kalithulium

[kalithulium]

lover, you should've come over.

chapter three: too deaf, dumb, and blind

m.list | next

pairing: toji zen'in x f!reader

synopsis: you were a nurse with a steady hand and a soft heart. he was a killer who kept coming back with blood on his shirt and your name in his mouth.

you don’t notice anything wrong at first.

you’re half-asleep by the time you reach your floor, fingers stiff, keys clumsy in your grip, shoulders slumped forward under the weight of exhaustion. another night shift, another sunrise. your scrubs are wrinkled. your eyes burn. your badge swings loosely from your hip as you fumble with the lock and nudge the door open.

you’re already toeing off your shoes when you look up and freeze.

because there’s a man on your couch.

legs spread, arm slung over the backrest, your remote in his hand like he’s lived here for years. the tv’s on some old tokusatsu rerun, volume low. the second his eyes meet yours, you drop everything. bag, lunchbox, phone. they hit the floor with a thud.

you don’t even have time to scream before he’s behind you.

his palm clamps over your mouth, his chest against your back, too close, and in the half-second that your lungs seize and your body locks up, one thought slams into your skull:

this is how you die.

helping people is going to get you killed.

oh god. oh god oh god oh—

he exhales, a low noise near your ear. “don’t scream.”

you struggle, barely, just enough to make your panic known. but he doesn’t squeeze. doesn’t hurt you. his hand lifts a beat later, slow and careful.

and you spin around, chest heaving.

“please don’t kill me,” you gasp, half-sobbing. “i didn’t tell anyone anything, i swear, i didn’t even know your name until two weeks ago, and i actually really wanted to adopt a wiener dog someday so—”

“i’m not gonna kill you,” he says flatly.

you blink, heart still hammering in your ears. “…you’re not?”

he raises an eyebrow, like really?

“i already told you: if i wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

that was not comforting. not even a little.

but his voice is calm, and there’s no weapon in his hand, and when you look down, you see it: a faint, seeping wound along his ribs, raw and faintly glowing. your throat tightens.

“just a scratch,” he mutters, tone light, like he didn’t just break into your apartment bleeding again. “bit tricky, though. not the kind a regular nurse could patch up.”

you stare at him. at the slow seep of cursed energy from the gash along his ribs. at the half-dried blood darkening the hem of his shirt. your stomach twists.

“why do you need me?” your voice wavers. fists tight at your sides. “can’t you just use reverse cursed technique?”

his eyes flick to yours, unreadable. “not my thing,” he says simply. “can’t heal what i don’t feel.”

then he adds, a little dry, “and i’m not in the mood to owe any sorcerers a favor.”

you don’t say anything for a beat. you just look at him, really look. this man who slips through shadows, who kills people and shrugs like it’s weather. and still came here.

still came to you.

“toji,” you say, and the name feels strange on your tongue, heavier than it should be, sharp in the back of your throat. you’ve never said it aloud before. never even let yourself think it like something real.

“i don’t think you’re understanding.” your voice trembles. quiet. not angry, just tired. raw. “you kill people.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink.

“you killed my neighbor.” your fingers twitch at your sides. “you killed one of my patients.”

still nothing. his face doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickers. you wish it didn’t make your stomach twist.

“i’m not like you.” you shake your head, slow, like it might help hold the panic down. “i don’t support this. i don’t want to be part of this.”

your breath catches, not because you’re choking, but because it feels like there’s no room in your chest anymore. like fear has filled your lungs and pressed everything else out.

“i can’t be complicit,” you whisper. “i can’t.”

your eyes don’t leave the floor. you can’t look at him. not now. not like this.

because it’s not just fear anymore. it’s guilt. it’s grief. it’s knowing you put your hands on a monster and healed him. made it easier for him to leave. to walk away. to do it again.

and worst of all, it’s the fact that he’s standing in your living room like it means nothing at all. like the blood isn’t still under your nails. like the body of that boy isn’t still burned into the back of your mind.

he watches you. lets the silence settle between you for a second, then two. then he says, quieter than before: “i get it.”

your lip wobbles.

his voice stays low, rough around the edges but not unkind. “you don’t like what i do. you don’t have to. but that night, you saw what was on me. you felt it. and you didn’t turn away.”

you hesitate, something caught in your throat, and his eyes don’t leave you.

“you’ve seen what most people can’t,” he goes on, watching your face. “so don’t act like you’re just some nurse who got dragged into shit by accident. you helped because you knew it mattered.”

your breath stutters, and you hate that it helps, hearing him say that. you hate that your shoulders ease, just slightly. that the worst of the tremble in your hands goes quiet.

he nudges you gently, just enough to jostle your arm. his skin is warm, tan and veined, the muscle beneath it firm from years of violence, and the contact sends a strange shiver up your spine.

“just think of me as your patient,” he says, mouth twitching. there’s a teasing lilt to it, but his voice stays quiet, almost careful.

and so you do what you always do. the thing that keeps you walking through these hospital halls, the thing that’s made you kneel beside bleeding strangers in back alleys and fix wounds you don’t want to understand.

you breathe deep. bite down the fear. nod once.

because you help people. it’s stupid. it’s reckless. it’s going to get you killed one day.

but you don’t know how to not try.

“fine,” you say. “but you owe me.”

he hums, something soft and amused in his chest. “money’s tight,” he says. “but i can cook.”

you stare at him, genuinely trying to imagine it: this six-foot-something fucking mass of a man, all muscle and menace and bad decisions, standing over a stove in an apron or something equally domestic. flipping eggs with a knife. stirring soup with maybe a glock tucked in his waistband.

“…cook?” you echo, dubious.

he shrugs, casual. “what, you don’t like liver and onions?”

you scrunch your nose. “gross.”

he chuckles, low and raspy, like he’s actually entertained by the disgust on your face. you sigh, stepping past him toward the kitchen, your shoulder brushing his chest as you pass.

“sit on the couch,” you mutter. “but no blood on the cushions.”

“yes, nurse,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it.

you dig around in the cabinet above your sink, fingers closing around the half-empty emergency kit you keep for car crashes, and drunk guests. it’s already looking thin, gauze running low, half the antiseptic gone, and you sigh, knowing exactly who to blame for that.

when you walk back over, he’s lounging too casually on your couch, one arm draped along the backrest like he’s been here a hundred times before. just as you’re about to kneel down beside him, you catch the tail end of something, a mumble, low and nearly swallowed.

“hm?” you glance at him, crouching.

he shifts, eyes on the carpet, almost sheepish. “just—like, you’re making me feel bad,” he mutters. “you should at least get comfortable first. i did kinda barge in right after your shift.”

his voice is rough like always, but quieter now. his shoulders sink back against the cushion like some of the weight’s been let go. and hearing it—the awareness, the way he even noticed, makes something tilt in your chest. makes your stomach twist in a way that isn’t quite fear, but isn’t safety either.

you blink. straighten a little. “oh,” you say, half-choked. “yeah, uh. i guess.”

you get up, legs stiff, mind fuzzed, and make your way to the bedroom to grab the sweats and t-shirt you wore before your shift. as you’re walking away, barefoot on the creaky floorboards, the thought hits you.

“wait—” you pause in the doorway, turning back. “how did you get in here?”

he doesn’t look up from where he’s watching horses racing on the muted TV screen. “your lock’s shit.”

you stare. “great,” you mutter. “that’s comforting.”

he snorts. you grab a banana from the counter, and shuffle into your room.

the sweats are old. the shirt’s huge. you feel slightly homeless. slightly like a college dropout. slightly like you shouldn’t care what you look like in front of a murderer.

but when you come back out, hair down, scrubs traded for soft cotton, and you feel his eyes skim up, linger just a second too long, your throat goes dry.

you don’t say anything.

just kneel beside him again, open the kit with a snap of the latch, and pull on a pair of gloves, pretending your hands aren’t trembling just a little.

“i don’t… really do reverse cursed technique often,” you admit, fingers twitching near the wound. “so if you came to me thinking i was some kind of miracle worker—”

“nah,” he mutters. “you’re just.. the only person i can go to.”

you pause. “…lucky me.”

you start with the normal wounds. the human ones. the shallow cut near his ribs, the scrape across his knuckles. they’re barely more than bruises, really. he doesn’t flinch when you clean them. doesn’t move at all, just watches you with that same unreadable look, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person would willingly sit this close to someone like him.

you take your time. stalling. but eventually your fingers hover over the deeper gash, the one running jagged along his side, still pulsing with residual curse energy. it glows faintly, sickly, like something trying to burrow deeper.

you press your palm over it, slow, gentle, and immediately, you feel it:

the wrongness. that buzz. that static tension. like the air before a storm, like something hissing between your fingers. it prickles at your skin, fights you, presses back.

you draw in a breath.

steady.

then you let it the reversed flow start, slow and dragging.

it stings. not like pain from outside, but from somewhere deep, buried. like dragging heat backward through your own veins. like forcing your body to move against its instincts. it burns through your lungs, your ribs, crawls up your throat before it settles into something quieter. a hum. low and steady, deep in your palms.

you keep your hand there and his body stiffens under your touch. your breath shudders. “does it hurt?”

he shakes his head. but his eyes are locked on you.

you don’t meet his gaze. you just focus on the way the energy shifts under your touch, on the way the wound begins to close, slow, careful, imperfect. but healing.

you don’t know if it’s enough, but it’s all you’ve got.

for a second, it’s silent.

the kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes. the kind that feels like something’s watching, even if it’s just him.

your breath stutters in your throat, shallow and quick, and you try to hide it. the taste of reversed energy still lingers in your mouth, bitter, metallic. your fingers shake just a little when you pull them back, resting them against your own thigh like nothing happened.

he doesn’t say anything, so you fill the space, quiet, unsure, too tired to dance around it any longer. “so what do you actually do?”

he shifts, eyes still on you. then lets out a slow breath, like it’s not even a question to him.

“i’m an assassin.”

simple. clean. horrifyingly casual.

you flinch. your lips part, just slightly, but no sound comes out. your mind scrambles, tries to line that up with what you already knew, but hearing it out loud still sends a pulse of cold through your chest.

you open your mouth. close it again. then, finally— “why do you keep coming back here?”

his mouth twitches. not quite a smile, though. “first three times were mostly coincidence,” he says, voice low. “bad aim. rushed job. bad timing.” a pause. then his gaze softens, almost imperceptibly. “after that…”

he doesn’t finish, but his gaze lingers, dark and steady.

you look back at him this time. really look.

his features are sharp in that almost unfair way, the kind that aren’t softened by time or made handsome by effort, but carved into him like violence left its signature behind.

his brows are heavy. his cheekbones could cut glass. his nose is crooked, but not enough to ruin him, just like it’s been broken more than once. there’s a scar curved like a lazy grin at the corner of his mouth, dragged through the stubble shadowing his jaw, and it should make him look rough, should detract from the rest, but somehow it doesn’t.

he’s handsome the way knives are. unapologetically sharp.

his beauty isn’t gentle or clean. it’s not the kind that was ever complimented in school photos or coaxed out with cologne and good lighting. it’s effortless. masculine. dangerous. the kind of face that belongs to someone who’s never had to try.

and then there’s his eyes.

green. dark. unreadable. not cold, exactly, just distant. sharp in a way that feels deliberate, like everything he sees gets sorted and catalogued in his head for later. they’re on you. watching. like they see more than they should. they flick over you, not curious, but knowing. like he already understands more than you do. like he’s already decided what to do with you.

you swallow, and then, instinctively, you yawn.

it catches you off guard, mortifying in its timing. your cheeks warm as you try to smother it into your sleeve, glancing away like it didn’t just ruin whatever odd, strangely suspended moment had started hovering between the two of you.

he huffs a sound that almost resembles a laugh. “you should get some rest,” he says. “i’ll cook for you later.”

you blink, still foggy. “are you gonna be bleeding in my kitchen?”

he shakes his head, standing. “nah. i’ll show up when i get a day off.”

you push yourself up, legs stiff, body heavy. your knees pop when you walk him to the door, not because you trust him, but because it feels weird not to.

you open it. the hallway’s empty when he steps through and you hesitate.

“…bye, toji.”

he glances back, one brow raised, lips curved just slightly. “don’t get into too much trouble.”

you shut the door before you can smile.

and then just stand there, forehead pressed to the cool wood, breath stuck in your chest.

your heart’s hammering like a schoolgirl’s, and you can’t tell if it’s because it was the first time a man’s been in your apartment , let alone the first time you’ve touched one since college—or if it’s because fifty minutes ago, you really thought you were gonna die.

…

you’re not expecting a knock two days later.

it’s your first day off in a week. you’re in your usual non-workday uniform, and oversized t-shirt, logo nearly faded off the chest, shorts barely visible underneath.

a blanket’s wrapped half around your legs. love island’s on the screen. you’re spooning cold rice straight from the container and contemplating if it’s worth getting up for water when there’s a knock at the door.

not loud. not rushed. just… there.

you pause.

the knock comes again, light, steady. not the frantic kind. not the kind that signals danger. just… patient. like it knows you’ll answer.

your fingers flex at your sides. heart already picking up. you push the blanket off your legs, pad barefoot across the apartment. every board underfoot seems louder than it should be. you reach the door, hesitating for just a second before leaning in to peer through the peephole.

and there he is.

toji.

black hoodie drawn up around his neck. grey sweatpants low on his hips, loose but clinging just enough to confirm what you already know: he’s big. solid. built like a threat. and he’s holding grocery bags in both hands, one looped wrist lifting slightly as if he’s just a neighbor stopping by. as if he didn’t kill a woman two doors down months prior. as if this is normal.

your breath catches.

you unlatch the lock slowly. open the door halfway, arm braced against it like it might shield you from whatever this is.

his gaze drops the second he sees you.

down your bare legs, stretched long under the hem of the t-shirt. your thighs. the shorts that might as well not be there. back up over the tired lines under your eyes. his stare isn’t lascivious, it’s quiet, observational, like he’s memorizing.

his expression doesn’t shift.

“hope i’m not interrupting,” he says, voice low. level. like it’s his doorstep, his apartment, his evening.

you blink, too many thoughts colliding. “uh. no? just—no. what the hell are you doing here?”

his mouth twitches. not a smile, just a flicker of amusement. his stance is casual, but not relaxed. one shoulder leaning just slightly into the doorframe, hands still curled around the bags like he’s waiting for permission to step in.

he lifts a bag. “well i did agree to cook for you on a day off, and i figured you might still be low on food after last time.”

your stomach tightens, remembering the spilled groceries from months ago, the smell of sour milk, the blood in your tub. you glance at the bags. onions. broth. some kind of meat wrapped in butcher paper.

“brought liver and onions,” he says, stepping inside like he’s done it before. “but the face you made when i mentioned it last time told me you wouldn’t be into it, so i got backup.”

you back up, barely noticing you’re doing it, watching him move across your space like it belongs to him. he toes off his sneakers. drops the bags on your counter. pulls open your fridge without asking.

“…how did you know i was off today?”

he glances at you over his shoulder. “i’m an assassin,” he says dryly. “what do you think i do all day?”

you frown. “that’s not an answer.”

he closes the fridge with a soft thud, the hum of it returning to fill the quiet. then he leans back against the counter, arms loose, one ankle hooked over the other like he owns the place.

“fine,” he says, voice unbothered. “you wanna quiz me?”

you squint at him. arms cross defensively over your chest. “…what’s my full name?”

he doesn’t hesitate, and your stomach drops a little, but that’s also not exactly hard to find information.

“okay,” you say, slow. “what college did i go to?”

he raises a brow, amused. “keio. nursing school. class of…” he tilts his head, pretending to search, even though you know he already knows. “twenty-twenty. graduated on time. graduated in the top ten percent of your class, actually.”

you shift your weight. the questions were supposed to throw him—make you feel in control, but he’s breezing through them like you’re on some kind of date-night trivia game.

“…where did i live before this?” you ask. you don’t even say it like a challenge this time. more like a test you already know you’re going to fail.

he snaps his fingers. “dorms your first two years. then that shitty four-floor walk-up near the metro line. barely any hot water. this is your first solo lease, and your landlord’s a dick. doesn’t fix the heat on time.”

you blink. that’s… too much.

your chest tightens, a little unsettled, a little impressed, and definitely unsure how to feel.

on one hand, maybe it’s a good sign: he’s done his research, knows you, sees you as someone worth keeping tabs on, which could mean he trusts you.

on the other hand… he knows you. too well. and you still don’t even know his last name.

he shrugs at your expression. “you asked.”

you stare. “you know way more about me than i do about you.”

“that’s kinda the point.”

“…do you always do that? with people you might need to kill later?”

he tilts his head. “just the ones i like.”

you open your mouth to argue. then shut it again. because somehow that is not the most unhinged thing he’s ever said.

instead, you shift awkwardly in place, arms loose at your sides, fingers twitching like they want something to do. the couch is still warm from where you were sitting. the tv hums with paused drama, a frozen frame of two people arguing on love island. your thighs stick slightly to the fabric of your shorts when you move.

he’s in your kitchen. like this is normal. like this—him standing in front of your stovetop, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, head tilted as he reads the label on a sauce packet, is something that happens. like he belongs here.

and it’s not like you’ve never seen him up close before. you’ve stitched his wounds. pressed your hand to his ribs while your own lungs burned from reverse cursed technique. you’ve seen him shirtless, bloodied, breathing through gritted teeth while perched on your couch.

but this feels weirder.

not because it’s domestic, though that’s part of it. it’s the fact that he looks comfortable. too comfortable. like he’s done this before, like he expected this to happen.

you clear your throat and shift again. “so… should i, like… go sit down? or help? or…?”

you trail off.

he doesn’t turn around, just lets out a soft exhale, amused. “you always talk this much when someone’s cookin’ for you?”

you stare at the back of his hoodie like it might offer a translation.

“i just—” you exhale. “i don’t know what to do with myself right now.”

he finally glances over his shoulder. raises a brow. “didn’t seem to have that problem when you were playin’ block puzzle.”

you blink. “you remember that?”

he shrugs one broad shoulder. “was cute. figured you needed the stimulation.”

and just like that, you’re left flustered. again.

you sit on the edge of the couch, awkward, suddenly hyperaware of how bare your legs feel under the lamplight. this is insane. absolutely fucking insane.

you’ve met him three times.

one of those times, you were pretty sure he was about to kill you. another, he definitely did kill someone else. and now he’s in your kitchen, cooking dinner.

you don’t know what to do. you don’t know what this is. you just know your hands miss the steadiness of medical tools. of bandages, of gloves, something to give them purpose. something to help you forget that the man currently humming under his breath and seasoning broth like a bored househusband is a murderer.

and he’s standing over your stove like he’s done it a thousand times.

his gaze catches on your thighs, bare above the hem of your shorts. lingers just a second too long. not crude, just noticing. like he’s logging it away for later.

he pulls ingredients from the bag, shallots, butter, some thick dark greens. the meat isn’t liver this time. looks like steak. thin, marbled. the kind that’ll melt once it hits the pan.

he moves with ease. rolls up his sleeves, washes his hands. he’s got broad forearms, and callouses at his knuckles. everything about him screams danger, but the way he handles a kitchen knife is… disturbingly competent.

your apartment starts to smell like garlic and soy sauce. something rich. earthy. he adds something to the broth on the stove and stirs it with long, careful strokes. you try not to stare at his back. the way the hoodie stretches over his shoulders. the way he moves like nothing can touch him.

he glances over once. “you eat eggs?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he cracks two. drops them into the broth without looking, and for a second, it feels so domestic it makes your skin prickle.

he ladles the broth like he’s done it a thousand times, movements smooth and practiced, the steam curling soft through the low light of your kitchen. the smell hits first, rich, savory, the kind of deep umami that clings to the back of your throat and reminds you you haven’t eaten since this morning.

he walks it over, bowl warm between his hands, and stops in front of you, brow tilted, lips twitching at the corners. “open.”

you blink. he’s holding the spoon up, angled toward your mouth. your spine goes stiff. arms tucking in. “…is this poisoned?”

he snorts, not moving the spoon, but shifting his weight to one leg, hip cocked. “you think i need broth to kill someone?” his eyes flick lazily down to your bare thighs, then back up to your face. “i’ve had better opportunities.”

you sigh, grab the spoon from his hand, quick and clumsy, and bring it to your lips yourself. because you’re not gonna be spoon-fed by a goddamn assassin.

the broth touches your tongue, and your whole body stills. you chew slow. swallow slower.

“…it’s good,” you say finally, like it’s a confession.

he grins. doesn’t say told you so, but the smugness radiating off him says it anyway.

he disappears into the kitchen again, and comes back with another bowl, for you. then brings the whole pot to the coffee table and sinks into the couch like he owns it, slouching deep into the cushions, one leg sprawled wide, the other tucked under him. he grabs the remote and, just like last time, turns it to the channel with horse racing.

you shoot him a look.

he shrugs, spoon already halfway to his mouth. “a man has to make money somehow.”

you’d argue, but the truth is, you haven’t even glanced at love island since he knocked.

he eats straight from the pot like an animal, you think, except there’s something graceful about it, too. the way his forearm flexes when he lifts the spoon. the way his jaw ticks as he chews. the way the soft lamplight sharpens the edges of him, turning muscle and bone into something sculpted, brutal, almost beautiful.

you wonder if that’s how he maintains all that mass. the broad chest. the carved abs. the tall, dark, and terrifying thing he’s got going on.

the conversation flows easier than it should. you don’t talk about death. or blood. or jobs. just things. you find out he hates cats. not in the playful, allergic way, either, but something deeper. says they’re “shifty little bastards.” you tell him you tried joining archery club once and nearly broke your foot.

and then, quietly, almost offhand, he talks about the heavenly pact. his eyes stay on the bowl as he says it. like it’s no big deal. like saying it is the same as saying “i don’t like olives.”

he mentions his clan. the abandonment. the whole i can’t see curses but i can kill them twist of fate that makes him a weapon in the shape of a man.

he says it flat and detached, but you see it. the twitch of his brow. the flicker in his gaze when he talks about them like they meant nothing.

you’ve seen that look before, in the parents in the hospital who swear they don’t care. who laugh too loud and say fuck ‘em when talking about kids who won’t visit them on their deathbeds.

the same look when you offer to hold their hand and they’re shaking.

you don’t say anything. just eat another spoonful of broth. you don’t know what this is. but for now, you just let it happen.

and when he leaves that night, it’s quiet. easy. your house smells like miso and seared beef. the dishes are washed. the couch is still warm where he sat.

and your heart won’t stop hammering.

you’re not sure if it’s because he’s the first man who’s been inside your apartment in two years.

or because you’re starting to forget that he’s dangerous.

[kalithulium]

the wait until summer break is like edging me rn i need to alternate between bed rotting getting turnt and laying the the sun for 3 months straight RIGHT NOW let me out

[kalithulium]

everytime i see a jjk hidden inventory photo or sketches that didnt make it to the main series i feel a genuine sickness in my stomach gege akutami you evil being

[kalithulium]

the little avatars are so cute im gonna cry @c4ttheart @quandaledlnglepink @iqxatlantic

Which fruit are you? Find out here!

Tagging: @actuallysaiyan @beneathstarryskies @akiraiscute @randoimago @multi-fandom-imagine @iambilliejeanok @icycoldninja @abellaheart-blog @terabyteturtle @philistiniphagottini

[kalithulium]

i have a fully finished shidou fic sat in my drafts but i cant bring myself to post it because it feels too morally skewed and depraved because like... its shidou😟

[kalithulium]

when is your birthday

AHHH HI SIX MY POOKIEE my bday is april 5th, when's yours??🤭

+ um unsolicited fat stray cat pics because i can and i miss them

[kalithulium]

[kalithulium]

00 | loading ....

# all nsfw fics can be blocked under "kalifreaky" , and dark con specifically under "kalidark" !!

01 | request = input("")

02 | if request == "blue lock"

03 | print = open("blue_lock.txt")

04| elif:

05 | print = open("jujutsu_kaisen.txt")

[kalithulium]

print(line[05])

00 | loading...

02 | print(jujutsu_kaisen.txt)

sukuna

02 | pink + white [fluff]

[kalithulium]

how to survive a hurricane !

falling in love isn't about changing for someone. it's about learning to weather them. or, nagi seishiro is a houseplant, and you are a walking natural disaster.

nagi x gn!reader, mini series. reader is quite emotional & clumsy. italics r used for dramatic purposes. lowercase is not intended but i cba to turn autocaps on 😛 1.4k wc.

prev. • masterlist. • next.

1. Secure your foundation. (Hold on to who you are.)

“I presume you know why you’re here, yes ?” the counselor asks as you squirm in your seat, relentless under her gaze. you nod, although quite shyly, and she repeats the motion with a lot more assurance than you, urging you to go on. 

“It’s about the gardening club, is it not ?” you ask, nibbling on the inside of your cheek. she lets out a small smile in return, and you look away. you do not need her pity. 

The room you sit in is dim, even though large windows occupy two out of the four white walls, and you can see the students having lunch on the quad a few stories down. Since the ceiling lamp is turned off and her back is facing one of the only sources of natural light in the cramped space, the counselor’s face is darker than it should be, and she seems tired, almost older. The floor is padded with worn down carpet, indents of high heels and coffee stains visible. There are wooden cupboards and storage cabinets behind her, similar to the desk she leans on, and you know they are empty, because Hakuho High doesn’t have much to offer. She takes off her rectangle glasses and looks at you again. “I really appreciate all the effort you’ve put into organizing it, and I can tell it means a lot to you. Unfortunately, according to school policy, a club needs to have at least three active members to stay officially recognized. Right now, your club doesn’t meet that requirement, having only two members, yourself included, so I’m afraid we won’t be able to continue it as an official club for now.”

you nod unsurely. “And, as you may know, since you are a first year, school clubs are mandatory, so I thought we could use this session to find you a new club,” she continues, as she cleans the lenses of her glasses with a pale pink handkerchief, “How about-”

“What if I find another member ? for the gardening club, I mean. I’m sorry. For interrupting.” you cut her off, although your gaze immediately redirects itself to the ground out of shame. The counselor blinks, slowly, as if she was bewildered by your question. 

“Well, hypothetically, if you did get a third member to join, then we would be able to officially recognise it as a club. Although, it is hypothetical, because the motion to dismiss it has already been set. You’d need to find said third party before the end of classes today.” 

You gulp. She does not pause longer than needed, already continuing the meaningless flickers of her wrist on the mouse of her computer to scroll through the list of existing, official clubs at Hakuho. “How about a sports club ? Or art, maybe. We have poetry and theatre as well,” she goes on, but you drown her words out. She simply does not understand the importance of the gardening club. She does not know of the countless lunch hours spent with Shijiki, the other member and your best (and probably only) friend, in the greenhouse, the trouble you had put yourself through just for your work to be dismissed. She did not understand the safe place it represented, or the memories it held. She probably did not care either. 

However, her words pull you out of your trance. “So, what do you think ? Do any of these speak to you ?” You blink back the tears that are threatening to spill, and let out a meek ‘i’m not sure.’ 

She sighs in response, placing her glasses back in front of her eyes. “Well, what do you like to do ?” 

“Um, tending to plants. Planting seeds. Gardening.” You answer after a few seconds, but she only sighs louder. “Right. But apart from that ?” Her voice does not carry that concealed pity and kindness anymore, only annoyance. 

“I, uhm, I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

The room falls silent again. You don’t like it here anymore. The walls are closer now, the carpet dirtier, and your seat seems itchier than it was before you first sat down. Your legs ache, urge to stretch, to leave and your fingers have curled so deep into your palm you’re afraid they might draw blood. You wish you could just get up, scream at her fatigued face and cry, but instead your foot bounces up and down, quickly, repetitively, until the tap tap tap of your shoe against the carpet is the only thing that can be heard. 

“Well then, how would you describe yourself ? I’m sure at least one of these clubs here is searching for a profile like yours.” She asks, a faux smile plastered on her face, the crookedness of her teeth worsening your unease. 

If you were to ask Shijiki, she would describe you as a reckless person, perhaps. Or maybe a stupid one. Tap tap tap.  Scratch that, she would probably say careless, because of how much money you had spent renovating the old shed on the far right of the courtyard, which was now doomed to become nothing but an empty shed again. Not a greenhouse. Not a safe place. Just another hidden area for students to make out. Tap tap tap. Other people would say obnoxious. Loud. Hyperactive. Tap tap tap. But your teachers always reprimand you for being too quiet, they encourage you to participate more, to pay attention. Tap tap tap. How would the counselor describe you ? Distant ? Indecisive ? Or, 

“Clumsy.” is the adjective you finally settle for, and you watch as the counselor's brow lifts in something akin to amusement. “You would describe yourself as… Clumsy ?” 

“Yes. When I was seven, I broke my mother’s favourite vase after she had instructed me to be careful around it several times. She got mad, of course, so I spent the night trying to fix the broken pieces with superglue. I think that resumes what type of person I am.” The counselor does not answer. She just stares at you, perplexed. “Ah. I guess you could add ‘oversharer’ to the list.” you joke, although she does not seem amused anymore. You do not tell her about how your classmates whisper when they think you cannot hear, how they call you ‘a walking disaster’ or ‘a catastrophe waiting to happen’.

“Right. We’ll go over this tomorrow, it seems our time is up for today.” Is what she decides  to answer and even though you should be grateful for the opportunity to finally leave, you can’t help but feel uneasy. That dismissal is nothing good, it makes you feel a special type of distress in your stomach, one that makes your eyes water. You nod in response. 

“Could you please tell the next student to come in ?” she asks politely, repositioning her glasses on her oily nose. You hum, but you do not look at her. The weight of the world is suddenly crashing down upon you, and it feels even more real now that you’re standing up. You leave, quietly, and spot a student right next to the door. He is crouched down, his white hair obscuring his face and his phone in his hand. You know that mop of limbs, the one that sits in the back of class, asleep half of the time. Somehow, you’re not really surprised he’s here as well, because Nagi putting effort into something like a club doesn’t feel quite right. 

“Nagi, the counselor is waiting for you.” You speak softly, like one would to a child because Nagi is the embodiment of an infant and because you’re afraid your voice will crack if you raise it ever so slightly. “Oh.” he replies as he gets up, but he does not thank you. He does not look back at you either, but you don’t really care, the only thing on your mind being how you will break the news to Shijiki. She won’t be half as devastated as you, that’s for sure, but she’ll still be sad because she knows how much the gardening club meant to you. A sigh leaves your lips, and silently, you make your way back to the small shed on the far right of the courtyard, where you know Shijiki will be waiting for you with both of your lunches and tissues. You inhale, deeply, and bring your sleeve up to your eye to absorb whatever droplets of disappointment have formed. However, by doing so, you temporarily blind yourself, and run into a few hurried students. The force of the impact sends you to the floor, and that is when the dam finally breaks. Because you truly are clumsy. A disaster waiting to happen. 

i caved in so im publishing this before finishing chap 2 😓. starting school again on monday so updates r gonna take quite a while.

taglist : open ! ask to be added :3

@kalithulium @ihsoti @minlahzz @demiitria

[kalithulium]

i fear i could never ever be chill abt ness sorry not sorry

[kalithulium]

PLAYING.... PINK + WHITE BY FRANK OCEAN

since the beginning of his existence as a sorcerer, SUKUNA RYOMEN has always had his nails sharp, long and black. now, it's routine for you to paint them for him, but when he gives you a little free reign, your love for hello kitty gets the better of you.

he's sat here now, with his 2 arms stretched out across the table in your living room. one is rested flat , with his nails, freshly painted a stygian black tapping one after the other against it in impatience. the other is suspended mid-air by the soft surface of your hand cupping it in place, and his own elbow proped up to support.

it's something that's become routine and non-negotiable over the years - you painting sukuna's nails that captivating obsidian colour they always are. right now, you're ardently focused on making a good job of it; sukuna can tell by the way your eyelids have slightly eclipsed into a squint, and that once again, you've managed to fall back on that god forsaken habit of bitting the inner part of your cheek when you're concentrated.

"stop it, woman. biting your cheek."

he's told you that time and time again, but in all your time of asking "why?" , he's yet to of have graced you with a sufficent answer. really, it's because no matter how insignificant it is, he hates to see you be hurt, but you couldn't waterboard that information out of the man - he knows that you'd giggle, tease, and poke fun at him about it forever.

"no answer? exactly, mhm, kuna. now hold your hands still, or else you're gonna make me mess up."

"what are you talking about? they are still. my hands don't shake."

"mhm. of course, baby." you say, condescending words honeyed with jest dripping out of your mouth. you tilt your head at an angle to check your work, before brushing a final, last coat on his nails.

"okay...done!! i'm done!!"

"fucking finally. took you long enough." he says, pushing his chair out and standing up.

"nuh-uh, ryo. you know the drill. as much as you might want to escape from the tyrannical grasps of your kind, loving and beautiful girlfriend, we need to cure the nail polish under uv light first."

surprisingly, he sits back down without a sly remark, and complies with your orders. and just as he does so, a glorious idea pops up in your head.

"wait, kuna, let me add something."

you exit the room in a brisk walk and enter yours. he hears it : about a minute or two of clatters, clinks and clunks in succession that make him question just what on earth your so called idea entailed, before you emerge out again, holding something behind your back.

"ryo, close your eyes a second."

"what is it?"

"just close your eyes!"

"i said, what is it, [name]."

"sukuna ryomen."

"close. your. fucking. eyes. now ."

finally, he complies; the last time you called him by his full name, shit went down, and he was most certainly not ready for that again.

you walk closer to him now, and the free space where you were sat before has been replaced by the bag of nail polish you left behind.

"ryo, push your chair out a bit. i'm sitting down."

he's manspreading, legs wide apart, when you sit down across his lap with your body perpendicular to his. he wraps a slithering arm around your waist (thankfully, that hand is dry already, or you would've genuinely hit him), tightening his grip as he leans forward to rest his face on your shoulder. his eyes are closed, but he revels in your prescence. moments like this, where he can smell the sweetness of your perfume and the new shampoo he bought you a week ago, and then feel the softness of his skin against yours are exactly why he lets you do this so often. amidst all the years of calamity that forever plauge his soul, your prescence is a moment of respite that he could never replace.

you move his hands out from under the uv light, then pick up a bottle of small, but deadly strong nail glue and place a dot of it on the centre of his right hands' ring finger.

you pick up the hello kitty charm that you had scowered the entirety of your room for, and place it on his nail, letting it dry for a minute or so.

"okay, now i'm actually done. open your eyes. like it?" you say, grinning ear to ear like a fool.

as of now, you're sat atop of sukuna ryomen - the strongest sorcerer in history, the king of curses, a lord of the golden era of jujutsu in all his glory, with a hello kitty charm pressed onto his nails.

he doesn't speak. he just leans back, closes his eyes, and presses a hello-kitty-nail-ed hand against his forehead in dissappointment, or something of the like.

"what?" you coo, turning to face sukuna while you stradle him, then hold his nails out infront of you to fully inspect.

"don't you like it?"

"don't i like it? do i look like i like it?"

"no, no, no, no, no, hear me out. we're matching! look!"

the man looks down at your nails, then at his. at your nails again. then at his again.

he doesn't smile, but his expression softens. into, was that... a smirk almost?

"oh my god. you like it."

"you like it because we're matching?" you smile, teasing him.

you grasp him into an over dramatic hug, and then jab at him with your own matching set of nails, decked out in silver bling, pinks, french tips, sparkles and of course, hello kitty charms; the exact same as his. and for about the next 5 minutes, give or take, you don't stop taunting him with sickeningly sweet words of "kuna, you're so cute for that, you know?" , "you love me so much" and the like.

assumingly, by the look on his face, sukuna's not absolutely fucking over the moon about this like you are, for whatever reason. and so, in suit, he grasps onto the the side of you thigh, then holds onto your back as he stands up, and carries you away from the table you sat on.

"fuck, enough of that." he lets out, grunting a slurry of curses and that, maybe if you two watch something, "you'll finally stop bullshitting in my face and be quiet."

he stops infront of the couch, and throws you softly, but still hard enough to earn a yelp and repremanding from you.

then he sits down next to you, and as always, you find yourself curled up in his lap, with the supple pads of your finger tips tracing along the black markings on his skin.

"you just wanted to cuddle, didn't you?"

" and you always have to get the last word, don't you?"

divider by @/bernardsbendystraws

THAT'S THE WAY EVERYDAY GOES...

"sukuna's nails are black because of his cursed energy" WRONG!! ❎️❎️ he gets them painted + a manicure every week, end of discussion.

[kalithulium]

requests = open …? 😈

IM SCARED what are you thinking😟

[kalithulium]

rin-chan and his accursed blue lock merch plushie

[kalithulium]

how to survive a hurricane !

falling in love isn’t about changing for someone. it’s about learning to weather them. or, nagi seishiro is a houseplant, and you are a walking natural disaster.

nagi x gn!reader. mini series. strangers to friends to lovers. they’re both in their first year of high school so nagi hasn’t discovered the joys of soccer yet!reader is clumsy. live laugh love the gardening club. wc to be updated.

how to survive a hurricane as a houseplant: a guide !

secure your foundation.

storm proof your boundaries.

use your energy wisely.

don’t chase it.

accept your fate.

bonus : learn to sway without snapping.

updates will be inconsistent. tbh i might post the whole thing at once when i’m done writing it.

taglist : open ! ask to be added.

dividers by me :p

[kalithulium]

tempted to buy a nintendo switch off temu rn because it says they cost 0€. how long do you think i have till it breaks down or they steal my credit card information ?

35 seconds and a dream, buy it.

now im thinking about my nintendo switch that just never turned on one day and now its sat in a corner of my room collecting dust + how i lost like 150 quid worth of online games on it kill me💔

[kalithulium]

PLAYING... ME AND YOUR MAMA BY CHILDISH GAMBINO

rin x ghoul ! reader [darkcon] tw: blood, flesh eating, supernatural being, detailed descriptions of human anatomy + reader is lowk insane asf ngl

when you finally enter your bedroom, in which your beloved boyfriend of many years, itoshi rin is fast asleep in, something sparks in you, and you just can't seem hold back your ghouly instincts anymore.

a light patter escapes the soles of your feet as they touch down on hardwood floor in succession, then you sit down on the edge of the bed, mattress sinking a scant amount.

rin's asleep now; you can tell by the faint drabble of his breathing amidst the silence engulfing the room. in that moment, you couldn't be more greatful for the moonlight. its fingers cup his supple face allowing you to see how darling he is, and marvel in the glory of it all.

an evil thing, it is. in the cover of darkness, it pulls its wretched self from cratered surfaces of the moon, then traverses through colbalt nightskies whilst garnering rancor; effervesed from the stygian darknesses of earthly beings soul's. it gives people confidence of a sort - a type of confidence people only ever pine to accrue in order realise their most ungodly desires.

his face was smooth like porcelain, yet glossed over with a slight hue of rose pink. your heart began to tighten and squeeze at the thought of it. how it would look; the hundreds of cerise arteries that wrap around the fibres of muscle in his face beneath the skin, woven in carefully like hand made lace. then, the thought of the viscous millilteres of blood corsing through them right now and pressing against the thick lumen inside, enlarging the vessel itself each time the heart pumped.

but you don't get ahead of yourself, just quite yet. it's almost laughable how oblivious the man is ; itoshi rin, your beloved boyfriend.

he hadn't a single clue.

that you languished to know how it would feel to sink the keen edges of your whetted, white teeth in through the epidermis of his glorious, glorious, skin, all the way through his fascia and straight to the pearly white store of calcium at the centre of it - the bone, and then the marrow, and how there was only so long that you could hold your self back for now.

it made you wonder. the man was always so engrossed by horror movies and games in his free time. if he knew just what goes on in this brain of yours, would he run? freeze up and stare in awe?

maybe, just maybe, he would lay himself down for you to eat whole in show of his love or let you take just a bite, then watch laps of blood bubble up, and spew and overflow and leak from the wound, falling graciously until finally stoping in its endeavours.

you place yourself closer to his sleeping figure, brushing his deep viridian locks like waxen leaves to the side of his face.

the sweet scent of him wafts across your nose and it becomes ardently clear that you can no longer control your earthly wants and ghoulish instincts.

hunger, mixed with desire, sin and love boil into one inside your very being and overflow as you grip onto rin, holding him down with your inhumane (literally lol) strength at the wrists before he gets the chance to react. your teeth sink into his side, and rip apart the muscles laced in between each one of his ribs like ribbons, and blood streams, surging from the wound with jagged layers of flesh and flabs of broken skin surrounding it.

he stirs awake, and cries out in pain, and screams and begs that you stop, but sometimes you have to lose some to gain some, so you take it as a sign to revel in the exasperation in his usually monotone voice, and ignore the agony accompanying it.

he manages to get the words out to question what's going on, and you feel a little bad that his last memories will be horror striken images of the love of his life, ending his life. he knew just exactly what you were, and trusted you - something so far out of character for rin after sae had shattered next to any sense of humility in him. yet you deceived him, and broke that. sometimes, your intentions were unclear to even yourself. you surely loved the man, but at times where he thought you stared at him so clearly out of love, it was really the tingle in your heart and brain, the saliva secreting from the glands in your mouth and the feeling of want beginning to overwhelm you. you've held up for so long, and can't go on any longer without.

but it's okay, this is all for his own good, really. this way, you could do more than just hug and be inside each other; he was apart of you. you could swallow his quaint little chunks of not - yet - corpse whole and absorb him; his cells could gush through the veins of your body, and plant themselves in the tissue of your stomach forever more and at last, he would be yours alone.

you hung yourself on this thought as you ravished more of him by the second. he looked you in the eye, panting breaths of desperation before spewing out a slurry of words from that sultry voice of his you love. unfortunately, you won't be hearing that anymore after this. maybe you should record his bellows and pleads of desperation to listen to later in your own time.

but in all honesty, you aren't even really sure of what he said. you were too preoccupied gandering at his unparalleled beauty. the look of fear and a sallow feeling washes over his face as he wriggles under your grasp, unable to break free from you. he must feel alone, and hurt, and you should probably apologise. you're not sure. you hadn't really thought this through. the urge to consume your lover whole doesn't really have a set date and time, it's a bit more spontaneous.

you tell him, "sorry rinnie, it hurts a little, right? it'll be over soon." yet for whatever reason, it doesn't quite soothe him. he always loves it when you kiss his cheek, so you do just that. your lips are still dripping wet with liquid red, and its started to coagulate into gelatenious bits at the edges of your mouth when you stain his cheek vermillion with a kiss. his blood has a very pretty colour.

its been about half an hour since your midnight feast of rin's very being began, and you assume that he has probably left this world already, shown by his sullen face frozen in place, all pretty like a doll.

you wonder if you should feel bad for what you've done, but he opened his closed self up to you whole, and showed his heart to you, defenseless, like he would never for another. even if unbeknowningly, he created this perfect situation himself, and you had simply taken to the opportunity, was that so wrong?

you lay next to rin, or what's left of him on white sheets sullied with red. he's usually very warm, but his body is cold to the touch now, so you pull a blanket over the two of you to warm up.

that conniving little slither of moonlight is still creeping in through your curtains, and shinning on the two of you. but it's somewhat comforting.

you fall asleep in minutes: warm, stomach full and next to the man you love the most. it's everything you could ever wish for. it's a shame for you that this is sort of a one - time - only thing.

when the sun rises, and you wake, you miss rin a bit. but knowing that he is you , now, makes up for it, kind of.

dividers by @/toastray and @/enchanthings

SLEEPING WITH THE MOON AND THE STARS...

this fic is freaked 1out as fuck but i swear im normal guys trust its just that watching bones and all got the best of me😕