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hanaonesflower · 4 days ago

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THIS IS TOOOOOOOO GOOD GIMME THE BILL

Notes, my brain is just filled with roommate sukuna ughh.

★ Roommate!Sukuna who can't keep his hands to himself.

You're not dating.

You’ve said it so many times that even you are starting to tilt your head and wonder if you’re lying.

Because roommates don’t do… this.

Roommates don’t slap your ass in the middle of the kitchen just because you’re in his way grabbing a spoon.

“‘Scuse me, princess,” Sukuna says behind you as his palm cracks across the fabric of your shorts. You yelp. He smirks, crowding close as he opens the cabinet over your shoulder like you’re not even there.

You try to glare up at him. “You could’ve just said ‘move.’”

“I did. With action.”

Roommates don’t randomly walk past the couch where you’re sitting with your friends, loop an arm around your waist, tug you back into his chest and ask casually, “Hey, you see my black hoodie?”

The one you're wearing? Yeah. That one.

“Right here,” he grunts, fingers slipping under the hem like he’s about to yank it off. You have to slap his hand and shoot him a don’t you dare face before he finally backs off, grinning like the devil.

Your friends stare.

You clear your throat. “Don’t mind him.”

They exchange looks.

Later, one of them corners you while you’re pouring drinks. “So like… what are you guys?”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“Come on,” they whisper, eyes wide. “He literally grabbed your waist like you were property and then sniffed your neck.”

You blink. “Oh. Yeah, he does that.”

“So…?”

You hesitate. Smile a little. “Roommates…?”

They stare at you like you’ve grown a second head.

He’s touchy like it’s built into him. A hand on your hip when you’re both brushing teeth. Shoulder pressing into yours when you’re walking down the hall. Sprawled out across the couch and dragging you onto his lap like it’s nothing, arms slung lazily around your waist while you whine that there’s “literally a whole other cushion.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles into your neck, “but that one doesn’t have you on it.”

If you try to move, he holds tighter. Not in a you can’t escape way, but in a try and see what happens way.

He’s never pushed your boundaries. You know that. If you ever actually told him to stop, he would — not without a muttered insult like “boring ass”, but he’d stop. And you haven’t. Because, well… have you seen the man?

Shirt always missing. Tattoos crawling up his arms and across his chest like they were painted on by sin itself. Low voice, low eyes, smirk that could probably be outlawed in 43 states.

Yeah. You’re not exactly complaining.

When you're sick, he's a different kind of annoying. Tells you not to breathe on him and then lays right next to you. Feeds you soup and talks shit the whole time.

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

He scoops more broth into your mouth. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

You’re falling asleep to his hand absently rubbing circles into your hip. You should ask him to move. You don’t.

When you’re dressed up for a night out, he stares too long. Calls you a brat, tells you not to get kidnapped, then kisses your temple on the way out like that’s normal.

Sometimes when you get back, tipsy and laughing, he’s still awake.

Still touchy.

“You have fun?” he’ll say, cornering you in the kitchen again, his palm sliding across your lower back as he traps you near the fridge. “Didn’t let anyone else touch you like this, right?”

You never answer. Not with words.

You call him an ass.

He calls you worse.

But when you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder during a movie, he doesn’t move a muscle. Just watches the screen like it’s no big deal while his hand drapes around your thigh like it’s his.

You’ve been just roommates for eight months.

You don’t know how much longer you can pretend.

And you’re starting to think?

He’s not pretending at all.

#roomie Sukuna u are the death of us #roommate jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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hanaonesflower · 4 days ago

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Notes, my brain is just filled with roommate sukuna ughh.

★ Roommate!Sukuna who can't keep his hands to himself.

You're not dating.

You’ve said it so many times that even you are starting to tilt your head and wonder if you’re lying.

Because roommates don’t do… this.

Roommates don’t slap your ass in the middle of the kitchen just because you’re in his way grabbing a spoon.

You try to glare up at him. “You could’ve just said ‘move.’”

“I did. With action.”

The one you're wearing? Yeah. That one.

Your friends stare.

You clear your throat. “Don’t mind him.”

They exchange looks.

Later, one of them corners you while you’re pouring drinks. “So like… what are you guys?”

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“Come on,” they whisper, eyes wide. “He literally grabbed your waist like you were property and then sniffed your neck.”

You blink. “Oh. Yeah, he does that.”

“So…?”

You hesitate. Smile a little. “Roommates…?”

They stare at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Yeah,” he mumbles into your neck, “but that one doesn’t have you on it.”

If you try to move, he holds tighter. Not in a you can’t escape way, but in a try and see what happens way.

Shirt always missing. Tattoos crawling up his arms and across his chest like they were painted on by sin itself. Low voice, low eyes, smirk that could probably be outlawed in 43 states.

Yeah. You’re not exactly complaining.

When you're sick, he's a different kind of annoying. Tells you not to breathe on him and then lays right next to you. Feeds you soup and talks shit the whole time.

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

He scoops more broth into your mouth. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

You’re falling asleep to his hand absently rubbing circles into your hip. You should ask him to move. You don’t.

When you’re dressed up for a night out, he stares too long. Calls you a brat, tells you not to get kidnapped, then kisses your temple on the way out like that’s normal.

Sometimes when you get back, tipsy and laughing, he’s still awake.

Still touchy.

“You have fun?” he’ll say, cornering you in the kitchen again, his palm sliding across your lower back as he traps you near the fridge. “Didn’t let anyone else touch you like this, right?”

You never answer. Not with words.

You call him an ass.

He calls you worse.

You’ve been just roommates for eight months.

You don’t know how much longer you can pretend.

And you’re starting to think?

He’s not pretending at all.

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hanaonesflower · 4 days ago

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★ Roomate!Sukuna comes home bruised and bleeding.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, a tub of ointment in your lap, cotton pads and medical tape scattered around you like a make-shift ER, while Sukuna slouches in front of you — shirtless, bruised, and bloody. His back leans against your pink headboard, legs stretched across your comforter like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does. Half of it, anyway.

“You’re bleeding on my duvet,” you say, voice flat as you wipe the dried blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Get a darker fuckin’ duvet, then,” he snaps, eyes narrowing like it’s your fault he's currently held together by spite and butterfly bandages. “Didn’t tell you to play nurse, did I?”

You ignore him. You always do when he’s like this—wounded, stubborn, too proud to admit he’s hurting. You dab at a split on his brow and he flinches.

“Stay still.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Sadistic little brat.”

“You’re the one who got into a fight in broad daylight,” you mutter, dabbing a little harder than necessary. He growls low in his throat. “Over what, again?”

“Tch.” He looks off to the side, jaw ticking. “Some piece of shit cut in line. At the taco truck.”

You stare at him. “You beat someone up over food?”

“It wasn’t just that,” he snaps, shifting his weight like he’s still running hot. “It was the way he fucking looked at me. Smug. Like he thought he could just walk past me like I’m not there. Like I’m not someone who’ll bash his teeth in for breathin’ wrong.”

You dab at a gash on his cheek. It’s not too deep, but angry and red. He winces but doesn’t move this time.

“You know you didn’t have to escalate it to violence, right?”

He scoffs. “Motherfucker said I ‘look like I bark outside gas stations.’”

You blink. “Do you?”

He glares at you. “Try me.”

You snort. “You’re lucky he didn’t have backup.”

“Hah. Wouldn’t matter. None of those bastards can touch me.” He tilts his chin up with that signature arrogance, a cocky grin tugging at one corner of his bruised lip. “I had that fucker on the pavement in thirty seconds. Didn’t even crack my knuckles.”

“You did crack your ribs though.”

He grunts but doesn’t deny it.

And then, without thinking, your hand brushes across his side—gently, just to feel for swelling—and his whole body goes rigid. His muscles tense beneath your fingertips like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t affect him. But it does. The pain. The closeness.

He hates being taken care of. Hates it more when it’s you, because you never ask why he’s like this. You just see the wreckage and grab a towel.

He glances down at you. Your brow is furrowed, lips pressed together as you carefully tape the last bit of gauze to his side. So damn close.

He’d take every punch, every hit, every cracked rib in the world if it meant you’d look at him like this again. Eyes soft. Hands gentle. Worry in your voice, even if you call him a dumbass while doing it.

But of course, he has to ruin it.

“This is pathetic,” he mutters. “You playing nurse like you’re my little girlfriend or somethin’. You got a thing for broken men, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but your voice is quieter now. “I have a thing for people who don’t bleed on my pink sheets every other week.”

“They’re fuckin’ hideous,” he mumbles.

You smile a little.

He sees it. He hates how much he likes it.

“…Still didn’t ask for this,” he says after a beat, but the bite in his voice has dulled. “You didn’t have to patch me up.”

“I know,” you say, brushing your fingers across his cheek again, softer now. The worst of it’s handled. “You never do.”

And you don’t say what you’re thinking. That it’s because you care. That you’re scared each time he comes home limping. That you’ve memorized where to find antiseptic in the middle of the night just because of him.

He watches you gather the trash and stand up to throw it away. His fingers twitch against his thigh like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself.

“Hey,” he says just before you leave the room.

You pause at the door, glancing back.

His voice is quiet, low. “Thanks.”

You smile again. “Don’t bleed on my pillow.”

“Yeah, yeah, brat.”

But when the door clicks shut behind you, and he's left alone in your too-pink room with the smell of your lotion on his hands, he exhales through his nose.

He’d do it all again tomorrow if it meant you’d hold him like that again.

#spectacular

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hanaonesflower · 4 days ago

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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.”

#loml <3 #coughy cake did it for me #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo x reader

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hanaonesflower · 4 days ago

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hanaonesflower · 9 days ago

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hanaonesflower · 11 days ago

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Let Me Learn to Love You

Note: No smut, just angst but with a happy ending.

His apartment is silent except for the hum of the city outside. I stand by the window, arms crossed, trying to keep my voice steady.

"You never care. Not really. You pretend but not very well.”

He’s lounging on the couch, one leg kicked up over the other, that infuriating smirk on his face. His eyes flick over me, amused, dismissive, like I’m some kind of joke that doesn’t deserve his full attention.

"Aw, don't be like that," he purrs, tilting his head. "You’re just being dramatic. It’s cute."

My fingers curl into fists. "Dramatic? You stood me up again last night. I waited for hours."

He sighs dramatically, waving a hand. "I got distracted. You know how it is."

"No, I don’t. Because I actually care about the people in my life."

He chuckles because not even my anger is worth his time. "You and your little emotions. So fragile."

This is it. The final straw.

"I’m done, I’m leaving. Goodbye."

His smirk falters for half a second before he recovers. "Oh, come on. You don’t mean that."

I grab my bag and head for the door. "Watch me."

He doesn’t bother to convince me to stay. The only thing that follows me out the door is the sound of his scornful laugh and his voice, deep and taunting. “You’ll be back, sweetheart.”

—

I don’t come back. He waits a day, expecting to see my name lighting up on his phone screen. A week passes and he turns to the apartment door anytime he hears a sound outside, expecting to see me coming back to him. It irritates him, so he decides to take action.

He’s leaning against the wall outside my work building when I step outside one evening.

"Well, well. Look who it is." His eyes gleam as he pushes off the wall and saunters toward me. "Miss me, sweetheart?"

I turned sharply, ignoring him.

He’s in front of me in a flash, blocking my path. "Aw, don’t be like that, I thought you’d be over your little temper tantrum by now."

I glare. "Move."

"Or what?" He grins. "You’ll push me? Try it."

I sidestep, but he shifts with me.

"Did you get all your little feelings out?" he mused. "Ready to come back to me now?"

Red hot anger fills my chest.

"We are done, I’m never going back to you.”

His fingers catch my wrist, his grip tight, unyielding. "You know, I could just force you back."

I scoff. "Try it."

He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. "You think I won’t?"

I try and fail to shake his grip, meeting his gaze. "I think you don’t actually want me. You just hate losing. I’m not a game. And I’m not coming back."

His grip loosens, but his smirk didn’t fade. "We’ll see about that."

And just like that, he lets me go. I don’t hesitate before fleeing, glancing back once to see him watching me go, a self-satisfied smirk playing along his lips.

—

I wake up the next morning to a package on my doorstep. No note. No label. Just a small black box.

Cautiously, I open it.

Inside is a necklace, beautiful, shiny, expensive. My stomach twists and I jump when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from him.

Do you like it?

I don’t reply.

Another buzz.

It was expensive, so you better.

I block his number. I leave the necklace in the box. It’s a cruel joke that the first piece of jewelry he’d ever gifted me came after I left him.

The next morning, a new message appears, from a different phone number.

Rude. But I forgive you. <3

I block this one too.

—

Two days later, I’m coming home from work, drained and exhausted.

I push my apartment door open and he’s already there, lounging on my couch like he belongs there, legs stretched out, smirking as I stand frozen in the doorway.

"Miss me?" He drawls, grinning at me.

"Get out. Now." My voice is clipped.

He pretends to think about it. "Hmm. No." Then he pats the spot beside him on the couch. "Come on. Let’s talk."

I don’t move.

His grin fades, just slightly. "You’re making this difficult. I’ve been very generous in giving you time and space. Didn’t you like that necklace I got you?"

His eyes move to my bare neck and his gaze sharpens. “It’s not nice to snub other people’s generosity.”

"Shut the fuck up! I don’t want your gifts, it’s too late. Leave me alone!” I snap. "You never cared until I walked away. Now suddenly, you’re obsessed?"

"Obsessed?" He laughs, but there’s something darker in it now. "I just know what I want."

"And what’s that?" I want to scream with frustration.

In a flash, he’s in front of me, hands gripping my wrists, pushing me back against the wall. His breath ghosts over my lips as he murmurs,

"You. Begging to be mine again."

"I left you for a reason," I snarl.

"And I’m giving you a better one to come back," he says smoothly, stepping closer. His fingers brush my jaw, his grip tightening just enough to make me shiver. "You think you can just walk away from me? I don’t let go of what’s mine."

"You don’t own me," I yell.

His laugh is low, dangerous. "Don’t I?"

I shove him with all my strength but he doesn’t even falter.

My voice cracks at my next words, “Just leave me alone!”

His is filled with taunting scorn, “I would’ve thought you’d be overjoyed at all this attention I’m giving you. Isn’t this what you wanted? You acted out like a brat because I don’t give you enough?”

I shake my head, my gaze dropping as hot, desperate tears well up in my eyes. Because once upon a time, his words would’ve been correct. At one point, I was so desperate for his attention and affection, I would’ve done anything. But not anymore.

"Please just leave me alone." I whisper, my voice quiet as I try to hold back tears.

He laughs, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch mocking, possessive. "Or what? You’ll cry?"

That was it.

Something inside me snapped.

I rear back, slapping his hand away. "Why do you keep doing this?! What fucking perverse pleasure do you get out of torturing me like this?!"

His smirk flickers, but he recovers. "Because you want me to chase you."

"No, I don’t!" My voice cracks, and to my horror and humiliation, I feel hot, furious tears spilling over my cheeks. "You broke me! You never cared! You never treated me like I mattered! You stood me up, you lied, you used me, and then you had the nerve to act like it was all some game!"

His amusement falters.

I shove him back.

For the first time, he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease. He just… stares.

Watching my tears like they’re something impossible.

"...You’re crying," he murmurs, almost to himself.

I wipe furiously at my face. "Yeah, nice of you to notice." I spit the words out.

His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for something, then stop.

Something in his expression shifts.

For the first time, he looks… uncertain.

"…I didn’t realize," he says quietly.

"You never do." I turn away, trembling. "Just go."

The silence is overwhelming.

Then, his footsteps. The sound of my door opening and shutting.

He’s gone.

My body crumples onto the floor and I sob until I run out of tears.

What I don’t know is that he sat on the other side of my door, listening to me cry until I couldn’t anymore.

—

I didn’t expect to see him again.

But a week later, there he is, standing across the street from my workplace, hands shoved in his pockets, looking… different.

No smirk. No arrogance. None of the prideful swagger that usually accompanies him.

Instead, he hesitates before stepping closer, slowly, like he’s giving me space to leave.

"Hey."

I stare at him. "What do you want? Haven’t you hurt me enough?"

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted— just to talk. If you’ll let me."

I frowned, confusion on my face. "...Why?"

For the first time since I’d met him, he looked uncertain.

"Because I fucked up."

I stare at him.

He meet my eyes, voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it. "And I don’t know how to fix it. But… I want to try."

The words hang between us, heavy with something unfamiliar: sincerity.

I swallow. "That’s not an apology.”

"I know," he admits. "But I’m learning."

He’s quiet, as if he’s struggling to come up with the words. Then, barely above a whisper:

"Will you teach me?"

The words hit me hard. I hesitate.

Because, for once, he actually sounds like he means it.

And that’s the cruelest trick of all. I turn away from him, arms tight over my chest, hugging myself as if that would protect me.

"No." My voice sounds broken.

He flinches. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t mock. Doesn’t push.

Instead, his jaw clenches, like he’s fighting every instinct in him to argue, to manipulate, to force me to do what he wants.

But he doesn’t.

"Okay," he says, voice low. "I’ll go."

And he does.

—

Days pass and I wake up one morning to another box on my doorstep.

This one has a note.

I’m sorry. You deserved better.

Inside, is a photobooth picture strip. It’s us, from when we’d first started dating. Four photos of us. I’m smiling in every single one and he wears his self-satisfied smirk painted across his features. The same one I’d come to loathe because it was never quite genuine.

I put the photo strip and note back into the box. My hands shake.

The next morning, I wake up to another item left on my doorstep.

It’s an iced matcha latte from my favorite cafe. Dropped off just moments before I opened the door because the ice is still frozen and the cup not yet sparkling with condensation. I leave it untouched when I go to work. It’s gone when I come home.

The next morning, there’s another drink. Strawberry matcha this time. I ignore it again.

Every day, there’s a new drink. Sometimes there’s a pastry accompanying it, other times it's a yogurt parfait. He doesn’t make any attempts beyond the morning drop offs. Friday morning, I open the door to a pistachio latte with oat milk and a berry tart. This time there’s a note.

Tell me to stop and I will.

I stare at his writing, my heart pounding, my resolve weakening. I slide the note into my purse and bend down, picking up the latte and the tart. For the first time, I take it with me to work and eat it.

When I come home, there’s a note taped to my door.

You always look beautiful and I’m sorry I never told you before.

Monday comes with a blueberry matcha and blueberry muffin.

Another note.

Don’t work so hard and please don’t skip lunch.

—

One night, after a particularly long day at work, one where I’d skipped lunch and dinner and am now too tired to cook, there’s a knock at my door.

He stands there holding a takeout bag from the place I love but never go to anymore. He holds it out to me without a word.

I finally snap. “Why are you doing this?”

"You… like their dumplings," he says slowly. “And I know you haven’t eaten all day.”

"That’s not the point!" My voice cracks. "You can’t just pretend to be different now! You don’t change! You don’t care!"

He flinches.

Then, quietly, his voice reaches my ears, "I’m trying."

"Why?!"

His hands tense around the takeout bag.

"Because I hurt you," he says, voice rough. "And I never want to do it again."

I stare at him in silence.

His fingers flex. "You were right. I treated you like a game. Like something I could just win." He pauses. "But you’re not. And I… I don’t know how to do this. But I’m learning."

I stare at him and reach out to grab the takeout bag. He doesn’t ask to stay and I don’t offer. The door slams shut between us as I blink furious tears away.

I walk into the kitchen and open the bag. He got me more than just dumplings. Noodles, fried rice, my favorite stir-fry.

I eat it and cry myself to sleep afterwards.

—

I don’t see him again for a week. But every morning there’s a drink and a pastry. Every night, there’s takeout or dessert.

Until one night, I come home from work and it’s him at my doorstep.

My eyes meet his as I grip the strap of my purse tightly, my heart racing.

He stands there, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. He looks… nervous.

"I can't do this anymore," he says, voice rough.

My stomach drops. Here it is. The game. The trick. The part where he shows his true colors.

But then—

"I can't keep pretending like I don’t need you."

I freeze.

His hands clench at his sides. "I don’t know how to fix what I broke. But I’ll spend every second of my existence trying if you let me."

I search his face for the lie, the smirk, the catch.

There’s none.

Just pain. Just hope.

Just him.

I take a shaky breath.

And then, I unlock my door and walk into my apartment, leaving the door open for him.

"Come in."

He stands in the middle of my living room. He looks too big for the space, his posture stiff, unsure, a version of him I’ve never seen before, one I doubted even existed.

"...I’ve been researching," he says finally.

I blink. "Researching?"

"About love. About... how to love." His voice is quiet and uncharacteristically raw.

"I didn’t understand it before."

I swallow hard. "And now?"

His eyes meet mine. They’re soft.

"Now I know I did it wrong."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest.

I look away before he can see me cry.

I sit with him on the couch, separated by a few feet of cushions and pillows. I tell him everything. And he listens.

Every time he hurt me. Every time I cried alone. Every time he made me feel small.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t defend himself. Just… takes it in.

When I finish, his voice is rough. "I don’t know how to be good for you. But I want to learn."

I hug myself. "Why?"

He looks at me like the answer was obvious. "Because I love you."

I don’t mean to fall apart but I do.

"I hate that I still love you," I whisper, voice cracking.

His hands hover as his body shifts, close, but not touching. Like he’s afraid to. "I know."

"I don’t want to give you another chance."

"I know."

"You’ll just hurt me again."

He exhales, slow. Then, carefully, so carefully, he reaches out. Brushes his thumb under my eye, catching a tear before it falls.

"Let me prove you wrong."

And for the first time… I let myself believe him.

I kiss him.

And when I pull back, his eyes are wide, breath uneven. I see something in his face I’d never seen before.

Fear.

Not of me.

Of losing me.

I press my forehead to his. "Please don’t make me regret this."

His hands curl around mine, tight, not to trap, but to hold.

"Never again."

Note: Not a fanfic writer but for some reason I was imagining Sukuna while writing this...

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hanaonesflower · 11 days ago

Text

toji know's how to hit you where it hurts. hurt/mild comfort

A heavy, black mood settled in your living room, with you standing on one side of the couch, and Toji on the other. A wicked snarl painted his face as he leaned forward, making him nearly unrecognizable from the man you knew, the man you loved, mouth contorting as he spat venom in your direction.

He’d been coming home wasted after his shifts recently. Kicking his shoes off in the foyer, stumbling and shedding his clothing right in the kitchen, and collapsing in your shared bed without even a word to you.

Worried as you were, you’d asked him about it after the first couple of nights, but you’d only been met with mutters and huffs, asking you to lay off him.

So you did. Allowed him to process whatever it was he needed to. When it came to his occupation, he never let you in much. Never gave you the details of his missions or showed if it affected him. He liked to keep his work and personal life separate.

But now that carefully drawn border was blurring, Toji teetering on the precipice of the straining overload that was beginning to consume his every waking thought.

Even with you, he couldn’t seem to escape it.

Instead, he stopped at the bar for a drink, which turned into a couple, which turned into a concerning amount where the waitstaff kicked him out routinely from how intoxicated he was and causing a scene.

You didn’t have to know about the brutal nature of his job, he preferred it like that.

In spite of that, you began to nag and itch at him for every fucking thing. Asking too many questions for your own good, and lingering with that pitiful expression that made his skin crawl.

He could barely look at you.

And now you were cowering, fingers twitching at your side as tears cascaded down your cheeks. Saying how you couldn’t recognize him anymore.

It made him sick.

But, in truth, deep down, in the grotesque depths of his gut, twisting in shame and contrite, he couldn’t recognize himself either.

He’d wash his hands of sticky, still warm blood in some cheap motel, wringing his compression shirt of any evidence before staring at himself in the mirror for hours. He wasn’t quite sure who was staring back at him.

At some point in his wrath, he’d lost himself.

And he was beginning to lose you, too.

So why delay the inevitable?

“You stick ‘round me ‘cause I’m your new charity case,” he slurred out with malice, eyes red-rimmed as he gripped the headrest of the couch until his knuckles paled. “You pity me. I fuckin’ see it every morning when I wake up, and every night.”

You scowled, a fresh set of tears flowing down your heated cheeks. “So you’re saying all the time I’ve spent loving you was because… because–” You threw your hands into the air, chest heaving as you swallowed a thick lump akin to a rock in your throat, body rigid and shoulders tensed. “That this was all because I felt bad for you?”

Your pinched face and frigid features unlike your soft demeanor made his body run cold despite the rising heat in the room. But Toji was conscientious. He left no ends untied. He always finished what he started, even if it killed him to do so in the act.

“Or to feed that savior complex of yours. You see anything broken, you’d crawl to the depths of hell to mend it,” he asserted, eyes narrowing like slits as he gave you a once-over short of nothing offended, repulsed.

But he wasn’t done, not yet. He took a sharp inhale, hoping his knees would buckle and the world would swallow him whole before his misplaced anger spoke for him.

“Easy for your consciousness to make you forget just how screwed your life’s always been.”

The nail in the coffin.

Your body went stiff as cardboard, breath hitching as your blurry eyes went wide.

Fushiguro Toji, the sole person in your life you knew you could rely on after all of these years, used the one thing he knew to hurt you. To slide the knife deeper.

You’d always been fragile when it came to your shaky upbringing, and you’d only opened up to him when you felt vulnerable with him and knew for a fact he wouldn’t judge you for your past.

And he hadn’t. He’d held you in his arms, whispering and muttering endearments and praises of just how strong you’d been despite it all. Initially, he even felt empathy as he could relate. You were one of the few people he could relate to in that sense.

Yet somewhere along the way, his mind had become such a muddled mess of his emotions. He was no longer rational. He couldn’t see straight.

But Toji emanated no regret, no remorse, not a sliver of empathy. He just stood there, his body stock, still save for his heaving chest, a prominent, smug grin on his mouth, like he was fucking proud of himself.

Your breaths quickened, the edges of your vision darkening as a horrible sense of dread washed over you.

You needed to get out of here.

Looking back, you couldn’t remember much, how you scrambled to shove your things into a small duffel bag and the loud sobs that left your lips as you did so.

You didn’t remember to grab your toothbrush or any underwear.

Didn’t grab a single photo to keep with you.

All you could make out of that night was the way Toji didn’t move from where he stood. He was like a statue, feet planted in stone behind the couch, imbued in the very ground below him. Not sparing even a glance in your direction.

He became a ghost in his own home.

You didn’t care that it was freezing outside. Nothing could rival the icy chill in your bones.

Didn’t care that the motel that you checked into probably scammed you in your frantic state.

Didn’t bother changing out of your clothing littered with your tears and snot.

Didn’t bother sliding beneath the blanket, the itchy linen would do nothing of comfort for you now.

You just curled up, a pillow in your arms as your eyes became dry wells, empty and staring blankly ahead.

There were some things with Toji you could forgive, like his spending habits or snarky attitude, but this was too simply too much.

You knew his words had now torn the already frayed edges of your psyche. You were inconsolable, and left to mend the shattered pieces of yourself all on your own.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You weren’t sure how many days you’d now spent at the motel. In truth, you didn’t care if it drained your savings.

There was nowhere else for you to stay, no second home you could go to to get back on your feet. You’d managed to leave your personal documents back at your place with Toji, but you’d be damned if you took a step inside of there right now, a home haunted by memories with the person you thought you’d be buried beside.

So you went to work. A bleary job at the convenience store around the corner. Selling cheap cigarettes, gum, beer and gas for hours on end. Mind mushed and eyes puffy and blank as you punched something into the screen you weren’t quite registering.

Small talk was stifling, like a vice to your throat.

You felt like you’d been submerged in ice water–your head just beneath the surface as everything dulled to a murmur, your body settled in a consistent, stabbing chill. You were slowly suffocating, the one thing that made it easy to breathe now wrapped around your ankle and tugging you deeper.

You took on extra shifts, terrified to go back to the motel alone and stare at the wall, nothing to distract you from the ache in your chest.

Your manager asked if you were alright after eyeing your withered state. You gave them feigned reassurance and a smile that hurt your cheeks.

Your appetite was practically nonexistent. You’d pick at the reheated pasta you attempted to shove down your throat the previous night before tossing it out.

Sleep was of no evasion–restless nights spent tossing and turning, sweat like a second skin, as you replayed moments and were unsure if you’d made them up or if they were true.

You began to shuffle through life, enduring one day after another as they blended depressingly into each other, a montage of gloomy moments strung together.

Until something out of the ordinary fizzled into your reality–your detached mind wasn’t quite sure if you were dreaming or not. An issue you’d become familiar with as of late.

You ignored it, walking past it without a second glance and shut the motel door behind you before dragging your heavy limbs towards the shower.

But then there it was again. Same place, but it looked different, new clothing.

You squinted your eyes, clearing your hoarse throat, then stared blankly ahead at your door before stepping in your room and locking the door.

Then, on the third day, they walked towards you and wrapped a firm, familiar hand around your wrist and pulled you towards them. You couldn’t make it out, their voice muffled as you were still in the depths of that lake, before your vision cleared and you deciphered their face.

Your heart rate quickened as your eyes went owly, pulling away from his grip. But he held fast, still speaking but you weren’t hearing a word of it. Like a Chinese finger trap, each wringing movement only made him tighten his grasp.

“Let go,” you coughed out, mouth desert dry as you hadn’t had a lick of water in days. You were too weak to free yourself from his unrelenting grip from days of not taking care of yourself.

His forearms that looked to be cut from marble, flexed when he saw how you trembled in his grasp, bile tasting on his tongue as he made it known to himself exactly whose fault it was that made you like this.

You were unrecognizable, that gleam in your eyes he’d seen when he first met you, the fire in your eyes snuffed out.

You fought against him, strangled shouts of demanding he release you, face coiled in anger with something fractured just simmering beneath the surface, your cries broken and shrill.

He couldn’t meet your eyes, nor could you meet his.

He averted his gaze, his composure faltering by each passing second, his tongue a thick wad of muscle resting in his mouth. He was far too ashamed to utter anything to you.

The sky was now tempestuous, a deep and dark grey that held heavy above your heads, mocking the turmoil coiling between the two of you.

Toji was too ashamed of an admission that if he could take it all back, he would. That he desperately needed you, not the other way around. That he’d been pulverised to something he couldn’t recognize in your absence.

That the one thing that remained true was that you didn’t pity him, but he pitied himself to accept such unconditional love. He was so deeply insecure that he pushed away anything when it got too hard, when it began to puncture the bubble of safety he’d wrapped so carefully around himself over the years.

Your fists pounded into his chest, and he wanted to claw at the ache in his chest that seemed to grow with each passing second.

In your flailing state, a man of such formidable strength could easily have subdued you.

But Toji was weak when it came to you–you’d stripped him bare to his smallest, most repulsive layers and still loved him when you held them in your palm.

His teeth gritted against each other each moment he recalled just how spineless he’d been when you were simply reaching out. Toji couldn’t even reach you halfway, no. He sliced any tether that held the two of you together.

But he’d rather meet an early demise than not have you in his life. He was going to work at it, every single day, until he could hold you in his arms as his again. Until he could pepper kisses against the column of your neck in a way that made you squirm, until he could trace the dips and curves along your form, until he could watch the expressions you made as you unraveled beneath him, whining and exposed to your rawest nature as he pushed into you.

Your body began to tremble as you exhausted your efforts, out of breath and muttering cries to yourself under your breath mixed with curses condemning Toji to hell.

Until your tears worked their way up again, your body weakening as you convulsed in his tight hold of your arms. Until you collapsed against his chest.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket, face digging into his chest like you’d done thousands of times before, pleading to Toji something neither of you could understand.

Did you want him to free you from this hellish torment? Spare you from any more of his hurt? Or for him to hold you like his again?

For the first time Toji could count, his hands trembled. They wavered above your back with reluctance. Your tears stained his shirt, wetting the skin beneath and burning him. Reminders that these were tears he caused.

He felt like he couldn’t breath, his lungs stuffed with cotton. His legs were rendered useless as he could barely take a step forward, or backward.

He needed to move. He knew it, he repeated it over and over in his blank-slated mind until he was able to will himself to do so.

The two of you had yet to notice the drops of water that sprinkled onto the pavement, slicking the ground.

With apprehension, his hand brushed against your back, a warmth suddenly heating his palm, calloused from years of strain. He began to question if he even deserved such an act, rendering him foolish as he started to skim his fingers through your hair.

He had been so catty and abrasive with you, pouring anything good he had with you down the drain with a couple sentences of words to hit you where it hurt.

He tugged his bruised bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing at the same spot he’d been doing for days. The difference was he tasted copper on his tongue now.

You don’t know how long the two of you stood there, bodies drenched from the rain, hair matted with water, clothing that clung uncomfortably to you.

A hiccup left your lip well after your sobs died down.

Toji slipped a hand into your pocket, pulling your motel keys from them before lifting you into his arms.

You didn’t fight him this time, resigned to your exhaustion and something else you didn’t want to address.

He kicked the door shut after stepping in, expression sober as he walked straight for the bathroom, not even caring about all of the mud and rainwater he’d tracked in.

He sat you on the counter, then turned the shower faucet on.

You sat limp, nose stuffed and sniffling, skin paled.

He began to undress you carefully, tugging your top over your head and slipping your jeans off along with your panties. He unclasped your soaked bra and tossed it on the pile on the ground, then began to undress himself.

You weren’t entirely focused on all of his movements, something akin to familiarity wrenching in your chest.

He pulled you off of the counter and carried you into the shower before letting you settle on your own two feet.

He grabbed the measly bottle of motel shampoo and began to work it through your hair, the hot temperature he’d always shower with scalding your skin.

You stood there, letting him work the suds off before he began to scrub away at your body.

Toji had always been a rough-handed man, but the way he tended to you so delicately, like you were a prized piece of China he held in his palm, afraid to crack it with his brute, made you nauseous.

You stood there as he cleaned himself off.

The air was steamy and suffocating, a humid temperature billowing before he shut the water off.

The two of you smelled of the same soap.

He wrapped you in an abundance of towels, making sure to wipe away any lingering tears. His feather-light touch made you shiver as he dried you off.

He propped a window open, before making the bed.

Sifting through the cabinets, he found a hairdryer and did his best to figure out how exactly they worked before ruffling it through your hair.

You shut your eyes, for a moment pretending like everything in the world wasn’t wrong when it was starting to feel right.

His meaty fingers attempted to braid your hair back, but it looked disheveled and disarrayed.

You didn’t care.

He lifted you up once again, the both of your bare skins grazing against each other in a matter so intimate you could feel your heart sinking to the depths of your gut.

He lifted the sheets, before laying you down.

Then he laid beside you.

Without a moment of hesitation, like it was second nature, he pulled you against his chest, his bulky arms engulfing you in his large form.

Your breath stilled as his breaths began to pick up, his heartbeat quickening beside your ear.

You felt something wet touch your scalp.

He cradled you like a dove.

And then he began to whisper your name out, heady and abject. His voice was swimming with repentance as it started to crack.

He apologized profusely, in a hushed tone for only you to hear. Swore on you like you were his salvation. In his misery, he beseeched you to curse him, a promise that he’d never forget, whispered in the night.

Nothing was fixed, not right now. You weren’t sure if it ever would be.

You weren’t sure how to describe the gnawing feeling in your gut.

Toji could barely rest without your forgiveness, but for now, this would have to do. Your breaths synced, chests rising and falling in tandem, as slumber took the both of you.

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