to keep up with.

You stayed in love with the feeling, but not the man.

You divorced after a year. He sent your favorite followers every month after. You still have his contact saved as ‘Blue-Eyed Menace’.

You still think he's in love with you. He never married after, never took any girlfriends.

You think you'll always wonder what would've happened if you stayed.

Ryomen Sukuna — The Husband of Obsession

You were in your forties, then. Jaded and careful, yet still adored. And then he appeared.

Sukuna was a mystery. Private wealth. Dark eyes. Lips forever curled into a smirk that belonged in noir films.

He watched you during an auction. Spoke only one word to you. “Mine.”

A month later, he proposed with a blood-red diamond ring. You said yes before you knew why.

You married him in Venice. No press. No friends. Just you, him, and the sound of bells.

Sukuna adored you. Every breath, every frame. He collected your movies like scripture, knew all your monologues by heart. He was jealous of the past men, but he was never cruel. Just… consuming.

You tried to love him, you really did.

But loving someone who worships you isn't the same as being understood.

So you left. Gently, finally.

He never chased after you. But you think he would have, if you asked.

Shoko Ieiri — The Woman You Loved

She had always been there.

You met Shoko on your first set, when you were nineteen.

She was a medic, barely older than you, lighting cigarettes and rolling her eyes at everyone.

You were obsessed.

She didn't fall for you the way the men did. She didn't flirt. She watched. She noticed.

And when you cried in your trailer one night, overwhelmed, overworked and unseen, she handed you a tissue and rubbed your back. “They don't deserve you.”

You kissed her a year later, at some award show. She kissed back.

But then you got scared.

Because being in love with a woman, in your world, in that era, wasn't brave. It was suicidal.

So you ran.

But she stayed. In your life. In your orbit.

Through the marriages, the scandals, the silence.

She never demanded. Never judged. Always waited.

And now, nearing the end of everything, you look out at the skyline and whisper, “I always loved you.”

She was the only one who truly knew you, at your core.

And you hope, when the final credits roll, its her name the world remembers.

Epilogue

The journalist leans forward.

“So,” she starts softly. “Who was the love of your life?”

You answer without pause. “Shoko Ieiri. Always her.”

The recorder clicks off. The truth is finally yours.

And this time, it will be told right.

🌺:- not sure how many people actually read the authors note at the end so um throwback to that one time i accidentally said orgasmn instead of organism in front of a class of 30 classmates. Hope u enjoyed!

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